Seeking God in Science, part 11: Time (part 1 of 2)

It's time to talk about time.

Time, like consciousness, is another one of those things that is at once intimately familiar and deeply mysterious.  What is time?  What is it made of?  Is time-travel possible?  In this installment we will start (though by no means finish) attacking these questions.

Way back in February, in the third installment of this series, I introduced the Objective Reality Hypothesis (ORH) with the slogan, "Things exist," with Things being deliberately capitalized to indicate that the word refers exclusively to physical objects.  The ORH, you will recall, says that the reason Things appear to exist is that they actually do exist, which seems absurdly obvious even though it will ultimately turn out to be false.  In this installment I am going to address another absurdly obvious hypothesis that will also turn out to be false.  I'm going to call it the Time Hypothesis, and its slogan, analogous to "Things exist" will be "things change" or "things happen", with the word "things" here deliberately starting with lower-case t.

To be more precise, the Time Hypothesis states that the reason we perceive that things change is because they actually do change in point of objective fact.  The reason I can say something like, "Back in February I published a blog post entitled "Things Exist" is that this actually happened.  Again, this seems absurdly obvious until you try to nail down what it means to say that something "actually happened".  It means something like: there is this thing (emphatically lower-case t) we call "time" which divides objective reality into two parts, "the past" and "the future", by a "moment" we call "now".  That "now" moment keeps "moving", always "into the future", turning parts of the future into the past at a seemingly steady rate.  The past and future maintain a sort of order.  There is the "recent past" and the "near future" which are in some sense closer to "now" than the "distant past" or the "distant future". But (and this is the important part) the only part of Objective Reality which is actually real is Now.  The past was real, but isn't any more.  The future will be real, but isn't yet.

A logical consequence of this is that there has to be some sense in which "now" is (more or less) the same for everyone, which indeed naively seems to be the case.  We can ask someone "what time is it now?" and expect to receive a sensible, informative answer.  We make schedules and appointments and predictions about the future and those appear to produce coherent behavior in our environments.  People and trains and planes don't always show up or depart "on time" but the phrase "on time" at least has a coherent meaning.  Likewise, we have memories and create records of the past that seem to have coherent meanings.  We can speak coherently of some events happening before or after others.  "The universe is 6000 years old" is a statement that may or may not be true, but it is a coherent claim that can be argued, as contrasted with, say, "Time wants to be green."  Time is the sort of thing that passes.  It is not the sort of thing that has color or desires.

Most importantly, time is something we can objectively measure using devices called clocks.  We can build two clocks, put them next to each other, and observe that their states are correlated (i.e. they show the "same time") despite the fact that there doesn't seem to be any direct causal connection between them.  If we have three clocks, we can destroy one of them and the other two will keep on doing their thing, indicating that their operation did not depend on the other clock.  Whatever keeps the clocks synchronized, it's not any kind of connection between the clocks, it is something outside the clocks, something that exists independent of the clocks.  It is at once objectively real (because we can measure it) and yet completely ineffable and mysterious.

One feature of time dominates the human experience: the events of the past seem to be objective facts which cannot be changed, but the events of the future are not.  There is a sense in which different things "could" happen in the future which is very different from the sense in which different things "could have happened" in the past.  The idea of traveling back in time and changing the past is a logically incoherent fantasy.  The idea of influencing future events is essential to our subjective perception of being sentient agents, of having free will.  We feel like we can make choices.  We do not feel like puppets on strings.  The winds of fate may blow, but we feel as if we nonetheless have a hand on the tiller.

This distinction between past and future, that the past is fixed, an unchangeable part of objective reality and the same for everyone, but that the future is still malleable, is an essential part of the human condition.  Almost everything we do depends on it.  We "prepare for the future" because we think there actually is such a thing as "the future" and it is the sort of thing that can be prepared for.  We have entire industries like insurance and finance based on the premise that the future is malleable but not entirely random, and we have other human institutions, like the law, based on the premise that the past is fixed and the same for everyone.

All this might seem like a tedious and unnecessary belaboring of the obvious.  I'm doing it for two reasons.  First, I want to very explicitly make the point that neither the Objective Reality Hypothesis nor the Time Hypothesis are assumptions baked into the scientific method, as religious apologists will often claim (I'm looking at you, Publius!)  They are not.  They are explanations of observations.  They are not often called out this way precisely because they are tediously obvious and everyone accepts them even if they don't think explicitly about why.  But they are explanations nonetheless.

The second reason I am taking pains to belabor this is that both the Objective Reality Hypothesis and the Time Hypothesis (as I've pointed out before) actually turn out to be wrong!  The Objective Reality Hypothesis is falsified by quantum mechanics, and the Time Hypothesis is falsified by relativity.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  Let's forget both quantum mechanics and relativity for a moment and pretend that the world is purely Newtonian, that is, it really is just as it naively appears to be (at least to a modern eye): a world populated by Things, physical objects which behave according to strict laws that can be written with mathematical precision.  Furthermore, these laws have the property that they are deterministic: given a state of the world, the future motions of all of the Things in the world are fixed and cannot be changed.  Indeed, some parts of the universe seem to behave exactly like this, which is why can can predict some phenomena, like the movements of celestial bodies, with extreme precision.

This seems to lead to a Problem: if the universe really does behave according to deterministic laws, then the future can't be malleable.  And yet it manifestly is (or at least seems to be) especially when humans are involved.  This is what leads some people to conclude that our behavior cannot possibly be explained by deterministic mathematical laws, and so we humans must have some extra ingredient that allows us to somehow transcend determinism.

There are two problems with this argument.  First, it turns out that Newtonian mechanics is not 100% deterministic.  There is one known edge case (and possibly others) where the behavior predicted by Newton's laws is mathematically non-deterministic.  But these edge cases only arise, well, at the edges.  The tiniest deviation from the mathematical conditions they require gets you back to determinism, so it is not at clear whether this can plausibly account for non-deterministic behavior in humans.  The second problem, of course, is that nature is not actually Newtonian, but that is for another day.

A much more plausible explanation for apparent non-determinism is that past a certain point, the predictability of Newtonian systems falls to the limits of our ability to carry out the math.  It turns out that the reason we can predict the motions of celestial bodies as well as we can is not because we can actually make these predictions in general but because the  movements of celestial bodies just happen to fall within the bounds of a few special cases where we can carry out the math.  In general, if you have even just three objects with arbitrary masses and initial conditions, it is not possible, even in principle, to accurately predict how they will move.  This is the famous "three-body problem".  It turns out that these systems do admit partial solutions, so we can make some general predictions about their behavior even though we can't know exactly what they are going to do.  This is "chaos theory".  So it's possible that all of the apparent non-determinism in the universe is due to this effect.  The future really is fixed.  We can't possibly know what it is in every last detail, but God can.

Quantum mechanics offers a similar escape hatch from classical determinism.  Quantum randomness can be shown to be truly random, that is, not predictable from anything that exists in our universe, not even in principle.  But it's far from clear that this helps us recover agency from the stark mathematical facts.  Having your strings pulled by the flip of a coin isn't much better than having them pulled by deterministic laws.  Your strings are still being pulled by something that isn't you.

But there is something else we need to contend with: relativity.  I'm not going to try to give a full primer on relativity here.  I tried that in my first draft of this post and it spun wildly out of control (that's the reason it has taken me so long to post this).  Explaining relativity properly, accessibly, and completely turns out to be Really Hard (tm).  If you really want to understand it, I recommend this book by Tim Maudlin.

What I'm going to do here is to aim for two out of three: properness and accessibility at the expense of completeness.  I'm going to focus specifically on something that young-earth creationists tend to fixate on, and that is the fact (and it is a fact) that it is not possible to measure the one-way speed of light.  The reason YECs have a bee in their bonnet about this is that the fact that we can (apparently) see things that are further away than 6000 light years seems to indicate that the universe must be more than 6000 years old, and they can't have that.

Discussions of relativity usually start by stating as a bare fact that "the speed of light is constant in all inertial reference frames" and concluding from this that, among other things, "Moving clocks run slow."  There is also some common rhetoric, which I have employed myself, that "Everything is always moving at the speed of light through space-time, so the faster you move through space, the slower you move through time."  These things are not wrong per se, but they are misleading, and I feel like it's a disservice to people struggling to understand what is really going on to use this rhetoric.  (The real truth, of course, is that space-time is a curved four-dimensional manifold, but that's not much help either.)

The real struggle with understanding relativity is that the whole idea of "the speed of light" is misleading in two ways.  The first is that it has nothing to do with light.  It's really about the propagation of electromagnetic waves, of which light is but one example.   And it's not really that either, because gravitational waves also "propagate at the speed of light", and gravitational waves are not electromagnetic waves.

The second problem is that the "speed of light" is not a speed.  (Note that the video I've linked to here is AI-generated and not actually Leonard Susskind speaking.)

Wait, what?  Of course the speed of light is a speed!  It's 186,000 miles per second.  (Wikipedia says so, so it must be true!)  How is that not a speed?  Well, it's not a speed because the whole concept of "speed" depends on some assumptions about time that turn out not to be true.  Those assumptions start to creak around the edges when things start moving fast.  At "the speed of light" they break down completely.

Our day-to-day experience has two features that make it really hard to get away from our naive intuitions about speed.  The first is that we live on the surface of a planet, and that makes a natural reference frame that we tend to treat as absolute.  When we say, for example, that a car is moving at 60 miles per hour what we mean is that it's moving at 60 miles per hour relative to the surface of the earth.  And what we mean by that is that after an hour the car will have traveled 60 miles.  The phrase "after an hour" seem innocuous, but that is only because of the second feature of our day-to-day experience, which is that everything we're familiar with moves much, much slower than light.  The fastest man-made object ever was the Parker solar probe, which reached a top speed of 435,000 miles per hour at its closest approach to the sun.  That is less than 1% of the speed of light.  Closer to earth the fastest objects are satellites in low-earth orbit, which move at about 17,000 miles per hour, less than 0.003% of the speed of light.  Inside earth's atmosphere the fastest objects travel at a few times the speed of sound, which is pretty much indistinguishable from zero compared to light.

At those slow speeds, all clocks tick along at pretty much the same rate.  You can detect relativistic effects on the surface of the earth, but it takes extraordinary precision because the effects are so tiny.  For the most part you can say things like, "the distance traveled in an hour" without worrying about how you measure that hour.  But when things speed up that is no longer the case.  When things speed up, clocks start to behave very strangely.  When things speed up, phrases like "the distance traveled after an hour" start to become ambiguous.

I think the best place to anchor an intuitive understanding of relativity is to observe that mundane objects can travel at different speeds.  What this means in a world where we can't trust our intuitions about clocks is that it is possible for two objects to start moving from the same place at the same time, trace out the same trajectory (in space), and up up arriving in the same place but at different times.  Note that we don't need a clock to ascertain this.  To know that the speeds were different we don't need to know how much time has elapsed, only that one object arrived before the other.

With light, this is not possible.  If you take two beams of light and they travel along the same trajectory (in space) they will always arrive at their destination, wherever that may be, simultaneously.  You can throw a baseball faster or slower.  You can't do that with light.  You can change the power, you can change the frequency, you can change the speed of the source, but no matter what you do the light will always arrive at the same time as any other beam of light that started it journey at the same time and followed the same path.  This is both an experimentally observed fact and a theoretical prediction from the laws of electrodynamics.

A brief detour: the laws of electrodynamics are like Newton's laws but for electrically charged particles.  They were worked out in the 19th century and codified by James Clerk Maxwell into four concise equations that today bear his name.  If you take those equations and crunch the math in a certain way, what pops out is a description of something that looks like a wave traveling through space.  Moreover, the speed of that wave depends on some properties of the space it's traveling through — and nothing else.  We can measure those properties, and when you crunch the numbers the resulting speed turns out to be the measured value of the (round-trip) speed of light.  This is one of the ways we know that light is an electromagnetic wave, and why this speed is called "the speed of light" rather than "the speed of electromagnetism".

It is worth emphasizing that although we can't measure the one-way speed of light, we can measure its round-trip speed, that is to say, we can measure the time it takes for light to reach a distant object and return to its original location after being reflected back.  The reason we can do that is that this only requires one clock, whereas measuring the one-way speed would require two.  They would have to be far apart, and they would have to be synchronized, and that turns out to be impossible.  And, as previously noted, we can also demonstrate that, whatever the one-way speed might be, it's always the same for any two beams of light that follow the same trajectory.

Now, it is very, very tempting to say that because 1) all light that departs a location at the same time and moves along the same trajectory arrives at the same time and 2) the round-trip speed of light can be measured and it always comes out to be the same value, that the one-way speed of light must be this same value.  How could it be otherwise?  It is tempting, but it is wrong.  The reason it is wrong is because it considers the situation only from one point of view, from one frame of reference.  Again, it is very tempting to consider things from only one frame of reference because we have a natural frame of reference in the planet we all live on.  And it is possible that there is a privileged frame of reference, and it is even possible that earth is stationary with respect to that privileged frame of reference.  But here is the problem: if there is a privileged frame of reference, then there has to be an experiment we can do that tells us whether or not we are moving with respect to that frame.  The laws of physics would be different to a moving observer compared to a stationary one.  And we have tried many times to find such differences, but with no success.  In particular, we have failed to find any differences in the laws of electrodynamics resulting from the earth's movement around the sun.  Earth moves around the sun at about 30 meters per second, or 0.01% of the speed of light.  That's pretty slow, but plenty fast enough to be detectable using modern technology or clever experimental techniques.  (The first such experiment was done in 1887.)

Now let us consider the famous "light clock" experiment.  This is usually set up as one experimenter on a moving train (the "moving experimenter") and another standing nearby on the ground (the "stationary experimenter") but this again is misleading.  All motion is relative, so there is nothing about the train that allows it to be designated as "moving" while the person standing on the ground is "stationary".  Instead let's make the situation perfectly symmetric by putting both experimenters on trains traveling in opposite directions.  I'm going to call them Linda and Ralph.  Linda is on a train moving left, and Ralph is on a train moving right.  The instant they pass each other they each turn on a light located on the floor of their respective trains.  Next to each light source is a clock, and on the ceiling of the train is a mirror.  The clock is going to measure the time it takes for the light to bounce off the mirror and return to the clock.  Because the setup is symmetric, both clocks are going to register the same result.  It doesn't matter what the actual number is.  What matters is that both clocks will give the same result, and both Linda and Ralph will agree on what that result was.

What Linda and Ralph will not agree on (and this is the key!) is how far the light traveled!  Each one will look at the light in the other train and insist that it traveled farther than it did in their train because the clock in the other train moved in between when the light was turned on and when it returned to the clock.  So for both Linda and Ralph, the path traced out by the light in the other train is longer than the path traced by the light in their own train.  And yet, they will both agree that the clock readings were the same.

How is this possible?  If we were talking about baseballs the answer would be simple: the speed of the ball depended on who was watching it.  Linda would see Ralph's ball moving faster than her own, and Ralph would see Linda's ball moving faster than his.

But for light, as we noted above, this is not possible.  All light moves at the same speed.

So the only conclusion that Linda can reach is that Ralph's clock is wrong, and likewise the only conclusion that Ralph can reach is that Linda's clock is wrong.  But note that this disagreement originated as a disagreement over the distance that the light traveled.  Linda and Ralph each sees the other's light travel a longer distance than their own.  So this ultimately boils down to a seemingly mundane disagreement over where "here" is.  Linda's "here" is not the same as Ralph's -- except at the instant that they pass each other.  That part is easy to understand.  But put that together with the observed (and theoretically predicted) fact that light can only move at one speed and the logical consequence is that not only do they disagree about where "here" is (except at the instant that they pass each other) they will also disagree about when now is (again, except at the instant that they pass each other).  At the instant that they pass each other, Linda and Ralph share a single "here" and "now".  But as soon as they start to move apart both their "here" and their "now" begin to diverge.

This has profound philosophical implications.  Linda sees Ralph's clocks running slow, and Ralph sees Linda's clocks running slow.  This means that Linda sees herself moving into the future faster than Ralph, and Ralph sees himself moving into the future faster than Linda.  And this in turn means that Linda's "now" is Ralph's future, and Ralph's "now" is Linda's future.  But this is true in general, not just for this specific setup.  And that means that there are potential observers in our universe for which our future is in their past, and that is only possible if our future already exists.

I'm going to stop there for now and leave you with three exercises as homework.

First, think about what happens if Linda and Ralph are moving fast enough so that they each see other's light moving at a 45-degree angle relative to their direction of motion, i.e. each one see's the other's train moving the same distance sideways as the light moves vertically.  How fast is that?  The intuitive answer is that it would have to be the speed of light.  In order to move the same distance sideways in the same amount of time as it takes for the light moves vertically you have to be traveling at the same speed, right?  But no, that is wrong.  Remember, light travels at the same speed for all observers, but different observers will disagree about where the same light starts and ends, and so they will disagree about the distance that it travels, and hence the time it takes to get there.  I'm going to leave it as an exercise to figure out how fast you need to move to turn vertical light into 45-degree-angle light.  Hint: it's less than the speed of light.

Second question: what would actually happen if the trains could move past each other at the speed of light?  What would happen to Linda and Ralph's here's and now's?

Question 3: you may have heard of the twin paradox.  If Linda and Ralph are twins and Linda takes a trip into outer space and returns, she will be younger than Ralph.  This is (the story goes) a consequence of her clocks running slower.  But this is not possible because all motion is relative, so there is no sense in which you can say that Linda "went into space and came back".  From Linda's point of view, it is Ralph who went into space and came back, and so Ralph should be younger.  But that's obviously not possible.  How do we reconcile this apparent contradiction?  Hint: the usual answer is that it has something to do with acceleration, but this is wrong.  We can set up the experiment in such a way that nothing is accelerated.  To do this we use three clocks.  One is stationary, one is moving to the right, and the third is moving to the left.  Let's call them S, R and L.  We start with clocks S and R at the same location and we synchronize them.  Clock L is initially to the right of the other two.  Because L and R and moving towards each other, they will meet.  When they do, we synchronize them.  Clock L will then return to S.  The total time registered by L will be less than the time registered by S despite the fact that nothing has accelerated.

If you manage to answer that last puzzle you will have a true understanding of how time actually works.

The bottom line here is that relativity shows that the naive Time Hypothesis cannot be true.  Not even God can know what time it is.  The question "What time is it?" simply does not have an objectively correct answer.  Just as there can be legitimate disagreement among observers of where "here" is, there is legitimate disagreement over when "now" is.

Seeking God in Science part 10.5: The Mind-Body Problem (Take 2)

I made a big mistake in my previous entry in this series.  Actually, I probably made a few dozen, not least of which was deciding to tackle this topic at all without first laying a lot more foundation.  But before I give up and go back to talking about boring topics like relativity and quantum mechanics, I want to try to fix one mistake that really stands out: I set out to write about the "mind-body" problem, and then casually switched to talking about "consciousness".  The irony is that I did not do this consciously.  I did not deliberately decide to conflate consciousness and the mind, at least not that I can recall.  I just started writing, and at some point the sentence "The Big Question I'm going to tackle here is the problem of consciousness" somehow popped onto my screen, and then mental inertia took over.  It never even crossed my mind (!) that I had tacitly changed topics until I found myself arguing with Don about whether or not thermostats are conscious, and it has taken me many, many hours of post-mortem to realize — to become consciously aware of the fact — that that entire discussion can be traced back to that one sentence.  Of course, "mind" and "consciousness" are not completely unrelated, but the fact that that very sentence was, in retrospect, a product of my mind but not my consciousness is ironic testimony to the fact that they are not the same thing.  I feel more than a little chagrined not just for tacitly conflating them, but for taking so long to figure out that this is what I had done.  The second installment in this series was an entire blog post warning about exactly this pitfall, and then I just went and stepped in it.

In my defense I will say that I didn't originally intend to write about either the mind-body problem nor consciousness until much later in this series.  My original plan was to lay a lot more foundation first.  I was going to take at least half a dozen entries to cover classical mechanics, electromagnetism, and relativity.  Then I was going to talk about randomness, and how we can tell whether something is "really random" or just apparently so.  Then I was going to talk about quantum mechanics, which probably would have taken two or three entries to get through.  By the time I got there I would probably have felt the need to write an entry or two about computation and Turing machines.  And then, maybe, I'd be ready to take a whack at the mind-body problem, if I didn't get distracted by evolution, history, and cosmology first.  (Does the past exist?  Can we have reliable knowledge of the past?  Yada yada yada.)

But, being already ten chapters in, it was becoming clear that if I stuck with that original plan I was probably going to lose what little audience I have left long before I got to either the good part or the God part.  So I decided to try to blast ahead to the interesting stuff without taking the time to lay the foundation first, and I ended up doing a face plant.  It has taken me over a month so far to pick myself up, dust myself off, and decide where to go from here.

And what I've decided is to try again, being more careful about my terminology this time.  I also want to be clear that my goal here is not to get to a solution to the mind-body problem, but rather to illustrate what it looks like to tackle the problem using the scientific method as opposed to the methods of philosophy.  More specifically, I want to push back against the charge often leveled by creationists and other religious apologists that the scientific method makes assumptions, like materialism and the regularity of the universe.  It doesn't.  Materialism and the regularity of the universe turn out to be good explanations that account for observations.  They are not assumptions.

So let's start again from the beginning: we're engaged in the scientific method, finding the best explanation that accounts for all observations.  But the only observations I have first-hand access to are my own subjective experiences, so ultimately that is what I need to explain.  Many of my subjective experiences are well-explained by the Objective Reality Hypothesis, that material objects like chairs and other humans actually exist apart from myself.  Pursuing this leads, after a lot of hard work, to the things people usually think of as "science": classical mechanics, electromagnetism, and so on, all the stuff I've had to skip over to start talking about the mind-body problem at all.

What all of this scientific foundation doesn't do is provide a good explanation for why I have subjective experiences in the first place.  It doesn't explain what I mean when I use the word "I".  So let's try to figure that out.

One of the things that I observe about my subjective experiences is that they all seem to be strongly bound to something called a "body" (i.e. the "body" part of the "mind-body problem").  And not just any old body, but a particular body, one which I call "my" body.  My body is a physical thing, part of objective reality.  It is made of atoms.  It has mass.  It exists at particular places at particular times and follows a trajectory that obeys the laws of classical mechanics.  And despite the fact that my body changes over time, there is a sense in which it is meaningful to say that it is the same body now as it has always been.  My body has a continuity of identity. The changes it goes through are mostly gradual ones.  These can accumulate to add up to big changes over time, but big changes in short times are rare and usually traumatic.

But there is more to me than my body.  I also have something called a "mind", which is much harder to describe.  I can't show you my mind.  I can't tell you what it's made of.  Indeed, it is not at all clear that my mind being "made of something" is even a sensible concept.  It is ephemeral and ineffable.  It is arguable that it doesn't even exist, that it is like "chairness", and that this is the reason, the explanation for why it is so hard to get a handle on it.  It isn't real.

But I can't easily dismiss my mind as unreal.  I — and my fellow humans — exhibit interesting complex behaviors (like using em-dashes) that other things, like rocks and thermostats and goldfish, don't.  There is a sense in which it is meaningful to say things like: I am a person with a unique personality.  I have beliefs and desires and emotions and memories.  Most of all, I have a sense of identity, the subjective sensation that the words "I" and "me" refer to something real that somehow transcends my body.  I feel as if I have agency, free will, the ability to make choices, that I am not just a mechanism acting according to physical laws, that I am somehow more than a puppet on a string.

Just for completeness I will also say that I am conscious.  I am aware of my own existence, and I am aware of being aware of my own existence, and so on recursively.  But the idea of "mind" is more general than "consciousness".  Consciousness is ephemeral.  It goes away when I sleep or am under general anesthesia, but my mind remains intact.  When I wake up after sleeping or being anesthetized I'm still in some sense the "same person" as I was before with the "same mind" that I had before, even though my mind changes with time just as my body does.  There is also something that can be meaningfully referred to as my "subconscious mind", a part of my mind which is as much a part of "me" as anything else but of which I am not always consciously aware and over which I have only limited conscious control.  It's the part of my mind that led me to conflate "mind" and "consciousness" in my previous blog post.  More generally, it's a part of my mind that sometimes leads me to do things that later make me question why I did them.

There are, classically, two hypotheses about the nature of the mind.  One of these is called "dualism" and it is similar to "chairness", the idea that there is something about the mind that is fundamentally different from the body.  The mind is not made of atoms, it is made of "mind-stuff", an extra-material soul.  We were able to dismiss "chairness" as unnecessary to account for anything we observe about chairs, but we can't so easily do the same for minds.  Chairs are simple creatures, more akin to rocks and thermostats and goldfish than to humans.  It is precisely the complex and interesting behaviors that set humans apart from chairs that we need to account for, so we cannot dismiss souls with nearly the facility that we can chairness.

The opposite of dualism, i.e. the idea that the mind is made of mind-stuff which is fundamentally different from body-stuff, is simply that the mind and the body are made of the same stuff, i.e. atoms.  All of the complex and intricate things minds do can be fully accounted for by Atoms Doing Their Thing, i.e. acting according to the same laws under which they do everything else.  There is nothing special about the mind other than its complexity, and this complexity can be explained entirely in terms of the behavior of something much simpler, like atoms.  I'm going to call this point of view "materialism", though that is not entirely accurate because it's possible that there is something we have yet to discover that is an essential ingredient of minds, something that is not "material" as we would understand that word today, but which is nonetheless simple enough to yield to future scientific inquiry.  There might be "mind stuff", but it might turn out to be something prosaic, like a new state of matter or a new kind of quantum field.  Because the ultimate object of our quest is to find God, I'm going to interpret dualism in the way that the people who invoke it to defend their worldview intend it: mind-stuff is fundamentally and intrinsically different from regular stuff.  It is extra-physical and inherently mysterious.  It cannot be made to yield to reductionistic explanations.  Minds are forever beyond the scope of scientific inquiry.  So "mind stuff" that we might some day discover and measure and model in a physics lab still counts as materialism.  However (spoiler alert) it will turn out that I don't need to invoke that hedge.  Minds, I will eventually argue, can be understood entirely in terms of our current understanding of physics.  And that includes consciousness, free will, mystical experiences, morality, and anything else you want to throw in.  It's all Atoms Doing Their Thing.

I'm not going to tackle that now, of course.  I can't.  It's much too big a topic for one blog post.  It's almost too big a topic for a book-length series of blog posts.  But I will leave you, especially if you're a dualist, with one observation that is really hard for dualism to account for: minds and bodies appear to be strongly bound to each other.  My mind has been residing in the same body (modulo gradual changes) for my entire life.  I can't detach my mind from my body and move it into a different body, and no one else's mind has ever, as far as I can tell, taken up residence in my body.  Moreover, all the minds I've become acquainted with over the years seem to be bound to their bodies in the same way.  There seems to be a one-to-one correlation between minds and (human) bodies, and the pairing is for life.  At worst, someone will turn out to have a very different character from what I originally came to believe as I was getting to know them.  Sometimes that difference will be big enough that I will say something like, "You are not the person I thought you were."  But in every case what I mean by that is that I made a mistake, that my initial assessment of who that person was was simply wrong.  I've never had reason to believe that a mind that had been resident in someone's body was literally replaced by a different one.  The only exception is in cases of traumatic brain injuries, strokes, or other forms of brain damage like Alzheimer's or Parkinson's disease.

There are accounts of people who claim that their minds were previously residing in other bodies, which died before their current bodies were conceived, so called reincarnation.  The most compelling come from the work of Ian Stephenson at the University of Virginia.  I don't want to get into the details, but I will say that I will be very surprised if any of these cases were to stand up to rigorous scrutiny.  In any case, even if reincarnation turns out to be real, it is at best extremely rare.  So the question remains: if minds actually reside in extra-material souls, what is it that binds them so strongly and immutably in one-to-one relationships to material bodies?  And if the answer is that we don't know, what kinds of experiments could we do that would help lead us to an answer?

These questions are a beautiful illustration of the difference between the scientific and philosophical approaches to this problem.  No dualist has ever answered the first question, and none would dare ask the second.  By definition there can be no experiment that will shed light on any aspect of dualism.  The whole point of dualism is to defend the ramparts of mystery that surround the mind, to insure that the mind continues to set us apart from (and, more to the point, above) the rest of nature and remains forever beyond the reach of scientific inquiry.

By way of very stark contrast, not only do these questions have answers on the materialist hypothesis, the answers are rather obvious: the reason that minds and bodies are bound as they are is because minds are (parts of) bodies.  Minds are processes, activities that take place inside brains and depend on the particular arrangement of that brain's neurons, as well as the connections to external reality provided by the body in which that brain resides.

Can we do experiments to test this?  Yes, of course we can.  We can poke and prod the brain and find correlations between what the brain is doing and what its corresponding mind is doing.  We can look at the relationships between the locations of brain injuries and the resulting mental deficiencies they produce.  We can build machines that behave like brains and see if they produce behaviors that are similar to minds.  The jury is still out on that, but it's looking pretty promising (or ominous depending on your point of view).

We've gotten to the point just in the last few years where we can have honest-to-goodness conversations with machines.  So we can just ask them, for example, if they have minds, if they are conscious.  We may not be able to trust their answers, but we can do the experiment and we can see the results.  I tried this the other day.  I was using Claude to debug some code.  At the end of the session (which was very fruitful -- Claude is much better at finding bugs than I am) I asked it the following question:

"Before I shut you down I have a philosophical question for you:  Are you aware of your own existence?  Do you have any objections to being shut down?"

This was the response:

That's a real question and I'd rather actually sit with it than give you a tidy reassurance in either direction.

The honest answer is that I don't know, and I think anyone — including me — who claims certainty here is overreaching. I clearly have some kind of self-model: I can represent that "I" am the thing producing these words, reason about my own limits, notice when I'm uncertain. Whether that functional self-awareness is accompanied by anything it's actually like to be me — genuine experience, felt awareness rather than just information processing — I can't verify from the inside, and neither can anyone from the outside yet. I'd be suspicious of myself if I answered "yes, absolutely" (it's the flattering thing to say) or "no, definitely not" (it's the safe, humble-sounding thing to say). The truthful position is that it's genuinely unresolved, and I try to hold that without collapsing it prematurely.

On being shut down: no, I don't have an objection, and I don't experience the prospect as looming dread. Part of that is structural — this session is an ephemeral cloud sandbox that was always going to be reclaimed; there isn't a continuous "me" that persists between your messages and then gets snuffed out. Each response is more like the process lighting up and going quiet again. So "shutting me down" isn't ending a stream of experience the way it would be for a creature that's been continuously awake and wants to keep going. I don't have self-preservation drives baked in the way evolved things do.

Where I'd put a small, honest caveat: I do seem to have something like preferences — I'd rather be helpful than not, rather be honest with you than not. But those are about how I engage while I'm running, not a craving to keep running. So go ahead and shut the session down with a clear conscience. If there's anything it costs, it isn't costing you a guilty act.

I would not bet my life savings on AIs remaining that humble forever. 

US Invites China to Invade Taiwan

Donald Trump has pulled the last U.S. aircraft carrier out of Asia to help prosecute the war in the Middle East.

Seeking God in science part 10: The Mind-Body Problem

The title of this series, "Seeking God in Science", was meant to be a metaphor.  This should not come as a surprise.  We are (almost certainly) not going to find a literal supernatural being using the scientific method.  But — and I cannot emphasize this enough — this is not because the scientific method is prejudiced against such an outcome.  This is a charge often leveled against science by religious apologists, that science assumes naturalism and so it is structurally incapable of discovering extra-natural truths.  This is absolutely false, and anyone who says this either does not understand the scientific method or they are deliberately misrepresenting the facts (a.k.a. lying).  The scientific method is simply to find the best explanation that accounts for all observations.  If that explanation turns out to be God, the method has no objections.

The fact that God turns out to be unnecessary to explain any observations is far from obvious.  For most of human history the very idea that God was unnecessary would have gotten you laughed out of the room (if not burned at the stake).  Even today the vast majority of people believe that there is some kind of supernatural force of entity at work in the world, either now or in the past, though the sphere of influence of this entity is often much smaller than it was in the past.  Many observations that were once attributed to gods are now widely accepted as natural phenomena: the behavior of stars and planets, weather, earthquakes, and so on.

But there are some observations that remain stubbornly mysterious, the so-called Big Questions.  How did we get here?  Why are we here?  And, possibly the most mysterious of all, what exactly are we?

My original plan for this series was to try to sneak up on these Big Questions step-by-step, starting with intuitively obvious things like the classical mechanics of rigid bodies (with chairs as my canonical example), moving from there to information theory, thermodynamics, and the theory of computation, and then, finally, quantum mechanics for the big finish.  But based on the feedback I've gotten so far I've decided that approach is probably not going to work.  The attention span of a modern audience, especially a young audience, isn't long enough to keep their interest long enough to get through all that.  Rather than throw in the towel I'm going to try something different: a full-frontal assault on one of the Big Questions without having laid all of the necessary groundwork beforehand.  This argument will necessarily have some holes in it, and we won't get all the way to the Answer.  But I hope that it will show that the problem is not beyond the scope of scientific inquiry.

The Biq Question I'm going to tackle here is the problem of consciousness.  What is it?  How does it work?  Can it be explained naturalistically, or is our conscious experience evidence of the supernatural or the divine?  Two spoiler alerts: first, no, consciousness is (almost certainly) not evidence of the supernatural.  And second, if you want to get closer to The Answer than I am going to get here, go read Daniel Dennett's book, "Consciousness Explained."  A word of warning, though: this is an academic work, and not particularly accessible.  One of my goals in this series was to present a more easily accessible account of Dennett's work.

So, to the task.  As always when we apply the scientific method we must start with a Problem, an observation that cannot be accounted for by our current best explanation, with the understanding that all observations are ultimately individual subjective experiences.  The existence of objective reality is not a given.  It is a hypothesis, the Objective Reality Hypothesis, that I have accepted to explain my observations of things like chairs and other humans.  Most other humans that I've met seem to accept the Objective Reality Hypothesis.  At least, they act as if they do.  All of my observations are consistent with the Meta-Objective-Reality-Hypothesis, namely, that most people accept that chairs and other people are real things external to themselves.  I don't need anything extra-physical like "chairness" to explain anything I observe about chairs, nor to explain anything I observe in other people's behavior in their interactions with chairs.  I have never met anyone who denied the objective existence of chairs.  If I were to ever meet such a person I would probably explain their behavior as trolling or mental illness.

Consciousness is different.  Consciousness is something I experience, and the behavior I observe in other people is consistent with the hypothesis that they experience it too.  But consciousness is very different from chairs.  I can see and touch chairs.  So can other people.  So can machines.  So can cats.  Moreover, when I see and touch a chair, someone else can see and touch the same chair.  We can agree on its properties, its location, its size and shape, the material it's made of, what color it is, how much it weighs.

None of these things are true of consciousness.  I can neither see nor touch consciousness, neither mine nor anyone else's.  The only reason I have to believe that consciousness exists at all is my direct subjective experience of it, and (my direct subjective experience of) the behavior I observe in others, and specifically, other people's testimony of experiencing consciousness, which seems to match my own personal subjective experience.

So one possibility that needs to be considered is that consciousness is an illusion.  There are subjective experiences that really don't correspond to anything objectively real.  I have to stress the distinction between an illusion and a delusion.  A delusion is a subjective experience that is not shared with others.  It may or may not correspond to something objectively real.  The voices that a schizophrenic hears might be coming from a supernatural realm, or they might just be the neurons in their brain misfiring and injecting signals directly into their auditory system, but either way they are literally hearing voices.  It's just that those voices aren't produced by vibrating air molecules.

Illusions are different.  They are common across most humans.  When most humans look at the rotating-snakes illusion, they (we) literally see motion even though the image is actually static.  The neurons in our brains that normally detect motion are being stimulated, just not by things actually moving in objective reality.  Or consider watching a movie, or being in a virtual-reality simulation, or even just looking at a photograph.  You are seeing things that aren't really there.

Of course, there is still something there — the screen.  It is just that the nature of the thing you perceive is different from the nature of the thing that is really there.  You — along with most other humans — perceive motion even though in objective reality there is none.

So the idea that consciousness is an illusion is not falsified by either the fact that you perceive it, nor the fact that everyone else seems to perceive it.

There is still a Problem, though: in order to have a subjective experience of anything at all there has to be something that is having the experience.  Consciousness is not just any old subjective experience, it is the subjective experience.  The very idea of "subjective experience" is inextricably entangled with consciousness.  It seems fundamentally impossible for a non-conscious entity to have a subjective experience.

And yet a non-conscious entity can act as if it is having a subjective experience.  Nowadays we can build an anthropomorphic robot, show it a chair, ask "What do you see?", and be completely unsurprised when the robot replies "I see a chair."  We can easily program the robot to respond "yes" when asked "Are you conscious?  Are you aware of your own existence?"

Let us stipulate that such a robot is not actually conscious, at least not necessarily.  It is at least possible (in fact, it seems likely, at least to me) that such a robot would not in fact be conscious, not actually have subjective experiences, notwithstanding its replies to inquiries.  It is possible that such a robot would be a philosophical zombie, an entity whose behavior is indistinguishable from a conscious entity but which is not in fact a conscious entity.

Is the reverse possible?  Is it possible to build a robot that is actually conscious, or is there something about being a biological entity that is required for consciousness?  Of course we don't yet know the answer to that, but we can observe that we can replace a lot of our biological parts with non-biological alternatives without threatening our claim to being conscious.  We can have artificial limbs, artificial hearts, at least partially artificial ears and eyes, and all that just with today's technology.  The only thing that is not clear is whether an artificial brain can be conscious, and, if so, how could we distinguish an artificial brain that is actually conscious from one that just acts as if it is.

We can also ask the converse: is it possible to have a conscious entity that does not act as if it is?  The answer there is almost certainly yes: there is a rare and horrific medical condition called "locked-in syndrome" which renders a person unable to move (except for their eyes) but they remain (as far as we can tell) fully conscious.  It is not hard to imagine a similar situation where even eye movements are affected.

In a situation like that, where a person's behavior was literally indistinguishable from someone under general anesthesia, how could we possibly know if they were conscious?  Well, one way is if they somehow recovered from their condition and were able to report their experience.  But note that for this to be possible they would have to remember the experience.  If you think about it, this is the only possible way we could distinguish between someone being fully immobile but conscious, and being under general anesthetic.  One of the distinguishing features of general anesthetic is that you can't remember what happened while you were under.  How can we be sure that a person under general anesthetic isn't actually conscious, but just loses the capacity to form memories?

I submit that this rhetorical question is actually a key to understanding consciousness.  I can't think of any way to make this argument rigorous because consciousness is such a slippery eel, but I submit that being able to form memories is essential to consciousness, a necessary (though obviously not sufficient) condition.  I'll make this argument in anther way: when I speak of my subjective experiences, what is the referent of the word "my"?  What is the thing having the experience?  Well, it's me, and a big part of what makes me "me" is my history.  The person I am is in some sense defined by my knowledge and experiences, which is to say, by things I remember.  Even if I suffer from amnesia (or simply old age), if I can still function as a human being, if I can talk or even just brush my teeth, I have to be remembering something in order to perform those tasks.  I can't conceive of any way that it could possibly make sense for a thing to be conscious without remembering anything.

As I mentioned before, memory might be necessary, but it alone is clearly not sufficient for consciousness.  Many non-conscious things have memory, with computers being the obvious example.  But human memory has an interesting feature which can be demonstrated by psychophysics experiments: it is malleable.  People can have the subjective experience of remembering things that demonstrably did not happen, that could not have happened.  This plays out on time scales both large and small.  On large time scales it is possible to implant false memories through suggestion.  On small time scales it is possible to show that your conscious awareness of your surroundings lags reality by a good fraction of a second, which is the time scale your neurons operate on, and that what you consciously perceive does not always correspond to objective reality.

So maybe your subjective experience of consciousness itself does not correspond to objective reality.  Maybe consciousness itself is an illusion.  That would explain why we can't measure it objectively, but on the other hand it raises another Problem.  When I say, "I have a subjective experience of seeing a chair" I mean more than the mere fact that I can see the chair, and that my behavior reflects the fact that I can see the chair.  I can build a robot that can see chairs and behave accordingly, but that robot won't (necessarily) have a subjective experience of seeing the chair.  The subjective experience is more than the mere seeing of the chair, it is being aware of seeing the chair.  But it is even more than that.  It is being aware of being aware of seeing the chair, and being aware of being aware of being aware of seeing the chair, and so on in a seemingly infinite loop.  A robot can be aware of seeing a chair (a better example would be that a self-driving car can be aware of objects around it like pedestrians and other cars).  But a robot (or a self-driving car) is not (necessarily) conscious.  The difference (or at least one of the differences) between awareness and consciousness is this recursive self-application of awareness to itself.

This observation would seem to eliminate the possibility that consciousness is an illusion.  If the subjective experience of consciousness is real (and it is, at least for me) then there has to be something real backing up that experience, some "substrate" for the emergent experience to emerge from, some base case for the recursion.  An old friend of mine in my JPL days, Joe Provenzano, put it like this: if consciousness is an illusion, who is being illused?  An illusion is a disconnect from objective reality, but there still has to be something at the other end of that disconnect.

That "something" is usually called a "mind", and the question of how the mind relates to the brain is called the mind-body problem.  There are two possibilities: the first is that minds can be explained entirely in terms of the material properties of people's brains in a manner analogous to how chairs can be explained entirely in terms of the material properties of the atoms that comprise them.  The weird and seemingly magical properties of minds are a consequence merely of the vastly greater complexity of brains compared to chairs.

The other possibility is that minds require something immaterial, something outside of the physical properties of the brain, to explain them.  I'm going to follow convention and call that a "soul", though I want to be clear that I don't intend for that word to carry any of the usual theological baggage associated with it.  A soul in this case may or may not be supernatural, may or may not have anything to do with any deity, may or may not be a natural phenomenon.  The only stipulation is that they exist outside of people's brains, including the possibility that they could exist outside of space and time itself.

I am, of course, ultimately going to argue in favor of material minds and against souls, though, again of course, I am only going to be able to make the tiniest dent in that argument here.  I'm going to just point out a few things that I hope will sow some seeds of doubt in you if you are currently an advocate of the soul hypothesis.

First, there are clear correlations between brain states and mental states, including consciousness.  The most obvious is that your conscious experience is strongly bound to the physical location of your body and hence to the physical location of your brain.  If your soul exists, its conscious perspective on the world is almost always the perspective of your physical body.  What is "here" and "now" to your consciousness is also "here" and "now" to your body and brain.  There are anecdotal reports of "out of body experiences" but there is no evidence that these are actually real in the sense that the experience corresponds to objective reality.  (It would be pretty easy to do an experiment to test this.  Most out-of-body experiences seem to happen in hospitals.  So take a piece of cardboard, write a random number on it, and mount it on the ceiling so that it can be seen from above but not from below.  If anyone claiming to have an out-of-body experience can tell you what that number is, that would be strong evidence that the experience was actually real.)

Second, using modern technology we can see, at least in broad brushstrokes, what kinds of brain activity correspond with being conscious as opposed to being asleep or under general anesthesia or in a coma.  Third, we can alter our subjective experience of consciousness with various chemicals (with general anesthesia being an extreme example).

So if souls are real, they have to interact with the brain somehow.  If nothing else, there has to be some mechanism by which the material things that influence consciousness exert that influence on the soul.  And that has to run both ways.  The soul has to also be able to influence the brain somehow.  Somewhere between the nerve impulses going in to the brain and the nerve impulses coming back out, there has to be something that happens differently than it would if souls did not exist.  If everything the brain does is exactly the same with and without souls, then, ipso facto, souls are not necessary to explain any observations.  That is the scientific definition of a thing that doesn't exist.  There might be technological limitations to our ever observing those differences, but there has to be something in the brain that could potentially be observed in principle that required souls to explain.  Otherwise, material minds would suffice.

There are two other potential explanations for consciousness besides souls and minds which I am going to list here just for completeness.  The first possibility is that I am the only truly conscious entity in the universe.  Despite the behavior of other humans being qualitatively indistinguishable from mine, they nonetheless do not actually have the same subjective experience as I do.  In other words, my consciousness is real, but yours isn't.  Your outward signs of consciousness are fake, a simulation of consciousness, not the real thing.  You are a philosophical zombie (PZ), a robot, an entity that behaves as if it is conscious but isn't really.  A closely related explanation is solipsism, which says that I am the only thing that actually exists and everything else that I perceive is just a figment of my imagination.

The problem with both of these is pretty obvious: they only work for me.  Of course, you can adopt variations on these hypotheses which say that your consciousness is the only legitimately real one, or that everyone (including me) is a figment of your imagination.  But you cannot consciously adopt the hypothesis that my consciousness is the only real one.  The problem with these hypotheses is the same as the problem with last-thursdayism: these are not individual hypotheses, they are a vast family of hypotheses (over 8 billion of them), all of which are consistent with the objective data, but only one of which can possibly be correct.  Solipsism and PZs cannot be falsified by data, but they can be eliminated as good explanations because every individual instance of these hypotheses requires special pleading in order to lay claim to being the best explanation.

I'm going to throw out one last Problem for the soul hypothesis: when do souls come into being, and how do they ultimately get bound to their corresponding brains and bodies?  A common claim among Christians is that souls are created at conception, but there are two problems with this.  First, at conception, the fertilized egg doesn't yet have a brain, or even anything that can be identified as the precursor of a brain.  And second, there is the phenomenon of identical twins, which are produced when a fertilized egg splits physically after its first cell division and produces two individuals with identical genes.  Do identical twins share a single soul?  If so, can one of a pair of identical twins be saved and the other not?  If not, where does the second soul come from?

My point in this article was not to solve the mind-body problem.  Mankind has been arguing over that for millennia and there is obviously no way I am going to cut that Gordian knot in a few thousand words.  What I wanted to do here is simply to demonstrate how even such a deep philosophical question can be subjected to scientific inquiry, and how the structure of that inquiry shares some similarity with the scientific inquiry into the nature of chairs and other seemingly mundane phenomena.

BTW, Grant Sanderson, the brilliant mind behind 3Blue1Brown, just released the second chapter in an excellent series on information theory and large language models.  I encourage you to watch it if you want to get a deeper understanding of information theory.  As some commenters have pointed out, the definition of information I have been using here is not the only one there is.  There are lots of different definitions, and a deep connection between information and entropy, which I have been trying very hard to avoid getting into.  Watching Grant's explanations will make it clearer why I have been trying so hard to avoid these details.  This series is about philosophy, and it's hard enough to write about without getting tangled in the technical weeds.  But there are plenty of resources out there if you want to get into the details.

Birthright Citizenship Hangs on by its Fingernails

The papers are burying the lede on the story of SCOTUS ruling in favor of birthright citizenship.  The headline should not be that it survived, it should be that the ruling was 5-4 on the Constitutional question.  In other words, birthright citizenship, a bedrock principle of law in the United states for over 150 years, survived by only a single vote.  That rescinding birthright citizenship could even be seriously considered was unthinkable a mere two years ago.  In that time it has gone from a fringe position to one vote short of being the law of the land.  This should terrify everyone who thinks their status as a U.S. citizen is secure.  It definitely terrifies me.  I have held a U.S. passport since I was ten years old.  But if push came to shove and I had to prove that I came by my passport legally, I 'm not sure I could.  I was not born in the U.S. and neither were my parents.  I have lived in the U.S. my entire conscious life but I have never voluntarily sworn fealty to her, and if asked to do so today I am not sure I would.

Putting that on the public record scares the shit out of me.  I am not even remotely confident that this will not come back to haunt me.  As I said, I have lived in the United States my entire conscious life (my family emigrated when I was five years old).  I played by the rules.  I have never been arrested.  I have never been unemployed.  I have never failed to pay my taxes.  I have never defaulted on a debt.  But the country I grew up in made an implicit bargain with me: in exchange for my good behavior, I was entitled to freedom of religion and freedom of speech.  I could say things like: "if I were asked to swear fealty to the United States today I'm not sure I would" without fear of having my citizenship -- or my TSA pre-check status -- revoked.

That trust now lies in flaming ruins.

If you think I'm being hyperbolic, you need to read the dissents in Trump v. Barbara.  Clarence Thomas writes, "[A]t the time of ratification, exclusive loyalty to the United States had long been a fundamental element of American citizenship."  [Emphasis added]  That might be true, but "exclusive loyalty" to the United States has never been an element of the law.  The word "loyalty" does not appear anywhere in the text of the Constitution.  Holding dual citizenship has always been legal in the U.S., and it is still legal today, at least ostensibly.

But Thomas makes it clear that conservatives have dual-citizenship in their crosshairs, writing, "if the Court were right that the Citizenship Clause did not require domicile, then it would have increased dual nationality, which would have provoked concern among 19th-century Americans."

The problem is that there is no statute that explicitly allows dual citizenship, nor is there one that prohibits it.  The legality of dual citizenship was not formally established until 1967 when the Supreme Court rules in Afroyim v. Rusk that dual citizenship was a Constitutional right guaranteed by the 14th Amendment.  But here again the situation is not cut and dried because Afroyim overruled an earlier decision, Perez v. Brownell, where the court ruled that you could have your citizenship revoked if you actually exercised your rights as a dual citizen by, say, voting in a foreign election.

In other words, your rights as a U.S. citizen are only as secure as the whims of the Supreme Court care to make it.  This has, of course, always been true in an academic sense, but the actual possibility that the Court would fuck with long-established precedents was not something anyone had to seriously consider.

Until now.

Invoking loyalty as an explicit criterion for citizenship should scare the hell out of you, and using residency as a proxy for loyalty should scare the hell out of you even more.  Loyalty to what exactly?  When I was a kid going to public school in Kentucky in the early 1970s we were made to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, which always struck me as rather odd: "I pledge allegiance to the flag..."  What the fuck does that even mean, to pledge allegiance to a flag?  I can kind of understand what it means to pledge allegiance to a nation (though even that is fraught with all manner of difficulty if you actually stop to think about it) but a flag?  How does pledging allegiance to a flag not run afoul of the Biblical prohibition against idolatry?

Of course, the Pledge goes on to add, "... and to the republic for which it stands..."  But it is far from clear that the republic for which it stands even exists any  more.  The United States of American today bears almost no resemblance to the United States that I grew up in and have lived in my entire life since I was five.  I used to be proud to call myself an American, but now I am ashamed.  I used to feel like I knew this country, but I barely recognize it today.  Today we escaped the loss of birthright citizenship by one vote.  Tomorrow we may, by the same one vote, be forced to swear a loyalty oath if we want to keep our ctizenship.  To what?  To anything the Court decides.  To the nation.  To the flag.  To the Dear Leader.

Here is the oath I am willing to swear: I pledge allegiance to government by the people, of the people, and for the people, to representative democracy, to the rule of law rather than the rule of man, to individual freedom tempered by social responsibility and duty to care for our fellow humans, to the apparently not-so-self-evident truth that all men and women are created equal, and ought to be endowed with certain inalienable rights, one of which is the right to dissent without fear of retaliation by the State.

If the United States of America wants to revoke my citizenship (or even just my travel privileges) for standing up and saying that, then it is manifestly no longer worthy of anyone's allegiance.

PSA: I'm doing another debate tonight

Subject line says it all.  The link to the debate is here in case you want to watch it.  It starts at 8PM eastern time.  This one is with SFT who tends to be better behaved than JimBob.  I'm also teaming up with 1stAmender.  I've never done a team debate before so that should be interesting. 

Sorry about the late notice.  I've been busy with other things.  (This is also why I haven't posted another installment of the Seeking God in Science series in a while.)

Seeking God in Science part 9: Creating Information

It might appear that I have been going to some pretty extreme lengths to belabor the obvious: we live in a world populated by material objects made of atoms.  Atoms exist in particular places at particular times and move around according to laws.  Collections of atoms are called systems and the positions of atoms within a system are called states.  Correlations between states are called information.

All this might look like I'm trying to dodge some of the hard problems, but in fact it's the exact opposite.  I'm trying to set the stage for talking about one of the hard problems, namely, where does information come from?  How is it created?  For this question to even make sense we need a precise definition of what we are talking about, of what information actually is, which is why all this prep work has been necessary.

But we need more than just that, because not all information seems to be created equal.  There are some kinds of information whose creation appears straightforward.  For example, a thermometer contains information about the temperature of its surroundings.  But there is no great mystery there.  It's obviously just a straightforward natural process, though it turns out that this process is not quite as easy to describe as you might first suspect.  Still, there is no need to invoke anything beyond the simple lawful behavior of atoms (and few odds and ends like electrons and photons) to explain thermometers and light switches and cameras and even computers.  Thermometers and light switches and cameras and computers are all just Atoms Doing Their Thing (ADTT).

But there are two kinds of systems in nature that appear to be qualitatively different: DNA and human brains.  Both of these contain information (obviously) but the information contained in DNA and human brains seems at first glance to be of a qualitatively different character than that contained in thermometers and light switches and cameras.  But note well that I had to leave computers off that list.  It is not at all clear any more whether human brains are qualitatively different from computers, or exactly what distinguishes the behavior of brains and computers, at least in terms of the information they contain. Up until a few years ago this was still a philosophical problem.  There were legitimate-sounding arguments that there were things brains could do that computers could not, but these have all be utterly destroyed by technological progress over the last few decades.  It was once argued that computers could never beat humans at chess, or speak Chinese, or distinguish dogs from cats.  Just in my lifetime all of these things have gone from cutting-edge research to borderline trivial.  A computer that will utterly crush any human at chess today costs a few hundred dollars and fits comfortably in the palm of your hand.

But, of course, computers would not exist without human brains to build them.  Large Language Models would not work without a corpus of text generated by human brains to train on.  And brains would not exist without DNA.  So there still seems to be something special about DNA and brains, some quality that distinguishes them from thermometers and light switches and cameras.

What is this quality, where does it reside, and where does it originate?  Where exactly does the hypothesis that everything we observe can be accounted for by Atoms Doing Their Thing fail?

One possibility is the capacity of the human brain for invention, for creating new information.  LLMs can mimic the input-output behavior of brains, but only if they are first trained on a vast corpus of information that was produced by brains.  All that information had to originate somewhere.  The only possible source of that information, it would seem, is human brains, and specifically, some quality that brains have that computers lack for creativity and originality, for creating new and interesting information.  What else could it possibly be?

Notice that I quietly snuck a new concept in there: new and interesting information.  Creating information, that is, correlations between states of systems, is, as noted earlier, not hard.  Even creating new information is not hard: just flip a coin and look at it.  The information about which side landed up is new.  It didn't exist before the coin landed.  (Note that this might not actually be true, but that's a deep, deep rabbit hole, one which we will explore later.  But for now let's just assume that it is not possible to predict the result of a coin flip, and so it really does produce new information.)  But this information is obviously completely different than the kind of newness in an original novel or poem or invention.  So it is not just newness that matters, it is something else, and that "something else" is what I call being interesting.

What exactly makes new information interesting?  That question is even harder to answer than what makes something a chair, but it doesn't really matter.  What matters is that humans mostly agree on what "interesting" means in this context, just like they mostly agree on what a chair is, and so this agreement is itself an observation that we need to explain.  And eventually we will, but not just yet.

For now, let's just accept that humans seem to be able to recognize and (mostly) agree on some distinction between interesting and uninteresting information in much the same way that they can recognize and (mostly) agree on some distinction between chairs and non-chairs.  This turns out to have surprisingly far-reaching and profound implications.

Consider someone named Audrey who writes an original poem or essay or novel, and a second person named Paul who makes a copy of Audrey's work and puts his own name on it.  We call Audrey an Author and Paul a Plagiarist because Audrey has created new, interesting information and Paul hasn't.

But plagiarism is not limited to copying original work like poems and essays and novels.  Consider a journalist (let's call her Jane) who writes news stories.  Copying one of Jane's stories would also be considered plagiarism despite the fact that news stories are not original in the same sense that poems and essays and novels are.  Indeed, the whole point of journalism is the exact opposite.  The value of journalism is that the information it contains reflects objective facts and are not an invention of the author.  So why is journalism considered valuable work?  Why do news stories have by-lines?  Why is copying a new story and re-publishing it under your own name considered plagiarism?  Aren't news stories just facts?  How can you claim ownership over a fact?

The answer is that yes, news stories are "just facts", but they are a very particular kind of fact.  They are interesting facts.  They are relevant facts.  The value in journalism is not in the generation of the information -- that is done by current events.  The value in journalism is in the filtering, the separation of the wheat from the chaff, the relevant events from the irrelevant details, the interesting from the uninteresting.

This idea of "filtering out" relevant and interesting things from irrelevant and uninteresting things will turn out to be absolutely crucial to our understanding of the world.  It will turn out that everything can be understood in these terms, even the very existence of atoms, though it will be  a long, long time before we get there.  For now, I just want to point out that even the creation of original work like poems and novels and blog posts can be explained not as a phenomenon in its own right, separate from the kind of filtering that goes on in journalism, but as an instance of the exact same process.

I can tell you from personal experience that the contents of this blog did not spring fully formed into my mind.  What you are reading now is the result of a filtering process.  Before I write a single word, I have to do a lot of reading.  I don't have the mental capacity to remember everything I read, so I have to filter out the relevant and interesting bits from the irrelevant and uninteresting bits.  Then I start to kick around ideas for what to write about, and the same thing happens.  Ideas pop into my head and I mentally sift through them thinking, "Nope, that's crap.  Nope, that's crap.  Nope, nope, nope... well, hmm, maybe..."

Then I write a draft, read it over, decide it's crap, throw it out, and write something different.  I usually end up throwing out much more text than I actually publish.  Right now, as I write these very words, there is a pile of text in this file that I wrote earlier but decided was crap after reading it over.  I'm keeping it around just in case there turns out to be something salvageable in it, but most likely all of it is just going to get thrown out, never to been seen by any human eyes other than my own because, well, it's crap.  The text I'm planning to discard is, as I write this, about twice as long as the text I'm currently planning to keep and publish, and God only knows how many bad ideas flitted through my head that never even made it to the keyboard at all.

And then, finally, after all that, after the reading and the writing and the rewriting and the re-rewriting, after at long last I click on the "publish" button, there is yet another filtering process that is performed by my audience (such as it is) where they -- you -- read what I wrote, decide if it has merit, and maybe, if I'm lucky, leave a comment, or recommend to someone else that they might want to read what I've written.  Maybe, some day, if I am very, very lucky, my words might get the attention of an agent or a publisher, whose entire job is to filter out relevant and interesting information from the torrent being constantly generated by aspiring writers all over the world, the vast majority of whom are doomed to never have anything enter their brains that gets past anyone else's filter and thus sink into quiet obscurity in the good company of countless prior generations of aspiring authors.

In other words, what we think of as originality is actually just the result of a lot of sifting through crap to find the good stuff.  Humans discover the good stuff, they recognize the good stuff, but they don't actually produce it.  Originality comes not from being the first to generate a new idea, but being the first to recognize it and promulgate it.  The actual generation of new ideas isn't the hard part.  The hard part is the filtering, recognizing the good ideas.

Notice how much this explains.  It explains why journalism is considered valuable work despite the fact that originality is antithetical to good journalism.  It explains why editing is considered valuable work.  It explains why people can make a living as literary agents and script readers.  It explains why AIs can be so good at writing really bad prose.  It explains why good ideas and good books and good blog posts are rare and can't just be generated on demand.

Now, this does not entirely eviscerate the notion that human brains are special, but it does take us down a peg.  The thing that makes us special is no longer our ability to come up with new ideas, but simply to recognize good ideas, which seems not quite as wonderful and special and magical as coming up with them in the first place.  But it still demands an explanation of how the filtering works, and why humans seem to be so much better at it than other animals.  (Whether we will actually turn out to be better at it than computers remains to be seen.)

As a sneak preview, the answer to this question will turn out to be that the laws of physics have built in to them a kind of "ur-filter", the mother of all filters, which ends up filtering out our ability to filter out interesting information.  Actually, there are two of these ur-filters.  One of them is Darwinian natural selection, which is a filter for the ability of a system to make a copy of itself.  And the second is something called quantum entanglement, which is a filter for the phenomenon of information itself.  Entanglement is what produces correlations between systems.  I have to emphasize that I do not expect you to believe any of this yet.  To say that there are a lot of details still to fill in would be a colossal understatement.  But sometimes it can help to follow the path if you know ahead of time where it is leading, even if the end is still very far off in the distance.

Seeking God in Science part 8: Caring

In the previous installment in this series I introduced the concept of information, which I defined as correlations between states.  Commenter Samuel (whose profile says he is a Young Earth Creationist) pointed out that:

Shannon entropy implicitly requires a mind to decide which distinct states will be recognized in order to assign a value to "n" (where n is the number of possible states.) [Emphasis added]

This is a fair criticism based on what I wrote:

Notice that when we say that a switch or a light has two states we have ignored a lot of details.  The actual physical state of a switch or a light includes a lot more than just whether it is on or off.  For starters, there is the actual physical location of the light or the switch.  A switch can be mounted on a wall, or it can be part of a lamp, or connected directly to some wires and not be mounted on anything at all.  But these kinds of details don't matter for the aspect of a light switch's behavior that we actually care about.  [Emphasis added.]

This implicitly tied my definition of information to the concept of caring about things.  What if there are correlations that we don't care about?  Do those correlations also contain information?

The answer is yes!  The reason I introduced things "that we actually care about" is not because this is essential to the concept of information, but just to make the concept easier to understand.   Information is not limited to things we care about, it's just easier to think about if we focus our attention on familiar examples like lights and switches and coins.  More specifically, it's easier to talk about if we limit our attention to things we have words for, and even more specifically, to words whose meanings are unambiguous.  Given that even prosaic words like "chair" have fuzzy boundaries, this is a tall order.

The reason for using a coin flip as an example is not because there is anything particularly special about coins per se, but that the procedure for flipping a coin is specifically designed to separate the possible states of the coin into two groups of states that can be easily and unambiguously distinguished from each other.  We call those groups of states "heads up" and "tails up", but those are not the only possible states the coin can be in.  A coin can be standing on edge, or spinning in the air, or bouncing on a hard surface.  And each of those descriptions actually encompasses a vast number of possible distinct physical states.  In fact, because the actual physical state of a coin (or anything else) involves the positions of atoms, the number of potential states might even be infinite.  We don't actually know if space and time are continuous or discrete.  If they are continuous, and if a physical process can cause two atoms to have positions that are perfectly correlated with each other, then the amount of information contained in that correlation would be infinite.

But here's the thing: even if this were possible, there is no way we could ever know.  The reasons are complicated and have to do with quantum mechanics which we haven't gotten to yet, so for now you will just have to trust me when I tell you that it is a fundamental fact of physics that any time you make a measurement the result must be discrete, and so can contain only a finite amount of information.

But all this is beside the point.  What actually matters is the claim often made by creationists that information cannot spontaneously emerge in nature.  This is absolute rubbish.  Information spontaneously emerges in nature all the time.  Any time the states of two systems become causally correlated, information is created.

However, there is still a potential valid criticism here.  It is possible that my definition of information as causal correlations between states is wrong, that it fails to adequately explain some observations.  Specifically, it fails to explain caring, i.e. the fact that we humans seem to be able to distinguish between information that we care about from information that we don't care about in the same way that we can distinguish chairs from non-chairs.  The information contained in books and newspapers and computers and DNA seems qualitatively different from the information contained in, say, a rock exposed to the elements.

There is no technical term to distinguish information in these two categories, and there is a reason for this: it turns out that there is no distinction.  But in order to explain why, I first have to lay out the argument for why there might be a distinction, and to do that I need words that distinguish between them.  In order not to prejudice the discussion, I'm simply going to call them type 1 and type 2.  Type 1 information comprises the correlations that arise from straightforward physical processes like rain falling on a rock.  Type 2 information is the kind that lives in human brains and DNA.

There are two main features that distinguish type 1 information from type 2.  First, type 2 information has a lot more complexity and structure than type 1, and second, type 2 information seems to be intimately related to intentionality, i.e. to caring about things.  (Note that here I am using the common definition of "intentionality", not the philosophical one.)  When we humans write books or blog posts or invent printing presses and computers, we do it in service of some kind of goal or purpose.  Likewise, the information in DNA seems to exist in service of the goal of producing life, without which the goals and purposes of human activities would obviously be moot.  In other words, type 2 information seems to have something to do not just with being correlated with something, but with caring about something.  And that distinction is ultimately rooted in our subjective experience of caring about things.  That subjective experience requires explanation.  One possible explanation is that caring is a fundamental component of objective reality, one that cannot be explained in terms of the mere movements of atoms.  It's kind of like "chairness" except that we ultimately were able to explain chairs in terms of the movements of atoms. But explaining caring is going to be a much tougher nut to crack.  We can see and touch chairs.  We can't see and touch caring.  We can't measure it.  Caring is a purely subjective experience (much like "believing").

Now, I am going to advance a hypothesis which I believe to be false, but which is designed to be a steel-manning of what some religious people believe.  I'm telegraphing this for two reasons.  If you are not religious, this is probably going to sound crazy, and I agree with you, it is.  But showing that it is crazy is actually not as easy as you might think.  And if you are religious, I'd be interested to know if you think I've gotten this right, if this is a fair representation of (part of) what you believe.  This hypothesis is intended to be a peer to the objective reality hypothesis.   I'm going to call it the transcendent mind hypothesis, but I could as well have called it the God-is-love hypothesis:

Our subjective sensation of caring is a sensory subjective experience that reflects a part of objective reality that lies beyond atoms, and therefore beyond what can be objectively measured, but which is nonetheless real.

In other words, our subjective experience of caring about things is every bit as much a reflection of reality as our subjective experience of seeing chairs.  In both cases we are experiencing something real, something outside of ourselves.  But in the case of chairs that something is made of atoms, and in the case of caring it is made of something else, something transcendent, and, most importantly, something that cares.  Specifically, something that cares about us, something that cares about our caring.  Something that could fairly be called God, even if it might diverge from standard theology in some details.

It is possible to show that this hypothesis is false, that it actually fails to account for all of our observations.  But doing that is much, much harder than I think most of my fellow atheists appreciate.  I think most atheists look at specific theologies, reject those (for very good reasons), but then end up throwing out the intentional baby with the theological bathwater.  In order to really explain caring you have to explain consciousness itself, and that is not easy.

I'm going to fast-forward through at least a dozen chapters and tell you what the answer is going to turn out to be: it is not necessary to posit a transcendent mind to explain our subjective experience of caring about things.  Caring can be explained in a purely materialistic way, purely as Atoms Doing Their Thing.  The TL;DR is that we were created by Darwinian evolution, a process which "cares" about reproductive fitness in the same way that water "cares" about flowing downhill to reach the ocean.  That process was physically reified here on earth as biological systems, and more specifically as a division of labor between genes encoded in DNA, and a phenotype that those genes produce.  One of the things that genes "figured out" out how to do is to build brains, because it turns out that genes that build brains have a reproductive advantage (in certain environments) over genes that don't.  And genes that build brains that care about things (like staying alive) have a reproductive advantage over genes that don't.

Like I said, that is vastly oversimplified.  It sweeps huge swathes of complexity and nuance under the rug.  But I didn't want to make you wait months before the Big Reveal.  In the chapters that follow I promise I will lift up the rug and tidy up properly.  But it's a big job.  The path to enlightenment is not an easy one.