JeremyStangroom.Com

Richard and Dan live in a society that is thoroughly and harmoniously religious. People are happy. They sing hymns together, burn incense, enjoy wearing robes and have a penchant for incantation. There exists little in the way of what we would recognize as education. Children are taught about God, sacred traditions, the importance of family and community, the truth of the Holy Scripture, but that’s about it.

Richard and Dan, however, do not share the religious sensibility of their fellow citizens. They were brought up by their parents – members of the renegade Enquiries at the Periphery – to be secular humanists. As teenagers, they were closeted away, and put through an intense educational program designed to teach them the overriding importance of science and scientific methodology. At first, Richard and Dan resisted the efforts of their teachers, preferring the simplicity of the beliefs of their early childhood, but the pressure from their teachers was relentless, and inevitably they came to embrace a scientific worldview.

However, their education has not made them happy. They are alienated from the society in which they live, and they find themselves wishing that they could be more like other people – that they could experience the exuberance of happy singing, the joy of worshipping the God they do not believe exists, and the togetherness engendered by a shared belief. But try as they might, they simply cannot believe. It is impossible. They know that their way of understanding the world is the right way, but they wish it were otherwise.

Richard and Dan live lonely, miserable, friendless lives. They are considerably less happy than they would have been had they not been born to proselytizing secular humanist parents. If you ask them about it, they’ll tell you that they were brainwashed as teenagers – that they were victims of a kind of abuse, which has left them unable to live as full members of their society.

***

The notion of brainwashing usually carries with it the idea that a victim has been forced or pushed to believe various things that are palpably false or absurd. The scenario above subverts this idea by asking us to consider whether it is right to describe as brainwashing the inculcation of a worldview that many people think is rationally justified. Richard and Dan are committed to the truth of secular humanism, but they claim that they cannot help but think that way – despite their desire not to do so – because of the nature of their upbringing and education. They have, in effect, been brainwashed.

A possible objection here is to insist that part of what defines brainwashing is that it involves employing specific psychological techniques – such as isolation and emotional manipulation – in order to ensure that people come to believe particular things. The trouble is that this definition seems to leave too much out. Consider, for example, that the scientist Richard Dawkins, and philosopher Anthony Grayling, and many others like them, have suggested that the normal religious education provided by churches, mosques and synagogues is “brainwashing” and “child abuse”.

Perhaps then what defines brainwashing is that it involves the passing on of beliefs that are presented as being unquestionably true. This allows in the teaching of religion as a kind of brainwashing. The trouble is that it also allows in an awful lot else. Just think about how history was taught for a large part of the twentieth century: facts and dates – no questioning, no dissent, and nothing to suggest that the details of history are contested. So was the teaching of history – and anything else taught in a similar fashion – a kind of brainwashing? Perhaps it was.

Maybe the only way to avoid the brainwashing charge is to cultivate a restless and questioning spirit in people through our educational practices. But here the case of Richard and Dan looms large again. They were both precisely taught to be restless and questioning, and it is their claim that they have been damaged as a consequence. For them, it is their inability to leave behind the legacy of their “enlightened” education that has left them isolated and estranged.

This is a reworking of a post that originally appeared on the Talking Philosophy blog.

Daniel Dennett

When Tony Blair first became leader of the Labour Party in 1994, the Sun newspaper, a British tabloid, took to calling him ‘Bambi’, presumably in the hope that the nickname would become established in the public consciousness. It did not, of course, for it lacked any kind of resonance with what people could believe about Blair. He wasn’t a child, his leadership was anything but childlike, and he lacked the requisite number of legs to be a baby deer. Not discouraged, the Sun was at it again in 2001, this time when Iain Duncan Smith became leader of the Conservative Party. In what was probably a desperate attempt to establish his man of the people credentials, it started to call him ‘Smithy’. A quite absurd conceit, given his double-barrelled name and former career as an army officer. Needless to say, this nickname didn’t catch on either, and almost universally in the UK media, Duncan Smith came to be known as IDS.

None of this is surprising. If your aim is to coin, ex nihilo, a name or epithet which quickly gains widespread public acceptance, the chances of success are not great. Even the media, with its ability to talk daily to massive audiences, fails as often as it succeeds. Thus, for every ‘Slick Willy’, you’ll find that there is a ‘Bambi’, for every ‘loony left’ a ‘Doris Karloff’.

This is a comforting thought for a secularist at the present time. For a rather unfortunate meme has lately infected the minds of some leading exponents of a naturalistic worldview. It is a meme which says that it would be a good idea if people without belief in things supernatural started to call themselves ‘brights’.

The meme started with two people from Sacramento, California. Though atheists, Paul Geisert and Mynga Futrell did not want to be referred to as being ‘godless’, so they came up with the word ‘bright’ to better describe their naturalistic worldview. Their hope is that other nonbelievers will also use the word, and that it will become an umbrella term for the whole range of naturalistic philosophies (i.e., atheist, agnostic, humanist, etc.). They have setup a website, The Brights Net (www.the-brights.net), to this end, and have attracted a number of high profile advocates, including Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett, both of whom have written articles supporting the idea.

It is easy enough to understand the efficacy of this meme. The naturalistic philosophies of the non-religious do not play the same kind of high profile role in political and civic life as do the supernaturalist ideas of their religious counterparts. This is the case particularly in the United States, but also in the United Kingdom, where, for example, assorted bishops get to sit on various ethics committees simply because they are bishops. Given this situation, any intervention which promises to raise the profile of naturalistic thinking is bound to be attractive at first sight. The trouble is that it doesn’t take too many more sights of the brights idea to realise that it is badly flawed.

First, ‘bright’ is just the wrong word. How it was chosen in the first place isn’t quite clear. It seems to have had something to do with the fact that it is a ‘positive’ and ‘memorable’ word; and also that it is sufficiently puzzling or enigmatic when used as a noun – ‘I am a bright’ –that it invites the response, ‘What’s a bright?’, thereby allowing a person to talk about their naturalistic worldview. But there are major problems with the word.

The first is that its enigmatic quality is indicative of a fundamental arbitrariness in its relationship to the phenomenon that it names. It’s the let’s call Tony Blair ‘Bambi’ problem. Dawkins imagines that a bright might have a conversation which goes like this:

‘”What on earth is a bright”? And then you’re away. “A bright is a person whose world view is free of supernatural and mystical elements….”

“You mean a bright is an atheist?”

“Well, some brights are happy to call themselves atheists. Some brights call themselves agnostics. Some call themselves humanists, some freethinkers. But all brights have a world view that is free of supernaturalism and mysticism.”’

(Richard Dawkins, ‘The future looks bright’, The Guardian, June 21^st 2003)

All very nice, except that the conversation is far more likely to go something like this:

‘What on earth is a bright?’

‘A bright is a person whose world view is free of supernatural and mystical elements.’

‘Right. So why the word “bright” then?’

‘Err. Well it’s a positive word. And memorable.’

‘So is the word “truffle”, but you wouldn’t call yourself a truffle. So why “bright”?’

‘Well, it’s what this couple from Sacramento came up with… and it is a very cheerful word!’

The arbitrariness of the choice of the word ‘bright’, though undermining its potential as a meme, would not matter so much were it not for the fact that one of the established uses of the word is as an adjective meaning ‘clever’ or ‘intelligent’. The problem here is that in the absence of an obvious reason to explain how it is that the word ‘bright’ designates a person who espouses a naturalist worldview, it is easy to jump to the conclusion that what is being suggested is that it is more intelligent to embrace naturalism than it is to embrace supernaturalism.

It must be said that the supporters of the brights idea are quite clear that the word should not be taken to be an adjective in this way. However, this does not make the problem go away. It should be obvious why it does not. For starters, there is the trivial point that you cannot strip a word of its associations simply by denying that you intend them. [1] Nor can you do so by using the word in a slightly strange way (i.e., as a noun). If someone announces that they’re a bright, then likely it will occur to their audience that what they actually mean is that they are bright. The fact that they will also be unable to explain why the word ‘bright’ is appropriate as a label for someone with a naturalistic worldview will do nothing to allay this suspicion.

There is also a slightly more complex point to be made here. To be an atheist in the United States – and also in some ways in the United Kingdom – is to set oneself against the dominant culture. There is, therefore, a tendency to associate atheism with a certain kind of intellectual independence. This is reflected in the names of the groups with which many atheists associate themselves (e.g., freethinkers; skeptics; etc). And it also underpins the anti-intellectual sentiment of much of the religious sermonising characteristic of Christian fundamentalism. The problem with the word ‘bright’ is that it is too easily seen as confirming this link between atheism and intellectuality. Or to put this more precisely, if people with no belief in god begin to self-identify as brights, they run the risk of apparently confirming what many religious people already suspect about them, that they consider themselves to be better or more intelligent than people who believe in a god.

Does this matter? Yes it does, if one is interested in convincing people of the merits of a naturalistic worldview. To start with, there is the obvious point that people are more likely to be receptive to new ideas if they feel that they are being treated with respect. But perhaps more worryingly, a movement which self-identifies as a movement of brights makes itself a hostage to rhetorical fortune. It is extremely easy – and, it must be said, very tempting – to parody the whole idea of a brights movement. And, of course, this is exactly what the enemies of a naturalistic worldview will do should the idea take off. The brights movement will find itself transmogrified into a ‘We’re smarter than you’ movement. And, at that point, protesting that the word was chosen simply because it is ‘warm’ and ‘cheerful’ will just result in more parody and more laughter.

‘Bright’, then, is the wrong choice of word to designate a person with a naturalistic worldview and as an umbrella term for a movement. But substituting a different word won’t make the brights idea a good one because it is muddle-headed for other reasons. Perhaps the most interesting of these has to do with what appears to be an unspoken assumption about people with a naturalistic worldview.

The assumption seems to be that the rejection of supernaturalism is enough to qualify someone as a person without religion. This claim is only unproblematic if one defines religion as involving supernatural beliefs. However, there is at least an argument that the sphere of the religious can be extended to include aspects of the secular world. It is an argument inspired by the French sociologist Emile Durkheim. He claimed that the realm of the sacred is distinguished by the separateness of its objects from those of the world of the profane, and by the system of interdictions which prevents them from being denied. [2] If one accepts this conception, then there are secular phenomena which qualify as sacred. So Durkheim talks of ‘common beliefs of every sort connected to objects that are secular in appearance, such as the flag, one’s country, some forms of political organisation, certain heroes or historical events’, which are ‘indistinguishable from beliefs that are properly religious’; and he notes that ‘Public opinion does not willingly allow one to contest the moral superiority of democracy, the reality of progress, [or] the idea of equality, just as the Christian does not allow his fundamental dogmas to be questioned.’

It is easy to understand what Durkheim is getting at. It is only necessary to attend a meeting organised by a group like the Socialist Workers Party to become very quickly aware that people can hold secular beliefs to be every bit as inviolable as religious beliefs often are for the religious. Of course, this point is already well understood. For example, in a review of Steven Rose et al’s Not in Our Genes, Richard Dawkins, commenting on their arguments against ‘genetic determinism’, has this to say: ‘The myth of the “inevitability” of genetic effects has nothing whatever to do with sociobiology, and has everything to do with Rose et al’s paranoiac and demonological theology of science. [my italics]’ (Richard Dawkins, New Scientist 24 January 1985).

What this means for the brights idea is that the criterion of a naturalistic worldview is no guarantee that people will be free of the kind of thinking which is quite reasonably described as ‘religious’. Or to put this another way, it is no guarantee that people will not be committed to beliefs, or sets of beliefs, which are beyond rational scrutiny in the same way as are many of the beliefs which are associated with theism. Possibly the supporters of the brights movement will not deny this, but rather claim that it does not matter too much, that their expectation has never been that they will create a movement of absolutely rigorous thinkers, each one holding up their beliefs to the light of reason. Fair enough. Except for two further points.

First, there is just a suggestion in some of the writings of the supporters of the brights idea that they see themselves as the true inheritors of the Enlightenment tradition. Well, it just isn’t this clear-cut. First off, the belief in a deity, in and of itself, does not rule out an attitude towards this world which is entirely consistent with the Enlightenment emphasis on reason and the progress of human knowledge. But perhaps more significantly, many people who qualify as brights would have a decidedly ambivalent attitude towards the products of the Enlightenment. Just consider, for example, that many Marxists would agree with Rose et al that ‘science is the ultimate legitimator of bourgeois ideology.’ (Not in Our Genes). And that from amongst the whole caboodle of postmodern thinkers, at least some will be prepared to commit to agnosticism, and will no doubt claim something like ‘that progress in social thought is not possible without a thorough critique of the Enlightenment, whether for its justification of the domination of nature, or its authoritative support for belief systems like scientific racism or sexism, or for the monocultural legacy of its assumptions about rationality.’ (Andrew Ross, The Sokal Hoax).

Which thoughts lead on to the second point about the kind of movement the brights idea is likely to foster. It is certainly going to contain some odd bedfellows. Scientific atheists and Marxist atheists will be united in thinking that there is definitely no god, but they’ll fight like cats and dogs over the fate of the bourgeoisie. The agnostics will irritate both groups by sitting on the fence, whilst freethinkers drive themselves crazy trying to find a viewpoint unique to themselves. The skeptics will watch the whole thing from afar with slightly cynical smiles, and the postmodernists will talk past themselves, as per usual. As for the rest of the world? They won’t see past the name. And laughter and parody will be the result. Therefore, one can only hope that the ‘bright’ meme fails on its evolutionary journey.

Footnotes
[1] The observant reader will notice that there is an echo here of the criticism that some people have made of the language of Dawkins’s The Selfish Gene. For the record, I think the criticism is misplaced in the case of The Selfish Gene.
[2] There’s obviously a lot more to Durkheim’s argument than this mere bald assertion. See his The Elementary Forms of Religious Life; and also, for a summary of the argument I’m making here, J. C. Alexander’s The Antinomies of Classical Thought: Marx and Durkheim (Routledge, 1982), pp. 242 -250.

This article was originally published at ButterfliesandWheels.Com.

Ibn Rushd, known in the West as Averroes, is perhaps the most important of the Islamic philosophers who emerged during the golden era of intellectual flourishing that occurred in the Muslim world in the several hundred years around the turn of the first millennium. His life and work reflected tensions that were endemic in Islamic society at the time. Religious orthodoxy was highly valued, and often enforced at the pain of death. But the Muslim world also boasted a rich intellectual tradition, rooted mainly in a Neoplatonism that valued rational enquiry and free thought. It was in this context that Ibn Rushd fought the vigorous rearguard defence of philosophy against the accusation that it encouraged heresy and that it was un-Islamic that he is most noted for today.

Ibn Rushd was born in 1126CE in Cordova, Spain, into a well-connected family of jurists and theologians. His grandfather and father both held the office of chief judge (qadi) of Cordova under the then ruling Almoravids dynasty (a position which Averroes would later occupy). His education, though in a sense orthodox for a Muslim male, was by our standards eclectic: Qur’anic exegesis, the Hadith, jurisprudence (Fiqh), scholastic philosophy, mathematics and linguistics were all studied, and became part of his intellectual armory. Moreover, under the tutelage of Abu Jafar Harun, Ibn Rushd attained a proficiency in medicine, which eventually enabled him to become the royal physician to the Almohad caliphs Abu Yaqub Yusuf and Abu Yusuf Yaqub. Indeed, such were his abilities in this field that his book Generalities (Kulliyat) was perhaps the most significant general medical text in the Judeo-Christian and Islamic worlds for several hundred years after his death.

It was Ibn Rushd’s connections within the royal court that led him by happenstance to the most significant body of work of his life. He had been introduced to the caliph, Abu Yaqub, by his mentor Ibn Tufayl, who at that time was the court physician. The story has it that the caliph thoroughly unnerved the young philosopher by asking him whether the heavens were created or not. This seems an innocuous enough enquiry, but  it was the kind of question that could get a Muslim philosopher into trouble. The difficulty is that a negative response potentially places a limit on the power of God, whereas an affirmative response runs the danger of anthropomorphising him. The caliph, a keen philosopher himself, spared Ibn Rushd’s blushes by answering his own question, and then engaging in a long discussion of the issues surrounding it. Shortly afterwards, Ibn Rushd received word that the caliph believed the works of Aristotle to be disjointed, rather obscure, and therefore likely to confuse people. The solution was simple – Ibn Rushd should write commentaries on them.

Twenty-six years later, Ibn Rushd completed this task (as far as it was possible). Based on Arabic translations, the commentaries took three different forms. The shortest (Jami) were simple summaries, suitable for anybody who wanted just a flavour of the work. The intermediate commentaries (Talkhis) were appropriate for normal studies. And then there were the Tasfir – detailed analyses of Aristotle’s work, incorporating  Qur’anic concepts, which were suitable for advanced study. Ibn Rushd did not have access to Aristotle’s Politics, so instead he commented on Plato’s Republic, arguing that the original Islamic community was equivalent to Plato’s ideal state.

According to Oliver Leaman, a leading scholar of Islamic and Judaic philosophy, the most impressive aspect of these commentaries is that Ibn Rushd was able to resurrect Aristotle’s original arguments by ridding them of the Neoplatonist baggage they had gained over time. His technique was to approach the texts as though they were new, and then to reconstruct their arguments on authentically Aristotelian lines. Leaman argues that although Ibn Rushd was not always successful, and though he was not shy about adding his own comments to the text, his work on Aristotle remains impressive. Certainly his commentaries helped to spark a revival of interest in Aristotle in the Judeo-Christian world, where they retained their influence for several centuries after his death.

Although Ibn Rushd enjoyed the protection of royal patronage, he was not entirely able to avoid the unpleasantness that inevitably occurs when religious orthodoxy runs up against intellectual freedom. In 1195, at the age of seventy, with the Almohad caliph under pressure to do something about  the liberalising tendencies within Islamic society, he was formally exiled from Cordova, his writings were banned, and his books burned. Though quickly back in favour, and allowed to return home, he did not live much longer, and questions about his orthodoxy persisted. Indeed, his influence in the Muslim world quickly declined after his death, as Islam embarked on a path which all but extinguished the sort of intellectual life that bred philosophers as great as al-Farabi (Alpharabius), Ibn Sina (Avicenna) and Ibn Rushd himself.

The tension between philosophy and religion that characterised this era found perfect expression in the dispute that formed the basis of Ibn Rushd’s most important work of original philosophy, The Incoherence of Incoherence (Tuhafut al-Tuhafut). This is a defence of philosophical reason against its critics. Its specific target was the Islamic theologian and mystic al-Ghazali (Algazel), who had written The Incoherence of the Philosophers (Tahafut al-Falasifa), in which he attacked philosophy, and in particular the work of Ibn Sina, for being self-contradictory and un-Islamic.

Al-Ghazali’s attack was multidimensional – commentators have identified at least seventeen different points of contention – but perhaps the most interesting issues have to do with God as a freely acting agent able to intervene in the world in any way that he chooses. Consider, for example, the question that caliph Abu Yaqub posed to the young Ibn Rushd – are the heavens created? The Islamic philosophers who were the focus of al-Ghazali’s ire had tended to argue that they were not. Ibn Sina’s view, for instance, was “emanationist”: he claimed that the universe was not created ex nihilo at a particular moment in time, but rather that it exists out of necessity, emanating in manifold forms from God’s divine nature. Or to put this differently, God is the divine One, the pure intellect upon which all reality is founded, and to which it is connected by logical relations.

Obviously, this is a highly esoteric conception of God, and to the uninitiated likely it makes little sense, but certainly it didn’t please al-Ghazali. It is easy to see why – it seems to do away with God as a free agent. Al-Ghazali ‘s response to all this was to argue that the Qur’an is quite clear that the universe was created by God. If God is an agent, able to act according to his own will, then it is perfectly reasonable to suppose that he created the world ex nihilio, and that he could eliminate it again should he so choose. In effect, then, al-Ghazali defends a particular conception of divine agency: God is all-powerful, therefore, he can act to create and destroy worlds.

Ibn Rushd’s critique of al-Ghazali’s view of divine agency is exemplary in terms of the kinds of argumentative techniques that he employed. He argued that al-Ghazali goes wrong by mixing up the temporal and the eternal. It is quite reasonable to suppose that temporal beings (i.e., humans)  can decide to embark upon some course of action, then delay doing so, then begin, then stop, and then start again, but it doesn’t work that way for God. Consider, for example, what follows from God’s omniscience and omnipotence: God will always know the best arrangement for the universe, and he will always be able to instantiate it, so it doesn’t make sense to think that he might choose not to instantiate it at a particular moment in time. To put this another way, there is nothing internal nor external to his nature that might lead him to delay the moment of creation. Indeed, it isn’t clear that there will even be different moments in time for God, especially if one thinks that God is present across all times.

Similar kinds of difficulties afflict al-Ghazali’s position if one reflects upon God’s perfection. God is eternal and unchanging. This makes it problematic to suppose that he has desires that he might act upon in the same way that human beings have desires which they act upon. The idea of desire suggests some kind of perturbation in God’s nature, which is then annulled when the desire is fulfilled. But this makes no sense, since it implies a change in God’s nature – and as we have seen God’s nature is eternal and unchanging. It seems to follows then that God’s acts must simply be a manifestation of his nature, and that they are not willed in the same way that human beings will their acts.

It is easy to see why this kind of argument might get an Islamic philosopher into trouble. As al-Ghazali suggested, it does seem to do away with God’s agency – his freedom to choose. Although Ibn Rushd denied this particular criticism, he was aware that there was a general issue about the impact of philosophical arguments on less sophisticated believers. In his work Decisive Treatise (Fasl al-maqal), he argued that it is clear from the Qur’an that there is an obligation to attempt to understand the world through the study of philosophy:

That the Law summons to reflection on beings, and the pursuit of knowledge about them, by the intellect is clear from several verses of the Book of God, Blessed and Exalted, such as the saying of the Exalted, “Reflect, you have vision:” this is textual authority for the obligation to use intellectual reasoning, or a combination of intellectual and legal reasoning. Another example is His saying, “Have they not studied the kingdom of the heavens and the earth, and whatever things God has created?”: this is a text urging the study of the totality of beings.

However, Ibn Rushd did not think that the arguments of philosophers were suitable for general consumption. In particular, where philosophy leads to conclusions that conflict with the apparent meaning of scripture, then it should be kept from the ordinary masses. He was quite clear that there could be no real conflict between philosophical truth and scripture – any disagreement simply meant that an allegorical reading of scripture was required. This had long been accepted as a legitimate way of proceeding by the Muslim community, which meant that al-Ghazali, and the other critics of philosophy, were wrong to claim that philosophers were indulging in unbelief when they questioned doctrines such as the creation of the universe or bodily resurrection. Nevertheless, Ibn Rushd did believe that in order to serve the end of the collective well-being of the Muslim community, it was necessary for teachers to modify their arguments depending on the audience they were addressing. To attempt to teach the ordinary faithful about a higher interpretation of scripture when they do not have the conceptual apparatus to understand it almost inevitably harms their faith, and thereby affects the happiness of the community as a whole. Philosophical enquiry is sanctioned by God, but it requires the kinds of talent and rigorous training that necessarily means it will be suited only to a minority of people.

Ibn Rushd’s philosophical arguments on religious matters were not entirely defensive. He also developed a number of arguments in favour of the existence of God, contending that the fact that the world fits so neatly with the purposes of human beings, and the fact that all living things are clearly the work of a designer, is proof of God’s reality. And, as we have seen, he wrote influentially on non-religious matters. However, even if it ultimately failed, it is for his defence of philosophical reason, which he mounted in the face of considerable opposition, that he is rightly celebrated.

This is immensely depressing. Paween Mushtakhel, once one of the most recognisable female faces on Afghan television, can no longer venture outside without wearing a burka.

Picture the scene. It’s the third week of a nationally advertised philosophy course. The tutor has been asked about the relationship between rationality and logic, and the students wait expectantly for his answer.

“Listen,” he says, “this is logic. All trains are long. All coaches are long. Therefore, all trains are coaches. That is logic, and it is no good for anything at all. There is absolutely no relationship between rationality and logic.”

Couldn’t happen? Well it did. Welcome to Introductory Philosophy, courtesy of the School of Economic Science (SES).

I had for some time been intrigued by the high profile advertising campaign of the SES. If you are a frequent user of the London Underground then doubtless you’ll have spotted their posters, promising Practical Philosophy for 12 weeks. And Guardian readers will have seen their adverts offering “…lectures, discussion and practical exercises… [taking] students through an exploration of how daily life can be informed and governed by the love of wisdom.” My interest was further piqued by the knowledge that the SES has been the source of quite some controversy. In 1981, a student complained to the Advertising Standards Association that the “philosophy” on offer in the introductory course was nothing of the sort. And two years later, the London Evening Standard ran a series of articles which claimed that the SES was essentially an Eastern religious cult, one whose influence over its members was far from benign.

Thus it was with a little trepidation that in late April I headed towards the SES headquarters in Queen’s Gate, South Kensington, for the first of the 12 lectures. Initial impressions were mixed. I was struck by the grandeur of the buildings, which were clearly worth millions. It was also obvious that any attempt to disguise a “religious” agenda would not be unsophisticated, for as soon as I entered the building, I was able to pick up a pamphlet advertising “[A] series of Sunday morning lectures and a one-day seminar devoted to the Goddesses of Wisdom”. And the atmosphere was strange. Imagine a large accountants’ firm in the 1950s, and you’ll get a sense of it. It’s partly down to dress codes – the men, on the whole, wearing suits and ties, and the women, in a manner reminiscent of The Stepford Wives, long-flowing dresses.

Registration was easy enough – £60-00 for the twelve lectures – and I soon found myself sitting in a classroom with some twenty other students. Our tutor was David Williams, a barrister in his fifties. He gave us the low-down on the SES. It was founded in the 1930s, with the aim of studying “the natural laws governing the relations between men in society”. Its original concern was with economics, but during the 1950s this was widened to include philosophy. It is a worldwide organisation, with offshoots in countries such as the United States, Canada, Australia, South Africa, the Netherlands and New Zealand. In the last fifty years or so, the London branch has had some 130,000 students through its doors. It was also emphasised that the tutors themselves remain students of the school, attending their own study-groups, and that they offer their services on a voluntary basis.

The first lesson began with a discussion of the meaning of the word philosophy, which was defined as “love of wisdom”. It was emphasised that philosophy is necessarily practical – and that it involves “searching out the words of the wise, putting them into practice in everyday life, and holding to them if they pass the test of experience.” It did not take long before alarm bells began to ring in my head. It seemed to me that the tutor was making a number of rather bizarre claims. For example, within half an hour of the start of the first lesson, we had been taught: that Socrates had proved that our souls had existed before our birth (although the tutor conceded that he could not remember precisely where this had been proved); that evidence suggested that even those people in the deepest states of unconsciousness, presumably including the most serious of persistent vegetative states, have awareness; and that it is desirable that one should devote one’s full attention to every action that one undertakes, even the most mundane of these.

This tactic of assertion, deprived of context or demonstration, was characteristic of every lesson that I attended. It very quickly created the impression that the tutor was not in full command of his material. To give but one example: in an early lesson, the class spent over an hour discussing the nature of selective attention. During this time, the tutor made no reference to the wealth of established research on the topic (e.g., Broadbent; Treisman; Deutsch and Deutsch; etc.). The SES position on attention runs contrary to any prevailing orthodoxy. To neglect to mention this fact, indeed to be seemingly unaware of it, demonstrates an alarming ignorance or a willful disinterest in counter-evidence.

So what is the content of the philosophy on offer from the SES? According to their literature, it is embodied in the notion of Advaita, a Sanskrit word meaning “not two, not many”. It is in essence a philosophy of unity, and involves the claim that there is an identity between the individual Self (the Atman) and the universal Self (the Brahman). Meditation is central to the philosophy, being seen as the technique whereby individuals, by stilling their minds, come into closer connection with the Absolute. The SES philosophy is based most significantly on the Hindu vedanta (one of the six orthodox systems of Indian philosophy), particularly as espoused by the medieval Indian philosopher Shankara. However, there are other sources, perhaps most significantly the writings of the Renaissance, neo-Platonist philosopher Ficino, and the mystics Gurdjiieff and Ouspensky. Interestingly, though, in SES terms, the distinction between one and many sources is blurred, since they all represent and partake of a single universal Truth.

The fact that the SES is offering a philosophy to its students and not providing a general philosophy course throws up a number of interesting issues. The most significant of these is whether students are being misled by the school. It is true that if one reads the details of their literature then it is clear enough that the lectures are underpinned by an Eastern philosophy. However, unless one has some prior knowledge of the normal content of more traditional philosophy courses, then this will not appear to be at all out of the ordinary. Also, it is quite possible to arrive in the classroom for the first lecture, as I did, having seen only a newspaper advertisement for the school, where it is not made clear that it is a philosophy that is on offer. Indeed, some of the students that I spoke to had not been aware that they were not getting a traditional philosophy course. One told me that he had been so puzzled by the content of the first lesson that he had mentioned the SES to a friend, and had been shocked to discover that the school had the reputation of being “some kind of religious cult.”

There is also a more subtle way in which the SES is open to the accusation that it misleads its students. The lectures themselves are presented as exercises in Socratic dialogue. However, they are nothing of the sort. Socratic dialogues in their original form are exercises in “refutation” (or elenchus), and involve the imaginary Socrates drawing out the inconsistencies in an interlocutor’s position, in order to demonstrate the falsity of a posited thesis. However, in the SES form, dialogue is simply a vehicle to hand down a truth that has already been established. As Hounam and Hogg put it: “…students are not taking part in some philosophical free-for-all. Although no one has yet told them, they are receiving instruction in the Truth [Secret Cult, p. 98].”

I put this point, that it is misleading to call a technique Socratic, when its sole function is to pass down a Truth that is already set in stone, to David Boddy, spokesperson for the SES and one time press advisor to Margaret Thatcher. “Well, there’s more than one way of interpreting Socrates”, he said. “Also, early on in the course it is stated, ‘Don’t accept. Don’t reject.’ And that is really a fundamental Socratic principle.” However, Boddy conceded that ultimately the SES is committed to a certain view of the truth. “Obviously, a person is always free to keep their opinions, but do people go to these philosophy classes in order to have their opinions confirmed or do they go to these philosophy classes in order to open up the possibility that perhaps what they thought to be right and true, may have some question marks about it? Certainly in the early phases of the school, a lot of people say, ‘Well, I thought this, but I hear what you say, and through my experience there is some validity in it, so I think I’ll carry on with it, and it is a progressive process.’”

This idea that people who pass through the school find something valuable in what is being taught came across in conversations with my fellow students. A number of them were very positive about the school. “It has given me a sense of perspective”, said one, “and has enabled me to look at what is going on in my life with a new objectivity.” Another was enthusiastic about the relaxation exercise that had been taught. “I have done meditation before,” she said, “but it has never really worked. This time it’s different, and…well, it’s great!”

But, of course, the fact that some students find the lessons valuable establishes neither that the teaching techniques employed are honest nor that the philosophy that is taught is benign. Not surprisingly, David Boddy is keen to emphasise the positive value of the School of Economic Science. “We’re not a malicious organisation,” he says. “We stand for certain principles. We encourage people who come to the school to live in a certain way. It’s pretty harmless. It’s not subversive. It holds to certain family values. And it values marriage and all that kind of stuff.”

So is this a persuasive view? Is it the case that the SES, whilst perhaps slightly eccentric, is essentially a benign organisation, which helps to broaden the outlook of those students who attend its courses? In the end, the answer to this question will depend on where one stands on the other issues discussed in this piece. First, there is the charge that the SES is guilty of misleading its students. Its advertising promises a course in Practical Philosophy. The reality is that the course is a mechanism for the delivery of a particular philosophical system. Is this disingenuous? Second, there is the fact that they present as revealed truths, a number of ideas that in other contexts would be regarded as truly bizarre. For example, the notion that women should dress in long, flowing dresses, in order to remind men of the true nature of femininity. Third, there is the fact that the school has in the past been the subject of a number a serious allegations, the truth of which it is hard to establish. And fourth, there is the fact the SES espouses a conservative social vision, which celebrates traditional gender roles and sexual mores. How one views these issues, will ultimately determine how one views the school.

How Mr Smith came to have a ticking bomb inside his stomach remains a mystery to this day. Ask his neighbours, and you’ll find that they are divided on the matter. Mrs Anderson will mutter darkly about Loki, malevolent spirits and witchcraft. Mr Lush prefers a more prosaic “drunken bet” line of explanation. And as for Mrs Oakley, she’ll talk at length about Feng Shui, personal Chi and Argos catalogues. But on one thing they are all agreed, and that is that the whole affair was A Bad Thing.

Its beginnings were innocuous enough. Four words in fact.

“Stop that infernal ticking.”

At first, Mr Smith wondered whether his wife was talking to him. But as no one else had joined them in bed, it seemed likely.

“Ticking, dear?”

“Yes, that ticking noise,” she said, gesturing at him impatiently. “It’s disturbing my prayers.”

After thirty-five years of marriage, Mr Smith knew better than to disturb her prayers, so he held his breath in the somewhat optimistic hope that this would deter the ticking. Unfortunately, the ticking noise, now audible to him, and clearly oblivious to the niceties of religious devotion, continued unabated.

His wife, Bible primed, glowered.

“It’s not me, dear,” he protested, suspecting immediately that it was. “It’s probably the plumbing.”

“What nonsense, it’s that liver-sausage. You know liver-sausage doesn’t agree with you.”

It didn’t occur to Mr Smith to question Mrs Smith on the link between liver-sausage and ticking tummies, to ask her how the hell she supposed liver-sausage could cause ticking. Rather, as he always did on these occasions, he immersed himself in his favourite copy of Wisden, finding comfort in memories of the sight and sound of leather on willow. Mrs Smith, for her part, settled down to her preferred bedtime reading, The Book of Job. She enjoyed nothing better before sleep than to dream up new and ingenious misfortunes to test the faith of that so righteous man.

In the morning, the ticking was worse. Mrs Smith was compelled to reconsider her liver-sausage theory and opined that forces more sinister were at work. Mr Smith was more concerned with breakfast than sinister forces, but even he began to imagine himself a giant alarm clock. Little was said while they ate, until Mr Smith hit upon the notion that an impromptu alarm clock impression might do something to lighten the atmosphere. Unfortunately, Mrs Smith was not in the mood to be lightened, or perhaps her comic sensibilities were offended, either way, breakfast ended on a sour note.

Happily, there was no time to dwell on the unpleasantness. It was Sunday morning and church beckoned. In fact, for Mrs Smith, it would be more accurate to say that it summoned or subpoenaed. Mr Smith experienced the pull less strongly, but he found his wife strangely motivating, and in any case the five minute walk to Golspie Evangelical Free Church was agreeable enough.

The events that unfolded in the church that morning have been the subject of endless debate and commentary. In the immediate aftermath, everybody spoke with a single voice. It had been a terrible, but inexplicable tragedy. However, disagreements soon emerged, with claim and counter-claim flowing fast. High Church Christians thought the explosion a warning that people really shouldn’t enjoy themselves too much in church. Low Church Christians blamed the Pope. The Psychic Times ran an article titled “Spontaneous Combustion: Explosive New Evidence”. The Skeptic Magazine countered with “Spontaneous Combustion: The Myth Exploded”. Politicians blamed each other, asylum seekers and the credit crunch. Strangest of all, a group calling themselves Rage Against Campanology were keen to claim responsibility. However, the RAC, as they called themselves – much to the consternation of many road users – were later forced to retract their claim when it was pointed out that the Evangelical Free Church had had neither bell ringers nor bells. But, of course, what got lost in all the hullabaloo is that there is no simple truth about what happened that Sunday morning. Truth and fiction, as many first year philosophy students will tell you, have been the same thing for at least thirty years.

The church that morning was filled with a high octane, spiritual bonhomie. Mrs Smith was in her element. She had sung uproariously, arms flung to the heavens, the opening hymn, a disco version of Onward Christian Soldiers. She had listened rapt, as Dave – If my Christian name is okay for God, it’s okay for you – the microphone toting preacher, had explained to them that the Toronto Experience, all roaring and meowing, was part of the chaos of End-Times. And she had joined in the rapturous applause, after Maureen had testified that God had granted her a personal miracle and banished her bunions. And so it was, in the visceral exuberance of the occasion, that she found herself on her feet shouting, “Yes, yes, my husband, my husband,” after Dave had enquired, all basso profondo compassion, whether anyone in the congregation was fighting a personal battle with the Devil.

Mr Smith, it must be said, was a little taken aback by this turn of events. He felt the eyes of the congregation upon him, and imagined himself a lion, tables turned, at a Billy Graham revivalist meeting. Preacher Dave, in contrast, looked overjoyed at the prospect of doing battle with the Devil.

“Mr Smith, will you please approach the stage.”

He meant to refuse, to stay steadfastly where he was. But as the church fell silent in expectation, he experienced first-hand the irresistible power of the crowd. Suddenly, Nuremberg rallies, all serried ranks, seemed explicable. He was aware that in the silence, the ticking of his stomach was audible. He moved towards the stage, on the way passing Maureen, of bunion fame, and reached Dave, preacher and Smiter of  Demons.

“Hello,” said Mr Smith.

Dave peered at Mr Smith suspiciously, as if “Hello” was not the kind of greeting he expected from the Devil.

“Mr Smith, your wife has testified before this church, that you are presently doing battle with the Devil. In the name of the Lord, I command you to disclose the nature of this battle.”

“Well, Dave,” said Mr Smith, “I can only imagine that my wife is referring to the strange ticking noise that seems to be emanating from my stomach. But I hardly imagine…”.

“Don’t!” screeched Dave. “Don’t for one moment underestimate the cunning of Satan. He takes many forms. Just remember the Serpent!”

Mr Smith was about to protest that Serpents were one thing, alarm clocks quite another, when he was bashed in the stomach by Smiter Dave’s microphone. The sound of ticking immediately filled the church. There was a collective congregational gasp, and assorted Hallelujahs, Amens and Praise the Lords. Even Mr Smith was momentarily disconcerted.

“That,” cried Dave, “is the sound of the Devil!” With his free hand, he grabbed the top of Mr Smith’s head and pulled down hard. Mr Smith was bent almost double.

“I say, steady on,” he gasped.

“Devil, I command you in the name of the Lord, be gone from this man’s body. I cast you back into The Pit!”

The congregation was on its feet, many people with arms stretched out towards the sky. They were calling to Dave, to the Lord, to anybody listening, to rid Mr Smith of his tick-tocking Devil. Mr Smith was hauled up again, and the congregation were commanded to silence. The hubbub died down. The Smiter of Demons placed his free hand on Mr Smith’s forehead, and with eyes half closed began, softly at first and then more loudly, to speak in tongues.

“Deshil holles eamus. Deshil holles eamus. Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa!”

The congregation, as one, followed his example. The noise levels swelled again, and the drunken, ecstatic mass of the fervent faithful swayed in a visceral union. Mr Smith began to shake and, unable to bear the intensity of the sound any longer, he screamed. As he did so, an alarm went off inside his stomach. The congregation were stunned into a gaping silence. The ringing skewered the air, and then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped and with it the ticking noise.

There was absolute silence, save for the breathing of the assembled masses. And then, turning to his congregation, Dave proclaimed, with all the fervour he could muster, “We have heard the music of angels.”

It sounded like a bloody alarm clock to me, thought Mr Smith, a split second before the explosion.