Philosophy/Science Contrasts

I've written several blogs on the contrasts between science and philosophy. Having been educated in science and having pursued a career in it, I find it to be more understandable than philosophy. My logical scientific mind has often struggled to comprehend the imprecise nature of philosophical reasoning and debate.

Long after retirement, I have drifted away from science's demands for exactness and increasingly into philosophy's realm of fuzziness. I have come to appreciate philosophy and its search for knowledge. I have come to understand that science and philosophy really have very similar goals—as seen by their similar etymological roots. The word science stems from the Latin word scientia, which means “to know.” The word philosophy stems from the Greek word philosophia, which means “love of wisdom.” So they both are about knowledge, learning, logic, understanding, and truth.

I believe that there are, however, several distinct differences between science and philosophy—differences that sometimes can be very significant, especially in the manner in which adherents of each discipline pursue knowledge; in fact, differences that even can create antagonisms between them. A few of these disparities have spoken to me in recent years, as I've come to be more comfortable with the philosophical approach to gaining insight and wisdom. Here are five differences—not a complete list by any means, but the salient ones that I've encountered.

First, while science is precise, philosophy tends to be indistinct and often inexact. While science is quantitative, philosophy is qualitative. Scientists want repeatability and they use procedures that many others can follow, importantly to obtain the same results. A scientific theory does not become widely accepted until many different scientists follow comparable paths and come to the same conclusions. Philosophers, however, often take very different paths, come to different conclusions, and vehemently disagree with each other. They love to engage in seemingly endless disputes.

Second, science deals with “what is,” while philosophy often considers “what ought to be.” Morality often is a central part of philosophy, while science is amoral—though not at all immoral. Science studies Nature, which just is. So being right or wrong in a moral sense is irrelevant.

Third, science is structured such that, step by step, researchers relentlessly close in on a definitive answer. It often is a cooperative effort, as scientific teams work in concert to merge to a solution. Although philosophers also seek solutions, they often work individually and think in very different ways from each other, so they will sometimes come to a conclusion that is viewed as essentially false by fellow philosophers. Hence, the source of endless debates.

Fourth, while science addresses the whole cosmos—thus we have countless scientific disciplines—philosophy is focused on the human mind. To science the human mind is but the tiniest sliver of its domain. This is a primary reason why philosophy tends to be so subjective: it's the human mind studying the human mind. It's bound to be a bit parochial, opinionated, and even prejudiced.

Fifth, while science relentlessly progresses over time—gradually seeking answers and building its knowledge base—philosophy seems to be wrestling with the same questions today that it faced two to three millennia ago. Has philosophy not progressed as much? Do the questions posed by philosophers have no definitive answers? Are the questions so complex and vague that conclusive answers may never come? Are philosophers asking unanswerable questions?

There's a little truth in all these questions, but I suspect there's another possibility why philosophers continue to ponder many of the same questions, century after century. I think that a major factor of philosophy's apparent sluggishness is due to that unique quality it has: its attention to morality. Philosophers—like prophets—often offer messages to the masses that the people do not want to hear. Uncomfortable truths—like scientists’ global-warming message—can be clearly laid out, but people (especially political leaders) often refuse to listen. Thus, while humanity could progress and change for the better, the cost is often regarded as too high to pay. We'd rather bask in our existing laziness, than put hard work into positive and necessary change. 

A philosopher once said that philosophy is “the right way to think about things.” In that statement right there we can see a big contrast between science and philosophy: science doesn't give a hoot if our thinking is the right way or not—its truths are independent of the human mind's rightness of thinking.

Deer Directions

     Nearly four decades ago we migrated from a city life, to take up an existence in a rural setting. We acquired a parcel of land that was forested and cut a few trees, in order to make a clearing, where we built a home and planted various kinds of vegetation—a vegetable garden, some fruit trees, shrubs, and flowers.

    Most of these tasty and attractive plants were not indigenous to our new rural environs. In contrast, nature offers little in the way of edible food for humans, or showy blossoms. In our naïveté we chose plantings that we had liked in the city, without realizing that we'd be offering critters in the woods various new and delightful repasts. Numerous insects, rodents, and mammals were happy to see us move in and plant so many goodies for them. They had been subsisting on Nature's bland diet and were delighted to sample and savor our delectables.

What ensued was a few decades of either learning how to fend off the interlopers or realizing that several choices we had made were simply not going to survive their onslaughts. One crucial sanctuary we insisted on, however, was the vegetable garden. Its produce was critical to our way of life, so we built a sturdy, high fence around the vegetable garden, to ward off the larger critters (deer, foxes, opossums, rabbits) and learned how to allow some insects to partake of a modest portion of the veggies, but drew the line on the amount that they took. Since we chose not to use insecticides, this meant we had to find ways to discourage them by using companion plantings and frequent rotation of garden plants. My wife became adept at figuring out when a pest was just beginning its assault, and then hand picking and squishing the early invaders. Like the early bird, she nabbed the worms before they multiplied.

Plants outside the protection of  the garden fence were quite another issue. We could not fence the whole area, so we battled the invaders by attempting to select flowers, shrubs, and trees that we thought did not appeal to their appetite. By far the greatest problem invader has been deer. Once they discover your tasty plants, you have acquired them as permanent raiders. You may put out alarms or spray your plants with deer repellent, but these tenacious, hoofed plant grazers will sooner or later foil all your defenses and dine on your delectables. They drive our choices. 

I recently paused to gaze around our clearing—which is fabulously beautiful in the spring—and it occurred to me that most all of the plants I gazed upon have been selected over the years to be unappealing to deer tastes. They are not the choices of flowers, shrubs, and trees I began with—those are all gone. No, the choices of plants in today’s clearing have been literally directed by the deer. In fact, they seem to have been more in charge of landscaping selections than I. They've patiently guided me.

Contemplating Critters

     I recently took an online course in animal behavior from a Dutch university. As part of the lessons, we were asked to develop our observing skills by spending at least 10 minutes watching an animal. We were encouraged to take notes and to be as detailed as possible. I pondered how I might take on this assignment, given that many of my local animals would be very unlikely to stay in one spot for that long. I also felt that if I got too close to a critter, my presence would alter its behavior, and thus my observations may not be representative of it or its species.

        I love to watch birds at the feeder—which gets lots of avian traffic, but rather than stick around, each bird flits in, grabs a seed, and flies off. There's no chance of watching it for more than a few seconds. I could possibly watch a specific bird over several minutes, as it repeatedly returns to the feeder, but I can't tell one individual bird from another, so I might be seeing several different individuals.

So that brings up a question: If I were able to watch one critter for 10 minutes and wrote down my observations, how indicative of the species' behavior would that individual be? Maybe instead I could learn something about bird behavior by watching many different species of birds come to the feeder. That's one of my favorite activities anyway.  So maybe I could learn as much about animal behavior by contemplating groups of them, rather than just one.

Well, I've done this for several years now and have noted the varying behaviors of a number of different species. For instance, chickadees and titmice fly in, grab a seed, and fly to a perch, where they lodge the seed between their feet, and then bang away, breaking through the shell for the meat inside. A dove will sit at the feeder, downing one whole seed after another. A finch will pick up a seed and crack it with its powerful bill, and pick out the meat with its deft tongue. A Carolina wren will squat in the middle of the feeder, fastidiously poke at one seed or another, tossing away all but the fattest ones.

These observations have shown me over years how one species of bird behavior at the feeder differs from another species. But even within one species I see differences. For example, that goldfinch there was behaving much more aggressively than the others. That cardinal seems uncertain and slower than the others. That chickadee was far more meek than the others. That titmouse just challenged and chased off a wren, when most of the other titmice wouldn't have dared.

So what do I think about these individual differences I see? Which behaviors are species-specific and which are just the peculiar behavior of that individual bird? Like most of my observations of nature, I soon see a far more complex picture than at first. I guess I've no alternative but to put in a few more years of observation time.

Dreading Death

        Humans have been fascinated with and fearful of death for most of our existence. We are likely the only creature to be aware of the fact that the day will come when each of us dies, and so our inquiring mind ponders that fact and creates beliefs and stories of what might follow death. We are caught up in the effort to stay alive (as all animals are) and have a natural instinct to ward off our death. Throughout history people have dreamed of immortality as a way of cheating death. Our dread of dying has compelled humans to conjure up various stories of the afterlife. We don't want to believe that our existence simply ends, so we fashion beliefs of the hereafter.

        Eastern cultures have often dealt with the problem by conceiving of reincarnation, by which our soul inhabits a new body after death; thus, we do not face absolute termination. Western cultures, in contrast, have leaned towards some kind of afterlife, where our soul resides everlastingly. These different beliefs are often tied closely with religious teachings, in which some form of deity is in charge of our destiny.

The ancient Greeks were convinced that their lives—and deaths—were controlled by a pantheon of gods, who were very interested in humans. The gods played a major role in the fortunes and misfortunes of the Greeks—either favoring an individual or group, or choosing to harass them. Much of their lives were consumed by fretting over being punished by a god or rejoicing when being rewarded. Since the gods were capricious, it kept the Greeks off balance—never quite sure whether they'd be curse or blessed. The gods were also competitive with and jealous of each other, so you had to be careful not to piss off one god, as you curried favor with another.

This fear of the gods led the ancient Greeks to view the afterlife as a grim place—a place where one may be condemned to spend eternity in torment and suffering. There was a way to eventually inhabit a heaven-like existence, but most souls never got there, as the underworld gods seemed bent on abusing them. Thus, the lives of the Greeks were tainted by their dread of death.

One school of Greek philosophy, headed by Epicurus, took a very different stance on death. Epicurus maintained that it was foolish to experience so much anxiety and mental pain that arise from the fear of death and of the gods. He asserted that the gods were really not interested in the petty details of humans’ lives. He was, in fact, skeptical about even the existence of the gods. Regardless of whether the gods were real or not, he counseled that our life is largely under the control of each of us, and not the fickle whims of the immortals.

Thus, Epicurus maintained, if the gods do not interfere in our lives, they also would play no role in any kind of afterlife. Again, they have their own interests. Again, regardless of whether they exist or not, our life is our own responsibility... ours to make the most of, or waste. In other words, don’t blame your misfortunes on the gods. You are in control.

Furthermore, the fear of death robs us of the chance to make the most of our lives. The fear (or adulation) of the gods keeps us from fully maturing and taking charge of our lives. We are not puppets, but agents of our own destiny.

Epicurus did not come down firmly on the side of saying either the gods exist or do not, so he was not a card-carrying atheist. Rather, he said that it really didn't matter. If one lived a moral and frugal life, it would be one full of meaning and fulfillment. He also was ambivalent about the afterlife; again saying it doesn't really matter, since if you live the moral life, what happens after death—if anything—will be fine.

I find it fascinating that the human fear of death has led us to formulate stories about the afterlife—but these stories are overwhelmingly about hell, rather than heaven. The ancient Greeks constructed elaborate tales of what condemnation of the soul was like, after death. Dante's The Divine Comedy is a lengthy description of the soul's journey through hell. Why do we not have as thorough a description of what heaven is like? Is it because we are obsessed with death and dread finding our soul being subjected to everlasting torment? Fear seems to guide our lives far more than hopefulness.

Socratic Midwifery

 One of the ancient Greek philosophers that I have learned a lot from is Socrates. I know that my leanings toward him are due to some extent to the fact that I identify with his lifestyle: living simply and listening, rather than lecturing. He was very critical of the Sophists, who he regarded as pompous orators, because they used rhetorical methods to persuade their listeners to their way of thinking. Socrates was adamant that he was not wise and was not interested in impressing anyone with his erudition. Instead, his skill was to question his interlocutors—using Socratic dialog—to draw from them their innate insights. He helped them to realize truths that they then owned, rather than force upon them his knowledge.

In a dialog with a young man named Theaetetus, Socrates one day explained why he used this form of dialog. Theaetetus was complaining about how difficult it was to learn this way. It made his head hurt. Socrates replied that this was an appropriate sensation, because his student was feeling the pangs of labor, as something within his head was trying to be born.

He told his student that he is like a midwife. His dialog may indeed be driving his interlocutors to their wits' end, because he is helping them birth understanding. While midwives attend to the bodies of their patients, he is attending to their souls. Just as the most accomplished midwives were once mothers themselves, because their own experiences of giving birth helped them to empathize with a mother in labor, Socrates, as an old man, had the experience to understand the struggles of his students.

He explained that his goal was to assure them that what comes from the minds of the youths he dialogs with is true and not false notions. In fact, Socrates claimed that the gods compelled him to birth ideas, rather than teach. No, he did not deem himself wise—just one who births wisdom from others. Thus, the gods allowed his students to astound themselves, through Socrates' birthing dialogs; they did not learn from Socrates, but from themselves.

So the Socratic midwifery process is intended to be painful—just as childbirth comes with pain. He might well have been the first teacher to tell his students, “No pain, no gain.” (I doubt that rhymes as well in ancient Greek.)

Clearwing moth on rhododendron blossom

 Click to enlarge

Judging Generosity

Generosity is a quality that most everyone would agree is a noble practice, but agreement quickly gets derailed when we discuss things like (1) What motivates one to be generous? (2) Of the various ways that one could be benevolent in a specific situation, which demonstrates the real spirit of generosity? (3) Should there be a cost to generosity; should it require some kind of self-sacrifice? (4) What is an appropriate aftermath of giving—for both the giver and the receiver? (5) Can we measure generosity? (6) Is it innate or learned?

I recently took an online course on generosity from the University of Pennsylvania, wherein these and many more questions were raised and examined by professors who have taught the subject for many years. I will attempt to offer a few of their insights on the topic.

First, let's consider the definition of generosity, so we can begin looking at the issue from the same perspective. My dictionary defines it as “the act of giving more of something such as money or time than is strictly necessary or expected.” Some definitions go on to insist that the receiver of the generous act must actually benefit from it. I believe this last point is a crucial addition, because it requires that the giver put some effort into ensuring that their act is really needed and will improve the lot of the receiver—not just make them feel self-righteous. 

We often respond to a solicitation for a donation from organizations that seek funds in ways that are often adept at pulling on our heart strings; making it easy to give, without much of any assurance that our donations will actually provide what is needed. For example, jillions of tee shirts are often donated to groups in Africa, when people there have other crucial needs and already have too many tee shirts.

So, what constitutes a generous act? The above dictionary definition suggests generosity as the giving of time or money. However, are there not other forms of generosity? Can giving one's attention be an act of generosity? Can a simple smile be an example of generosity?

Another important factor is one's intention or motivation, when acting generously. Why does one's motivation matter? If your sincere intention was to do good, does it matter if its impact fell short of helping the receiver? And to whom does it matter... the giver or the receiver? When we give, how much of our motivation is due to our wanting to feel better about ourself? We often get a “warm glow” from being generous. How important is that to us? Does the size of my gift (whether measured in money or time) matter, or is the spirit of giving (or the sacrifice to me) the key? The Bible reports that Jesus valued a penny's donation from a poor widow far more than large donations from rich people.

And then there's the manner in which one gives. Do I expect or want something in return... if even only some form of appreciation or a thank you? Do I want others to know that I am giving? Do I wish my name to be listed as a donor someplace, or to get a free tote bag for my donation? Do I expect or want a tax incentive for my donations? Do I require an appeal to prompt me to donate, or am I self-motivated to do so? Should I try to control the use of my gift—such as give food to a homeless person, rather than money?

One of the interesting findings of the researchers who presented this course was that religious people give significantly more time and money than nonreligious people. Moreover, religious people who also regularly attend services are the most generous. It was suggested that there are several reasons why this is so: (1) generosity is a core tenet of all religions, (2) one is often encouraged by religious leaders to give, (3) one's religious peers also encourage, as well as model generosity, and (4) the belief that what we have in this world is given to us by God and is not ours, so be generous with it.

The last point above can be expanded upon, as the thought that, if we are among the more fortunate people, don’t we have a duty to use our skills and advantages to help others less fortunate? The point is that we don't really own our talents and strengths; they are not entirely of our making—they are a gift to us. Instead, we are shepherding them, and we are obliged to pass the gift on.

I find it interesting that a significant factor in religious people's generosity is the frequent reminders they get from their peers and leaders. I wonder if this is why I get so many repeated pleas in the mail for donations—indicating that those organizations know that if they are persistent in their requests (or offer a cute tote bag or tax deduction), they are more likely to get a response? To what degree do we need the push, or can we be self-motivated? Again, is generosity innate or learned?