Faith, Hope, and Belief in God: An Interview with Prof. Liz Jackson
Dr. Liz Jackson is an Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Ryerson University (in Canada). She has many publications in research journals in epistemology and philosophy of religion.
JIMMY LICON: You’re a philosopher who specializes in epistemology and philosophy of religion. How did that happen?
LIZ JACKSON: I’ve definitely been interested in philosophy since I was a kid. Even though I didn’t know what philosophy was, I was asking lots of philosophical questions. Where did the world come from? Who made God? What’s the biggest number possible? Yes, I was that kid.
In college at Kansas State, I wasn’t sure what to major in. I originally declared a math major, and then I was thinking about political science. But my sophomore year I took my first philosophy class, and I was totally hooked. I was also super happy to know that people were interested in and working on the questions I’d had for a long time. I also really like the way I was basically allowed to question any assumption. I declared a philosophy major pretty quickly.
I was pretty set on grad school, but torn between philosophy grad school and seminary. Then I found out philosophy grad school was fully funded, and I preferred the analytic way of thinking and wanted a chance to take logic classes. For those two reasons, I decided to apply to philosophy Ph.D. programs. Notre Dame was one of the highest ranked schools I applied to, and when I got the acceptance email, I was convinced that I was being pranked. Needless to say, when I found out it was real, I was thrilled.
In grad school, epistemology and philosophy of religion came naturally as areas of specialization. I was interested in epistemology in undergrad—I remember losing significant sleep over the problem of skepticism. I just kind of maintained that interest throughout grad school, although it grew into other areas of epistemology, including social and formal epistemology. And philosophy of religion questions got me into philosophy in the first place, plus philosophy of religion is huge at Notre Dame, so that was a natural second specialization for me.
JL: Can you clearly explain your view of belief and credence dualism? Why does it matter?
LJ: Many epistemologists (known as “traditional” epistemologists) focus on belief. They assume there are basically three attitudes we can take to a proposition: believe it, withhold belief on it, or disbelieve it. For example: you probably believe 1+1=2, withhold belief on whether there’s an even number of stars, and disbelieve that the earth is flat. But other epistemologists (known as “formal” epistemologists) point out that this can’t be the full story. I believe 1+1=2 and I believe it will be sunny tomorrow, but my attitude toward each of those propositions isn’t exactly the same (the weather can be pretty unpredictable in Florida). So they propose we have credences, that measure our confidence levels on a scale from 0 to 1, where 0 is certainty that a proposition is false, and 1 is certainty that it’s true. I have a credence very close to 1 that 1+1=2, but a credence of maybe 0.9 it will be sunny tomorrow.
With both beliefs and credences on the table, another debate arises: do we actually have both beliefs and credences? Can we reduce beliefs to credences or credences to beliefs? And if we have both, why would we have both? (Maybe unsurprisingly, many formal epistemologists tend to either get rid of beliefs or reduce them to credences. On the other hand, many traditional epistemologists seem sympathetic to the idea that credence reduce to beliefs.)
My work argues for a kind of pluralism here: we have both beliefs and credences, and neither reduces to the other. This is what I call belief-credence dualism. There are a lot of reasons why I think both belief and credence have a role to play. But here’s one, and hopefully this will also shed light on (one reason) why I think dualism is important.
Beliefs let us take a stand and have a view of the world. Suppose I believe that God exists, or that factory farming is morally wrong, or that a certain political party is best for my country. I’m aligning with a certain view; I’m on that team. Being able to do this is pretty important for our life projects and commitments. People taking different stances on controversial matters is also epistemically good for groups; it helps them be more likely to reach the truth in the long run.
However, we often get evidence against the things that we believe. This is where credence comes in; credences track our precise level of evidence. If the forecast initially predicts a 90% chance of sun tomorrow, then it changes to an 80% chance, I should lower my credence from 0.9 to 0.8. Evidence moves our credences all over the map. But it doesn’t always have to change what we believe; even when my credence goes from 0.9 to 0.8, I can keep believing it will be sunny tomorrow. Here’s another example: Suppose you trust and love your brother very much, and you believe he would never commit a serious crime. However, he becomes a suspect for a murder, and the evidence is mounting against him. If the evidence is good but inconclusive, you should lower your credence that he is innocent, but you need not give up your belief that he is innocent.
One reason I think dualism is important is that it provides a model for how can keep our commitments and remain steadfast in our beliefs, even when our credences are blown around by the winds of counterevidence. At the same time, credences are super useful for tracking our level of evidential support, and play a role in determining when we should give up a belief. This is a powerful model for how faith can remain steadfast in light of counterevidence without ignoring or disregarding the evidence.
JL: What, in your view, is the best evidence for God’s existence?
LJ: Great question. The ontological argument is cool to think about, but unlikely to convince most skeptics, so in that sense isn’t great evidence. I also like thinking about cosmological arguments, but I am generally unsympathetic to ones that deny the existence of actual infinities.
Here are a couple pieces of evidence for theism that I personally find compelling (although not an exhaustive list—I’ve recently become more interested in the argument from consciousness, for example.) The first is basically the idea that we have good reason to think there are abstract objects—like numbers, propositions, and properties—and that God is the best explanation for these. While I think atheistic Platonism is a tenable view, it’s definitely a little weird. And if you can ground abstract objects in God’s mind or thoughts, I find that a lot less spooky. To be clear, this is different than the moral argument that says that there can’t be objective morality on atheism. I think the atheist can explain abstracta, but the theist can do a better job.
The way that the world seems designed also has evidential weight. Looking out at creation, I’m compelled to think there’s a Creator. I don’t have to prove that there was a violation of the laws of nature or something science can’t explain to get to this conclusion (i.e. I’m not a huge fan of the irreducible complexity/Intelligent Design stuff). Rather, looking at the beauty of normal natural processes is good evidence for a Creator. (Maybe living by some pretty amazing beach sunsets helps. Someone recently told me that, interestingly, their confidence in theism correlates with the amount of time they’ve spent in nature recently.)
Finally, I’m sympathetic to those who believe in God because of Christianity. I’m pretty compelled by the beauty of Jesus’ incarnation, life, atonement, and resurrection. The Christian story is pretty dope. And if the Christian story is true, then God exists. For me personally, the beauty of Christianity has played as big of a role—if not a bigger role—than the more traditional arguments for God’s existence.
JL: Please explain the difference between evidential and pragmatic arguments for belief in God.
LJ: Evidential arguments for theism provide evidence that God exists. Some of these are the ones that were just mentioned: the ontological, cosmological, and fine-tuning arguments. They conclude (or raise the probability) that God exists.
Pragmatic arguments, on the other hand, aren’t meant to provide evidence that God exists. Instead, they focus on the practical benefits of belief in God. (You could also include the moral benefits of belief in God). So pragmatic arguments don’t conclude (or raise the probability) that God exists; rather, they conclude that you should believe in God. Two of the most famous pragmatic arguments for theism are Pascal’s wager and the Jamesian wager.
JL: What is Pascal’s Wager for belief in God? To which God does it apply, and why?
LJ: Pascal made one of the most famous pragmatic arguments for God. The reasoning behind a basic form of the wager goes like this: if God exists and I believe in God, I’ll go to heaven, which is infinitely good. If God exists and I don’t believe in God, I may go to hell, which is infinitely bad. If God does not exist, then whether I believe in God or not, whatever I’d gain or lose would be finite. So, I should believe in God.
People sometimes miss that Pascal himself dealt with the “which God?” question before he even presented the wager, as he argued that Christianity and atheism are the only two live options. Generally, if we had a good reason to only take one religion seriously, then the wager gives us a good reason to pick that religion rather than be an atheist or agnostic.
However, even without such an argument, a second response to the many-gods objection can be summarized in two words: probability matters. It matters even when dealing with infinite values.
To see why, imagine you’re given the choice between a 90% chance at an infinite good or a 10% chance at the same good. You should clearly take the 90% chance. When we apply this to Pascal’s wager, the result is that you should wager on the religion that is most likely to be true. Wagering on the more probable religion gives you a higher chance at an infinite good, and so provides a way to pick between religions. Further, since it’s unlikely that atheists and agnostics go to heaven and theists go to hell, Pascal’s wager implies it’s irrational to be an atheist or agnostic.
JL: What is the problem of evil? What briefly, in your view, is the best solution?
LJ: It’s one of the best arguments that God does not exist. If there is an all-good God, God would want to prevent evil. And if God is all powerful, God could prevent evil. But clearly, evil exists. It’s unclear why God would allow evils, especially evils that seem pointless.
Theists have provided several responses to the problem of evil, including (1) the free will defense (Plantinga) which says that God lets us make genuine choices, but to be morally significant, these choices require both the ability to do good and the ability to do evil. (Some include the free will of spiritual beings, like demons of the devil, and use this to explain natural evil.) (2) is the soul-making theodicy (Hick), the view that evils are necessary for people to undergo spiritual growth that will ultimately make them fit for communion with God. For example, going through a serious illness like cancer is an evil, but it can ultimately give you virtues, such as perseverance and trust, make you closer with your friends and family, etc. (3) is the natural laws theodicy (Peter van Inwagen), which is the idea that our world is governed by natural laws, which are required for humans to be able to make decisions and act in a predictable way. However, sometimes these natural cause events that harm individuals. But this evil is outweighed by the value of living in a world with predictable laws of nature. (4) is skeptical theism, the view that we may not know all the reasons that God allows evil, but that doesn’t mean God doesn’t have a good reason. I’m pretty wary of versions of skeptical theism that are too skeptical. At the same time, it’s important to have some epistemic humility and realize that we don’t have all the answers.
Finally, there’s two uniquely Christian responses to the problem of evil. (5) is the Felix Culpa theodicy (Plantinga), which means “oh happy sin.” Plantinga argues that sin and evil is necessarily the Christian goods of Incarnation and Atonement (Jesus taking a human form and dying for us), and these goods outweigh the badness of some sin and evil. Finally, and relatedly, (6) the incarnation itself can help with the problem of evil. In becoming human, Jesus entered into our pain and suffering. The Bible says that Jesus endured pain and suffering “for the joy set before him.” The fact that Jesus can emphasize with our pain comforts us when we are going through difficult times.
I mention all six responses because I think the best answer to the problem of evil is some kind of cumulative case response. All six of these (and others as well) combined together can best help us understand why God allows evil. I like this cumulative response because I don’t think we have to put all our eggs in one basket. For example, if you rely primarily on skeptical theism to answer the problem of evil, I worry that that leads to too much skepticism. And also, evils that some responses might fail to explain, other responses might explain better.
JL: What is the relationship between faith, hope, and belief? Is there a relationship?
LJ: Belief is the attitude of taking something to be the case or regarding it as true. Belief is primarily sensitive to factors evidence and truth. However, belief doesn’t require desire; I might believe that I failed a test or I missed a flight, even though I have no desire for either of those to be true.
One way that faith and belief are different is that faith requires a desire, but belief does not. Suppose I claim to have faith that your basketball team will win their upcoming game, but I want them to lose. That doesn’t make sense, because faith involves desire. If I have faith that your team will win their game, I desire your team to win. Faith also requires a decent amount of evidence—I shouldn’t have faith in your team if I think it’s impossible, or even nearly impossible, they’ll win.
Faith and hope also differ, although they have a lot in common. Hope, like faith, involves desire—whether I have faith you will win your game or hope you will win your game, I want you to win your game. However, faith and hope aren’t the same thing. This is because faith isn’t compatible with thinking the statement is false or almost definitely false. However, hope that a statement is true merely requires thinking that statement is possible; you can hope for things that are extremely unlikely.
Belief, faith, and hope have a fascinating relationship. When we lose evidence, we can move from belief to faith, and then from faith to hope.
For example, let’s suppose I have a picnic planned for Tuesday. I checked the forecast a week in advance, and there’s only a 5% chance of rain, so I believe it will be sunny on Tuesday. Then, I check it a few days ago and now there’s a 40% chance of rain. Then, I may have faith that my picnic won’t be rained out. Suppose the forecast changes, and there’s now a 95% chance of rain Tuesday. I can no longer have faith that it will be sunny, because it’s very likely to rain tomorrow. However, I can nonetheless hope for sun. Rain is very likely, but not guaranteed, and the forecast is wrong sometimes. And I have a strong desire for it to be sunny. We can therefore move from belief to faith to hope as we get more and more counterevidence.
This path from belief to faith to hope can help us keep our commitments over time, even in light of counterevidence. A commitment to God is a good example of this. You might start off believing in God, get counterevidence, then move to faith in God, and then get more counterevidence, and then move to hope in God. But all three of these attitudes can rationalize or underlie a religious commitment.
JL: William James once said that ‘there is only one thing a philosopher can be relied upon to do, and that is to contradict other philosophers.’ How can one have justified philosophical beliefs? Aren’t we just as likely to be right as to be wrong?
LJ: Great question! This is something I’ve been thinking about recently, especially in light of my interest in belief and credence.
When it comes to the disagreement debate, there are two main positions. Conciliationists argue that our opinions should change when we encounter peer disagreement. The thought is that, if we encounter people that roughly share our evidence, who have similar reliability and epistemic virtues, it seems dogmatic and closeminded to simply ignore the fact they disagree with us by not altering our opinion in any way. Steadfasters argue that our opinions should not change when we encounter peer disagreement. They argue that we seem to lose something epistemically valuable if we constantly defer to the opinions of others. If conciliationism is true, virtually no one can rationally have a strong opinion about something controversial. Others have argued that always changing our views in response to disagreement leads to a problematic spinelessness—a requirement to give up our most deeply-held beliefs.
There’s something intuitive about both of these positions (hence the debate), but it seems like they can’t be true at the same time. Or can they? Notice that “opinion” is ambiguous between beliefs and credences.
I’ve argued that one way to capture the benefits of both steadfastness and conciliationism is that we should change our credences, but not our beliefs, when we encounter disagreement. In virtue of changing our credences, we can acknowledge and give weight to the disagreement. But, at least to a certain point, it’s okay to keep our belief, taking a stance on a controversial topic. And when it comes to our favorite philosophical theories, I think we can (in most cases) believe them, even if our credences in them are somewhere in the 0.5 range.
JL: Was there a time when you failed, either in your personal or professional life, spectacularly? What did you learn from that failure, and how has it improved your life?
LJ: Yes, absolutely, many times. One that comes to mind is when I failed my history comprehensive exams in the summer after my first year of grad school. I was crushed and discouraged. I had to retake them over Christmas break the next year (thankfully, I passed the second time). But it definitely led to a lot of imposter syndrome, and questioning whether I was really cut out for getting a Ph.D.
However, instead of letting this crush me, I used it as fuel to motivate me to change my work habits. I had terrible work habits my first year of grad school. Grad school is weird, because you have tons of freedom and very little accountability; no one is making you come to work 9-5. The first year in the program, I slept till 11am almost every day, didn’t really take days off, and stayed up super late on social media or YouTube most nights. I saved all of the semester’s seminar papers until the last minute, and had to write 4 papers in less than a month, which was really difficult and stressful.
Failing the exam ultimately made me totally re-think my work habits. I started waking up and getting to campus around 8:30am, and stopping work around 5pm to go workout. I started taking weekends off, and actually resting when I was resting, rather than half-working all the time. I started timing my work and tracking things using the Pomodoro method, where you work in 25-minute chunks with a 5-minute break in between. I also just stopped waiting until the last minute to get work done, which is a habit that honestly totally changed my life.
These habits contributed to my doing well in the rest of the program. I passed my oral exam early and on the first try, and starting sending off papers for publication in my third year. I was then able to publish a few things before going on the job market, which really helped with my getting a job. And these habits are super helpful now, too, since an academic job is similarly flexible and requires a lot of self-motivation. So ultimately, even though failing the exam sucked at the time, I learned a lot from it.
JL: What do you want people to say about you and your work a hundred years hence? What do you want written on your tombstone?
LJ: This is a good but really hard question. I of course have a desire to make rigorous arguments that are published in good academic journals. However, I would love to be someone whose influence goes beyond the academy. I want to get popular audiences excited about philosophy, thinking critically, and disagreeing well. I also want to help people see that religious belief/commitment can be reasonable. I’d love for all of these to be part of the legacy of my work.
I thought about the tombstone question for awhile, but had trouble coming up with an answer that fully satisfied me. Maybe something about faith, since faith is an important part of most of my most central commitments (marriage, family, religious commitment, etc.), faith is also an important part of my research, and I strive to be a faithful person. I’ve always loved the parable where the master (God) says, “well done, good and faithful servant.” So maybe a quote from that parable (in Matthew 25).
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