The Natural Constants

A scientific fact: The constants and laws of nature fall perfectly within narrow ranges that allow life to exist.

I have recently been watching a few lectures on Academic Earth, specifically an introductory astrophysics course by Yale lecturer Charles Bailyn. In the final lecture of this series he raises the self-evident but often forgotten fact, that we exist. He goes on to explain how our existence is entirely dependent on a whole host of natural constants each falling within very small ranges, which of course they do, because we exist. These are numbers that physicists have worked out that fundamentally describe certain functions and aspects of the universe, and each of them is quite perfect. Perhaps a couple of examples.

The universe is expanding, as it has done since the moment of initial singularity (Big Bang theory). The density of the stuff in the universe slows it down through gravitational forces between itself. The cosmological constant (Λ) is proposed as a fundamental property of the universe; if it were much larger than it is (a mere ten times larger) the universe would not be dense enough, it would not be able to stop expanding, and we would have catastrophic inflation. This would not allow matter to congregate enough for stars to form, let alone planets with enough complexity to allow life.

The gravitational constant and the speed of light are other examples, especially as they relate to the Schwarzchild radius (r_s). This is a given radius for every quantity of mass. If an object is smaller than it's Schwarzchild radius, neither light nor particles can escape the region from the inside, and you get a black hole. Its value is given by:

where G is the gravitational constant, m is the mass of the object, and c is the speed of light. If G were slightly larger, or if light travelled slightly slower, then the Schwarzchild radius of any object would be larger. If this radius was larger than a white dwarf star (the usual graveyard-type form of a star at the end of its life) then every star would end as a black hole. This means the material in stars would never be expelled in supernovae, so no heavy metals would become available for the construction of planets, or of life.

We are carbon-based life forms. Carbon is really good at working itself into a myriad and endless array of complex structures (carbon chemistry is, as a result, the most complicated kind of chemistry). The properties of carbon that allow it to develop this complexity- and complexity is a necessity for the emergence of life- would dissapear or would never have developed if a whole host of other constants and forces did not sit at their existing values; the fine structure constant (α), which dictates the strength of the electromagnetic interaction, is an example. If the strengths of the fundamental forces (the strong and weak nuclear forces, the electromagnetic force, and the  gravitational force) were tweaked ever so slightly, they could cause seemingly minor things to play out differently and, over the long course of the development of the universe, could make hundreds of catastrophic differences that would all result in the non-emergence of life.

So almost all of the natural constants are fine-tuned in such a massive, perfect system that has allowed, in this universe, life to develop; and further, intelligent life capable of observing those very same constants. Now for the big question: why? Possible answers:

1) It's an accident. A totally freakish coincidence.

2) It was done that way on purpose.

3) There's actually a multiverse and we are the lucky one that got it right.

Number one is entirely unsatisfactory and frankly no fun at all. Number two is the very obvious answer. It does not necessitate a religious belief; see the Strong Anthropic Principle, the idea that the universe for some reason must be such that observers are created in it at some stage, for example. But atheists are pesky buggers, and number three demonstrates some pretty impressive imagination to get around the need for a God. It draws on the ideas of probability theory; basically, everything will happen at some point somewhere if we try enough. If we do an experiment in which we roll a dice fifty times, it will be very unlikely that we will get fifty sixes. But if we run that experiment enough times, we will eventually get that result. So if there are millions of other universes out there, each with slightly different natural constants, surely one of them will get them within the ranges necessary for the emergence of life. And, indeed, one did. This can be dismissed as cold and impersonal (both true) or just too absurd. I don't want to go into details, but there are plausible theories as to where these other universes are: they are beyond the 'cosmic horizon', very very far from us; they lie in other dimensions (proposed by string theory) that we can't access; or new universes are born through black holes. Science fiction much?

So we still do not know why the physical constants have turned out so perfectly. It is natural to postulate the existence and role of an omniscient creator, but this is not the only explanation. The question will probably be solved in the future by the arrival of better intruments of measurement (or God himself). Until then, let's continue to live with the same assumptions we had before. And read sci-fi.

A Question

One day Fred decided he wanted to know what happened after death.
Fred went to the local synagogue and asked the rabbi: “What will happen to me after death?” The rabbi explained that if he believed in the omniscience and benevolence of God, and followed the Jewish rites, he could attain closeness with God after dying, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local Hindu temple and asked the Brahmin: “What will happen to me after death?” The Brahmin explained that if he devoted himself to the gods and followed one of the proper ethical paths, he could attain liberation from the cycle of rebirth, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local church and asked the priest: “What will happen to me after death?” The priest explained to him that if he took Jesus Christ as his saviour, all of his sins would be absolved, and he would spend eternity in Heaven, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local Buddhist monastery and asked the lama: “What will happen to me after death?” The lama explained that if he dedicated himself to having correct thoughts, practices and deeds, upon death his existence would be blissfully snuffed out, which he said was pretty good.
Fred went to the local mosque and asked the imam: “What will happen to me after death?” The imam explained that if he followed the teachings of Muhammad and submitted to the will of Allah, he would go to paradise upon death, which he said was pretty good.
When Fred went home his brother asked him: “What will happen to me after death?”
“Nobody knows,” Fred replied.

The Numinous

This is a fabulous word that I think everyone should get to know a little better. If our thoughts are constrained by our vocabulary, let us all widen our minds with this one.

It was coined by Rudolf Otto in a book published in English as The Idea of the Holy in 1923. The word numinous is used to describe the experience or feeling of the holy or the ‘wholly other’, that which seems to be beyond material existence, an emotion that drives the religious imagination. The phrase mysterium tremendum et fascinans is frequently used to define it: that is, it is a feeling of something mysterious and other, that may seem to be transcendent, which inspires, simultaneously, both fright, repulsion and dread (tremendum) and curiosity, awe and attraction (fascinans). The kinds of experiences that can be described as numinous are hundredfold. It describes any time when one feels that their view of things has been broadened or deepened, where one feels both love and dread, where it feels like a curtain has been pulled back to reveal something more glorious about the world. It feels blissful, you feel fulfilled, topped up with light and happiness; and simultaneously you feel terrified and insignificant, as if you and the human race are absolutely nothing in comparison to the true reality you’ve just experienced.

Needless to say, such experiences are frequently interpreted (careful word choice, interpreted) as affirming the existence of God, spirits, cosmic order, or however the recipient conceptualises the supernatural. Indeed, touching the numinous often occurs in religious contexts; especially the mystic streams of the major faiths, which speak of union with the divine, or brief enlightenment, or witnessing God, or any number of other descriptions which are fundamentally different interpretations of the numinous experience. There are words for this feeling in every world religion: bodhi, nirvana, satori, ‘fana, en sof, etc.

These experiences need not be seen as religious. Dorothy Rowe, in her enlightening book on how our beliefs affect our psychopathology, What Should I Believe? (2009), discusses how out-of-body, transcendent, revelatory or numinous experiences are interpreted in light of our previous experiences and what we had previously believed about the nature of the divine. They are intrinsically impossible to put into words and so “we fall back on the language of the religion we were brought up in to describe them” (page 249). Indeed, all religious teachings and dogmas could (if we put aside moral creeds) be seen as attempts to provide a language to explain the numinous. But we do not need to attach the supernatural to such experiences to appreciate them and to take value from them; they are wonderful simply as heightened states of consciousness regarding the natural. It can simply be a material experience of the material world whereby the glory and wonder that is inherent in the world around us suddenly becomes clear. An all-natural spiritual wonder.

It is in this way that the word has been picked up by even the most radical atheists. Christopher Hitchens (author of God is Not Great) has, in The Four Horsemen, maintained a distinction between the superstitious and the numinous. He thus keeps the numinous sense that many get of the world’s glory and grace, but divorces this from the existence of the supernatural in any form. His atheist buddies agree. Daniel Dennett, atheist philosopher, reacts by proving that he has experienced the numinous through this accurate description:

It is the best moment in your life. And it's the moment when you forget yourself and become better than you ever thought you could be in some way. And see, in all humbleness, the wonderfulness of nature. That's it! And that's wonderful. But, it doesn't add anything to say, golly, that has to have been given to me by somebody even more wonderful.

 

Phillip Adams, Australian radio host and author of Adams vs God, speaking on Compass’ The Atheists, also refers to the numinous experience as enriching his atheism:

The sense of the numinous is when you stand outside at night at the farm and you look up at a clear sky unpolluted by the metropolis, and you’re looking at billions and billions and billions of stars. More suns out there than there are grains of sand in the Sahara. And if you’re not overcome by a sense of the numinous – which is a mixture of awe and wonderment and dread – there’s something wrong with you. It’s a great emotion. It’s the emotion I think that drives religion and philosophy and science.

Personally, I similarly experience the numinous when I am alone, in the dark, at night, looking at the moon. Sometimes, after a moment or two, I suddenly and briefly grasp or understand how big it is, how far away it is, how big the earth is, and how I fit into it all. I understand that I am minutely small and entirely insignificant to the functioning of the universe. This revelation makes my life’s little problems seem small and paltry, and less worrisome, but it also raises the question: what’s the point? Clearly I am experiencing the numinous, that ambivalence of anxiety and bliss. It does feel like I am touching the transcendent, as if I am feeling God’s light, but I do not interpret it this way; I see no need to.

What are numinous experiences? Clearly we could say that there is something called the numinous, some kind of cosmic oneness sitting beyond the phenomenal world, that we occasionally are lucky enough to witness. Or perhaps, when we have these experiences, we are simply noticing everything in the material world as it truly is for a moment, with our veils of cognitive inhibitions pulled back. Or perhaps our brains have, through some freak of nature, become so complex that they occasionally stuff up and we briefly feel a little funny. Whatever they are, we all have them, and they are things to be embraced, enjoyed, and shared.

Social Awkwardness

Some tips I may have followed in avoiding social awkwardness...

1. Follow someone but remain outside their field of vision.

2. Pretend you did not see them.

3. Go out of your way to physically avoid someone.

4. Pretend to be in a rush.

5. Look like you are really deep in a book.

6. Plan ahead.

7. Actually speak, discover common ground, and fall in love.

A Picture of God

One day Fred went to the local church. A rotund, bearded man stood out the front, gazing with intent at the stained glass windows of the church. Young Fred ran over to the man and asked: “Can you draw me a picture of God?”
The man looked down and smiled. After a glance at the church, he squatted next to Fred and sketched this image in the dirt with a stick.
Fred was puzzled.
The man explained. “Many things point towards God,” he said, pointing to the lines, “but in reality, there is nothing there.”
“So there is no God?” asked Fred.

“Can you see a circle?” the man asked in reply. Fred nodded. “There may be no visible circle. But draw enough lines around one, and there is. God does exist; he exists through the belief people have in him, and the influence that belief has on their actions.”
Fred thanked the man, and ran home.

The Problem of Words

How are we to describe a phenomenon from another culture, when the only suitable English word carries unavoidable connotations?

I have come across this problem in my study of Ancient Egyptian religion. In trying to express their conceptualisation of the body, I have repeatedly been frustrated by Western scholars' tendency to translate various Egyptian words into the English 'body', 'soul' or 'spirit'. In fact the Egyptians had a vast array of different words that each had slightly different emphases and none of them meld one-to-one with any of our English terms; ka, ba, akh, khat, khaibit, ib, sekhem, and many more, were all applied to describe a person or an identity in different contexts. None of them were solely physical and material ('body') and likewise none of them were solely transcendant, ethereal or eternal ('soul' or 'spirit'). The solution seems to be to leave them untranslated: but how can we then compare between cultures, if we are stuck in contextual languages? But then, why is English somehow superior as a language of comparison; what gives us the right to apply our terms to other cultures, pidgeonholing them into our conceptualisations of the world, just so we can study them?

The issue is that 'body' and 'soul' are intrinsically tied up in a massive history of Western Judaeo-Christian theology. The West is, historically, dualistic (although recently it has become very fashionable to reject dualism wholeheartedly and appeal to holistic or embodied views). The language that we speak has grown up amidst this dualistic culture, that is: body-human-mundane-material-temporary vs. soul-God-divine-ethereal-eternal. Our fleshy existence is tied to this dirty tangible world and we wait and yearn to be free of that, for our divine inner sparks to enter a non-physical existence for the rest of time. To use the word 'soul' immediately brings to mind (another problematic word) this particular view of the nature of humanity and its ultimate destiny; using 'body' is similarly constricting as the word refers solely to physical existence and excludes the intangible aspects of one's identity.

And so we are stuck in a quandary. To communicate our ideas with others we must use language, but the language we speak prescribes and limits the ideas we can express. And if we cannot express an idea verbally, then perhaps we cannot even think it in the first place: are not our thoughts articulated, even in our own heads, using our primary language of communication? There may be a nascent form of an idea which is pure and free from the strictures of syntax and morphology, but to express that idea, even to ourselves, to isolate it and have a look at it, requires articulation in the form of language; and as we have found, language constrains you. (See Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis).

Solution? Be aware of it. Know that the words you use are not God-given, pure representations of how the world is structured; they are human and cultural constructions with very specific histories and very specific definitions. It is not possible for us all to learn every language, every way of expressing every possible idea, but we can take some steps in that direction. Your ka, body, khat, soul and ib will be happier for it.