Belief: Transparent Purple Elephants

Imagine that you and I are in the living room of an American suburban neighborhood and you are by a front window looking out, but I am not. You report that a neighbor is walking her dog. I may not look even up from my book. I believe you because dog walking is common on our cul-de-sac. Your word is all the evidence I need. Now, let's suppose you tell me she is walking a greyhound, which is far less common but happens. A family two blocks away owned a rescue greyhound last year, but it apparently died. They have a short life expectancy. I may lower my book to look, but, unless you are a terrible liar, I'll take your word for it even if the dog is out of sight by the time I reach the window. The event is interesting but ordinary.

Now, suppose that you say that a cowboy is riding a pony down the street. I have seen riders in rodeos and on country roads but never in the neighborhood. I don’t doubt that a cowboy is possible, but he is far less ordinary than a dog-walker, so I may hurry to the window to look. If the alleged cowboy is gone by the time I get there and you have any history of practical jokes, I may doubt his existence. Since I didn’t see him with my own eyes, I may demand assurances, examine your face for signs that you are kidding, and suspend belief until I have more evidence such as seeing the rider myself or finding fresh dung on the blacktop.

Now let’s suppose your cowboy is riding, not a horse, but an elephant. On that information, I will surely rush to the window and will be skeptical if the beast is out of sight by the time I get there. Of course, however extraordinary the event, I will believe my own eyes if I see it—elephants happen—and if we both see the the elephant, we will marvel at the event while accepting its reality. Even if I don’t see the elephant, I may still be persuaded, but may want stronger proof than for the horseman. A circus in town would be circumstantial—strong evidence for elephants in the city but weak for one on my cul-de-sac. To verify your sighting, I may need huge piles of dung or stories from other witnesses, preferably a reporter from the local paper. Certainly, an elephant rider in a suburb is newsworthy, unlike a horseback rider or dog walker. So, to review, even with reports on exactly the same basis—observation by you through a suburban window—I more quickly believe one that is ordinary, and this is only reasonable.

Now, suppose that you report a semitransparent, purple elephant in the cul-de-sac. I will “know” you are joking if I rush to the window and the creature is “gone.” The beast is so extraordinary that your words have no evidentiary force. Such a creature is so outside of human experience that no conceivable objective test can establish its existence. So, if I don’t see it, I’ll just laugh it off. But what if I see it too? A purple elephant might be a prank, a painted pachyderm, but a semitransparent one defies physics and biology. If I see one, I will doubt my own eyes and examine the brownies I just ate. What would it take to convince me that a semitransparent purple elephant was indeed promenading in my cul-de-sac? Reports by neighbors on my street might give pause, but I’ll still suspect mass hallucination or LSD in the water until I hear a credible explanation allowing for semitransparent elephants. Visual proof won’t convince me that what I see is real if, as I understand the universe, it is impossible.

The five views out my window illustrate a standard, attributed to Carl Sagan, that “extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.” This seems common sense, but its application depends, of course, on what we consider extraordinary. To some Catholics, a translucent, levitating Virgin Mary in the cul-de-sac might be accepted as well-precedented, all the more impressive because she violates the known laws of physics; and my semitransparent, purple elephant might be venerated by a devotee of Ganesha. I can’t say about that. All of us are practical believers in many basic traits of the universe, such as gravity, friction, and inertia—otherwise we couldn’t function—but some of us believe in theories that justify accepting what others see as extraordinary claims without extraordinary evidence (or with no evidence at all).

Some people believe with religious fervor in UFOs, and not just as Unidentified Flying Objects, which obviously exist. It’s impossible to identify all flying objects, but does that imply vehicles of secretive beings violating physics with faster-than-light travel? Interstellar voyeurs who leave no traces? This, to my mind, is an extraordinary claim indeed, much more so than a cafeteria of other characterizations of odd sky events, including lies and errors in observation. But for believers, this extraterrestrial unicorn in the closet (charmingly spooky but, to me, in need of extraordinary proof) is protected by a phalanx other unfalsifiable claims that prevent it from being falsified: alien technology defeats known physics and leaves no traces, their human contacts have amnesia, and so forth. And so Ufology persists as a secular religion with scattered Burning Bush claims and no doubt even some Heart truths among those who cherish space aliens as devoutly as Clara’s did her father in the California goldfields, but there is clearly nothing Kalashnikov about it.

I have drifted back toward Kalashnikov proof—a nostalgic return to the locked gates of a childhood Eden where Sunday school lessons were all objectively true—and will bang on it for a while, even if I lack a key. Russell’s Teapot comes to mind, a thought experiment that applies to visions of the Virgin Mary and purple elephants, especially semitransparent ones. Suppose, Bertrand Russell theorizes, that a teapot is circling the sun in an elliptical orbit too far away to be detected by our telescopes. Like true believers in UFOs, Bigfoot, ghosts, and so forth—indeed, with more authority than many of these, which require exceptions to science—Russell challenges the claim that, because his orbiting Wedgwood is possible, until I produce evidence to the contrary, it remains one scientific description of what lies between Venus and Mercury. 

This is ridiculous, of course. Claims made without proof can be dismissed without proof. The person proposing a supernatural claim bears the burden of proof. Unproven claims may be rejected, even ridiculed for their lack of substance. Ridicule may be discourteous but is justified. This reads like common sense, but it does not prevail if the witness to the semitransparent beast promenading down my cul-de-sac is a biggie like Moses, David, Jesus, Paul, or Muhammad. In such cases, depending on where you live, to deny such unproven claims may be condemned as heresy, to ridicule them blasphemy. Until recent centuries in the West, such offenses could get you burned alive, and they are still punished as crimes in Russia, India, and the Middle East.