Science, culture, complexity

Tag: humanism

  • The ‘religious’ function of science

    We often understand science primarily in terms of its tangible successes, looking to it for advances in medicine, for the foundations of technologies, and for the tools with which to predict and manage our environment. This perspective views science as a potent problem-solving enterprise.

    In his chapter in a new book titled ‘Science and Humanism: Knowledge, Values, and the Common Good’, Southern Illinois University professor of philosophy Matthew Brown acknowledges the importance of this view, which he collects under the umbrella of what he calls science’s “pragmatic function” — but then also argues that this is incomplete. According to him, to fully appreciate the value and scope of the scientific endeavour, we must recognise that science serves a second, equally significant purpose: what he calls its “religious function”.

    This is obviously provocatively labelled but I’m sure you can also see why it’s not just that, that it’s a legitimately attractive idea to engage with. It’s certainly one I’ve been enamoured with for many years. The “pragmatic function” of science is the source of its authority and prestige. It’s an empirical reality that the scientific approach, with its emphasis on evidence, testing, and refinement, has given humans unprecedented power over the world to achieve their own goals. Brown also writes that an “extreme pragmatist” might argue that this is the sole function of science. In this perspective, any scientific activity that doesn’t directly contribute to our ability to predict and control is seen as superfluous. But according to Brown, this view fails to account for highly valued areas of scientific inquiry, including cosmology and evolutionary biology, whose immediate practical applications are either not obvious or may never materialise.

    The “religious function” of science is set up to account for these other aspects. Brown goes on that he’s using the label in a specific, non-pejorative sense, that he isn’t arguing that science is a religion with dogma or deities but that it has assumed a role traditionally filled by religion, mythology, and philosophy — which is to provide humankind with a comprehensive story about the universe and our place within it.

    According to him, the pragmatic function gives us tools to live while the religious function gives us the context within which to live. In his telling, it’s the pursuit of this function that drives scientists to ask “big picture” questions like “what is the origin of the universe?”, “how did life on earth originate?”, “what are the fundamental laws of nature?”, and so on. The answers to these questions may not help us build a better smartphone but they contribute to a grand and naturalistic narrative — one that can inspire feelings of wonder and a sense of connection to the cosmos, fulfilling an existential and aesthetic purpose that’s profoundly valuable to the human experience.

    The vehicle for this “religious function” is, per Brown, a construct called the “scientific worldview”, which he explains is more just a list of scientific facts: it’s a creative and philosophical synthesis that weaves together findings from disparate fields into a single, compelling story. I suppose Jayant Narlikar, Yash Pal, and other similar figures were masters of just this craft, taking complex scientific ideas and integrating them into an accessible and meaningful narrative about the cosmos. This act of synthesis is obviously distinct from the day-to-day work of experimental science because it’s an interpretive endeavour that goes beyond the immediate data to create a larger picture.

    According to Brown, who’s drawing on the work of classical pragmatists like John Dewey in this context, creating such a worldview is itself a pragmatic act in a broader sense: a coherent worldview can help us orient ourselves, establish our values, and collectively pursue our ideals. By providing a common, evidence-based story, a scientific worldview can thus serve as a foundation for a secular and humanist society.

    This said, I think a potential problem with this framework may lie in assigning a “religious” or meaning-making function to science. Science’s institutional authority is derived from its methodological commitment to describing what is, not what ought to be. Introducing a “religious function” may create the risk of blurring this distinction between descriptive and normative claims. If science is tasked with constructing a worldview that isn’t only accurate but also “meaningful” or that fulfils certain human needs, the process of scientific synthesis can become influenced by preexisting values. But for science to function effectively as a source of reliable knowledge, it’s important that its descriptive mission remain distinct from a prescriptive one.

    In any case, Brown’s chapter offers an intriguing framework within which to understand the scope of scientific activity in its entirety, not least because it also provides a clear justification for pure research. Please give it, as well as the whole book, a read if you can. A PDF of the book is available on a Creative Commons non-commercial license here. It’s edited by University of Miami philosopher Anjan Chakravartty. For my next read, I’ve got my eye on a chapter by Akeel Bilgrami titled ‘Scientism: Reflections on Nature, Value, and Agency’.

  • The creative process must not be transcendental.

    During a conversation with an emotionally intense and literarily prolific friend earlier this evening, the friend said many of the greatest poets had led doomed lives; doomed in the sense that they’d all suffered great misfortune – emotionally at least – and sorrow and loss. There were enough examples, too: Plath, Woolf, Hughes, Hemingway, Sexton, Haggard, going so far back as Lucanus himself. On second thought, that’s not really surprising because the greatest writers, in my opinion, are simply the greatest articulators of the human condition, however jaded or otherwise.

    However, this friend also said that those poets had been recklessly extravagant with their emotional investments on purpose. That they’d deliberately led lives of misery, and that that’s where they drew their literary inspiration from. This seems an awfully distressing proposition: That you’d have to give up the right to live happily in order to be a great poet. The other problem I have with it is if a poet’s living tragic times and then writing great poetry, then the poet is simply a creative chronicler, not a poet at all.

    It was a difference of opinion that the friend and I couldn’t reconcile over. While poetry may be one of the greatest forms of human expression, its pinnacle cannot be founded on human misery. Its production cannot be honed at the price of happiness… can it? I understand that these are hollow questions to ask because I’m not going to get an answer to them anytime soon (More importantly, I don’t know any poets to ask what I think must be these intimate questions).

    However, to think one has expressed oneself well not by displaying commendable prowess with the tool of expression (i.e., language), not by displaying tremendous insight into the human condition and its trappings, but simply by forcing oneself to live through what I can only describe as emotional trauma is experiential writing at best, historiography at worst. It’s a convenient route through which one accumulates pain to the point of forcing it to transcend one’s existence. I would imagine poetry – or any other art form for that matter – requires effort toward its creation, not simply suffering and then release. There must be room for the aesthete, too.

    I’m not securing a case for ‘ars gratia artis‘ either because I’m not discussing the utilitarian or moral function of art, which is the product. I’m simply hoping to establish that the creative process must not be transcendental, while even the product may be. In other words, art has to be humanist – constituted by human agency – in order to be art (Also, my friend, I think Plath would be really disappointed if you’re suggesting she intended to kill herself to be a good poet).