Conceptual Analysis – Lesson 11
This transcript was produced automatically using artificial intelligence. There may be inaccuracies in the transcribed content and in speaker identification.
🔗 Link to the original lecture
🔗 Link to the transcript on Sofer.AI
Table of Contents
- Thought experiments as conceptual analysis
- Einstein, conceptual contradictions, and proof by contradiction
- “Theological” arguments and revealing/inferential arguments
- Logical inversion, a double condition, and a Venn diagram
- Clouds and rain as a model for the gap between physical causality and logical implication
- The argument from morality to the existence of God and the atheist’s dilemma
- Pragmatism, “opium for the masses,” and Marx
- Meaning, logotherapy, and the distinction between a pragmatic argument and an acceptable argument
- Moral realism, the Idea of the Good, and materialism
- A theological argument and a thought experiment as one structure
- Quality and quantity: greater wisdom versus greater numbers in Jewish law
Summary
General Overview
The text presents the thought experiment as a kind of conceptual analysis that clarifies what is already implicit in our system of concepts and intuitions without adding empirical information, and demonstrates this through “Buridan’s man” in order to set up a tension between physicalism/determinism and the assessment that a person would choose and not die of hunger. It then introduces a distinction between a philosophical argument that proceeds from premises to conclusions and a “theological” argument that proceeds from the conclusion to the premises in a valid way through logical inversion, illustrating this with the argument from morality to the existence of God and with the analogy of clouds and rain. The text explains how such arguments may look pragmatist and intellectually dishonest if one “invents” premises in order to reach a desired conclusion, but that they are legitimate if they uncover premises one in fact already believes. In the end, it opens another example of conceptual analysis around the distinction between quality and quantity through a halakhic dispute about “following the majority” and the difficulty of defining what quality and quantity are.
Thought experiments as conceptual analysis
The text states that a thought experiment is conceptual analysis because it activates existing knowledge and concepts without conducting a test in reality and without adding new information. The text demonstrates this by means of “Buridan’s man”: a person stands at equal distance from two identical feeding troughs in a completely symmetrical situation, and if he is only a material creature then his motion is determined by symmetrical equations of mechanics that do not allow a solution that breaks symmetry to the right or left. The text argues that from this it follows that if physicalism is true then the person will be unable to choose a side and will die of hunger, whereas the common intuition is that a person will choose one side so as not to die. The text explains that the thought experiment forces one to decide between physicalism and the intuition about what will happen in the situation, and clarifies that the conclusion is mainly about the consistency of the thinker’s system of beliefs and not necessarily about what in fact occurs in reality.
Einstein, conceptual contradictions, and proof by contradiction
The text brings Einstein as an example of the way a thought experiment can generate basic ideas, such as the understanding that in relative motion time and space are measured differently between systems, without carrying out an empirical experiment. The text describes a situation in which a thought experiment exposes an internal contradiction in our concepts and forces us to give up at least one of the assumptions that lead to it, similar to proof by contradiction. The text clarifies that a thought experiment is called an “experiment,” but is not an actual experiment, rather an elegant form of a priori analysis.
“Theological” arguments and revealing/inferential arguments
The text presents a distinction the speaker heard between a philosopher and a theologian through a formulation by Asa Kasher: a philosopher assumes premises and derives conclusions, while a theologian assumes conclusions and derives premises. It connects this to Anselm’s ontological proof, which opens with a prayer to the Holy One, blessed be He, to help prove His existence. The text suggests that a theological argument is not cheating but another type of philosophical argument, and cites Hayuta’s proposal to call these a “revealing argument” and an “inferential argument.” The text argues that since Kant it has become clear that many philosophical arguments are of the kind that begins from the conclusion and asks “how is it possible” rather than “is it possible,” just as Kant assumed that synthetic a priori judgments exist and searched for the assumptions that make this possible in response to David Hume’s problems.
Logical inversion, a double condition, and a Venn diagram
The text explains that from the statement “if A then B” one cannot infer “if B then A,” and gives an example: “If it rains tomorrow, then I won’t travel to Tel Aviv” does not imply that “If I won’t travel to Tel Aviv, then it rained.” The text notes that Hugo Bergmann, in his book Introduction to the Theory of Logic, cites a student’s remark about the need for a “double condition,” and illustrates this through the condition of the tribes of Gad and Reuben and half the tribe of Manasseh, which requires stating both the “if” side and the “if not” side. The text states that the implication equivalent to “if A then B” is “if not B then not A,” and demonstrates this also with the image of circles and a Venn diagram.
Clouds and rain as a model for the gap between physical causality and logical implication
The text argues that in physics clouds are the cause of rain, but logically the necessary formulation is “if there is rain, then there are clouds” and not “if there are clouds, then there is rain.” The text also formulates this as a valid claim: “if there are no clouds, then there is no rain,” and shows that its equivalent inversion is “if it is raining, then there are clouds.” The text emphasizes that the confusion stems from the fact that logic operates in the opposite direction from the description of cause and effect in physics, even though the causal relation still runs from clouds to rain.
The argument from morality to the existence of God and the atheist’s dilemma
The text gives an example of the argument from morality: if one assumes that binding morality exists, then it follows that God exists, because in a purely material world there are no binding norms and no one to grant them validity. The text distinguishes between a weak formulation that says “if there is God, then there is binding morality,” which can be disputed, and a stronger formulation of a necessary condition: “if there is no God, then there is no binding morality,” from which it follows logically that “if there is binding morality, then there is God.” The text describes a hypothetical conversation with an atheist who declares that he believes in valid morality, and presents him with two possibilities: to give up the validity of morality in order to remain an atheist, or to give up atheism in order to preserve valid morality, while stating from experience that the second option “won’t happen.”
Pragmatism, “opium for the masses,” and Marx
The text explains that arguments of this kind can seem “fishy” because they may be perceived as inventing God in order to justify morality, that is, as a kind of pragmatism that subordinates what is true to what is desirable. The text calls philosophical pragmatism “a dirty word” and argues that it is “nonsense” when used as a justification for truths, and cites Marx, who said that religion is “opium for the masses,” as criticizing people who believe in God because it is convenient for them and provides certainty and social norms. The text distinguishes between someone who believes in God in order to get social and psychological “bonuses” and someone who believes because he has reached the conclusion that God exists, and gives the example of outreach activists who emphasize the experience of a family Sabbath in order to draw someone toward faith.
Meaning, logotherapy, and the distinction between a pragmatic argument and an acceptable argument
The text presents Viktor Frankl’s logotherapy as an example of the claim that creating meaning can help psychologically, and presents this as a situation in which you “knit” meaning out of nothing in order to save yourself. The text argues that there is an enormous difference between a belief adopted because it is useful and the claim that if something gives a person a full and meaningful life “then it is probably true,” and defines the latter as an acceptable philosophical argument whose premises can be debated. The text applies this to the argument from morality: not “I want valid morality, so I create God,” but rather “I truly believe in valid morality, and therefore discover that implicitly I believe in God,” in a way that turns the argument into one that “reveals” hidden premises.
Moral realism, the Idea of the Good, and materialism
The text formulates valid morality as the position according to which “murder is forbidden” is a true proposition and whoever thinks otherwise is mistaken, and not merely a description of a psychological feeling. The text argues that true propositions are examined by comparison to a state of affairs in the world, and therefore if “murder is forbidden” is true, an objective standard of comparison is required, such as “the Idea of morality” or “the Idea of the Good,” and from this one arrives at moral realism. The text notes that there are atheist moral realists who believe in a binding Idea without believing in God, but argues that someone who believes in such non-material entities cannot be a materialist, and adds in an aside that he sees no reason not to believe in God if one already rejects materialism. The text responds to the claim that “society accepted it upon itself” as a basis for morality and defines this as insufficient for valid morality, because social agreement is a fact and not a binding source, and adds that ideas in themselves are not binding without an agent who commands and grants validity.
A theological argument and a thought experiment as one structure
The text links the theological argument and the thought experiment through a shared structure of moving from the conclusion to the premises in order to expose conceptual commitments. The text compares “Buridan’s man” to the argument from morality: someone who thinks the person would not die of hunger in complete symmetry discovers that he is not really a materialist, just as someone who believes in valid morality discovers that according to the argument he is not really an atheist, at least implicitly. The text describes a reader of the book The Science of Freedom who claimed that obviously the person would die of hunger and therefore materialism was saved, and replies that the question is what the person really thinks would happen and whether his actual belief matches his metaphysical declaration.
Quality and quantity: greater wisdom versus greater numbers in Jewish law
The text opens a conceptual analysis of quality and quantity through a halakhic dispute in a situation where two judges rule one way and one judge rules differently, and asks what happens when the minority judge is “much wiser” than the other two. The text presents the question as “do we count heads or do we count legs,” and clarifies that the debate is about the interpretation of “follow the majority”: whether the majority means the greater number of people or the greater amount of wisdom. It attributes to halakhic decisors the view that “even if there were as many ignoramuses as those who left Egypt against one clearly outstanding Torah scholar,” the majority of the ignorant would carry no weight against a single sage. The text questions the common distinction that identifies wisdom with “quality” and the number of people with “quantity,” and argues that this can be seen as two different quantities—quantity of people and quantity of wisdom—and one could even suggest quantitative measurement such as an IQ test. The text concludes that the concepts themselves are not clear: every quality can be formulated as a quantity of some abstract thing, and quantity can also concern abstractions such as “the quantity of ideas” or “how much time has passed,” so an open question remains as to how to understand the difference between quality and quantity.
Full Transcript
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Last time, since we’re dealing with conceptual analysis, last time I spoke a bit about thought experiments. And I argued that a thought experiment is really a certain kind of conceptual analysis. Why? We’ve already talked quite a bit about the fact that conceptual analysis is basically dealing with concepts we already know, as opposed, say, to collecting additional empirical information beyond what we already know. Just analyzing what is already known. And in that sense, in that sense, a thought experiment basically does exactly the same thing. I gave examples of this. For example, there was Buridan’s donkey, or Buridan’s man, as I called it. Meaning, if we want to examine, say, whether a person is a determinist or not a determinist, then let him think about a hypothetical situation of a person standing at equal distance from two troughs full of food, the same food of course, a completely symmetrical situation. At some point he starts getting hungry, and he has to consider whether he goes to the trough on the right or the trough on the left. And since he has no reason to prefer one over the other, then a rational person ought, basically, to die of hunger. Originally this is Buridan’s donkey, right? Because when a rational person does something, it’s supposed to be something for which there is a reason why he does that and not something else. Here there is no reason to approach the right trough rather than the left trough. So that’s with regard to the question of rationality, but I said I want to use this to examine the question of determinism, not the question of rationality. And my claim was that if you are a determinist, then when you look at such a situation, you should conclude that even a person standing in such a state—not only a donkey standing in such a state—will die of hunger. And why? Because in order not to die of hunger, that person has to decide, let’s say, to go take the right trough—or the left, it doesn’t matter, let’s take the right. Okay? Now the point is that if the human being is only a material creature, meaning just a physical entity, then basically his movement is nothing but the result of solving the equations of mechanics under the given circumstances. Now the equations of mechanics under these given circumstances are completely symmetrical to both sides. There’s a theorem in mathematics that the symmetry of the solution is at least as great as the symmetry of the equation, if not greater. Meaning, if there is an equation that is symmetrical between right and left, the solution will also have to be symmetrical between right and left. If there is an equation with circular symmetry, spherical symmetry, whatever, then the solution also has to have at least that symmetry, or even a higher one. So therefore the situation I’m looking at here—if I look at it simply as equations of physics—the equations of physics as I describe them in this situation, a point-like person standing at equal distance from two identical troughs, there cannot be a solution to the equations that causes the person, or describes the person’s going, to the right side or to the left side. Because such a solution is one that breaks the symmetry of the problem. There is no such solution; that is, mathematically it’s impossible. In order to preserve the symmetry of the problem, the person can only move along the line—say if the two troughs are on opposite sides, I can only move along the line of symmetry between them. Or stand still, which is called moving at zero velocity along that line of symmetry. That’s all. Any motion that is not on that line of symmetry does not fit the symmetry of the problem. Therefore, if we see the human being as a purely material creature, meaning just matter, then it simply cannot happen that the person will go to one side. And as a result, the outcome is that he will die of hunger. Now why do I call this a thought experiment? Because I assume that most people would agree that this is not what would happen. If a person stood in such a situation, he would decide on one of the two troughs. A rational person, because he doesn’t want to die of hunger, would decide to go to one of the troughs. But that doesn’t fit with a physicalist worldview. So now you have to decide: either you throw out physics—physicalism—or you throw out your intuition, which says that in such a situation the person would not die of hunger. You can’t keep both together. One of the two has to go. And that is the meaning of a thought experiment. I didn’t do this experiment in a laboratory. If I could do such an experiment in a laboratory, then I would simply see what happens. If the person died of hunger, then determinism would in fact recover, let’s call it that—not be proven, but recover. And if the person did not die of hunger, then determinism would be refuted. Okay? But since I can’t perform this experiment, what I do is perform it in my thought. Now, in my thought, I imagine to myself a person in such a situation, and I ask myself what I think will happen to that person. Just my opinion. If, let’s say, my opinion is that such a person would not die of hunger, and now I understand that this does not fit with a physicalist worldview—that is, that a person is only physics—then I will apparently have to give up physicalism. From the fact that the person will not die, I can infer the conclusion that physicalism is not true. Or not true in my view. Meaning, if in my view the person won’t die, then at least I don’t believe in physicalism. After all, this is not proof of what happens in reality itself. In reality itself it may be that I’m simply wrong, and reality really is physicalistic, and this person really would die of hunger, and all that. But if I think he would not die of hunger, then at least one thing has become clear to me: I myself am not a physicalist. Okay? That is basically the meaning of a thought experiment. And a thought experiment, all in all, analyzes the concepts and the information that already exist within me, as opposed to a regular experiment that brings to my knowledge, or to me, additional information beyond what I already know. That’s what an experiment does. In an experiment I examine what will happen in a given situation, I conduct the experiment, and I learn one more piece of information that I didn’t know before. Now I have to see what to do with it. In a thought experiment, no piece of information is added for me, because I didn’t actually perform the experiment. I just asked myself: what do I think would happen in such a situation? Why does it matter what I think would happen? Why should I care what I think would happen? The question is what really would happen. The answer is that if I think the result would be that the person would not die of hunger, then I’ve discovered—perhaps to my astonishment—that I am not a physicalist. That is the meaning of a thought experiment. I analyze my world of concepts and my way of thinking, and from that I can draw conclusions that can sometimes surprise me. And therefore it is important to do thought experiments. I mentioned that Einstein carried out a thought experiment from which he drew all the basic ideas of special relativity—that in systems moving relative to one another, time and space are measured differently in the different systems. And he did all of that from a thought experiment. He conducted no experiment at all; he simply did a thought experiment, and he understood that the Newtonian view of time and space does not fit what ought to come out of that experiment. There is an internal contradiction in our world of concepts. And therefore you must—this is why I call it conceptual analysis—you must decide what within that whole framework you are giving up, because you cannot keep it all together; it contains a contradiction. Like proof by contradiction, really—that’s what we’re doing. When we prove something by contradiction, what are we really doing? We’re basically saying: if we assume the opposite, a paradoxical result will follow, and therefore clearly that assumption is not correct, and what remains is the straightforward assumption, not its opposite. That basically means that once I’ve arrived at an incorrect conclusion, I have to give up at least one of the assumptions that led to it. That’s what one does in a thought experiment. In a thought experiment I basically arrive at some conclusion. That conclusion is based on various assumptions. Now, if those assumptions do not fit with my ordinary assumptions, I have to decide what to give up. So a thought experiment is called an experiment, but of course it is not an experiment. It is just an elegant way of doing conceptual analysis. Conceptual analysis, or a priori analysis—it doesn’t always deal with concepts, but it is a priori analysis. Okay? That’s what we discussed last time. What I want to continue with now is actually to speak about what I have more than once in the past called “theological arguments” in quotation marks, which are basically some kind of thought experiment. And therefore they too are conceptual analysis. I’ll explain more what I mean. The terminology, theological argument or philosophical argument—Hayuta in the book suggested that I call it a revealing argument and an inferential argument. And maybe that really is clearer; theological and philosophical is not clear terminology. It’s nice terminology, I think, but not clear. Why, where does this terminology come from? Once I heard, in a philosophy course, the lecturer said there: what is the difference between a philosopher and a theologian? It was Asa Kasher. He said there that a philosopher assumes premises and derives conclusions from them, and the theologian assumes conclusions and derives premises from them. We spoke about this when we discussed in the past Anselm’s ontological proof, where the proof basically opens with a prayer to the Holy One, blessed be He, to enlighten his eyes and help him prove His existence, help Anselm prove the existence of the Holy One, blessed be He. So in fact you already assume the existence of the Holy One, blessed be He, in advance, even before you’ve formulated your proof, before you’ve found whether you have a proof at all. So basically the claim is that theologians are presenting you with a proof of the existence of God, but it’s not really a proof in the accepted philosophical sense. The theologians assume the existence of God, and afterward they construct some logical structure that will succeed in proving it. But they begin from the conclusion and from there build the premises that will lead them back to the conclusion. That’s a theological argument. A philosophical argument is an argument where I basically proceed with intellectual honesty, an open page, a tabula rasa, a blank sheet. Let’s see: I take claims that seem reasonable to me and infer conclusions from them. Whatever conclusion comes out—that will be my conclusion. I do not decide in advance which conclusions I want and which I don’t. There is no theologian who discusses the question whether there is or isn’t God and arrives at the conclusion that there isn’t. The moment that becomes his conclusion, he simply will no longer be defined as a theologian. A theologian always, in the end, produces an argument that proves the existence of God; he doesn’t refute it or prove nonexistence. Therefore the claim is—at least at first glance—that the theologian is a cheat, unlike the philosopher, who is an honest person who takes premises and lets whatever conclusion emerge emerge. The theologian is a cheat because he basically assumes the conclusion he wants to reach and constructs ad hoc some argument that will lead us to that conclusion. And this distinction between a theological argument and a philosophical argument—what I actually wanted to claim through this terminology is that a theological argument is not cheating. It is simply another kind of philosophical argument. There are two kinds of philosophical argument. There is a philosophical argument that goes from the premises to the conclusion, and there is a philosophical argument that goes from the conclusion to the premises. And that is perfectly fine. Not only is it perfectly fine—since Kant it is actually much clearer that in fact most philosophical arguments are basically what I just called theological. After all, when Kant asked—he tried to solve the problems raised by David Hume, the problem of induction, the problem of causality, and so on. So he generalized Hume’s whole set of problems and formulated the problem as: how is a certain type of proposition possible? He called them synthetic a priori judgments. The context doesn’t matter right now; I’m just using the terminology. And he didn’t ask whether it is possible; he asked how it is possible. Meaning, how is it possible—who said it is possible? According to Hume, in fact, it isn’t possible. No, Kant assumed that it is possible and looked for the premises that would make that possibility possible. Therefore he did not ask whether it is possible, but how it is possible. It was obvious to him that it is possible; now let’s see how to organize the premises in order to reach the conclusion that there are such judgments. That puts on the table the form of argument I called theological. Since Kant, it seems to me, philosophers ought to be aware that their arguments, in many cases, are arguments in quotation marks “theological.” Not theological in the sense of dealing with God— theological in terms of logic, moving from the conclusions to the premise rather than from the premise to the conclusions. And that is perfectly fine. The principle is that this basically works as follows. You know that, say, a conditional proposition in logic is built in such a way that, say, A implies B. Meaning, if you assume A, then you necessarily arrive at the conclusion B. Say… if it rains tomorrow, then I won’t travel to Tel Aviv. Okay? So if the condition is fulfilled, that it rains, then I won’t travel to Tel Aviv. Can one infer from here that if I don’t travel to Tel Aviv, that means it rained? The answer is of course no, right? I said that if it rains I won’t go; I didn’t say that if it doesn’t rain then I will go. It could be that even if it doesn’t rain, I still won’t go. Therefore, the fact that I didn’t go does not necessarily mean that it rained. In more formal terms, I say that if I am given the statement A implies B—A implies B means if A then B—one cannot infer from here the statement that if B then A. By the way, Hugo Bergmann also mentions this in his book Introduction to the Theory of Logic; some student of his commented to him on this issue, that’s how he brings it there. For in one of the laws of conditions, the rule is that one must double the condition. A condition must be a double condition. There is a tannaitic dispute, but in Jewish law we rule that a condition must be a double condition. You have to say: if the men of Gad and Reuben and half the tribe of Manasseh cross over armed before the people and participate in the war, they will receive their inheritance on the eastern side of the Jordan. And if they do not cross over armed, then they will not receive the inheritance. You have to state both sides. It is not enough to tell them: you will receive the inheritance if you cross over armed. You also have to say that if you do not cross over armed, you will not receive the inheritance. Why must one double the condition? Exactly because of what I just said. Because what you are saying is that A implies B, and that still does not mean that B implies A or that not-A implies not-B. You have to spell that out if you want to say it; it does not follow logically from the first statement. What does follow from A implies B? What follows from A implies B is that not-B implies not-A. That is equivalent; that one can derive. Again. I say that if it rains tomorrow, I won’t travel to Tel Aviv. If I traveled to Tel Aviv, then clearly it did not rain. That I can say, agreed? Again, I say: if it rains, I won’t travel to Tel Aviv. That is the given statement. Now I ask: I traveled to Tel Aviv. Can I infer from that that it did not rain? Yes. Obviously, right? Because if it had rained, I would not have gone. If I did go, that apparently means it did not rain. So notice what I did here. I said: if tomorrow it rains, I won’t travel to Tel Aviv. An equivalent statement is: if in fact I traveled to Tel Aviv—that is, the opposite of B, not-B—then that implies not-A. That means that apparently it did not rain. And when I say A implies B, the equivalent claim is not-B implies not-A. It is not correct to say that if B then A. That is not so. The reverse. Meaning, if A then B does not mean that if B then A, but it does mean that if not-B then not-A. Okay?
[Speaker B] Circles, one inside the other.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] What? I didn’t hear.
[Speaker B] Two circles, one inside the other.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] No, no, I didn’t understand the analogy.
[Speaker B] That A is inside B, so it’s a circle that contains all of A.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Yes, and then if you take it in a Venn diagram, that’s what you mean. Meaning, if you now draw the dual circles you’re telling me about— not-B and not-A—then you’ll see that the bigger circle is contained in the smaller one. The complement of the larger is contained in the complement of the smaller. Yes, and that’s the way to see it in a Venn diagram. Okay? So why am I saying this? Because basically this means the following. Suppose A is the premise and B is the conclusion. Then that is the philosophical way: to assume the premise A and infer from it the conclusion B. The theological way is not to assume B and infer A from it. That is the theological fallacy. The theological way is to assume not-B and infer from that not-A. And that is perfectly fine. It’s a logically valid argument. There is no problem at all in making such an argument. I’ll now give examples so that you’ll see how this works on the ground. For example, I’ll take the proof from morality. In my book The First Existing Thing, in the fourth conversation, I deal with this kind of argument. The whole fourth conversation is devoted to theological arguments. So in the third part of the fourth conversation, I deal with the argument from morality to the existence of God. And what I basically claim there is that if I assume there is valid morality, that basically means I believe in God, that God exists. Why? Because if there were no God, then there could not be valid morality. In a world that is, say, entirely matter—just a pile of stones, or biology, it doesn’t matter right now, but matter alone—there cannot be laws, there cannot be norms. Who determined these norms? Why do I have to obey them? There can be laws in the sense of laws of nature, yes? Inanimate things are governed by laws of nature. But there cannot be laws in the sense of the moral law. That is a law that demands something of me. What are you demanding of stones, that they do something? Stones do what their nature dictates. And there is also no one to establish such a law. If the whole world is physics, then there is no God either, no spiritual entities, everything is physics. So who determines moral laws? Who stands behind the validity of moral laws? Therefore it is clear that there cannot be valid morality if there is no God. Now look: in the forward direction, in the philosophical direction, I say that if there is God, He demands moral rules of me. In the reverse direction, I claim that if there are moral rules, that means there is God. You see the opposite direction of the argument. Meaning, the argument in the “philosophical” direction, so to speak—from premises to conclusion—is basically that if there is God, then there is binding morality. The theological argument says: if there is binding morality, then that means there is God, because if there were no God then there could not be binding morality. Now notice that the claim that if there is God then there is binding morality can be disputed, because it may be that there is some God here who created the world, but what He demands of us is not moral demands. There is no necessity that if there is God, there will be binding morality. What is necessary? That if there is no God, then there is no binding morality, right? That is clear. Meaning, if there is no God… if there is God, I don’t know what He demands—He demands what He demands. If He demands morality, then there will be binding morality; if He demands something else, then there won’t be binding morality. But if there is no God, then clearly there cannot be morality, right? So although apparently God is the cause of morality in terms of the logical order—God is the premise and morality is the conclusion—the correct way to make this argument is in the opposite direction. If you say there is morality, then apparently you believe that there is God. Why? Because if there were no God, then there could not be morality. You see: if A implies B, then not-B implies not-A. So I do not go from God to morality; I go from morality to God, or from the absence of God to the absence of morality. Maybe I’ll give an example that is more, let’s say—let’s look at the relation between clouds and rain. This is an example often brought in order to illustrate this. In physics, when you look at clouds and rain, it is clear to you as a physicist that the clouds are the cause and the rain is the effect, the result. Right? The clouds are the cause of the rain, not the rain the cause of the clouds. They carry the rain, and if something happens then they release it. So the existence of clouds is at least part of the reason that rain falls. But on the logical level this is not correct. On the logical level, the reverse formulation is correct. If there is rain, then there are clouds. It is not correct that if there are clouds then there is rain; there may be clouds and it won’t rain. What is necessary? If there are no clouds, then obviously there will be no rain. Do you agree? If there are clouds, either it will rain or it won’t—that remains open. But if there are no clouds, then clearly it won’t rain. Rain needs clouds. Clouds are a necessary condition for rain, though not a sufficient condition, to put it another way. Now notice that the direction of physical observation is from clouds to rain—the clouds are the cause and the rain is the result. But the direction of logical observation is the opposite. The direction of logical observation—it is not correct to say that if there are clouds there is rain; that is not correct, at least not necessary. It is correct to say that if there is rain then there are clouds. That is obvious. Not that the rain is the cause of the clouds—the clouds were there first—but the rain is the logical condition for the existence of clouds. The clouds are the cause of the rain. So you see the opposite form of perspective. The physical perspective is from cause to effect, from clouds to rain. The logical perspective is from rain to clouds. And why? Because even in the physical world, what is true to say is not that from clouds there is rain, but that if there are no clouds then clearly there is no rain. That I as a physicist can determine in a completely clear way. I cannot determine that if there are clouds there is rain; that is not necessary. I definitely can determine, with complete certainty, that if there are no clouds there is no rain. Now notice, let’s say that there being clouds is A, or there not being clouds is A, and there being no rain is B. Then I can say that if A then B, right? If there are no clouds, then there is no rain. What is the equivalent statement? If not-B then not-A. What is not-B? It is raining. No rain was B, so not-B is there is rain, right? If there is rain, then not-A, so there are clouds. If it is raining then obviously there were clouds. Do you understand the point? It is very confusing even though the ideas are really very simple, but it is very confusing because what happens here is that logic works in the opposite direction from physics. In physics, you look at clouds as the cause and rain as the result. In the logical condition, the antecedent of the condition is the rain and the consequent of the condition is the clouds. And the reason for this is that even on the physical plane it is not correct that the clouds are a cause of rain, but rather that if there are no clouds, that is the reason there won’t be rain. The fact that there are clouds still doesn’t mean there will be rain; even as a physicist I cannot establish that. I can establish that if there are no clouds then clearly there will be no rain. Meaning, the absence of clouds is a cause—a cause of there being no rain. Okay? And if I invert that, then I say, well, if rain fell then obviously there were clouds. Therefore this whole business is a little confusing when one thinks about it in general terms, but when you look at the situation it is very simple; it is clear that it is true. And why am I saying this? Let’s return for a moment to the proof for the existence of God. What am I actually trying to claim there? I’m basically claiming there that if I believe in the existence of valid morality, then I necessarily believe in the existence of God. If there is valid morality, then there is God. Now again notice: the logical direction—what parallels rain and clouds in physics—is from God to morality. God determined morality; morality did not determine God, right? God determined morality. Meaning, the logical direction, the philosophical direction, is from God to morality. But the logical implication goes in the opposite direction. Why? Because the existence of God does not require that there be morality. It depends on what He establishes. If He demands moral demands, then there will be morality; if He does not demand such things, then there won’t be morality. What can I say, though, on the logical-philosophical level? That if there is no God then clearly there is no morality. Then it cannot be that there is morality. If there is God, everything remains open; if there is no God, then clearly there is no morality. Now notice: if I adopt that as my philosophical requirement, then the logical inversion follows immediately. If there is no God, there is no morality; therefore if there is morality—I invert the antecedent—then there is God, right? If A implies B, then not-B implies not-A, okay? Therefore, although it sounds terribly strange, this is the correct logical direction. Not from God to morality, but from morality to God. Even though God of course is the one who established morality, the logical implication is: if there is morality, then there is God—not if there is God, then there is morality. And now why am I saying this? Because now think: suppose I come to an atheist and I try to prove to him—here I return to thought experiments—the existence of God. So how do I do that? This is what I did there in the third part of the fourth conversation. So I say: let me ask you a question. Forget God, forget everything, we’re not talking about God at all, because the moment you talk about God everyone lies. Forget it, we’re not talking about God. I want to have an abstract discussion, a purely philosophical abstract discussion. Do you believe in the existence of valid morality? Or do you think morality is just a whim? You’re built this way, so that’s how you behave, but you have no demand of people to behave morally, and you don’t judge people negatively if they don’t behave morally. I assume that very many atheists would answer that yes, they do believe in the existence of valid morality. Very many atheists are people who definitely, first of all, behave morally and also often fight for moral values. Okay, so let’s take such a person. Now I say to him: listen, if in your world there is no God, then there cannot be morality. If you say there is valid morality, that means that implicitly you are actually assuming that there is God, because without that there could not be valid morality. Now this can often surprise a person, because he lives quite peacefully with these two views: on the one hand he declares himself an atheist, and on the other hand he is certainly a moral crusader, meaning someone who fights for morality, believes in morality, and all sorts of things of that kind—and there are many, many such people. Okay? But when I look at it, I say: wait a second, this thing does not fit with that thing; these two things do not fit together. And then what I do is say to the person: look, if you think there is valid morality, notice that this does not fit with atheism. If there is valid morality, that means there is God. Now, did I convince him that there is God? Not necessarily. He now has two options. He can decide: okay, you’re right, but since I’m an atheist, then I was mistaken—there is no valid morality. No, I don’t think there is valid morality; truly, I was mistaken. Thank you for enlightening me. That’s one possibility he may raise.
[Speaker D] Rabbi? Yes. I didn’t really
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] understand
[Speaker D] like, what exactly is the connection between valid morality and God? I didn’t really understand.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] And I say that in a world—let’s leave God aside for a moment—in a completely materialist world, where everything is matter, then a human being too is only matter. Okay? Do you agree with me that in such a world there cannot be valid morality?
[Speaker B] And who said you need God in order for there to be something beyond matter?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I didn’t understand.
[Speaker B] Could there be another dimension without God?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] What? I can’t hear, sorry.
[Speaker B] Again?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Rabbi, rabbi. Yes. I don’t know, I’m saying how can he even, regardless of—
[Speaker D] regardless of morality—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] how does the atheist—
[Speaker D] how does he explain the existence of a human being, people’s aspirations, which aren’t all that connected to matter, a person’s desires?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Come on, let’s not get into the question of materialism and its difficulties and how they explain everything. I’m only giving an example of the logic of an argument. Leave aside for the moment how materialists explain various things. They explain whatever they explain.
[Speaker D] No, Rabbi, I’m saying that just as they explain all the other things, they’ll explain this too with the same kind of explanation, I don’t know, it’s a general problem.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] For this I know of no explanation whatsoever. For many things I know explanations; for this I know no explanation whatsoever. I know hand-waving, words—there are no explanations. None. What? In a materialist world, in a world that is all physics, the Big Bang and everything that came out of it—how, by virtue of what, are you now asking me not to steal or not to murder? What do you want from me? Because you’re built in a way that recoils from such acts? I’m built differently, that’s all. You can tell me, yes, but I’m also built in such a way that I’ll kill you if you do that, because that’s how I’m built. No problem. I just don’t call that valid morality. Valid morality means that you demand a certain behavior from me because that is the right behavior, okay? That’s the definition of valid morality for the purposes of this discussion. I’m doing this very briefly, so I don’t want to get into the issues themselves; I just want to demonstrate the logic.
So now I say to a person: fine, I understand. And now I say to him, look, at this point a person can really answer me in one of two ways. He can say: thank you for opening my eyes, you’re right, it doesn’t fit together. Since I’m an atheist, I give up my belief in valid morality. There is no valid morality; I was mistaken. You’re right. That’s one option. Second option: you know what? I’m so convinced that there is valid morality that apparently I was mistaken in my atheism; I retract it—there is a God. It won’t happen, I’m already telling you from experience. But those are the two logical possibilities that arise here, right? What does that actually mean? It means that when you make an argument of this type, an argument that goes from the conclusions to the premise, right—the conclusion is valid morality, and from that I go to the existence of God. That’s why I call it a theological argument. Not because it deals with God, but because it goes from the conclusion to the premises. It always looks like a fishy kind of argument. Why? Because the person says to me: look, you’re inventing God in order to produce valid morality for yourself. Who told you there is a God and that there is valid morality? Maybe you’re right—maybe there is no valid morality. You’re trying to produce God only so that he’ll ground the validity of morality for you. That’s not a reason to believe in the existence of God.
This is what’s called pragmatism. Pragmatism is forming conceptions of truth and falsehood on the basis of what is useful, on the basis of what I want—subordinating what is to what ought to be, or to what I desire. Okay? That’s basically pragmatism. Pragmatism, in my view, is a dirty word. In philosophy, I mean, not in life. Philosophical pragmatism is a dirty word; it’s simply nonsense. The fact that God guarantees morality doesn’t mean that God exists. So if you think there is no God, then there is no morality—fine, what can you do? Should I invent God just in order to create morality? That’s Marx’s accusation, after all. Marx basically says that religion is the opium of the masses, and he’s right. A great many people choose to believe in God because it makes their lives more comfortable. They have clearer certainty; right and wrong are clearer; they have a certain trust in the society around them, that people recognize there are norms and they more or less know how to behave. It’s more comfortable for them; these are the territorial waters they’re used to, their comfort zone. Okay, so they adopt belief in God.
And there are many such people, by the way. And those people are basically atheists in a mild form. They don’t really believe in God; they invented God because it gives them various bonuses. About them Marx rightly said that belief in God is the opium of the masses. And that’s true—he’s right. He’s just not right that it’s always like that. There are people who believe in God because they really came to the conclusion that he exists, not because it contributes to their lives—quiet, calm, comfort, and the like—but because they truly reached the conclusion that he exists. So those people who create God in order to give themselves a comfortable life really are taking opium. You smoke opium too in order to create experiences and a more comfortable life. It’s the same thing; it’s a wonderful analogy. Okay, but that applies only to those people who adopt belief for that reason. But if someone adopts belief because he really thinks the Holy One, blessed be He, exists, then it has nothing to do with opium—he really thinks it.
Okay, so right now I’m talking about the first group, the opium crowd. The opium crowd basically says: look, you’re actually creating God in order to create tranquility in your life, to create calm. There really is no God—that’s the accusation; it’s intellectual dishonesty. That is exactly the feeling people have toward the moral argument. Because what will the atheist actually say to me? The atheist will say: look, you suddenly arrived at the surprising conclusion that if one doesn’t believe in God then there is no valid morality, and now that’s frightening. It’s frightening to live in a world where there is no valid morality. So what do you do? You create God ex nihilo. Man created God—not “In the beginning God created man,” but “In the beginning man created God.” You create God so that the world will run in some reasonable, moral, more humane way. And therefore you don’t really believe in God; or in other words, the argument from morality cannot constitute proof of the existence of God. That’s what people often claim. They’ll say against me that it’s a pragmatist argument. Because basically you’re constructing what is true—“there is a God”—because of what is useful. You’re saying there is a God because it’s useful, not because it’s true. That’s what’s called philosophical pragmatism. You’re saying there is a God because it will bring you morality, it will bring you a world you’d rather live in. But that’s not intellectually honest. If there is no God, then there is no God. Solve your problem with morality, but if there is no God then there isn’t. You don’t go and create him out of nothing just to generate morality.
And therefore arguments of this kind always arouse unpleasant feelings of dishonesty. Okay? Like those people who try to bring you to repentance by saying: look at the Sabbath table and the candles burning and the family gathered around the table—come spend a Sabbath with us. Okay? These are the outreach people. What are they really trying to say to a person? Look, you’re living in an alienated world, a world where you feel lonely, you don’t have a family experience, let’s say—not that everyone is like that, of course—but let’s say they’re trying to appeal to secular people who feel that sensation, and they’re trying to tell them: look, with us there is a nicer, better family alternative; come to us. That’s opium for the masses. They’re basically telling you: look, you want a life that seems more meaningful to you, in which you’ll feel more warmth, more of a family feeling, so come believe in God, pray, put on tefillin, and join us. But he doesn’t really believe in God; he just wants a more comfortable life and a more meaningful life. That really is dishonesty. That’s opium for the masses.
Okay, but of course you can say—one could make a different claim. I might say: since these are lives with more meaning, I also think they are more correct. That’s a completely legitimate argument; we can discuss it, but it is a completely legitimate argument. And then a person can say: ah, if this creates a fuller life, then apparently there really is a God. That’s a valid philosophical argument. Again, you can argue about its premises, but it is a valid argument. I have no accusation against it; that argument is an intellectually honest one. But the argument that says “I’ll create God so that this will produce a life with more meaning for me”—that is pragmatism.
It’s like the idea of logotherapy, right, of Viktor Frankl. That psychological school basically says that in order to save a person from mental problems, he has to find meaning for himself. Meaning in his life, because often lack of meaning creates severe psychological problems. So in order to solve those psychological problems, find meaning for yourself. What does “find meaning for yourself” mean? Knit it, invent it out of nothing, fabricate meaning even though there isn’t any, and convince yourself that your life has meaning because that will save you psychologically. As a psychological technique maybe it works, I don’t know. But it’s obvious that such a person hasn’t really found meaning. He knitted himself some meaning in order to save himself. So again: opium for the masses. Here belief functions the way meaning functions there—it doesn’t matter, it’s the same logic. On the other hand, he could say: look, if this thing gives meaning to my life, then it is probably true. That turns the argument not into a pragmatist one but into a valid philosophical argument. And that’s fine; one is allowed to make such an assumption. Again, you can argue about it. But it’s a perfectly legitimate assumption. He says: if this thing gives meaning to my life, then apparently there is something to it, apparently it is something true. That’s perfectly fine; that’s not pragmatism.
These arguments look very similar on the surface. But the difference between them is enormous. The second argument is intellectually honest; the first one is not intellectually honest. The same thing applies with morality. What happens in morality? Basically, when I come to the atheist and say to him: listen, you believe in valid morality, don’t you? He says yes. I say to him: fine, but without God there is no valid morality. So basically, implicitly, you believe in the existence of God. So he thinks for a moment and says: wow, you know what, you’ve convinced me. Really, you can’t both be an atheist and believe in morality, therefore I abandon my belief in morality. Because I’m an atheist. Why? Because he says: what do you mean—what do you want from me, to declare that I believe in God just so that my morality survives? But I don’t really believe in him. That’s opium for the masses. I’m adopting belief in God so that it will save the validity of my morality. That’s opium for the masses; it’s not intellectually honest. And I’ll tell him: you’re absolutely right. Yes, you’re right. I’m claiming something completely different. Completely different. Very similar, but in essence entirely different—the opposite.
I want to argue not on the pragmatic plane—I create God so that valid morality will come into being here—but rather that since I believe in the existence of valid morality, I feel with every fiber of my being, very clearly, that there is valid morality, that someone who behaves immorally is not okay. So this actually reveals to me that implicitly, even if I wasn’t aware of it, I really do believe in God. Because without God there is no valid morality. It’s not that because I want there to be valid morality I create God, but rather because I believe that there really is valid morality. Do you understand the difference? Pragmatism means: you want there to be valid morality, so you produce God in order for him to ground valid morality for you. That is pragmatism. It’s not intellectually honest. But I’m making a very, very similar argument, yet this little nuance makes all the difference. I don’t want valid morality and therefore create God. Rather, I think there is valid morality. I experience it clearly, just as I think that what I see in front of me exists—what I experience as valid morality exists. That is to say, there is valid morality; I am certain of it, I believe it. Okay?
Now I ask myself: okay, if I believe this, then after all it doesn’t fit with atheism. And then I say: wow, right. So apparently I was mistaken. I’m not really an atheist. Implicitly, without being aware of it, I actually do believe in God. This is not a pragmatic argument. This is a valid argument. It is a philosophical argument. You can argue with it; you can tell a person: not true, there is no valid morality and there is no God. Fine. But if I start from the premise that there is valid morality—I really believe that, not that I want there to be valid morality, but that I believe there is, that moral rules have validity—if I truly believe that, then the required conclusion is that there is a God, because without God it could not have been so.
And then what happens is that this theological argument actually helps a person uncover assumptions that have been hidden within him all along. A person who is persuaded by such an argument is not someone who suddenly turns from an atheist into a believer. He is someone who was always a believer, only he was an unconscious believer. And now he becomes a conscious believer. Because if a person really is an atheist, then when I present this argument to him, what he has to do is simply give up morality and acknowledge that according to his view there is no valid morality. Okay?
Yes, Yossi already brings here in the name of Voltaire—there was some Roman who said this to his slave, there’s some story like that here, I don’t remember exactly how it goes. Something very similar, but this story already existed in Rome. In any case, the point is this: supposedly the indirect claim is the one that goes from the conclusion to the premise in a faulty way. Since I want that to be the conclusion, I create premises that will loop back and support the conclusion. I want morality to be valid; it is convenient for me that morality be valid; so I create God and don’t reveal it to my servants, so that it will come back and support the valid morality that I’m interested in—because otherwise society will collapse and it won’t be comfortable for me to live here, and so on. That’s not intellectually honest. Because basically I’m creating premises in order to reach conclusions, even though in truth I don’t believe those conclusions—but they’re convenient for me. Okay, so there’s no reason to take the premises seriously either, because I simply fabricated them so that they would support my incorrect conclusion.
But if I truly believe the conclusion—not that I want it to be true, but that I believe it is true—if I believe it is true, then the required conclusion is that there is a God, a necessary conclusion. Someone who believes in the existence of valid morality—I claim, for example, that if there are atheists who fight for morality and truly believe that morality is valid, those people are believers in disguise. Unconscious believers. Not that they’re lying; they themselves do not interpret themselves correctly. They are believing people—they just don’t know it, or aren’t aware of it.
So this whole story—and one can bring various other theological arguments—for example, moral realism. That’s a very similar argument, actually. Moral realism basically says this: in what sense are moral norms true? I demand that you not murder. In whose name? Because that’s how I feel? I feel that way because that’s how I’m built. You don’t feel that way because you’re built differently, so I won’t murder and you will murder. In whose name do I demand that you not murder, or not steal, or help another person, or whatever all the moral demands are? In other words: is the statement “it is forbidden to murder” a true statement? Or does it merely describe what I feel? I feel revulsion toward murder. Fine, that’s a psychological matter—so I’ll take a pill and overcome those unpleasant feelings. Or am I claiming that this is actually a true proposition? Meaning: it is forbidden to murder, and anyone who thinks it is permitted to murder is mistaken. There is right and wrong here; it’s not just a matter of reporting my feelings. There is right and wrong.
If we assume there is valid morality, that means the statement “it is forbidden to murder” is a true proposition. And whoever says it is permitted to murder is mistaken. Now I ask: in what sense—what does “true,” “mistaken,” or “correct” mean? When we examine factual statements—for example, “there is a bookcase here”—how do I test that statement? I look at reality and see whether there is a bookcase here. If there is, then the statement “there is a bookcase here” is true. If there isn’t, then the statement “there is a bookcase here” is false. Meaning, the way to test a claim—its truth or falsity—is by comparing it to some state of affairs in the world. I check the reality that the statement describes. If there is correspondence between them, then the statement is true; if there is no correspondence, then the statement is false.
Now if I say that the sentence “it is forbidden to murder” is a true sentence, then “true” means I have to compare it to something. What am I supposed to compare it to? To what I feel? What I feel is just feelings. In what sense is that true? You can say: I feel that it is forbidden to murder. Fine—and I feel love for so-and-so. Anyone can feel whatever he wants. When you say “it is forbidden to murder” and you believe it—valid morality—there has to be some objective criterion against which you compare it, and therefore from here you reach the conclusion that the statement “it is forbidden to murder” is true, and the statement “it is permitted to murder” is false. Because I compare it to something. What is that something? You could call that something the idea of morality, or the idea of the good. Okay? This is what in philosophy is called moral realism. Moral realism means an approach that believes in the real existence of moral principles, that moral norms are some kind of objects that one can in some sense observe and see whether things are this way or that.
Now to a large extent—maybe, maybe one can argue with this a bit—but to a large extent I think it’s impossible to claim otherwise. That is to say, someone who is not a moral realist cannot accept the existence of valid morality. Meaning that moral realism is a required conclusion from the belief that morality is valid. “Morality is valid” means that everyone is obligated by the rule that it is forbidden to murder. “It is forbidden to murder” is a proposition. A truth claim. And whoever thinks otherwise is mistaken. That is what it means to say there is valid morality. So that basically means there is probably some criterion, some standard, against which you compare the statement in order to determine whether it is true or false. And here we have reached moral realism. It is very similar to arriving at God, yes, very similar.
But this is a common position even among atheists. There are atheists—I know atheists—who are moral realists. People who believe in valid morality but do not believe in God. But morality is valid—why? Because there is the idea of the good, and you check every act you do against it, and according to that you determine whether it is good or not good. But of course one can ask: what is this thing? This real thing—it is not a material object. So you can’t be a materialist. It may be that you don’t believe in God, but you cannot be a materialist. You believe in the existence of non-material entities. If you believe in the existence of such entities, I no longer see any reason not to believe in the existence of God. That’s just a side remark. In any case, if you are a materialist—if in any case you are no longer a materialist, then it’s already not such a big deal. In any event, this is…
[Speaker B] It’s possible for there to be morality, so it’s possible for there to be valid morality without there having to be a God.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I’m saying: if that’s what you think, maybe that is what you think. I don’t think so, but in any case—
[Speaker B] I don’t want to get into it… so it’s not necessary.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Before, you said it was…
[Speaker B] You think that it is necessary.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Yes, I think it is necessary. I think that without God there is no valid morality.
[Speaker C] Why can’t one say that society accepted it upon itself?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] “Society accepted it upon itself” is not valid morality. Society accepted it upon itself—and I couldn’t care less. Do you have any claim against me? The fact that society accepted it upon itself is a fact.
[Speaker C] Yes—why not? In many places there are laws of the state that were accepted. Paying income tax—everyone has to pay. What is that? Too bad you don’t want to pay, but you’ll pay. No, no, you didn’t understand.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] You demand that I pay—by what authority?
[Speaker C] By force of law, by force of social agreement, everyone agreed.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I’m not party to that agreement. I don’t want to pay. What do you mean, social agreement? I don’t want to pay. Who said social agreements must be respected? That too is a moral rule, no?
[Speaker B] And as you explained, there can be, for example, a democratic idea, which exists in some place—that idea. That doesn’t require there to be a God who created that idea.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I think it does, but again, this is a topic I don’t want to get into because it’s not our topic. I’m only trying to demonstrate the logic of the argument. Ideas in themselves cannot obligate anything. There has to be behind them some factor with consciousness, let’s call it that, or something that obligates, that commands, that gives things validity. The fact that something exists—fine, it exists. So what? Why does that obligate me in any way? Existing things are neutral—the naturalistic fallacy. But no, let’s not get into that because that’s a different debate. One can conduct it, but it’s a different debate. I just want to show, to demonstrate, this form of argument.
And once again, someone can come and say: you know what? I’m a materialist. I don’t believe in the existence of moral ideas. You’re right—if so, then I have to give up my confidence in the validity of moral rules. Correct, exactly as I said regarding God. Exactly the same move. And very often people will indeed come and say: you’re inventing moral ideas for yourself so that you can treat morality as valid morality. Again, opium for the masses, or pragmatism. And if that really is what you’re doing, then the accusation is correct. But I’m saying that one can do almost the same thing, with only a nuance of difference, and then it will no longer be intellectually dishonest.
If you say: I truly believe in the existence of valid morality, I experience it, it is clear to me that there is valid morality—if so, then there is no escape: I must assume that there exists an idea of the good, an idea of morality. Because without that it cannot be that there is valid morality. That conclusion is no longer a pragmatic or pragmatist conclusion. It is a fully valid philosophical argument. Again, one can argue—I keep saying, don’t get into the debates right now—but the argument is a fully valid philosophical argument. There is no fallacy here. It’s not faulty. You may disagree, but there is no fallacy here. Okay?
So the line is very thin. Now, why am I bringing all this up? I’m bringing all this up because theological arguments are very similar to what I called at the beginning a thought experiment. Because in a thought experiment too—say I’m talking about, remember Buridan’s donkey… or Buridan’s man? Now pay attention: it’s exactly the same situation. I come to persuade a person who is a materialist, and I want to persuade him to convert, so to speak, to libertarianism, to someone who believes in the existence of free will. How do I do that? I tell him: look, think hypothetically about a person standing between two feeding troughs. Okay? What do you think would happen to such a person? Would he die of hunger or not? If he tells me he would not die of hunger—you see the analogy… then you have to give up your materialism. So what will people say about him? They’ll say that he’s basically adopting dualism or giving up his materialism only in order to affirm some intuition he has that in such a situation the person would not die of hunger. So that’s opium for the masses; it’s not intellectually honest. No, that’s not true. If he really believes that in that situation the person will not die of hunger, then it’s not that he wants the person not to die of hunger; rather, that’s his assessment of what would happen. He thinks that in such a situation the person would not die of hunger. If so, go backward from that conclusion to the premises—a theological argument—and see that you are in fact not a physicalist or not a materialist. Because if you were a materialist, the required conclusion would be that such a person would die of hunger.
And therefore this is exactly the same structure as what I earlier called theological arguments. A thought experiment is what scientists do that parallels the theological argument philosophers use. It’s the same thing. And in both of these things, what is actually being demonstrated is a certain kind of conceptual analysis. Because I am really doing conceptual analysis. What am I saying here? I’m saying that the concept of valid morality involves there being some legislator here who gives it validity. Without that, it isn’t valid morality. That is conceptual analysis. So I say: good, if there is valid morality, that means there is a God. Without any observation I arrived at a conclusion or claim about the world just from conceptual analysis. Okay? Of course, conceptual analysis plus the assumption that there is valid morality. You can say: fine, then there is no valid morality and no God. But if you assume there is valid morality, then conceptual analysis can also bring you to belief in God, or to belief in the existence of real moral ideas. All right? Next. Or to belief in the existence of free will in a human being—that determinism is not true. All these things are basically the result of conceptual analysis.
When you do a thought experiment, you are basically doing conceptual analysis. After all, what Einstein did in his thought experiment was conceptual analysis of the concepts of space and time, and he demonstrated it through a thought experiment. And therefore both the thought experiment and the theological argument are simply different forms of conceptual analysis. And of course there are people who should mute because there is background noise.
[Speaker B] Okay, so—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Maybe I’ll mute everyone. Okay. And in both of these contexts, of course, one can object and say: no, not true, what do you want from me? Right, that person would die of hunger. By the way, one of the readers of my book The Science of Freedom, where these thought experiments appear at the end, among them Buridan’s man—one of the readers of the book told me: I don’t understand this argument. What kind of argument is this? Right, the person would die of hunger, and that’s all. Usually—I mean, it’s an experiment you can’t actually perform, because you can never preserve full symmetry between the two feeding troughs, and the person himself doesn’t have full right-left symmetry. He isn’t a point-person. But hypothetically, if you managed to create a point-person between two troughs at exactly equal distance, with the same food in both, complete symmetry—right, the person would die of hunger. What kind of argument is it that the person would not die of hunger and therefore materialism is not true? Materialism is true, and that person would die of hunger. He doesn’t understand; he says to me, you’re begging the question—what kind of argument is that?
So I explained to him exactly this logic. I told him: you’re right. Obviously, if you are a materialist and convinced of materialism, then the conclusion you need to reach is that the person would die of hunger. I’m only asking you whether that is really what you think. Don’t you think that in such a situation the person would not die of hunger? And if so, it is worth reexamining your materialist worldview. Maybe you’ll discover that you are not really as much of a materialist as you thought until now. In fact you are a dualist in disguise, or an unconscious dualist. Okay?
Therefore these arguments always arouse a certain uncomfortable feeling, as though they are not straightforward, or like a kind of opium for the masses—you build an argument in order to reach a conclusion that you marked out in advance. You desire, you seek the essence of that conclusion, so you build an argument that leads to it. I create God so that he’ll ground morality for me. You can’t create God so that he’ll ground morality for you. If there is a God, then there is, and if not, then not. True. But if I think morality is valid, and God is required because without him there is no valid morality, then I am not creating God; rather, I am reaching the conclusion that there is a God. That is a logical conclusion. Just as from A I can derive B, from not-B I can derive not-A. One can go from A to B and one can go from B to A, from the conclusion to the premise. But if one is careful to do the logical inversion correctly, there is no problem with such arguments. On the contrary, in my opinion most philosophical arguments are like this.
Okay, with that I’m concluding this point about thought experiments and theological arguments. Actually, I thought of moving now to a conceptual analysis of an example involving concepts. I’ll start it now, even though I won’t finish it because it’s too long, but I’ll begin. I have a few more minutes. I want to talk about the concepts of quality and quantity. To define the concepts, to do a conceptual analysis of these concepts—quality and quantity. I’ll start perhaps with a halakhic / of Jewish law example. In several places in the Talmud / Talmudic text, and also among halakhic decisors, you can find a dispute about what happens when there is a disagreement in a religious court among the judges. Two judges want to rule X, and one judge objects and rules not-X. Usually the rule is that we follow the majority, so the two determine the outcome, they vote and the majority decides. What happens if the one judge is much wiser than the other two judges? A far greater Torah scholar. Do we still follow the two against the one? Or in more vivid language, as I once heard someone put it and I already spoke about it here in the past: do we count heads or do we count legs? What is this majority we’re talking about?
[Speaker C] That’s Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Yes, so I spoke about that in the context of Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai.
[Speaker B] But how is it possible—may I ask? I’ve heard the Rabbi talk about this several times. How can you really determine absolutely that one group is wiser? First of all—no, first of all you didn’t determine that.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] It could be that it’s a hypothetical question and in fact one can never determine it.
[Speaker B] So if it can’t be determined, then how can one decide that this is the determining factor at all?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I can discuss a hypothetical situation in which it could be determined. The question still remains. Also—“even a flying camel.” The Talmud speaks even about a flying camel. So I want to talk about a hypothetical case that cannot actually occur. I’m still asking what one ought to do in such a case. Secondly, it can happen, because very often if you ask people, they will definitely tell you that so-and-so is a greater Torah scholar than I am, right? Now if the three judges sitting on a panel all agree—say Reuven, Shimon, and Levi—all agree that Reuven is a much greater Torah scholar than Shimon and Levi, and Shimon and Levi also agree. And now a disagreement arises among them: Shimon and Levi against Reuven. So that is a case in which it can indeed be determined. The judges themselves all admit that Reuven is the greatest scholar. There is no principled problem here at all.
[Speaker B] He’s generally wiser, but on this particular point…
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] The Talmud itself speaks about a Torah scholar—what does “in general” mean?
[Speaker B] So he is a Torah scholar who is greater than they are in wisdom, but here he doesn’t see the truth the way they see it.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] You’re the fools here, but he is the greater Torah scholar. So now the question is what to do.
[Speaker B] But the heavenly voice that came forth and said, “These and these are the words of the living God, and the Jewish law follows Beit Hillel”—they always decide according to the legs, as you—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] No, no, no—that’s not what the heavenly voice said. That’s not what the heavenly voice said.
[Speaker B] Regarding that dispute, from what I understood.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] No, that’s not what it said. The dilemma was what to do, because here there was a conflict between legs and heads. The heavenly voice did not decide the dispute by saying that we follow the legs. It claimed that Beit Hillel were more correct. Therefore, even though they were the majority in legs, in the end they were also the majority in heads. Look at the reasoning the Talmud brings, and then you’ll see that that is indeed the reasoning it brings. The Talmud does not resolve this question, and the proof is that among medieval authorities (Rishonim) and later authorities (Acharonim) this question still remains open. If the Talmud had resolved it, then what are we talking about? Medieval authorities (Rishonim) and later authorities (Acharonim) disagree about it even in Jewish law—what to do in such a situation. It is not a settled question. Fine, it’s interesting in itself.
[Speaker C] But didn’t you say that “these and these are the words of the living God”—both this and that?
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] The words of God—
[Speaker C] living means that both are the words of God.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Don’t box me into those corners. I’m using these examples—don’t pull me into the topic itself.
[Speaker C] I gave—
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I gave a series of lectures, or several series of lectures, on it in the past; you can look them up, it’s also in writing. I’m only using it here to demonstrate something. So I’m saying: assuming there is a conflict between a wiser minority and a less wise majority, whom do we follow? This too is a dispute among halakhic decisors. Seemingly, this dispute is really a dispute over the question of “follow the majority,” as the Torah says: “follow the majority.” The majority decides. But the question is: majority of what? Majority of wisdom or majority of people? Yes—majority of heads or majority of legs.
So in fact, someone who says that we follow the wise minority is not going against the Torah. The Torah says to follow the majority. Rather, he claims that following the majority here means not the majority of people but the majority of wisdom. As some halakhic decisors say, even if there were as many ignoramuses as those who left Egypt against one person who is an outstanding Torah scholar—what do I care that they are six hundred thousand people? Six hundred thousand ignoramuses are not worth one Torah scholar. You can already understand what I think about the wisdom of the masses. So the claim is that the determining majority here is not the majority of people but the majority of wisdom. That is the relevant majority.
And then basically the claim is that there are two interpretations of the Torah’s rule “follow the majority.” Nobody disputes that that is what the Torah says—we must follow the majority. The dispute is over which majority. What does the Torah mean? The majority of people or the majority of wisdom? Now in the usual formulation, people phrase it as though the dispute is really over whether we follow the majority of quantity or the majority of quality. Yes, do we want the qualitative majority or the quantitative majority? Legs or heads—the heads or the legs? But when we look at it a second time, why exactly is wisdom quality and the number of people quantity? Why can’t I say we follow the quantitative majority of wisdom? We measure the quantity of wisdom and not the quantity of people. Why do we relate to wisdom as quality and to the number of people as quantity?
[Speaker C] This can be counted absolutely, and that can’t.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I didn’t understand.
[Speaker C] I’m saying that with quantity there can almost be no disagreement; it’s absolute, you count and you know. With quality, not everyone knows how to assess quality—how much quality there is and who has the quality.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] I can describe to you a situation in which it would be hard to count and you would still agree with me that it’s quantity. If I ask you how many birds there are in the world, nobody can count them, and still it is a quantitative question. The practical possibility of counting is not important. But there is agreement about how one counts quantity.
[Speaker C] With quality I don’t know whether there is agreement about how one counts quality, how one quantifies it.
[Rabbi Michael Abraham] Let’s do an IQ test, okay? An agreed-upon IQ test. We’ll give all the judges the test and measure them on an IQ scale, how much IQ they have. There—you have a quantitative measure that will arrange them. So the question returns: then why is wisdom really perceived by us as a qualitative measure and the number of people as a quantitative measure? One could say that these are simply two quantities—the quantity of wisdom or the quantity of people. True, one is more abstract—so what if it is more abstract? That is only a technical question of how to measure and how far to measure. But let’s say we can measure it, as with IQ tests, all right? Then we will measure it and arrive at our conclusion.
And then it turns out that the claim is—how will you determine which here is quantity and which is quality? Is wisdom the quantity and people the quality, or is wisdom the quality and people the quantity? But in fact this is not only a question of how to apply the distinction between quality and quantity. The question is what quality versus quantity means at all—not how to apply it; the concepts themselves are unclear. Anything you describe to me as a quality, I can immediately define for you as a quantity—a quantity of an abstract thing is quality. So is the difference between quality and quantity that quality is always abstract and quantity is concrete? I don’t think so. When I talk about the number of ideas in a book, that is a quantity of abstract things, not objects that I count, and still it seems to me that the number of ideas is a quantitative question, not a qualitative one, even though it is an abstract thing. Or if I ask how much time has passed—time is an abstract thing, and still the question how much time has passed is a question dealing with quantity, not quality.
Therefore I don’t think it is correct to define the difference between quantity and quality as the difference between the tangible and the abstract. And then the question is: so what is it? How do we nevertheless understand this difference between quantity and quality? All right, so I’ve presented the question. You have food for thought until our meeting next week. Does anyone want—does anyone want to comment, ask, that’s possible. That’s it? Okay. So thank you very much. Goodbye, and Sabbath peace. Sabbath peace. All the best.