Tag Archives: C.S. Lewis

Like-Minded vs Like-Hearted

how_to_thinkIf you want to find the truth, then the most dangerous place for you to be is in a group that already agrees with you.

This is particularly true if membership in that group is based on shared thinking, such as the sort of church where you must all recite the same creed, the faculty of a school where there are written or unwritten expectations for what you will teach or publish, or a political party whose “platform” you must support.

The reason is obvious, isn’t it? As Alan Jacobs says in his book, How to Think,

…the pressures imposed on us by Inner Rings [of people who control such groups] make genuine thinking almost impossible by making belonging contingent on conformity.

He continues with the solution:

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“The Gates of Hell Are Locked on the Inside”

There are some beliefs that are so morally reprehensible that to dignify them with even a one-word response would only add to their offense, yet so common among otherwise decent people that one feels compelled spend a thousand words refuting them.

The list of such beliefs includes the conviction that African-Americans were better off enslaved in the South than left to their own devices in Africa; the assertion that poor people are just lazy; and the cultural attitudes behind the “honor killing” of rape victims.

Akin to these, but even higher on the list, is the belief advanced by no less a Christian luminary than C.S. Lewis, that “the gates of hell are locked on the inside” because the souls confined there for eternity are in rebellion against God and do not wish to be with him in heaven.

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Did God Guide the Evolution of Morality?

About a third of Americans believe “humans have developed over millions of years from less-advanced forms of life, but God guided this process.” That sounds like a solution that will please everyone, doesn’t it? The scientist’s theory of evolution is accepted and the believer’s God has a central role. *

Few people on either side of the debate would find that position threatening. It’s a different story when we talk about the evolution of morality. Somehow a naturalistic explanation for our moral sense strikes closer to home than a naturalistic explanation for life itself. In some ways, our moral sense is a more important and cherished component of our identity than our physical bodies.

In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis pointed to our shared moral sense as evidence of God. We yearn for right rather than wrong; how could we long for something that does not exist? We thirst for water, which exists, rather than for an imaginary liquid. In the same way, our thirst for righteousness strongly suggests that there is such a thing.

Let us agree, then, that there is such as thing as right and wrong. Could evolution, rather than God, account for our sense of it?

I have heard it argued as recently as this morning that evolution could not have been the wellspring of morality. The competition-to-the-death that drives evolution could never result in anything like the moral sense we all have. Evolution could only produce creatures more and more efficient and ruthless. By now, we should all be Nazis. The atrocities of the Islamic State should be the norm.

Before responding, let’s be sure we understand the assertion. It is that no purely physical (i.e., godless) mechanism could possibly produce the moral sense we share. If we were to inspect the process without allowing God into the picture, it would not hold together.

That makes it unlike theistic biological evolution. The adherents of God-guided biological evolution say that he nudged mutations at key points so they were not random, although his work was subtle enough as not to be obvious. If I flip a coin five times and the outcome is heads every time, you might suspect that I cheated by “guiding” the process, but you would not say it’s impossible for a five-heads sequence to occur all by itself. C.S. Lewis and others who make the argument from morality are saying that it is impossible for the moral order we observe to occur as the result of a purely physical process.

Richard Dawkins more than refuted this almost 40 years ago in his book, The Selfish Gene. I posted a little series summarizing the book three winters ago. To boil it down even further, the argument goes like this. The unit of evolution is the gene, not the organism, for it is the genes that are doing the mutating. The genes (not the organisms) that produce the most copies of themselves are the evolutionarily successful ones. Copies of one’s genes exist most abundantly in one’s kin, and then in one’s tribe, race, species, and genus, in that order. Therefore, genes that manage to induce in their host bodies an instinct to aid the survival of one’s kin, tribe, race, etc., will promote more copies of themselves. Cooperation becomes a survival strategy, not necessarily for the organisms but for the genes. And indeed we see great cooperation and sacrifice for family members, a strong but somewhat lesser loyalty to tribe, and so on down the line — just as a gene-centered explanation of cooperation predicts.

What is the first rule of cooperation? “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” That also happens to be the basis for all morality, according to Jesus himself. Voila!

A purely physical, perfectly sensible explanation for morality has been found. Believers have declared this to be impossible. Indeed some, following C.S. Lewis, have made this the linchpin of their argument for God. Will they now recant? In the spirit of truth, will they admit their error from their pulpits and in conversations with the unconverted? Will they even read Dawkins’ short book before they decide not do to so?

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* – Young-earth creationists are unhappy with theistic evolution because, to them, it directly contradicts the gospel. They believe that Adam and Eve were real people and death — physical death — entered the world because of Adam’s sin. There was no death before Adam, so eons of “survival of the fittest” could not have happened. This is not a fringe view, by the way, according to the same Gallup poll cited above, just under half of Americans believe “God created human beings pretty much in their present form at one time within the last 10,000 years or so.”

Voltaire’s Truth-Loving Test in Candide

I’ve been collecting and posting tests of how much one loves truth, as proposed by famous philosophers. So far, we have

  • Plato’s test: Tell children glorious stories. Emphasize that the stories are true when they are, in fact, false. See which children can resist the stories’ appeal, and spontaneously protest as to why they are impossible.
  • C.S. Lewis’ Test: Upon learning that an ugly rumor about one’s enemies is false, is one relieved that even they aren’t as bad as all that, or does one wish to cling to the rumor?

Now for Voltaire’s.

For my entire adult life, this writer of the French Enlightenment was reviled as an enemy of God by every one of my acquaintances who was educated enough to recognize his name. I formed the impression that he was a villain who, entirely unprovoked, spent his bitter life writing polemics against Christianity.

Imagine my curiosity when I read Robert Ingersoll‘s Lecture on Voltaire, and learned that he was exceedingly generous and warm-hearted, a tireless advocate of liberty and justice, and may have done more than anyone else to abolish cruel and unusual punishments in France.

I decided to read the first of his works that I could get my hands on, and that happened to be Candide. In this book, the guileless Candide is raised in a castle and tutored by the philosopher, Pangloss, whose most memorable tenet is that we live in the best of all possible worlds. (“It is demonstrable,” said he, “that things cannot be otherwise than as they are; for as all things have been created for some end, they must necessarily be created for the best end. Observe, for instance, the nose is formed for spectacles, therefore we wear spectacles.”)

Almost from page 1, bad things begin to happen to Candide and everyone else in the castle, from which they are all driven out. Candide, separated from Pangloss for most of his tribulations, wonders whether the philosopher would maintain his sunny outlook in the face of so much distress.

Pangloss returns at the end of the book, having suffered at least as much as Candide.

Candide asks him, “When You were hanged, dissected, whipped, and tugging at the oar [as a galley slave], did you continue to think that everything in this world happens for the best?”

“I have always abided by my first opinion,” answered Pangloss; “for, after all, I am a philosopher, and it would not become me to retract my sentiments; especially as Leibnitz could not be in the wrong: and that preestablished harmony is the finest thing in the world.”

In the final chapter, Candide and Pangloss are living a quiet life on a small farm. Pangloss tries to convince Candide that Candide’s misfortunes, which were many and severe, are entirely compatible with this being the best of all possible worlds. “For had you not suffered them,” Pangloss says, “you would not have been here to eat preserved citrons and pistachio nuts.”

Obviously and comically, the pleasures of citrons and pistachio nuts are as nothing compared to what both men have suffered. But they are all Pangloss needs to hold onto his doctrine.

I suppose there are many truth-loving tests one could extract from this book, but I’ll choose this one:

Our love of truth is inversely related to our stubbornness in holding onto our ideas, and the lameness of our rationales, as judged by an impartial, educated observer.

C.S. Lewis’s Truth-Loving Test

A few months ago, we heard this from Plato. It was his way of determining who loved truth and who didn’t.

What I proposed was having our children be told glorious tales to stir their imaginations, very much stressing all the time that these tales were true, and then seeing which among the children can resist them, can see the logical inconsistencies within these tales, and see all their inconsistencies with other truths that they have been told.

Here’s another truth-loving test, from C.S. Lewis’s book, Mere Christianity. (In the book, he did not propose this as a truth-loving test, but I think it makes an excellent one.)

The real test is this. Suppose one reads a story of filthy atrocities in the paper. Then suppose that something turns up suggesting that the story might not be quite true, or not quite so bad as it was made out. Is one’s first feeling, “Thank God, even they aren’t quite so bad as that,” or is it a feeling of disappointment, and even a determination to cling to the first story for the sheer pleasure of thinking your enemies are as bad as possible?

I read the quote over at Slacktivist’s blog. He had earlier treated the theme in a wonderful post called Jackie at the crossroads. In that story, a young woman named Jackie has claimed there are poisonous spiders in airport restrooms, former stow-aways on international flights. When she is shown that this is just an urban legend, she has a choice: she can double-down or laughingly admit her gullibility. Her choice is a very clear window on her character.

How about us? When we learn that the rumor we have spread about our political or religious adversaries is unfounded, is our first reaction to be relieved that they are not so bad after all? Or do we double down by finding another way they are so bad, or by calling the refutation “biased” even though it is our own bias that has just been exposed?