Second Thoughts

From Mike Cifone

Let me comment on a very puzzling and sometimes disturbing interview between Amy Goddman (of Democracy Now!) and former Chairman of the Federal Reserve Alan Greenspan and noted investigative journalist Naomi Klein. (I ask you: Please watch the interview or read the transcript first).

Alan Greenspan is the voice of the American Economic Structure; his eye is focused on the Whole. And the predicates he thinks in terms of are statistical and are not the qualities or properties of individual cases. His mind has been trained to see morality in deeply consequentialist terms; but he must also formulate judgments and opinions now that are dependent upon the predictable (or supposedly foreseen) future consequences of present-day policies. The moral calculus used to evaluate the rightness or wrongness of a particular doctrine, or social/economic policy, is whether, of the Whole, wealth and “prosperity” increase or decrease (the former: good, the latter: bad). Our Great Moral Statistician, or what is the same, Our Mindful Statistical Social Philosopher, sees it that there will always be unavoidable inequality (social & economic), corruption, wasteful spending, … the usual litany of social and political and economic maladies of our contemporary age. And of course, as a statistical matter, we can certainly expect this claim to be more or less true. And so, the great Consequentialist Economist — or philosopher of the Statistics of the Whole — must (justifiably on this view) turn a blinded eye to the individual, and do what’s right for the Whole (that sacrosanct object of moral inquiry). Thus Greenspan: “the type of globalized economy that I support has taken hundreds of millions of people out of poverty. It’s created a standard of living throughout the world which is unprecedented in history. And to assume that that is something we should be apologizing for, I find, is wholly inappropriate” (transcript of a dual interview by Amy Goodman with Greenspan and Klein). Our Philosopher has his eye clearly trained on the Whole — not our Nation, but, in keeping with the logical progression of his Statistical Philosophy, the aggregation of all nations, that is, a “Global Economy” (which, for the purposes of this reductive economic philosophy, is all that a nation amounts to). And the “global economy”, by the utilitarian-consequentialist calculus, has created a higher standard of living because economic prosperity has been increased (again, for the whole ). We must ask, though: does the mere existence of a higher standard of living (supposing we grant him his utilitarian logic) imply a better (”global”) world, or does the actual distribution of the wealth matter too? Suppose that most of this newly generated wealth exists in the hands of the fewest — the situation we now face globally – does this, which is indeed a situation of greater world wealth, imply that the world is better? Does the mere fact that there is more wealth mean the we are the better for it?

And here is the crux of the issue: it might certainly be true, as a matter of statistics, that there is more wealth in the world, but this is compatible with the fact that this wealth is disproportionately distributed throughout that world. And this is, at present, a fact about the Whole, our whole: most of the world’s wealth is locked into increasingly fewer hands, so that any potential prosperity is not enjoyed by the majority (aside from the deeper moral question, a question not about the statistical distribution of money, or the “economic prosperity” on the Whole, but a question about the happiness of the individual within the Whole: why measure happiness, or presume to define the “good”, in monetary or material terms?).

So, our Professor of Statistics, and of cold Utilitarian Calculus, cannot avoid a moral consideration of the parts: both the individual human beings upon which the Whole depends for its very existence, and the quality of life implied by the conditions of economic, financial, social and political inequality — such conditions being perfectly consistent with pure utilitarian and consequentialist logic. But, our Philosopher seems to think it a virtue when he can easily gloss over these mere details; he is sadly happy to cast his eye from the teardrop of the individual to the Ocean of the Whole, the system that promises great Happiness, on the Whole. Our great sufferings are supposed to be allayed by a great refreshing tidal wave of capital, flowing into and over the Whole.

And here lies the heart of the dispute, and the difference in logics, between Naomi Klein and Alan Greenspan. Klein’s eye is on corrupt individuals (or aggregations of them) in the various departments of our Government, whereas Greenspan’s mind already assumes that very corruption and asks what is the best that can be done (best: the greatest on, and for, the Whole) despite that (unavoidable and inescapable) condition, from which all political structures do suffer. Klein is consistently worried about not merely what the present conditions imply for the Whole (now or in the future), but also what present conditions, and those of the immediate past, imply for individuals now and in the future within the Whole. Klein’s moral compass is not magnetized by the Statistical Considerations of a mere aggregation of human beings who are to be considered merely as cogs in a great Economic System — for Greenspan borders on a terrible reduction of the individual to his or her socio-economic function — Klein is, rather, motivated by a dual concern: the Whole considered only insofar as it is comprised of, and dependent upon, intrinsically valuable individuals. She is first moved by injustices against the individual, and the general sufferings of individuals within flawed social structures. For Klein, our Moral Eye for the Individual, these structures are justified, and hence may exist in their present forms, only if human individuals are being treated on the whole fairly and justly. If there are great individual injustices, or if there are great inequalities among aggregations of individuals, then the System must be re-structured accordingly. This is not merely a consideration, in Klein’s mind, of whether or not, statistically understood, there are great quantities of injustice or inequality. It is also the nature of those injustices and inequalities themselves which are of paramount concern. The concerns of individuals trump the concerns of the Whole; so, we must subjugate that act of forming a judgment of the Whole to the moral realities of the Individual — and the very invocation of utilitarian-consequentialist premises in social and economic and political matters is therefore beholden to the moral centrality of the One.

Klein, in the view offered here, assumes that we must judge the Whole both from the point of view of the Individual and the quality — not necessarily measured in purely monetary or material terms — of existence for the Individual within that Whole. For we must inevitably face — so seems to be the implication of Klein’s thought — the practical reality that our predictions and hope for the Whole must always begin with the individual, in conjunction with our best instruments of knowledge (Science & Reason). And since it’s the individual who always, whether in isolation or in tandem with an aggregation of individuals, must make this determination in the first place, yet we are always prone to error or misconceived notions or philosophies that might cloud our interpretations of the facts, it will inevitably follow that our judgments prove wrong or misguided or otherwise off the mark. And Klein takes it as her task to show that our previous judgments, or the judgments and pronouncements of our Philosophers of Statistics, have indeed proved wrong, or have indeed lead to the opposite sort of Whole World envisioned in their philosophies.

Despite the sophistication of Greenspan’s knowledge, and abilities of reasoning, Klein’s is a necessary corrective to the imbalanced logic of a utilitarian-consequentialist philosopher of the Whole. I applaud her work and her personal dedication.

-Mike Cifone

Philosophical discussions of euthanasia usually restrict discussion of the issue to the cases of terminally ill patients. There may be good reasons for this in policymaking, but philosophically, I don’t think that this is position can be defended. I want to pose two challenges to this view. The case for euthanasia is, roughly, something like this: pain and suffering are very bad things, and if we really value individual liberty, then people should be allowed to choose whether they will have to them. But why should this only be the case for terminally ill patients? If you do not believe that euthanasia or physician-assisted is ever acceptable, you will not accept the rest of what I have to say here; I am speaking to these who already accept at least some euthanasia.
Suppose someone suffered from a condition that caused untreatable, excruciating chronic pain, but that doesn’t shorten that person’s life. Can we help a terminally ill patient die, but not the one who suffers from unrelenting pain? This level of pain is almost certain to be incapacitating, leaving that person with no chance at a normal life. Is there some moral principle that will defend assisting the terminally ill patient but not the patient in chronic pain? On some moral views, it might even be worse to help the terminally ill patient but not the one with chronic pain, because we bring about more suffering in the world.

A second, related issue in discussions of euthanasia surrounds depression. I don’t disagree that we shouldn’t rush to euthanize people with treatable clinical depression. But what about cases of untreatable depression? Suffering is suffering; people who live with non-treatable depression can have lives just as full of pain as our chronic pain case. Like those who suffer from chronic pain, those with untreatable depression may be incapacitated. In this kind of case, where we have nothing to offer this person to ease his or her suffering, if he or she should ask for aid in dying, would it be wrong to give it? How is the case of the non-treatable depressive different from the case of a person suffering from chronic pain? I would suggest that it isn’t, and that the arguments should proceed from there.
There may be good reasons as a matter of public policy not to allow the sort of euthanasia policies I am advocating. It might put undue pressure on certain patients pressing them toward euthanasia – would it create an expectation of euthanasia. These patients might not really be fully capable of making life-or-death choices. There is the possibility, for both the chronic pain sufferer and the depressive that, while we may not be able to help either today, medicine is constantly advancing and treatments might be developed that could alleviate their suffering. There is the slippery-slope argument: if we adopt the position you suggest, it will start us down a dangerous road to a place where no one wants to go. I think these criticisms are of varying strength.

Let me point out though, that there is a clear difference between making a moral argument and arguing for policy changes. What’s going on in the main part of what I have to say here is a moral argument. This can get a bit messy if you’re doing “applied ethics,” which is naturally tied to practical concerns and almost demands of you from the start that you consider the policy implications of what you are suggestion. But what I’m doing here isn’t – at least I don’t consider it to be – applied ethics. What I’m interested in is a problem in moral theory about the ethics of killing and what sorts of considerations are relevant to it.

Thanks to Kent Erickson for pointing out a piece in today’s NYTimes about the long (average 8.2 years) road from beginning grad school to PhD. You can read the story here (you’ll have to register if you’ve never done so, but that’s free.) As the piece points out,

For those who attempt it, the doctoral dissertation can loom on the horizon like Everest, gleaming invitingly as a challenge but often turning into a masochistic exercise once the ascent is begun… Fifty percent of students drop out along the way, with dissertations the major stumbling block. At commencement, the typical doctoral holder is 33, an age when peers are well along in their professions, and 12 percent of graduates are saddled with more than $50,000 in debt.

Not a cheery picture. Though Princeton seems to do a good job of getting people through quickly (average 6.2 years. Is that quick?) the article points out that inadequate funding, heavy teaching loads, inadequate supervision and unclear expectations are also a problem.

-Allen Stairs

Naomi Klein, famed social critic and investigative journalist is going to be discussing her new book The Shock Doctrine on Wednesday night in Washington, DC (Naomi Klein in DC). Her book argues that, contrary to the arguments of economists and thinkers like Nobel-laureate Milton Freedman, capitalism and democracy are often radically at odds. The dominant ideology on this score is that capitalism enhances and perfects democracy (or what is worse, is somehow necessary for its proper function), whereas Klein’s study purports to show that, in fact, despite theorists’ beliefs, the “free market” ideology that’s supposed to be central to capitalism has usually been forced on a society in a time when it’s most vulnerable and confused — that is, when the society has undergone the equivalent of a “shock” treatment. As Klein points out, shock treatment was popular in the early days of psychiatry and remains the single most effective treatment for certain mental illnesses. But the CIA and the US military, as Klein notes, noticed that there’s also another use: since shock treatment effectively reduces people to momentarily child-like mental conditions, people under such conditions can be psychologically manipulated for various purposes (interrogation and torture being primary). Indeed, if the treatment is severe enough, there seems to be evidence that a person’s mental life can be significantly re-worked. What is true for the individual can also be true for the body-politic. Her main argument is that the historical evidence shows that it’s only in times of societal crisis and shock that “free market” socio -political policies are implemented by governments, and then only with bursts of military force and violence, causing widespread social unrest and resistance.

If this forced ideology of “free markets” is all that capitalism amounts to, and if it’s only by force that a free market society can be wrought, then a democracy so forged is built on its opposite. And so, democracy here flourishes only after the body-politic is subjugated and oppressed and its ideal of life, liberty and happiness has been broken and stained. As some general once said, “We had to destroy the village in order to save it”.

–Mike Cifone

[I am sure what follows has occurred to others before, but if so (and if it is in print) it bears repeating.]

According to some, all true facts about the world are “physical” facts. That is, there are only facts about neuroscience, biology, chemistry, physics etc., and those that follow from them. The same is supposed to go for facts about consciousness. By consciousness I mean phenomenal consciousness: the experience of hearing Bach, drinking merlot or smelling the roses—the “what it is like”, or je ne sais quoi-of our mental life. This position, that these conscious, or phenomenal, facts are physical ones, is physicalism. Consider a famous argument of Frank Jackson’s (1982) against this version of physicalism:

Mary is a brilliant scientist who is, for whatever reason, forced to investigate the world from a black and white room via a black and white television monitor. She specializes in the neurophysiology of vision and acquires, let us suppose, all the physical information there is to obtain about what goes on when we see ripe tomatoes, or the sky, and use terms like ‘red’, ‘blue’, and so on. She discovers, for example, just which wave-length combinations from the sky stimulate the retina, and exactly how this produces via the central nervous system the contraction of the vocal cords and expulsion of air from the lungs that results in the uttering of the sentence ‘The sky is blue’…

What will happen when Mary is released from her black and white room or given a color television monitor? Will she learn anything or not? It seems just obvious that she will learn something about the world and our visual experience of it. But then it is inescapable that her knowledge was incomplete. But she had all the physical [facts]. Ergo there is more to have than that, and physicalism is false. (Jackson 1982: 130, his italics)

For many, Jackson’s “Knowledge Argument” has been incredibly compelling, but we will be looking at it critically. Physicalism as defined is a reductive theory. The reason that phenomenal facts are physical facts under this theory is that phenomenal states, or perhaps properties, reduce to physical ones, in the way (some think) aspects of neuroscience, biology, and so forth reduce to physics. For this position to be tenable, we should be able to explain various facts about neuroscience, biology, chemistry and so forth in terms of ones from physics. That is, facts at one “higher level” are explainable in terms of facts at a “lower level”. There are two ideas here: one is metaphysical (reduction), and the other is epistemic or about knowledge (explanation). In order to defend the claim that some Ps reduce to some Qs, or just are some Qs, one must be able to explain the Ps in terms of the Qs. For example, we explain higher level facts about water in terms of lower facts about its chemical composition (H₂O). Explanation is asymmetric: explaining water facts in terms of facts about its chemical composition does not require explaining these chemical facts in terms of higher level water facts.

A notion important for Jackson seems to be deducibility: if we can explain P facts in terms of Q facts then we can infer, and hence know, the P facts just from knowing the Q facts, without knowing the P facts ahead of time. Like explanation, deducibility is asymmetric: deducing the P facts from the Q facts does not require deducing the Q facts from the P facts.

Let us return to Jackson’s argument. Under reductive physicalism, phenomenal states or properties are reducible to physical states or properties. In order for this to be the case, phenomenal facts must be physical facts. Contra physicalism it seems we can imagine Mary knowing all the physical facts there are to know, but not knowing what it is like to have a color experience. These phenomenal facts seem like something over and above the physical ones—we cannot deduce phenomenal facts from physical ones. It follows from this that physicalism is false.

Or so it would seem. Explanation, is an asymmetric relation between different kinds of facts. Likewise, deducibility is an asymmetric relation and seems to be a requirement for explanation. While I think explanation is asymmetric when it comes to reduction, reduction itself need not be asymmetric.

Type-Type Identity Theorists maintain that phenomenal states are identical to physical states. A type (roughly) is a class of things, like philosophers, as opposed to a token of the class, like Socrates. Identity theorists maintain that as a type of thing phenomenal consciousness is identical to certain types of brain states. Clearly, identity theorists are reductive physicalist: phenomenal states just are brain states. Identity is also a symmetric relation. For example ‘Water=H₂O’ is symmetrical, even though we might explain facts about water in terms of facts about its chemical composition, and not the other way round.

In the example to follow we will adopt identity as our notion of reduction: something reduces to some other thing just in case they are identical. Let us now introduce a distinction between different kinds of facts that one might know about something. Take, for example, your current visual experience of THESE WORDS. This particular experience has many facts about it which you know from introspection: that the words have a certain color, shape and meaning, perhaps. Call these phenomenal facts of your experience direct facts. There are, however, many other facts about this experience you cannot know just from introspection: that this experience is occurring at a particular longitude and latitude, for instance. Call these sorts of facts, which one might also know, indirect facts. It seems that there are often plenty of (often trivial) indirect facts about any particular thing. More importantly, it does not seem to be the case that indirect facts about something are deducible from direct facts about it.

Consider Larry, a cousin of Mary’s. Larry is an expert chemist who lives in a small lab, which he has never been allowed to leave. All the elements he observes, all the experiments he does, are with a microscope and involve very small samples. He knows everything there is to know about bonding, molecules and pretty much anything about chemistry at a very small level. Larry is an expert when it comes to hydrogen and oxygen, especially the molecule H₂O: he knows all the facts about how it relates to other kinds of molecules, and the special hydrogen bonds that form between it and other molecules of the same sort. Larry, however, does not know anything about how this molecule makes up a substantial portion of his body, or how it is essential for his survival. He doesn’t even know he drinks the stuff. Larry has many theories about what would happen if you had enough of the molecules he examines, but they are childish at best. In fact, other than chemistry at a very small level, Larry really doesn’t know much at all. One day a small drop of the stuff he is always drinking falls on a Petri dish. Larry exams it and realizes that, for the most part, the liquid is entirely made up of H₂O.

It seems Larry learned something, even though he supposedly knew all molecular facts about water. This is because Larry knows all the direct molecular facts there are to know about water, but he does not know any of the indirect facts. When we explain certain higher level P facts in terms of lower level Q facts we are aware of what the P and Q facts are: we know both the direct and indirect facts about something. Often we might be able to infer, or deduce, many other indirect facts because of this. But in order for us to have a reductive explanation it is not the case that we must be able to infer from the direct Q facts what the indirect P facts are.

If correct, then though Mary could not deduce phenomenal facts about color experience from neural facts about vision this does not prove physicalism false: it does not show that phenomenal facts are not physical facts. Instead, we deny that Mary knew all the physical facts about the neurophysiology of visual perception: she only knew the direct ones. Even though ‘Water=H₂O’ is true, and indirect facts about water are still facts about H₂O, Larry could not deduce this. Likewise, phenomenal states might just be physical ones even if we cannot deduce the indirect phenomenal facts from the direct brain facts.

We defined physicalism as the thesis that all true facts about the world are physical facts: those from physics, chemistry, biology, neuroscience and so forth. But it seems plausible that all the indirect facts of these sciences would also count as on the list of all true physical facts about the world. For example, many facts in biology and neuroscience might count as indirect facts in comparison to physics and chemistry, even though organisms and their brains might be reducible to their chemical and physical components. If so, the physicalist can claim that phenomenal facts are, say, indirect brain facts, which one must experience directly to know. The physicalist need not claim that all indirect physical facts are deducible from the direct ones, even though knowing all the facts means knowing both.

Jackson, F. (1982) Epiphenomenal Qualia. The Philosophical Quarterly. Vol. 32 (No.127): 127-136.

I heard a story today from a friend who’s teaching a philosophy course at another university. My friend was having a preliminary meeting with a departmental official who cautioned against using the lectern as a soapbox. The message was that one shouldn’t “authoritatively present” claims about which there might be “reasonable disagreement.”

Neither my friend nor I know what history might lie behind this admonition. Perhaps someone had been using the lectern as a bully pulpit on behalf of ideas that we would all expect would be subjects of debate rather than apodictic pronouncement. But nonetheless, one can wonder what this might mean in practice.

In my own history in the classroom, I remember vividly and with embarrassment a time over two decades ago when I crossed the line. I was teaching a large lecture class, A candidate with whom I deeply disagreed had been elected to an important national office. I made a strongly disparaging comment and then went on with my lecture. But when evaluation time came around, at least one student reminded me that I had gone too far.

I had. No doubt about it. However much I might have disagreed with this candidate, my opinion was hardly the only reasonable one. But some cases are trickier.

All the polls I’ve seen make it clear that most people in this country either doubt or flat-out disbelieve that evolution occurred. A large number believe that the 7-day creation story in Genesis is literally true. Are these cases of “reasonable disagreement?” And if so, does that mean that if these subjects come up in class, I should try to appear neutral? Or that I should at least appear to concede that there’s a case to be made on both sides?

One bit of advice on these sorts of controversies comes from Stanley Fish, who wrote in a New York Times column a few months ago that what a good academic should do in such cases is to “teach the controversy.” Sometimes that’s almost certainly right. Sometimes, teaching the controversy would eat up time that might be better spent in other ways. But couldn’t there be cases where this is just the wrong way to go? If there’s a Holocaust denier in the class, should I “teach the controversy” rather than be forthright about the fact that I don’t think there’s any doubt that the Holocaust occurred? Suppose someone in the class voices the opinion that Islam is an evil religion whose adherents are all terrorists and their sympathizers. Should I pretend that I think that’s an open question?

One approach would be to treat the incident as a “teachable moment.” Probe; question; lead a discussion; help the students to sort it out without saying anything in my own voice. I’m not about to say that that’s the wrong answer. But I have a worry all the same. I’m one of those people who thinks that even though the truth is sometimes hard to get at, we’ve actually managed to do it on some matters — in spite of the fact that not everyone has been convinced. Aren’t there times when it’s just the wrong thing to do to pretend that there’s serious doubt when there isn’t? Is it always a bad thing for students to see their professors take a stand?

This is tricky business. Most of us in the academy (I hope!) believe in the value of truth. But most of us can look back on our own intellectual biographies and see the times when we’ve gotten carried away by our own pet notions. We want students to learn to think for themselves. We want them to learn to do it well. Somewhere in that wish, I think there’s room for taking a stand even in front of our students. The problem is figuring out when and how.

-Allen Stairs

(Thanks to Matt Barker, former UMD grad student, for a piece that raises issues about belief that complement the ones that came up in the discussion of Mother Teresa. — Allen Stairs, moderator)

Recently, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) reported on their website that “almost 4 out of 5 Canadians believe in global warming” (http://www.cbc.ca/canada/edmonton/story/2007/03/22/environment-poll.html). Specifically, 77% are believers, and thus roughly 23% (assuming all poll participants implied they either did or didn’t ‘believe’ in global warming) don’t believe in global warming. Many might suspect the percentage of non-believers is higher in the US. But let’s assume it’s the same. With a total Canada+US population of about 330,000 million, and after crudely adjusting for those such as young children who don’t have a view about global warming, this makes for about 66 million global warming skeptics across the two countries.

A philosopher would want to know what the report means by “believe in global warming.” For example, does this mean “believe that the world is, on the whole, becoming warmer,” or does it mean “believe that humans are causing the warming of the glob?.” For simplicity, let’s assume that the belief concerns humans’ roles as causes of global warming, and that the mere fact that the globe is warming was not in dispute among poll participants. So we’re assuming that the 66 million skeptics doubt that humans cause global warming, not that the globe is warming.

This raises several questions, including interesting philosophical questions that the media seldom addresses. Here is one: regardless of whether it is true or false that humans are causing global warming, what might ground the skeptical beliefs held by each of the 66 million naysayers? And what might ground the beliefs of the others who do believe that we cause global warming? Is there an interesting difference between these grounds?

Here is a suggestion. Most naysayers will likely say that their skeptical belief is grounded in what they believe about the science. They’ll claim that the science that suggests we’re warming the globe is poor, or in any case incorrect. Believers, on the other hand, will likely ground their assent in their beliefs about the science as well. But they’ll claim that the science is sound. Interestingly though, most folk on either side are in no position to make these judgments. Whether we’re warming the globe is a substantive question, one that takes rigorous science to get a handle on. Most of us are simply have no serious grasp of this science. Despite reading a magazine article here, or catching a short documentary there, we’re in no position to say based on our own expertise whether the science is on track or off the mark. We’re not experts.

Now a believer might reply that, although they don’t have the requisite training in science, one thing they do have is reason for thinking that the scientific consensus on global warming is very much like any other scientific consensus. And these other consensuses have been believable because they have turned out to be so useful, and/or demonstrably compelling. For example, there is a consensus that HIV causes AIDS. The consensus is not perfect; a very small minority of scientists disputes it. But the vast majority of experts endorse it. And most of us non-scientists have followed suit. What reason have we not to? Certainly we have no first-hand scientific reason, since we’re not experts. And second-hand, the consensus has certainly seemed compelling: most progress that has been made in AIDS treatment and prevention has stemmed from the claim that HIV causes AIDS. Such successes of scientific censuses are reason enough for believing in the consensus on global warming. Or so the believer may say.Assuming there is something to the believer’s reply, where would this leave the naysayers? A few naysayers will likely deny having confidence in any science. But many happily assent to science in cases outside of global warming, just like the believers do. The naysayers are quite confident that HIV causes AIDS, for example. So why do they then think that we’re not causing global warming? What is different about this consensus? One plausible answer is that most of the 66 million naysayers have no qualms with the HIV thesis, but they badly want the global warming consensus to be false. It would be an awfully inconvenient truth, as we all know. Now this may be wrong: the 66 million skeptics may have deeper ground for their skepticism than wants and desires. But let’s say they don’t. Is this a bad thing? An unusual thing? Answers to these questions are far from clear, but the questions are clearly interesting. Here are others with which I’ll leave you:

Without expertise in science, how should we decide which scientific claims to believe in?

Is merely wanting a claim to be false, regardless of what scientific consensus says, a good reason for saying it indeed is false?

If we reject claims because we want them to be false, and consequently we do not heed scientific advice that may (say) help ourselves, others, and future descendants, have we acted irrationally or immorally?

When people reject claims because of their own wants and desires, even though they say that the reason is their skepticism about the scientific evidence, do they have enough access to the real nature of their own beliefs for this to count as dishonesty? Or are our beliefs more opaque than that, making it inappropriate to charge the doubters with dishonesty?

–Matt Barker (Thanks to A.Barclay for the HIV example)

University of Wisconsin, Madison

Welcome to Second Thoughts, the Philosophy Department’s blog at the University of Maryland. For more information about the blog, have a look at the “about” link to your right. Meanwhile…

The most recent issue of Time Magazine has a picture of Mother Teresa on the cover, in response to the publication of Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light. There we discover from her own letters that Teresa endured a painful sense of the absence of God for 50 years, until the very end of her life. (Mother Teresa’s Crisis of Faith) The book, interestingly enough, was assembled by Fr. Brian Kolodiejchuk, who is the postulator on behalf of the case for having Teresa named a Saint.

More than one Catholic commentator expects this collection of Teresa’s letters to become a spiritual classic. Commentators such as Christopher Hitchens (Teresa, Bright and Dark, in Newsweek) and Daniel Dennett (The Agony of Misplaced Ecstasy in the Washington Post’s On Faith blog) have a different view.

There’s a good deal to be fascinated by here. Some would say that Teresa didn’t really believe at all. Her postulator would draw our attention to the passages in her letters where she insists otherwise, her sense of emptiness not withstanding. But one question that intrigues me is whether our usual ways of talking about belief do a very good job of making sense of a case like Teresa’s — or even of our own complicated attitudes toward various philosophical claims. Belief doesn’t just come in degrees; it also seems to come in species. And whatever one thinks of the content of her beliefs, I have a feeling that there’s something to be learned from Teresa’s case about how we should map the territory around the concept of belief.

-Allen Stairs