Physicalism and resurrection

Those of us who don't believe in souls have some explaining to do. Without a soul to identify what a person is, we're left with only the person's body and the physical stuff it comprises. But that's not the whole story—there are loose ends. Some of those loose ends came up in Kagan's Philosophy of Death class, the first half of which covers a collection of theories and arguments about personal identity. Though Kagan himself is settled as a physicalist, and thus rejects the existence of souls, he acknowledges that his arguments leave open many questions.

One problem for physicalists has to do with our notion of resurrection. According to one version of physicalism, resurrection entails nothing more than reconstructing a body identical to that of a body from the past—presumably the body of someone now dead. Such a reconstruction could be the result of a Star-Trek-like replicator device, which conjures physical things from raw materials. After replicating a body, the body's corresponding person would be brought back into existence. Or would it? Here are two analogies of bodily reconstruction that lead to different answers to that question.

Analogy #1, the bicycle

(In his class, Kagan uses an example of a watch, but I prefer to use a bike because I know more about bikes.)

Imagine you have a bicycle. You take the bicycle to a mechanic to have it overhauled. As part of the overhaul, the mechanic will take the bike completely apart to clean the parts and possibly replace some parts. He'll strip everything from the frame—wheels, chain, gears, cranks, brakes, cables, shifters, etc. After having cleaned or replaced each part, he'll put the bike back together to make a bike nearly as good as new.

But midway through the overhaul, the mechanic spots a problem. He phones you during lunch and says your cassette shows signs of wear, do you want to have it replaced? You're wary of the bike shop and wonder if the mechanic is trying to overcharge you by selling you unneeded parts, and so you respond that you'll stop by the store that afternoon and take a look yourself. Later that day, in the bike shop, the mechanic greets you and shows you your bike. It consists of a frame, fork, handlebars, and wheels lying in a heap on the floor and the other components in a cardboard box on the counter. Where's my bike? you ask.

Right here, say the mechanic, pointing to the heap on the floor. "And there," then pointing to the box on the counter.

That's no bicycle, you say. That's just a bunch of bike parts.

Well, yeah, it's your bike midway through an overhaul, responds the mechanic. By the way, your shifters are gunked up. You want to just upgrade your whole drive chain? We have a special deal on Campy—

—But the shifters were working fine when I brought the bike in… And so you drop the ontology argument and instead argue with the mechanic to keep your original parts (and a smaller bill). The next day, overhaul completed and a new cassette installed, you go to the shop and retrieve your bike, restored to full form from the mere heaps of parts it was the previous day.

In summary: Take a bike, strip it down to bare parts, clean some and replace others, and then put the bike back together: same bike.

Analogy #2, the block tower

A four-year-old boy builds a massive tower out of toy blocks in the living room. He's proud of his achievement and shows his dad, who's impressed with his young son's promising architectural skills. But alas, it's past the boy's bedtime, and the dad says as much.

But can't I show Mom my tower? the boy asks.

No, kiddo, it's bedtime, says Dad, and Mom is out with her friends till late tonight. I tell you what: I promise I'll show Mom your tower as soon as she gets home. Now, off to bed.

Father and son walk to the boy's bed, where Dad tucks the boy in. On the way back to the couch in the living room, when passing by the tower, Dad accidentally kicks a key block at the tower's base, causing the entire tower to fall over, sending blocks scattering across the floor, the tower now thoroughly destroyed. Oh no! Dad thinks. I just promised him I would show Mom that tower.

Fortunately, Dad took a photo of the tower before its untimely destruction, back when the boy was showing it off. Gathering the scattered blocks, and using the photo, Dad constructs a tower identical to the one his son made an hour ago. He places the base of the tower in the same spot on the floor, and he meticulously chooses blocks of the right color and shape to match the blocks in the photo. After a few hours of careful reconstruction work, Dad finishes the tower, just as the front door opens and Mom walks through the door. What's that? she asks.

That's a tower our son made. Isn't it wonderful?

Here, many people will say the dad is lying, or at least not being truthful. The son didn't make that tower; he make a tower that was knocked over and no longer exists. The new tower, however much a facsimile of the original tower, is a different tower than the one the son made.

In summary: Take a block tower, knock it over, and have someone else recreate it: different tower.

Which story?

Which story best matches the resurrection of people's bodies? Is a body like a bike, where taking it apart and putting it back together means the same person is brought back into existence? Or is a body like a block of towers, where if destroyed and brought back into existence a new person is created?

My own interpretation is that both analogies fall short—for a reason I'll discuss in a future blog post. But if I had to choose from the two choices here—bike or tower—I would say that a body is more like a bike. I would think the summary from the second analogy is wrong: that the tower built by the dad is indeed the same tower built by the son. The tower isn't defined by who constructed (or reconstructed) it; rather, the tower is defined by what it is.

But what I find most interesting is how both analogies fail.