Hot Springs in the Himalayas

Until very recently, Anthony Flew, Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the University of Reading, was an outspoken and influential atheist. In 2004, in what was perhaps one of the most widely publicized conversions in recent times, he officially converted to a form of deism. (Interested readers might seek out Biola University’s interview with Flew that chronicles his conversion, published in their Winter 2004 issue of “Philosophia Christi.”) When the symposium “Theology and Falsification” was conducted in 1955, however, Flew was still very much the atheist. We will turn to that event now, taking our page numbers from Ten Essential Texts in the Philosophy of Religion.

In the opening remarks of “Theology and Falsification,” Flew addresses his fellow philosophers R.M. Hare and Basil Mitchell, who unlike Flew are both theists and quite probably Christians. He begins by employing a variation of a parable first recounted by the late English philosopher John Wisdom (1904–1993) in which a pair of explorers, perhaps deep in the heart of Africa, discover what appears to be some kind of garden in the midst of the jungle. One of the men believes that this discovery clearly demonstrates the existence of a gardener, but the other is not at all persuaded. So the men devise a series of tests, stringing the area with barbed wire, later electrifying it, and even calling in bloodhounds as a final resort. Despite all of these efforts, there is never any evidence of tampering with the fence, no screams are ever heard suggesting someone has been electrocuted, and the bloodhounds never stir. Each clever test that is devised to uncover a gardener fails, but the believer clings to his belief by making hundreds of excuses for the existence of the gardener: Perhaps he is invisible. Perhaps he makes no sound. Perhaps he leaves no scent. Perhaps he is intangible and lovingly tends his garden in secret. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. The unbeliever, however, wonders what the primary difference is between an imaginary or non-existent gardener and one who is invisible, scentless, soundless, intangible, and utterly impossible to discern. Along with the unbeliever, Flew wonders if this not an example of “death by a thousand qualifications” (463–464).

Like the skeptic in his tale, Flew wonders what kind of meaning the assertion “God exists,” or “God has a plan,” or “God created the world” could ever have. More specifically, Flew wonders what kind of evidence it would take to falsify such an assertion and convince the believer that his or her faith was false. Flew admits that such statements may not be assertions about any actual existence at all. If that is the case, Flew wonders what other possible meaning such statements could hold. If such statements are not intended to be factual statements about an actually existing Deity, what exactly are they and what meaning could they then possibly convey? It appears to him, as a nonbeliever, that no matter what objection is raised, the believer would explain it away and his or her faith would stand: thinner—even paltry perhaps—but left standing no less. The implication is quite obvious: if these statements are not literal assertions, they do not appear to have much meaning. And if they are literal assertions, how is it that no amount of evidence to the contrary ever seems to sway the believer? Lurking behind these questions is likely a further puzzlement: if a statement cannot be falsified, to what degree can we really take it seriously as a claim of objective truth? And if it is not a claim of objective truth . . . well then, what is it?

In answer to this parable, theist philosopher Richard Mervyn Hare, former White’s Professor of Moral Philosophy at the University of Oxford, begins a defense of religious faith in general by his parable about the lunatic who believes all college dons are his foes and cannot be convinced of the contrary. In fact, he believes that all such professors wish to murder him. His friends take efforts to dissuade him from this view by introducing him to some of the kindliest and most gentle-natured dons on campus. They point out to him that these dons were kind to him and that surely proves that they are not intent on taking his life. Yet the man remains unconvinced, scoffing that it is an insidious plan on their part and they are just trying to butter him up so that they may catch him off guard when he is least expecting it. He will not be talked out of his idea and may even begin to suspect his friends if they persist if defending Oxford dons. Unfriendly tutors are merely lowering their guard and letting their true colors shine through, apparently friendly ones are revealing their diabolical cunning, and all dons in one way or another further verify for this man that they are plotting for his life.

Hare suggests we would consider such a man delusional. However, when he applies Flew’s stipulation that beliefs ought to be falsifiable if they are to have any kind of real content, he finds that this man too is apparently asserting nothing that has any true meaning behind it. If Flew is correct, what could the claim “all Oxford dons are out to take my life” possibly be asserting, since the man cannot be persuaded by any rational evidence? All professors verify for this man that they are out to get him, friendly ones by cunning, unfriendly ones by being just who they are. For every reason offered the man to highlight the mistaken nature of his beliefs, he has a ready answer that dismisses it and thus his claims apparently amount to nothing: death by a thousand qualifications. No evidence to the contrary can shake his belief, yet his assertions surely do not amount to nothing. If they did, we would not call him deluded.

We think of the man as deluded not because we know for a fact that all Oxford dons are not out to murder him (they might actually be), but rather because we hold different bliks. Our blik happens to be sane whereas his does not, but our blik is still a blik. What makes the difference is that the man we call a lunatic has a much different blik than our own. Unfortunately, Hare never gets around to explaining exactly what a blik is, so we are left holding the bag on that one. It appears that a blik may be a person’s overall belief system or their passions and convictions (in both instances, things which form the basis of perception rather than being corrected by it), but this is not entirely clear and Hare offers us no further elucidation on the matter. Whatever a blik might be, all people care passionately about their own, unlike the apparently indifferent men in Flew’s garden. These bliks govern the way in which we live: they do not admit to questions of veracity or falsity (look at the lunatic or the believer in the “garden” for whom evidence becomes interpreted rather than interpreting)—but some are plainly more beneficial and beneficent than others. Our bliks then, appear to be the very foundation upon which our world rests, the means by which we interpret the universe and as such are removed from the investigative stream. Perhaps Hare can give us a little better idea of what he means by his use of the word blik in his own words:

Where Hare believes Flew gets it wrong in his parable about the explorers is in his belief that a religious claim is some kind of explanation, like that offered by a scientist. Yet without a blik at all, no explanation is possible, for bliks are the very basis of deciding what constitutes an explanation and what does not. As an example, he has us suppose that we believe that everything happens by pure chance. He suggests that this is not an assertion in Flew’s sense, because no matter what happened—no matter how orderly things appear—we would always sum it up as chance. Nothing could shake this belief and thus if assertions must be either verifiable or falsifiable to be assertions, then this is surely no assertion on our part. Yet if we did really hold to this belief, we could never predict anything and that would make our beliefs as different from that of others who believe in causality as it does between those who believe in God and those who do not. Hare hastens to add a note about this word really: a great many who claim not to believe in God have nevertheless had a strong Christian upbringing and been influenced by a strong Christian culture and that their rejection of “religion” is not really a rejection at all, for they have never “suffered the doubts to which religion is the answer” (467). Even more to the point, he follows: “Having abandoned some of the more picturesque fringes of religion, they think that they have abandoned the whole thing—whereas in fact they have still got, and could not live without, a religion of a comfortably substantial, albeit highly sophisticated, kind, which differs from that of many ‘religious people’ in little more than this, that ‘religious people’ like to sing Psalms about theirs—a very natural and proper thing to do.” This, of course, would seem to apply to the one who posits chance alone as much as to the apparently irreligious. We all have our bliks: by them we see the world.

Hare points out one final difference between his parable and that of Flew’s he would have us note:

Nolloth Professor of Religion (Oxford University) Basil Mitchell picks up the argument. He first points out the theologian is very much aware of the problem of pain and the fact that it does indeed count as evidence against the existence of a loving God. But while the theologian does understand that this argument counts against God, he or she will not let this argument stand in the way of belief in a good God, for he or she is committed to that idea by faith. Much like Hare’s last point, the believer is not impartial and detached like the scientist conducting experiments but is rather committed by a passionate faith in the goodness of God. We could further add that Mitchell’s arguments suggest a certain personal quality between God and the believer that Flew’s elusive gardener does not share with either of the explorers. Thus, Mitchell picks up with the parable of the Stranger.

It is wartime and the country in which our story unfolds has been invaded by enemy troops who have taken up outposts. One evening, a soldier loyal to his invaded country meets a stranger who leaves a very deep impression on him. As the men fall into a conversation that lasts the entire evening, the Stranger assures the soldier that he is not only fighting on his side, but is in fact in command of the entire operation. He tells the soldier to have faith in him and to trust him in all things. Deeply impressed by the Stranger’s integrity and wisdom, the soldier commits himself to trusting the Stranger. The two never talk together again in such an intimate way, but sometimes in passing, the soldier sees the Stranger helping the allies and he tells his mates: “The Stranger fights for us.” Mitchell continues:

The soldier is fully aware that when the Stranger appears to be working for the other side, this factor appears to count against his patriotism. And when he asks for help but does not receive it, he can draw at least two possible conclusions, namely (1) the Stranger isn’t on his side, or (2) he can believe that though the Stranger is on his side, the latter has good reasons for withholding help. He is not willing to grant the first point, though Mitchell does not think we can know in advance when the second view would become quite ludicrous to continue believing. And if the man did not experience this great conflict of the evidence seeming at times to conflict with his belief in the goodness of the Stranger, his belief would not seem to count for much. Mitchell likens this to the man who casually says in the face of a great catastrophe, “It was God’s will.” Rather, Mitchell says, the more he cares and the more deeply he is invested, the more of a crisis of faith he will experience, for he passionately believes in the Stranger, having been so deeply impressed upon their first encounter. Yet he also clearly knows what his eyes tell him and what the murmurs of his friends carry to his ears.

Mitchell concludes by suggesting that his parable is different than Hare’s talk about bliks, because bliks are not assertions that admit to falsification or verification. Rather, the patriot is making a definite assertion when he says, “The Stranger is on our side.” And this assertion is also an explanation as well, for it is making sense of the Stranger’s apparently erratic behavior as well as framing the clear lines of battle. Mitchell summarizes:

By way of passing, we should highlight Mitchell’s choice of terms: such questions are not “conclusively falsifiable.” To my mind, this choice of terms is worth spotlighting: there are levels of conclusiveness and provisionality. Some questions simply do not admit to this kind of certitude and become rather articles of faith or disbelief.

In his article “The Problem of Verification,” Danforth Professor of Theology John Hick (whom we met in Smorgasbord at the Junction of Faith and Reason) brings out this very point, adding a parable of his own to the argument in the process. He was not, of course, present at the “Theology and Falsification” symposium, but his reflections are certainly pertinent to that discussion; in fact, he cites it in his essay. He begins by suggesting that theological assertions are not exactly like any other kind of statements and that it is a task of the philosophy of religion to determine exactly what demarcates such claims. Yet the variety found in Christianity and traditional Judaism come closer to standard factual statements than to claims involving considerations of aesthetics or ethics.

Before the post-WWI movement in Vienna, Austria, known as logical positivism, an assertion was determined to be true or false depending on whether or not it actually conformed to reality. But logical positivism introduced an additional test to determine if something was cognitively meaningful, and that was whether or not something would make an appreciable difference. If something could not, at least in principle, be falsified, it was considered an empty or meaningless expression. Logical positivism eventually fell out of favor, in part because it was itself a statement that could not be falsified: like most normative claims, it was outside the scope of its own jurisdiction. Hick presents a scenario in which it is announced on the news one morning that scientists have discovered that overnight, the size of the universe has doubled and the speed of light along with it. At first this news would seem amazing, but it could not be verified because with the speed of light doubling as well, the very ruler of measurement would itself have doubled along with the thing measured and however true in fact the proposition, it would not pass the test of logical positivism because it could not be (at least in principle) falsified. Yet John Wisdom’s parable that Flew recounts above is operating on a very similar assumption—a claim that cannot be readily falsified may not be a meaningful assertion at all. In other words, from the point of view of the positivist, for something to have meaning it must make an appreciable difference; an experiential difference. The explorers in their jungle “garden” are debating about elements that (apparently) make no appreciable difference in their lives. The evidence before their eyes remains the same for both men—they both see the same plot of land that appears to be a garden—but their interpretations of its origins vary. This is where Hare and his bliks come in, for Hare is willing to allow that this interpretative aspect of the “garden” may very well underscore a valid point, but the different bliks the two men hold can have much to do with their quality of life and thus do make an appreciable difference even if they are not assertions in the sense outlined by the positivist.

Hare then, would appear to adopt the position that Spanish-born U.S. philosopher, poet, and novelist George Santayana (1863–1952) adopted: in Hick’s words, Santayana maintained that “religions were not true or false, but better or worse” (474). Yet Hare moves beyond Wisdom’s parable of the explorers in suggesting that the quality of life the men experience is different: a man we call a lunatic because he believes all dons are after him has quite a different quality to his life than those of us who believe dons to be much more settled creatures, affected at times perhaps and filled with their own pretenses, but all in all largely benevolent and harmless human beings. There would also appear to be something to be said for Hare’s division between sane and insane as well that admits to some basis in reality, but we shall leave that question as we found it: largely unexplored.

Hick wants to put forth a few house rules before we get too carried on in our musings one with another. (1) To verify something means to remove all reasonable doubt: it implies demonstration that a given assertion is in fact true or false. (2) Often verification requires some particular course of action, such as when one wants to verify it is in fact raining, she goes to the window to see. However, verification does not have to entail this kind of process. (3) We can conclude from the last “house rule” that for something to be deemed “publicly verifiable,” that does not necessarily mean that all persons everywhere have personally looked into the matter for themselves. Rather, it implies that all persons could in principle perform those actions if so inclined and arrive at the same conclusions. (4) Some propositions may be able to be verified if they happen to be correct, but never falsified if they happen to be wrong. For example, most of us learned in school how to calculate circumferences of circles using pi (π)—the ratio obtained by dividing the circumference of a circle by its diameter—which for our purposes then was sufficiently achieved by rounding the number off to 3.14. But some dedicated individuals have not only worked the repeating decibel of π out to great lengths, but have even designed computer programs to effect the same. Yet for all of that, no one has yet proven that there are three consecutive 7’s in a row in the number π. To date, no one can disprove it. If three sevens do exist all in a row, some day that may be proven conclusively; if three sevens do not exist in a row, the claim that three 7’s do exist in this way will never be able to be falsified (unless some unforeseen test is somehow devised to which we remain ignorant now). (Archive note (7/07/06): Apparently, it has been shown that π has not only three but four consecutive sevens in it all comparatively near the decimal point: see this post on the discussion forum for more.)

The last “house rule” Hick lays down is the one he is most interested in using to fill out the rest of his essay. (5) Life after death is just the same sort of proposition as the previous example of π: if true, it can at the point of death be verified, but if false, it can never be shown to be wrong. Hick describes this as “eschatological verification” and toward this end tells us another parable:

The moment by moment details of their journey is shared in common. They experience all the same things and experience them alike. The one real difference is their interpretation of where the road will eventually culminate, but this also effects their perception of the hard times and the value they assign the good. Hick is quick to point out the limitations of the parable, at least as it pertains to the Judeo-Christian understanding. The path is both a journey and a destination, but the final destination cannot be appealed to as evidence of the truthfulness of the theist belief, however much faith and hope may be factors. The two travelers represent all of us in the world touched by the brush of Judeo-Christian theism: the road for us leads either toward eternal reward or eternal termination: perhaps many of us cannot fully decide no matter where we may locate ourselves in the spectrum of religious beliefs. Our impression of the world is much alike: we all feel many of the same things, do the same things, eat the same kinds of foods, and in general share a common humanity that goes beyond our individual interpretations. Yet our perception of the future does affect our state of mind in the here and now as countless studies have shown and as Jung reminds us with his “house of falling mortar.”

Not all philosophers would even admit to the plausibility of life after death. (See, for example, our previous discussions in Do “Selves” Live on After Dying?) Yet even if all were to admit to that possibility with unerring consensus, the fact that we woke up one day alive after dying would not necessarily, in itself, prove the existence of God. We might just interpret it as a rather surprising natural fact of the universe, going about our new lives much like we did our old ones. As a total aside, that reminds me of a dream I once had that strikes me as humorous now, though at the time I found it truly offputting. I dreamed that my mother had passed on and went to heaven. I was somehow able to have contact with her and I asked her what heaven was like. She nonchalantly said, “It’s not all its cracked up to be.” It sounds funny now, but when I woke up, I really found it quite disturbing, because the dream had been so very real the way dreams can seem and apparently I had been doing some serious questioning about life after death. At the time, I was still working at the same place of employment as my friend Jonathan (long-term subscribers will remember that name), and he found everything about the dream odd, including, I think, that I would even entertain such questions, much less find them so distressing. From his pagan perspective, questions of celestial cities played very little part. But all of that is very much aside from our topic at hand; one of the joys of being an author is that you can drop little asides like that wherever you will and unless some editor somewhere gets his or her hands on it, it will remain a hallmark for life: a little stamp you have left behind of yourself.

We were talking about John Hick. He was making the point that “an experience of survival” after death might “turn out to be as religiously ambiguous as this present life. It might still be unclear whether or not there is a God” (477). Our present experience, as Hick points out, sometimes seems to affirm the existence of an unseen intelligent benevolence and at other times to belie it. Yet even this awareness itself suggests some vague notion of what a world without ambiguity might be like. Hick concludes with this paragraph:

Of our four contestants, Flew raises a compelling question. However, given that he is asking as one on the outside peering in, his credibility may be somewhat compromised, not to mention that not only has logical positivism itself come into question, but religious claims are a different sort of proposition, just as aesthetic claims are different sorts of claims than normative or ethical ones. To large degree, we adapt our logic to our beliefs and experiences, not the other way around (perhaps governed by our personal bliks, perhaps not). Sadhu Sundar Singh, a mystic described as “a Christian flower on an Indian stem,” tells the story of a skeptic and a hot spring in the Himalayas. The man scoffed that this “land of snow and ice” could ever produce such a phenomenon in nature—at least until the Sadhu took him there and he dipped his hand into the water for himself. Then his logic began to aid his experience and he starting hatching explanatory theories as to exactly why such a hot spring existed in the middle of such frigid temperatures. Notice, his logic began to aid his experience, not that his experience began to aid his logic. We do, I believe, have interpretative bliks (at least if I understand the term as well as I think I do), but these are largely the synthesis of our experiences and the culture in which they have taken root. So too, Flew may have overlooked something one cannot see from the outside looking in and thus failed to comprehend the logic of the warmer waters. The garderner, after all, had never appeared in any form or shape to either of the men—or, apparently, to Flew himself.

For this reason, we should probably give Mitchell the laurel wreath, for his experience of the Stranger most closely resembles the personal encounters that have caused many former skeptics to first experience and then explain the spiritual hot spring in the heavenly Himalayas. All see the same evidence, but something more personal is afoot in Mitchell’s analogy. Unlike Hare, who posits perhaps a bit too readily that religious claims are not assertions according to the claims of positivism, he manages to speak to Flew’s objections intelligently. He maintains that there are real assertions being made with real supporting evidence and that this is generally initiated by a personal encounter and an ongoing commitment of faith. It is not a product of an indefinable and enigmatic blik, but that of a sane person whose encounter has left him transformed. This may be problematic for the non-believer on the outside looking in, for what if the Stranger never introduces Himself? Still, it appears to be the most accurate in terms of why the believer believes. And perhaps it is the case that seeking seekers must seek—and only then subsequently find—the Stranger, for it has been said of Him that He knocks on the door of the heart of all who will open and sup with Him, though perhaps not all know to listen for the soft rapping of knuckles, thinking instead they will find Him in the fireworks and fancy displays, only to turn away disappointed and empty.

Archive note: See also the discussion forum thread regarding this newsletter.

Finally, Hick’s ideas are also sound, though they help us little in the here and now. They speak of eschatological tomorrows and present a strong case for rejecting the logical positivism that Flew may be asserting. All in all, Hick presents a reasoned and strong argument, also suggesting as do all those speaking to Flew that the same experiences are shared in common by all, regardless of interpretation. Hare, however, fails to tell us exactly how they are interpreted differently: while his argument is not a bad one, his bliks nevertheless weaken his argument somewhat, for they posit the existence of something they do not bother to define or explain. Given that Flew questions what he (apparently) does not personally know and Hick speaks of that which cannot be verified in this life, Mitchell alone seems best to speak on behalf of the intelligent believer who has met the Stranger in some real and personal way, clearly recognizing that the Stranger sometimes acts in ways that are mysterious and appear to be given over to the enemy. The believer has nevertheless come to trust that whatever the Stranger does, He does for a reason and that reason is good. Sometimes he too may be given to doubt, but his reason for believing is not going to be disturbed by the skeptic who has never seen the Stranger at all; when making negative assertions about the existence of God, the skeptic, it would seem, is ultimately arguing from silence: an empty sky and an empty earth in which all is a land of snow and ice and if hot springs do flow, it is largely through the walls of the imagination.

“If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water.’”

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