Two Problems with The Way We Think: Confirmation Bias and Statistical Outliers

In my recent post on “The Seekers Who Aren’t” (that is, that people outside church walls aren’t really seeking the church to find answers), I wrote, 

“As proof we [church leaders] offer isolated anecdotes of those who were searching and found our churches.” 

Here I offer two reasons that anecdotes don’t prove what they promise.

There are two problems with anecdotes as proof. The first is “confirmation bias,” which the thoughtful and bestselling psychologist and author Daniel Kahneman takes on in Thinking Fast and Slow. We tend to look for evidence to confirm what we want to be true. For example, we tend be afraid of natural disasters over health risks, Kahneman writes

“Strokes cause almost twice as many deaths as all accidents combined, but 80% of respondents judged accidental death to be more likely.”

Many people look for the first sign to confirm their fears and visual representations—as well as media reports—inflame our fear. How often do we read about death by strokes versus natural disasters on the NBC Nightly News or Facebook news?

More specifically, as Kahneman writes, 

“Tsunamis are very rare even in Japan, but the image is so vivid and compelling that tourists are bound to overestimate their probability” (333).

For this reason, we remember and retell stories that tell reinforce confirming, and therefore comforting, preconceptions.

Second problem is misunderstanding outliers. Here’s the issue: I tell you that smoking, drinking, and being obese are all factors that tend to decrease life span. And then someone responds, “Ya, right. My uncle smoked two packs a day, had six beers every night, and weighed 350 pounds—he lived to be 95.” Of course, it’s possible, but it’s not counterproof. We’re not talking about one person, but a population sample of millions. Smoking, drinking, and being obese are all factors that tend to decrease life span for people as a rule. On every statistical distribution, which can be mapped on a “Bell Curve,” there’s the percentage of people on the outside ends or “outliers.” And that's where your miraculously long-lived uncle fits.

Bottom line: We might tell an anecdote or two of “real seekers,” as an antidote to evidence points in an unpleasant direction. That, however, is not good proof. We want our conclusions to be true so we seek whatever supports our convictions (confirmation bias), but exceptional stories don’t disprove the rule (misunderstanding outliers). I leave this as a question, Do we telling ourselves stories to make us feel better when feeling bad might be what’s needed?

Exegetical Notes on Divine Kenosis (God’s “Emptying”)

Theologian (and friend) Tom Oord just sent me his new bestselling book, The Uncontrolling Love of God, and I’ve been happily reading it. Tom promotes the concept of “essential kenosis” in God. For him, kenosis is “not so much about how God became incarnate as to understand God’s nature in light of incarnate love” (156).

This led me to reflect on the Greek word kenosis and what it means in the New Testament. I have to admit I’m not yet sure how what follows would affect Oord’s project directly--perhaps that connection will appear in a subsequent post--nonetheless, I have discovered that theologians have often misunderstood kenosis in the key passage, Philippians 2:7 because they have not taken Paul’s rhetorical structure seriously. (I have not yet seen a commentary on Philippians that engages the structural set-up and denouement for kenosis, but one exists, let me know.)

The Greek word kenosis only occurs five times in the New Testament, where it means in

Philippians 2:7 (which I’ll quote below), “empty” or “make empty”; “to make void” (Romans 4:14; 1 Corinthians 1:17); and “to cause a thing to be seen to be empty, hollow, or false” (1 Corinthians 9:15; 2 Corinthians 9:3). Only in Philippians is kenosis about Christ. Since this one passage has been central to kenotic theologies, the context is critical for the meaning of the word.

In Philippians 2, Paul moves from kenodoxian conceit or two words, “empty glory” (3) to ekenosen “emptyied” (7) to doxan (“glory” in this case, God’s) (11). So just to be obvious, Paul takes a compound word, kenodoxian and breaks it into two words in their related grammatical forms, ekenosen and doxian. This structure has interpretive (or more precisely, exegetical) payoff. 

I’ll have to quote the passage at length (with those three words in bold) so you can see it.

3 Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.  4 Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.
5 Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
 6   who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
 7   but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
 8   he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.
9    Therefore God also highly exalted him
and gave him the name
that is above every name,
 10       so that at the name of Jesus
every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
 11       and every tongue should confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.

If you’re wondering where all this leads, here’s the bottom line: this passage is primarily about serving—not seeking our own way—for the purpose of creating true community. In a phrase,

Be like Christ—Don’t seek empty glory, but empty yourself of privilege, and God will be glorified.

Review of Stephen Greenblatt's The Swerve

In The Swerve: How The World Became Modern, Stephen Greenblatt has penned an recounting of the Renaissance through the story of how the 15th century humanist Poggio Braccioloni discovered a copy of the Epicurean poet Lucretius's On the Nature of Things. The project is astoundingly erudite and beautifully articulated, and that is what one would assume with a book that won both a Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award.

Titus Lucretius Carus, a Roman who wrote about the the last half of the century before the time of Jesus, held to materialism. He taught--or better, set in stunning hexametric poetry--that all that exists is the tiniest, indivisible, foundational particles, which we call "atoms" (from Greek, "that which is indivisible"), but which Lucretius called "first things," "first beginnings," the bodies of matter," and "the seed of things." (see pp. 185f.) This means that reality is matter in motion Thus, there is no afterlife, nothing spiritual, as it's usually defined. But also implies there's no free will, as it's usually defined. 

So Lucretius described "the swerve" (188f.) of these atoms, which was "the most minimal motion," but which set off a change of events, and which allowed for freedom, change, novelty, and things that most human beings prize, but that seemed to be stolen by bald materialism.

Back to the Italian humanist Poggio. He was a tireless searcher of ancient manuscripts, and when he found Lucretius, Poggio, who was a specialist at this sort of thing, immediately copied the manuscript in stunningly elegant and legible script and sought to distribute its Epicurean doctrines. 

The reasons behind Poggio's search, the story of a particularly corrupt and dissolute Catholic hierarchy in the times, among many other tales (I was particularly enthralled and horrified by the story of the burning of the early reformer Jan Hus), as well as the general tenor of the Renaissance are expertly recounted by Greenblatt, the Harvard humanist and Shakespearean scholar. Ultimately, he clearly adores the glories of Lucretius. This is no mean feat. 

Unfortunately, adoration almost inevitably leads to overstatement. That Lucretius not only offered a central impetus for the Renaissance, motivated Galileo's science, and gave insight to Einstein's view of the atom--and especially, that this poem's "recovery permanently changed the landscape of the world" (218), as examples of several grand assertions--are overblown.

Still, the reader is enthralled. And if these overstatements are pardonable, then readers can revel in this story of the revival of western culture, the wonders of books, and the power of radical ideas. I know I did when I read The Swerve.

Ruth Cootsona, In Memoriam

Ruth Pauline Cootsona was born at home in Puyallup, Washington in the early hours of March 2, 1925, daughter to Alma Venator and Paul Behrens, both native Germans. She exhibited the classic Teutonic traits of self-confidence, a love of learning and beauty, and dedication to hard work. Her first two decades or so were spent in her hometown area (about 35 miles south of Seattle). She received a B.A. in French Literature from the College (now University) of Puget Sound. On August 7, 1949, she married Thomas Cootsona. It is difficult to image these two apart because they formed an enduring and adoring bond for the next 65 years.

      Ruth and Tom were part of the “Greatest Generation” that rebuilt the United States after World War Two. After a four-month trip to Europe (often recounted to family members), they built a home together, first near Seattle—where Marcus, their first son, was born—and then Portland. In 1961, tired of the Northwest rains, they headed down to sunny, temperate Menlo Park. Tom started with the Syntex Corporation, and not too long after, Ruth gave birth to their second son, Greg. During that time, Ruth employed her gifts of writing in various local publications and and participated in philanthropic organization such as the Peninsula Volunteers. In 1981, it was time to make a career switch, and the Cootsona Duo purchased Top Spin Tennis, a tennis specialty shop with the able help of Marcus as manager and, for several years, Greg as well, which they ran until 2004. They continued in their love for retail by working at Marcus’s retail outlet, Pro Tennis, until retiring in 2008 (thus for Ruth, at the age 83). Shortly thereafter, they moved to Chico to be with Greg and his family. In her final years, despite physical decline, Ruth never lost her kindness, elegance, and creativity. She died

peacefully on December 29, 2015.

      Mom, we will miss you—your unique turns of a phrase and your fierce devotion to your family (and that we excel in every way beyond expression). We remember how you were our best PR agent. We remember how you were always ready to celebrate with a glass of sparking wine. We remember the way you threw thousands of tennis balls so we could improve our strokes for the next junior tournament. We remember the way you read our books, watched our magic shows and musical performances, and listened to Greg’s sermons and Marcus’s comedy tapes.. We remember the way you encouraged us to learn trumpet and drums (drums of all instruments!) and how you loved the rhythms of samba and bossa nova. We remember how you and dad danced to “The Girl From Ipanema”—and that you’re dancing together again. We remember and celebrate you.

      Ruth is survived by their two sons, Marcus, who lives in Menlo Park, CA, with his wife, Melinda, and their son, Marcus James; and Greg, who lives in Chico, CA with his wife Laura and their two daughters, Melanie and Elizabeth.

      There will be a private service to remember Ruth. In lieu of gifts, please donate to the Thomas N Cootsona Memorial Fund through the North Valley Community Foundation (240 Main Street, Suite 260; Chico, CA 95928).