2008 Anselm Lecture

April 22, 2008

Gregory Sadler

Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies at Ball State University

A Perfectly Simple God and Our Complicated Lives

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The good of each thing is based on its nature. Therefore, if we are confused about what is good for man it is because we are unclear about human nature. To understand human nature more clearly it is most useful to compare and contrast man with other natural creatures. Let us first examine the degree to which nature provides everything that animals and plants need for their good.

Nature furnishes plants with all they require for a complete life. It is to nature that the oak tree owes its roots that draw nutrients from the soil, its chlorophyll-bearing leaves that manufacture food, its vascular system that transports nutrients, its acorns that occur at the proper time to continue the species, and every cell, organ, protection and stragegy that works for the good of the oak.

Nature also provides everything necessary for the good of each animal: food, special materials, locomotion, hunting techniques, camouflage, insulation, and communication. Nature provides not only an appropriate food for each animal but also the means of obtaining it, eating and digesting it, and even the instinct to avoid eating harmful things. Ethologist James Gould writes, “Many animals from blue jays to garden slugs come programmed to wait a species-specific length of time after eating a new food to see if they become ill. If they do—even if the sickness arose from a completely independent cause—they will never eat the food again. Even more curious, each species is programmed to identify the forbidden food in the future by its own set of cues. For example, rats will remember the suspect food’s odor“ while quail recall its color.  When a building material needed by a species is not available in the environment nature gives the animal’s body the means of producing it. For example, honeybees need a water-proof, malleable substance to shape into cells for storing honey and laying eggs. Nature provides the underside of their abdomens with special wax-producing glands. Similarly, an orb-weaving spider needs a thread thin enough to be invisible to a flying insect until too late and yet strong enough to hold the insect once caught. Nature furnishes the spider with spinnerets that produce a silk with double the tenacity of steel and greater elasticity than nylon. The hunting techniques of different species of spider show nature’s ingenuity in providing a variety of strategies. Not all spiders spin webs to catch their food. Some drop nets over unsuspecting prey, some wait underground behind trap doors to pounce on insects passing by, others jump—sometimes several feet—onto their victim, the wolf spider actively prowls its territory for prey, while the crab spider, able to vary its color according to its background, waits in the center of a flower to ambush insects attracted by the nectar.

The amazing camouflage of many animals is well known. Some insects are perfect mimics of flowers, twigs, lichens, or leaves complete with veins and portions that appear chewed away by insects. One crab spider of Borneo looks exactly like a bird dropping. This appearance not only protects it from predators but allows it to prey on insects that look for nutrients in bird droppings. With similar advantages, the scalare fish of the

Amazon looks like a leaf and even floats along with the current like one.

Where special insulation is needed, nature provides it. The arctic fox, for example, is so well insulated that it would soon become overheated, even in winter, when running or being otherwise active unless it had some way to dissipate the extra body heat thus generated. Its thinly insulated feet and muzzle serve this purpose.

Nature gives each species whatever it needs to communicate with its fellows, whether by visual, auditory, or olfactory signals. And the means are sometimes ingenious. How does a song bird that spots a flying hawk warn the rest of the flock without broadcasting its own location to the predator? Under such circumstances many prey species use a high, thin whistle that has special ventriloqual properties making its location very difficult to determine.

We could continue this catalogue indefinitely, exploring food procurement, digestion, shelter, offensive and defensive weapons, protection against injury and disease, migration, reproduction and care of young. But the point is clear: these and thousands of other easily documented examples prove beyond question the ingenuity and great beneficence of nature.* Thus it is evident from induction that nature provides the good for every species. Therefore, nature must provide for man’s good also. But how can this be since man appears to be the animal least provided for by nature? For instance, the unclothed human body begins to shiver when the surrounding air temperature falls to 84 degrees Farenheidt. Hence some kind of covering is a definite human need but nature does not furnish it. We are not provided with feathers or thick natural fur like other animals. Further, nature does not provide us with an infallible instinct for distinguishing which things are good for us to eat and which are poisonous, as she does with the other animals. And when the earliest human beings had to hunt for their food, nature did not furnish them with instinctive hunting techniques, offensive or defensive weapons, natural armor, or camouflage. Nor does nature give us any fixed, instinctive means of building shelter. Moreover, to hunt and to build, man needs the cooperation of his fellows. This is possible only with some sort of common language. But nature does not implant in us an instinctive signal system as we find in other animals. From this point of view man appears to be the most deprived of animals.

What, then, does nature give us? She provides us with the faculty of reason and with a pair of hands so that we may invent, learn, and manufacture for ourselves everything necessary for our good. Without reason, an animal with human form would be pitifully unprovided for. Such an animal would make no sense. Nature, then, does furnish the good for all species but she does this for man in a very different way than for other animals. We are given not the finished products like other animals but only the most necessary tools to do the job ourselves. In other animals nature fixes by rigid instinct and anatomy as much as possible ahead of time for the species, leaving a minimum to the initiative of the individual. In man she does the reverse, fixing as little as possible ahead of time and leaving the maximum to individual initiative. Thus man is the most unfinished of animals.

This conclusion answers one question but raises another. Why should nature deal with the human species in such a round about manner? Even with reason and hands, man still appears deprived and disadvantaged since the goods the other animals achieve easily, perfectly, and with great certainty through instinct and anatomy, these goods man must labor after with much difficulty, and with many errors and imperfections. The first dam a beaver builds is perfect, as is the first web made by an orb-weaving spider. No mistakes, no groping, no flaws. This could never be said of the first man-made shelter or canoe. So has not nature’s measure for man been scant and mean after all? To answer this question we must first recognize that in the hierarchy of natural creatures each level possesses the goods of the level below it in a superior way, and“ a new world of goods unknown and unavailable at the lower level. To illustrate, the higher animals not only possess the goods found in plants (nutrition, growth, and reproduction) but animals enjoy a new world of goods unknown and unavailable to plants; namely, the world of sense perception, instinct, emotion, and movement from place to place. These latter goods define what is characteristic of animal life and by virtue of them animals possess even the vegetative goods more perfectly than plants do. For example, the higher animals find their own food by using their senses and instincts, and they experience pleasure in eating it. This kind of activity is not present in plants. Similarly, the higher animals use sense and instinct to find a mate and again experience sense pleasure during the acts ordered to procreation. And even the power of growth is superior in the animal because it generates not only organs of digestion but also organs which can perceive and others that move the animal about, something completely beyond the plant’s capacity. This same principle holds with respect to man’s relation to the other animals. First we will show how we possess the animal goods in a superior way and then we shall discuss the goods characteristic of man. At first glance it might seem that we do not enjoy all the animal goods in a superior manner since we cannot see as well as the eagle, run as fast as the horse, or fly like the bird. True enough, but when man supplements his unfinished nature with tools and implements of his own making, he is superior to every animal in every category. With the aid of a telescope a human being can see things far beyond the power of eagles or of any other animal. Likewise, man-made instruments can be tuned to exceed in precision and accuracy any animal’s capacity for perceiving sounds, odors, flavors, vibrations, or whatever other qualities they can detect. Man can also transport himself further and faster than any animal: the Apollo spacecraft traveled at more than 17,000 miles per hour and took men to the moon—a velocity and a distance unthinkable for any other animal. And although birds are beautifully designed for flight, each species is limited by the constraints built into its equipment. For example, because of its long, narrow wings, the albatross is perfectly suited for gliding but it cannot fly backwards. The humming bird can fly backwards but its wings are too small to allow it to soar motionless in wind currents. With the use of a hang glider, an airplane, or a helicopter, man can exercise all the possibilities of high speed, gliding, hovering and flying backwards, but with none of the limitations of the birds. The albatross cannot exchange its wings for shorter ones but a man can step out of an airplane and into a helicopter. And even the most versatile flyers among birds are as incapable of deep sea diving as a shark is of flight. A human being, however, has no difficulty working under water with the help of a man-made face mask, a wet suit, and an oxygen tank. In a submarine or bathysphere man can dive even deeper and longer than whales do. Each species of animal does this or that particular activity well but is incapable of, or at least cannot excel at, radically different activities. Man alone can do all things well. Now of course an albatross could also be transported in an airplane or helicopter, but the point is no animal except man could ever invent, build, or fly such machines. Also, though man cannot dive and catch fish with his mouth like the cormorant, he can devise superior means of catching fish, or he can catch the cormorant, put it on a leash and use it for fishing as the Chinese have done for centuries.

Wild animals are limited to a narrow diet and eat everything raw and without spices. Koalas eat only eucalyptus leaves. During the 1970’s more than l00 wild pandas in China starved to death when one species of bamboo, their only food, bloomed and died. Man, on the other hand, is omnivorous and cooks his food in an unlimited number of ways. The culinary art allows human beings to take more enjoyment in food than is available to any animal. Also, the art of agriculture provides food in more abundance, more variety, and with greater certainty than occurs anywhere else in the animal kingdom. Careful grafting and cross breeding secures for man new and better varieties of fruits and vegetables than are available in the wild. Here nature provides the raw materials which human ingenuity develops and exploits.

Nor do arctic foxes have any advantage over man because of their superb natural insulation, since man can invent an artificial insulating material or he can kill the fox and make its fur into a coat. The difference is the man can take off the coat, move to the tropics if he chooses, and live comfortably. The arctic fox has no such option. The same limitations are found in the natural tools, weapons, and armor of animals. They serve only one specific task and cannot be put aside or changed for others, thus severely restricting the life of the animal to certain set activities. A mole’s short, chunky paw is a superior digging tool but it cannot hold anything. An eagle’s talons are perfect for clutching small animals but are useless for digging. The human hand can perform all the tasks achieved by the restricted tools of animals: it can dig with a hand shovel, stab with a sword, cut down a tree with a saw, and perform thousands of other activities without being restricted to any single one of them. Skin divers employ swim fins to increase the efficiency of their swimming, but they are not forced to go through life wearing the fins which are clumsy for walking and make running impossible. On emerging from the water, the diver can, if he wishes, replace the fins with ice skates, or hiking boots, or a dozen other kinds of specialized footwear. Animals, however, are enslaved to their anatomies. The swift-footed Achilles could put off his fine armor to compete in a foot race. The tortoise enjoys no such luxury.

The same is true for shelter. The bird builds a nest, the fox digs a hole, and the beaver builds a dam. All act by instinct, inflexibly and with predictable means and procedures that are sufficient for their needs. The swallow always makes the same kind of nest. That is all it can build. A man too, according to need and circumstance, can shelter himself in a fox hole, or a lean-to of branches, and can build many kinds of dams. But human beings are not limited by instinct to constructing any particular sort of shelter. Thus human structures embody an enormous variety of styles and materials, and serve an unlimited number of purposes.

As for communication, the signal cries of animals convey but few things such as danger, food, mate. The words of human language can express all of these in a superior way. The sentence, “Look out, something is going to fall on you!” conveys danger much more precisely than a scream would. Experiments show that an untrained chimpanzee can lead other apes to food hidden in a field if it is previously shown the location, but it cannot convey the location by gesture or sound to other apes if not allowed to lead them, a trivial task for any human language.

Again, though the higher animals experience a sensory pleasure in mating, they do not understand what they are doing or why. They make no connection between the activity of mating and the subsequent offspring. Their enjoyment is purely a sensory one. For a husband and wife, however, sexual intercourse is not merely a sensory pleasure; it is a beautiful expression of their love for each other. The married couple also finds in this act the joy and privilege of voluntarily bringing a new life into the world. Such delights are unknown to other animals.

Finally, man makes more use of nature than any other animal. For example, there is no animal that we cannot capture and employ for some human benefit such as food, work, scientific knowledge, protection, entertainment, or companionship. The use other animals make of other species is minimal. Man also uses plants to serve his needs in hundreds of ways, including food, medicine, textiles, and building materials. And man exploits the physical and chemical properties of matter in a way never seen in the rest of the animal kingdom, developing organic chemistry and harnassing water power, electricity, solar power, and atomic energy. In this respect the other animals use only a minute fraction of the environment.

In short, there is no animal good that man does not enjoy more fully, more abundantly, and more perfectly than animals do. In addition to all this there is a further category of goods characteristic of human life, uniquely human goods in which the other animals have no share. It is clear in the foregoing examples that man’s superiority consists in his capacity for reason. But the purpose of reason is not merely to pursue the animal goods in a superior way. Reason has a life of its own and the goods of reason far surpass the animal goods.

First, human beings are able to discover the what and the why of things and to enjoy many kinds of knowledge for their sake. Animals have nothing corresponding to the intellectual life. Their curiosity is limited to the sense order and concerns principally a search for food or other necessities. Man’s desire to understand has given birth to biology, chemistry, physics, mathematics, astronomy, archaeology, linguistics, and scores of other disciplines which have as their primary goal the satisfaction of the mind.

Second, the goods of reason include the aesthetic life. Animals are oblivious to the beauty found in nature and produce nothing like the works of the fine arts. The splendid leopard is not even aware of its own beauty and grace. Man, on the other hand, delights in all nature’s loveliness and also creates on his own great works of beauty in music, painting, sculpture, literature, dance, and dozens of other arts.

Third among the goods of reason is the life of choice and true self determination. Animals are not held responsible for their actions since they are ruled by instinct. Human beings, however, deliberately choose friends, a spouse, a career, a way of life. Through the decisions we all make every day we complete ourselves in acquiring various habits, skills, and attitudes.

Happiness, or man’s highest good, must consist in these goods of reason. Animals may experience sensory satisfaction or emotional contentment but they do not attain happiness since they do not share in the goods of reason and they possess even the animal goods in an inferior way. Since man enjoys the animal goods in a superior manner plus a whole world of goods animals do not share in at all, it is evident that in our regard nature has not been miserly but munificent.

The indeterminacy in human nature, then, is not a defect but the necessary condition for a superior life. Nature leaves to us the responsibility and the dignity of completing ourselves. It must not be thought, however, that everything in man is indeterminate. For even in the most conventional and artificial aspects of human life, nature provides an indispensable foundation on which we must build to finish ourselves. Language, music, and beauty will serve to illustrate this point.

One finds an incredible diversity among the estimated 6800 languages now spoken in the world. Yet despite all the differences, the need for language is natural. Every tribe and nation known to history has had some kind of language to request and communicate information, to give commands or ask for favors, in a word, to enable the speaker to express his or her mind. Furthermore, the faculties by which we speak and comprehend speech are natural. The amazing diversity of languages arises from the same natural organs in every culture: the tongue, lips, teeth, vocal chords, and mind of the speaker produce speech; and the ears, auditory nerves, brain, and mind of the listener receive it. What is more, all the spoken sounds of the world’s languages are reducible to approximately fifty phonemes that can be produced by the human organs of speech. Studies show that infants in all cultures can discriminate the whole human phoneme repertoire, but learn gradually to concentate on the sounds of whatever language they hear around them and eventually forget the others.

Music is another domain thought to be entirely conventional. The love of music, however, is universal. Every culture has produced and taken natural pleasure in some sort of music, if only vocal song. By 10,000 B.C. artisans discovered how to make flutes from hollow bones. The earliest written music dates from 2,500 B.C. Further, the musical scale is founded on natural consonances. Certain pairs of notes sound pleasing when played together: the octave (C and the next higher C), the fifth (C and G), and the fourth (C and F). Even the standards of beauty* are not entirely conventional. Recent studies indicate that “even different racial groups show substantial agreement in their attractiveness judgments.”

One meticulously controlled series of perception experiments with babies established that they distinguish between beautiful and unattractive faces.This is a clear sign of the naturalness of our judgments about what is beautiful. Other research has even isolated various elements that comprise facial beauty. Thus, despite our indeterminacy, in every domain nature provides something fixed in us, without which we could not begin. Man is unfinished but not deprived of the essentials needed to complete himself. It remains now to examine in more detail how we ought to complete ourselves.

NOTES

l. James L. Gould, Ethology: Mechanisms and Evolution of Behavior“ (New York: Norton, l982), p.264.

2. Larry S. Underwood, “Outfoxing the Arctic Cold”, Natural History“ 92 (December l983): 46.

3. Allen, Thomas B. The Marvels of Animal Behavior. Washington, D.C.: National Geographic, l972.

4. Laurence Irving, “Adaptations to the Cold”, Scientific American“ 214 (January l966): 96.

5. Emil W. Menzel, “Spontaneous Invention of Ladders in a Group of Young Chimpanzees”,

Folia Primatologica 17“ (1972): 87-106.

6. Elizabeth Bates, Barbara O’Connell, and Cecilia Shore, “Language and Communication in Infancy,” in

Handbook of Infant Development, ed. Joy Doniger Osofsky (New York: Wiley, l987), pp.

151, 154-155.

7. James Jeans, Science and Music“ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1937), p. 164.

8. Judith H. Langlois, Lori A. Roggman, Rita J. Casey, Jean M. Ritter, Loretta A. Rieser-Danner, and Vivian Y. Jenkins, “Infant Preferences for Attractive Faces: Rudiments of a Stereotype?,”

Developmental Psychology“ 23 (May 1987): 363.

9. Ibid.

10. Michael R.Cunningham, “Measuring the Physical in Physical Attractiveness: Quasi-Experiments on the Sociobiology of Female Facial Beauty.” Journal of Personality and Social Development“ 50 (May 1986): 925-935.

Certainly it is important to distinguish genuine Hope from wishful thinking.  But how does one avoid the paralysis of things looking hopeless?   That is, especially if an individual aims at being honest, where does the energy and focus of Hope come from?  There certainly is not any easy answer to that one.  But, since I am currently reflecting on a couple of literary examples that I use in class, let me suggest a direction.  The key to hopefulness, it seems to me, is imagination.  One must be able to imagine a course of action or the achievement of a self – identity outside the boundaries of the oppressive situation one is stuck with.

In my experience, the philosopher best able to marshal this use of imagination was William James.  And he was most insistent that the enemy was the smothering impact of the Absolute.  In some contexts he was using this as a covering term for metaphysical idealism, but it also applied to the psychological syndrome of turning every problem or difficulty into THE ONE OVERWHELMING factor.  Some aspect of one’s situation would become so dominant that obsessing about that difficulty literally cancels the effort to seek alternative solutions.  This could be described as “The Absolutizing Instinct” (cf. William Lynch S.J.) or an instinct toward losing oneself in an absolute.  It drives that individual into at least one manifestation of what Sartre called “Bad Faith.”  Once again, as with James, we have a category that describes both a metaphysical condition and a psychological experience.

I think the most fab literary examples of Sartrian dynamics of consciousness can be found in Malraux’s Man’s Fate.  But I suspect many of you are familiar with those, so let me suggest one great example from a less often read source.  In Manhattan Transfer, by John Dos Passos, the most important female character is Ellen Thatcher.  Her life is a series of deceptions and strategies that are expressive of both ambition for success in the theater, but also fear of facing life on her own.  Toward the end of the novel, but perhaps not of her journey, she steels herself for a grand gesture, a compromise that will result in a direct submission of talent and imagination to the service of comfort and security.

        Ellen stayed a long time looking in the mirror…She kept winding up a hypothetical doll self and setting it in various positions.  Tiny gestures ensued, acted out on various model stages…

        Through dinner she felt a gradual icy coldness stealing through her like novocaine…An invisible silk band of bitterness was tightening around her throat…Beyond the plates…his face above the blank shirtfront jerked and nodded….

His taught lips moved eloquently over his yellow teeth.  Ellen felt herself with her ankles crossed, rigid as a porcelain figure under clothes, everything about her seemed to be growing hard and enameled…His wooden face of a marionette waggled senselessly in front of her…

         “Well what about it?” he said as they got up from the table…

         “I guess I can stand it if you can George, “she said quietly.

He was waiting for her…Mechanically she squeezed the hand that helped her into the cab.

         “Elaine,” he said shakily, “life’s going to mean something to me now…I‘ve been like a tin mechanical toy, all hollow inside.”

         “Let’s not talk about mechanical toys,” she said in a strangled voice.

Manhattan Transfer   pp.374-75 (1925)

 

Dos Passos ends this scene with George kissing Ellen in the taxi, but she is looking through the corner of her eye at the “nickelglinting” wheels in the streetlights.  For Dos Passos it is always “the machine” or “the system” that grinds the life out of people.  Her hope is “strangled” precisely by the process of becoming a certain sort of mechanical doll.  She has given up her freedom in exchange for the “absolute” need of financial security and the guarantee of praise for her fading charms.  She is Elaine now, and will never go back to being Ellen from Hoboken again.  But that image of Elaine, that construction which took such mechanical calculations before the mirror, strikes the reader as so limiting precisely because Ellen had such talent and promise.  But the fear of poverty grinds the capacity of her imagining other possibilities out of her.

 

Well, perhaps the reader has a new illustration of Bad Faith to think about.  One way of attempting to snuff out “etre pour soir” is to make oneself into a toy object with its motions defined.  It seems to me that it is the strangling of the imagination that leads to the submission of free will here.  If Hope were the equivalent of mere wishful thinking it would suffer from the same surrender of free will, and the same failure of imagination, that makes Bad Faith a dead end.

Of the three Christian virtues (faith, hope, and love), hope is the one least often discussed. Just as Faith is belief that goes beyond proof, and loves is care that goes beyond just deserts, hope is commitment that outruns our abilities. It is allowing our reach to extend beyond the grasp of intellect. Hope engages the will fully in a project to whose end our mind cannot see. Why is it a virtue?

A will that hopes will sometimes encounter successes that it could not have anticipated. If you are drowning in the middle of the Atlantic with no help in sight, if you continue to struggle to keep afloat to the utter end of your abilities, you are more likely to encounter a miraculous rescue than those who give up earlier. Yet this is not the source of hope’s value. After all, the help that is to save you is unanticipated (or else it wouldn’t be hope that kept you going, but rational calculation) and, in the overwhelming majority of cases, will not arrive.

The real value of hope is based upon the very nature of the human will and the values it establishes. Human reality consists of events that unfold in time and will not fully be what they are until completion. The sweetness of anticipation, established within the tension of the first few notes of a melody, only exists in relationship to the release of that tension in the melody’s resolution. All gestures, actions, and intentions project themselves forward in time to a completion that defines them. To care about something is to set your will towards the future. Yet the power of our minds and our actions to see and control the future is limited. Is it rational to leap where you cannot look? Each step towards the future is a step into darkness. Imagine walking in pitch darkness with no way of seeing when a solid wall would block our path or an endless abyss would open before us. Trapped in a dark cave with the possibility of walls and precipices at each moment, it might seem foolish to stride confidently in the direction of our dreams. Better to inch our way, toeing the line into the future cautiously to feel our way into what we cannot see. But to imagine a life like that is to see another level of rationality from which the leap of faith is the only rational alternative. For to never to proceed further than we can see, is to live a cramped, crippled life where the full scope of our values, radiating forward in time, cannot exist. The leaps and capers that define the type of caring and valuation that make us human would be impossible under those circumstances. A dancer who truly loved her dance, would find it necessary to leap into the darkness, for the very love of leaping, even if they could not know what lay ahead. Hope is a virtue because the very values that define us extend in time beyond the reach of our minds and bodies.

Just as Faith sees truths that will only unfold in the fullness of time, and Love sees beyond the reality of a person at a moment and into the person that might be; Hope gives itself over to the values that are always extending to the future. It is the nature of our loves and of our care, under the unlimited power of our will, to extend themselves beyond the limits of our power, to inspire us to reach beyond our grasp. To feel joy is to desire to feel it always. To grieve at the loss of a child, is to grieve for all the lost children. Though infinite in reach, our will finds itself impotent to always create the realities of which it dreams. Hope calls us to an impossible task and indicts us for our failures. To hope is to realize that the things you care about cannot be protected through your power alone, while resolving to care about them still. It is to see yourself as a creature in need of redemption. It is a cry for help, both to our fellow travelers and to the author of our travels.

There is also a fundamental part of our nature that fears false hopes. Our calls for help often go unheeded. There are many safe goods within the here and now that we must abandon if we are to leap into the darkness. Camus, in The Plague saw this danger well when he warned that for

those others who aspired beyond and above the human individual toward something they could not even imagine, there had been no answer. . . If others, however, Rieux could see them in the doorways of houses, passionately embracing and gazing hungrily at one another in the failing sunset glow, had got what they wanted, this was because they had asked for the one thing that depended on them solely. And as he turned the corner of the street where Grand and Cottard lived, Rieux was thinking it was only right that those whose desires are limited to man and his humble yet formidable love should enter, if only now and then, into their reward.

But this is to make an error that Camus, himself, recognized in other places: The formidable love that makes human life worth living, and which allows us to sometimes enter into our reward, is only possible by leaping into the future, into events that do not depend solely upon ourselves. Just as Camus saw that Dostoevsky was right that one cannot express and be true to one’s love of humanity by torturing humans, so one cannot keep alive our love of human values, which naturally pulls us beyond the moment, beyond what we can control, by restricting ourselves to what is only humanly possible. Love is not content with the possible but carries us beyond to will, for those we love and what we care about, things towards which we cannot see our way. Hope is the only condition under which beings like us, beings with infinite but impotent wills, can continue to care. For beings such as this, to fear false hope is to despair.

The Future of Philosophical Theism

Anselm refers to God as that than which nothing greater can be conceived, on the basis of which he argues for God’s absolute and immutable perfection. If God were to change, God would either be better or worse than before — which means that there would something conceivably better than God, namely, some past or future instance of Himself. Since to say ‘there is something conceivably better than that than which nothing greater can be conceived’ is to utter an outright contradiction, God’s perfection must be absolutely immutable.

Charles Hartshorne, perhaps best known for his defense of a modified version of the ontological argument, challenges Anselm’s understanding of divine perfection. At an existential level, love seems to imply that the lover rejoice in the joys and share in the sufferings of the beloved. So, if God loves us creatures, then His own happiness must in some way vary with ours — however changeless His power, wisdom, and glory may be.

Hartshorne charges that Anselm’s concept of absolute perfection is metaphysically incoherent: An absolutely perfect being is a being that possesses actually all possible perfection. But the notion of possessing actually all possible perfection is absurd since, as Hartshorne puts it in Reality as Social Progress, “it implies that mutual incompatible possibilities are co-actualized.” For example, it is surely good to be a bird and to possess wings, just as it is good to be human and possess hands. But to possess one or the other implies limitation; and winged-handed beasts would surely have their own specific limitations as well. Since the actualization of some possible perfection is always at the expense of the actualization of other possibilities, to claim that “God possesses all possible perfections” is to say that the simultaneous possession of incompossibles is possible – a contradiction to be sure. God’s perfection cannot, therefore, be absolute in the way Anselm thinks it is. Hartshorne proposes instead a notion of perfection according to which God is that than which no other being can be greater, except for future instances of Himself. God is not an unmoved mover; God is that being unsurpassable by all other beings other than God. Anselm’s and Hartshorne’s position are usually designated as classical theism and neo-classical theism respectively.

I think Hartshorne is correct is arguing that for classical theism, the distinction between possibility and actuality ultimately breaks down. At least one proponent of classical theism, Nicholas Cusanus (1401 – 1464), argues explicitly that it must collapse. One finds a splendidly concise presentation of his argument in the sixth chapter of the dialogue entitled De Possest or, following Jasper Hopkins’ translation, On Actualized Possibility. I have paraphrased the argument elsewhere as follows: “Relative possibilities often pre-exist their co-relative actualities; the mound of clay pre-exists the sculptor’s masterpiece. Absolute possibility cannot, however, pre-exist absolute actuality; for the possible cannot become actual save through the actual. Further, absolute actuality cannot pre-exist possibility; for if absolute actuality were not possible, it could not actually be. So since neither absolute possibility nor absolute actuality is prior to the other, each coincides with the other.” Cusanus also argues that God must simultaneously possess perfections that are in the created realm otherwise incompatible; consider the following argument taken from his first and most famous work, On Divine Ignorance: “The absolute maximum [God] is actually everything that can possibly be (omnis id quod esse potest). The minimum is that than which there is no lesser, i.e., it is the absolutely smallest possible. Therefore, the maximum, which is all possibles, must be the minimum.” (Should classical theists be tempted to dismiss Cusanus as a Renaissance aberration, I would argue that something like his doctrine of the coincidence of opposites in God must be the case for any system of classical theism in which God is said to be able to create or not create, to create other worlds incompossible with the actual world, and to contain virtually or eminently the perfection of all possible creations.)

For Cusanus the emergence of such apparently contradictory conclusions is not a reason for abandoning classical theism; but for Hartshorne it is. The difference can be explained in part when one considers the motivation behind their respective speculative projects. For Hartshorne, speculative philosophy is, in the words of Whitehead, “the endeavor to frame a coherent, logical, necessary system of general terms in which every element of our experience can be interpreted.” To the extent that something fails to be described in those terms, even God, the system is deemed inadequate. For Cusanus, on the other hand, speculative philosophy is one means by which one prepares oneself for deeper, more intimate union with God that lies beyond discursive reasoning. Classical theism (a discursive habit of mind that attempts to show that certain predicates belong to God necessarily) anticipates negative, mystical theology (a silencing of discursive reason in expectation of an immediate union with God through love) as its proper fulfillment.

Note, however, that while the neo-classical theist may reject classical theism as simply incoherent, classical theism cannot so quickly dismiss its apparent rival. If classical theism anticipates the collapse of the contrary concepts characteristic of discursive reason, then the sharp distinctions between such pairs of opposites like act and potency or being and becoming – contrasts that especially typical of the metaphysical systems from which classical theism received its initial impetus – invite rethinking. For example, classically the notion of receptivity implies potentiality, which in turn implies imperfection; and yet we find a contemporary classical theist like Norris Clarke rethinking the issue in his 1993 Aquinas Lecture entitled Person and Being. Clarke states: “In the lower levels of being, indeed, receptivity is woven in with poverty, incompleteness, the process of change from potentiality to actuality. As we move higher in the scale of being, however, specifically into the personal, it turns more and more into an active, welcoming, gratefully responsive attitude, which is a positive joy-bringing aspect of personal relations.” True to has classical roots, Clarke immediately adds, “and if all change and time is removed from it, so that the receiver always possesses what it has as gift, as in the case of the inner life of the divine persons in the Christian Trinity, then receptivity, represented archetypically by the Second Person as Son and Word, must be a purely positive perfection connatural to being itself.” (My emphasis)

I am not surprised to find within the works of an especially astute student of classical theism like Clarke the assertion ‘receptivity must be a purely positive perfection connatural to being itself’, no matter how grating such an assertion might at first strike the classical theist’s ear. It is indicative of what I hope will be a the future progress of philosophical theism over the next century or so, namely a synthesis of the classical and neo-classical paradigms of divinity – a synthesis every bit as momentous as the synthesis of Platonism and Aristotelianism in the works of thinkers like Aquinas and a synthesis, I believe, called by the very aspiration of classical theism itself.

To that end, I propose to the reader the juxtaposition of three simple arguments from Anselm, Hartshorne, and Cusanus respectively. At play in their differences are some of the most primordial of our metaphysical concepts, concepts like the actual, the possible, the existent, change, time, limit, lack of limit, negation and perfection; and at stake is the most unassailable of all philosophical principles, the principle of non-contradiction. I do not yet know what sort of spark might fly from this titanic clash of flint and steel, but I recommend their juxtaposition as an object of frequent meditation for aspiring metaphysicians.

A new twist on an old problem.

Traditional natural law theorists are sometimes accused of committing the naturalistic fallacy, since their arguments about good and evil (both natural and moral) are usually based on a theoretical grasp of a thing’s nature. Proponents of the so-called “New Natural Law Theory,” for instance, blame the traditional natural law theorists for attempting to “deduce” a list of goods from a theoretical grasp of a things nature. Complicated arguments usually ensue regarding the relationship between the practical and theoretical operations of reason.

Now I think the naturalistic fallacy is closely related to the devaluing of nature typical of modern thought. For pre-moderns like Plato, Aristotle, Augustine and Aquinas, on the other hand, nature is value laden, so that a theoretical grasp of a thing’s nature in some way entails knowledge of what is good for that thing.

I wish, however, to address this claim that traditional natural law starts with a theoretical grasp of a thing’s nature and then from it “deduces” what is good for that thing. Discussions with my colleague Joe Spoerl have led me to adopt the following position: One can’t deduce an “ought” from an “is”, but we do get an “is” from an “ought,” and we get an “ought not” from an “is.” In this blog entry I’ll briefly explain and defend this claim.

Let’s start with getting an “ought not” from an “is.” We ought not to do evil. Evil, as Augustine and many others argue, is a privation of a proper good. A good being “proper” or not depends on its relation to a thing’s essence. Proper goods belong to a thing in virtue of the thing’s essence. Hence, eye sight is a proper good of a frog, but not a proper good of a rock; the privation of sight, or blindness, is an evil that a frog can suffer, but a rock cannot. In light of this definition of evil, it follows that in order to recognize evil one must first start from a knowledge of a thing’s essence, for we can’t recognize a “privation” unless we first know the proper “completion.” The more we know a thing, the more we know its proper goods, and the more we are able to recognize the privation of those goods as evil.

This line of reasoning supports the claim that from a theoretical grasp of a thing’s essence or nature we actually can deduce what things are evil for it. For example, a theoretical grasp of human nature would include in it the notion of “rational;” hence, we can deduce that the privation of reason is an evil for the human being, and the willful privation of reason a moral evil. Knowledge of a thing’s nature is thus required in order to recognize a lack as an evil. What a thing “is” must be known before one recognizes what “ought not” to be the case with it.

Here, however, is an interesting twist: where as knowledge of a thing’s nature is prior to knowing what is evil for it, knowledge of what is good for a thing is prior to knowing its nature. This is because, as Aristotle says in the De Anima II, we know a thing’s nature in terms of its powers, a power in terms of its activity, and an activity in terms of the object to which it is directed. The object brings into act and there by perfects and make intelligible the otherwise latent and incomplete natural power of the substance. All of the powers of the soul, then, are known in terms of the objects to which they are directed and by which they are actualized: the power of vision, for example, is made known by colors; the power of hearing is made known by sounds. After experience and reflection on the relationship between a thing and its surrounding environment, we progress to judgments concerning certain objects as perfective of a thing – that is, we judge that object “x” is “perfective of” and hence “good for” that thing; and upon this judgment we infer that the thing is of such a kind as to have “x” as one of its goods.

A things nature is known in terms of the goods that perfect it. Knowledge of goods is in this a way prior to knowledge of a things essence. From this it is clear that one cannot start with a knowledge of the essence and go on to deduce what goods belong to it. Rather, we see what things are good for a thing, and thereby come to a knowledge of the thing’s nature.

In this way, I would agree that you cannot deduce an “ought” (good) from an “is” – no deduction that starts from a thing’s essence arrive at a good that was not previously known. But you can and do get an “is” (a theoretical understanding of a things nature) from an “ought.”

For the sake of brevity I’ve had to sacrifice a certain degree of precision. When the inadequacies are detected I hope that they can serve as the occasion for further discussion.

Polonius: What do you read, my lord?
Hamlet: Words, words, words.
Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 2, scene II

Part of what makes Hamlet Shakespeare’s greatest character is his dizzying word play.  But Hamlet’s linguistic felicity is not simply a matter of jest – he uses language to poke and to prod, to deceive, to coax, to insult, and to seduce.  What’s more he is painfully aware of the slipperiness of words.  On the one hand they grant us the ability to communicate and to express ourselves – without them there could be no sharing of truth.  On the other hand, they can be counterfeit and one can never be sure when they are spoken truly.  Finally, Hamlet recognizes that words have a power all their own to control us, to free us, to mesmerize us and to seduce us.  Words reveal things that we wish to hide, they tell us things that we don’t know, or don’t wish to know.  But what precisely are words and what do they tell us about ourselves?

Strangely, we tend to trivialize words, to think of them as poor substitutes for actions and things.  Actions speak louder than words, we claim.  A picture is worth a thousand words, we say. And yet, would actions speak at all without the assistance of words?  To suggest that actions speak is to assimilate them to words even as we try to elevate them above words.  And pictures?  Generally they come with words attached (titles or captions) and usually their significance is lost without the right words available to explain them.  Nevertheless, we want the real thing, not mere words.  But can we get the real thing without words?

We often act as if we could somehow break free of words, as if they were a temporary inconvenience that we might somehow overcome.  For example we like to think that our own thoughts and emotions at least, our inner lives, are clear to us.  But for some reason we struggle to find the right words to communicate our thoughts and feelings to others.  Perhaps, we think, it is because the uniqueness of an experience, a feeling, or a thought is lost when it is packaged and communicated in the generality and impersonality of a word.  For example, it is a cliché to point out how overused and devalued words such as “love” are – I can love ice cream, a car, my pet, God, my wife, a TV show, etc.  How can a word used a thousand times a second to refer to countless objects, emotions, and relationships possibly express the particular and personal reality of my experience?  If only we could communicate and relate to each other and the world without having to rely on the inconvenience of words.

We crave direct connection to ourselves, to nature and especially to other people; we long to connect without the intermediary of words and signs.  But we always are related to others through the mediation of symbols and signs, of words, broadly speaking.  Think of love for example — what closer and more complete relation can we have to someone?  And yet, even in love, our relation to the other person is mediated by symbols and signs, by words.  We do things as signs of love, we say “I love you”, we exchange rings and vows and give each other cards on special occasions, etc.  All of these are ‘words’ of one sort or another, trying to compensate for the fact that my love is only known to you through these words and gestures and never directly.

Why do we need words?  Why are they so elusive?  What is the source of their power?

Rather than seeing words and signs as a limitation, as a stumbling block to true relationship, direct connection, and pure experience I think we should recognize them as signs of something fundamental: human experience is essentially symbolic, composed of signs, words.  Without words we would have no relation to things or people or God.  To dream of a relation without words, to dream of immediate connection is to fail to understand the nature of relation and connection.  To dream of an experience that would not call for words and signs is to fail to understand the nature of experience.  Words are the symbols of our nature – namely, that our nature is always pointing beyond itself, beyond the here and now, beyond the immediate.  We transcend ourselves.  If we didn’t we couldn’t relate to anything, not even to ourselves.  But to always be pointing beyond oneself is the basic structure of what a sign, or a word, is.

To understand this we need only to think about the objects of our experience and our relationships to other people.  Do things exist without words?  Do emotions, feelings, relationships exist outside of language?  For us there is never simply an object or a relationship in a pure experience that would be prior to any and all words or signs – everything we experience is already a kind of sign, pointing beyond itself, back to us or somewhere else.  Every emotion or thought is by its nature related as a sign to something else: my elevated pulse and flushed cheeks are signs of my anger; my anger points to an offence and hence to my ideals; pleasure and pain, Aristotle tells us, are signs of our character; a thought points to some problem or question; my computer points out to me all the work I have to do that requires writing and words; the door signifies passage and movement as well as enclosure and withdrawal (I can close the door to keep others out, to hide my possessions); the window signifies dreaming, the beyond, the outside.  The barren tree limbs signify to me that winter is not over and the stones signify the solidity of foundations.  Things are already words, signs pointing in all directions and teaching me where I came from, who I am, and where I am going (to paraphrase the title from Gauguin’s famous painting).  From these things I learn what words are.  Emotions are signs too.  My actions are signs; my body is a system of signs that communicate and express, they signify to me and to others in ways that I am never fully controlling.  Hölderlin writes, “We are a sign that is not read.”  To be in love with someone is to be a sign pointing to another sign; and if we are to love the other person we need to learn how to read, how to listen.

If this is true, then facility with words, with signs, with language means letting the world speak to us.  To speak well begins with listening well.  But this requires recognizing that words are not tools, instruments, they are not merely a means of communication that we create and control.  Rather they are more like messengers or spirits inhabiting things, thoughts and feelings.  We need to be able to hear the other person who is speaking, whose being is speaking, whose being is to hear and be heard, to signify and be significant.

“I blame equally those who decide to praise man, those who blame him, and those who want to be diverted. I can only approve those who search in anguish.”

(Blaise Pascal. Pensées, “Liasse Titles,” 24 [Oxford, 1995], p. 8 )

It seems that Pascal has pretty much got it covered when it comes to judging human beings, and all the options are bad. Here he is rejecting some traditional conclusions about the human condition: the Stoic view, which claims that we are really reasonable and good if we would just remember and assert that we are; the materialist view, which rejects the claim that we are any better than the animals and criticizes human pretensions; and the Pyrrhonist view, which holds that we will be more content if we do not take a side in the matter. But what does he recommend instead? His recommended path—searching in anguish—sounds even less reasonable and, frankly, not much fun. What’s the point of searching if there is no conclusion? And why would one seek a path of anguish? Pascal’s conclusion sounds anti-intellectual and unfulfilling. So what’s the point?

The Pensées are a fleshing out of a response to this last question. Pascal claims that what he is recommending is, in fact, the only really rational and happy way to go. There are good reasons for blaming each of the three rejected options, both in terms of knowledge and happiness.

We know that the first three options are not reasonable. Praising human beings makes no sense when one considers their ignorance and the evil they do. Of all that can be known, we know precious little. Worse, of all the creatures in the world, we alone willfully harm other creatures and our fellow humans. The facts are indisputable: all of us sin. Blaming human beings, the second option, ignores the point that human beings can know (can dispel their ignorance) and can will what is good. In having such capacities, human beings are unique among the creatures of this world. As Pascal says, “Through space the universe grasps and engulfs me like a pinpoint: through thought I can grasp it” (145, p.36). We have the freedom to turn from what is false to what is true, from what is evil to what is good: the whole project of the Pensées (and, in some way, of any book) is centered on this distinctive characteristic of human beings. Diversion, the third option, is no answer since it is precisely the refusal to seek and answer—the refusal to make use of the intellectual and moral powers that are uniquely human. Obviously, diversion is a pleasant part of our lives, but if one were to make it the purpose of one’s life, that would be absurd. Such a life would be the rejection of purpose.

In terms of our natural orientation toward happiness, Pascal’s blaming of the three positions also makes sense. The danger in being praised is that we become proud and presuming. We think that something is owed us for our goodness. But such pride and presumption are obvious impediments to further progress toward the happiness of fulfilling our rational and moral natures. If we think we are wise and good enough, we won’t try to become wiser and better. The danger in being blamed is that we might despair. Despair is as equally effective as presumption in destroying the motivation to pursue what will fulfill us. Why bother to try if we are bound to fail? Finally, the indifference to questions of truth and goodness implied in diverting ourselves is also an impediment to our happiness. Although we have a hunch that there are some things worthy of sorting out in our lives, we prefer to put off such sorting. “We run carelessly over the precipice after having put something in front of us to prevent us seeing it” (198, p. 59).

Once we have seen how the three options fail to deliver in terms of reason and happiness, Pascal’s suggestion begins to make more sense. The search is important, for no systematic account of reality is complete, and no inkling of truth and happiness totally misleading. The admission of these points, as Socrates was fond of repeating, is necessary for the philosophical life. And this is not blind fideism, for it is reason itself that leads us to the assertion that there are things beyond reason. “Reason’s last step is to recognize that there are an infinite number of things which surpass it. It is simply feeble if it does not go as far as realizing that” (220, p. 62). The anguish comes because we really do want to know the truth and to live as we should. Time is precious. We only have so much of it. “Between us and hell or heaven there is only life, the most fragile thing in earth” (185, p. 58). Will we make the most of the life that is given us? That is Pascal’s question.

The cliché, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” is probably either trivially true (there can be no perception of beauty without sense organs) or else obviously false (the same thing could turn out to be both beautiful and non-beautiful).  But what if we said that beauty is in the soul of the beholder?  This is what Plotinus tells us (Enneads), and he is hardly a squishy relativist.

Plotinus’s argument runs something like this:  Qualities such as symmetry and harmony cannot be definitive of beauty because they apply only to compound objects, but not all beauties are compounds.  In fact, the quality in a beautiful thing that governs other qualities, such as symmetry and harmony, is unity; but unity is properly found only in non-compound objects, such as the soul.  Just as the soul imparts unity to the body, which is a compound, so form imparts unity to an artwork or natural object.  The human soul thus has an affinity for the form of beautiful things—and an aversion to the deformity of ugly things—by nature.  It is by virtue of this affinity for beauty residing in the soul of the beholder that beautiful things are recognized as such.  Therefore—my paraphrase—beauty is in the soul of the beholder.

It’s interesting to think about this in connection with a perennial problem in aesthetics:  how do you reconcile the irreducibly subjective concept of taste with objective criteria of beauty in nature and in artworks?  Kant wrote about this.  An aesthetic judgment is subjective, he claimed, but its content is understood to be universal, or objective (Critique of Judgment).  So what I mean when I say that I like a given painting is actually that it is beautiful and that you should like it, too.  But at the same time, I realize that you might not like it, that taste varies.  This is paradoxical, just one of quite a few paradoxes that Kant cheerfully embraced in his philosophy.

But is the situation really paradoxical, or does Plotinus have a key to its solution?  The faculty of taste is subjective and highly variable; it requires a person, a perceiver, a soul, that is, one who likes or dislikes, and no two persons are entirely alike.  At the same time, the appreciation of beauty—whether in nature or in art—is an activity that inherently points to something outside of and beyond the person.  Beauty itself is in one sense the objectification of something realized from within and manifested externally, whether by the creative artist, by the appreciative viewer or listener, or by God.  In a word, to recognize something as beautiful—a painting, a song, a sunset—is to acknowledge that it pleases the human soul.  And this is something that every human soul in fact does acknowledge with regard to some things.  Disagreements about matters of taste presuppose some degree of universal or shared humanity, and that humanity, or human soul, is beautiful in the primary sense of the term.  Other beauties are derivative from it.  Or so Plotinus appears to have thought.

The Golden Rule tells us, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” What exactly is the Golden Rule telling us to do?  There are several possible interpretations.

It could be telling me to treat others as I would wish to be treated if I traded places with them while keeping all of my current preferences intact.  Thus, if I love loud rock music at all hours of the day and night, turning up my stereo at 3:00 a.m. would be treating my sleeping neighbors as I would wish to be treated.  Hmmmm –somehow that doesn’t quite capture the spirit of the Golden Rule, does it?  As George Bernard Shaw once said, “Don’t do unto others as you would have them do unto you – their tastes might be different!”

Another interpretation is that it could be directing me to treat others as I would wish to be treated if I traded places with them while assuming all of their preferences.  This leads to a more favorable outcome for my sleeping neighbor who really hates being woken up at 3:00 a.m. However, what if my neighbor is a masochist who loves being beaten, or a sadist who wants to beat me up? Surely I can’t be obligated to set aside my aversion to beating or being beaten just to humor a pervert living next door.

One solution here might be to weigh and compare the preferences involved.  If I really hate beating or being beaten as much as my neighbor loves the opposite, then my neighbor’s application of the Golden Rule to me would cancel out my application of it to him.  After all, we both ought to be following the Golden Rule.   And my sleeping neighbor’s interest in sleep is much stronger than my desire to hear loud music at 3:00 a.m., so he is not violating the Golden Rule by asking me to turn down the volume.  So maybe what the Golden Rule is demanding is that I view the preferences of all those affected by an action from the viewpoint of an impartial spectator who benevolently wants to maximize the satisfaction of everyone’s preferences.  Think of two people in the check-out line at the grocery store, one with a full cart and one with a gallon of milk.  If I have the full cart, I should let the guy with the milk go first, even if I am next in line and have to wait a bit longer as a result.  A minor wait for me is better, from an impartial standpoint, than a long wait for him.

But consider a problem with this approach.  Suppose I have only a moderate aversion to hurting people, while my masochistic neighbor has a passion for being beaten. If I am obliged by the Golden Rule to maximize the satisfaction of preferences, then it seems I morally ought to beat him.  Surely this can’t be right.  I am reminded of a line from the movie Jesus of Montreal, spoken by a female character who was having a sexual affair with a Catholic priest.  When asked why she was doing this, she answered, “Because it gives him so much pleasure and me so little pain.”  Was she just following the Golden Rule!??!  Surely not!

What have we missed?  Just this, I think: The Golden Rule cannot be applied in the absence of some other moral rules for assessing preferences.  Some preferences are inherently debased and have no claim on satisfaction, as with the sadist and masochist (and the wandering priest).  Some desires are for things that hurt and degrade us; others are for things that genuinely build us up and help us to flourish. Perhaps the Golden Rule is really telling us to help others and not harm them, just as we wish others to refrain from harming us and to help us when they can do so at no unreasonable cost to themselves.  And an important aspect of helping and harming has to do with respecting our dignity as persons.  As John Stuart Mill observes in Utilitarianism, our unwillingness to sink into “a lower grade of existence” is rooted in “a sense of dignity, which all human beings possess in one form or another.” Helping and harming must be defined in terms of some account of what it means to flourish as a human being, to lead a fulfilled human life.  Thus, an account of human flourishing is necessary for us to know how to follow the Golden Rule.

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