The Stagnation of Philosophy

Watch the video here.

Imagine getting into medical school and sitting down for your very first day of class. As a scholarly-looking professor approaches the lectern, you eagerly get out your pen and paper in anticipation for all the amazing knowledge coming your way.

“Welcome to Foundations of Medicine,” says the professor. “I hope you are all as excited as I am to explore the vast, wonderful world of healing."

At first, everything seems to progress normally, but it's not long before you notice an unsettling trend. Rather than just teach students about the modern understanding of the human body, the instructor seems to fixate on the strangest of topics. For weeks, you suffer through lecture after lecture on wholly discredited practices like bloodletting, trepanation, phrenology, and homeopathy. Eventually, about halfway into the semester, the professor seems to settle down with more sensible topics like cell biology and the germ theory of disease, but it doesn't last. Before you know it, you’re suddenly delving right back into the medicinal theories of Feng Shui, acupuncture, and demon possession.

Baffled by this outcome, you begin to wonder. Was this class some sort of outlier? Maybe the university just wants to give students some historical context before teaching the real, practical stuff. So you take a look at the undergraduate catalog and, strangely enough, the entire school of medicine is like this. In order to officially earn your medical credentials, you must endure such classes as

• Medicine in literature
• God, Faith, and Healing
• Women in Early Oncology
• Medieval Pharmacology
• Meta-medicine
• Eastern Ophthalmology
• Medical Justice
  
• Spirituality in Cardiology
• Survey of Early Modern Medicine
  

After investigating even further, you eventually come to learn that this isn't even a local phenomenon. It's a widespread practice among every accredited medical school across the western world.

Surely, given such a predicament, the only sensible response is to drop the entire ordeal and change majors, right?

Sensible, that is, for anyone but a philosophy major.

This may seem like a far-fetched scenario, but it really is how modern philosophy is taught at the college level. Generally speaking, philosophy courses do not really educate students in “philosophy” per se. Instead, most treatments on the subject are better described as a history of philosophy, or perhaps a survey. Sure, it might be interesting information to some, but it is not exactly the condensed summary of modern consensus that tends to define other fields.

To be fair, this is not necessarily a bad thing. If a history of philosophy is what really interests you, then by all means go ahead and study it. There may even be real, tangible value in this stuff, and so there is nothing intrinsically wrong with exploring it for its own sake. But can we please just take a moment to recognize what’s really going on, here? A formal education in philosophy will not actually qualify you as an authority in “correct” philosophical thought. At best, you will only emerge as a glorified historian and taxonomist.

Much of this is intentional, too. There is an outspoken tradition in Western education that says it is always more important to teach students how to think, rather than what to think [1]. College philosophy, it seems, is just taking this doctrine to a fanatical extreme. The questions themselves are often considered more interesting than the actual answers, and the very act of thinking through arguments is widely regarded as a valuable end unto itself. Professors and textbooks alike will therefore spend plenty of effort on the comparative analysis of ideas, but rarely on the establishment of which ones are official orthodoxy.

Take, for example, the classic writings of ancient Stoicism [2]---a popular outlook on life that emphasizes self-control and fortitude as a path to happiness. Every undergraduate student of philosophy will eventually read about this stuff at some point, as well as the views of their contemporary rivals. If, however, you were you ask your professor whether or not Stoicism actually works, then you will almost certainly get a non-committal answer. To illustrate:

• Should I adopt Stoicism for myself? 
• Will Stoicism improve my life or make me more successful? 
• Can Stoicism help me cope with trauma or overcome my bad habits? 
• Are there any comparative studies evaluating this stuff empirically?

Who the hell knows? Academic philosophy doesn’t care about picking sides or quantifying efficacy. It only seeks to examine how other people have historically viewed the world. Success, in the modern philosophical context, often has very little to do with ideas being practical or insightful. Rather, success is generally measured by the degree of influence they possess. It is therefore not even a question of whether Stoicism happens to be right or wrong. We study it because it was a hugely popular force that influenced multiple centuries of development in ancient Western culture.

Again, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with this sort of methodology, provided that we honestly acknowledge it for what it is. In principle, you be the world’s greatest thinker who decisively settles all the big questions for all time, and every philosophy undergraduate would still be required to slog through a gigantic mountain of inferior content before ever touching your ideas. Likewise, you could write a 4000-page ejaculation of incoherent word salad, and all you would have to do is impress the right people in order to have your ideas taught alongside more sensible content.

All of this would be perfectly tolerable, or even admirable, if not for one thing. Philosophers, in both professional and amateur circles alike, seem to be endowed with an overly optimistic sense of self-importance. University departments from across the world brag openly about how philosophy teaches students such important skills as critical thinking, logical analysis, and complex problem solving [3,4,5]. They take pride in their supposedly dispassionate use of pure reason to create and evaluate arguments, all for the sake of developing a “clear and systematic view of who we are, where we stand, and where we should be going [6].” It all sounds wonderful in principle, but it's also a complete fiction.

To demonstrate, imagine a professional community of thousands of dedicated intellectuals who are all highly trained experts in the art of truth-finding. Now imagine these same intellectuals all share a common goal of exploring difficult questions, collecting evidence, evaluating the arguments, and deriving the most sensible conclusions possible. Naturally, we should expect such a group to eventually reach a unanimous consensus on every question posed, given that they all share the same methods, goals, evidence, and arguments. If anything, the very existence of any disagreement whatsoever would only prove that certain members of the community are either not following the correct guidelines, not sharing the same evidence, or not being sincere in their supposed quest for truth. The more disagreement there is, in fact, the more evident it would be that such a group is neglecting to enforce consistent standards of honest inquiry.

Now imagine that same group utterly failing to converge on a single point of agreeable fact, and you would finally have something that closely resembles modern philosophy. In a famous study by Bourget and Chalmers [7], hundreds of PhD-level philosophers from around the world were surveyed on a variety of foundational topics. You would think that if philosophers really are the great experts in reason that they claim to be, then we should expect an overwhelming consensus on the major questions of their field. The results, however, were the exact opposite. Not a single question could garner any consensus above 90%, and only one question was able to break above 80%. We’re not even talking about weird, esoteric issues, either, but fundamentally basic questions to all of philosophy itself. For example:

• What is truth? (correspondence: 50.8 %, deflationary: 24.8%, epistemic: 6.9%, other: 17.5%).
• What is knowledge? (empiricism: 35%, rationalism: 27.8%, other 27.2%)
• What is logic? (classical: 51.6 %, non-classical 15.4 %, other 33.1%) 
  
• Do we have free will? (compatibilism: 59.1%, libertarian free will: 13.7%, no free will: 12.2%, other: 14.9%)
• Is there such a thing as good and evil? (moral realism: 56.4%, anti-realism: 27.7%, other: 15.9%) 

It cannot be overstated that, in most any other professional field of study, this would be an absolute embarrassment. Yet, when it comes to academic philosophy, this is apparently just par for the course. For the last 100 years, the philosophical community has been researching, questioning, arguing, debating, evaluating, and educating, but they still cannot even fully commit to the existence of an objective reality beyond our sense perception (non-skeptical realism: 81.6%, skepticism: 4.8%, idealism: 4.3%, other: 9.2%).

Even more embarrassing for the philosophical community is how many of the traditionally “deep” philosophical questions have already been long-solved by professionals in other fields. Take, for example, the nature of morality and ethical behavior. Biologists and economists collectively solved this problem decades ago, in that they both arrived at the same, basic description via independent lines of investigation [8,9,10,11,12,13]. Self-interest, when coupled with social interdependence and scarcity, naturally gives rise to cooperative, pro-social behaviors. This is not a matter of any serious debate, either, but a well-established field, complete with its own mathematical formalism, laboratory experiments, and real-world applications. Yet to this very day, we can still find philosophers who obsess endlessly about whether or not “pulling the lever” is murder [Switch: 68.2%, don’t switch: 7.6%, other: 24.2%].

This is exactly why academic philosophy has a less-than-stellar reputation among professional scientists, engineers, and the public at large. One of the most famous examples of this frustration was even voiced by Professor Stephen Hawking himself when he publicly declared that “Philosophy is dead” [14]. Mind you, he wasn’t saying that philosophy is a completely pointless thing to study. Rather, he was complaining about the inability of philosophers to make progress and keep up with the times. Cosmologists are out there making amazing discoveries every day about the fundamental nature of space, time, and even causality itself, yet philosophers are still debating such banal questions as “what is the nature of being?” They’re not solving any new problems. They’re just rehashing the same meaningless rhetoric for decade after decade.

Countless philosophers have shrieked at the idea that their beloved profession might be dead, but the sheer childishness of their rebuttals only proves the point further. They’ll say such vapid things as, “Science is philosophical [15]," or that Hawking himself holds to questionable philosophical views [16], or that the claim itself is just “ill-informed, incoherent, and irresponsible [17]." It’s like a giant stream of insults, straw men, and red herrings that make no effort to understand, let alone address, the underlying problem. Philosophy, as a professional academic institution, does not make progress. It solves no problems and it makes no discoveries.

Even the very word itself—philosophy—is a terribly ill-defined concept. To demonstrate, just ask yourself right now: what is philosophy? That is to say, when I go out and take a bunch of philosophy courses from the philosophy department to earn my philosophy degree, what exactly am I studying? What knowledge or skills must I acquire in order to officially qualify as an expert in the field? What separates the study of philosophy from, say, the study of physics or art? How do we differentiate between a philosophical problem and a scientific one? How do we measure the difference between good philosophy and bad philosophy?

You would think that academic philosophers might be able to agree on this stuff at least, but even this is a hotly debated issue (Metaphilosophy: naturalism 49.8 %, non-naturalism 25.9%, other 24.3%). For instance, consider the classic platitude that philosophy is simply “the love of wisdom." By that definition, who isn’t a philosopher? Who among us honestly hates wisdom and has no interest in understanding the world?

At least one university department attempts to clarify this doctrine by telling us that “philosophy is an activity people undertake when they seek to understand fundamental truths about themselves, the world in which they live, and their relationships to the world and to each other [18]." Okay, so if I go out and get a PhD in philosophy, does that really make me an expert in the “fundamental truths” about myself, the world, and our relationships? If so, then why exactly does the community have such a hard time agreeing on what those truths are? Why are they so terrible at rooting out the many falsehoods within their literature and just telling us the facts?

In practice, a far more appropriate definition for a philosopher is someone who merely “studies philosophy.” Philosophy, then, is defined by the agreed-upon curriculum that all students are required to learn for their philosophy majors. It’s a perfectly valid definition, and at least some university departments do seem to implicitly assume as much on their own websites [19]. But let’s just be honest with ourselves about what this entails. Philosophy, for all practical purposes, is nothing more than a collection of arbitrarily assigned coursework defined by the undergraduate committee of your particular institution. In practice, that usually amounts to a massive survey of thought from culturally influential figures throughout history. So the next time I need help contrasting the epistemological views of Emmanuel Kant versus David Hume, I’ll be sure to consult a philosopher. But when it comes to determining which views are more valid, functional, or practical, then I’m afraid even the “professional” philosophers are just as unqualified as the rest of us.

Again, this would all be perfectly fine and dandy, if not for the arrogant pretense that modern academic philosophers are the great lords of all human wisdom. They would like you to think that they’re all out there probing the deepest mysterious of life, the universe, and everything, but that image is nothing but a pretentious fiction. Every month, this community publishes huge volumes of literature in prestigious academic journals, despite having no official consensus as to what a “correct” answer would actually look like, even if they ever found one.

This is not a good thing. Hucksters, snake-oil salesmen, and the outright incompetent are the only people who can possibly benefit from this kind of ambiguity. When a professional field lacks any clear criteria over what constitutes sensible work, then the inevitable result is going to be a lot of worthless nonsense. So even if philosophy were to occasionally offer some worthwhile nuggets of truth, it is almost impossible to find any of that truth without first digging through a giant mountain of useless rhetorical bullshit.

Case in point: Consider the famous philosopher Alvin Plantinga, who is widely regarded as one of the greatest living philosophers of religion today. Yet, if you actually bother to read any of his writings, they're practically overflowing with some of the most asinine gibberish you’ll ever encounter. The guy honestly wrote a 90-page essay in defense of the proposition that “it is entirely right, rational, reasonable, and proper to believe in God without any evidence or argument at all [20].” Not just any God, mind you, but specifically the Christian God of the Holy Bible. He even goes on to claim in his other writings that, if you don’t share his assessment about God’s obviousness, then sin must be corrupting your brain and literally making you stupid [21]---as if all those Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Atheists, Pagans, and Jews across the entire world could only believe what they do out of idolatry, pride, and masturbation. These are not just some idle scribblings, either, but widely considered to be Plantinga’s magnum opus. You would think that this sort of grossly bigoted incompetence would earn someone the disdain of an entire community of expert critical thinkers, but no. Instead, the guy has practically been showered with awards, fellowships, and honors [22].

Bear in mind now that Professor Hawking and myself are far from the only people to notice these problems with philosophy, and many prominent figures have written extensively about it in recent years [23,24,25,26]. So it’s not really a question of “if” philosophy has a problem, but how best to explore that problem and bring the field back to some semblance of respectability. It’s ironic, too, because the philosophers themselves are apparently the last people on Earth we can count on for that kind of resolution. “Philosophy,” after all, is just a word, which means there is no objectively correct way to define it and protect it. Any answer we give is necessarily going to be arbitrary, and there are dozens of competing schools of thought over how best to define the subject. Let’s not forget that countless members of the community also have a vested interest in maintaining this lack of standards, as it allows them to essentially get paid for doing nothing. Nevertheless, if philosophers ever want to be taken seriously as academic grown-ups, then sooner or later they’re going to have to impose a few boundaries. Philosophy, it seems, is in dire need of its own philosophy.

It’s interesting when you utter this phrase out loud, because it actually provides a subtle clue as to what the word “philosophy” tends to indicate in practice. Namely, the rigorous articulation of what stuff means. It almost sounds trivial to put it in those terms, but if you know anything at all about modern philosophy, then you know that this is a ubiquitous feature of the profession. Not just mere dictionary definitions, mind you, but a relentless drive towards conceptual clarity.

To demonstrate, consider the so-called “philosophy” of science. In order to officially call yourself a scientist, then presumably you accept the fundamental goals of science, and you agree to practice its methods. Science is not just a body of knowledge per se, nor is it a system of doctrines to be affirmed. Science is a process to be followed. A philosophy of science may thus be defined as any description of what science is, why science matters, how science operates, and how to identify those who fail to do science correctly. The philosophy doesn’t even have to be set in stone, either, in that anyone and everyone is more than welcome to offer their own particular spin on the basic principles.

It is tempting to complain that all of this may only be a mere “philosophy” unto itself, but at least it’s a consistent philosophy that reasonably captures what people usually mean whenever they use the word---for example, the philosophy of education, philosophy of religion, philosophy of law, moral philosophy, art, language, sports, politics… Heck, even corporations have their own philosophies! [27]. It therefore stands to reason that the philosophy of philosophy (or simply metaphilosophy) should likewise explain what it is that philosophers do, why they do it, what value it brings, and how to tell the difference between competent or incompetent practitioners.

So how exactly do you think the community of professional, PhD-level philosophers officially define their field? Simple: They don't [28]. They honestly and truly do not know what it means to be a philosopher, despite decades of personal commitment to that very profession. It's weird, too, because it's not exactly difficult to just observe a group of professionals at work and then enumerate the various tasks they collectively tend to engage in.

The way I see it, most “professional” philosophers in the academic world are essentially just a bunch of cultural curators. Human beings have been debating the same foundational questions throughout history, and there is real value in cataloging the variety of answers which develop over time. In this context, it simply doesn’t matter if the community is unable to pick and choose which views are correct, because the very idea of a “correct” philosophical stance is utterly meaningless. At best, we can only explore the perspectives of influential figures, articulate their claims more succinctly, summarize the various critiques, and then enable students to figure out which answers work best for themselves.

We may further identify an “applied” category of philosophy, which is defined by the act of doing philosophy, or merely philosophizing. Anyone can do it, and it is simply a matter of doing exactly what we just established---a formal articulation of definitions, goals, values, presumptions, beliefs, etc., followed by a thorough exploration of supporting arguments, logical implications, and practical consequences. “Successful” practitioners are thus measured by their overall degree of cultural influence, but I believe we can also reasonably evaluate their merits by examining certain objective criteria. For instance, I personally think that good philosophers must clearly define their terms, rigorously formulate their arguments in accordance with established rules of inference, and then show how such conclusions are relevant to real-world problems. In other words,

• What do you mean by that?
• How do you know that?
• Why should anyone care?

In contrast, a bad philosopher will use overly ambiguous language, assert their conclusions out of nothing, defend those conclusions against all reason, and then fail to demonstrate any practical relevance at the end of the day.

Again, this may only be my personal philosophy, but at least it’s a qualified philosophy from an experienced professional within science and engineering. Just because goals and definitions are arbitrary, that does not mean anyone is free to concoct whatever self-serving nonsense they like. If you expect your ideas to be clear, informative, and compelling, then there are just certain rules you’re going to have to learn to follow. If, however, you don’t care about any of those things, then by all means, go ahead and mash your keyboard with whatever vapid gibberish comes to mind. Just don’t act surprised when the rest of the world tends to have a hard time adopting your conclusions.

But who knows? Maybe I’m being overly simplistic. Maybe you have an entirely different perspective on how philosophy ought to be defined. That's great, and I would absolutely love to hear all about the many different nuances within competing schools of thought. But whatever views you have, can we please stop deluding ourselves under the pretentious fantasy that the so-called “philosophers” possess some kind of magical insight into the fundamental truths of anything? Academic philosophy is not about being right or wrong, but about exploring the questions themselves within some cultural or historical context. If that is how you view philosophy, then it is perfectly safe to say that the field is very much alive and well. If, however, you want hard, definitive answers, then sooner or later you’re going to have to start imposing some basic standards. In that sense, I’m afraid to say that philosophy is most definitely dead, because it was technically never alive in the first place. Science is the ultimate authority in that realm, because science actually has standards for what correct answers are supposed to look like. Science therefore doesn’t need philosophy in any direct sense, because science is a philosophy. So until mainstream academic philosophers learn to impose a philosophy of their own, they shall forever remain on the sidelines as other institutions carry on the real work of research and discovery.

References:

1. "Where can philosophy take me?" University of Kentucky [link]
2. Stoicism (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy) [link]
   
3. Undergraduate Program in Philosophy, Stanford University [link]
4. "Why Study Philosophy?" University of Washington [link]
5. "Why Study Philosophy?" James Madison University [link] 
6. "Why Study Philosophy?" University of Maryland [link]
7. Bourget and Chalmers, "What do philosophers believe?" Philosophical Studies, Vol. 170, pp. 465--200 (2014)
8. Axelrod, Robert, The Evolution of Cooperation, Basic Books, 1981
9. Straffin, Philip D., Game Theory and Strategy, Mathematical Association of America, 1993
10. Von Neumann, John, and Morgenstern, Oskar, Theory of Games and Economic Behavior, Princeton University Press, 1944
11. Weibull, JorgenW., Evolutionary Game Theory, MIT Press, 1997
12. Ridley, Matt, The Origins of Virtue: Human Instincts and the Evolution of Cooperation, Penguin Books, 1996
13. Futuyma, Douglas J., and Kirkpatrick, Mark, Evolution, Sinauer Associates (4th Ed) 2017
    
14. Hawking, Stephen, The Grand Design, Bantam Books, 2010 [link]
15. Norris, Christopher, "Hawking contra philosophy," Philosophy Now, No. 82, 2011 [link]
16. Thagard, Paul, "Is Philosophy Dead? Why Stephen Hawking is Wrong," Psychology Today, [link]
    
17. Rebecca Goldstein-Newberger, "Is Philosophy Dead?" 2015 [link]
18. "What is Philosophy?" Florida State University Department of Philosophy [link]
19. A better way of getting at the nature of philosophy is to ask about what it deals with (subject matter) and what it is that philosophers (or anybody else) do when they are doing philosophy (method). Plymouth State University [link]
    
20. Plantinga, Alvin, "Reason and Belief in God" 
21. Original sin involves both intellect and will; it is both cognitive and affective. On the one hand, it carries with it a sort of blindness, a sort of imperceptiveness, dullness, stupidity. This is a cognitive limitation that first of all prevents its victim from proper knowledge of God and his beauty, glory, and love; it also prevents him from seeing what is worth loving and what worth hating, what should be sought and what eschewed. It therefore compromises both knowledge of fact and knowledge of value.---Plantinga, Alvin, "Warranted Christian Belief," pp. 178 
22. Alvin Plantinga Awards and Honors [link]
    
23. Chalmers, David J., "Why isn't there more progress in philosophy?" Philosophy, Vol. 90, No. 1, pp. 3--31 (2015)
24. Brennon, Jason, "Skepticism about philosophy," Ratio, Vol. 23, No. 1 (2010) [link]
25. Daly, Christopher, "Persistent Philosophical Disagreement," Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Vol. 117, No. 1, 2017 [link]
    
26. Cappelen, Herman, "Disagreement in Philosophy, an Optimistic Perspective," The Cambridge Companion to Philosophical Methodology, Cambridge University Press, 2017
27. Toyota Corporate Philosophy
28. Overgaard, Gilbert, and Burwood, An Introduction to Metaphilosophy, Cambridge University Press (2013) [link] 
    

The Fallacy of Denying the Inference

Consider the following conversation:

• Timothy: Hi there. I am not married, nor have I ever been married. 
• Bob: Oh, so you're a bachelor, eh?
• Timothy: I never said I was a bachelor. Why are you putting words in my mouth?

I've been encountering this line of reasoning a lot lately, and it drives me nuts. I was hoping to give it a silly or fancy name, but I think Denying the Inference seems pretty straightforward. It happens when people basically accuse you of straw-manning their claims, despite the fact that your description is a perfectly logical entailment from their original premises. It happens so much, in fact, that I am honestly amazed that no one has ever bothered to name this thing before (or maybe there is, and someone can just point it out for me?). 

My personal experience of this came recently when I had a discussion about formalism vs Platonism in mathematics. I tried to explain that formalism is basically the de-facto presumption in a number of modern textbooks, as evidenced by such phrases as "the language of natural numbers" or "the language of logic." We also see a lot of modern pedagogical sources that encourage educators to teach math "as a language," not to mention the existence of "formal language theory" as an actual class you can take in upper-division mathematics. The natural numbers themselves are nothing but a closed, tautological circle, as evidenced by the Peano axioms and the textbook definition of "zero." My detractor, however, rejected all of that entirely. Instead, he demanded that I produce an actual textbook containing the explicit affirmation that "formalism is true."

The obvious problem with this line of reasoning is that you don't have to explicitly affirm certain propositions in order for certain other premises to do it for you. When you tell me that Tim has never been married, it cannot possibly qualify as a straw-man argument for me to infer that Tim is a bachelor. Please don't blame others for your inability to grasp the logical implications of your own claims.

A Simple Challenge for Inspiring Philosophy

 
Here’s a fun little argument given to us by our good friend, Inspiring Philosophy [link]. 

1. Anything that exists has an explanation of its existence, either in the necessity of its own nature, or in an external explanation.
2. The universe has an explanation for its existence, and that explanation is grounded in a necessary being.
3. The universe exists.
4. Therefore, the universe has an explanation of its existence.
5. Therefore, the explanation of the existence of the universe is grounded in a necessary being.
6. Therefore, God (a necessary being) exists.
   

That’s an interesting argument you have there, but I hope you can forgive me for being a bit confused. So let’s take a moment to analyze the basic logical structure by applying the following substitutions:

• x = a thing
• X(x) = x is a thing that exists
  
• Y(x) = x has an explanation
• N(x) = x has an explanation by the necessity of its own nature
• E(x) = x has an external explanation 
• B(x) = x is explained by the grounding in a necessary being
• u = the universe
• Y(u) = the explanation for the universe.
• g = God (a necessary being).

Given these definitions, I am going to do my best to rewrite this argument into something a little more structured. After borrowing heavily from the language of predicate logic, I was able to come up with the following: 

1. For all x, X(x) → Y(x), such that either Y(x) = N(x) or Y(x) = E(x).
2. Y(u), and Y(u) = B(u).
3. X(u).
4. Therefore, Y(u).
5. Therefore, Y(u) = B(u).
6. Therefore, X(g).
   

I apologize in advance if my use of predicate logic isn't perfect, but hopefully you can now see some of the basic problems emerging from this argument. I was able to count three deal-breakers.

1. Premise (2) clearly contradicts premise (1). You cannot lump all possible explanations into two categories, only to then introduce a third category.
   
2. The conclusions (4) and (5) are nothing but verbatim repetitions of what was already asserted in premise (2). At best, this is just needlessly redundant. At worst, it is blatant question-begging.
   
3. The final conclusion (6) is a complete non-sequitur. Nothing in this argument says anything about the existence of an actual necessary being, nor does that existence follow from any established rules of inference. The actual existence of a necessary being is entirely separate from the proposition that some explanation is "grounded" in a necessary being, and there is nothing in this argument to formally connect the two.
   

Notice how I’m not even touching the actual interpretation of any of these premises. All I am examining is the formal structure of the argument itself. Unfortunately, by all objective standards, this is a demonstrably invalid argument. That means anything which comes after this point is entirely moot, and there is simply no point in considering this discussion any further.

But hey, you know what? That’s perfectly okay! Nobody is perfect, and there is nothing wrong with putting out a bad argument by mistake. All that matters is whether or not we have the intellectual courage to admit our mistakes and correct them.

With that in mind, I would like to present a formal challenge to Inspiring Philosophy. Now that you have been duly informed of the mistakes in this argument, would you please kindly take the time to publicly acknowledge your errors and correct them? Nobody is judging you for making an honest mistake. It happens to the best of us all the time. The only way this could ever turn into a problem is if you cling to those mistakes after the fact, thereby perpetuating misinformation. So let’s show the world what an amazing philosopher you are by updating your arguments in light of this new information. 

Thank you for reading.

The Problem of Omnipotence

Watch the video here.

Imagine yourself relaxing at home one day when you suddenly hear a knock at the front door. To your amazement, it appears to be none other than John DeLancie himself, standing on your doorstep.

"Hello.” he says. “My name is Q, from the Q continuum. Just stopping by to let you know that I’m an omnipotent god. You should probably start bowing before me or else I might get really upset."

"That's cool," you think. You've never met an omnipotent being before. But hey, he seems like a pretty honest guy, and you're probably not very keen on the idea of getting turned into a frog right now. So naturally, you take him completely at his word and start bowing right that second, am I right?

No, of course not! You’re skeptical. Maybe this person is telling you the truth, or maybe this person is just some weirdo pulling your leg. So you demand some basic empirical evidence to show that this being really is what he says he is. 

“All right,” he says.  “You want proof?  You got it."

The next thing you know, Mr. Q snaps his fingers, and, in a brilliant flash of light, your car is suddenly transformed into a giant pile of squirrels. It’s a very impressive trick to be sure and maybe even enough to warrant sincere placation of this being. However, we’re all hard-nosed philosophers around here, and we want to be as sure as we possibly can. So let’s put this guy to the test and see whether or not he truly deserves the title of omnipotent, rather than, say, really-really awesome and powerful.

You might be forgiven for thinking that this was a perfectly straightforward question to ask, and in any other context it probably would be. But religious philosophy has a really funny habit of tripping all over itself whenever questions like this crop up. Because as simple and intuitive as this problem may seem, most religious philosophers cannot for the life of themselves seem to answer it coherently. It’s an elegant little thought experiment that perfectly captures the bizarre mental gymnastics of Christian apologetics, as well as some of the foundational failings of their entire philosophical world. It’s also a really fun exercise in basic critical thinking skill that takes us over a surprisingly broad spectrum of interesting philosophical subjects. That's why I personally find this question to be so strangely fascinating and why I think you'll enjoy following me down the looming rabbit hole that it represents.

To begin our analysis, let's frame the question in terms of something a little more mundane. Rather than claim to be a full-on omnipotent deity, suppose instead that our stranger merely claims to be a reasonably competent automobile mechanic. It's basically the exact same situation as before, but now framed in a completely nonreligious context. So ask yourself now: How exactly should we go about verifying this claim?After all, it’s not like we just take random people completely at their word for this stuff. There’s real money at stake here, plus the functionality of our cars. Surely there must be some sort of test we can offer before honoring him with such a title, right?

Obviously, the answer is yes, and it works like this. Go get out a piece of paper and write the following words that the top:

Things that a Competent Automobile

Mechanic Should be Able to Do

After that, you just enumerate the list with a collection of pertinent challenges. For example:

• Change a tire.
• Change oil. 
• Flush coolant.
• ... 

and so on until you’ve completely populated the list. Once finished, you can then issue your challenge in the following fashion:

Dear Mr. Stranger.

Given the proper tools, work space, assistance, etc, I challenge you to complete each of these items on my list within a reasonable amount of time. Or, if the list is infinite in length, then at least complete a reasonable sampling of items until I'm satisfied.

There, done. If our subject is successful, then great. He has officially earned himself the title of competent automobile mechanic. And if not, then oh well. Maybe he's just pretty good with cars or perhaps halfway decent. That’s fine, too. They're just words and labels.

Now to be fair, this isn’t exactly how we all go about our daily lives, but it does illustrate an important philosophical aspect over the nature of language. Doctors, lawyers, presidents, squirrels, rocks, potatoes---they're all just labels that we define and assign in accordance with a distinct set of empirically verifiable properties. Anything that demonstrates the properties of a given list may officially earn the corresponding title, while things which fail to satisfy those properties are simply not referred to as such. It’s basically a form of philosophical verificationism, and it represents a foundational pillar on which human language operates.

With that in mind, let’s go back to our supposedly omnipotent friend, Mr. Q. Start by getting out a piece of paper and writing the following words that the top:

Things That an Omnipotent Being Should Be Able to Do

What items go on the list now? The answer, it turns out, depends a lot on who you ask. For example, according to one school of thought, the answer is pretty simple: Anything. Literally anything you can think of goes on the list.

• Make it rain frogs? Check!
• Create a married bachelor? You got it!
• Flargle a snuffin? Sure, why not?
• ...

This is a naïve form of omnipotence commonly referred to as absolutism, or absolute omnipotence. Rene Descartes was a famous defender of this position, and even some modern philosophers have periodically defended it as well [1]. It’s actually pretty easy to see where this idea comes from, given that the Bible itself practically screams this interpretation at you. For instance,

• Matthew 19:26---With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.
• Mark 10:27---With man it is impossible, but not with God. For all things are possible with God.
• Luke 1:37---For nothing will be impossible with God.
• Job 42:2---I know that you [God] can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. 
• Philippians 4:13---I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me

Despite its intuitive basis on Christian scripture, the idea of absolutism is clearly riddled with problems. For example, take the challenge of Flargling a Snuffin. According to absolutism, Mr. Q here should be perfectly capable of doing exactly that without a second thought. Yet, as should be obvious by now, flargle and snuffin are just gibberish words I made up out of nothing---they have no established definition. So pray tell, what exactly could our subject ever do that would satisfy the challenge?

Bear in mind now that this is not a limitation on our subject per se, but a simple problem of language. It’s like mashing my keyboard with random characters and saying “here, do this!” There’s simply nothing to do. I may as well just stand there in silence, or perhaps shrug my shoulders and grunt. Mr. Q cannot ever hope to fulfill a challenge if no coherent challenge was actually given.

Notice that a similar argument also applies to the challenge of creating a married bachelor. By definition, a bachelor is an unmarried man, which means the creation of a married bachelor is the same thing as creating a married man who is also not married---a logical contradiction. The set of all things that are married is mutually exclusive to the set of all things that are not married. It therefore doesn’t matter what Mr. Q ever presents to me because the rules of logic forbid me from ever recognizing a successful outcome. Again, that’s not a limitation on our subject, but another limitation on language itself. The very words used to formulate the challenge are simply put together wrongly.

This is exactly why absolutism is generally regarded as a pretty terrible form of omnipotence. Nevertheless, it is important to recognize that the death of absolutism does necessarily imply the death of God. All it says is that, whatever things are out there for us to give labels to, none of them will ever be able to demonstrate omnipotence to any rational satisfaction. And since no being can ever possibly earn itself such a title (even in principle), the title itself is essentially meaningless. If, however, we simply redefine omnipotence to mean something slightly different, then all of the problems we just talked about would immediately vanish in a puff of logic.

Remember now that all we’re trying to do here at the end of the day is define a word. If that word is coherent, logical, and verifiable, then great. We can use it to describe various entities in our environment, if and when we ever happen to encounter them. But if the word is incoherent or logically inconsistent, then oh well. It’s not like the universe cares one way or the other. All it means is that we can't use the word to meaningfully describe stuff. Time to go back to the drawing board and see if we can’t think of something better.

Much to the credit of religious philosophers today, that seems to be exactly what happened. Rather than literally be capable of doing anything, a far more common view of omnipotence is the ability to do all that is logically possible [2]. It’s a perfectly straightforward revision that specifically seeks to avoid the incoherence of absolutism while still preserving the totality of power we've come to expect. And that’s a good thing! So let’s all get out a piece of paper and write the following words at the top:

Logically Possible Actions

What exactly does this mean? How do we determine whether or not some particular task should go on the list?

Here’s how I interpret it:

Consider a simple challenge like “eat a taco.” If I can imagine some logically possible world wherein that task is being performed by some agent, then good. It goes on the list. For example, I can imagine a logically possible world where it is true that the President of the United States is eating a taco. Therefore, it seems to me, it must be logically possible to eat a taco. It is officially something that can be done, and therefore it must go on the list. Anything that wishes to call itself omnipotent must therefore be able to replicate that feat.

That was easy enough. So let's shake things up a bit by asking a very simple question: Is it, or is it not, logically possible to tell a lie?

Obviously, the answer has to be yes, because people around the world tell lies all the time. Therefore, by modal axiom B [3], it must be logically possible to tell a lie. Therefore, by the definition of omnipotence, all omnipotent beings must be able to tell lies. Strangely enough, however, the Holy Christian Bible says outright that lying is something God cannot do; not just something God doesn’t do or chooses not to do, but literally cannot do.

• Titus 1:2 “[I]n hope of eternal life which God, who cannot lie, promised before time began.”
• Hebrews 6:18---“[I]t is impossible for God to lie.”

So right off the bat, the very definition offered by professional Christian philosophers themselves has immediately precluded their very own God from being omnipotent! Isn't that funny? But let's ignore that little problem anyway and see what else can we find wrong with this definition.

How about this? Go outside and start collecting rocks into a giant pile. Keep piling up rocks until the pile is so heavy that you cannot ever hope to lift them. Congratulations! You have just created a finite pile of rocks that officially satisfies the description of being unliftable by its own maker. Therefore, it must be logically possible to create a pile of rocks, or even a single rock, that satisfies the description of being unliftable by its own maker. Therefore, all omnipotent beings must be able to replicate this task. So let’s pose the challenge.

Dear Mr. Q,

I challenge you to create a finite rock such that its own maker cannot lift it. Go.

So far so good, right? But what happens if Mr. Q actually succeeds in this challenge? After all, last time I checked, it is always logically possible to lift a finite rock.

Notice that this is just a simple variation on the paradox of the stone---Can God create a rock so heavy that even God Himself cannot lift it. It’s a famous philosophical challenge to the idea of omnipotence because it logically prevents any being from ever demonstrating such a property. By definition, all omnipotent beings must, at any given moment, possess the power to both create rocks and to lift rocks subject to specifications. Yet the moment our subject creates a rock he cannot lift, he cannot possibly satisfy the definition of omnipotence any more. That means no being can ever possibly earn the title of omnipotence because the very act of proving it requires them to not have it.

Notice also that we could just as easily frame this exact same problem any number of ways. For example, one of my personal favorites is to stand before a podium and truthfully speak the words “I am not omnipotent.” Again, it’s a perfectly logical task, in that I can imagine a logically possible world where this is taking place. Therefore, at any given moment, an omnipotent being must, by definition, be able to replicate that task---stand before a podium and truthfully speak the words “I am not omnipotent.” Unfortunately, the only way to actually possess such a power is by not being omnipotent!

Bear in mind now that this is not some clever philosophical trick, but a fundamental property of binary propositional logic. Self-referential propositions, when coupled with logical negations, tend to produce really nasty inconsistencies. It's the exact same reason why we have so many other famous paradoxes as well. For example, the Liar’s Paradox, Russel’s Paradox, the Halting Problem, and even Godel’s Incompleteness Theorems are all just similar manifestations of self-referential negation. So it’s not like I’m just making this stuff up, because philosophers, logicians, and mathematicians have been studying this exact same phenomenon for centuries. We therefore must conclude that the capacity to do all that is logically possible is, ironically, not a logical possibility. You can either be complete, or you can be consistent, but you cannot have both simultaneously.

At this point, you would think that most Christians would simply say something like, “why yes, that seems to be a bit of an issue. Perhaps my conception of omnipotence is just a little bit too greedy. Let’s maybe learn from the last 100 years of mathematical logic and see if we can’t find something a little less contradictory.” But of course, the exact opposite is generally true, with hack philosophers around the world dogmatically clinging to their precious definition anyway.

For instance, one complaint that you might hear is how the challenge itself is inherently ambiguous. When I create a rock, the word "maker" refers to myself, the person speaking to you right now. Yet when someone else performs the same task, the meaning of “maker” suddenly changes. On other words, the challenge shares the same type of proposition, but not the same token [4]. Thus, in order for the challenge to be comparable, Mr. Q would not need to create a rock that he cannot lift, but only create a rock that I cannot lift.

This may sound like a somewhat reasonable point at first, but quickly falls apart the moment you actually stop and think about it. For starters, we don’t have to use the word “maker” if we don’t want to. We could have challenged our subject to create a rock so heavy that no being in the universe can lift it. Or better yet, stand before a podium and truthfully state the proposition that “There are no omnipotent beings.” They’re still logically possible actions in some logically possible world, which means they still have to go on the list.

The real problem, however, is that all actions are inherently self-referential. To see why, simply imagine what would happen if I challenged you, right now, to eat a taco. Naturally, if you’re like most people, the obvious interpretation of that task is to immediately grab a taco and start shoving it into your face. If, however, you were to then challenge me to replicate that task, what exactly do you imagine happening next? Do I begin shoving a taco into my own face? Or must I literally shove a second taco into your face and force you to eat it?

Obviously, the former interpretation is the correct viewpoint, because that's how every English-speaking human on the planet understands it. The whole point of issuing the challenge in the first place is to see if you have the power within yourself to replicate a power that I had within myself. Yet, for some strange reason, the moment we try to apply this same line of reason within a religious-philosophical context, then all of a sudden people start acting like a bunch of pedantic morons. By invoking the type/token distinction in this way, it is literally meaningless for me to challenge you to "eat a taco." I have to instead say something horribly obtuse, like "I challenge you to bring about the event of you eating this taco."

Well I'm sorry guys, but events are not the same thing as actions, and I should not have to specify a particular actor in order to coherently define some particular act. When you challenge me to jump five feet in the air, you obviously mean that I have to propel myself with my own legs off the ground beneath me. If, however, I then challenge you to jump five feet in the air, then obviously you must now propel yourself off the ground with your legs. All logically possible actions are, in some way or another, inherently self-referential. Deal with it.

With that taken care of, the next most common objection I tend to hear is that omnipotence doesn’t really mean the ability to do all that is logically possible. Rather, it means something more like the ability to do all that is consistent with one’s nature. That is to say, if the proposition “Y is doing X” is logically self-consistent, then for an omnipotent being, it will always be true that “Y can do X” [5]. 

Okay, fair enough. If you want to just summarily change the definition of omnipotence again, then that’s great. It was a bad definition from the get-go, and we can only grow as philosophers by trying to find something better. But can we please all be grown-up enough to admit that this is nothing more than an indirect admission of defeat? The previous definition was inherently flawed, and so now we’re changing it into something else. Yet whenever I talk to Christian apologists about this, they almost always pretend as if the new definition is really what it was supposed to be all along, and how dare I straw-man such brilliant thinkers by ever suggesting otherwise!

Fine. Whatever. Let’s just roll with it and see what we find this time, shall we? Can an omnipotent being tell a lie or what?

Typically, the answer to this question is that it depends on the being. For example, the God of Christianity cannot tell a lie because doing so would contradict His perfectly honest nature. Thus, to ask God to lie is the logical equivalent to asking a perfectly honest being to not be perfectly honest---apparently, a logical contradiction. But don’t worry, God still gets to be omnipotent anyway because He can still do all the things that are consistent with his divine, unchanging nature. Likewise, God cannot stand before a podium and shout “I am not omnipotent” because that would produce a contradiction as well. Omnipotence is an inherent part of God's nature, so therefore it doesn't have to go on the list of things God can do. Bam. Problem solved!

This is usually the part where I begin to lose all patience with religious philosophers, because responses like this are clearly not well thought out. It really gets under my skin, too, because it represents a profound laziness that makes no effort whatsoever to consider the practical implications of what is actually being said. To illustrate, simply imagine God Himself standing on my doorstep in all His glory, when I issue the following challenge:

Dear God,

I challenge you, right now, to tell me a lie. Tell me that you’re a potato. Go.

Pray tell, what exactly do Christians imagine happening next? Because as far as I can tell, they seem to imagine something like that scene from Liar Liar where Jim Carry tries to say that the pen is red, but just can’t bring himself to do it [6]---as if some invisible, metaphysical force of honesty is somehow preventing the words from coming out of his mouth! Call me crazy, but I hardly find that to be consistent with the idea of unlimited potentiality. Or maybe Christians just imagine God standing there with a dumb look on His face, as if He didn’t even understand the question? Or what if he just says “I’m sorry, but that would violate my essential nature. No thanks.” What in the hell am I supposed to do with that?

But let’s take it one step further. Suppose you challenge me to lift a 1000-lbs car over my head---except that ooh, I’m sorry, but that would violate my essential nature! You see, I’m a being comprised of physical muscle mass that can only lift 200 lbs. When you ask me to lift 1000 lbs, then you’re asking me to perform a contradiction---A being that cannot lift more than 200 lbs is lifting more than 200 lbs. Not only that, but any challenge you give me can be counteracted in the exact same way. No being can logically be expected to do the things it cannot do.

So congratulations, my dear Christians! You’ve solved the omnipotence paradox. All you had to do was replace it with the omnipotence tautology. Literally anything and everything in the universe is now omnipotent because nothing can ever logically do the things it cannot do! 

“Aha!” I hear you saying. “It is only incidental that you cannot lift 1000 lbs. I can still imagine a possible world wherein you are lifting 1000 lbs over your head. Therefore, it may be logically possible, but not physically possible!"

Actually, no. What you're imagining right now isn't me. It may be an entity very similar to me, but that's not really me. Because as we just established, I am not a being who can lift 1000 lbs over my head.

Or better yet, let's play that game in reverse. I can imagine a possible world wherein God is telling a lie. Now what? What’s the difference? Why is lying a violation of God’s essential nature, but lifting 1000 lbs is totally consistent with mine? Because as far as I can tell, this entire line of reasoning appears to be nothing more than blatant special pleading. When God can’t do a thing, then it must be because it violates His essential nature. Yet when I can’t do a thing, then apparently it’s little more than a conditional happenstance of my feeble, limited existence.

So once again, we have another example of responding to an argument without any effort to actually address the argument. But the thing I find absolutely hilarious about this new definition is how (of all people) the famous apologist Alvin Plantinga himself personally debunked it as far back as the 1960s [7]. All you have to do is imagine a man called Mr. McEar, who just so happens to have one essential property---he has only the power to scratch his ear, and nothing else. Thus, by definition, any other task you challenge him to complete is a logical violation of his essential nature. Hardly an “all-powerful” being, wouldn’t you say? Yet, according to our new definition, Mr. McEar is still just as omnipotent as almighty God Himself!

All tangents aside, the real problem with this whole “essential nature” nonsense is just that: essentialism---the idea that there exists some kind of intrinsic “essence” to things that makes them what they are. It’s a perfectly natural bias through which human beings tend to look at the world, but it’s still completely bogus. Ever since the Greek philosopher Plutarch introduced the Theseus paradox back in the first century [8], philosophers have had very good reasons to reject essentialism as a worthless, incoherent concept. A chair does not have some magically objective “essence of chairness” that makes it a chair. It’s just some arrangement of physical material stuff that human beings have arbitrarily decided to sit on and call a “chair.” Likewise, there is no such thing as “essence of Godliness” that would make God “God.” Rather, there is only a distinct collection of empirically verifiable properties which, if demonstrated, would earn some lucky entity the official title of “God."

So not only do we have Christians pushing yet another idea of omnipotence that just doesn’t work, but it’s grounded on philosophical presumptions that have been categorically debunked for almost two thousand years. However, it really needs to be emphasized that all of these crazy problems would vanish in a heartbeat if only the theists would just stop insisting on such bungled definitions. It’s sad, too, because it’s really not that hard to come up with something relatively functional. So let’s do the theists’ job for them and just define omnipotence in a way that isn’t stupid, shall we?

Omnipotence: the capacity to create, destroy, and rearrange matter/energy in accordance with arbitrary whims. 

There. Done! If we ever encounter any being with this kind of power, I will be more than happy to refer to such a being as “omnipotent.” Can he create rocks? Sure. Can he lift rocks? Absolutely. But can he create a rock so heavy that even its own maker cannot lift it? Nope. Not a chance. But guess what? That’s perfectly okay, because it's still logically consistent with the stated definition.

Notice how a definition like this also solves all kinds of goofy philosophical issues. For example, one lesser-known problem with omnipotence is the problem of creating two omnipotent beings at once. So let’s imagine a possible world wherein two beings are both competing for the official title of “omnipotent deity.” All we have to do is make a game out of it. Challenge one guy to turn my car into a pile of squirrels while challenging the other guy to turn it into a sack of potatoes. Whichever outcome occurs will then determine which guy is the loser and which guy earns the title. Done.

Or better yet, let’s consider another lesser-known problem. I challenge you to truthfully tell me what I ate for dinner last year. You’ll notice that this is not really so much a test of power, but rather a test of knowledge. Yet according to most classical definitions for omnipotence, there is no distinction. The omnipotent being must be able to do it because I formulated the challenge as a logically coherent action. If, however, we adopt the new definition, then it is now possible for a being to be omnipotent, but not necessarily omniscient. All-powerful and all-knowing are now philosophically distinct concepts, as we should reasonably expect.

Notice also that there are still many possible ways to potentially break the definition. For example, could an omnipotent being create another omnipotent being? Or what if I challenge the being to kill itself? Would that violate the definition? Maybe, maybe not. But you’ll notice that I’m not racking my brain with obtuse rationalizations just to protect a stupid definition. If it works, then great. It not, then oh well. We'll just think of something better.

The ultimate irony in this entire discussion is that, when all is said and done here, I’m basically just fixing the theists’ philosophical problems for them. Yet if past experience is any guide, the overwhelming majority of them will never see it that way. Instead, they’ll probably view this entire discussion as a literal attack on God Himself, as if the words used to describe some possible entity might have real power over whether or not it actually exists. That’s what happens when you live your life defending dogma rather than honestly searching for a better understanding of the world. But the thing I find really embarrassing about this entire debate is that by clinging to their philosophically warped definitions, it is the Christians themselves who are logically forcing their God squarely into the realm of nonexistence. Even if there were a God-like thing somewhere out there in the cosmos for us to meet, the rules of language would prevent us from ever rationally calling it such.

Thank you for reading.

Notes/References:

1. Earl Conee, "The possibility of power beyond possibility," Philosophical Perspectives, Vol. 5, pp 447--473 (1991)
2. See, for example, the Catholic Encyclopedia or the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy "S is omnipotent if S can perform any action A such that A is possible"
3. If X is true in the actual world, then X is necessarily possible. 
4. See, for example, this video here
5. See also Type-token distinction
6. (PlaceForTruth.org) "When used of God, it refers to fact that He is all-powerful, that He is unconstrained by any outside force; He can do anything consistent with His character."
7. (GraceBibleChurch) "God is infinitely able to do all things that He desires to do, but must at all times be consistent with His perfect attributes or essence."
8. Plantinga, Alvin. 1967. "God and other minds: a study of the rational justification of belief in God." Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. 
9. Ship of Theseus

The Problem of Free Will (and How to Solve It)

Watch the Full Video Here.

 

Imagine yourself sitting in the jury box for a courtroom trial of the infamous Neckbeard the Pirate. Looking over the list of charges, you see what appears to be quite the nefarious career: Looting, pillaging, extortion, raping, kidnapping, murdering… the list goes on and on. Not only that, but the defendant doesn’t even deny his actions. He confesses outright to every last crime, plus a few extra that didn’t even make the list. It seems to be a textbook open-and-shut case, except for an unusual plea made by the defense.

"Please don’t send me to prison!” says Captain Neckbeard. “I had no choice. You see, years ago, the Canadian government installed a microchip in my brain that forced me to do their evil bidding. It wasn’t really me who committed those horrible crimes. It was the agency controlling me through the implant. I was just an unwilling puppet in the whole ordeal.”

“Golly,” you think. “That’s a pretty far-fetched claim. He can’t possibly expect us to believe this, can he?"

Sure enough, however, the story checks out. The defense submits a series of CT scans that clearly show the presence a device implanted in his prefrontal cortex. The very chip itself is then submitted as evidence, followed by a series of testimonies from neurologists, cognitive scientists, and electrical engineers all explaining exactly how it works. Representatives from the Canadian government even take the stand and admit openly to having abducted their own citizens and implanting them with mind-control devices. It was all just part of a top-secret spy project gone terribly awry.

Ask yourself. Given such evidence, how exactly would you place your verdict? Would you vote guilty and throw the defendant in prison for the rest of his life?  Or would you acquit the defendant of all charges?

If you’re anything like most people, the evidence in this scenario would probably convince you to acquit. After all, it wasn’t really the defendant who was doing all those horrible things. It was the operator of the mind-control chip. It therefore seems perfectly reasonable to conclude that the defendant was not acting in accordance with his own free will and thus does not bear any moral responsibility for his crimes.

Now to be fair, a full-on mind control chip is a pretty fantastic idea, but there really are actual courtroom cases that closely resemble this exact scenario. At least one classic example was the case of a Virginia man who developed severe pedophilic tendencies after sprouting a tumor in his right orbitofrontal cortex [1,2]. Rather than directly force his actions, however, the tumor released a frenzy of antisocial desires while simultaneously blocking the part of his brain responsible for impulse control. Fortunately, once the tumor was surgically removed, the defendant was eventually restored to normal social behavior. So ask yourself now: How would you cast your vote if you were on his jury? Would you vote to acquit? Or would you vote to convict?

Again, if you’re anything like most people, you would probably vote to acquit, and that's exactly what happened in this particular case. But how far can this kind of thinking reasonably extend? For example, what if for every act of piracy, a full one-million dollars was donated to the Red Cross and then used to save 100 lives? Thus, being the perfectly moral agent that he is, Captain Neckbeard had no choice but to engage in a few acts of lesser evil for the sake of a much greater good. Or better yet, what if Captain Neckbeard just really enjoys being a pirate so much, that absolutely nothing else in his life could possibly bring him happiness? Or what if Neckbeard just got into piracy one day because he felt bored on a Sunday afternoon? At what point do we transition from complete, merciful forgiveness to the usual imposition of criminal justice?

These simple thought experiments represent the foundation for an age-old principle known as free will. It’s a classic problem that philosophers have passionately discussed for thousands of years, and it still continues to spark debate to this very day. Yet despite the gallons of ink that have been spilled over this topic, it’s surprisingly rare to find anyone with a comprehensive solution that actually works. That’s a real shame, too, because it’s not exactly difficult to provide functional answers to these kinds of questions. All it takes is a little willingness to explore the problem honestly, plus the intellectual discipline to apply rigorous standards of logical consistency. That’s why I personally find the issue so fascinating, and why I think you’ll all enjoy following me along as we finally settle the problems of free will once and for all.

The Twins Problem

Now before we begin, it’s important to understand that the fundamental problem with an idea like free will has very little to do with whether or not it really exists. Rather, the far more compelling problem is how best to define that term in the first place. It’s as if we all have this deep, intuitive sense over what free will ought to mean, but just can’t seem to pin it down into any hard, quantifiable terms. It’s a giant gap that undermines nearly every dedicated treatment on the subject. After all, what’s the point of engaging in a public debate when no one has yet to even agree on what the debate is supposed to be about? So before we even touch on the practical problems of free will, it really helps to step back and ask ourselves what exactly those two little words really mean.

To help answer that question, simply imagine yourself sitting in a room behind a table. Across from you are what appear to be two identical twins. They look the same, they act the same, and in all physical respects, they seem to be as alike as two people can possibly be. There is, however, one key difference that sets them apart. One of these entities has free will, and the other does not. Your job is to figure out which one is which, and do so with repeatable, reliable, consistency.

Ask yourself: How exactly would you go about telling the difference? What observations do you make? What experiments do you perform? What empirically verifiable distinction must we look for in order to differentiate between a being that has free will and a being that does not?

Bear in mind now that whatever answer you give to this question is, effectively, your definition for free will. It’s a textbook application of a well-known principle called verificationism, and it represents the ultimate foundation on which all human language operates. It’s an amazing philosophical tool that works wonders at cutting through the pseudo-intellectual background noise and getting right to the heart of such difficult ideas.

To illustrate, suppose someone tries to tell you that free will is an “immaterial construct” and thus cannot be detected or measured using the empirical methods of science. Okay, that’s fine if you want to think that, but it immediately runs into a pretty glaring problem. When Captain Neckbeard says, “I was not acting out of my own free will,” and the prosecution says, “Yes, you totally were,” pray tell, how exactly are we supposed to figure out who’s right? Do we just randomly guess? Should we assume one side is always telling the truth, no matter what? Because the moment we reject the application of any objectively verifiable criteria, then the only way to settle such disputes it by pure, unfettered say-so. Microchip in your brain? Sorry, that’s an empirically verifiable distinction. How about a brain tumor? Nope. Still verifiable and thus material---nothing whatsoever to do with free will!

Clearly, any attempt to side-step verificationism is little more than a philosophical dead end. Yet despite this obvious limitation, it can still be like pulling teeth just to get a clear definition out of people. It's infuriating, too, because it means that any attempt to pin free will down with a hard definition will inevitably be met with angry accusations of “straw man” from every corner of the blog-o-sphere. Nevertheless, we have to start somewhere, and there are at least some popular definitions that do provide a workable framework for verification and analysis.

One statement in particular that tends to occur over and over again is the famous expression that free will inherently represents “a capacity to have done otherwise.” What exactly that means is open to some interpretation, but it nearly always involves an explicit rejection of predetermination. It’s a classic philosophical viewpoint known as libertarian free will, or metaphysical libertarianism, and it holds that free agents are not necessarily bound by the initial conditions of their circumstances when making decisions.

To demonstrate how this works from a verificationist perspective, simply imagine our twins being given a choice between chocolate and vanilla milkshakes. After long and careful deliberation, they both eventually conclude that chocolate is the preferred flavor and so naturally pick that milkshake accordingly. But suppose for a moment that there existed a magic rewind button capable of reversing time itself. Every last subatomic particle in the universe, including those making up our very own brains, will be reset back to exactly where they were at some point in the past. If we were to then press this button and replicate our experiment between chocolate and vanilla, what outcomes should we expect to observe? According to most schools of thought, the twin without free will should consistently pick the chocolate milkshake every time. However, for the twin that does possess free will, there is the distinct possibility that, on occasion, he just might decide to take the vanilla.

That description may sound a little goofy, but it really is the basic train of thought provided by the overwhelming majority of thinkers on this subject. They make no effort whatsoever to tell you what free will actually is, but only to tell you what free will isn’t---namely, that free will is not a thing that can logically coexist with a deterministic universe. The two ideas are thus incompatible.

Clearly, there are some pretty serious problems with this viewpoint that need to be addressed. For starters, there are no magic rewind buttons with which to reset the entire universe. Consequently, the distinction between a being with free will and a being without is completely immeasurable. Again, when Captain Neckbeard claims that he was not acting in accordance with his own free will, how exactly are we supposed to verify such a claim? Do we really need an honest-to-goodness time machine with which to observe his actions? And exactly how many times must we watch him repeat his crimes before we are convinced that his actions were predetermined?

Obviously, that’s not ever going to be an option, nor does it even make sense to try. The past is the past, and no being can ever possibly “do otherwise” on anything that has already been done. Free will in this specific sense is therefore completely dead in the water before the boat has even sailed. Nevertheless, we cannot simply acquit every criminal in existence because of some nuanced philosophical quirk, can we? Just because the popular conception of free will tends to make no sense, does that automatically mean everything about it is completely worthless and inapplicable?

Of course not! For instance, rather than reset time itself, what if we merely replicate the initial conditions of some past experiment and then observe a replication of outcomes in the future? This turns out to be a much more workable idea because it represents something we can actually utilize in the real world. It also just so happens to be the textbook definition of determinism according to every modern theory of probability [3]. The implication is that I don’t have to necessarily rewind the entire universe per se, but I can, in principle, replicate all of the relevant conditions that gave rise to a particular event. If our universe is indeed deterministic, then for any physical experiment you may ever hope to contrive, I can predict and replicate the outcome of that experiment with perfect consistency. It also means that, for all practical purposes, your future might as well be set in stone because every outcome that occurs will always be causally predetermined by the conditions that came before it.

So given this slightly tweaked definition, is it safe to conclude that people have free will or what? In short: probably not. After all, if our decisions are merely the product of the neural connections within our brains, then in principle I could reset those conditions and watch you repeat the exact same decision under a given scenario. Or, equivalently, if I knew the exact arrangement of every last neural connection in your brain, then I could, in principle, predict exactly how you will behave when presented with a choice.

One of the most dramatic demonstrations of this principle was recently published by neuroscientists at the Max Plank Institute in Germany [4]. Using functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI), human subjects had their brains scanned while randomly pushing buttons with either their left or right index fingers. Upon post-analysis of the data, it was found that decisions could actually be predicted, with greater than 50% accuracy, a full 10 seconds in advance of the subjects’ own awareness. The uncomfortable implication is that, given enough computational power and scan resolution, even human behavior itself could be predicted with the exact same accuracy as any other natural phenomenon.

For many, this tends to have pretty devastating implications for the idea of free will and particularly for our entire concept of criminal justice. After all, if every decision we make is merely the result of physical interactions between atomic states in our brains, then how exactly is that any different from the microchip scenario? Captain Neckbeard didn’t “choose” to commit his crimes any more than a laptop “chooses” to follow its programming. And since we don’t go around tossing laptops into prison for misbehaving, then what’s the point of doing the same thing to criminals? If, however, we could hypothetically reset the initial conditions and observe Neckbeard “doing otherwise,” then most people would generally conclude that he ought to be held morally responsible for making the wrong decisions.

Fortunately for the libertarians, there does seem to be at least one ray of hope lurking deep within the bowels of modern physics. To see how it works, simply imagine what would happen if a single neutron were freely tossed out into empty space. At first, all we would observe is a lone subatomic particle floating along at a constant velocity. If, however, we waited around long enough, then we would eventually observe a phenomenon called free neutron decay, wherein the neutron spontaneously bursts into a proton, an electron, and a neutrino. If we then repeat this experiment many times over, we will eventually observe that exactly half of the decays seem to occur in about 10.3 minutes or less, while the other half take longer.

None of this is particularly compelling so far, except for one major detail. No matter how perfectly we replicate the initial conditions, we will never be able to consistently replicate the exact moment of individual neutron decay. Try as we might, it will always be a matter of pure, unfettered probability. Nothing specifically causes this event to occur, and it is a fundamental property of nature herself that subatomic particles should behave this way. It’s a famous principle called the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, and it is a very well-established interpretation among physicists today. The implication is that if our brains are fundamentally made of atoms, and atomic behavior is not predetermined, then it stands to reason that human behavior itself should likewise contain some trace elements of indeterminism for free will to hide in.

This may sound a little crazy at first, but it really is a popular argument getting promoted by scientists and philosophers today [5, 6]. It’s weird, too, because the Copenhagen interpretation isn’t exactly well-liked among modern physicists. While it may be common practice to teach this interpretation in most schools, there is also an open admission among everyone involved that it's both a logical and philosophical mess. There are plenty of alternative interpretations that arguably do better [7,8], and it's only a matter of time before someone finally demonstrates a clear, empirical distinction. If anything, we really just begrudgingly accept Copenhagen out of respect for tradition rather than any strict adherence to philosophical parsimony.

Ignoring that, however, the real problem with this view is that it seems to grant free will to completely pre-programmed machines. To see how, imagine a simple robot that picks out milkshakes in accordance with the decay of free neutrons. If the neutron decays in 10 minutes or less, then pick the chocolate milkshake. If it takes longer, then pick the vanilla. For all practical purposes, this robot will appear to behave exactly as the supposedly “free” twin, in that no replication of initial conditions will ever result in a perfect replication of outcomes. Yet we can also clearly see that there is nothing “free” about this configuration because the robot is still just following its programming. And since your own brain states are fundamentally governed by similar atomic events, then even your own mind is arguably just a glorified realization of exactly such a machine.

If that wasn't convincing enough, however, then just think of it like this: Imagine being offered a choice between your favorite flavor of milkshake and a giant pile of dog feces. In principle, you’d think that one should always want to go for the milkshake every time because milkshakes are delicious and satisfying while dog feces are grotesque and poisonous. Yet if libertarian free will really were a thing, then we necessarily must expect that, on at least some rare occasions, you would arbitrarily feel yourself overcome with the inexplicable urge to literally eat shit. Then when asked why you on Earth you did that, the only explanation you could possibly give is that some mysterious compulsion overpowered your sensibility and made you to do anyway it against all reason. That’s hardly the action of a “free” agent, don’t you think? And in what logical sense do we accomplish anything by punishing someone for that kind of behavior?

So no matter how we look at it, the idea of libertarian free will simply doesn’t work. By definition, libertarianism cannot coexist with determinism, and by definition, the opposite of determinism is pure, freaking randomness. This whole stupid debate between determinism and free will is nothing but a gigantic red herring. Neither situation provides us with a satisfying description for how a morally responsible agent ought to be behave, and neither situation provides a compelling framework for the administration of criminal justice. It should therefore come as no surprise that libertarian free will is probably one of the most widely rejected ideas in the history of academic philosophy [9]. Yet for some strange reason, the overwhelming majority of debate on this subject is still fixated on a distinction that doesn’t matter either way. It’s as if everyone is so hell-bent on answering the question of determinism that they never stop to wonder what makes the alternative scenario any better.

Remember now that all we’re really trying to do here is define a word. Libertarianism is just one possible definition for free will, and there are still plenty of untapped definitions we have yet explore. But it’s important to always keep in mind that there is no such thing as an objectively “correct” definition. There are only good definitions and bad definitions. Good definitions are clear, consistent, concise, and generally capture the intuitive understanding we typically associate with such terms. Bad definitions are either unclear, unverifiable, convoluted, or logically absurd in their implications. Metaphysical libertarianism is nothing more than a "bad" definition because it fails to cohere into anything meaningful or practical. If that means free will is absolutely dead in your eyes from today until eternity, then fine. We'll all say it together right now: Free will does not exist! Does that make you happy? But guess what? We still have to deal with the fact that crime exists in this world, and we can't expect to manage it properly without a viable concept of moral accountability.

To that end, philosophers have developed all kinds of alternatives to libertarianism collectively known as compatibilism---the idea that, whatever we decide free will happens to be, it is still logically “compatible” with a deterministic and/or random universe.  It’s a huge variety of competing theories unto itself, and we could easily spend hours picking apart the more noteworthy contenders. But rather than get bogged down in an endless spiral of even more bad definitions, let’s just step back for a moment and ask ourselves why on Earth we care so much about free will in the first place. That is to say, when we sentence people like Captain Neckbeard to a life in prison, what exactly are we trying to accomplish? What’s the goal, here? What consequences are we trying to actualize through the act of punishment that cannot be achieved by simply letting him go?

You would be amazed at how hard it is to find any notable philosophers in history that come close to addressing these kinds of questions. It’s as if we’re all are so hyper-focused on the minute details of free will itself, that hardly anyone ever stops to ask themselves what the point of all this is supposed to be. It’s amazing, too, because it's not like this is some kind of deep, philosophical mystery for the ages. According to every official legal doctrine in the entire Western World, there are exactly five reasons for the punishment of criminal behavior.

Starting with Number 1, we have the doctrine of restitution---the idea that punishment exists to fix, or set right, any harm that was caused by a particular act. For example, when you’re backing out of your driveway and you happen to run over your neighbor’s mailbox, then at least one form of punishment would be to simply compensate them for any damages and inconvenience suffered.

At Number 2, we have the doctrine of deterrence---the tendency for people to refrain from certain behaviors if they believe that doing so will prevent any undesirable consequences. For example, everyone knows that speeding is generally dangerous, yet the temptation to do so can also be very intense. Thus, to reduce the likelihood of everyone driving too fast for their own good, we set limits on our top vehicle speeds and then impose a modest fine for anyone caught breaking the rules.

Moving on to Number 3, we have the doctrine of rehabilitation---the tendency for individuals to modify future behavior after personally suffering the effects of a punishment. For example, maybe you didn’t believe that a certain stretch of highway was really being patrolled, and so you figured you could get away with speeding. If, however, you are caught and fined, then the credibility of the punishment gets reestablished, and you become much more likely to follow the rules in the future.

Proceeding to Number 4, we are given the doctrine of incapacitation---the need to deny certain individuals the means and opportunity of committing certain crimes altogether. For example, imagine your eyesight is going bad and you just can’t help but drive like a maniac every time you hit the road. Since no amount of fines are ever going to prevent you violating the rules, it eventually becomes prudent to simply take away your license and completely revoke all driving privileges.

Finally, at Number 5, we have the doctrine of retribution---the visceral satisfaction granted to society by watching bad people suffer. When you go out and break the speed limit, then there must be something inherently evil about you that just deserves to be punished. We therefore impose speeding tickets on you for the pure sake of hurting you.

You might have noticed that the doctrine of retribution is conspicuously out of place on this list. While the other doctrines exist to serve clear, pragmatic goals, the last one is essentially just institutionalized revenge. Even the very word itself literally means "payback" in Latin! When you inflict harm onto society, then society tends to get very angry. And the only way to quell that anger is, apparently, to inflict some sort of proportionate harm back onto you. It should therefore come as no surprise, then, that retribution and libertarian free will nearly always go hand in hand. They treat good and evil as ethereal forces interwoven in the fabric of space and time, and that only the actions of metaphysically “free” agents are somehow capable of offsetting this delicate cosmic balance. That’s why retribution is incidentally the most controversial doctrine of criminal punishment by far. Philosophers and legal experts around the world have written heavily about the absurdity of this doctrine [10-12], and it is only by sheer, institutional inertia that it still remains an official part of our criminal justice system today.

Notice also that if we simply disregard retribution altogether, then the other four doctrines are all perfectly compatible with deterministic presuppositions. They embrace the idea that actions taken today will necessarily result in predictable human outcomes tomorrow. It's a perfectly pragmatic system with tangible social benefits, which means we're going to continue punishing people anyway whether or not libertarian free will is a real thing. So why not just bite the bullet already and use this as our foundation for defining free will, since apparently it's already the foundation for our entire system of criminal justice today. For example...

Free Will Finally Settled

Imagine our two identical twins again and offer them a choice between chocolate and vanilla milkshakes. All other things being equal, we should naturally expect both twins to pick the chocolate over the vanilla and do so continuously upon repeated iterations of this experiment. But now imagine what would happen if we tried to convince the twins to choose vanilla. For example, we could try bribing them, begging, pleading, threatening; anything we like. Just make it known that actions taken in the present will have positive or negative consequences in the future. For the twin that does not possess free will, no amount of reward or punishment will ever alter his behavior. You could offer him a million dollars or you could physically beat him senseless, but he will always go for the chocolate, no matter what. For the twin that does possess free will, there will exist some distinct threshold of reward and/or punishment that will alter his behavior---he can be convinced to choose the vanilla rather than the chocolate.

Now in all fairness, we don’t have to explicitly define free will in exactly these terms, and there are probably dozens of other formulations that could do it more rigorously. That’s not the point. The point is that free will is already so heavily intertwined with the ideas of punishment and moral culpability, that we might as well use those as the foundation for a functional definition. There's no need to invoke any magic rewind buttons for the entire stinking universe when we can easily achieve a perfectly satisfying result by just observing the natural consequences of reward and punishment.

For instance, take the classic courtroom scenario of Captain Neckbeard the Pirate. Should we convict, or should we acquit? To answer that, we simply ask ourselves whether or not the institution of punishment will deter future misbehavior under similar circumstances. That is to say, if I punish Captain Neckbeard for his crimes, can I expect that punishment to deter both himself, and other agents, from engaging in piracy in the future?

For the special case of mind-control devices, the answer is obviously no. No amount of reward or punishment will ever deter anyone from committing a crime when there’s a full-on microchip in their brain that's forcing them to do it anyway. If, however, Captain Neckbeard simply got into piracy one day because he was bored, then there is every reason in the world to suspect that the institution of severe punishments will greatly deter other bored individuals from following a similar path. We would therefore say that brain chips most definitely rob people of their free will, while casual boredom on a Sunday afternoon does not. It's a perfectly clear distinction that's both meaningful and practical, and it doesn't require the invocation of any obtuse metaphysical nonsense.

Notice that we can immediately answer all kinds of wacky philosophical questions through the adoption of this kind of framework. For instance, have you ever wondered why we don't hold our animals to the same degree of moral accountability as humans? Like, if my cat goes potty in the wrong place, how come we don’t punish him like we would for a person who commits the same crime? Under compatibilism, the answer is quite simple. While I might be able can train my cat to use the litter box through careful application of reward and punishment, I cannot deter a cat by making an example out of his peers. That’s because a key ingredient for free will is a general capacity for complex rational thought within a broader social context. It makes no sense to deter misbehavior against those who are mentally incapable of projecting the example of others onto themselves. It is therefore perfectly consistent to speak of our animals as possessing perhaps some semblance of free will to varying degrees, but not nearly to the same magnitude as us humans.

What about robots? What would it take to finally declare that some artificially-constructed robot has officially “passed the singularity” and developed a free will of its own? Again, it’s not a hard question to answer, so long as we consistently apply the definition. At what point will the institution of reward and punishment either deter or encourage certain behaviors?

To illustrate, imagine a possible world wherein every home comes preinstalled with its own robot butler. Now imagine that, for whatever reason, our butlers tend to act out in strange ways. For instance, maybe they smash up our dishes and then rearrange our furniture while we sleep. Under most circumstances, we would simply correct the malfunction by tracking down the faulty lines of code and then updating them accordingly. In the future, however, there might not be any code to fix. Most machine learning algorithms today are not based pure, iterative logic, but on neural networks derived from fitness functions acting on the raw experience of the environment itself. Thus, if we ever want to correct our robots’ misbehavior, we may actually have to train them through the institution of reward and punishment. And if, by some happenstance, our robots reach a point wherein they can learn from the experiences of each other, then we wouldn’t have to train them all individually to achieve the desired result. Instead, we could single out an individual robot and then make a very public spectacle out its punishment. If doing so results in a marked deterrence of future misbehaviors, then we will have officially satisfied the definition of free will. And why not? For all practical purposes, that’s basically how we govern human social behaviors already, so it makes perfect sense to describe a hypothetical robot population in exactly the same terms.

But hey. Maybe that’s not good enough for you. Maybe you think it’s either libertarian free will, or nothing at all. That’s fine if you want to think that, but it’s not going to change our presently accepted doctrines of criminal justice. Whether the universe is deterministic or not, we are still going to use reward and punishment as our philosophical basis for moral culpability. And since the notion of free will is already inextricably linked to that principle, then we might as well just call it by the same, established name. Thus, when libertarians speak of “a capacity to do have done otherwise,” they literally have it backwards. It’s not about changing events that already took place in the past, but about steering events that might take place in the future. We don't have to replicate initial conditions down to the very last atom when we can easily achieve everything we want by merely altering the initial conditions of similar situations that have yet to pass.

So the next time you find yourself in a courtroom wondering whether or not to throw someone in jail, there now exists at least one philosophical foundation on which to guide that decision. It doesn’t even have to be perfect, either, but just "good enough" so as to provide functional justification to the pragmatic satisfaction of society. I freely admit that there are probably dozens of gaps in my presently-described compatibilism, and everyone is more than welcome to chip in and help refine it over time. But you can’t replace something that works with nothing that doesn’t. Metaphysical libertarianism cannot help you in this situation or any other. Compatibilism does.

Thank you for listening.

Notes/References

1. Burns, J. M. and Swerdlow, R. H., "Right orbitofrontal tumor with pedophilia symptom and constructional apraxia sign," Archives of Neurology, Vol. 60, pp. 437-440 (2003) [link]
2. Darby, R. R, Horn, A., Cushman, F., and Fox. M. D., "Lesion network localization of criminal behavior, PNAS, Vol. 115, No. 3 (2017) [link]
3. See, for example, [link]
4. Soon, C. S., Brass, M., Heinze, H., and Haynes, J., "Unconscious determinants of free decisions in the human brain," Nature Neuroscience, Vol 11, No 5 (2008) [link].
5. Hartsfield, T. "Quantum mechanics supports free will," Real Clear Science (2013) [link]
6. [link]
7. [link]
8. [link]
9. Bourget, D. and Chalmers, D. J., "What do philosophers believe?" Philosophical Studies, Vol. 170, No. 3 (2014) [link]---Less than 14% of philosophers accept or lean towards libertarianism.
10. Barnett, R. E, "Restitution: A new paradigm of criminal justice," Ethics, Vol 87, No 4 (1977)