A Religious Market Theory Explained

Nadeem F Paracha in The Dawn

In 1987, the American sociologists Rodney Stark and William S. Bainbridge formulated a ‘Religious Market Theory.’ The theory is a critique of the ‘Secularisation Thesis.’ The secularisation thesis was initially developed by the German sociologist Max Weber in the early 20th century. In the next five decades, it was further evolved by numerous scholars.

To Weber, due to modernisation, especially from the late 18th century onwards, societies entered a process of ‘spiritual disenchantment.’ Space for ‘pre-modern’ beliefs in magic, faith and superstition shrank and people began to adopt more rational modes of thinking.

Even non-Western societies started to adopt models of modernisation and, indeed, here as well, the traditional variants of religion began to decline. They were replaced by secularised formations of traditional faiths, framed and monopolised by the state.

But the secularisation thesis came into question when, from the mid-1970s onwards, the exhibition of religiosity, especially in modernised Muslim-majority nation-states, began to grow.

In the 1980s, when religiosity saw an increase in the US as well, Stark and Bainbridge formulated their religious market theory, challenging the secularisation thesis. The religious market theory suggests that when religiosity declines, it eventually revives itself, because the decline opens up spaces for new faiths and modified versions of the old faiths to emerge.

Stark and Bainbridge saw the rise and decline of religiosity as a cycle, which moves like markets do in capitalist settings. Religions which fail to adjust to the needs of changing conditions, fall by the wayside and lose followers. Readjusted religions and new faiths begin to emerge in a scenario where religiosity seems to be receding.

Gradually, though, new and readjusted variants are able to revive interest in faith, by providing services and products that are better suited to meet the needs of changing conditions.

According to Stark and Bainbridge, this cycle produces a diverse collection of faiths, cults, sects and subsects, which compete against each other in the ‘marketplace of faiths’ and improve to attract followers. The religious market theory posits that this renews an interest in faith and religiosity.

In 19th century India, during the complete fall of the Mughal Empire and the mushrooming of British colonialism, the established variants of Islam began to struggle to keep pace with the changing conditions. It seemed that the modernity introduced by the British was rapidly secularising the polity. But as the old religious ethos dwindled, new variants emerged to address the changing needs of India’s Muslims.

On the one hand, new Sunni sects such as Deobandi, Barelvi and Ahl-i-Hadith sprang up and, on the other, the Ahmadiyya, the Ahl-i-Quran and Muslim Modernism emerged. They competed against each other, promising the most suitable narratives to India’s ‘depressed’ Muslims and, in the process, gathering followers — more importantly, followers who had political and economic clout.

From the mid-19th century till the 1920s, the marketplace of faiths in South Asia flourished with new variations of Islam and Hinduism. The variants were products/brands, and their followers were consumers. This indeed witnessed a renewed interest in religion and religiosity.

However, from the late 1940s, when India split into two nation-states, Bharat and Pakistan, the state in both countries decided to monopolise the marketplace of faiths, through an overarching meta-narrative.

India formulated a nationalist secularism that sought to build a socialist democracy. It was to provide economic services that religious organisations had been offering to attract followers. The state in Pakistan began to shape a nationalist-modernist variant of Islam and it regulated the marketplace of faiths by bringing its shops and products under the state’s control.

According to some contemporary proponents of the religious market theory, the presence of a centralised and ‘official’ faith eschews religious diversity. It nationalises the marketplace of faiths. This causes a decline in religiosity, as has been the case in various Scandinavian countries and in Britain.

The state in India (through nationalist-secularism) and Pakistan (through modernist-nationalist Islam) attempted to do this. Religion did not decline as such, but religiosity did.

In the 1970s, new economic and political challenges emerged in Pakistan and India. These also challenged the nationalisation of the marketplace of faiths. In Pakistan, political elites tried to absorb the alternatives offered by Sunni and Shia sects and subsects. They privatised the marketplace and began to gather fresh followers, who could not find remedies anymore in the centralised state-approved variant.

By the 1980s, the marketplace of faiths was once again booming. In Pakistan, the state continued to try absorbing the new variants by discarding the old modernist variant. But, as the middle class and the lower-middle class segments expanded, they became the most active consumers of new variants, thereby re-energising the marketplace of faiths.

These variants ranged from renewed and modified versions of evangelical Islam, to the more radical versions of Sunni and Shia sects and subsects. Religiosity revived itself.

In India, economic liberalisation weakened the monopoly of the nationalist-secular narrative in the marketplace of faiths. The Indian historian Meera Nanda, in her book The God Market, has closely tracked the trajectory of the expanding elite and middle-income groups in India, from being consumers of the nationalist-secular narrative, to becoming the most prominent consumers of Hindu nationalism — especially after benefitting from the post-1980s ‘neo-liberal’ economic policies.

According to Nanda, these segments, who now exercise increasing economic influence, “re-ritualised and re-enchanted Hinduism.” They now view Hinduism as being inherently compatible with modern economic ideas that guarantee profitability and prosperity. This, too, is how the renewed evangelical variants of Islam peddled their narrative to the elite and middle-income groups in Pakistan.

Consequently, exhibitions of religiosity have witnessed a manifold increase in both the countries. However, within the marketplace of faiths are also variants that are problematic. These include the more reactionary manifestations of faiths. For example, those looking to undermine Muslims in India in a violent manner will shop for variants that aid the consumer to theologically justify acts of violence.

This is also true in Pakistan. There are sectarian and sub-sectarian variants in the marketplace of faiths, which ‘theologically’ validate actions of those who want to use or instigate violence against an opponent in the name of faith.

More worrying is the fact that many urban, ‘educated’ folk, too, buy these variants, especially products (in the shape of narratives) that justify or instigate violence. These are often used to demonise perceived enemies as ‘Ahmadiyya sympathisers,’ or ‘anti-Islam’.

The marketplace of faiths is now almost entirely unregulated. And the state and governments whose job it was to regulate it, too, have become consumers in the marketplace of faiths to justify their own existence.

Are economists selfish? Does studying economics make you selfish

Tim Harford in The FT

Against my better judgment, I was recently prevailed upon to play a game of Monopoly with the family. It soon developed in a fashion that has become familiar: everyone tried to rip everyone else’s face off, except me. I proposed a mutually beneficial deal to each player, offering extra concessions myself to make sure those deals got done. This dealmaking tactic didn’t go down well. Every time I reached an agreement with one player, the other players fumed. 

Before long, I was being roundly denounced as a ruthless exploiter of innocents. This made me sad. It was partly the disheartening realisation that I am clearly a punchable opponent at the board-game table. But there was something more. My plight in being cast as a pantomime villain seemed to stand in for the fate of economists as a whole. 

I should explain. In looking for advantageous trades, I was doing what comes naturally to economists. The basic building block of economic activity — so basic that we take it for granted — is two people making each other better off by finding gains from trade. You can easily spot the economists at the Monopoly table, they’re the ones trying to find the deals that make both sides happy. 

But are we lauded for our fascination with voluntary agreements for mutual benefit? We are not. Instead, economists are often accused both of celebrating selfishness and of being selfish. As Yoram Bauman, an economist and comedian, once joked: “The only reason we don’t sell our children is that we think they’ll be worth more later.” 

What have we done to earn this reputation for ruthlessness? Perhaps it’s that altruism and charity are not front and centre in economic analysis. It may be the character of Gordon Gekko in Wall Street (1987), assuring us that “greed, for lack of a better word, is good”, somehow being associated with economists. 

But our reputation for being calculating and unfeeling may also be thanks to the experimental evidence. Over the years, a series of studies have emerged which seem to show that studying economics causes students to behave more selfishly. 

The basic idea sounds plausible. If you sit in enough classes being told that people are fundamentally self-interested, you yourself might become more self-interested. A 1993 paper by Robert Frank, Tom Gilovich and Dennis Regan summarised some of this evidence. It found economics students tended to behave less cooperatively in experimental games. They also expected less honesty from others. For example, if asked whether they would expect a stranger who found some lost cash to try to return it. More recent research by Bauman and his colleague Elaina Rose found that economics students were less likely to contribute to two named charities in a classroom exercise. 

Yet there is a pair of big question marks hanging over this collection of studies. The first is whether economics teaches people to be selfish, or whether instead selfish people gravitate towards economics. Bauman and Rose note that economics majors are equally mean whether they are near the beginning or the end of their studies — in other words, perhaps economics has no effect on people’s generosity, but big-hearted people avoid economics classes. 

Perhaps more important, do these questions really measure honesty, selfishness or any other moral virtue? That’s not clear. In the Bauman and Rose study, for example, the two charities in question were both left-leaning activist groups. So did economics students refuse to contribute because they hate giving to charity? Or did they feel that these particular charities were not very worthy causes? 

As for classroom exercises, there is a sense in which the selfish move is the “correct” answer in certain experimental settings, such as the prisoner’s dilemma game. If a student is taught that, and then plays the selfish move, have they become more selfish in everyday life? It seems just as plausible to suggest that they have been taught how to reproduce the textbook answer in an academic setting and want to pass the economics test. 

There are certain tendencies in mainstream economics that might nudge people towards a cynical view of human nature, but there is also a long tradition in economics arguing that free markets promote co-operation, honesty, respect for others, freedom and reciprocal benefit. 

So does studying economics make you selfish? A new study with that title, by Girardi, Mamunuru, Halliday and Bowles, finds “no discernible effect” of studying economics either on self-interest or on the belief that other people are self-interested. 

I suggest that before besmirching the good character of economics students we should look for more convincing real-world evidence. So far I have found nothing. But my search did turn up the fascinating discovery — courtesy of the philosopher Eric Schwitzgebel — that books about moral philosophy were more likely to be missing from libraries than other philosophy books. A deep academic interest in ethics appears to be correlated with larcenous behaviour. It makes you think. 

Ironically, the game that inspired Monopoly, The Landlord’s Game, was designed by the activist and writer Elizabeth Magie to teach lessons about a fairer taxation system, and then refined by a socialist professor of economics, Scott Nearing, and his students. Yes, the economics nerds were proposing a co-operative, pedagogical version of Monopoly. Alas their vision was eclipsed by the ruthless battle of attrition we all know today. 

Our own session of Monopoly might have been more fun if only my fellow players had embraced the constructive, co-operative spirit of economics. Alas, they did not, so our game finished in the traditional fashion. It petered out with no clear winner and several sore losers.  

Economists had a dreadful 2023

From The Economist 

Spare a thought for economists. Last Christmas they were an unusually pessimistic lot: the growth they expected in America over the next calendar year was the fourth-lowest in 55 years of fourth-quarter surveys. Many expected recession; The Economist added to the prognostications of doom and gloom. This year economists must swap figgy pudding for humble pie, because America has probably grown by an above-trend 3%—about the same as in boomy 2005. Adding to the impression of befuddlement, most analysts were caught out on December 13th by a doveish turn by the Federal Reserve, which sent them scrambling to rewrite their outlooks for the new year.

It is not just forecasters who have had a bad year. Economists who deal in sober empirical work have also had their conclusions challenged. Consider research on inequality. Perhaps the most famous economic studies of the past 20 years have been those by Thomas Piketty and his co-authors, who have found a rising gap between rich and poor. But in November a paper finding that after taxes and transfers American incomes are barely less equal than in the 1960s was accepted for publication by one of the discipline’s top journals. Now Mr Piketty’s faction is on the defensive, accusing its critics of “inequality denial”.

Economists have long agreed that America would be richer if it allowed more homes to be built around popular cities. There is lots of evidence to that effect. But the best-known estimate of the costs of restricting construction has been called into question. Chang-Tai Hsieh of the University of Chicago and Enrico Moretti of the University of California, Berkeley, found that easing building rules in New York, San Francisco and San Jose would have boosted American gdp in 2009 by 3.7%. Now Brian Greaney of the University of Washington claims that after correcting for mistakes the true estimated effect is just 0.02%. If builders disagreed as wildly about roof measurements, the house would collapse.

Think social mobility in America is lower than it was in the freewheeling 19th century, when young men could go West? Think again, according to research by Zachary Ward of Baylor University. He has updated estimates of intergenerational mobility between 1850 and 1940 to account for the fact that past studies tended to look only at white people, as well as correcting other measurement errors. It now looks as if there is more equality of opportunity today than in the past (albeit only because the past was worse than was thought).

A rise in suicides, overdoses and liver disease has reduced life expectancy for white Americans. Angus Deaton and Anne Case of Princeton University popularised the idea that these are “deaths of despair”, rooted in grimmer life prospects for those without college degrees. But economists have been losing faith in the idea that overdoses, which are probably the biggest killer of Americans aged 18-49, have much to do with changes in the labour market. New research has instead blamed the carnage on simple proximity to smuggled fentanyl, a powerful opioid.

Other findings are also looking shaky. The long decline in the prestige of the once-faddish field of behavioural economics, which studies irrationality, continued in 2023. In June Harvard Business School said it believed, after an investigation, that some of the results in four papers co-written by Francesca Gino, a behavioural scientist and phd economist, were “invalid”, owing to “alterations of the data”. (Ms Gino, who has written a book about why it pays to break rules, is suing for defamation the university and the bloggers who exposed the alleged fiddling.)

What lessons should be drawn from economists’ tumultuous year? One is that for all their intellectual discipline they are still human. Replicating existing studies and checking them for errors is crucial work.

Another lesson is that disdain for economic theory in favour of the supposed realism of empirical studies may have gone too far. After the global financial crisis of 2007-09, commentators heaped opprobrium on theorists’ common assumption that people make rational predictions about the world; gibes about an unrealistic, utility-maximising Homo economicus helped raise the status of behavioural economics. Yet rational-expectations models allow for the possibility that inflation can fall rapidly without a recession—exactly the scenario that caught out forecasters in 2023.

A last lesson is that economists should cheer up. The research that has been called into question this year inspired much pessimism about the state of modern capitalism. But a dodged recession, flatter inequality trends and less despair would all be good news. Perhaps the dismal science should be a little less so. ■

'Voodoo Economists Guide the Indian Government'

 

Parasite Relation between Public and Private Sector

 

A level Economics: How Chicago school economists reshaped American justice

From The Economist

In recent years the antitrust division of America’s Department of Justice has gone on a crusade against corporate mergers, filing a record number of complaints in an attempt to stop the biggest businesses from getting even bigger. With few exceptions, these efforts have been thwarted by the courts. That it is so hard to get a judge to intervene in business reflects the work of an institution known more for its free-market influence on economics than the law: the University of Chicago.

Fifty years ago this autumn Richard Posner, a federal judge and Chicago scholar, published his “Economic Analysis of Law”. Now in its 9th edition, the book set off an avalanche of ideas from Chicago school economists, including Gary Becker, Ronald Coase and Milton Friedman, which passed into the folios of America’s judges and lawyers. The “law-and-economics” movement made the courts more reasoned and rigorous. It also changed the verdicts judges handed out. Research has found that those exposed to its ideas are more opposed to regulators and less likely to enforce antitrust laws, and tend to impose prison terms more often and for longer.

Links between economics and the law have long been studied. In “Leviathan”, published in 1651, Thomas Hobbes wrote that secure property rights, which are needed for a system of economic exchange, are a legal fiction that emerged only with the modern state. By the late 19th century, legal fields that overlapped with economics, such as matters of taxation, were being analysed by economists.

With the arrival of the law-and-economics movement, every legal question was suddenly addressed in the context of the incentives of actors and the changes these produced. In “Crime and punishment: an economic approach” (1968), Becker argued that, rather than being a balancing-act between punishment and the opportunity for reform, sentences act mainly as a deterrent: the literal “price of crime”. Harsh sentences, he argued, reduce criminal activity in much the same way as high prices cut demand. With the caveat that a greater chance of arrest is a better deterrent than longer prison sentences, Becker’s theorising has since been borne out by decades of empirical evidence.

Too steep?

In the movement’s early days, “the legal academy paid little attention to our work”, recalls Guido Calabresi, a former dean of Yale Law School and another of the field’s founding fathers. Two things changed this. The first was Mr Posner’s bestselling textbook, in which he wrote that “it may be possible to deduce the basic formal characteristics of law itself from economic theory.” Mr Posner was a jurist, who wrote in a language familiar to other jurists. Yet he was also steeped in the economic insights of the Chicago school. His book successfully thrust the law-and-economics movement into the legal mainstream.

The second factor was a two-week programme called the Manne Economics Institute for Federal Judges, which ran from 1976 until 1998. This was funded by businesses and conservative foundations, and involved an all-expenses-paid stay at a beachside hotel in Miami. It was no holiday, however, even if those who went nicknamed the conference “Pareto in the Palms”. The curriculum was extremely demanding, taught by economists including Friedman and Paul Samuelson, both of whom had won Nobel prizes.

image: the economist

By the early 1990s nearly half the federal judiciary had spent a few weeks in Miami. Those who attended included two future justices on the Supreme Court: Clarence Thomas (an arch conservative) and Ruth Bader Ginsburg (his liberal counterpart). Ginsburg would later surprise colleagues by voting with the conservative majority on antitrust cases, applying the so-called “consumer welfare standard” championed by the Manne programme. This states that a corporate merger is anticompetitive only if it raises the price or reduces the quality of goods or services. Ginsburg wrote that the instruction she received in Miami “was far more intense than the Florida sun”.

In a paper under review by the Quarterly Journal of Economics, Elliot Ash of eth Zurich, Daniel Chen of Princeton University and Suresh Naidu of Columbia University treat the Manne programme as a natural experiment, comparing the decisions of every alumnus before and after their attendance at the conference. They then use an artificial-intelligence approach called “word embedding” to assess the language in judges’ opinions in more than a million circuit- and district- court cases.

The researchers find that federal judges were more likely to use terms such as “efficiency” and “market”, and less likely to use those such as “discharged” and “revoke”, after time spent in Miami. Manne alumni took what the authors characterised as the “conservative” stance on antitrust and other economic cases 30% more often in the years after attending. They also imposed prison sentences 5% more frequently and of 25% greater length. The effect became stronger still after 2005, when a Supreme Court decision gave federal judges greater discretion over sentencing.

That researchers are turning the unforgiving lens of economic analysis on law and economics itself is a promising trend. The dismal science has come a long way since the heyday of the Chicago school. Thanks in large part to the empiricism of behavioural economics, it is less wedded to abstractions like the perfectly rational actor. This has softened some of the Chicago school’s harsher edges. But it will nevertheless take time for judges to modify their approach. As Mr Ash notes: “The Chicago school economists may all be retired or dead, but Manne alumni continue to be active members of the judiciary.” In courtrooms across America, Mr Posner’s influence will live on for decades to come.

Economics Essay 98: Use of Behavioural Economics

Using examples to illustrate your answer, assess the usefulness of behavioural economic theory compared to traditional economic policies in helping governments to correct market failures.

Behavioural economic theory offers valuable insights into understanding and addressing market failures that may not be adequately captured by traditional economic policies. Here's an assessment of the usefulness of behavioural economic theory compared to traditional economic policies, using examples to illustrate:

1. Nudging for Positive Externalities: Behavioural economics suggests that people's choices can be influenced by the way choices are presented or "nudged." This approach can be used to encourage behaviours that generate positive externalities. For example, to promote environmental conservation, governments can use default options for energy-efficient appliances or opt-out systems for organ donation.

2. Addressing Information Asymmetry: Traditional economic policies often assume perfect information, but in reality, information asymmetry can lead to market failures. Behavioural economics recognizes the importance of providing clear and transparent information to consumers. For instance, nutritional labels on food products help consumers make informed choices and reduce information asymmetry.

3. Overcoming Present Bias: Behavioural economics highlights that individuals often exhibit present bias, prioritizing immediate gratification over long-term benefits. This can lead to undersaving or underinvestment. To address this, governments can implement policies such as automatic enrollment in retirement savings programs or matching contributions to encourage long-term financial planning.

4. Correcting Market Power: Traditional economic policies often focus on regulation and antitrust laws to address market power. Behavioural economics suggests that people may have limited ability to make rational choices in concentrated markets. For example, governments can introduce measures to increase price transparency or mandate clearer terms and conditions to help consumers make informed decisions.

5. Reducing Behavioural Biases: Behavioural economics acknowledges cognitive biases that can influence decision-making, such as loss aversion or status quo bias. Governments can design policies to mitigate these biases. For example, automatic enrollment in healthcare plans can help overcome inertia and increase coverage rates.

However, it is important to note that behavioural economic policies have their limitations. They may be more effective for specific market failures or in certain contexts but might not provide comprehensive solutions for all economic challenges. Traditional economic policies, rooted in rational decision-making assumptions, can still be valuable for overall market efficiency.

In practice, a combination of traditional economic policies and behavioural insights is often used. Governments can integrate behavioural interventions into existing policy frameworks to address specific market failures and promote desired outcomes. The effectiveness of these approaches can be assessed through rigorous evaluation and continuous refinement of policies based on real-world outcomes.

Fallacies of Capitalism 1: Inevitability of Inequality

How does the 'inevitability of inequality' fallacy ignore the role of social and institutional factors in perpetuating the unequal distribution of wealth and opportunities in a capitalist system?

The "inevitability of inequality" fallacy suggests that inequality is a natural and unavoidable outcome of a capitalist system, implying that it is inherently fair and just. However, this fallacy ignores the significant role of social and institutional factors that contribute to the unequal distribution of wealth and opportunities. Let me break it down with some simple examples:

1. Unequal starting points: In a capitalist system, individuals have different starting points due to factors like family wealth, education, and social connections. These disparities make it harder for those with fewer resources to compete on an equal footing. For instance, imagine two children who want to become doctors. One child comes from a wealthy family with access to the best schools and tutors, while the other child comes from a low-income family and attends underfunded schools. The unequal starting points put the second child at a significant disadvantage, limiting their opportunities for success.

2. Discrimination and bias: Social factors such as discrimination based on race, gender, or socioeconomic status can perpetuate inequality. Discrimination may lead to unequal treatment in hiring practices, education, or access to resources. For example, imagine a qualified job applicant who is denied a position because of their gender or ethnicity, while a less qualified candidate from a privileged background is chosen. Discrimination hinders individuals' ability to succeed and reinforces inequality in society.

3. Power imbalances: Capitalist systems often concentrate power and wealth in the hands of a few individuals or corporations. These powerful entities can influence policies, regulations, and institutions to their advantage, further perpetuating inequality. For instance, consider a large corporation that has significant political influence. They may lobby for policies that favour their interests, such as tax breaks or deregulation, while undermining measures that could reduce inequality, such as progressive taxation or workers' rights.

4. Lack of social mobility: Inequality can persist if social and institutional factors make it difficult for individuals to move up the social ladder. For example, imagine a society where access to quality education is primarily determined by wealth. If children from low-income families are unable to receive a good education, it becomes challenging for them to break the cycle of poverty and improve their economic prospects. This lack of social mobility reinforces existing inequalities over generations.

These examples demonstrate that the "inevitability of inequality" fallacy overlooks the social and institutional factors that contribute to the unequal distribution of wealth and opportunities in a capitalist system. By recognising these factors and working towards creating a more equitable society, we can address and reduce the systemic barriers that perpetuate inequality.

Why Don't Governments Tax the Rich?

 

Why University Economics sucks!

 

Externalities and Taxes - What to do when the interests of the individual and society do not coincide?

 From The Economist

LOUD conversation in a train carriage that makes concentration impossible for fellow-passengers. A farmer spraying weedkiller that destroys his neighbour’s crop. Motorists whose idling cars spew fumes into the air, polluting the atmosphere for everyone. Such behaviour might be considered thoughtless, anti-social or even immoral. For economists these spillovers are a problem to be solved.

Markets are supposed to organise activity in a way that leaves everyone better off. But the interests of those directly involved, and of wider society, do not always coincide. Left to their own devices, boors may ignore travellers’ desire for peace and quiet; farmers the impact of weedkiller on the crops of others; motorists the effect of their emissions. In all of these cases, the active parties are doing well, but bystanders are not. Market prices—of rail tickets, weedkiller or petrol—do not take these wider costs, or “externalities”, into account.

The examples so far are the negative sort of externality. Others are positive. Melodious music could improve everyone’s commute, for example; a new road may benefit communities by more than a private investor would take into account. Still others are more properly known as “internalities”. These are the overlooked costs people inflict on their future selves, such as when they smoke, or scoff so many sugary snacks that their health suffers.

The first to lay out the idea of externalities was Alfred Marshall, a British economist. But it was one of his students at Cambridge University who became famous for his work on the problem. Born in 1877 on the Isle of Wight, Arthur Pigou cut a scruffy figure on campus. He was uncomfortable with strangers, but intellectually brilliant. Marshall championed him and with the older man’s support, Pigou succeeded him to become head of the economics faculty when he was just 30 years old.

In 1920 Pigou published “The Economics of Welfare”, a dense book that outlined his vision of economics as a toolkit for improving the lives of the poor. Externalities, where “self-interest will not…tend to make the national dividend a maximum”, were central to his theme.

Although Pigou sprinkled his analysis with examples that would have appealed to posh students, such as his concern for those whose land might be overrun by rabbits from a neighbouring field, others reflected graver problems. He claimed that chimney smoke in London meant that there was only 12% as much sunlight as was astronomically possible. Such pollution imposed huge “uncharged” costs on communities, in the form of dirty clothes and vegetables, and the need for expensive artificial light. If markets worked properly, people would invest more in smoke-prevention devices, he thought.

Pigou was open to different ways of tackling externalities. Some things should be regulated—he scoffed at the idea that the invisible hand could guide property speculators towards creating a well-planned town. Other activities ought simply to be banned. No amount of “deceptive activity”—adulterating food, for example—could generate economic benefits, he reckoned.

But he saw the most obvious forms of intervention as “bounties and taxes”. These measures would use prices to restore market perfection and avoid strangling people with red tape. Seeing that producers and sellers of “intoxicants” did not have to pay for the prisons and policemen associated with the rowdiness they caused, for example, he recommended a tax on booze. Pricier kegs should deter some drinkers; the others will pay towards the social costs they inflict.

This type of intervention is now known as a Pigouvian tax. The idea is not just ubiquitous in economics courses; it is also a favourite of policymakers. The world is littered with apparently externality-busting taxes. The French government imposes a noise tax on aircraft at its nine busiest airports. Levies on drivers to counterbalance the externalities of congestion and pollution are common in the Western world. Taxes to fix internalities, like those on tobacco, are pervasive, too. Britain will join other governments in imposing a levy on unhealthy sugary drinks starting next year.

Pigouvian taxes are also a big part of the policy debate over global warming. Finland and Denmark have had a carbon tax since the early 1990s; British Columbia, a Canadian province, since 2008; and Chile and Mexico since 2014. By using prices as signals, a tax should encourage people and companies to lower their carbon emissions more efficiently than a regulator could by diktat. If everyone faces the same tax, those who find it easiest to lower their emissions ought to lower them the most.

Such measures do change behaviour. A tax on plastic bags in Ireland, for example, cut their use by over 90% (with some unfortunate side-effects of its own, as thefts of baskets and trolleys rose). Three years after a charge was introduced on driving in central London, congestion inside the zone had fallen by a quarter. British Columbia’s carbon tax reduced fuel consumption and greenhouse-gas emissions by an estimated 5-15%. And experience with tobacco taxes suggests that they discourage smoking, as long as they are high and smuggled substitutes are hard to find.

Champions of Pigouvian taxes say that they generate a “double dividend”. As well as creating social benefits by pricing in harm, they raise revenues that can be used to lower taxes elsewhere. The Finnish carbon tax was part of a move away from taxes on labour, for example; if taxes must discourage something, better that it be pollution than work. In Denmark the tax partly funds pension contributions.

Pigou flies

Even as policymakers have embraced Pigou’s idea, however, its flaws, both theoretical and practical, have been scrutinised. Economists have picked holes in the theory. One major objection is the incompleteness of the framework, since it holds everything else in the economy fixed. The impact of a Pigouvian tax will depend on the level of competition in the market it is affecting, for example. If a monopoly is already using its power to reduce supply of its products, a new tax may not do any extra good. And if a dominant drinks firm absorbs the cost of an alcohol tax rather than passes it on, then it may not influence the rowdy. (A similar criticism applies to the idea of the double dividend: taxes on labour could cause people to work less than they otherwise might, but if an environmental tax raises the cost of things people spend their income on it might also have the effect of deterring work.)

Another assault on Pigou’s idea came from Ronald Coase, an economist at the University of Chicago (whose theory of the firm was the subject of the first brief in this series). Coase considered externalities as a problem of ill-defined property rights. If it were feasible to assign such rights properly, people could be left to bargain their way to a good solution without the need for a heavy-handed tax. Coase used the example of a confectioner, disturbing a quiet doctor working next door with his noisy machinery. Solving the conflict with a tax would make less sense than the two neighbours bargaining their way to a solution. The law could assign the right to be noisy to the sweet-maker, and if worthwhile, the doctor could pay him to be quiet.

In most cases, the sheer hassle of haggling would render this unrealistic, a problem that Coase was the first to admit. But his deeper point stands. Before charging in with a corrective tax, first think about which institutions and laws currently in place could fix things. Coase pointed out that laws against nuisance could help fix the problem of rabbits ravaging the land; quiet carriages today assign passengers to places according to their noise preferences.

Others reject Pigou’s approach on moral grounds. Michael Sandel, a political philosopher at Harvard University, has worried that relying on prices and markets to fix the world’s problems can end up legitimising bad behaviour. When in 1998 one school in Haifa tried to encourage parents to pick their children up on time by fining them, tardy pickups increased. It turned out that parental guilt was a more effective deterrent than cash; making payments seems to have assuaged the guilt.

Besides these more theoretical qualms about Pigouvian taxes, policymakers encounter all manner of practical ones. Pigou himself admitted that his prescriptions were vague; in “The Economics of Welfare”, though he believed taxes on damaging industries could benefit society, he did not say which ones. Nor did he spell out in much detail how to set the level of the tax.

Prices in the real world are no help; their failure to incorporate social costs is the problem that needs to be solved. Getting people to reveal the precise cost to them of something like clogged roads is asking a lot. In areas like these, policymakers have had to settle on a mixture of pragmatism and public acceptability. London’s initial £5 ($8) fee for driving into its city centre was suspiciously round for a sum meant to reflect the social cost of a trip.

Inevitably, a desire to raise revenue also plays a role. It would be nice to believe that politicians set Pigouvian taxes merely in order to price in an externality, but the evidence, and common sense, suggests otherwise. Research may have guided the initial level of a British landfill tax, at £7 a tonne in 1996. But other considerations may have boosted it to £40 a tonne in 2009, and thence to £80 a tonne in 2014.

Things become even harder when it comes to divining the social cost of carbon emissions. Economists have diligently poked gigantic models of the global economy to calculate the relationship between temperature and GDP. But such exercises inevitably rely on heroic assumptions. And putting a dollar number on environmental Armageddon is an ethical question, as well as a technical one, relying as it does on such judgments as how to value unborn generations. The span of estimates of the economic loss to humanity from carbon emissions is unhelpfully wide as a result, ranging from around $30 to $400 a tonne.

It’s the politics, stupid

The question of where Pigouvian taxes fall is also tricky. A common gripe is that they are regressive, punishing poorer people, who, for example, smoke more and are less able to cope with rises in heating costs. An economist might shrug: the whole point is to raise the price for whoever is generating the externality. A politician cannot afford to be so hard-hearted. When Australia introduced a version of a carbon tax in 2012, more than half of the money ended up being given back to pensioners and poorer households to help with energy costs. The tax still sharpened incentives, the handouts softened the pain.

A tax is also hard to direct very precisely at the worst offenders. Binge-drinking accounts for 77% of the costs of excessive alcohol use, as measured by lost workplace productivity and extra health-care costs, for example, but less than a fifth of Americans report drinking to excess in any one month. Economists might like to charge someone’s 12th pint of beer at a higher rate than their first, but implementing that would be a nightmare.

Globalisation piles on complications. A domestic carbon tax could encourage people to switch towards imports, or hurt the competitiveness of companies’ exports, possibly even encouraging them to relocate. One solution would be to apply a tax on the carbon content of imports and refund the tax to companies on their exports, as the European Union is doing for cement. But this would be fiendishly complicated to implement across the economy. A global harmonised tax on carbon is the stuff of economists’ dreams, and set to remain so.

So, Pigou handed economists a problem and a solution, elegant in theory but tricky in practice. Politics and policymaking are both harder than the blackboard scribblings of theoreticians. He was sure, however, that the effort was worthwhile. Economics, he said, was an instrument “for the bettering of human life.”