A Quick Thought on Faith

The last 4-5 years have seen my views on many things change dramatically. I used to be well to the left on even the Canadian political spectrum, and now I find myself becoming more conservative, to the point that I could even contemplate voting Republican (once they’re done with Trump). This has come about in response both to things I’ve read and to events (more posts to come about that). I’ve found that as my views change, I occasionally find myself struck, when I hear a view I now strongly reject, by the fact that I used to hold it as an obvious truth.

So it was as I heard Jerry Coyne, the author of a popular (and excellent) blog (Why Evolution is True), talk about religion on the Rubin Report. (watch here and here) At one point (I forget where exactly), Coyne suggests that religious faith is problematic beyond the specific content of any particular religious doctrine, because it gets people in the habit of simply believing things without evidence. That is, there is something inherently harmful about the fact of faith in itself: it is a bad intellectual habit. A good intellectual habit, on this view, would seem to be to get as far from faith as you can, basing your views, as much as possible, on evidence.

Wow – I used to believe that, with some vehemence. And wow: I sure don’t believe it any more. Not at all.

I can think of two kinds of faith that we need and use on a constant basis. Without both, our lives would simply not be possible. The first is central to the possibility of a scientific understanding of the world – that is, the sort of understanding that Coyne would hold up as an alternative to religion. The second deals with our relationship with other people; I wonder if this second kind of faith doesn’t lead on to religion.

The first kind of faith is suggested in an article by Theodore Dalrymple, in which he responds – convincingly, I thought – to the “new atheists.” He makes the point succinctly: “if I questioned whether George Washington died in 1799, I could spend a lifetime trying to prove it and find myself still, at the end of my efforts, having to make a leap, or perhaps several leaps, of faith in order to believe the rather banal fact that I had set out to prove.” Of course, the point can be generalised to include the whole of science. I believe global warming is a major problem, but if a well-educated climate science denier were to debate me, I would be reduced to appeals to authority very quickly indeed. The same would happen to almost all scientists aside from the climate specialists (although almost all real scientists would last longer than me in such arguments). The same will be true of any other field of knowledge: specialists might hold their own, but non-specialists must follow the lead of authorities.

Of course, it is probably true for most of what is understood about the world today that if we investigated any particular matter, we could eliminate most of our faith on the matter. However, for all actual people, the reality is that most of what we understand about the world is in fact a matter of faith. Modern science allows us to put our faith in sound authorities, but we do need that authority. The idea of eliminating faith and replacing it with reason is utopian, and like most utopian ideals, when it is forced upon the real world, it becomes a source of harm as well as benefit (in this case, the utopian ideal of eliminating faith obscures from us the reality of what is actually going on, for a start).

There is a second sort of faith, and this one has to do with people: we cannot live without trust. That is, faith in other people is necessary to a genuinely human life. If you couldn’t trust anyone else, you couldn’t even walk down the street – after all, you might get stabbed. More than that, a great deal of what gives depth and meaning to life comes from trusting other people. Imagine if your interactions with other people consisted of the absolute minimum necessary to sustain your life: you would trust other people enough to walk down the street, to work, and to conduct basic economic transactions. Nothing more. No pleasures of conversation, in which you might reveal something of yourself, no substantial or lasting relationships with others. Most people would find life intolerable without substantial (and thus trusting) relationships with other people, and I don’t think it is reasonable to see in such a life the pinnacle of human flourishing. A life worth living requires faith in other people – indeed, it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that life is more worth living to the extent that we can rightly make use of such faith.

Accordingly, as in understanding the world, so too in our dealings with other people: the trick is not to eliminate faith, but rather to learn where it is appropriate and where not. And it is not hard to see how the matter of faith in other people might lead on to religion: our ability to have faith in other people doesn’t merely increase our chances of survival, but makes life far richer, far worthier of living, than it otherwise might be. What if religious faith is like that? What if we who are not religious are in a situation similar to that of people who miss out on so much of what life has to offer because they never trust anyone else, and thus never have any substantial relationships with other people?

I’m not religious, but sometimes I wonder if I should be.

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Some Thoughts on the Use of Statistics in Ethical Matters

Some months ago, I was discussing Donald Trump’s election chances with a couple of friends, and I happened to mention a voter I had read about somewhere, a young man in California, who described himself as a feminist. He was concerned about the power of false rape allegations to destroy the lives of men, and was on that account leaning towards a vote for Trump. I said that while I didn’t sympathise with the vote, I certainly understood and sympathised with the concern behind it. One friend responded that such false accusations were surely statistically far less significant than real cases of the crime itself that go unpunished. The other friend agreed, and that seemed to settle the matter, at least for the two of them.

For me, well, it got me thinking. I have since found myself noticing how arguments that proceed by means of statistics are often used as though they provide a sort of final knock-down in ethical matters, unanswerable and definitive – and yet this is something they can almost never provide.

To see why, let’s indulge for a moment in a bit of philosophy. Most undergraduates who have done a philosophy course should have some idea about what utilitarianism is. We can define it as the principle that the greatest good should be done for the greatest number of people possible. Our undergraduates should also have some idea of a potential problem with utilitarianism: it is compatible with an acceptance of radical evil, provided, of course, that the evil is done to a minority. You could literally exterminate people while achieving the greatest good for the greatest number. (The responses of major utilitarian philosophers to this problem is something we can leave aside here.)

Now here’s why I bring this up: it seems to me that the sort of claims you can make with statistics are precisely the sort made by utilitarianism. Statistics give us a coarse overview of a subject; they tell us that something is the case on the whole, and for the most part. And to the extent that we confine ourselves to this view, we open up the possibility of radical evil, so long as it is done to a relatively small number of people. So if we’re going to commit ourselves to statistical state of affairs as a desirable aim of policy or activity, we should think quite clearly about what we’re actually advocating.

In the case I began with, we are indeed dealing with a readiness to do real evil to innocent people in the name of achieving what is taken to be a statistically desirable result. Feminist activists often speak as if the purpose of the justice system is to bring about a certain proportion of convictions relative to the number of complaints made. That is, they claim that only a very small fraction of rape accusations result in convictions, and that this small proportion indicates a failure on the part of the justice system. The implicit aim is a system that produces convictions in some much larger proportion, say, 50% or 98% (though I have never seen an actual number given). There is no room in such calculations for the possibility that the lives of innocents might be utterly destroyed by baseless accusations. Indeed, that a callous indifference to the possibility of crushing innocent people is in fact at work here is confirmed by such well-known cases as the Duke lacrosse team rape trial, or the travesty of reporting about another such supposed crime that Rolling Stone committed. If we were to follow the statistical point of view to its logical endpoint, the proper question to ask is not about the guilt or innocence of the accused at all, but simply whether or not the appropriate number of guilty verdicts have been delivered so far relative to the overall number of accusations.

The purpose of a justice system worthy of the name, however, is not to produce a statistical result, but rather to answer a specific question: what is the truth of the matter in this particular case? Such an approach is not likely to produce the most pleasing proportion of guilty and innocent verdicts, and is likely to fall short of its goal regularly, but it allows the rights of accuser and accused to be balanced against one another. Perhaps most importantly, it keeps the justice system, as much as possible, from the active commission of injustice. The words primum nil nocere – “first, do no harm” – are supposed to apply to doctors, but they should be a principle of the justice system no less.

Certainly statistics might inform and guide us in subsidiary ways, but only to the extent that we observe the more important principle of a system that does not itself do active harm to the innocent. When discussing ethical matters, then, we should always be cautious when confronted by arguments that proceed only on the basis of statistics.

Statistics are dangerous in other ways, too. They can give a seductive, but misleading impression of being simply factual; they can seem to clothe a particular view in the robes of science, giving it an apparently insuperable status in comparison with non-statistical arguments. (I’m reading a book right now that seems to suffer from this very failing; a blog post reviewing it will probably follow in the weeks to come.)

Of course, statistics can be massaged, and where crime is concerned it is clear that they often are massaged. Consider Rainer Wendt, federal head of the German Police Union: “if I, as a senior officer, want narcotics-related crime to go down in my city, then I send the officers responsible for it out to police [vehicle] traffic infringements. Then I promise you, that narcotics crime will go down – at least statistically.”

In fact, things may be far worse than Wendt’s words suggest. There is reason to believe that the arrival of statistics-based crime fighting has corrupted our justice system in a most fundamental manner. Here I will allow Theodore Dalrymple to speak, as he relates his wife’s attempt to report a crime:

She noticed some youths setting fire to the contents of a dumpster just outside our house, a fire that could easily have spread to cars parked nearby. She called the police.

“What do you expect us to do about it?” they asked.

“I expect you to come and arrest them,” she said.

The police regarded this as a bizarre and unreasonable expectation. They refused point-blank to send anyone. Of course, if they had promised to make every effort to come quickly but had arrived too late, or even not at all, my wife would have understood and been satisfied. But she was not satisfied with the idea that youths could set dangerous fires without arousing even the minimal interest of the police. Surely, some or all of the youths would conclude that they could do anything they liked, and move on to more serious crimes.

My wife then insisted that the police should at least place the crime on their records. Again, they refused. She remonstrated with them at length, and at considerable cost to her equanimity. At last, and with the greatest reluctance, they recorded the crime and gave her a reference number for it.

This was not the end of the matter. About 15 minutes later, a more senior policeman telephoned to upbraid her and tell her she had been wasting police time with her insistence on satisfaction in so trivial a matter. The police, apparently, had more important things to do than suppress arson. …

It is not difficult to guess the reason for the senior policeman’s anger. My wife had forced his men to record a crime that they had no intention whatever of even trying to solve (though, with due expedition, it was eminently soluble), and this record in turn meant the introduction of an unwanted breath of reality into the bogus statistics, the manufacture of which is now every British senior policeman’s principal task.

Once the job of the police is to fight crime statistics rather than crime, the possibility of almost infinite corruption has been opened up – indeed, a motivation for corruption has been provided.

As one reads other Dalrymple essays, one encounters similar episodes: police refusing to respond to crime, or even to record it – or, alternately, responding to minor infractions, committed by individuals likely to respond to the authority of the police, rather than to violent crimes committed by people likely to respond in a violent manner (e.g., here or here or here).

Statistics, then, will not only fail in most cases to provide a decisive argument when considering ethical matters, they can also be the cause of great harm. Any insight they provide has to be balanced against direct contact with the problem in question. Localism – taking power away form massive bureaucracies and putting it in the hands of smaller communities – would no doubt be helpful. The more I read Dalrymple, and the more I read of the views of police officers in England, America and in Germany, the more I think that policy on criminal matters should never be allowed to be made on the basis of statistics alone, and that there should be a requirement that people who deal directly with crime are given some substantive power in the production of that policy.

And while I’m dreaming, I’d also like a private jet.