Beyond persons?

I wonder if creation includes beings that are qualitatively as high above mere persons like us as mere persons are qualitatively above non-persons. Persons have agency and intellectuality (let’s say) and that gives them a dignity above non-persons. Is there some quality Q that is even more impressive than agency and intellectuality and that is actually found in some creatures?

We have no idea what that quality Q would be, and just as personhood is surely inconceivable to a non-person, Q would likely be inconceivable to us.

I think our only approach to the question is through divine revelation, and it may be that divine revelation just does not include enough information.

Here is my best line of thought towards a negative answer. Jesus Christ is king of creation. Moreover, plausibly, he is king of creation not just as God, but as a human being. As God, he presumably would have Q. But as a human being, he lacks Q. But just as having personhood seems a prerequisite for being king over persons, it seems that having Q would be a prerequisite for being king over those with Q.

On the other hand, one might think that God might want to make the possessors of Q humble, and being ruled over by a human being might be a good way to do that. So I don’t think we have a decisive answer.

Two kinds of change

I ran across this old post of mine and it made me think that there is an interesting distinction between two kinds of change which one might label as objectual and factual change. Objectual change is change in objects, including both an object’s acquiring or losing properties and an object’s coming or ceasing to be. Factual change is change in reality itself—the facts of reality themselves change, with future facts coming to be present (and on open future views getting filled out) and present facts coming to be past. We can put this in terms of change of facts, change of truth value of (“fully closed”) propositions, or change of reality as a whole.

When A-theorists accuse B-theorists of having a static picture of the universe and B-theorists respond with the at-at theory of change (change is a thing’s having a property at one time and lacking it at another), they are talking past each other to some degree. The A-theorist is talking of factual change. The B-theorist is talking of objectual change. The A-theorist is simply right that on the B-theory there is no factual change: the facts about reality were, are and will ever be the same. That there is objectual change on the B-theory does not contradict this. But at the same time, the A-theorist’s accusation of static factuality is something the B-theorist should proudly admit as a feature and not a bug: truth does not change.

That there is objectual change is a part of our uncontroversial data about the world. That there is factual change is the A-theory in a nutshell, and hence begs the question against the B-theorist.

At this point it seems we have an impasse. Where should the debate go? I think one thing to figure out is whether one of the kinds of change depends on the other. Suppose it turns out that objectual change would need to depend on factual change. Then the A-theorist has won: the B-theory has no change at all. Note that the at-at theory of change is not a sufficient response to a claim that objectual change depends on factual change. For the at-at theory depends on the concept of time (change is having different properties at different times), and if time itself requires factual change, then the at-at theory itself requires the A-theory. This suggests that if the at-at theory is going to be the B-theorist’s response, the B-theorist owes the A-theorist an account of what makes time be time (McTaggart insisted on the latter point).

What about the other direction? That one is kind of interesting, too. One might think that factual change would need to arise from objectual change. Aristotle apparently did. It’s not clear, however, how one gets the A-theorist’s change of reality, where future facts become present and present facts become past, out of changes in objects. Perhaps one can read McTaggart’s infamous argument against the coherence of the A-theory as an attempt to show that this task can’t be done, at least in the special case where the objects are events.

Can we offer such an argument? Maybe. We aren’t going to be able to get factual change simply from the fact that objects have different ordinary properties at different times, say a light being green at t₁, orange at t₂, and red at t₃. For there is no way to use such facts to ground which of these times are past, present or future. So it seems that if we’re to get factual change from objectual change, we’re going to have go the route McTaggart suggests, and try to ground it in terms of objects’ temporal A-properties, say this light’s being past, present, or future. But that seems problematic. For the change between past, present and future does not happen in the lifetime of the light. During the lifetime of the light, the light is always present—it is only past after its existence and it is only future before its existence! But a change that does not happen during an object’s lifetime is, of course, a Cambridge change, like a horse’s becoming posthumously famous. And Cambridge change must always be relative to something else changing really. But then it is in the latter change that we should be grounding our factual change. And now we are off on a vicious regress, much as McTaggart (perhaps for somewhat different reasons) thought.

This suggests to me that just as the B-theorist denies that objectual change depends on factual change, the A-theorist should deny that factual change arises from objectual change. As more than one philosopher has noted, the A-theorist should respond to McTaggart by taking A-temporality, understood as factual change, as primitive.

Mononoetism

Every so often I come against someone who is defending a Christological view I want to call “mononoetism”: that Christ has only one mind. While the Third Council of Constantinople condemned the errors that Christ has only one will (monothelitism) or only one natural operation (monoenergism), I do not know of any conciliar condemnation of mononoetism. Nonetheless, I think the reasoning behind the condemnations of monothelitism applies to mononoetism.

Mononoetism could in principle come in three sorts: Christ has only one mind and it’s a human mind; Christ has only one mind and it’s a divine mind; Christ has one hybrid human-divine mind. I think the first and second options are non-starters. If Christ has only a human mind, he’s not consubstantial with the Father. If Christ has only a divine mind, he has not taken on the human nature. So we should only consider the hybrid human-divine mind view.

But a hybrid human-divine mind view seems to be the kind of “confusion and mixture” between human and divine natures that the Council of Chalcedon objects to. Indeed, the letter of Pope Agatho, approved by the Council, shows that the opposition to monothelitism is just a working out of the teaching of earlier Councils, and Agatho’s reasoning applies just as much to the mind. Just replace “will” with “mind” here:

While if it is asserted that there is but one will in him (which is absurd), those who make this assertion must needs say that that will is either human or divine, or else composite from both, mixed and confused, or (according to the teaching of all heretics) that Christ has one will and one operation, proceeding from his one composite nature (as they hold). And thus, without any doubt, the difference of nature is destroyed, which the holy synods declared to be preserved in all respects even after the admirable union. Because, though they taught that Christ was one, his person and substance one, yet on account of the union of the natures which was made hypostatically, they likewise decreed that we should clearly acknowledge and teach the difference of those natures which were united in him, after the admirable union. Therefore if the proprieties of the natures in the same our one Lord Jesus Christ were preserved on account of the difference [of the natures], it is congruous that we should with full faith confess also the difference of his natural wills and operations, in order that we may be shown to have followed in all respects their doctrine, and may admit into the Church of Christ no heretical novelty.

Next, let’s think about the Trinity, and ask if there are three minds or one in the Trinity. On the mononoetism under consideration, Christ has to have the hybrid mind without also having a divine mind (or else he would have two minds: a hybrid one and a divine one). Then if all three Persons have one mind, it follows that the Father and Holy Spirit also have a hybrid human-divine mind, which is plainly absurd—it implies a partial Incarnation by the Father and by the Holy Spirit. So the mononoetist has to hold that each Person of the Trinity has a distinct mind. Mononoetism about Christ implies trinoetism about God.

Trinoetism about God seems to violate divine simplicity, but a trinoetist about God is likely to deny that, holding that mind does not go with the single divine substance or ousia but with the three Persons or hypostases. But let’s think this through. The argument from mononoetism about Christ to trinoetism about God is a special case of a general principle that what there is one of in Christ there is three of in God and vice versa. If the general principle holds, then we have to hold that there is one will in God. For if there were three wills in God, we would have one will in Christ, and that’s the condemned heresy of monothelitsm about Christ. Furhermore, the idea of three wills in God requires a story about why it is metaphysically impossible for these wills to disagree (for if they could disagree, then the three persons couldn’t each be omnipotent!). The best story would be a subordinationist one—the Son and Holy Spirit’s wills are obedient to the Father. But this seems contrary to the equality of the Trinity.

So let’s take it that God has but one will. Mononoetism about Christ has, however, led us to the idea that God has three minds. How does one will in three minds work? A will decides between options presented by a mind. But now things start to fall apart again. Even if the contents of the allegedly distinct minds of Father, Son and Holy Spirit are the same, there is still the question of which mind is the one that is informing the one divine will. If only one or two minds are informing the divine will, we lose the equality of Persons in the Trinity—one or two Persons are partly left out of decisions. So probably one has to say that the one divine will, uniquely, is equally and overdeterminately informed by three minds. This doesn’t seem right. For a person’s will looks to the person’s own mind. (Objection: If Alice loves Bob, she looks to Bob’s mind in her decisions. Response: Yes, but only indirectly by mirroring the contents of Bob’s mind in her mind.) And, besides this, it seems that divine simplicity requires that the divine will and the divine mind are the same thing, which completely rules out the idea of one will with three minds.

We can repeat the argument of the previous paragraph with operations or energeiai. Monoenergism about Christ is condemned. Christ has two operations. On general principles, then, we would expect one operation in the Trinity, just as one will. But if there are three minds, it seems there are three operations, since a mind operates (its operation grounds the thinking of the person or persons who with the mind).

Next, let’s think about the alleged hybrid human-divine mind of Christ. In forming this hybrid mind, the divine mind of Christ seems to have changed—it has hybridized. For if it has not changed, then we still have the divine mind in addition to the hybrid one. But divine minds cannot change, since God cannot change! Indeed, the divine mind is presumably timeless. If it is timeless, it eternally exists. Thus it seems that on mononoetism Christ does have two minds after all, and so we do not have mononoetism: he has the hybrid mind and the eternally existing divine mind. This is, however, a kind of difficult argument to run. Can one not make the exact same objection to the Incarnation? How can the divine Person not change in the Incarnation? Well, orthodoxy says that the divine Person remains a divine Person. But on the hybrid human-divine mononoetism, the divine mind does not remain a divine mind, or else Christ would have two minds.

Perhaps, though, the mononoetist can try for a “smaller” version of the Incarnation: just as the divine Person comes to take on humanity, so we have one Person with two personal natures, human and divine, the divine mind comes to take on human mentality, so we have one Mind with two mental natures, human and divine. Perhaps ths would allow one to avoid the rather monstrous sounding “hybridization” that I have been assuming earlier. But here is a problem. By divine simplicity, the only distinctions in God are relational distinctions between the Persons. If God has one mind, that mind is identical to God. As argued earlier, if there is one mind in Christ, there are three in God, one per Person. But by the only-relational-distinctions principle, the mind of each person must be identical to the Person. If then the divine mind of the Logos comes to take on human mentality, so that it is both a human mind and a divine mind, like the Logos taking on humanity so that the Logos is both human and divine, then since the divine mind is identical with the Person, the Logos, it follows that the Person also takes on human mentality. Thus, the Logos is now three things: God, human and a human mind. We can say that the Logos became man, but we can also the Logos became a man’s mind. This requires a kind of inhuman relationship between the man and the man’s human mind: Jesus is Jesus’s human mind (which on this version of mononoetism is also identical with Jesus’s divine mind). Of course, Cartesians who think you are your mind won’t think there is anything strange about that. But they are wrong! And it would be very odd if Cartesianism were true about Jesus but about no one else. That would seem to undercut the idea that Jesus is like us in all human things but sin.

It is thus quite difficult to hold to mononoetism about Christ while rejecting monothelitism and monoenergism. And in any case there is a neat inductive argument: two wills, two operations, so probably two minds.

Octopi, aliens, squirrels and AI

I’ve been toying with an argument for dualism along these lines:

1. Octopi are conscious.

2. Technologically advanced aliens are or would be conscious.

3. Squirrels are conscious.

4. Current LLMs are not conscious.

Claims 1–3 require a pretty strong multiple realizability. On materialism, our best such multiple realizability is a functionalism. But it is likely that our current LLMs have more sophisticated general intelligence than squirrels. Thus, a functionalism that makes 1–3 true also violates 4.

Dualism, on the other hand, can allow for all of 1–4 by supposing the hypothesis that all and only intellectually sophisticated living things have souls.

Could a physicalist do the same? I think the difficulty is that life is very fuzzy on physicalism, in a way in which consciousness should not be. On dualism, however, we can suppose that God or the laws of nature have a seemingly arbitrary threshold of what life is.

A Stoic thesis

Combine these two rather Stoic theses:

1. No one can make the fully virtuous person worse off

2. Doing what is morally wrong always makes you worse off

and you get:

3. No one can make the fully virtuous person do what is morally wrong.

It is going to be crucial to this post that (3) includes cases of inculpably doing what is morally wrong. I myself think (1) is false, say for the that Aristotle cites, namely that severe pain makes even the virtous worse off. But nonetheless I want to defend (3).

It may be possible to first destroy a virtuous person’s virtue, and then get them to do what is morally wrong. Hitting someone on the head or brainwashing them can severely damage the psyche in a way that can remove the rational habits that constitute virtue. I do not count this a counterexample to (3), because in this case when the victim performs the wrong action, they have previously lost their virtue.

One might try to rule out the case of head injury and brainwashing by restricting (3) to culpable wrongs, but I don’t want to do that. I want to defend (3) in the case of inculpable wrongs, too.

A consequence of (3) is a fairly strong source incompatibilism about our action. Not only is it that neural manipulation cannot make you perform a free action, but it cannot make you perform an action. This fits well with dualism, but does not require it, because it might be that brain states that constitute acts of will have to have functional characteristics incompatible with outside control.

As a final clarification, I understand “making” as reliable, but not necessarily 100% reliable. Someone with significant free will cannot be 100% reliably made to do wrong, even if they are not virtuous. But at the same time, while a fully virtuous person cannot be reliably tempted away from right action, they might still have significant free will and be able to do wrong, so a temptation might unreliably get them to do wrong. Furthermore, I am thinking of “making” on something like a specific occasion. Thus, perhaps, if you tempt a virtuous person a million times, while restoring their brain to the pre-temptation state between temptations, by the law of large numbers you can expect them to fail at least once.

Let’s think about (3) some more.

Threats aren’t going to reliably get the fully virtuous person do the wrong thing. Sometimes, it is reasonable to bow to a threat. If someone holds a gun to your head and tells you to cover the side of your neighbor’s house with a giant smiley face graffiti, it’s reasonable to go along with it. But morality is reasonable, and where it is reasonable to bow to a threat, doing so is not only not culpable but simply not wrong. Indeed, it would typically be a failure of respect for human life to refuse to paint the graffiti when one’s life is threatened. In cases, however, where it is unreasonable to knuckle under, the fully virtuous person will reliably withstand the threat.

Physical control of another’s body or brain isn’t going to produce morally wrong action, because it doesn’t produce action at all. It is not wrong to kill someone by being pushed off a cliff on top of them, because it’s not an action to fall off a cliff. Similarly, if someone implants a remote control for one’s muscles, even if in the brain, then the resulting muscle spasms are not actions, and hence are not morally wrong actions.

Cases of omissions are interesting. It is easy to make someone fail to do what they promised, say by imprisoning them. If one thinks that such a failure counts as an inculpable wrongdoing, and if (3) is supposed to apply to omissions as well, then we have a counterexample. I do want (3) to apply to omissions. But I think that all that’s morally required by a promise is a reasonable amount of effort—where what counts as reasonable depends on the case. If you promise to come to a party but are in the hospital after a serious accident, it’s not morally required—indeed, it’s morally forbidden—that you rip the IV out of your arm and drag yourself on hands knees to the party. Indeed, (3) is a part of my reason for thinking that promises only require reasonable effort, so this is the first example where I have (3) giving us evidence for a substantive moral thesis. I think something similar is true in the case of commands, legislation and the like. You can’t ask for more than reasonable effort! Asking for more adds insult to injury. The parents whose children starve because the parents were unjustly imprisoned have not done wrong in failing to feed them.

Cases of ignorance are also interesting. If Alice is serving wine to her guests and Bob pours poison in the wine whe she isn’t looking, some might say that Alice has done wrong in poisoning her guests. Certainly, actual-result act utilitarianism implies this. But so much the worse for actual-result act utilitarianism. It is much better to say that Alice has done no wrong, as long as it was reasonable for her to have no suspicion of Bob. Cases of ignorance of through-and-through moral facts, on the other hand, are arguably incompatible with full virtue.

Where I think (3) becomes most interesting is in cases where we have a normative power over what is right or wrong for another to do. Using our normative powers, we can make someone who would otherwise have done wrong not be doing wrong. There is a story of a hasid whose house is being robbed, and when the thief is carrying his property away, the hasid yells: “I renounce my property rights.” In doing so, the hasid releases the thief from the duties of restitution, and makes it be the case that the thief is not sinning by continuing to carry the goods away.

Are there cases where we can use our normative powers to reliably make someone do wrong? Definitely. You can know that someone under your authority will very likely refuse to follow a certain command, and you can nonetheless issue the command. But this is obviously a case of someone who is lacking full virtue.

I think the best bet for using our normative powers to reliably make someone perfectly virtuous do wrong is when our exercise of normative powers creates a duty but does so in a way that the perfectly virtuous person does not know about. For instance, one might command the fully virtuous person in circumstances where they will likely not hear the command. Or one might pass legislation that they won’t know about. There are two ways to defend (3) in these cases. The first is to have a communication condition on commands and legislation—they are only morally binding when person subject to them either is informed about them or ought to be informed about them. The second is to say that all that’s morally required is that one make a reasonable effort to obey commands and laws in general, not that one make a reasonable effort to obey each specific command or law (since if one doesn’t know about a command or law, one doesn’t need to make a reasonable effort to obey it). I somewhat prefer the first option of a communication condition—the vicious lawbreaker does wrong in disobeying a specific law, and not just law in general (though according to James 2:10, they are also doing wrong in disobeying law in general).

In any case, I think (3) puts some significant constraints on the shape of moral obligation and the nature of action, but these constraints seem defensible. Though maybe I am failing to notice some better counterexample.

Existing and existing at a time

If we accept growing block or eternalism as our theory of temporal reality, we have to make a distinction between existing simpliciter (i.e., being in the domain of unrestricted quantifiers) and existing-at-a-time (including tensed existence at the present). To exist at time t is not the same as its being the case at t that one exists simpliciter.

Suppose, for instance, closed-future growing block. Then we can say the following about Bucephalus (circa 355 BC–326 BC):

1. In 330 BC: Bucephalus exists-in-330-BC.

2. In 330 BC: Bucephalus exists simpliciter.

3. In 2025: Bucephalus exists simpliciter.

4. In 2025: It’s not the case that Bucephalus exists-in-2025.

5. In 3000 BC: Bucephalus does not exist simpliciter.

6. In 3000 BC: Bucephalus exists-in-330-BC.

Existence-at-a-time is not really existence—it is just spatiotemporal locatedness. (Of course, we have a grounding problem about how on closed-future growing block facts about the future are grounded, but bracket that.)

Now, on both growing block and eternalism, if something exists-now it exists simpliciter. Could one have a theory on which this inference is denied?

Perhaps Platonism denies it. Only timeless and unchanging things really are. Changing things in time become rather than really are. Similarly, it is said that God said to St Catherine of Siena: “I am he who is and you are she who is not.”

But is there a theory of time on which the inference is denied? I once explored a version of B-theory like that. Now I want to consider a version of A-theory like that.

Consider pastism, on which to exist simpliciter is to exist pastly, and take a version of pastism on which there are moments of time (probably the best version of pastism on offer is one where there are no moments). Suppose t₁ is the first moment of Bucephalus’ life. Then on pastism, at t₁ Bucephalus doesn’t exist, but Bucephalus exists-at-t₁. Is this coherent? It does have this odd consequence. Suppose t₁ is also the last moment of time (so Bucephalus exists at exactly one moment). Then Bucephalus exists-at-t₁, but it is never the case that Bucephalus exists simpliciter. Still, it’s not clear that a logical contradiction has occurred.

Nonetheless, it does seem absurd to suppose that something exists-now but doesn’t exist, even if it’s not strictly contradictory.

Presentism and B-theory

It’s common to say that presentism entails the A-theory. But that’s not so clear. Suppose that time can pass in the absence of change. Now imagine a world of with a beginning or an end of time, objects, but no change, no temporal parts, and no events except ones that last for all time. In that world, we automatically have a kind of presentism: all the objects and events that exist always exist presently. Yet a B-theorist could accept the possibility of such a world, too: the world need not have a distinguished present moment of time. Thus, a B-theorist could say that A-theory is impossible (say, because of McTaggart’s dubious arguments) but presentism is possible—though contingently false.

We obviously don’t live in such a world. Though Parmenides may have thought he did.

Theism, pantheism, panentheism and cosmopsychism

If God didn’t create anything, pantheism (everything is God), panetheism (everything is in God or is God) and cosmopsychism (the whole of reality is conscious) would be true. And it’s possible for God not to create anything.

Some odd theories of temporal reality, with eschatological applications

The three major theories of temporal reality are presentism (reality includes only the present), growing block (reality includes the present and past) and eternalism (reality includes past, present and future).

A recent option that has been considered is thick presentism on which reality includes a short segment of time including the present. This lets one have some of the intuitive advantages of presentism (dinosaurs and Martian settlements don’t exist) while at the same time neatly solving the problem of diachronic causation. Moreover, it raises an interesting explanatory problem: why does our world have the kind of temporal reality it does.

I think that if thick presentism is metaphysically possible, likely so are a number of other views:

1. Very thick presentism

2. Time-variable thickness thick presentism

3. Growing block

4. Space-variable thickness thick presentism

5. Swiss-cheese temporal reality.

On very thick presentism, the band of reality in thick presentism becomes extremely thick, say a million years. For there seems to be no compelling reason why the band of reality posited by thick presentists would have to be thin.

On the time-variable thick presentism, we have a thick presentism where the thickness varies with time. This is likely something that the thick presentist has to countenance. For, plausibly, some moment within the thick present has to be distinguished as “very present” to avoid violating the law of non-contradictions (since objects will have contradictory properties within the thick present). Suppose that that moment happens to be at the middle of the thick present. Then when the very present gets closer and closer to the beginning or end of time, the band of reality must get thinner and thinner. Or suppose the moment happens to be at the end of the thick present (I think that may be the better theory). Then when the very present gets closer to the beginning of time, the band of reality gets thinner and thinner. We also get time-variable thick presentism by applying patchwork principles to recombine worlds with thick presentisms of different thicknesses.

Growing-block with a finite past is just a time-variable thickness thick presentism where the very present is at the end of the thick present and the thickness of the thick present at t is equal to the duration from the beginning of time to t. And if we allow it with a finite past, why not with an infinite one—assuming an infinite past is possible?

Applying patchwork principles to thick presentisms with different thicknesses, we can get a space-variable thick presentism—here, the present may be ten minutes thick, but there it may be ten years thick.

Once we allow that, why not go all the way and allow a swiss-cheese temporal reality, where at any given time various chunks of the four-dimensional manifold are included or left out in a pretty arbitrary fashion (perhaps subject to some restrictions to make causation work)?

Now, here’s a fun theological speculation. Some thinkers are worried about eternalism and growing block on theological grounds: they worry that these theories imply that horrendously evil events like the Holocaust will eternally be a part of reality, and that this is inappropriate. But once we have expanded the range of options as we have, we can have some interesting theological theories.

For instance, perhaps, growing block is true between now and the Second Coming. Then at the Second Coming the band of reality gets very thin, so that after the Second Coming, the band of reality includes only the times from the Second Coming to the then-present. We can think of this as giving a surprising reading of the “Behond, I make all things new” of Revelation 21:5—the past events and object suddenly get wiped out of reality. Or, as a variant, perhaps partial eternalism becomes true after the Second Coming: reality now includes all times from the Second Coming on.

But one may worry that that wipes out too much—for instance, it wipes out the glory of the Cross (I am grateful to a graduate student for this worry). Very well. Then we go for a swiss cheese version where we have selective removal from reality—the Holocaust goes but the Cross stays, say.

All this has a certain resemblance to Hud Hudson’s hypertime story. But it’s different in two ways. First, it doesn’t need hypertime. Second, I am assuming here a variant of a standard presentist picture on which there are tensed truths, and the tensed truths function according to standard temporal logics. Thus, if it is true that p, it will always be true that it was true that p. What changes is what events and substances fall within the domain of restricted quantifiers—quantifiers do not commute with “at t” and other temporal operators.

For instance, on the “I make all things new” theories, right now all three of these are true:

1. There exists an x such that at 327 BC: x is a horse named “Bucephalus”

2. At 327 BC: there exists an x such that x is a horse named “Bucephalus”.

3. At 2000 AD: there exists an x such that at 327 BC: x is a horse named “Bucephalus”.

After the second coming, when the past objects and events are wiped out, we still have (b) and (c) holding, but (a) does not hold.

On a hypertime variant of “I make all things new”, once the past was wiped out, we would have none of (a)–(c).

I do not endorse any of these odd possibilities, because I am a die-hard B-theorist.

Presentism and the intrinsicness of past tensed properties

Many presentists think that objects have past-tensed properties. Thus an object that is now straight but was bent has the property of having been bent. (Some such presentists use these properties to ground facts about the past.)

But assuming for simplicity that being bent is an intrinsic property, we can argue that having been bent is an intrinsic property as well. Here’s why. If being bent doesn’t describe an object in relation to the existence, non-existence or features of any other object (assuming being bent is intrinsic), neither does having been bent. Nor is having been bent “temporally impure”—it does not describe the object in terms of anything happening at other times, since nothing can happen at other times on presentism. It does not describe the object in relation its past or future temporal slices or past or future events involving the object, since on presentism there are no past or future objects, and there are no past or future events.

But if having been bent is an intrinsic property of an object, it seems that, by a plausible patchwork principle or by intuitions about the omnipotence of God, an object could come into existence just for one instant and yet have been bent at that instant. Which is absurd.

More on promulgation of laws

Laws need to be promulgated to be valid. Why? A Thomistic story is that valid laws create genuine reasons to act, and reasons are the sort of thing that’s available to a reasonable person. So, the laws need to be practically available to reasonable governed persons. In particular, if everyone has forgot about a law, and the books it was written in have burned down, the law is gone—promulgation is an ongoing affair. And the “practically” rules out such things as: “If you go to room 19235 in the Library of Congress, and enter a certain seven digit combination in the lock that only Congress knows, the doors will open and you will have books of all the laws in front of you.”

All this does not mean that the laws have to be made known to the reasonable persons. For it is encumbent on reasonable persons to educate themselves on laws that are relevant to them. However, since in a modern state the body of laws is too large for a typical reasonable person to study them all, availability also requires more than, say, that the laws be in public libraries, on the Internet, and to hired lawyers.

For it is not reasonable to expect that every reasonable person before they perform some ordinary action will go and search the laws. Rather, as participants in a society we rightly get a sense of what actions are ordinary, intrinsically moral, and done by people without any consciousness that some law might constrain them. And in the case of such actions, it’s not reasonable to be expect someone to look further. If there is a law prohibiting such an action, then I am inclined to think it is invalid—it is failing the promulgation condition, at least in this context.

An interesting thing about this view is that it gives some of the same results as the idea that unenforced laws are not valid. When a law has not been generally enforced, eventually ordinary people will forget (if they ever knew) that the law was there, and will go about their ordinary actions without any consciousness that they might be constrained by a law here. And then it’s not reasonable to expect people to know about the law, and the promulgation condition fails. However, not all cases of unenforced laws are like that. In some cases, people generally do know that there is a law, but they also know it is unenforced and generally ignored, and in such cases there is no promulgation failure.

Here is a somewhat hypothetical example. Ordinary people buy coffee filter cones without any worry that there might be some law requiring them to report the number of cones they purchased to the state and to keep track of destroyed cones in a log. If there is such a law, certainly no one enforces it. Thus, the ordinary reasonable person has no duty to look up whether there is such a law the first time they buy a coffee filter cone in any given state, and if it turns out that there is such a putative law, it has failed to be promulgated to them, and it’s not valid (i.e., it’s not a law) at least in the case of ordinary consumers. (I said this is somewhat hypothetical. Texas has a law governing “precursor chemical laboratory apparatus”. One of the controlled items on their report form is filter funnels, which is precisely what a coffee filter cone is. One assumes that that’s not what they mean, but I am not a lawyer. Transformers are also listed so maybe phone chargers would need to be reported to the state?)

On the other hand, there are non-ordinary actions where a reasonable participant in society knows that it’s not unlikely there are relevant laws, and it is reasonably expected that one find out what the laws are—hiring a lawyer if necessary. If I were to set up shop selling explosives, for instance, I would know that there are likely to be local, state and federal regulations I need to educate myself on.

I should note that my intuitions are driven by my conviction that valid laws are morally binding. So genuine laws aren’t like mere rules in a game or something like that. One could have a hybrid view on which we distinguish between laws and laws^*, where a law is morally binding on the governed while a law^* is something the state merely has moral permission to enforce in principle. If this distinction were to work, one could have a stronger promulgation condition for laws and a weaker one for laws^*.

The command version of divine command theory

Suppose that morality is grounded in God’s commands. What are God’s commands?

The most obvious idea would be that God’s commands are speech acts of command or legislation like: “Thou shalt not steal.”

But this is implausible. For such speech acts to be binding, they must be promulgated. But where? If we take seriously that these are genuinely speech acts, we have three main options:

1. A text from God

2. One or more human individuals speaking for God

3. A voice in people’s heads, from God or a representative of God.

I don’t think any of these are plausible once we take into account that morality applies to all, but no text has been accessible to all, no human individuals seemingly speaking for God have been audible to all, and lots of people have never heard such a voice in their heads.

So, I think, the divine command theorist needs to understand “command” in some less literal sense. I think the most plausible story would connect with Biblical descriptions of God’s law written in people’s minds or hearts. There will then be a substantive question of what kind of a feature of the mind or heart the commands are, with the two main options being:

4. Emotions (sentimentalist divine command)

5. Intuitions (cognitivist divine command).

(Combinations are also possible.)

But both cases face the following problem: How do we distinguish the attitudes, emotional or cognitive, that constitute divine commands from attitudes of the same sort that do not. Some people have moral attitudes that are screwed up—this might reduce or remove culpability, but nonetheless the screwed up attitudes are not divine commands.

I see three main options for making the distinction:

1. The properly functioning moral attitudes define morality.

2. Morality is defined by the moral attitudes that God has directly instilled either in each individual or in the ancestors of all individuals from whom they are passed on genetically and/or culturally.

3. God’s mental attitudes of approval or disapproval for moral attitudes distinguishes whether the attitudes define morality.

Option (a) pushes divine command theory very close to theistic natural law. Some people will like that (C. Stephen Evans likes to say that natural law is compatible with divine command theory).

Option (b) is interesting and promising.

Option (c) pushes the command version of divine command, which is what I have been exploring, closer to the divine will version. And it has problems with divine simplicity on which God doesn’t have intrinsic contingent features, and the approval/disapproval sounds to me like it would likely need to be an intrinsic contingent feature of God.

Lying and epistemic utility

Epistemic utility is the value of one’s beliefs or credences matching the truth.

Suppose your and my credences differ. Then I am going to think that my credences better match the truth. This is automatic if I am measuring epistemic utilities using a proper scoring rule. But that means that benevolence with respect to epistemic utilities gives me a reason to shift your credences to be closer to mine.

At this point, there are honest and dishonest ways to proceed. The honest way is to share all my relevant evidence with you. Suppose I have done that. And you’ve reciprocated. And we still differ in credences. If we’re rational Bayesian agents, that’s presumably due to a difference in prior probabilities. What can I do, then, if the honest ways are exhausted?

I can lie! Suppose your credence that there was once life on Mars is 0.4 and mine is 0.5. So I tell you that I read that a recent experiment provided a little bit of evidence in favor of there once having been life on Mars, even though I read no such thing. That boosts your credence that there was once life on Mars. (Granted, it also boosts your credence in the falsehood that there was such a recent experiment. But, plausibly, getting right whether there was once life on Mars gets much more weight in a reasonable person’s epistemic utilities than getting right what recent experiments have found.)

We often think of lying as an offense against truth. But in these kinds of cases, the lies are aimed precisely at moving the other towards truth. And they’re still wrong.

Thus, it seems that striving to maximize others’ epistemic utility is the wrong way to think of our shared epistemic life.

Maximizing others’ epistemic utility seems to lead to a really bad picture of our shared epistemic life. Should we, then, think of striving to maximize our own epistemic utility as the right approach to one’s individual epistemic life? Perhaps. For maybe what is apt to go wrong in maximizing others’ epistemic utility is paternalism, and paternalism is rarely a problem in one’s own case.

Divine speech acts

Suppose random quantum processes result in deep marks on a stone that spell out:

• Thou shalt not eat goat. – God

What would need to be true for it to be the case that God said (or wrote) that, thereby forbidding us to eat goat?

I assume that God always cooperates with creaturely causation, so divine causation is involved in the above production. However, such divine cooperation with the production of something that looks like an inscription or sounds like an utterance does not suffice to make it be the case that God said the thing. Imagine that a cult leader makes the above inscription. God is still cooperating with the cult leader’s causality, but we don’t want to attribute the inscription to God’s authorship.

One obvious answer is by analogy to our language. A part of what makes a performance a speech act of a particular sort is a certain kind of intention, e.g., that the performance be taken to be that sort of speech act. So maybe it just depends on God’s intentions. If God merely intends cooperation with quantum processes, there is no inscription, just random marks on stone that happen to look like an inscription. But if God intends the marks to be taken to be an inscription, they are an inscription.

This solution, however, is unhelpful given divine simplicity. The intention is a contingent feature of God, and on divine simplicity the contingency of contingent divine features is always grounded in some contingent arrangement of creatures. There cannot be two worlds that are exactly alike in their created aspects but where God has different intentions in the two worlds. So given divine simplicity, there has to be a characterization of what makes the marks a divine command in terms of what creation is like. (My view of divine intentions is, roughly, that God intends F in doing A iff intending F would be a good reason for God to do A. This presupposes divine omnirationality.)

Here is one possibility.

1. Something that looks or sounds like a speech act is a divine speech act if and only if it was directly produced by God without secondary causes.

But this seems mistaken. Imagine that in the sight of a tribe, God created a stone and a stylus ex nihilo, and then miraculously moved the stylus in such a way as to inscribe the prohibition on eating goat. Then, surely, the members of the tribe upon seeing the stylus moving through the air and gouging clear text in the stone would be right to attribute the message to God. But the inscription was not directly produced by God: it was produced by means of a stylus.

Perhaps:

2. Something that looks or sounds like a speech act is a divine speech act if and only if it was a deterministic result of something done by God without secondary causes.

This still seems a bit too restrictive. Imagine that while God used the stylus to inscribe the stone in our previous story, he nonetheless allowed for ordinary quantum randomness in the interaction between the hard stylus and the softer stone, which randomness ensured that there was a tiny probability that no inscription would result—that, say, stylus atoms would quantum tunnel through the stone atoms.

One might replace “deterministic” with “extremely probable”. But just how probable would it have to be?

Here is a different suggestion that seems to me more promising.

3. Something that looks or sounds like a speech act is a divine speech act to humans if and only if a normal human who knew all the metaphysical and physical facts about the production of this act, as well as the human social context of the production, would reasonably take it to be a divine speech act.

This suggestion allows for the possibility that a normal human would be mistaken about whether something is a divine speech act—but the mistake would then be traced back to a mistake about the relevant metaphysical, physical and social facts.

The applicability of (3) is still difficult. Take the initial example where the apparent divine prohibition on eating goat appears from quantum randomness. Would a reasonable and normal human who knew it to have appeared from quantum randomness with ordinary divine cooperation of the sort found in all creaturely causation think it to be a divine speech act? I don’t know. I don’t know that I am a reasonable and normal human, and I don’t actually know what to think about this.

Causation and the grounding problem for presentism

The past-grounding problem for presentism is of explaining what grounds facts about the past. The tensed-property solution is that presently existing objects have past-tensed properties like “Existing a hundred million years after a dinosaur” which ground the facts about the past.

Here is a problem. The presently existing objects exist at least partly because of how the world was a hundred million years ago. If how the world was a hundred million years ago is grounded in the properties of presently existing things, then we have a circularity in the order of explanation: the present objects’ existence is partly-explained by how the world was, and how the world was is grounding-explained by the objects’ possession of the properties, while the objects’ possession of the properties is partly ontologically explained by the objects’ existence.

Objection 1: This won’t bother one if one thinks one can have explanatory circularity as long as the explanations are of different sorts. But I think explanations of different sorts are still explanations, and circularity is still bad.

Objection 2: It seems that B’s being caused by A is explanatorily prior to B’s existing, so sometimes an instance of property possession is prior to existence. But I think this is mistaken. What’s prior to B is A’s exercise of causality, not B’s being caused by A.

Objection 3: If we solve the past-grounding problem by making use of past-tensed properties of God, then the problem disappears. For God doesn’t exist now because of how the world was a hundred million years ago. God exists now because God is a necessary being. I think this is a good response if one doesn’t believe in divine simplicity, but I am convinced of divine simplicity, which prohibits God from having contingent properties.

Nomically possible branches and open future views

Some open future views rely on the concept of a nomically possible branch—a complete sequence of how things might go given the laws of nature.

The problem with the concept is this. A nomically possible branch seems to be something like an exhaustive collection of propositions about all times, specifying precisely what happens at all times, with the collection as a whole compatible with the laws of nature. But now consider a world where indeterminism never gives out on any branch: no matter how things go, at every time there will still be more branching. (Our world may well be like that.) Then on an open future view, the propositions making up a branch cannot be all true together—for at no time t can the exhaustive propositions about t’s future be true, as that would violate open futurism given that branching never gives out.

For a while I thought that a decent solution to this is to say that a branch only needs to satisfy the weaker condition that for every time t, all the propositions in the branch about times up to t can be true together with the laws of nature.

But my recent example of random transtemporal causation is problematic for this solution. Suppose that today an indeterministic event E causes a green flash of light to happen on a random future day, and that the laws guarantee that no green flashes happen for any other reason. Then a branch that contains E but no green flashes of light satisfies the weaker possibility condition: for at every time t, all the propositions in the branch about times up to t can be true together with the laws of nature, since E does not causally guarantee that a green flash will happen at or before t, but only that a green flash will happen at some time or other.

Probably the best move for the open futurist is to deny causation across temporal gaps or any other mechanism that nomically guarantees that some event will happen without guaranteeing a time by which it will happen.

Requests and obligations

By requesting something from someone, we create a reason for them to fulfill the request. On an individualistic view of human beings, this is a rather awesome power—somehow I reach into your space of reasons and create a new one.

It is tempting to downplay the force of reasons created by a request. After all, it seems that a mere request can always be legitimately turned down.

But that’s not right. There are times when a request creates an obligation. For it may be that apart form the request one’s reasons for an action were nearly conclusive, and with the request they become conclusive.

And besides that, a successfully transmitted request always creates a moral obligation to consider the request. Sometimes, the request may be quickly rejectable on the basis of a background policy. But a quick rejection still requires a consideration.

Questions, of course, are a type of request: they are a request for an answer. Thus, they too always create a moral obligation.

Wolterstorff on worship and intention

In Acting Liturgically, Wolterstorff offers a necessary and sufficient condition for when someone “is performing acts of worship or just saying the words and making the gestures”:

if a participant performs some prescribed verbal or gestural action with the intention of not thereby performing whatever be the act of worship prescribed to be performed thereby, then he has not performed that act of worship; otherwise he has

In other words:

1. One worships with the action as the community does if and only if one does not intend to dissent from the community’s understanding of the action.

But both directions of the biconditional are false.

Case 1: Alice visits a foreign country where she does not know the language and enters an ornate religious building. She believes the building to be a pagan temple and, seeing people kneeling, she thinks them to be thereby worshiping some pagan deity. She feels an urge to pray to God, and she kneels with the dual intention of thereby worshiping God and of not doing what the local community is doing. Her worship is heartfelt and sincere. But unbeknownst to her, the building is a church and the people are worshiping God by kneeling.

Alice is worshiping God by kneeling. An intention to worship God by kneeling while acting in a heartfelt and sincere way is sufficient for the kneeling to constitute worship of God. But by Wolterstorff principle, because she also intends—perhaps in Wolterstorff’s own words (she might be a reader of his)—to “not thereby perform[…] whatever be the act of worship prescribed to be performed” by the kneeling, she is not performing “that act of worship”. But that act of worship—the one the community has prescribed the kneeling to constitute—is worship of God. So if Wolterstorff’s no-intended-dissent condition is necessary for worship, Alice doesn’t worship God. But she does. So the no-intended-dissent condition is not necessary.

Objection: Alice is not worshiping communally but individually. The community is worshiping communally. So, Alice does not perform what the community understands the action to be, namely communal worship.

Response: Add to the story that this particular church has a special meaning for “kneeling”: it’s not just worship, but individual worship.

Case 2: Bob visits a foreign country where he does not know the language and enters an ornate religious building. He believes the building to be a Christian church and, seeing people kneeling, he thinks them to be worshiping God. He intends to worship God, kneels and prays in a heartfelt and sincere way. The thought that there might be some pagans in this country does not even occur to him, since the country is known for being very Christian. He kneels with the intention of worshiping God. But unbeknownst to him, the building is a pagan temple and the people are worshiping a pagan deity by kneeling.

Since it doesn’t occur to Bob that the community’s kneeling might be worship of a pagan deity, he does not form any intention to dissent from the community’s understanding. Granted, his own explicit intention to worship God disagrees with the community’s understanding of what they are doing. But to have an intention that in fact disagrees with the community’s understanding of what they are doing is not the same as intending to do otherwise than the community understands. Compare: If an expert uses complicated verbage to deny the existence of life on Mars, and I misunderstand him to be saying there is life on Mars, and I say “Indeed, there is life on Mars”, I am not intending to say otherwise than the expert did—even though what I am intending to say is, as a matter of fact, otherwise than what the expert said.

It is tempting to say that explicit intentions about the meaning of the action trump implicit ones, and so both Alice and Bob are worshiping God, and neither is worshiping a pagan deity. But that’s not quite right. A religious person may intend for the community’s understanding of an action to trump at least certain aspects of their own understanding. For instance, when a Christian prays the Nicene Creed, they may have their own understanding of “consubstantial with the Father”, but they would do well to defer to the Church for what it really means. Thus, their explicit intention to worship the Son as X (where X is their understanding of consubstantiality with the Father) is overridden by their faithful intention to worship the Son under whatever description the Church means by these words.

So, probably, what we want to say is that the individual worshiper can have a complex of set of intentions with priorities between them. For instance, the faithful Christian who prays the Nicene Creed may have intentions where their understanding of “consubstantial” is subordinated to the community’s understanding, but only within some limits. If it were to turn out that what the community means by “consubstantial with the Father” is that the Father and the Son are finite deities with beards of equal bushiness, then the faithful Christian’s intention to worship an immaterial and infinite God trumps their intention to go with the community’s understanding. I suspect there is no good way to encapsulate the complex ways that the prioritization between intentions can go in a simple definition like Wolterstorff’s.

Could there be a grain of truth in Wolterstorff’s condition? I think one could say that one defaults to worshiping as the community does in the absence of overriding intentions. I am not sure I would agree with that, but it might be true.

I am grateful to Tyler Sharp and Juliana Kazemi for pointing me to Wolterstorff’s very interesting ideas on this, and for conversations on this. In a recent conference presentation, they gave an example that has a lot of similarity with Case 2.

Random causation across temporal gaps

Suppose that causation across temporal gaps is possible: that an object x can have a direct effect in a future time, with no intermediate causes. Given that a cause clearly can have a random effect—say, you press a button and you get a green light or a red light at random—then it should also be possible for a cause to have an effect at a random future time.

Now imagine a button that, when pressed, causes a flash of light at a random time in the future, from tomorrow onward, with the probability that the flash happens in n days being 1/2ⁿ.

This is not very different from a button that, when pressed, triggers a sequence of fair coin tosses, one per day, with a beep that goes off as soon as heads comes up. The probability that there will be a beep in n days is 1/2ⁿ.

But there is still an important difference between the flash and the beep, even though they are probabilistically isomorphic. The flash is guaranteed but the beep is not (it is possible to get tails everyday). On open-future views, it is true that the flash will happen but not true that the beep will.

One could imagine the flash method being used by God in connection with indefinite-time future promises like “One day I’m going to make a flash of light.” God can just create the button that causes the flash to happen on a random future day and then trigger the button.

Appearances of atemporality

Here’s a way to think about presentism. We have a three-dimensional reality and temporal modal operators, such as Prior’s P, F, H and G (pastly, futurely, always-pastly and always-futurely), with appropriate logical rules.

But now imagine this scenario: Reality consists of an eternally frozen time slice from a complex two-way-deterministic Newtonian world resembling our world—“frozen Newtonian world” for short. There are particles at various positions with various momenta (I assume that q = mdx/dt is a law of nature rather than a definition of momentum, and momentum is fundamental), but they are ever still, unchanging in their Newtonian properties. Now if Q is one of the operators P, F, H and G, define the operator Q′ as follows:

• Q′p if and only if either (a) reality consists of an eternally frozen Newtonian world and in an unfrozen Newtonian world that agrees with reality on its present slice we would have Qp or (b) we have Qp and reality does not consist of an eternally frozen Newtonian world and we have Qp.

Then the primed operators behave logically just like the unprimed ones. But according to the primed operators, “there is change and motion”. For instance, for a typical particle z eternally frozen at location x, it will be the case that P′(z is not at x) and F′(z is not at x), since in an unfrozen Newtonian world whose present slice is just like our world’s, there will be past and future times at which z is not at x.

So what? Well, the presentist’s big intuition is that on a B-theory of time there is no change: there is just a four-dimensional block, where one dimension just happens to be called “time” and things are different at different locations along that dimension, but simply calling a dimension “time” doesn’t make it any different from the spatial ones.

But the B-theorist can respond in kind. On presentism there is no change: there is just a three-dimensional world related to other three-dimensional worlds via certain modal operators that are called “pastly”, etc., but simply calling a modal operator P “pastly” doesn’t make it any different from deviant operators like P′.

The presentist will, presumably, say that it’s not just a matter of calling the operator P “pastly”, but rather the operator is the primitive pastly operator, so that if something pastly is different from how it’s now, it has changed. But now the B-theorist can just respond in the same way. It’s not just a matter of calling one of the four dimensions “time”, but rather the dimension is the primitive time dimension, so that if something is different at a different time from how it is now, it has changed or will change.

(Granted, a B-theorist does not need to think that the distinction between space and time is primitive. I am inclined not to, and hence I cannot make the above response.)

Presumably, even after this dialogue, the B-theorist’s alleged reality will look static to the presentist. But I think the presentist’s alleged reality can look atemporal to the B-theorist—it’s just a three-dimensional world with no time dimension and some modal operators relating it to other three-dimensional worlds.

Always-false open-futurism and the end of time

On always-false open-futurism, reports of future contingents are always false.

Now, imagine that it is contingent whether the time continues past t₁. Perhaps God sustains the world in existence, and has promised to sustain it until t₁ inclusive, but is free to stop sustaining it right then.

Suppose it is now t₁. Thus, now is potentially the last moment of time, but potentially not. What does the previous sentence mean? It seems to mean the conjunction of these two claims:

1. How things are now is compatible with its not being the case that there will be time.

2. How things are now is compatible with its being the case that there will be time.

But on always-false open-futurism, when the very existence of future time is contingent in light of how things are now, all will-claims have to be false. Thus, how things are now necessitates that its not the case that there will be time. In other words, we don’t have (2).

If this is correct, then on always-false open-futurism there cannot be a moment which is both potentially the last moment of time and potentially not the last moment of time. Each moment of time either is necessarily not last or necessarily last. This is a bit of a burden for the theory.

On trivalent open-futurism on which will-claims about future contingents are neither true nor false, the problem disappears. That now is potentially the last moment of time but potentially not can be taken to be equivalent to:

3. It is neither true nor false that there will be time.

A Thomistic argument for the Principle of Proportional Causality

The Principle of Proportionate Causality (PPC) defended by Aquinas and other scholastics says that a perfection P can only be caused by something that has P either formally or eminently. To have P formally is to have P. Roughly, to have P eminently is to have a perfection greater than P.

(Some add: “has P virtually” to the list of options. But to have P virtually is just to have the power to produce P, and as our student Colin Causey has noted, this trivializes PPC.)

There are obvious apparent counterexamples to PPC:

• Two parents who are bad at mathematics can have a mathematical genius as a child.

• Ugly monkeys typing at random can produce a beautiful poem.

• A robot putting together parts at random can make a stronger and smarter robot.

It’s tempting to throw PPC out. But there are also cases where one feels a pull towards PPC:

• How can things that represent come from non-representing stuff?

• How can the conscious come from the non-conscious?

• How can something with dignity come from something without any?

• How can the active come from the inactive?

• How can an “ought” come from a mere “is”, i.e., something with normativity from something without any?

Many contemporary philosophers think there is no impossibility even in these cases, but I think most will agree that there is something puzzling about these kinds of causation—that we have some sort of an intuition towards PPC in these cases, of a sort we do not have in the cases of the “obvious apparent counterexamples”. What is the difference between the cases?

Well, in the counterexamples, the differences between the cause and the effect are, arguably, a matter of degree. The two parents have a much lower degree of mathematical ability. The monkeys have a certain beauty to them—being productive of beauty is a kind of beauty—albeit perhaps a lesser one than their lucky output. The robot’s output is just a more sophisticated bunch of moving parts than the robot itself.

But in the examples where one feels pulled to PPC, the differences appear to be differences in kind. Indeed, I think we can all agree that the most plausible way to resist the implied claim in the “How can…?” questions that the thing is impossible is to show how to reduce the seemingly more perfect thing to something of the same sort as the alleged cause.

But “differences in kind” doesn’t seem quite sharp enough. After all, pretty much everyone (even, I assume, young earth creationists) will agree that dogs can come from wolves.

I’ve been puzzled by how one might understand and argue for PPC for a long time, without much progress. This morning I had an inspiration from Nicholas Rescher’s article on Aquinas’ “Principle of Epistemic Disparity”, that lesser minds cannot comprehend the ways of greater ones.

Suppose we order the types of good by a comprehensibility relation ≤ where G ≤ H means that it is possible to understand G by understanding H. Then ≤ is a partial preorder, i.e., a reflexive and transitive relation. It generates a strict partial preorder < where G < H provided that G ≤ H but not H ≤ G.

Next, say that good types G₁ and G₂ are cases of the same perfection provided that G₁ ≤ G₂ and G₂ ≤ G₁, i.e., that each can be understood by the other. Basically, we are taking perfections to be equivalence classes of types of good, under the relation ∼ such that G₁ ∼ G₂ if and only if G₁ ≤ G₂ and G₂ ≤ G₁. The relation ≤ extends in a natural way to the perfections: P ≤ Q if and only if whenever G is a case of P and H is a case of Q then G ≤ H. Note that ≤ is a partial order on the perfections. In particular, it is antisymmetric: if we have P ≤ Q and Q ≤ P, then we have P ≠ Q. Write P < Q provided that P ≤ Q and P ≠ Q.

Now on to a Thomistic argument for the PPC.

Being, truth and goodness are transcendentals. The cognitively more impressive perfection Q is thus also axiologically more impressive. Thus:

Axiological Thesis: If P < Q for perfections P and Q, then Q is a better kind of perfection than P.

The following is plausible on the kind of Aristotelian intrinsic notion of causation that Thomas works with:

Causal Thesis: By understanding the cause one understands the effect.

Thomistic ideas about transcendentals also yield:

Understandability Lemma: To understand a thing one only needs to understand the goods instantiated by the thing.

Finally, let’s add this technical assumption:

Conjunction Lemma: The conjunction of co-instantiable goods is a good.

And now on to the PPC. Suppose x causes y to have a good G and y has a type of good G that is a case of a perfection P. By the Causal Thesis, we understand G by understanding x. By the Conjunction Lemma, let H be the conjunction of all the good of x. By the Understandability Lemma, we understand x by understanding H. Thus, G ≤ H. Let Q be the perfection that H is a case of. Then P ≤ Q and x has Q. Then either P = Q or P < Q. In the former case, the cause has P formally. In the latter case, by the Axiological Thesis, the cause has P eminently.

Of course, the Axiological and Causal Theses, together with the Understandability Lemma, all depend on large and controversial parts of Aquinas’ system. But I think we are making some progress.

I am also toying with an interesting concept. Say that a perfection Q is irreducible provided that it cannot be understood by understanding any conjunction of perfections P such that P < Q. It’s not obvious that there are irreducible perfections, but I think it is plausible that there are. If so, one might have a weaker PPC restricted to irreducible perfections. I have yet to think through the pluses and minuses here.

Divine willing

A correspondent asked me how a simple God can choose. I've thought much about this, never quite happy with what I have to say. I am still not happy (nor is it surprising if "how God functions" is beyond us!) but the following helps me a little.

Suppose I am choosing between making a brownie or a smoothie, and end up making a smoothie. Then there are four stages with each stage causing the next:

1. Deliberation between brownie and smoothie (and any other options).

2. An internal intention for a smoothie.

3. Physical movements.

4. Output: smoothie!

At Stage 1, I am still open between brownie and smoothie. Starting with Stage 2, I am internally set on the smoothie, and at that point I become morally responsible for setting myself on the smoothie.

Now one great thing about God’s power is that God doesn’t need means: he can produce effects directly.

In particular, God will omit stage 3: he doesn’t need moving limbs (nor anything else beyond himself) to produce the smoothie in the way that I need them.

Now suppose we apply perfect being theology to God. It’s a perfection of power not to need means. But stage 3 is not the only means in the above story: stage 2 is also a means. If God really doesn’t need means, then stage 2 will also be omitted in God, and we will have the two (non-temporal) stage production:

1. Deliberation between brownie and smoothie (and infinitely many other options).

2. Output: smoothie!

In particular, nowhere in this account is there an internal intention. It’s not needed: God acts directly on the external world.

We might ask: How does God know that he intends to create a smoothie? I think it’s by direct observation of the output, stage B in the divine case. (And God’s knowledge of contingencies is extrinsically grounded in the contingencies.)

If that sounds wrong, let’s ask how we know what we intend. Sometimes we know what we intend by introspection: by observing the internal intention of stage 2. But not always. Sometimes stage 2 is not conscious—we deliberate, we presumably form an internal intention but we are not directly aware of it, and then we act. When we deliberate whether to do something minor like whether to lift the left or the right hand, sometimes the first thing we are aware of is not an internal intention or specific act of will, but the movement of the hand itself. Thus, even in us, knowledge of our intentions is sometimes read off from stage 3.

Moreover, in some cases, for us, stage 3 is not distinct from stage 4. For we have bodies that we move, and sometimes—as in the hand-lift case—the output is the same as the physical movements. In some such cases, then direct knowledge of the merges stages 3 and 4 is how we know our own intention. There may even be rare cases where stage 3 and stage 4 are distinct, but in our consciousness, the knowledge of stage 4 comes first. Suppose I am deliberating whether to press the space-bar or the enter key in response to the computer saying “Press any key”. I choose to press the space-bar. It may well be that in the order of consciousness, I first feel the impact of my finger on the keyboard, then I discern the subtler kinesthetic sensation of my finger having moved through the air, and then only then do I realize what key I intended to press. I don’t know if this is how it happens—it’s too fast to be confident of phenomenology—but it seems like an intelligible possibility.

In any case, there is nothing absurd about knowing an intention by direct observation of the output.

While writing the above, it occurred to me that perhaps we shouldn’t be all that confident that we always have a stage 2. In the cases where our knowledge of what we intend comes from knowledge of stage 3 or 4, and we do not have direct conscious access to an internal act of intention, the internal act of intention is a mere theoretical posit. Perhaps that theoretical posit is correct, but perhaps it is not. If it is not, then one can intend a specific output without having an internal specified act of intention.

Why do we like being confident?

We like being more confident. We enjoy having credences closer to 0 or 1. Even if the proposition we are confident in is one that is such that it is a bad thing that it is true, the confidence itself, abstracted from the badness of the state of affairs reported by the proposition, is something we enjoy.

Here is a potential justification of this attitude in many cases. We can think of the epistemic utility of one’s credence r in a proposition p as measured by an accuracy scoring rule given by two functions T(r) and F(r), where T(r) gives the value of having credence r in p when p is actually true and F(r) gives the value when p is actually false. Most people thinking about scoring rules think they should satisfy the technical condition of being strictly proper. But strict propriety implies that the function V(r) = rT(r) + (1−r)F(r) is strictly convex. Now suppose the scoring rule is also symmetric, so that T(r) = F(1−r). Then V(r) is a strictly convex function that is symmetric about r = 1/2. Such a function has its minimum at r = 1/2, and is strictly decreasing on [0,1/2] and strictly increasing on [1/2,1]. But the function V(r) measures your expectation of your epistemic utility. How happy you are about your credence, perhaps, corresponds to your expectation of your epistemic utility. So you are most unhappy at credence 1/2, and you get happier that closer you are to 0 or 1.

OK, it’s surely not that?!

Observations and risk of confirmation/disconfirmation

It seems that a rational agent cannot guarantee their credence in a hypothesis H to go up by choosing what observation to perform. For if no matter what I observe, my credence in H goes up given my observation, then my credence should already have gone up prior to the observation—I should boost my credence from the armchair.

But this reasoning is false in general. For in performing the observation, I not only learn which of the possible observable results is in place, but I also learn that I have performed the observation. In cases where the truth of H has a correlation with whether I actually perform the observation, this can have a predictable direction of effect on my credence in H.

Suppose that the hypothesis H is the conjunction that I am going to look in the closet and there is life on Mars. By looking to check if there is a mouse in my closet, I ensure that the first conjunct of H is true, and hence I increase my credence in H—no matter what I find out about mice.

This is a very trivial fact. But it does mean that we need to qualify the statement that any observation that can confirm a hypothesis can also disconfirm it. We need to specify that the confirmation and disconfirmation happen after one has already updated on the fact that one has performed the observation.

Epistemic utilities and decision theories

Warning: I worry there may be something wrong in the reasoning below.

Causal Decision Theory (CDT) and Epistemic Decision Theory (EDT) tend to disagree when the payoff of an option statistically depends on your propensity to go for that option. The most example of this phenomenon is Newcomb’s Problem (where money is literally put into a box or not depending on what your propensities are), and there is a large literature of other clever and mind-twisting examples. From the literature, one might get a feeling that these cases are all somehow weird, and normally there is no such dependence.

But here is a family of cases that happens literally almost all the time to us. Pretty much whenever we act we gain information relevant to facts about ourselves, and specifically to facts about our propensities to act. For instance, when you choose chocolate over vanilla ice cream you raise your credence for the hypothesis that you have a greater propensity to choose chocolate ice cream than to choose vanilla ice cream. But truth about oneself is valuable and falsehood about oneself is disvaluable. If in fact you have a greater propensity to choose chocolate ice cream, then by eating chocolate ice cream you gain credence in a truth, which is a good thing. If in fact your propensity for vanilla ice cream is at least as great as for chocolate ice cream, then by eating chocolate ice cream, you gain credence in a falsehood. The payoffs of your decision as to flavor of ice cream thus statistically depend on what your propensities actually are, and so this is exactly the kind of case where we would expect CDT and EDT to disagree.

Let’s be more precise. You have a choice between eating chocolate ice cream (C), eating vanilla ice cream (V) or not eating ice cream at all (N). Let H be the hypothesis that you have a greater propensity for eating chocolate ice cream than for eating vanilla ice cream. Then if you choose C, you will gain evidence for H. If you choose V, you will gain evidence for not-H. And if you choose N, you will (plausibly) gain no evidence for or against H. Your epistemic utility with respect to H is, let us suppose, measured by a single-proposition accuracy scoring rule, which we can think of as a pair of functions T_H and F_H, where T_H(p) is the value of having credence p in H if in fact H is true and F_H(p) is the value of having credence p in H if in fact H is false.

The expected evidential utilities of your three options are:

• E_e(C) = P(H|C)T_H(P(H|C)) + (1−P(H|C))F_H(P(H|C))

• E_e(V) = P(H|V)T_H(P(H|V)) + (1−P(H|V))F_H(P(H|V))

• E_e(N) = P(H|N)T_H(P(H|N)) + (1−P(H|N))F_H(P(H|N)) = P(H)T_H(P(H)) + (1−P(H))F_H(P(H)).

The expected causal utilities are:

• E_c(C) = P(H)T_H(P(H|C)) + (1−P(H))F_H(P(H|C))

• E_c(V) = P(H)T_H(P(H|V)) + (1−P(H))F_H(P(H|V))

• E_c(N) = P(H)T_H(P(H|N)) + (1−P(H))F_H(P(H|N)) = P(H)T_H(P(H)) + (1−P(H))F_H(P(H)).

We can make some quick observations in the case where the scoring rule is strictly proper, given that P(H|V) < P(H) < P(H|C):

1. E_c(C) < E_c(N)

2. E_c(V) < E_c(N)

3. At least one of E_e(C) > E_e(N) and E_e(V) > E_e(N) is true.

Observations 1 and 2 follow immediately from strict propriety and the formulas for E_c. Observation 3 follows from the fact that the expected accuracy score after Bayesian update on evidence is better (in non-trivial cases where the scoring rule is strictly proper) than before update, and the expected accuracy score after update on what you’ve chosen is:

• P(C)E_e(C) + P(V)E_e(V) + P(N)E_e(N)

while the expected accuracy score before update is equal to E_e(N). Since P(C) + P(V) + P(N) = 1, it follows from the superiority of the post-update expectation that at least one of E_e(C) and E_e(V) must be bigger than E_e(N).

The above results seem to be a black eye for CDT, which recommends that if what you care about is your epistemic utility with regard to your propensities regarding chocolate and vanilla ice cream, then you should always avoid eating ice cream!

(What about ratifiability? Some CDTers say that only ratifiable options should count. Is N ratifiable? Given that you’ve learned nothing about H from choosing N, I think N should be ratifiable. But I may be missing something. I find the epistemic utility case confusing.)

It also seems to me (I haven’t checked details) that on EDT there are cases where eating either flavor is good for you epistemically, but there are also cases where only one specific flavor is good for you.

"Swapping memories"

In Shoemaker’s Lockean memory theory of personal identity, in the absence of fission and fusion personal identity is secured by a chain of first-personal episodic quasimemories. All memories are quasimemories, but in defining a quasimemory the condition that the remembered episode happened to the same person is dropped to avoid circularity. It is important that quasimemories must be transmitted causally by the same kind of mechanism by which memories are transmitted. If I acquire vivid apparent memories of events in Napoleon’s life by reading his diaries, these apparent memories are neither memories nor quasimemories, because diaries are not the right kind of mechanism for memory transmission, and so Shoemaker can avoid the absurd conclusion that we can resurrect Napoleon by means of his diaries. If you wrote down an event in a diary, and then forgot the event, and then learned of the event from the diary, you should not automatically say “I now remember” (of course, the diary might have jogged your memory—but that’s a different phenomenon from your learning of the event from the diary).

It seems to me that discussion of memory theory after Shoemaker have often lost sight of this point, by engaging in science-fictional examples where memories are swapped between brains without much discussion of whether moving a memory from one brain to another is the right kind of mechanism for memory transmission. Indeed, it is not clear to me that there is a principled difference between reading Napoleon’s memory off from a vivid description in his diary and scanning it from his brain. With our current brain scanning technology, the diary method is more accurate. With future brain scanning technology, the diary method may be less accurate. But the differences here seem to be ones of degree rather than principle.

If I am right, then either the memory theorist should allow the possibility of resurrecting someone by inducing apparent memories in a blank brain that match vivid descriptions in their diary (assuming for the sake of argument that there is no afterlife otherwise) or should deny that brain-scan style “memory swapping” is really a quasimemory swap and leads to a body-swap between the persons. (A memory swap that physically moves chunks of brain matter is a different matter—the memories continue to be maintained and transmitted using the usual neural processes.)

An instability in Newcomb one-boxing

Consider Newcomb’s Paradox, and assume the predictor has a high accuracy but is nonetheless fallible. Suppose you have the character of a one-boxer and you know it. Then you also know that the predictor has predicted your choosing one box and hence you know that there is money in both boxes. It is now quite obvious that you should go for two boxes! Of course, like the predictor, you predict that you won’t do it. But there is nothing unusual about a situation where you predict you won’t do the rational thing: weakness of the will is a sadly common phenomenon. Similarly, if you have the character of a two-boxer and you know it, the rational thing to do is to go for two boxes. For in this case you know the predictor put money only in the clear box, and it would be stupid to just go for the opaque box and get nothing.

None of what I said above should be controversial. If you know what the predictor did, you should take both boxes. It’s like Drescher’s Transparent Newcomb Problem where the boxes are clear and it seems obvious you should take both. (That said, some do endorse one-boxing in Transparent Newcomb!) Though you should be sad that you are the sort of person who takes both.

This means that principles that lead to one-boxing suffer from an interesting instability: if you find out you are firmly committed to acting in accordance with these principles, it is irrational for you to act in accordance with them. Not so for the principles that lead to two-boxing. Even when you find out you are firmly committed to them, it’s rational to act in accordance with them.

This instability is a kind of flip of the usual observation that if one expects to be faced with Newcomb situations, and one has two-boxing principles, then it becomes rational to regret having one-boxing principles. That, too, is an odd kind of inconsistency. But this inconsistency does not seem particularly telling. Take any correct rational principle R. There are situations where it becomes rational to regret having R, e.g., if a madman is going around torturing all the people who have R. (This is similar to the example that Xenophon attributes to Socrates that being wise can harm you because it can lead to your being kidnapped by a tyrant to serve as his advisor.)

Virtue and value

Suppose you have a choice between a course of action that greatly increases your level of physical courage and a course of action that mildly increases your level of loyalty to friends. But there is a catch: you have moral certainty that in the rest of your life you won’t have any occasion to exercise physical courage but you will have occasions to exercise loyalty to friends.

It seems to be a poor use of limited resources to gain heroic physical courage instead of improving your loyalty a bit when you won’t exercise the heroic physical courage.

If this is right, then the exercise of virtue counts for a lot more than the mere possession of it, as Aristotle already noted with his lifelong coma argument.

But now modify the case. You have a choice between a course of action that greatly increases your level of physical courage and feeding one hungry person for a day. Suppose that you don’t have the virtue of generosity, and that feeding the hungry person won’t help you gain it, because you have a brain defect that prevents you from gaining the virtue of generosity, though it allows you to act generously. And as before suppose you will never have an occasion to exercise physical courage. It still seems clear that you should feed the hungry person. Thus not only does the exercise of virtue count for a lot more than mere possession of virtue, acting in accordance with virtue, even in the absence of the virtue, counts for more than mere possession of virtue.

Next, consider a third case. You have a choice between two actions, neither of which will affect your level of virtue, because shortly after the actions your mind will be wiped. Action A has an 85% chance of saving a life, and if you perform action A, it will certainly be an exercise of generosity. Action B has a 90% chance of saving a life, and the action will be done in accordance with physical courage but will not be an exercise of virtue. Which should you do? It seems that you should do B. Thus, that an action is an exercise of a virtue does not seem to count for a lot in deliberation.