Studies in Science and Theology 8, 239–261 (2002)

This is a draft. The final version in SSTh is identical except for possibly the correction of
typographical errors. Page breaks in the printed version are indicated in this draft by [page],
where the number in brackets indicates the following page number.

Imposing Order—The Varieties of Anthropomorphism

by
Alfred Kracher
Department of Geological and Atmospheric Sciences
Iowa State University, Ames, IA 50011, U.S.A.

Abstract: There is a striking similarity between theological and scientific debates about the
concept of anthropomorphism. The majority view in both fields is to reject all anthropomorphism as
a mistake by definition. A recent theory of religion as systematized anthropomorphism consequently
amounts to the claim that religious belief is a mistake. But in both science and theology there are
analogies based on human self-experience that are not mistaken, and in art anthropomorphism is
used deliberately and with great impact. The origin of anthropomorphism lies in the psychology of
perception, which tends to make us interpret what we see as more complex than it actually is. But
the origin of anthropomorphism should not be mistaken for a definition of it. An analysis of
anthropomorphic analogies shows that they broadly fall into three categories. Some are inevitable,
simply because human thinking has to proceed from human experience; this is often considered to
be something other than anthropomorphism, but there is no consensus on terminology. Genuine
anthropomorphic analogies, which are not inevitable, are still sometimes practical, and under certain
circumstances necessary for heuristic purposes. Finally, anthropomorphism can be inappropriate or
mistaken, both in the sense of a perceptual mistake, or because an argument inappropriately
attributes human characteristics to non-human objects. The debate about anthropomorphism in
science allows us to make some tentative suggestions of how [240] anthropomorphism can be seen
under a more differentiated aspect in theology as well.

Key Words: analogy, animal behavior, anthropomorphism, epistemology, ethology, extraterrestrial

intelligence, metaphor, theology

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Introduction
Anthropomorphism is commonly considered to be the unwarranted attribution of human
characteristics to non-human objects. It is somewhat of a conundrum in a number of
academic fields from theology to animal behavior, ecology, and the philosophy of science.
With regard to theology alone we can find the claim that Christianity is in trouble because
its creator image is too anthropomorphic (Burhoe 1975), that Christian theology is too
hostile to anthropomorphism (Ferré 1984), that religion is nothing but systematized
anthropomorphism (Guthrie 1993), and that theology, though always tainted with it, must
rise above anthropomorphic concepts. The most thoroughgoing articulation of the latter
view in modern theology is usually identified with the work of Paul Tillich (discussed in
Guthrie 1993, 183–4; see also Pannenberg 1993, 50–71).

In biology the issue has in particular been raised by the study of animal behavior. Konrad
Lorenz sharply rejected anthropomorphic notions of animals, only to be himself reproached
with being anthropomorphic for ascribing quasi-human feelings to animals (Montagu 1976,
287). Particularly the criticism of ethology by Kennedy (1992) comes close to rejecting any
functional analysis of animal behavior as anthropomorphic, which to him is implicitly
unscientific.

The parallels between the biological and the theological debate are not merely
superficial. In both areas there are obvious cases in which analogies based on human
characteristics are wrongly drawn, and where the rejection of anthropomorphism is
therefore fully justified. But there remain other analogies which are not obviously
fallacious, and cases in which the use of such analogies is seemingly inevitable, even
though at least some scholars would still consider them anthropomorphic.
[241] In view of the parallels it is surprising that with the exception of Guthrie (1993)
anthropomorphism in science and theology has rarely been considered within the scope of a
single study. In this situation it is desirable to take a closer look at the notion of
anthropomorphism and its relationship to our apprehension of reality. What is commonly
called anthropomorphism is not, strictly speaking, one single item. Rather there are a
number of distinct phenomena underlying the concept, and further evaluation of its merits
and pitfalls requires a detailed analysis.

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Origin and Nature of Anthropomorphism

Guthrie (1993) contends that animism (the attribution of life to non-living things) and
anthropomorphism are built into the psychology of perception. All perception is
interpretive, and interpretation of what we perceive tends toward the highest organization
compatible with the data: “...it is better for a hiker to mistake a boulder for a bear than to
mistake a bear for a boulder” (Guthrie 1993, 6). Since mistaking bears for boulders reduces
Darwinian fitness 1, the interpretive faculties not only of humans but of all higher animals
strongly favor the “safe bet.”

The underlying issue is how we perceive and interpret order and complexity. If we grant
that living things are in general more complex than non-living ones, and that self-
consciousness increases the complexity of humans over and above that of other animals,
animism and anthropomorphism become synonymous with imagining order that is not
present in the real object. Hence the notion that perception imposes order on its objects in
addition to that inherent in reality.
[242] The
principle put forth by Guthrie (1993) was already recognized by Ernst Mach in
1906: “…[A]nthropomorphism is not an epistemological fallacy; if it were, every analogy
would be such a fallacy. The fallacy lies merely in the application of this view to cases in
which the premises for it are lacking or are not sufficient.” (Mach [1906] 1959, 97).

Perhaps the similarity of views between Mach and Guthrie stems from their shared
interest in the anthropological theories of Edward Burnett Tylor (1832–1917), who coined
the term animism and was apparently the first to propose a theory of a universal evolution
of cultures as an adaptation for survival (Preus 1987, 131–153). This would have appealed
to Mach, who held a strongly Darwinian view of psychology (e.g., Mach [1906] 1959, 49–
50).

The claim that cognitive process(es) impose order, and the implied distinction between
this “imaginary” order and order inherent in reality might be contested. However, in this
paper I am primarily concerned with the meaning and application of anthropomorphism as
a concept in science and theology, and will not attempt to defend these epistemological
presuppositions.

1 As Desirée Park has pointed out during the discussion of this paper, one can imagine situations in which
boulders are more dangerous than bears. However, all that is required here is that the situations in which
bears are more dangerous are sufficiently prevalent to promote evolution of a perceptual bias in favor of
animism. The fact that carnivores tend to evolve sophisticated hunting behavior, which their potential
prey has to recognize in order to avoid being captured, indicates that evolution does indeed take this path.

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The cognitive aspects of Guthrie’s theory of anthropomorphism are, aside from some
technical details, undoubtedly correct. But there is a problem with the way he extends this
theory of the origin of anthropomorphism into a theory of the nature of religion as
systematized anthropomorphism (Kracher 2000a). In short, Guthrie (1993) mistakes
elucidating the roots of anthropomorphism for a definition of it. He excellently does the
former, but never achieves the latter. Had he tried to do so, he would have been forced to
conclude that anthropomorphism is a complex phenomenon that comes at many different
levels of pre-conscious and conscious processing of perception and conceptualization.

The point I want to challenge specifically is that anthropomorphism is a mistake by

definition, and that any characteristics that we justifiably transfer from humans to others are
not to be called anthropomorphic. Simply investigating the origin of anthropomorphism as
a strategy of perception is not a sufficient criterion to show that it is always a mistake.

[243] Anthropomorphism as Analogy

Whether it is seeing human features where there are none, or using it as an artistic
device, anthropomorphism is a kind of analogy. Analogy is used here in the broad sense of
Leatherdale (1974), who discusses the uses of analogy and metaphor in science. In his
terminology, “analogy is a more fundamental and simple concept than metaphor or
model” (Leatherdale 1974, 1). It simply means that we express a relationship between the
target of our consideration and some known or familiar source with which the target shares
certain traits. The similarity need not be physical, but could itself be a similarity of
relationships. This broad view of analogy is particularly useful to the present discussion,
since it will allow us to treat all anthropomorphism as analogy, but make distinctions
between metaphorical and non-metaphorical kinds. Seeing a boulder as a bear is not a
metaphor, but a mistake. It is still based on an analogy, in this case a similarity of shape,
which leads to an analogous cognitive response. Talking about the “hand” of God is a
physical analogy, talking about “marriage” between greylag geese is an analogy of
relationship. Neither one is necessarily mistaken, however, and both are instances of
metaphorical anthropomorphism.

What complicates the situation is that analogy can have a much more restricted meaning
in theology, dating back to Aquinas and widely debated since then (e.g., McInerny 1996).
Placher (1996) claims that with the beginning of modernity Aquinas’ intentions have been
radically misunderstood. In order to steer clear of these problems, I will try to adhere to the
broad meaning of analogy defined by Leatherdale (1974) wherever possible, although we

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will briefly return to Placher’s critique in considering the theological implications of the
present study.

Delineating the boundaries of what should properly be called anthropomorphism also

requires that we identify those concepts that fall outside the boundary. Some features of
human inquiry are undoubtedly determined simply by the fact that it is human inquiry; it is
our human brain that does the thinking, and the place where we begin a thought process is,
in a broad sense, self-experience.
[244] It would clearly be desirable to draw some kind of boundary between the
anthropomorphism that we can, as it were, turn off at will, and the unavoidable human-
centeredness of all human thought. Unfortunately there is some terminological confusion
about this phenomenon. Guthrie (1993) refers to it as anthropocentrism, but this label is
more commonly used in quite a different sense, namely as a pejorative term for a parochial
view of nature as subservient to human interests (so for example in Ferré 1984). We will
return to this problem in the section on Epistemological Anthropomorphism.

A different problem about boundaries arises for those who regard anthropomorphism as a
purely negative term, a mistake to be avoided at all costs. This attitude requires a different
word for those instances when there is actually a valid analogy between human features and
those of a non-human object. In these cases, Lorenz follows Mach in calling them simply
analogies (with the implication that they are valid analogies), and other ethologists have
mostly followed this usage.

As long as the issue is animal behavior, this terminology may be adequate, but it breaks
down when we try to extend it to other manifestations of anthropomorphism. It would, for
example, raise the question whether we could truly label the use of quasi-human forms in
art in this way. Since they are not a mistake, should we refrain from calling them
anthropomorphic? The word seems too well established to abolish it. We need to take a
closer look at whether the distinction between “bad” anthropomorphism and “good”
analogy is really as clear cut as much of the ethological literature seems to suggest.

ET to the Rescue
I am not at all sure that intelligent extraterrestrials (ETs for short) exist, but, their
ontological predicament notwithstanding, they have been extremely helpful to us in
addressing certain epistemological problems. Thus I turn to them for help in the matter of

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anthropomorphism, and try to imagine in what ways a terrestrial scientist might prepare for
contact with them.
[245]It is quite clear that knowing only one species, homo sapiens, with the kind of
intelligence required for creating science, we must take this form of intelligence as a
template for the presumptive ET. After we actually meet ET, we will no doubt find that this
guess was mistaken in a number of ways, but it is the best one we can make. For the sake of
simplicity let us postulate that we can break down our expectations regarding ET into a neat
list of items, such as 1. some structure corresponding to a brain, 2. self-interest in survival,
and so on for several dozen items. This enumerative approach is no doubt wildly
oversimplified, since all of these items are really going to be intimately related, and
subconscious assumptions about ourselves do not appear on the list, because we are by
definition as yet unaware of them—but it will serve my point.

The list is anthropocentric in Guthrie’s (but not Ferré’s) sense of the term. It starts with
our self-experience, because there is no other reasonable place to start. After our
descendants get to meet ETs, it will turn out that some items on the list do in fact apply to
them, whereas others don’t. The science fiction writer Orson Scott Card, for example,
imagines an ET species with a highly developed brain, but, for reasons that are carefully
developed, no individual interest in survival2 (Card 1985).

By the rules of Guthrie, Lorenz, and others we would now retroactively label assumption
1. as (valid) analogy, since it turned out to be true, and assumption 2. as anthropomorphism,
because it is false. Although this nitpicking terminology is perfectly logical, it makes
anthropomorphism such a specialized term that it becomes useless outside a highly
technical context. We would have to be certain (beyond reasonable doubt) of the truth or
falsity of any assumption before we could label it correctly. What would be the point of
using anthropomorphism simply as a synonym for falsehood? Even if we decide, like
Lorenz and Guthrie, to label a very common error with a special word, we could make little
progress in [246] understanding the nature of the error, if we cannot simultaneously name the
relevant parallel phenomenon that is not erroneous. The latter is what Lorenz seeks to
express with the term analogy, but this is confusing, because in general anthropomorphism
is considered a special case of analogy, not something distinct from it.

2 It is not clear that intelligence could in fact evolve under these circumstances, but the scenario is
sufficiently plausible to work for the argument at hand.

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A more common sense way to talk about the situation that I have just described is to call
our entire list of anticipated ET qualities anthropomorphic (which would leave Ferré’s more
commonly accepted usage of anthropocentric intact), and refer to items 1. and 2. as,
respectively, justified and unjustified anthropomorphism. Scholars who regard
anthropomorphism a mortal sin for a scientist may find this usage objectionable, but I will
argue later that they, too, cannot easily escape the unintended devaluation of the term that
follows from an overly restrictive definition.

If all of this mattered only in the unlikely case that ET will phone humanity in the near
future, we would not need to bother with a semantic analysis. However, similar situations
that we encounter vis-à-vis our hypothetical ET arise in actual fact in other contexts as well.
I will make use of these similarities here to illustrate how uses and abuses of
anthropomorphism follow parallel paths in science and theology.

We have now taken a first step in revising the initial definition of anthropomorphism,
dropping from it the adjective “unwarranted,” or at least qualifying it in the sense that not
all attributions of human characteristics to non-human objects are mistaken.

The primatologist Frans de Waal proceeds from a similar definition: “There is a fine but
important line between the use of anthropomorphism for communicatory purposes or as a
heuristic device, and gratuitous anthropomorphism that projects human emotions and
intentions onto animals without justification, explication, or critical investigation” (de Waal
1996, 228–9). The implication that anthropomorphism may, as in the case of ET, be the
only viable heuristic strategy, and the need to follow this initial guess with critical
investigation without thereby rejecting all anthropomorphism is noteworthy for its common
sense. It distinguishes de Waal’s pragmatic approach from neo-behaviorist ideology, which
treats any [247] study of mental processes in animals in the style of a witch finder locating
the devil’s mark of anthropomorphism (Kennedy 1992).

A Taxonomy of Anthropomorphism
Since we now have already three kinds of anthropomorphism, viz., the anticipatory one
represented by our list of ET’s presumed qualities before we knew which items were
correct, and the justified and unjustified ones after we had found out, it may be time to
develop a tentative taxonomy.
1. Anthropomorphism as cognitive mistake (seeing a boulder as a bear).
2. Mythic anthropomorphism.

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3. Artistic (metaphorical) anthropomorphism.

4. Anticipatory anthropomorphism (anthropomorphism as heuristic strategy).
5. Anthropomorphism inherent in epistemology (Guthrie’s anthropocentrism).
6. Theological anthropomorphism.

We will investigate the varieties of anthropomorphism in turn, and also consider

phenomena that should more properly be called by a different name. Of course, the
classification is not unique, and could probably be improved by dedicated taxonomists. The
main point here is to underscore my contention that anthropomorphism, broadly defined, is
not always a mistake.

Cognitive Mistake
The synthetic quality that repeatedly and somewhat predictably causes the kind of
cognitive mistake that makes us see boulders as bears is no doubt the root of all
anthropomorphism (Guthrie 1993). In particular, Guthrie shows a number of illustrations
that let us see all kinds of objects as faces, including the famous “face on Mars.” As
experiments reported in Kandel et al. (1991, 458–9) demonstrate, the human brain has
specific neurons that respond to [248] face-like visual stimuli3 . Thus the imputation of facial
features to inanimate objects is likely to be a universal human feature.

The plausibility of a cognitive mistake does not, however, account by itself for all
instances of anthropomorphism. Uses of anthropomorphism that are deliberate have their
own theoretical status (Kracher 2000a). Their particular effectiveness comes from the fact
that rational reflection can recognize the mistake seemingly in spite of the evidence
provided by our cognitive apparatus.

Mythic Anthropomorphism
Mythic anthropomorphism manifests itself in the human qualities that myths ascribe to a
variety of non-human entities. In the case of naiads and dryads this may merge into poetic
anthropomorphism, whereas in more formalized religious contexts it would be considered

3 I am indebted to Rodney Holmes for clarifying this issue. Curiously, Guthrie seems to be unaware of the
neurophysiological facts. The existence of such specific neurons in primate brains, but not the brains of
other mammals, may explain why it is difficult to document the equivalent of anthropomorphism in
animals.

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theological. However, myths have their own autonomy apart from poetry or theology, and
mythic anthropomorphism must therefore be considered a separate category.

What distinguishes mythic anthropomorphism from other kinds is that it is first order
naïve, in the sense of Ricoeur’s “fist naïveté” (Ricoeur 1967). Since in a sense myths have
no author, it is a less deliberate kind of anthropomorphism than that found in poetry or
theological treatises. But neither is it simply a manifestation of a cognitive mistake, as an
example quoted by Veyne (1988, xi) demonstrates:

The Dorzé of Ethiopia consider the leopard a holy animal. Like other saints, leopards are
said to keep the fast days of their religion. This belief is undoubtedly a form of
anthropomorphism. Yet anthropological observers note that on the days the leopard
allegedly fasts the Dorzé make no less effort to protect their livestock than on any other day.
The human qualities imputed to the leopard are thus [249] qualitatively different from the
kind of cognitive mistake of Guthrie’s hiker. Neither are they a kind of theology, however,
since there is evidently no perceived necessity for an intellectual explanation of the
apparent contradiction between belief and practice.

Artistic Anthropomorphism
This aspect of anthropomorphism is more deliberate, and requires a more extended
discussion. Why should the inclination of our cognitive faculty towards a particular kind of
mistake fascinate artists from all periods and cultures? Why are anthropomorphic objects
and animals all but ubiquitous in representative and literary arts? Guthrie emphasizes the
subconscious roots of artistic animism and anthropomorphism: “Artists may deliberately
elaborate and use [self-conscious animism], but first they experience it. They experience it
in the same way as do the rest of us: a largely unconscious scanning with models for
form” (Guthrie 1993, 54). But if we continue to label such metaphorical uses as
“anthropomorphism,” then it is no longer true that, as Guthrie also contends,
“anthropomorphism by definition is mistaken” (p. 204 and elsewhere), since these
metaphors are certainly deliberate.

Why are these metaphors so popular and effective? They play on our awareness that our
senses sometimes give us the wrong signal. In some sense they deliberately induce a feeling
of cognitive dissonance, an unease that comes from a tension between our pre-conscious
perception and our conscious assessment. Guthrie shows liquor advertisements, for
example, in which bottles are shown as human figures (Guthrie 1993, figures 5-10 to 5-14,

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and 5-16). Seeing the pictures, our subconscious “wants” to see human figures, while our
reason tells us that we are looking at bottles.

A scientific investigation (for example, the study of brain activity during the recognition
of faces quoted by Kandel et al. 1991) can tell us how this misdirection comes about, but it
does not provide us with an analysis of the experience itself. When we see a face-like
structure, neurons involved in face recognition fire, but that does not tell us whether
subsequent evaluation by our rational faculties shows that they did so for the wrong reason.
Our perceptual apparatus is [250] indeed in a certain sense mistaken, but it is not
anthropomorphism that constitutes the mistake. On the contrary, the deliberately
anthropomorphic representation plays on the ability of our reason to be able to “correct” the
mistake of our neurons.

This kind of tension is at the root of all metaphor. Any “fresh” metaphor is intended to
some degree to startle, to gain a new perspective on a situation. McFague (1982) says, for
example, that metaphor works due to its “unconventional and shocking” quality. To use
Gregory Bateson’s paradigm of metaphor, “men are grass” (Bateson and Bateson 1987, 26),
it invites us to simultaneously confront the complementary questions how humans are like
and not like grass. The holism, the simultaneity of this confrontation, cannot be rendered in
propositional language; likeness and unlikeness would have to be rendered sequentially.
Guthrie’s liquor bottles are like and unlike human beings at the same time. How much of
the actual experience gets lost by parsing the relationship into sequential propositions
depends, of course, on how important the holistic aspect is in making the metaphor work. In
the case of Bateson’s syllogism in grass as well as Guthrie’s bottles, the holistic aspect is
itself part of the message, and any analytical evaluation of it is like reading about a
Beethoven symphony instead of listening to it. We will return to this point in the discussion
of theology.

Anticipatory or Heuristic Anthropomorphism

Turning to science, we have already encountered anticipatory anthropomorphism as a
heuristic strategy when dealing with ET. When all goes well, and we don’t get carried away
by either overemphasizing or denying ET’s similarities with humans, we could also speak
of a critical anthropomorphism, an attitude that reserves [251] judgment on whether the
transfer of human traits to the non-human is appropriate or not.

There is a kind of anthropomorphic talk about animals that is unanimously rejected by

students of animal behavior. Wuketits (1995, 19–24) makes clear what ethologists have in

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mind when they object to anthropomorphism: primarily moral or quasi-moral judgments,

like calling a camel “haughty” or a donkey “stupid.” This is surely an illicit transfer of
moral concepts to the animal.

But ethologists, particularly Konrad Lorenz, freely use anthropomorphic language.

Greylag geese have personalities (Lorenz 1988, 218), exhibit jealousy (p.274), mourning (p.
279), hatred (p.282), and so forth. This, as I have already said, is metaphorical
anthropomorphism, and Lorenz is invariably clear about what the metaphor does and does
not intend to express. Thus it would seem that there is little reason to accuse him of illicitly
transferring concepts together with the anthropomorphic terminology4 , and by his own
terminological standard (more restrictive than that used in this paper) Lorenz himself would
justifiably protest that he is not being anthropomorphic (e.g., p.35).

Kennedy (1992) points out, however, that the metaphorical nature of such
anthropomorphic language tends to be forgotten over time, and this gives rise to serious
misperceptions. It is a valid point, one that has been forcefully made with regard to
theological metaphors by McFague (1982). It is the fate of all metaphors, whether scientific
or theological, to become “literalized” with time; all the same this is no argument against
using metaphors as such, and in any case neither science (Leatherdale 1974) nor theology
(McFague 1982) would be possible without them.

Even so, not all anthropomorphism in science is metaphorical. The anticipation that ETs
would have a brain-like structure is anthropo-[252]morphic, but it is hardly a metaphor in the
usual sense. And suppose we meet ET and find out that we were mistaken, that their
functional equivalent is something completely unlike a human brain. Kennedy (1992, 37)
implies that certain hypotheses in animal research are wrong simply by virtue of being an
anthropomorphic idea. But the reason why our hypothesis about ET’s brain turned out to be
wrong was not because it was anthropomorphic; we might very well have been right rather
than wrong. This is simply the nature of what we mean by heuristic strategy—if we knew in
advance how to be right, we would not call it heuristic.

The necessity for this approach goes beyond future contact with ET. It obviously applies
to animal studies as well, since ethologists have no a priori way of knowing which of their
conjectures regarding animal emotions are actually correct “analogies,” and which are
incorrect “anthropomorphisms” (cf. Lorenz 1988, who expands on this in a section titled

4 Montague (1976), of course, makes precisely this mistake. But this is merely a minor aspect of his total
misunderstanding of practically everything that Lorenz (1963) has to say about aggression in humans.

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“analogies as sources of knowledge and error”). As in the case of ET, any judgment as to
which attributions are in fact correct in a particular case can only be made after the actual
encounter with the animal.

Thus if an ethologist happens to be wrong about the interpretation of a particular

observation, it may have nothing to do with anthropomorphic expectations; it may simply
be part of the ordinary process of science. Likewise, particular positions in theology may
well turn out to be untenable, but their rejection cannot rest simply on how
anthropomorphic the metaphors are by which the idea is expressed.

The problem of transferring human emotions to animals becomes very clear when we
consider the issue of fear. That dogs, for example, experience fear is intuitively obvious to
practically any observer. In a discussion of motivation analysis, Konrad Lorenz gives an
account of how ethologists go about observing animal emotions of this kind, complete with
illustrations of the facial expressions of a dog (Lorenz 1963, 142).

Feeling fear is obviously useful for self-preservation, and all the usual arguments about
homologous and convergent evolution of sensory organs apply with equal force to the
evolution of fear. But when we ask, “what does fear feel like to a dog?” we nonetheless [253]
encounter a problem. Fear in humans is always a fear of something, and as such it is
inextricably connected with human imagination. We know what could happen to us, even in
situations where the fear is uncontrollable. An acrophobic fears falling (or jumping) off a
bridge and being killed. We mostly presume that dog consciousness is not so sophisticated
as to have this kind of imagination.

What an emotion “feels like” to an animal is thus, as Lorenz (1988, 294) explicitly says,
entirely hidden from us. But it is not necessary for us to know this in order to label the
emotion. We must not ignore the fact that in any analogy there is a residue of dissimilarity.
This is the nature of analogy, not an argument against it. We may not know what fear feels
like to a dog, but we know enough to consider it cruel to inflict fear without adequate
reason. When Ferré (1984) talks about anthropocentrism, what he has in mind is that
focussing exclusively on the dissimilarity can become a justification for abuse. Scientists
whose sole concern is to combat anthropomorphism (Kennedy 1992) unwittingly reinforce
the emphasis on dissimilarity. In this sense, anthropomorphism and anthropocentrism work
in opposite ways. The rejection of anthropomorphism can foster anthropocentrism.

We know, both by intuition and from a consideration of its evolutionary source, that fear
is unpleasant, whether it is a dog or a human feeling it. Is either source of knowledge

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anthropomorphic? Does the validation of our intuition by science make a difference? Some
ethologists appear to treat this validation as a kind of magical eraser, which removes the
stigma of anthropomorphism from the intuitive assumption. But how should we label those
intuitions that have not yet been evaluated by science? This is the same problem that we
had in preparing for our hypothetical meeting with ET, and we will encounter it in an even
more pressing form in the context of theology.

Epistemological Anthropomorphism and Potentially Inevitable Analogies

A much stronger claim regarding anthropomorphism in science is that all epistemology is
tainted by reliance on self-experience. This view, going back to David Hume, leads to the
conclusion that the [254] notion of causality itself is anthropomorphic5 (Smith 1981).
Guthrie calls this idea anthropocentrism; discussing Nietzsche who viewed science as
fundamentally anthropomorphic, he says: “[Nietzsche] seems to conflate anthropocentrism
and anthropomorphism. I agree that humans are invariably anthropocentric.
Anthropomorphism, however, is a mistake by definition” (Guthrie 1993, 163).

Claims regarding the role of our self-experience in epistemology do seem to get at

something more fundamental, or at any rate something different, than the kinds of
anthropomorphism discussed so far. Thus Guthrie is probably justified in making the
distinction, even though his terminology could become a source of confusion to those who
use anthropocentrism to mean something quite different (e.g., Ferré 1984). Since we will
need both concepts in the discussion of theology, it would be awkward to use
anthropocentric in two different ways. Therefore I will refer to Guthrie’s version as
anthroponomic6. Translating Guthrie’s argument into this terminology, he argues that
science is inevitable anthroponomic, but not necessarily anthropomorphic, whereas religion
is inevitably anthropomorphic.

However, anthropomorphism is a complex phenomenon, and, as we have seen, insisting

that it is “a mistake by definition” makes the term unusable in a number of circumstances.

5 Hume was not the first to criticize the notion of causality. What distinguishes Hume from his nominalist
predecessors like Nicholas of Autrecourt (Crombie 1961, II 47–48) is that he was apparently the first to
do so specifically because he regarded causality as an unduly anthropomorphic concept. I am indebted to
Wolfgang Achtner for a clarification on this subject during the ECST VIII conference in Lyon.

6 The underlying notion is that anthropos, in the form of human self-experience, is the source, or
“measuring stick” for the “laws (nomoi) of nature.” However, since the distinction between
anthropomorphic and anthroponomic is in any case problematical, the neologism is merely a convenience
for the purpose of the present discussion.

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Even if religion is at its heart anthropomorphic, not all anthropomorphism is mistaken, and
Guthrie’s theory does not in fact invalidate the content of belief.
[255] In Guthrie’s view “at least egregious anthropomorphism can…largely be eliminated
[from philosophy and science]… It is in this regard that science and philosophy differ most
sharply from religion, which… is inseparable from anthropomorphism” (Guthrie 1993,
176). This asymmetry, however, is the result of a faulty comparison (Kracher 2000a).
Religion and basic science are not comparable phenomena. Religious belief among the
general population may be deeply anthropomorphic, but so is the apprehension of nature
associated with technology in non-scientific societies. If, on the other hand, we compare the
formalized, theoretical aspects of each enterprise, basic science and theology, we find in
both cases a lively discussion among specialists as to whether anthropomorphism is in fact
always undesirable, or in some cases unavoidable. Thus as long as we get the comparison
right, I do not think that the role of anthropomorphism is substantially different in science
from what it is in religion.

Implications for Theology

Good and Evil in Creation

The present study is not intended to offer a comprehensive investigation of the
theological aspects of anthropomorphism. However, there are sufficient similarities between
the discussion of anthropomorphism in science and theology that it is not unreasonable for a
scientist to offer some suggestions on how to advance our understanding.

For example, Ferré (1984) points out that the rejection of anthropomorphism in theology
is primarily based on the fear that we “contaminate” out conceptions of God if we transfer
human qualities to the level of the divine. He counters by saying that we can only conceive
of positive qualities on similar analogies; we can only talk about the goodness of God if we
have at least some notion that humans are also good, however imperfect their goodness may
be.

Ferré’s discussion exactly parallels a point made by de Waal (1996, 13–20) about
anthropomorphism in ethology. He finds that anthropomorphic language does not encounter
any objection from [256] fellow scientists as long as it refers to negative qualities, such as
rivalry, aggression, etc. The anthropomorphism that critics object to is associated with
positive analogies, either mental accomplishments such as self-recognition, or social
relationships such as friendship, care, etc.

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The striking similarity between the scientific view criticized by de Waal and the
theological view criticized by Ferré is that they both view nature, including human nature
as evil, devoid of positive qualities that could legitimately serve as metaphors of goodness.
Quite aside from the theological and scientific objections, such views raise a fundamental
epistemological question: where does goodness come from, if it can neither be found
around us nor within us? De Waal acknowledges the religious roots of the predicament by
giving the entire chapter the title Calvinist Sociobiology. It is an unusually clear example of
how religious beliefs influence purportedly secular scientific issues.

Inevitable Analogies
It would seem that the distinction between what Guthrie and almost everyone else calls
anthropomorphism, and the fundamental reliance on human self-experience which Guthrie
refers to as anthropocentric and I have called anthroponomic is often not adequately
considered in theological discussion. Nonetheless the distinction between (a) the role of
self-experience in human knowledge, and (b) the predication of specific human
characteristics of non-human objects (including God) would seem to be at least as
important in theology as it is in science. In part the problem may be due to the
terminological confusion mentioned earlier. In his discussion of anthropomorphism in
theology, Ferré (1984) uses anthropocentrism to mean something like “species chauvinism”
of homo sapiens. Apparently no generally accepted term exists in theology for what I have
called anthroponomic.

Yet from a comparison with science it would seem to be important to distinguish

different kinds of human analogies in theology as well. From the previous discussion we
would infer that in science there are broadly speaking three kinds of such analogies. The
concept of force, [257] and even of causality itself, is taken from our self-experience. We are
aware of that, but at least at present we really see no way around it. This is the level of
anthroponomic (or in Guthrie’s sense anthropocentric) analogy.

As to analogies that are not in this sense unavoidable, we can still distinguish appropriate
and inappropriate anthropomorphism. To talk about the marriage of greylag geese certainly
has its dangers of being misunderstood, but it is entirely appropriate for “communicative

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and heuristic purposes,” to use de Waal’s phrase. However, it is a mistake to make moral
judgments about animal behavior7.

I think that it would make sense to apply a similar three-level framework to human
analogies in theology as well, at least as an experiment. Problems with the inevitable
literalization of metaphors will surely arise, but as McFague (1982) rightly points out these
are in any case unavoidable. Moreover, our hypothetical ET encounter has shown that
anthropomorphism is sometimes necessary for certain heuristic tasks, even if it can later be
discarded. There are certain things we simply cannot find out unless we begin with some
kind of anthropomorphic strategy. Arguments about anthropomorphism in theology should
therefore be reconsidered in light of a more differentiated conception of its varieties.

The Contingency of Language

There may be a less obvious reasons as well for the failure to distinguish anthroponomic
and anthropomorphic analogies in theology (I am still using analogy in the broad sense
defined at the beginning). Historically theology has for the most part been attached to
structures that are in some sense guardians of orthodox belief. There is a certain subliminal
inclination to proclaim the tenets of orthodoxy as if one could take a “view from eternity.”
In other words, there exists a tendency to implicitly deny that dogmatic [258] formulations
are subject to the limitations that come from being formulated on the basis of human self-
experience in terms of human language.

Although there is surely no philosophical argument that denies the anthroponomic nature
of dogmatic formulations, the institutional environment in which much theology has been
done in the past is likely to have discouraged the process of making this explicit. A similar
tendency to deny the anthroponomic nature of theoretical concepts has to some extent been
evident in science as well. The entire idea that there are, in this sense, “absolute”
formulations may in fact have as much to do with the clockwork universe of early science
as with the nature of religious dogma; both may simply be a stage in the development of
thought that is now coming to an end (Kracher 2000b).

In some strands of Christianity the problem has been exacerbated by the fact that images
of God were not so much anthropomorphic as specifically andromorphic. It is
understandable that inasmuch as human analogies were identified with male human

7 This applies to the case that we are actually talking about the animal in a scientific sense. Fables and the
like are a different matter, but they do not purport to teach us something about the animal, but use animals
themselves as metaphors.

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analogies, a general resistance against anthropomorphic metaphors has developed. But a

“flight from metaphor” can only lead to a theological dead end (Kracher 2000b). The
antidote to metaphors that are no longer acceptable or have been excessively literalized is to
develop fresh ones, as McFague (1982) proposes.

Theological Analogy and Metaphorical Anthropomorphism

A point which is closely related to the preceding one concerns the concept of analogy as
used in theology, where it has a more specific meaning than that defined by Leatherdale
(1974) and used in this paper. Placher (1998) has argued that with the modernist turn in the
17th century a fundamental change has taken place in how analogical language has been
understood. Whereas Thomas Aquinas was content to claim that, in ways that are not
entirely accessible to logical analysis, certain attributes applied to God in an analogical way,
his interpreters from the 16th century onward sought to develop a precise theory of analogy,
thereby destroying the very [259] ineffability that was Aquinas’ motivation to develop the
concept in the first place.

The original understanding of analogy in this theological sense is reminiscent of what I

have called metaphorical anthropomorphism. The very point of using the latter in art is the
impossibility to render a particular relationship in propositional language. It conveys
simultaneously how something is both like and unlike a human being. In using analogical
language there is also something of the calculated anthropomorphism in which we “know
that we don’t know” the object to which we refer. If the object is potentially accessible, as
in animal studies, we can later sort out the relationship between our anthropomorphic
conjectures, and the actual properties of the object. But even if the object is not accessible,
a kind of critical anthropomorphism remains our best bet for reasoning about it.

Pre-Scientific and Non-Scientific Anthropomorphism

Critical anthropomorphism does not destroy the creative tension inherent in human
metaphor. To use a previous example, we can step back from our first impression to realize
that a bottle is not like a human, while our perception still insists on the similarity. There
may be a lesson in this for the relationship between theology and belief.

Belief is prior to theology in somewhat the same sense that empathy with a frightened
dog is prior to an ethological explanation of the evolutionary source of fear. The important
thing is that we are kind to the dog, even at the risk that our anthropomorphic understanding
of its emotion is mistaken. In this case scientific analysis validates our intuition, and

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whether we still call this anthropomorphic, or with Lorenz (1988) prefer analogical, is a
secondary matter. Of course, scientific analysis might also show a particular
anthropomorphic attitude to be wrong. But since the analysis usually comes after the fact,
we need to rely on a “best guess” first, without assuming that anthropomorphism is always
mistaken. It would be terrible if we thought that it was all right to beat the dog until science
proved that there really was a non-anthropomorphic reason for not doing so.
[260] Theology, I would suggest, is in a similar situation with respect to belief. It may
reflect on the general inadequacy of anthropomorphic conceptions; however, the practical
use of this reflection lies less in its critical rationality, but in its ability to evoke a creative
tension between the reflexive knowledge and the immediacy of experience. Although we
are well aware that this immediacy causes us to anthropomorphize excessively, this is not
necessarily always mistaken. Theology can learn from the experience of believers as well as
the other way around.

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