Is the Marketplace of Ideas going out of business?

I’m not sure if you remember the start of the very first covid-19 lockdown, but late last year there was a strange phenomenon of ‘lockdown nostalgia’. Young people all over social media reminisced on those movie-moment days where we watched the world shake and contort into a position we thought no longer possible.

The news sank in. The economy tanked. The workforce splintered.

For a brief moment humanity was faced with the same universal questions. “How long is this going to last?”, “What am I going to do with myself everyday?”, “What does this mean for my future?”, “How bad will this thing get?”

For some people nothing seemed to change with the nature and location of our work, but the surroundings were all of a sudden ghostly quiet and ominously uncertain, as we meandered in to a lifeless parallel universe with nothing but our thoughts. If we were lucky, we’d see the occasional council worker spraying the surroundings in their hazmat suit.

That’s not to say that it was all apocalyptic and gloomy. Everything became instantaneously simplified for us all. Everything was new again and all of a sudden those rainy day projects found new life amidst the torrent of time, boredom, and antsy-ness that washed over our days. We stocked up on supplies, we supported local, we made zoom work, we put boundaries on our Covid updates/research/doomscrolling, we offered to buy groceries for our elderly neighbours. We wanted to do the right thing.

But then we fractured again. The Internet made us even crazier than we were before, and the polarisation that had been wreaking havoc on Western democracies went to another level. Many people are simply getting off social media, and trying to get away from the ubiquitous politicisation of everyday life.

Every idea seems to be fiercely disputed, and subsequently sorted into a political narrative. Clearly there have been some changes to the marketplace of ideas. Is it operating on a scale never seen before with the democratisation of knowledge (and even crazier venders), or is it more like a hostile takeover from corporate interests and malevolent fraudsters?

Why is it so gosh darn hard to talk about-let alone get to the bottom of-anything? Who can we trust? And how can we be certain about what’s true and false anymore? In his trenchant and essential book The Constitution of Knowledge by Jonathan Rauch, he outlines some critical factors as to why we have entered such an epistemic crisis.

How do we know what we know?

Rauch starts with Plato and an imaginary conversation between Socrates and his younger pupil Theaetetus, where they talk about how one acquires knowledge. The discussion begets a principle that knowledge is a lifelong process found in the testing of our perceptions and judgements, while ruling out error as much as possible. But it cannot be done alone. It requires a community of fellow truth seekers to hold one another accountable, and to critique faulty conclusions. Rauch calls this the ‘reality-based community’ a major feature of the constitution of knowledge. Most professions and academic disciplines have come a long way over the centuries, creating vast ecosystems of knowledge, and constantly pushing the boundaries of human understanding. But it only works when a community adheres to the agreed upon standards and ethics that have made that discipline valuable in the first place. In this context, even disagreements can be turned into knowledge, and the most imaginative and novel ideas can be explored together.

The ancient hypothetical conversation concludes with the words ‘let us meet here again’. An invitation for us all to join the reality based community in conversation.

Unfortunately though not everyone wants to join this community, due in large part to the loss of trust in institutions. Sometimes this mistrust is completely warranted, where scandal and hypocrisy have diminished public credibility, but sometimes the attacks are blatant and punitive smear campaigns to chase votes or further self-interest.

“Institutions propagate and enforce norms and rules, evaluate and certify credentials, set agendas and direct resources, enforce accountability, and train future generations to do all of these things and more. That is why, today, the institutions and norms of liberal science, not individuals, are the real targets of attack by nihilists and bullies.” (p16)

Rauch spends a bit of time delving into the history of how our modern institutions were built (chapters 2&3), before going into why they’re all of a sudden under assault in increasingly malicious and sophisticated ways. The Internet ushered in the information age, with the promise of democratised knowledge, but this freedom of information has also become a vulnerability. Savvy operators exploiting the relative ease, anonymity and low cost of the Internet have found ways to weaponise their corrosive messages to a global audience, and attention favours the outrageous and shocking. This becomes a major destabilising force for democracy.

Outrage as a destabilising force for democracy

There have been three major beneficiaries of outrage, all of which are playing an outsized role in anti-democratic strain and sentiment. The first of course are social media companies which have found incredibly cynical yet lucrative ways to herd and whip up outrage to new heights. In many ways social media, which promised a new way of doing community has created just that. Though the rise of negative communities have become an highly concerning element of the social media landscape, seeping out of from the virtual space and into the real world, with real-life consequences. And Rauch identifies two particularly noxious forces that are exploiting social media in alarming ways.

The first is troll culture, where shamelessness, provocation, grievance venting and asymmetric warfare bypass the norms of civil society. They are experts at commanding attention despite their lack of cultural power or influence, and this attention works. By using inflammatory rhetoric, shock tactics and negative partisanship they build a following that capitalises on people’s fears, where they can be the solution (thus gaining more power, followers and credibility on their righteous crusade). Rauch describes the ‘firehose of falsehoods’ approach they adopt where the sheer frequency of outrageous claims becomes impossible to keep up with, and thus distinguish truth from lies, or misleading claims.

The second is cancel culture, where virtue signalling, forbidden words, microaggressions, puritanicalism, and social media pile-ons have a chilling effect on freedom of speech. Their arguments are often highly emotional rather than rational, and are enforced by aggressive policing of orthodoxy, making examples of people who slip up with shaming, de-platforming, ostracism and in some cases firings. Advocates are often self-proclaimed champions of diversity, yet push a narrow form of secular progressivism, demonising not only conservatives, but also moderates, estranging even ethnic communities whom they claim to represent.

Both of these forces intimidate the majority in the middle into ‘spirals of silence’ where good people fail to speak out for fear of being targeted. This can be catastrophic for the reality-based community as central institutions are undermined, co-opted, and manipulated to consolidate dubious ideas and ideologies into the mainstream. This then has flow on effects on the health of democracies, as they fray and wither under the strain. Politics becomes increasingly existential, with a winner takes all mindset. Conflict becomes more venomous, combustible and violent. At this point ideas are no longer taken on the merits of their truthfulness, but are baked into the existing narratives of the culture war. Rauch is careful not to create a moral equivalence here, and he outlines troll culture as the more immediate threat. But both of these forces feed on one another and create confirmation loops that get more extreme over time. We’d be wise to heed the warnings of both, regardless of where we fall on the political spectrum. Rauch wraps up by making the case for optimism (i.e. institutions pushing back) as well as suggesting a number of ways to counter-mobilise and protect truth in ordinary ways.

Concluding thoughts

The Constitution of Knowledge is one of the best books you’ve probably never heard of. Rauch makes a compelling case for liberal democratic principles which can give us a strong degree of confidence in truth seeking endeavours. Rauch is an ardent supporter of free speech, even when that freedom of speech can be abused, or utilised carelessly. It’s important that ideas are accessible, able to persuade, and open to critique. But these principles and the institutions that benefit from them need to be protected, cherished and never taken for granted.

As a Christian I find this book highly representative of the world I want to live in. My theological convictions will always lead me to value persuasion, pluralism and principle over coercion, conformity and moral compromise. God creates a world full of wonder, variety and abundance – reflected both in nature, and in human civilisation, and we have so much to learn from those around us. I agree with Rauch that truth is a communal exercise where we are almost wholly dependent on the expertise, understanding and experiences of others. God himself appears only to a few select characters in biblical history, and truth is largely mediated through credentialed individuals and institutions. Epistemic humility is needed. But we’re also encouraged to practice and apply discernment. To be on guard against hucksters, frauds and liars, as well as against our own biases, motives, and intellectual pathologies. We need systems that prize and encourage virtuous creativity, while limiting our vices and will to power. This book is a great reminder of that.

The opening conversation of the book reminds me of the early church accounts. After Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, the apostles are tasked with persuading the world of the good news of Jesus’ life changing Kingdom. They survive attempts at being ‘cancelled’ as well as myriad of death threats and disinformation. They remain resolute in their task, and continue taking their ideas to the marketplace, reasoning with those who will listen. Eventually St Paul is given a hearing in the Areopagus and ‘when they heard about the resurrection of the dead, some of them sneered, but others said “We want to hear you again on this subject”. ' (Acts 17:32). The invitation for knowledge and truth has always been around, but whether we take up the challenge everyday remains to be seen.

Rauch closes the book by reiterating the call of his thesis:

“The constitution of knowledge is the most successful social design in human history, but also the most counterintuitive. In exchange for knowledge, freedom and peace, it asks to mistrust our sense and our tribes, question our sacred beliefs, and relinquish the comforts of certitude. It insists that we embrace fallibility, subject ourselves to criticism, tolerate the reprehensible, and outsource reality to a global network of strangers.” (p 263)

This level of introspection, commitment and egotistical sacrifice are not dissimilar to the Christian calling, and the very words of Jesus. In many ways these ought to come naturally for those of us who identify as Christians, and hopefully dispositions like this can be championed in the public square more often.

The marketplace of ideas may seem like a ghost town, or that it’s being overrun with hooligans and anarchists. We may be asking ‘how long will this last, and how bad will this get?’ but as long as virtuous people write books like The Constitution of Knowledge, and speak out for truth when their moment comes, I think the marketplace of ideas will calmly and quietly continue to boom.