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QUESTIONS, ALWAYS QUESTIONS ... WE ARE CREATURES of curiosity, and we like to ask all sorts of questions. We ask, When? Where? Who? What? Perhaps the most pressing questions we ask are How? and Why? The Why? questions lead us ultimately to questions of metaphysics. It is said that we can exhaust any person's knowledge in any area by asking seven questions in a row, all beginning with the question "Why?" Sooner or later we will run into the simple response, "Because."
As a college senior I took a course in what was affectionately called "bonehead biology." It was a freshman-level course, biology ιοί. I deferred this required course until my senior year because I took Greek my freshman year, and it conflicted with the scheduling of freshman biology. By the time I was a senior I had majored in philosophy, which actually hurt me when I took the freshman class in biology, as I'll explain.
Two incidents stand out in my memory of that class. The first occurred in the first lecture, when the professor declared that matters of teleology, the doctrine that "final causes" exist, were out of bounds in the classroom. Teleology probed matters that were beyond the scope of the course, she said. I was disappointed by this declaration because, as a philosophy major, I was keenly interested in matters of teleology, and I could not understand how any scientific inquiry could afford to ignore teleological questions.
The science of teleology is concerned with purpose, ends, and goals. It focuses on the Why? questions. But our teacher explained that it was not ours to question "Why?" The fact that there is life is a given of biology; why there is life is not part of the science. Instead we were to be more concerned with the question of "How?" How does life operate? How does it act? How is it reproduced?
The second incident occurred when I missed a question on an exam. Sometimes
we learn more from our errors than from our correct answers. The test question asked, "What causes a solid to change into a liquid?" I answered that the change was caused by an increase in molecular motion. The answer was marked wrong.
By this time in my academic career I had formulated a policy never to challenge a grade I got on a test, sincerely believing the student was not above the teacher and that the teacher's decision on a grade was law. It was like the "law of the Medes and the Persians," not subject to change. But when I got this particular exam back and saw my answer marked wrong, I violated my policy. I really didn't care all that much about the grade, but I was confused. I thought my answer was correct, and I didn't understand why the teacher had marked it wrong. So I asked her. She explained that the correct answer to the question was "the application of heat."
When I asked her what the application of heat did to a solid, she replied, "It increases molecular motion." Now I was really confused. I reminded her that that was what I had answered on the test. She replied, "Yes, you are technically correct, but that is not the answer I was looking for." My teacher wanted the simpler answer. She wanted me to stay on the surface of the matter and not probe to the next level.
I learned an important lesson from this experience: Sometimes we deceive ourselves about our knowledge. We tend to think that if we describe what happens in certain actions we have exhaustively explained them. Description is a kind of explanation, but it is not the final resolution of questions. The more refined our descriptions, the more we are inclined to think we have answered the Why? questions of reality.
In the novel The Sand Pebbles, a humorous event takes place when a native Asian worker in the engine room of a ship explains how he keeps the engine running. He knows nothing about the science of engines; he literally plays it by ear. When the engine goes "thumpity thump" he knows what dials to change to correct the operation. I often feel like that. I have imagined what would happen if the entire population of the world were destroyed by a nuclear holocaust, leaving my wife and me as the sole survivors.
Instantly, culture would regress to the Stone Age, at least with respect to science.
For example, I have no trouble keeping my home illumined at night; it is a
simple process. If I need light I just flip the light switch. The lights come on. If they don't I know to check the bulb, and if it is burned out I replace it. If that doesn't work then I check the fuse box. If no fuses are burned out, I am still not out of options to correct the situation. I simply call the power company. If all else fails, I light a candle with a match. For me, lighting is a simple matter. But don't ask me how to make a light bulb or create an electric power plant. Don't ask me how light works. I know how fast it travels, but I don't know why it travels that fast. In fact I don't really know what light is.
There are people who know a lot more about electricity and light than I do, but I suspect they go through the same basic steps that I do when the lights go out. I also suspect that for them there is still a lot of mystery about the nature of light and electricity.
The Labyrinth of Causality
I relate these matters because they are analogous to the mysteries involved in our understanding of the providence of God. We can probe the matter to various levels, but we will finally reach a point where we bump up against Why? and How? questions we simply are not able to answer. We see that there is concurrence between the action of God and the actions of human beings, but we are not sure how or why they concur.
The question of concurrence hurls us into the labyrinth of causality, one of the most complex issues we ever contemplate. We can make manifold distinctions in the arena of cause, such as those described as formal causes: final causes, efficient causes, material causes, and the like. These distinctions are helpful, but they are not exhaustive. Another important distinction is the distinction between primary causality and secondary causality. The Westminster Confession makes such a distinction: God, from all eternity, did, by the most wise and holy counsel of his own will, freely, and unchangeably ordain whatsoever comes to pass: yet so, as thereby neither is God the author of sin, nor is violence offered to the will of the creatures; nor is the liberty or contingency of second causes taken away, but rather established. (III/I.)
Later on we read: Although, in relation to the foreknowledge and decree of God, the first Cause, all things come to pass immutably, and infallibly; yet, by the same providence, he ordereth them to fall out, according to the nature of second causes, either necessarily, freely, or contingently. (V/ II.) The distinction between first (primary) causes and second (secondary) causes is rooted in the philosophical climate of the seventeenth century, the time when the Westminster Confession was composed. The philosophers of this era were concerned with the implications evoked by the Copernican revolution and the dawning of a new age of science. Confidence in Providence was beginning to crumble in light of new discoveries of natural law. A burning question focused on how God was related to the realm of nature.
The French philosopher and mathematician Rene Descartes wrestled with the question of causality, particularly as it related to the question of mind and matter, thought and action. He wondered how it was possible for physical actions to give rise to ideas and how thoughts are turned into action. He defined matter in terms of what is extended. Matter, he said, has weight and measurable extension. But how big is a thought? How much does a thought weigh? We may speak of "weighty thoughts," but we do so in a figurative manner.
In his own investigation of causality, Descartes also looked at how thoughts become actions and actions produce thoughts. To illustrate Descartes's investigation, let me invite you into my study. I am writing this book on a laptop computer. I think about what words I want to write, then my fingers touch the letters on the keyboard and words appear on my screen. They aren't always spelled correctly because I often hit the wrong key. But the actual typing I am doing at this moment is a physical activity. I don't simply sit at the keyboard and think thoughts that magically appear on the screen. Physical action is necessary to transfer my thoughts into words on a page (or screen).
A moment ago somebody walked into the room and interrupted my thoughts.
When I saw the person, that sight, which is an empirical perception involving my physical senses, changed my thoughts. At this point Descartes might ask,
How does this work? How can an idea galvanize your fingers into typing, and how does the physical action of a person entering the room cause your thoughts to change?
Descartes answered these questions by developing a theory called interactionism. He speculated that the transfer between thought and action and action and thought took place at a specific point: in a gland at the base of the brain. He chose the concept of a "point" because a point in mathematics is something that is suspended between the physical and the mental, between the extended and the nonextended. A point takes up space but has no definite measurement. It is neither fish nor fowl.
Descartes's work was carried on by his students of the so-called Cartesian School. Two of these students, Malebranche and Geulincx, postulated a theory called occasionalism. As occasionalists, they were specifically concerned with leaving room for God in the causal nexus of the universe. They argued that there was no such thing as secondary causality. That is, there is no direct causal relationship between objects in this world. Instead, any actions, or relationships, between objects are due to the direct intervention of God.
When I pick up a shovel the thought that I have to do it does not cause it to happen. Neither is the lifting of my arms, bearing up the shovel, a direct cause.
These actions, which seem to exert causal power, are merely the occasions in which God intervenes to make things happen, said the occasionalists. It is God who lifts the shovel, not me. This divine action of causality is invisible but is nevertheless real.
Other philosophers of this era took a different track. Leibniz, for example, developed a complex system of monadology (a monad is defined as "an unextended, indivisible, and indestructible entity that is the basic or ultimate constituent of the universe and a microcosm of it") by which he speculated that there is an interaction among objects that was set in motion in eternity by God.
Leibniz spoke of the "law of preestablished harmony" that describes the causal relationships evident in nature as being preprogrammed by God in eternity.
Spinoza conceived of all this in still another way, basing it on his version of substance philosophy, which was a kind of pantheistic monism.
These theories conflicted with one another and led ultimately to the skepticism of David Hume, who, working in the eighteenth century, challenged many of the assumptions tied to the law of causality. He argued that we have no way of knowing what causes what because we never have a direct perception of causality. What we experience, he said, is the customary relationships of contiguous events; we "read between the lines" and insert causal connections to these events. He illustrated this in a couple of ways. One was with his famous pool-ball analogy.
What happens in a pool game? Balls are spread on the table. We have a cue stick, a cue ball, and the numbered "object" balls. The object of the game is to "cause" certain balls to fall into certain pockets. We take the cue stick, aim it, and then exert physical action to move the stick in a motion we describe as a stroke. The tip of the cue stick strikes the cue ball. The cue ball begins to move, rolling across the felt top, and strikes the object ball. If the shot has been aimed correctly and there is no unintentional "English," or spin, imparted to the balls, the object ball rolls into the designated pocket. Voila! We score!
When we analyze all these actions we bring certain scientific laws into the discussion. Not the least of these laws is the law of inertia, which declares that objects at rest tend to remain at rest unless acted upon by an outside force.
Likewise, objects in motion tend to remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. We start the pool game with the balls at rest and the cue stick at rest. The action of our body is the outside force that causes the cue stick to move. The motion of the cue stick then imparts force to the resting cue ball, causing it to move. At this point it is the cue stick that is the outside force that vanquishes the inertia of the resting cue ball. The force of the moving cue ball then imparts force to the object ball, causing it to move. The object ball is both acted upon and is an actor in the drama.
The skilled pool player is always concerned about where the cue ball ends up after it strikes the object ball. The player tries to exercise "cue-ball control" in order to make his next shot easier. He knows that the object ball is an outside force that has an impact on the cue ball in motion. The friction of the tabletop is also a factor as well as the angle of carom, or rebound, of the ball off a side rail.
Throughout this scenario we are assuming we have some control of the application of the laws that relate to force. We consider force vectors, angles, spin, speed, etc., as factors that enter into the game. But Hume said we don't know that any of these forces really exist. They may all be deceptive outward appearances that disguise a hidden occasionalism or some sort of preestablished harmony.
We assume there are real forces and these forces are predictable to a high degree of accuracy or in terms of what Hume called "probability quotients."
Another example of Hume's skeptical analysis involves the relationship between rain and wet grass. We see it rain, and then immediately following the rain we notice that the grass is wet. We assume that there is a causal connection between the rain falling and the grass getting wet. Hume said that all we know for sure is that we observe events that are contiguous. That is, the events touch each other in a sequence of time. Because we see such contiguous events occurring with regularity, we see a "customary relationship" between them. This does not prove that it is actually the rain that makes the grass wet. Perhaps there is an invisible imp who has a habit of wetting the grass every time it rains. This may all seem silly, but Hume had a serious purpose in mind. He was demonstrating the limits of human perceptions of external reality and the limits of empirical perception in getting to ultimate reality.
Hume has often been misunderstood. It is frequently thought that he destroyed the concept of causality altogether. He did not. It is one thing to say we cannot with certainty identify a particular cause for a particular effect. It is quite another to say that effects take place without any cause at all. To say that is to leap into irrationality. An effect, by definition, is something that has an antecedent cause.
The law of causality does not say that everything must have a cause. If that were true then God would have to have a cause. Instead what it declares is that every effect must have a cause. This is analytically true because an effect is defined as the result of a cause. The law is simple: If something is an effect, then that effect must have a cause. We may not be able to identify the cause, but that is not license for us to declare that there is no cause.
The distinction between primary causality and secondary causality was designed
both for scientific and theological reasons. It functions as a description but not a full explanation of the relationship between the actions of God and the actions of created things. Secondary causality refers to the force imparted by physical creatures. Primary causality refers to the causal power exerted by God in the course of cosmic events.
The Westminster divines insisted that second causes are real, that the force we exert is real force. However, any force or any power exerted in this world depends upon the power of God for its efficacy. What is behind this idea is not only the philosophical speculations of the rationalists of the seventeenth century and the empiricists of the eighteenth century but the teaching of Scripture itself.
Perhaps most important is the discussion the apostle Paul had with the philosophers at Mars Hill in Athens: Then Paul stood in the midst of the Areopagus and said, "Men of Athens, I perceive that in all things you are very religious; for as I was passing through and considering the objects of your worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: TO THE UNKNOWN GOD.
Therefore, the One whom you worship without knowing, Him I proclaim to you: God, who made the world and everything in it, since He is Lord of heaven and earth, does not dwell in temples made with hands. Nor is He worshiped with men's hands, as though He needed anything, since He gives to all life, breath, and all things. And He has made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on all the face of the earth, and has determined their preappointed times and the boundaries of their dwellings, so that they should seek the Lord, in the hope that they might grope for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us; for in Him we live and move and have our being, as also some of your own poets have said, 'For we are also His offspring.'" (Acts 17:22-28) In the ancient world of philosophy the three most difficult questions that plagued thinkers were the questions of ultimate reality (or "being"), the question of the nature of motion, and the question of the nature of life. If we were to summarize the three most complex questions for modern theoretical thought, they would
still be the questions of being, motion, and life. We have made much progress since the first century, but these concepts abide as monumental enigmas.
Paul declared that "in Him [God] we live and move and have our being." God alone has the power of being within Himself. All creatures cannot be except in the being of God. Likewise, there is no power of motion or life apart from the power of God. This means that whatever causal power we exert in this world is dependent upon the power of God for its efficacy. Secondary causes are proximate causes.
The
primary, or first, cause—God—is ultimate and independent. Our causal power is derived from His power and ever contingent upon it.
The causality of God may be considered remote causality, as distinguished from proximate causality. All secondary, or proximate, causes depend upon the remote, or primary, causal power of God.
We see this relationship in the doctrine of concurrence. In the case of the drama of the life of Joseph, God was the primary and remote cause of his suffering while the actions of his brothers were the secondary and proximate causes.
This distinction is important and helpful. But we must remember that even with distinctions of this type we have not penetrated to the core of the matter. There still remains an element of mystery that conceals the secret working of the providence of God.