This semester, I have been in a class entitled “Jurisprudence,” whose course description read as follows:
This class introduces the student to fundamental concepts of natural law as reflected in the writings of ancient Greek, Roman, and Medieval thinkers. These concepts include justice, law, nature, order, duty, reason, and virtue.
However, during the most recent session, it became apparent that the real agenda was to foist upon us a belief in theism as either the basis for all law or the legitimizer of all just laws. This occured when we came upon a particular passage in Cicero, The Laws, Book II (translated by Niall Rudd):
What can be more certain than this, that no one should be so stupid and so arrogant as to believe that reason and intelligence are present in him but not in the heavens and the world? Or that those things which are barely understood by the highest intellectual reasoning are kept in motion without any intelligence at all? As for the person who is not impelled to give thanks for the procession of the stars, the alternation of day and night, the regular succession of the seasons, and the fruits which are produced for our enjoyment—how can such a person be counted as human at all? Since everything that possesses intelligence is superior to what lacks intelligence, and since it would be impious to claim that anything was superior to universal nature, it has to be admitted that universal nature possesses intelligence. Who would deny that these ideas were useful, bearing in mind how many contracts are strengthened by the swearing of oaths, how valuable religious scruples are for guaranteeing treaties, how many people are restrained from crime by the fear of divine retribution, and how sacred a thing a partnership of citizens is when the immortal gods are admitted to that company as judges or witnesses?
[Emphasis added.]
There was no way I was going to sit in class and let such drivel pass without comment. How, I asked, are we to recognize intelligence in the things of the world around us?
The professor then made a short and rather insulting speech about the universe being either ordered or chaotic, and can I not agree that the universe is ordered?
Of course I can agree that the universe is ordered, I said, but order and intelligence are two different things. You have not demonstrated how order is necessarily an indication of intelligence.
To which the professor, if he had any intellectual honesty at all, should have given an explanation. Instead, he asked me to give an “example” of order that does not demonstrate intelligence. At that point, another student chimed in to say, at nearly the same time as I, “Everything! Everything is order that does not necessarily indicate intelligence!” (More on that below.)
The professor, now frustrated and getting a little red in the face, objected that giving “everything” as an example was as good as giving “nothing.” Fair enough.
So I said that a tree is ordered, in that it is a series of predictable branching patterns radiating from a trunk, both into the sky via branches and into the ground via roots. I mentioned that clouds are ordered formations of water droplets in the sky. The other student pointed out that objects falling to the earth under the force of gravity are a demonstration of order. None of these things, we contested, demonstrate intelligence.
“I don’t know how you can say that,” said the professor.
(It was difficult not to get sarcastic.)
I said that in order to infer intelligence from something, you would need an analytical framework. For example, “These particular factors, present in a given phenomenon, are indicative of intelligence for these reasons. Etc. Those factors are present in this phenomenon, therefore we can conclude that this phenomenon is the result of intelligence.” It seems like a simple framework; no more than instructions on how to recognize something, a sort of “Field Guide to Discerning Intelligence in the World.”
Some people, whose intellectual honesty is as questionable as my professor’s, have actually tried to posit “particular factors” that should be indicative of intelligence. Popular methods include Michael Behe’s “irreducible complexity” and William Dembski’s “specified complexity.” Neither is satisfactory. Behe’s idea has been shown wrong by experiment and Dembski’s idea assumes that we can know the probability of the occurrence of any phenomena. (“Specified complexity” is supposed to be anything that is both highly complex and highly unlikely. Except how do you know if it is unlikely? What is the probability of trees? Impossible to say.)
Nobody has yet come up with a convincing “Field Guide to Discerning Intelligence in the World,” but that did not stop my professor from insisting that I have no basis for failing to see intelligence in “natural” phenomena. Apparently it did not occur to him that since he (via Cicero, or vice versa) was making the proposition that “Intelligence is evident in natural phenomena,” it was up to him to explain why exactly that proposition should be accepted, not up to me to demonstrate why it is incorrect.
As I pointed out in class, it seems to be essentially a matter of whether one is convinced by the statement and whether one is prone to perceive something called “intelligence” in “natural” phenomena. I am not convinced.
(By the way, I am putting “natural” in quotation marks because I do not believe there are such things as “unnatural” phenomena; to say that some things are “not natural” would be to say that they are caused by some unknown, unidentified force beyond what is “natural.” Many people would like to say that the body typing this post is “natural” but that the MacBook upon which this post is being typed is “not natural.” That is a false distinction, I think. The MacBook is simply part of the natural world as has been rearranged by members of the human species, just like a beaver dam or a wasp nest is a part of the natural world as has been rearranged by beavers or wasps, respectively. The MacBook is more complicated than a beaver dam, but the difference is quantitative, not qualitative. Unless you are William Dembski, in which case you will assert, with no basis whatsoever to do so, that the MacBook is less probable than a beaver dam, therefore clearly the result of intelligence. Or something to that effect.)
But wait, there’s more.
So there was my professor, inexplicably thinking that we could just traverse this passage of Cicero, assume that the universe evinces “intelligence,” and that such intelligence is the thing that makes the universe and all of our laws function. (Anyone who fails to see something so obvious is clearly not human, according to Cicero. Why shouldn’t I feel deeply insulted? I am even now, several days later and in a much cooler mood, fighting the urge to hurl personal attacks upon my professor, who appears to be one of those disgusting fools who thinks that belief in God is an absolute necessity for being a good person.)
And there I was, pointing out that I remained unconvinced. He referred me to Aristotle, whose works we have been reading as well as Cicero’s, and Aristotle’s concept of the end toward which all things move. Just think about that, he said. Like an arrogant bastard. (Oops. Slipped out.)
But that would require accepting Aristotle’s premise before accepting Cicero’s premise, I responded.
Yes, that’s true, he said, but it’s a premise that has been accepted for a long time, and Aristotle’s formulation of logic has been the foundation for Western philosophy.
Excuse me? Did I just hear a law professor argue two huge fallacies?
I said: “Just because you’re right about one thing doesn’t make you right about everything.”
And before I could continue by saying, “And long acceptance of an idea doesn’t make it true, either; people long accepted the idea that women were property before we finally gave that one up,” he said, “Well then I wish you luck in your life of skepticism.”
Thus ended the exchange and my esteem for the professor. He apparently does not possess a Field Guide for Discerning Intelligence in the World and I am simply supposed to look at everything and see “intelligence.”
Already you are thinking, if you are crafty, about the example I made, refusing to make a qualitative differentiation between my body and my MacBook. “Aha!” you are thinking. “But you know the MacBook is the result of intelligence and if you do not differentiate between the MacBook and your body as ‘natural’ or ‘unnatural’ phenomena, how can you not infer that your body is also the result of intelligence?”
Easy.
You might notice that I never said the MacBook is the result of intelligence. I said it is the result of humans rearranging things from the world around them. Is that “intelligence”? Is a wasp nest the result of “intelligence”? A beaver dam? How about honeycomb? Those are all examples of things created by one phenomenon (a biological species) rearranging things from the world around it. Is that “intelligence”? Or is it just the processes by which the universe works?
And what is the universe doing, anyway? What is that end toward which all things go? Aristotle said it was eudaimonia, or happiness. Poor Aristotle, though, happened to live a little early in human history. Now we know that the thing toward which all things go is increased entropy and eventually the heat death of the universe. All of these processes around us, in us, and which comprise us—which are us—from the most basic movements of the constituent parts of matter and the simplest chemical reactions, are heading toward increased entropy. Those basic chemical reactions trigger more chemical reactions, which can lead eventually, over time, to the development of patterns of chemical reactions so huge and so complex that they begin to rearrange the things round them, perhaps even into MacBooks.
Is that “intelligence”? If by “intelligence” you mean that value-laden, metaphysical idea that there are some how these ideas that enter the universe from outside and manifest as thoughts or actions, then no, none of that is intelligence. But if by “intelligence” you mean “that quality of action in which we believe we are the recipients of some communication by another being such as ourselves,” then maybe it is. I should point out, however, that merely believing that we are the recipients of some communication by another being such as ourselves does not mean that we are recipients of such communication.
What of Cicero and his assertion that no one could possibly believe that “those things which are barely understood by the highest intellectual reasoning are kept in motion without any intelligence at all”? His argument in simpler terms, is something like, “Everything I can’t figure out must be the result of somebody smarter than me; since I can’t figure out how the world works, there must be somebody smarter than me who did it.” Phrased like that, it is (or should be) easy to see that there is a premise that must be accepted: that “everything I can’t figure out must be the result of somebody smarter than me,” or, in the words of Cicero, “no one should be so stupid and so arrogant as to believe that reason and intelligence are present in him but not in the heavens and the world.” The problem with that premise is that it is basically just an insult: “You wouldn’t be so arrogant as to think that there’s nothing more intelligent than you, would you?” Of course, you are supposed to respond with a sense of honor: No, I’m not that arrogant! I’m a nice person!
Neither Cicero nor my professor (nor anybody else, that I know of) bothers to explain why it should be so arrogant a thing to believe that human “intelligence” is unique. One ought to take a good dose of Stanislaw Lem at this point; I recommend His Master’s Voice, in which Lem demonstrates, through the device of a fictional story about a “signal” from space, the difficulty of recognizing an intelligible message in something completely alien. As I mentioned above, we perceive something called “intelligence” when we recognize, or think we recognize, communication from another entity similar to ourselves. But we are so good at recognizing patterns of “intelligence,” we often tend to see it where it is not. (The word you want to toss around is “anthropomorphism.”)
If my professor looks at a tree and believes that he is receiving some kind of communication from another entity like himself, then he is certainly entitled to believe that. However, he cannot prove that he is actually the recipient of communication from another entity like himself. He cannot prove, and neither can you or anyone else, that what he perceives in the orderliness of that tree is actually “intelligence.”
To come full circle, I thought I would also share a passage from the essay “Accept No Imitations: The Rivalry of Naturalism and Natural Law” by J. Budziszewski and appearing in the book Uncommon Dissent, edited by William Dembski. This passage is interesting because it is remarkable how closely it parallels the passage from Cicero above:
The naturalist cannot view nature as a design because in his view there isn’t anyone whose design it might be. What is, just is. If you accept the principle of sufficient reason, this is rather unsatisfactory, for no one seriously maintains that the universe had to be just the way it is. There might have been fewer stars, or more. There might have been creatures like us, or there might not. There might not have been a universe at all. Nature, then, is a contingent being, not a necessary being like God, and contingent beings need causes. The naturalist rejects this line of reasoning, or at least limits it. He might concede that each thing in nature needs a cause, but he denies that the entire ensemble of things needs a cause. This exception seems suspiciously arbitrary.
It’s dressed up as a cooler rationale, but it’s essentially the same thing as Cicero: “Nobody could be so arrogant as to believe that there is no God, right? You would have to be dishonest!” I am amused, though, at how simplistic is Budziszewski’s thinking that he conflates “cause” with “purpose,” and thereby imbues a causal universe with purpose and direction. They’re not the same thing. If I am holding a baseball bat and some other force comes along, catches me by surprise, and causes the bat, while still in my hand, to swing around and hit somebody in the face, there is causation, but no purpose. (And, as any law student can tell you, that is the difference between an intentional tort and a mere accident.)
At any rate, that is enough for now. Maybe some other time I will write about what all of this means for the idea of “natural law.”