[D66] Questioning the Constants: Metrology, Stability, and the Boundaries of Scientific Assumption

[René Oudeweg]

Questioning the Constants: Metrology, Stability, and the Boundaries of 
Scientific Assumption

Modern science rests on a foundation of constants. The speed of light in 
a vacuum, Planck’s constant, the charge of the electron, and the 
gravitational constant are treated not merely as measured quantities but 
as pillars of reality itself. In metrology—the science of 
measurement—these constants have increasingly replaced physical 
artifacts and local standards, becoming the fixed reference points by 
which all other measurements are derived. This move reflects a deep 
confidence: that the universe possesses immutable properties, stable 
across time, space, and context. Yet this confidence, while enormously 
productive, is also philosophical. It is worth asking whether the 
assumption of absolute constancy is an empirical conclusion, a 
methodological necessity, or a metaphysical commitment quietly embedded 
in scientific practice.

Historically, constants were not always seen as eternal. Early 
measurements of quantities such as the gravitational constant varied 
significantly, not only because of experimental error but because the 
underlying assumption—that such a value must be constant—had not yet 
hardened into dogma. Over time, as precision improved and theory 
coalesced, variability came to be interpreted almost exclusively as 
noise rather than signal. Metrology followed suit. The 2019 redefinition 
of the International System of Units (SI), which fixed values of 
constants like Planck’s constant exactly, represents the culmination of 
this trajectory. Measurement is no longer anchored to physical objects 
or repeatable procedures, but to abstract numerical values assumed to be 
universally true.

This shift has clear advantages. It allows extraordinary precision, 
global reproducibility, and conceptual elegance. Yet it also narrows the 
space for questioning. If constants are defined as exact by convention, 
then empirical investigation into their possible variation becomes 
conceptually awkward, if not institutionally discouraged. The risk is 
not that science becomes wrong, but that it becomes prematurely closed.

It is at this boundary—where empirical science shades into metaphysical 
assumption—that figures like Rupert Sheldrake enter the conversation. 
Sheldrake is best known for challenging what he calls the “dogmas” of 
science, including the belief that the laws and constants of nature are 
fixed. He has suggested that these regularities may instead be more like 
habits: stable because they are repeated, not because they are eternally 
enforced. While his specific proposals, such as morphic resonance, are 
widely rejected by mainstream science, his broader critique targets an 
issue worth taking seriously: whether science sometimes mistakes 
successful models for ultimate truths.

To question constants is not to deny their usefulness. The assumption 
that the speed of light is constant, for example, underpins relativity 
and modern physics with stunning success. But success does not logically 
entail necessity. The constancy of constants is inferred from 
observations within limited domains of time and space, often under 
conditions tightly constrained by experimental design. Cosmology already 
entertains the possibility that certain constants may have differed in 
the early universe, and some theories in fundamental physics allow for 
slow variation over cosmic time. These ideas remain speculative, but 
they show that the question is not incoherent.

Metrology, however, tends to resist such openness. Its mandate is 
stability, not exploration. This is understandable—measurement systems 
must be reliable to function—but it can create a subtle feedback loop in 
which stability is both assumed and enforced. When constants are fixed 
by definition, variability can only appear as error, never as discovery. 
In this sense, metrology embodies a conservative epistemology: it 
prioritizes coherence and continuity over ontological risk.

Sheldrake’s role, then, may be less that of a scientist proposing viable 
alternatives and more that of a provocateur reminding science of its 
philosophical underpinnings. His work highlights how deeply assumptions 
about permanence, uniformity, and timeless law are woven into scientific 
culture. Even if his answers are unconvincing, the questions remain 
legitimate. Are the constants of nature discovered facts, or are they 
stabilized agreements between theory, measurement, and convention? And 
how would we know the difference?

A mature science should be able to tolerate such questions without 
anxiety. Questioning constants does not mean abandoning rigor; it means 
recognizing that rigor operates within frameworks that can themselves be 
examined. The history of science shows that what once seemed 
immutable—absolute time, fixed species, Euclidean space—can later be 
understood as approximations. There is no guarantee that today’s 
constants will not undergo a similar reevaluation.

In the end, the value of questioning scientific constants lies not in 
destabilizing science, but in keeping it intellectually honest. 
Constants are indispensable tools, but they are also conceptual 
commitments. Figures like Sheldrake, standing at the margins, remind us 
that the line between measurement and meaning is thinner than it 
appears. Science advances not only by refining its numbers, but by 
remaining willing to ask why those numbers matter—and whether they must 
always be the same.