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Knowing an ape from Adam

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On questions about biological evolution, both the Magisterium of the Catholic Church and Thomist philosophers and theologians have tended carefully to steer a middle course.  On the one hand, they have allowed that a fairly wide range of biological phenomena may in principle be susceptible of evolutionary explanation, consistent with Catholic doctrine and Thomistic metaphysics.  On the other hand, they have also insisted, on philosophical and theological grounds, that not every biological phenomenon can be given an evolutionary explanation, and they refuse to issue a “blank check” to a purely naturalistic construal of evolution.  Evolutionary explanations are invariably a mixture of empirical and philosophical considerations.  Properly to be understood, the empirical considerations have to be situated within a sound metaphysics and philosophy of nature.

For the Thomist, this will have to include the doctrine of the four causes, the principle of proportionate causality, the distinction between primary and secondary causality, and the other key notions of Aristotelian-Thomistic (A-T) metaphysics and philosophy of nature (detailed defense of which can be found in Scholastic Metaphysics).  All of this is perfectly consistent with the empirical evidence, and those who claim otherwise are really implicitly appealing to their own alternative, naturalistic metaphysical assumptions rather than to empirical science.  (Some earlier posts bringing A-T philosophical notions to bear on biological phenomena can be found here, here, here, here, and here.  As longtime readers know, A-T objections to naturalism have absolutely nothing to do with “Intelligent Design” theory, and A-T philosophers are often very critical of ID.  Posts on the dispute between A-T and ID can be found collected here.)

On the subject of human origins, both the Magisterium and Thomist philosophers have acknowledged that an evolutionary explanation of the origin of the human body is consistent with non-negotiable theological and philosophical principles.  However, since the intellect can be shown on purely philosophical grounds to be immaterial, it is impossible in principle for the intellect to have arisen through evolution.  And since the intellect is the chief power of the human soul, it is therefore impossible in principle for the human soul to have arisen through evolution.  Indeed, given its nature the human soul has to be specially created and infused into the body by God -- not only in the case of the first human being but with every human being.  Hence the Magisterium and Thomist philosophers have held that special divine action was necessary at the beginning of the human race in order for the human soul, and thus a true human being, to have come into existence even given the supposition that the matter into which the soul was infused had arisen via evolutionary processes from non-human ancestors.

In a recent article at Crisis magazine, Prof. Dennis Bonnette correctly notes that Catholic teaching also requires that there be a single pair from whom all human beings have inherited the stain of original sin.  He also rightly complains that too many Catholics wrongly suppose that this teaching can be allegorized away and the standard naturalistic story about human origins accepted wholesale. 

The sober middle ground

Naturally, that raises the question of how the traditional teaching about original sin can be reconciled with what contemporary biologists have to say about human origins.  I’ll return to that subject in a moment.  But first, it is important to emphasize that the range of possible views consistent with Catholic teaching and A-T metaphysics is very wide, but also not indefinitely wide.  Some traditionalist Catholics seem to think that the willingness of the Magisterium and of contemporary Thomist philosophers to be open to evolutionary explanations is a novelty introduced after Vatican II.  That is simply not the case.  Many other Catholics seem to think that Pope St. John Paul II gave carte blanche to Catholics to accept whatever claims about evolution contemporary biologists happen to make in the name of science.  That is also simply not the case.  The Catholic position, and the Thomist position, is the middle ground one I have been describing.  It allows for a fairly wide range of debate about what kinds of evolutionary explanations might be possible and, if possible, plausible; but it also rules out, in principle, a completely naturalistic understanding of evolution. 

Perhaps the best-known magisterial statement on these matters is that of Pope Pius XII in his 1950 encyclical Humani Generis.  In sections 36-37 he says:

[T]he Teaching Authority of the Church does not forbid that, in conformity with the present state of human sciences and sacred theology, research and discussions, on the part of men experienced in both fields, take place with regard to the doctrine of evolution, in as far as it inquires into the origin of the human body as coming from pre-existent and living matter -- for the Catholic faith obliges us to hold that souls are immediately created by God.  However, this must be done in such a way that the reasons for both opinions, that is, those favorable and those unfavorable to evolution, be weighed and judged with the necessary seriousness, moderation and measure, and provided that all are prepared to submit to the judgment of the Church…

When, however, there is question of another conjectural opinion, namely polygenism, the children of the Church by no means enjoy such liberty.  For the faithful cannot embrace that opinion which maintains that either after Adam there existed on this earth true men who did not take their origin through natural generation from him as from the first parent of all, or that Adam represents a certain number of first parents.  Now it is in no way apparent how such an opinion can be reconciled with that which the sources of revealed truth and the documents of the Teaching Authority of the Church propose with regard to original sin, which proceeds from a sin actually committed by an individual Adam and which, through generation, is passed on to all and is in everyone as his own.

The pope here allows for the possibility of an evolutionary explanation of the human body and also, in strong terms, rules out both any evolutionary explanation for the human soul and any denial that human beings have a single man as their common ancestor.  This combination of theses was common in Thomistic philosophy and in orthodox Catholic theology at this time, and can be found in Neo-Scholastic era manuals published, with the Imprimatur, both before 1950 and in the years after Humani Generis but before Vatican II.

For example, in Celestine Bittle’s The Whole Man: Psychology, published in 1945, we find:

[T]he evolution of man’s body could, per se, have been included in the general scheme of the evolutionary process of all organisms.  Evolution would be a fair working hypothesis, because it makes little difference whether God created man directly or used the indirect method of evolution…

Whatever may be the ultimate verdict of science and philosophy concerning the origin of man’s body, whether through organic evolution or through a special act of divine intervention, man’s soul is not the product of evolution. (p. 585)

George Klubertanz, in Philosophy of Human Nature(1953), writes:

Essential evolution of living things up to and including the human body (the whole man with his spiritual soul excluded…), as explained through equivocal causality, chance, and Providence, is a possible explanation of the origin of those living things.  The possibility of this mode of origin can be admitted by both philosopher and theologian. (p. 425)

Klubertanz adds in a footnote:

There are some theological problems involved in such an admission; these problems do not concern us here.  Suffice it to say that at least some competent theologians think these problems can be solved; at any rate, a difficulty does not of itself constitute a refutation.

At the end of two chapters analyzing the metaphysics of evolution from a Thomistic point of view, Henry Koren, in his indispensible An Introduction to the Philosophy of Animate Nature (1955), concludes:

[T]here would seem to be no philosophical objection against any theory which holds that even widely different kinds of animals (or plants) have originated from primitive organisms through the forces of matter inherent to these organisms and other material agents…

Even in the case of man there appears to be no reason why the evolution of his body from primitive organisms (and even from inanimate matter) must be considered to be philosophically impossible.  Of course… man’s soul can have obtained its existence only through a direct act of creation; therefore, it is impossible for the human soul to have evolved from matter.  In a certain sense, even the human body must be said to be the result of an act of creation.  For the human body is made specifically human by the human soul, and the soul is created; hence as a human body, man’s body results from creation.  But the question is whether the matter of his body had to be made suitable for actuation by a rational soul through God’s special intervention, or if the same result could have been achieved by the forces of nature acting as directed by God.  As we have seen… there seems to be no reason why the second alternative would have to be an impossibility. (pp. 302-4)

Adolphe Tanquerey, in Volume I of A Manual of Dogmatic Theology (1959), writes:

It is de fide that our first parents in regard to body and in regard to soul were created by God: it is certain that their souls were created immediately by God; the opinion, once common, which asserts that even man’s body was formed immediately by God has now fallen into controversy…

As long as the spiritual origin of the human soul is correctly preserved, the differences of body between man and ape do not oppose the origin of the human body from animality

The opinion which asserts that the human body has arisen from animality through the forces of evolution is not heretical, in fact in can be admitted theologically…

Thesis: The universal human race has arisen from the one first parent Adam.  According to many theologians this statement is proximate to a matter of faith.  (pp. 394-98)

Similarly, Ludwig Ott’s well-known Fundamentals of Catholic Dogma, in the 1960 fourth edition, states:

The soul of the first man was created immediately by God out of nothing.  As regards the body, its immediate formation from inorganic stuff by God cannot be maintained with certainty.  Fundamentally, the possibility exists that God breathed the spiritual soul into an organic stuff, that is, into an originally animal body…

The Encyclical “Humani generis” of Pius XII (1950) lays down that the question of the origin of the human body is open to free research by natural scientists and theologians

Against… the view of certain modern scientists, according to which the various races are derived from several separated stems (polygenism), the Church teaches that the first human beings, Adam and Eve, are the progenitors of the whole human race (monogenism).  The teaching of the unity of the human race is not, indeed, a dogma, but it is a necessary pre-supposition of the dogma of Original Sin and Redemption. (pp. 94-96)

J. F. Donceel, in Philosophical Psychology(1961), writes:

Until a hundred years ago it was traditionally held that the matter into which God for the first time infused a human soul was inorganic matter (the dust of the earth).  We have now very good scientific reasons for admitting that this matter was, in reality, organic matter -- that is, the body of some apelike animal.

Aquinas held that some time during the course of pregnancy God infuses a human soul into the embryo which, until then, has been a simple animal organism, albeit endowed with human finality.  The theory of evolution extends to phylogeny what Aquinas held for ontogeny.

Hence there is no philosophical difficulty against the hypothesis which asserts that the first human soul was infused by God into the body of an animal possessing an organization which was very similar to that of man.  (p. 356)

You get the idea.  It is in light of this tradition that we should understand what Pope John Paul II said in 1996 in a “Message to the Pontifical Academy of Sciences.”  The relevant passages are as follows:

In his encyclical Humani Generis (1950), my predecessor Pius XII has already affirmed that there is no conflict between evolution and the doctrine of the faith regarding man and his vocation, provided that we do not lose sight of certain fixed points…

Today, more than a half-century after the appearance of that encyclical, some new findings lead us toward the recognition of evolution as more than an hypothesis.  In fact it is remarkable that this theory has had progressively greater influence on the spirit of researchers, following a series of discoveries in different scholarly disciplines.  The convergence in the results of these independent studies -- which was neither planned nor sought -- constitutes in itself a significant argument in favor of the theory…

[T]he elaboration of a theory such as that of evolution, while obedient to the need for consistency with the observed data, must also involve importing some ideas from the philosophy of nature.

And to tell the truth, rather than speaking about the theory of evolution, it is more accurate to speak of the theories of evolution.  The use of the plural is required here -- in part because of the diversity of explanations regarding the mechanism of evolution, and in part because of the diversity of philosophies involved.  There are materialist and reductionist theories, as well as spiritualist theories.  Here the final judgment is within the competence of philosophy and, beyond that, of theology…

Pius XII underlined the essential point: if the origin of the human body comes through living matter which existed previously, the spiritual soul is created directly by God…

As a result, the theories of evolution which, because of the philosophies which inspire them, regard the spirit either as emerging from the forces of living matter, or as a simple epiphenomenon of that matter, are incompatible with the truth about man.

End quote.  Some traditionalists and theological liberals alike seem to regard John Paul’s statement here as a novel concession to modernism, but it is nothing of the kind.  The remark that evolution is “more than an hypothesis” certainly expresses more confidence in the theory than Pius had, but both Pius’s and John Paul’s judgments on that particular issue are merely prudential judgments about the weight of the empirical evidence.  At the level of principle there is no difference between them.  Both popes affirm that the human body may have arisen via evolution, both affirm that the human soul did not so arise, and both refuse to accept the metaphysical naturalist’s understanding of evolution.  John Paul II is especially clear on this last point.  As you would expect from a Thomist, he rightly insists that evolutionary explanations are never purely empirical but all presuppose alternative background metaphysical assumptions.  Hence he notes that a fully worked out theory of evolution “must also involve importing some ideas from the philosophy of nature” and that here “the final judgment is within the competence of philosophy and, beyond that, of theology” -- not empirical science per se.  And as Bonnette notes, the Catechism issued under Pope John Paul II essentially reaffirms, in the relevant sections (396-406), the traditional teaching that the human race inherited the stain of original sin from one man.

Neither those conservative Catholics who would in principle rule out any evolutionary aspect to human origins, nor those liberal Catholics who would rule out submitting the claims made by contemporary evolutionary biologists to any philosophical or theological criticism, can find support in the teaching of either of these popes. 

Monogenism or polygenism?

But again, how can the doctrine of original sin be reconciled with what contemporary biology says about human origins?  For the doctrine requires descent from a single original ancestor, whereas contemporary biologists hold that the genetic evidence indicates that modern humans descended from a population of at least several thousand individuals. 

This is an issue I addressed a few years ago in a series of posts (here, here, and here).  Longtime readers will recall that I there rehearsed a proposal developed by Mike Flynn and Kenneth Kemp to the effect that we need to distinguish the notion of a creature which is human in a strict metaphysicalsense from that of a creature which is “human” merely in a looser, purely physiological sense.  The latter sort of creature would be more or less just like us in its bodily attributes but would lack our intellectual powers, which are incorporeal.  In short, it would lack a human soul.  Hence, though genetically it would appear human, it would not be a rational animal and thus notbe human in the strict metaphysical sense.  Now, this physiologically “human” but non-rational sort of creature is essentially what Pius XII, John Paul II, and the philosophers and theologians quoted above have in mind when they speak of a scenario in which the human body arises via evolutionary processes.

The Flynn-Kemp proposal is this.  Suppose evolutionary processes gave rise to a population of several thousand creatures of this non-rational but genetically and physiologically “human” sort.  Suppose further that God infused rational souls into two of these creatures, thereby giving them our distinctive intellectual and volitional powers and making them truly human.  Call this pair “Adam” and “Eve.”  Adam and Eve have descendents, and God infuses into each of them rational souls of their own, so that they too are human in the strict metaphysical sense.  Suppose that some of these descendents interbreed with creatures of the non-rational but genetically and physiologically “human” sort.  The offspring that result would also have rational souls since they have Adam and Eve as ancestors (even if they also have non-rational creatures as ancestors).  This interbreeding carries on for some time, but eventually the population of non-rational but genetically and physiologically “human” creatures dies out, leaving only those creatures who are human in the strict metaphysical sense. 

On this scenario, the modern human population has the genes it does because it is descended from this group of several thousand individuals, initially only two of whom had rational or human souls.  But only those later individuals who had this pair among their ancestors (even if they also had as ancestors members of the original group which did not have human souls) have descendents living today.  In that sense, every modern human is both descended from an original population of several thousand and from an original pair.  There is no contradiction, because the claim that modern humans are descended from an original pair does not entail that they received all their genes from that pair alone

Of course, this is speculative.  No one is claiming to know that this is actually what happened, or that Catholic teaching requiresthis specific scenario.  The point is just that it shows, in a way consistent with what Catholic orthodoxy and Thomistic philosophy allow vis-à-vis evolution, that the genetic evidence is not in fact in conflict with the doctrine of original sin.  Naturally other Catholics and Thomists might reasonably disagree with it.

Having said that, I have yet to see any plausible objections to the Flynn-Kemp scenario.  This brings us back to Prof. Bonnette’s article.  In response to the Flynn-Kemp proposal, he writes:

The difficulty with any interbreeding solution (save, perhaps, in rare instances) is that it would place at the human race’s very beginning a severe impediment to its healthy growth and development.  Natural law requires that marriage and procreation take place solely between a man and a woman, so that children are given proper role models for adult life.  So too, even if the union between a true human and a subhuman primate were not merely transitory, but lasting, the defective parenting and role model of a parent who is not a true human being would introduce serious disorder in the proper functioning of the family and education of children.  Hence, widespread interbreeding is not an acceptable solution to the problem of genetic diversity.

Moreover, given the marked reduction in the number of ancient HLA-DRB1 alleles found by the later genetic studies of Bergström and von Salomé, it may turn out that no interbreeding is needed at all, or at most, that very rare instances of it may have occurred.  Such rare events might not even entail the consent of true human beings, since they could result from an attack by a subhuman male upon a non-consenting human female.

I put to one side Prof. Bonnette’s remarks about the genetic evidence, which I’ll leave to the biologists to evaluate.  Bonnette allows that some interbreeding may have occurred, but he claims that it cannot have been “widespread” and that the reason has to do with natural law.  But what is the problem, exactly?

Back in 2011, when Flynn, Kemp, and I first wrote on this topic and the Flynn-Kemp proposal was getting a lot of attention in the blogosphere, some people objected that interbreeding of the sort in question amounted to bestiality.  But of course, no one is suggesting that we should approve of the interbreeding in question.  The claim is merely that in fact it may have happened, even if this was contrary to natural and divine law (just as Cain killed Abel even though this was contrary to the natural law, and just as Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, even though this was contrary to divine law). 

Nor would it be a good objection to suggest that no one would plausibly have been tempted to engage in such interbreeding.  After all, the scenario in question would hardly be comparable to that of the average member of contemporary civilization being tempted to have sex with an ape, which would of course not be psychologically plausible.  For one thing, the sub-rational but genetically and physiologically “human” creatures in question would notbe like apes, or indeed like any of the non-human animals with which we are familiar.  They would more or less look like us.  Furthermore, they would even act like us to some degree.  As I noted in a recent post, though a purely material system could never in principle exhibit true rationality, it might simulateit to a significant extent (just as if you add enough sides to a polygon you will get something that looks like a circle even though it could not really be a circle).  The sub-rational creatures in question would have been sphexish, but a sufficiently complex sphexish creature might seem not to be on a superficial examination.  Recall Popper’s distinction between four functions of language: expressive, signaling, descriptive, and argumentative.  The sub-rational creatures in question would not be capable of the latter two functions (which presuppose rationality) but they might have exhibited very sophisticated versions of the first two functions.

Meanwhile, the earliest true humans would not have had anything like the modern civilizational accompaniments of sexual activity, especially given the effects of original sin.  Obviously it would be absurd to think of their liaisons as involving smooth techniques of romantic seduction, contemporary standards of personal hygiene, etc.  So, the cultural “distance” between primitive true human beings and the sub-rational creatures in question need not have been so great as to make the sexual temptation psychologically implausible.  It might have been comparable to a very uncultured and unsophisticated person taking sexual advantage of an even more unsophisticated and indeed very stupid person.  Not that it was exactly like that, since even a stupid person is still intelligent in the strict sense, whereas the sub-rational creatures in question wouldn’t even rise to the level of stupidity.  The point is that the situation could have been psychologically close enough to that for the temptation to be real.  (As I indicated, partly in jest, in one of the earlier posts, we might think on the model of Charlton Heston’s character “Taylor” being attracted to the Linda Harrison character “Nova” in Planet of the Apes -- not that the early sub-rational creatures would have looked quite that good!)

It doesn’t seem that the “bestiality” issue per se is really the heart of Prof. Bonnette’s objection, though.  His point seems instead to be that a “union” of a true human being with a sub-rational creature of the sort in question would be dysfunctional vis-à-vis the proper rearing of truly human children.  This is true, but it is hard to see how it is a problem for the Flynn-Kemp scenario, for nothing in that scenario requires that such “unions” be anywhere close to optimal from a child-rearing point of view, or even that there be “unions” (of some long-term sort) in the first place.  All that it requires is that there was enough interbreeding to account for the genetic evidence appealed to by contemporary biologists.  It isn’t clear how the question of whether, how, and to what extent the sub-rational creatures were involved in child-rearing affects the judgment that there was sufficient interbreeding. 

Perhaps Bonnette thinks that child-rearing would have been so deficient that the population of true humans could not have survived long enough to displace the sub-rational creatures.  But it is hard to see why.  Surely the child of a “union” between a true human being and one of the sub-rational creatures would have an advantage over the offspring of two sub-rational creatures, for such a child would itself have rationality and at least one rational parent, whereas the other sort of offspring would have neither.  Moreover, we needn’t think in terms of such pairings in the first place.  Why not think instead of a scenario where a truly human male forms a union with a truly human female but also has several sub-rational but genetically and physiologically “human” females as concubines, where the resulting children are all essentially reared by the human couple?  And such arrangements need only have occurred frequently enough for the truly human population to supplant the population of sub-rational creatures.  There is no need to flesh out the Flynn-Kemp scenario in the specific way Bonnette (apparently) does.

So, it seems to me that neither Prof. Bonnette nor anyone else has raised any serious difficulty for the Flynn-Kemp proposal.  However, Prof. Bonnette is right to hold that many Catholics need to show greater caution when commenting on matters pertaining to evolution.

Christmastime reading for shut-ins

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At Public Discourse, William Carroll gives us the scoop on Thomas Aquinas in China.

At Anamnesis, Joshua Hochschild asks: What’s Wrong with Ockham?

Philosopher Roberto Mangabeira Unger and physicist Lee Smolin have just published The Singular Universe and the Reality of Time: A Proposal in Natural Philosophy.  In an interview, Smolin addresses the question: Who will rescue time from the physicists?

In related news, io9 reports that scientists admit that they need philosophers

Forthcoming from Stephen Mumford and Rani Lill Anjum: What Tends to Be: Essays on the Dispositional Modality.  Details trickling out via Twitter, here, here, here, and here.

Philosopher Robert Koons has a blog: The Analytic Thomist.

Mathematician and philosopher James Franklin has a page at Academia.edu.  And, if you didn’t already know of it, a homepage.

At Scientia Salon, Massimo Pigliucci on Dupré, Fodor, Hacking, Cartwright, reductionism, and the disunity of the sciences.

Stephen Boulter reviews John Marenbon’s Oxford Handbook of Medieval Philosophyat Philosophy in Review.


Martin and Murray on essence and existence

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The real distinction between a thing’s essence and its existence is a key Thomistic metaphysical thesis, which I defend at length in Scholastic Metaphysics, at pp. 241-56.  The thesis is crucial to Aquinas’s argument for God’s existence in De Ente et Essentia, which is the subject of an eagerly awaited forthcoming book by Gaven Kerr.  (HT: Irish Thomist)  One well-known argument for the distinction is that you can know thing’s essence without knowing whether or not it exists, in which case its existence must be distinct from its essence.  (Again, see Scholastic Metaphysics for defense of this argument.)  In his essay “How to Win Essence Back from Essentialists,” David Oderberg suggests that the argument can be run in the other direction as well: “[I]t is possible to know that a thing exists without knowing what kind of thing it is. (Such is our normal way of acquiring knowledge of the world.)” (p. 39)

Which brings to mind this old Saturday Night Liveskit with Steve Martin and Bill Murray:


(Transcript here.)  An SNL skit illustrating a key theme of Thomistic metaphysics?  Not so surprising given that Martin was a philosophy major and Murray is a fan of the Latin Mass.
 

Causality, pantheism, and deism

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Agere sequitur esse (“action follows being” or “activity follows existence”) is a basic principle of Scholastic metaphysics.  The idea is that the way a thing acts or behaves reflects what it is.  But suppose that a thing doesn’t truly act or behave at all.  Would it not follow, given the principle in question, that it does not truly exist?  That would be too quick.  After all, a thing might be capable of acting even if it is not in fact doing so.  (For example, you are capable of leaving this page and reading some other website instead, even if you do not in fact do so.)  That would seem enough to ensure existence.  A thing could hardly be said to have a capacity if it didn’t exist.  But suppose something lacks even the capacity for acting or behaving.  Would it not follow in that case that it does not truly exist?

To affirm that conclusion without qualification would be to endorse what Jaegwon Kim calls Alexander’s Dictum: To be real is to have causal powers.  (The dictum is named for Samuel Alexander, who gives expression to the idea in volume 2 of Space, Time, and Deity.  Kim has discussed it in many places, e.g. here.) 

Even if one thinks this too strong -- say, on the grounds that Platonic Forms might exist but be causally inert -- one might still endorse a more restricted version of Alexander’s Dictum.  One might hold, for example, that for material objects to be real, they must have causal powers.  Trenton Merricks endorses something like this restricted version of Alexander’s principle in arguing for an eliminativist position vis-à-vis inanimate macrophysical objects (Objects and Persons, p. 81).  He argues that for a macrophysical object such as a baseball or a stone to be real, it must have causal powers.  And yet (so he claims) it is only the microphysical parts of such purported objects -- their atoms, say (though “atoms” is for Merricks just a placeholder for whatever the appropriate micro-level objects turn out to be) -- that are really doing all the causal work.  Baseballs, stones, and the like do not as such really cause anything.  Hence baseballs, stones, and the like do not really exist.  It is only atoms arranged baseballwise, atoms arranged stonewise, etc. that exist.  (Merricks does not draw the same eliminativist conclusion about living things.  At least conscious living things doin his view have causal powers over and above those of their microphysical parts, and maybe other living things do too.)

I certainly don’t agree with Merricks’ eliminativist conclusion.  (See Scholastic Metaphysics, chapter 3, especially pp. 177-84.  As longtime readers might have already noticed, it is, from an Aristotelian point of view, telling that even Merricks thinks that at least the divide between the non-sentient and the sentient, and perhaps between the inorganic and the organic, mark breaks in nature where explanations exclusively in terms of microphysics give out.)  But in my view, the problem with his position is not his commitment to a variation on Alexander’s Dictum -- a variation I think is essentially correct.

The thesis that for a material object to be real, it must have causal powers is the key to understanding how occasionalism tends toward pantheism.  Occasionalism is the view that God is not merely the First Cause -- “first” in the sense of being the source of the causal power of other, secondary causes -- but the only cause.   Common sense supposes that it is the sun that melts a popsicle when you leave it on the table outside; in fact, according to occasionalism, it is God who melts popsicles, ice cubes, and the like, on the occasion when they are left in the sun.  You blame fungus for the dry rot that destroyed the wall in your garage; in fact, according to occasionalism, it is God who causes dry rot, on the occasion when fungus is present.  And so forth.  Neither the sun, nor fungus, nor anything other than God really has any causal power, on this view.  It is only God who is ever really doing anything.  Thus, the activity that we attribute to material objects must really be attributed to God. 

But if this is true, and if it is also true that for a material object to be real, it must have causal powers, then material objects aren’t even real.  Only God is real.  So, if occasionalism is true, then there is a sense in which, when you think you are observing the sun melting a popsicle, or a baseball shattering a window, or what have you, what you are really observing is just God in action, and nothing more than that.  Compare Merricks’ view that what we call a baseball shattering a window is “really” nothing more than just atoms arranged baseballwise causing the scattering of atoms that had been arranged windowwise.  Just as, on Merricks’ view, baseballs and windows dissolve into arrangements of atoms, so too on occasionalism the world essentially dissolves into God, which leaves us with a kind of pantheism.  You might say that, given occasionalism, “the sun,” “fungus,” “stone,” “baseballs,” etc. are really just nine billion names of God (with apologies to Arthur C. Clarke).

Just to be clear, Merricks does not even discuss occasionalism and pantheism, much less defend them.  But the parallel between his argument for eliminativism about inanimate macrophysical objects and occasionalism is instructive.  Consider now another aspect of Merricks’ position, and a parallel with another view about God’s relation to the world.  Merricks argues that if (say) a baseball played any causal role in the shattering of a window over and above the role played by its atoms, then the shattering would be “overdetermined,” insofar as the atoms alone are sufficient to bring about this effect.  But we should assume that no such overdetermination exists unless we have special reason to affirm it.  The baseball would be a fifth wheel, an unnecessary part of the causal story.  So we should eliminate it from the story.  Only the atoms are real.

Once again, I certainly don’t agree with Merricks’ eliminativist conclusion.  But the problem has to do with his assumption that the microphysical level is metaphysically privileged (an assumption I criticize in Scholastic Metaphysics).  We need not take issue with Merricks’ rejection of overdetermination.  (Note that the issue of “overdetermination” has nothing to do with causal determinism.  The idea is just that if a cause A suffices all by itself to explain an effect E, the assumption that there was some further cause B involved would make E overdetermined in the sense of having more causes than are necessary to account for it.  Whether the relationship between A and E is one of deterministic causation, specifically, is not at issue.)

Now, consider deism, which in its strongest version holds that God brought the world into existence but need not conserve it in being.  Any view which allows that the world could at least in principle exist apart from God’s continuous conserving action essentially makes of him something like the baseball in Merricks’ metaphysics.  In Merricks’ view, the atoms that make up the purported baseball are really doing all the causal work, and the baseball is a fifth wheel that would needlessly overdetermine the atoms’ effects.  Similarly, if the natural world is, metaphysically, such that it could in principle carry on apart from God’s sustaining causal activity, then God is a fifth wheel.  His sustaining the world in being would be an instance of overdetermination.  Hence, just as the baseball should in Merricks’ view be eliminated from the causal story, so too is God bound to drop out of the causal story given the view that the world might in principle carry on from moment to moment without him.  Just as occasionalism tends toward pantheism, deism tends toward atheism.  If God does everything, then everything is God; if God does nothing, then nothing is God. (Once again, Merricks himself doesn’t address any of these theological issues.  I’m just using his views for purposes of comparison.)

So, the theist is well advised to steer a middle course between occasionalism and deism, and that is of course exactly what concurrentism-- defended by Aquinas and other Scholastics -- aims to do.  According to concurrentism, natural objects have real, built-in causal power, but it cannot be exercised even for an instant unless God “concurs” with such exercise as a cooperating cause.  Some analogies: Given its sharpness, a scalpel has a power to cut that a blunt piece of wood does not; still, unless the surgeon cooperates in its activity by pushing it against the patient’s flesh, it will not in fact cut.  Given its red tint, a piece of glass has a power to cause the wall across from it to appear red; but unless light cooperates by shining through it, the glass will not in fact do so.  Similarly, created or secondary causes cannot exercise their powers unless God as First Cause cooperates.  Because these powers are “built into” natural objects (as the sharpness is built into the scalpel or the tint built into the glass) occasionalism is avoided.  Because the powers cannot operate without divine concurrence, deism is avoided.

Not all models of God’s relationship to the world adequately convey this middle ground concurrentist position.  For example, comparing God’s relationship to the world to the soul’s relationship to the body would have obviously pantheistic (or at least panentheistic) implications.  As I have argued many times, thinking of the world as a kind of machine and God as a machinist is also a very bad model.  Of course, the world is in some ways like a machine.  For example, machines can be very complex, and the world is very complex.  And God is in some ways comparable to a machinist.  For example, machinists are intelligent and God is intelligent.  But that does not suffice to make the machine/machinist analogy a good one, all things considered.  After all, God is also in some ways comparable to a soul, and the world is in some ways comparable to a body.  For example, like a soul, God is spirit rather than matter; like a body, the world is an integrated system.  But the soul/body analogy is still a very bad analogy for the relationship between God and the world (at least from a classical theist point of view), and the machine/machinist analogy is also a very bad one.

As I have argued elsewhere (for example, in my Nova et Vetera article “Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’s Fifth Way”), the machine/machinist analogy has bothoccasionalist and deist implications.  The deist implications are easy to see.  Machines chug along automatically, and can continue to do so even if the machinist dies.  Hence if the world is like a machine, it is not metaphysically necessary that there be a machinist.  Naturally, “design arguments” for the existence of the machinist are at best merely probabilistic inferences.  And naturally, one can, like Laplace, make the case that the machinist hypothesis is unnecessary.  Whether it is or not, though, such a machinist would not be the God of classical theism, since for the classical theist the world could not even in principleexist for an instant apart from God’s conserving activity.

To see the occasionalist implications requires introducing a further concept.  For many Scholastic theorists of causal powers, and for many non-Scholastics too, the notion of a causal power goes hand in hand with the notion of immanent finality.  That is to say, a causal power is inherently “directed toward” some particular outcome or range of outcomes as to a final cause.  To appeal to some of my stock examples, the phosphorus in the head of a match is inherently “directed toward” generating flame and heat, an acorn is inherently “directed toward” becoming an oak, and so on.  If this were not the case, the fact that efficient causes exhibit the regularity they do -- the fact that their effects are typically of a specific sort rather than random -- would not be intelligible.  In short, efficient causality presupposes final causality.   Hence if a material thing had no inherent finality or “directedness” toward an end, it would have no inherent or “built-in” causal power either.  (Once again, see Scholastic Metaphysics, especially pp. 92-105, for the full story.) 

Now the “mechanical world picture” of the early moderns was more than anything else a rejection of Aristotelian immanent or “built-in” finality or teleology.  There is, on this picture, no directedness or finality inherent in the material world.  Any final causality or teleology we might attribute to it is really only in the mind of some observer (whether human or divine), extrinsic to the material world itself.  Unsurprisingly, the early moderns also tended toward what Brian Ellis has called a “passivist” view of nature -- that is to say, a view of natural objects as passive or devoid of any intrinsic causal power.  On this view, natural objects behave in the way they do not because of any intrinsic tendencies but because God has simply stipulated that they will so behave, where his stipulations are enshrined in “laws of nature.”  The view of the world as a kind of artifact -- as, for example, a watch, with God as watchmaker -- is suggested by, and reinforces, this non-teleological and passivist conception of nature.  Just as the time-telling function of a watch is entirely extrinsic to the bits of metal that make up a watch, so too is all teleology or finality entirely extrinsic to the natural order.

This picture of things is implicitly occasionalist.  If the finality or directedness is really all in God and in no sense in the world, then (given the thesis that causal power presupposes immanent finality) causal power is really all in God and in no sense in the world.  And thus the view is also implicitly pantheist.  For if a material thing has no causal power, then (given the variation on Alexander’s Dictum we’ve been considering), it isn’t real.  In short: No immanent finality, no causal powers; no causal powers, no material objects; so, no immanent finality, no material objects.  To abandon an Aristotelian philosophy of nature is thus implicitly to abandon nature.  What we taketo be nature is really just God in action.  (Homework exercise: Relate this absorption of the world into God to the tendency in modern theology to absorb nature into grace.) 

And so, unsurprisingly, while some of the moderns went in a deist or even atheist direction, others went in a radically anti-materialist and even pantheist direction.  Hence the occasionalism and near-pantheism of Malebranche, the outright pantheism of Spinoza, the idealism of Leibniz and Berkeley, and the absolute idealism of post-Kantian philosophy. 

Of course, the machine analogy is often used by people who have no deist, occasionalist, or pantheist intent -- for example, by Paley and other defenders of the “design argument,” and by contemporary “Intelligent Design” theorists.  And the analogy has an obvious popular appeal, since the “God as watchmaker” model is much easier for the man on the street to understand than the Scholastic’s appeal to act and potency, essentially ordered causal series, and so forth.  But metaphysicallythe analogy is superficial.  Indeed, it is a theological mess.  Its implications are not more widely seen because those who make use of it typically do not think them through, being satisfied if the analogy serves the apologetic needs of the moment.  (As I have pointed out many times, it is the metaphysical and theological problems inherent in this analogy, rather than anything to do with evolution per se, that underlie Thomistic misgivings about ID theory.)

To reason from the world to God is to reason from natural substances to their cause.  If the reasoning is to work, one had better have a sound metaphysics of causality and a sound metaphysics of substance.  The machine analogy, and other views which explicitly or implicitly deny inherent causal power to natural substances, reinforce a bad metaphysics of causality and of substance.

Postscript on plastic

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What better way is there to start off the new year than with another blog post about plastic?  You’ll recall that in a post from last year, I raised the question of why old plastic -- unlike old wood, glass, or metal -- seems invariably ugly.  I argued that none of the seemingly obvious answers holds up upon closer inspection.  In particular, I argued that the “artificiality” of plastic is not the reason, both because there are lots of old artificial things we don’t find ugly and because there is a sense in which plastic is not artificial.
 
On that latter point, it was fun recently to read the Bruce Jones and Adolpho Buylla story “Plastic” in Alien Worlds #5 (from which the illustration above is taken).  Set in a war-torn and plastic-filled future, it features a character who complains that the everyday plastic objects that surround them “ain’t even real plastic” but are made from the hides of the alien creatures that are central to the story.  A world with fake plastic.  Wrap your mind around that!

On the question of why old plastic is ugly, a novel possible answer is suggested by a passage in Donald Fagen’s book Eminent Hipsters.  Fagen writes:

A lot of the malls and the condos are much nicer now than when I was a kid in postwar New Jersey, at the beginning of all that.  But, like many of my generation, I’m afraid I’m still severely allergic to all that “plastic,” both the literal and the metaphorical.  In third world countries, lefties associate it with the corporate world and call its agents “the Plastics.”  Norman Mailer went so far (he always went so far) as to believe that the widespread displacement of natural materials by plastic was responsible for the increase in violence in America.  Wood, metal, glass, wool and cotton, he said, have a sensual quality when touched.  Because plastic is so unsatisfying to the senses, people are beginning to go to extremes to feel something, to connect with their bodies.  We are all, Mailer thought, prisoners held in sensual isolation to the point of homicidal madness. (p. 130)

As with pretty much everything Mailer said, the only sane reaction is: “Seriously?”  The idea that plastic has anything to do with an increase in the murder rate is obviously too stupid for words.  However, the suggestion that plastic lacks the sensual appeal that wood, glass, etc. have might seem plausible. 

But it isn’t, really.  Think of small children, who are the most sensation-oriented of human beings and whose taste for plastic is pretty obvious.  Some of my most vivid memories from childhood have to do with the strange appeal certain plastic toys had.  There was, for example, that Fisher Price Milk Bottle set that so many kids in the late 60s and early 70s cut their teeth on.  I’ll be damned if that orange bottle in particular doesn’t still look pretty good.  Even adults chew on plastic all the time -- pen caps, straws, the frames of their glasses, etc.

So, once again it’s Mailer 0, Reality 1.  My own suspicion is that the correct explanation of the ugliness of at least the most extreme cases of ugly old plastic -- such as the detritus that washes up on beaches -- might lie in a consideration raised in another post from last year, on technology.  Recall that from the point of view of Aristotelian metaphysics, the distinction between what is “natural” and what is “artificial” is more perspicuously captured by the distinction between what has a substantial form and what has a merely accidental form.  For some man-made things (e.g. new breeds of dog, plastic) are “natural” in the sense of having a substantial form, even though the usual examples of man-made things (e.g. tables, chairs, machines) have only accidental forms.  And some “natural” things (e.g. a random pile of stones) have merely accidental forms, even though the usual examples of natural objects (e.g. plants, animals, water, gold) have substantial forms.  (Full story, as usual, in Scholastic Metaphysics.) 

Now, things having substantial forms are metaphysically more fundamental, since accidental forms presuppose substantial forms.  But as I noted in the post on technology just linked to, in a high tech society, the metaphysical priority of the “natural” world (in the sense of the world of things having substantial forms or true Aristotelian “natures” or essences) is less manifest, since in everyday life in such a society, we are surrounded by objects whose raw materials are so highly processed that it is their accidental forms rather than the underlying substantial forms that “hit us in the face.”  Furthermore, many of these objects consist of materials -- such as plastic -- which have substantial forms and are thus in an Aristotelian sense “natural,” but nevertheless don’t have the “feel” of being natural in the way wood or stone do, since unlike those substances, they don’t occur “in the wild.”  So, in a high tech society, the forms of things we encounter in everyday life -- the order they exhibit -- can easily seem to be all of the “accidental” kind (in the technical Aristotelian sense), and in particular of the man-made kind.

Now, consider what happens when something having an accidental form but nevertheless made out of manifestly natural (in the sense of substantial-form-having) materials decays -- an old castle or wooden shack, say, or a tank rotting in Truk lagoon.  The accidental forms disappear, but the underlying substantial forms only become more evident.  This may be the reason they don’t seem ugly, and can even seem beautiful.  For as Aquinas says, “beauty properly belongs to the nature of a formal cause.”  As the relatively superficial accidental forms give way, but the very well-known to us and metaphysically deeper substantial forms of things like stone, wood, and metal become more manifest, the objects seem no less beautiful.

Contrast that with objects made out of plastic.  Here the raw materials also have a substantial form, as all raw materials underlying accidental forms do.  However, it is a kind of material -- and thus a kind of substantial form -- which does not occur “in the wild” but takes much human effort to bring into being.  Hence it doesn’t have the feel to us of a natural kind of stuff.  It is also a very protean stuff.  There is no one shape, texture, or color that plastic tends to have.  So, it can seem that the only form -- the only order -- a plastic object has is the kind we have imposed on it for our particular purposes.  When it loses that -- as when a plastic toy becomes seriously damaged or a plastic bottle melted or a plastic plate brittle and missing pieces -- it can intuitively seem like something having no “formal cause” or principle or order at all.  And thus it seems ugly.

If this explanation is right then it would seem to follow that if plastic occurred “in the wild” in the way that stone, metal, and wood do, we might tend to find decaying plastic objects no more ugly than we do decaying wood, metal, or stone objects.  It would be hard to test that implication, since we just know too much about plastic ever to get it to seem like a wild kind of stuff on all fours with rocks, wood, etc.  But maybe Fagen would disagree.  He laments that, unlike people at the time Mailer was commenting, “the Babies seem awfully comfortable with simulation, virtuality, and Plasticulture in general” -- where by “Babies” he means the “TV Babies” born after about 1960, for whom television has been “the principal architect of their souls.”  So, perhaps the Babies, or the babies of the Babies, or maybe the babies of the babies of the Babies, will eventually come to see broken old plastic the way people have always seen old stone and wood.  Maybe yellowing cracked plastic lawn furniture will become a regular sight in high end antique shops, and old broken pocket calculators and telephones will become highly sought-after conversation pieces for the coffee table.

Nah…

Best of 2014

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At Catholic World Report, a panel of contributors lists the best books they read in 2014Scholastic Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction was named by three of them: Mark Brumley, President and CEO of Ignatius Press; Christopher Morrissey, Professor of Philosophy at Redeemer Pacific College (who reviewed the book in CWR not too long ago); and Fr. James V. Schall, SJ, Professor Emeritus at Georgetown University.  Very kind!

2014 is over but scholastic metaphysics is forever and Scholastic Metaphysics is still available.  Some other reactions to the book:

“Wonderful.  [Feser’s] a very clear writer [and the book] tells a compelling story” Stephen Mumford, Professor of Metaphysics in the Department of Philosophy, University of Nottingham

“An excellent overview of scholastic metaphysics in the tradition of Thomas Aquinas… [and] an effective challenge to anyone who would dismiss scholastic metaphysics as irrelevant” William Carroll, Thomas Aquinas Fellow in Theology and Science at Blackfriars Hall, Oxford and member of the Faculty of Theology and Religion of the University of Oxford

“A welcome addition for those interested in bringing the concepts, terminology and presuppositions between scholastic and contemporary analytic philosophers to commensuration” Paul Symington, Associate Professor of Philosophy , Franciscan University of Steubenville, in Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

Post-intentional depression

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A reader asks me to comment on novelist Scott Bakker’s recent Scientia Salon article “Back to Square One: toward a post-intentional future.”  “Intentional” is a reference tointentionality, the philosopher’s technical term for the meaningfulness or “aboutness” of our thoughts -- the way they are “directed toward,” “point to,” or are about something.  A “post-intentional” future is one in which we’ve given up trying to explain intentionality in scientific terms and instead abandon it altogether in favor of radically re-describing human nature exclusively in terms drawn from neuroscience, physics, chemistry, and the like.  In short, it is a future in which we embrace the eliminative materialist position associated with philosophers like Alex Rosenberg and Paul and Patricia Churchland.
 
Bakker acknowledges that since giving up on intentionality entails giving up the mind, indeed the self, the consequences of eliminativism seem dire:

You could say the scientific overthrow of our traditional theoretical understanding of ourselves amounts to a kind of doomsday, the extinction of the humanity we have historically taken ourselves to be.  Billions of “selves,” if not people, would die -- at least for the purposes of theoretical knowledge!

Here, as Bakker notes, he is echoing Jerry Fodor, who in Psychosemantics wrote:

[I]f commonsense intentional psychology really were to collapse, that would be, beyond comparison, the greatest intellectual catastrophe in the history of our species; if we’re that wrong about the mind, then that’s the wrongest we’ve ever been about anything.  The collapse of the supernatural, for example, didn’t compare; theism never came close to being as intimately involved in our thought and our practice -- especially our practice -- as belief/desire explanation is…  We’ll be in deep, deep trouble if we have to give it up.

I’m dubious, in fact, that we can give it up; that our intellects are so constituted that doing without it (I mean really doing without it; not just philosophical loose talk) is a biologically viable option.  But be of good cheer; everything is going to be all right. (p. xii)

Fodor’s certainly correct, both about the consequences of eliminativism, and about everything’s nevertheless being all right.  Or at least, everything’s going to be all right for commonsense intentional psychology; for scientism and materialism, not so much.  For we cannot possibly be wrong about commonsense intentional psychology.  We know that eliminativism must be false.  We needn’t worry about suffering post-intentional depression because there’s no such thing as our ever being post-intentional.  But scientism and materialism really do entail eliminativism or post-intentionalism.  Hence they must be false too. 

This is, of course, ground I’ve covered in great detail in several places.  There is, for example, the very thorough critique I’ve given of Rosenberg’s book The Atheist’s Guide to Reality and some of his other writings in a series of posts.  I there show that none of the arguments for eliminativism is any good, and that eliminativism cannot solve the incoherence problem -- the problem of finding a way to deny the existence of intentionality without implicitly presupposing the existence of intentionality.

Bakker tells us that, though he once found the objections to eliminativism compelling, he now takes the post-intentional “worst case scenario” to be a “live possibility” worthy of exploration.  It seems to me, though, that he doesn’t really say anything new by way of making eliminativism plausible, at least not in the present article.  Here I want to comment on three issues raised in his essay.  The first is the reason he gives for thinking that the incoherence problem facing eliminativism isn’t serious.  The second is the question of why, as Bakker puts it, we are “so convinced that we are the sole exception, the onedomain that can be theoretically cognized absent the prostheses of science.”  The third is the question of why more people haven’t considered “what… a post-intentionalfuture [would] look like,” a fact that “amazes” Bakker.

Still incoherent after all these years

Let’s take these in order.  In footnote 3 of his article, Bakker writes:

Using intentional concepts does not entail commitment to intentionalism, any more than using capital entails a commitment to capitalism.  Tu quoque arguments simply beg the question, assume the truth of the very intentional assumptions under question to argue the incoherence of questioning them.  If you define your explanation into the phenomena we’re attempting to explain, then alternative explanations will appear to beg your explanation to the extent the phenomena play some functional role in the process of explanation more generally.  Despite the obvious circularity of this tactic, it remains the weapon of choice for great number of intentional philosophers.

End quote.  There are a couple of urban legends about the incoherence objection that eliminativists like to peddle, and Bakker essentially repeats them here.  The first urban legend is the claim that to raise the incoherence objection is to accuse the eliminativist of an obvious self-contradiction, like saying “I believe that there are no beliefs.”  The eliminativist then responds that the objection is as puerile as accusing a heliocentrist of self-contradiction when he says “The sun rose today at 6:59 AM.”  Obviously the heliocentrist is just speaking loosely.  He isn’t really saying that the sun moves relative to the earth.  Similarly, when an eliminativist says at lunchtime “I believe I’ll have a ham sandwich,” he isn’t really committing himself to the existence of beliefs or the like. 

But the eliminativist is attacking a straw man.  Proponents of the incoherence objection are well aware that eliminativists can easily avoid saying obviously self-contradictory things like “I believe that there are no beliefs,” and can also go a long way in avoiding certain specific intentional terms like “believe,” “think,” etc.  That is simply not what is at issue.  What is at issue is whether an across-the-boardeliminativism is coherent, whether the eliminativist can in principle avoid all intentional notions.  The proponent of the incoherence objection says that this is not possible, and that analogies with heliocentrism and the like therefore fail.

After all, the heliocentrist can easily state his position without making any explicit or implicit reference to the sun moving relative to the earth.  If he needs to, he can say what he wants to say with sentences like “The sun rose today at 6:59 AM” in a more cumbersome way that makes no reference to the sun rising.  Similarly (and to take Bakker’s own example) an anti-capitalist can easily describe a society in which capital does not exist (e.g. a hunter-gatherer society).  But it is, to say the least, by no means clear how the eliminativist can state his position in a way that does not entail that at least some intentional notions track reality.  For the eliminativist claims that commonsense intentional psychology is falseand illusory; he claims that eliminativism is evidentially supportedby or even entailed by science; he proposes alternative theories and models of human nature; and so forth.  Even if the eliminativist can drop reference to “beliefs” and “thoughts,” he still typically makes use of “truth,” “falsehood,” “theory,” “model,” “implication,” “entailment,” “cognitive,” “assertion,” “evidence,” “observation,” etc.  Every one of these notions is also intentional.  Every one of them therefore has to be abandoned by a consistent eliminativist.  (As Hilary Putnam pointed out decades ago, a consistent eliminativist has to give up “folk logic” as well as “folk psychology.”)

To compare the eliminativist to the heliocentrist who talks about the sunrise or the anti-capitalist who uses capital is, if left at that, mere hand waving.  For whether these analogies are good ones is precisely what is at issue.  If Bakker or any other eliminativist wants to give a serious reply to the incoherence objection, what he needs to do is to put his money where his mouth is and show us exactly how the eliminativist can do what the heliocentist or anti-capitalist can do.  He needs to show us exactly how the eliminativist position can be stated in a way that makes no appeal to “truth,” “falsehood,” “theory,” “entailment,” “observation,” or anyother intentional notion.  The trouble is that no eliminativist has ever done so.  Even eliminativists usually don’t claim that anyone has done it.  They just issue promissory notes to the effect that someday it will be done.  But since whether it can be done is precisely what is at issue, this response just begs the question.  (Readers who haven’t yet done so are encouraged to read Rosenberg’s paper “Eliminativism without Tears”and my three-part reply to it, here, here, and here.  Rosenberg’s essay is the most serious and thorough attempt I know of to grapple with the incoherence problem.  As I show, it fails dismally.)

The second urban legend Bakker perpetuates is the claim that the incoherence objection itself somehow begs the question.  The way the Churchlands illustrate this purported foible of the incoherence objection is to compare the objector to someone who claims that modern biologists contradict themselves by denying the existence of élan vital.  The Churchlands imagine such a person saying something like: “If élan vital didn’t exist, you wouldn’t be alive and thus wouldn’t be around to deny its existence!  So you cannot coherently deny it.”  As the Churchlands rightly note, this objection begs the question, since whether élan vital is required for life is precisely what is at issue.  And the incoherence objection raised against the eliminativist is, the Churchlands claim, similarly question-begging.

But the parallel is completely bogus.  The reason the imagined élan vitalobjection fails is that the concept of being alive and the concept of élan vital are logically independent.  We can coherently describe something being alive without bringing élan vital into our description.  Hence it would require argumentation to show that élan vital is necessary for life; this cannot simply be assumed.  Things are very different in the case of the dispute about eliminativism.  Here, what is at issue is precisely whether the relevant concepts are logically independent.  In particular, what is at issue is whether the eliminativist can coherently speak of “truth,” “falsehood,” “evidence,” “observation,” “entailment,” etc. while at the same time denying that there is such a thing as intentionality.  If he can give us a way of doing so, then he will have shown that the analogy with the élan vital example is a good one.  But if the eliminativist does not do so, then he is the one begging the question.  But, as I have just noted, eliminativists in fact have not done so.  So, once again it is really the eliminativist, and not his critic, who is engaged in circular reasoning. 

Another way to see how hollow Bakker’s charge of circular reasoning is is to consider some parallel cases.  Take the verificationist claim that a statement is meaningful only if it is verifiable.  Notoriously, this principle seems to undermine itself, since no one has been able to explain how it can be verified.  Suppose a verificationist accused his critics of begging the question in raising this objection.  What could possibly be the basis for such an accusation?  If the verificationist had given us some account of how his own principle could be verified, and the critic simply ignored this account but still accused the principle of verifiability of being self-undermining, thenthe verificationist would have a basis for claiming that the objection begs the question.  But since the verificationist has not given us such an account, any claim that his critics beg the question against him would be groundless, and their objection stands.

Similarly, if eliminativists had given us some account of how they can coherently state their position without making use of any intentional notions whatsoever, and if their critics had nevertheless simply ignored this account and raised the incoherence objection anyway, thenthe charge that the critics beg the question would have some foundation.  But this is not in fact what has happened.  Eliminativists have not given an account of how they can state their position without using any intentional notions at all; typically they just wave away the problem by saying that it will be solved when neuroscience has made further advances.  But in the absence of such an account, the charge that those who raise the incoherence objection beg the question is groundless. (Again, Rosenberg has come closest to trying to answer the objection head on.  I have not ignored this attempt but rather answered it in detail, as the posts linked to above show.) 

Another parallel: “Analytical” or “logical” behaviorism holds that talk about mental states can be translated into talk about behavior or dispositions to behavior.  To say that “Bob believes that it is raining” is shorthand for saying something like “Bob will say that it is raining if he is asked, is disposed to go to the closet and grab an umbrella before leaving the house, etc.”  One well-known problem with this view is that no one has been able to show how talk about mental states can be entirely replaced by talk about behavior and dispositions to behavior.  In the example just given, it will be true that “Bob will say that it is raining if he is asked, is disposed to go to the closet and grab an umbrella before leaving the house, etc.” only if it is also true that Bob intends to tell us what he really thinks, desires to stay dry, etc.  That is to say, if we analyze the one mental state (the belief that it is raining) in terms of behavior, the behavior itself has to be analyzed in terms of further mental states (such as the intention to say what one is really thinking and the desire to stay dry), and thus the problem is only pushed back a stage.  And as it turns out, if we give a behavioral analysis of the intention and desire in question, the problem just recurs again.  So it looks like no successful thoroughgoing behaviorist analysis can be carried out.

Now suppose the analytical behaviorist responds: “But this objection just begs the question, since we analytical behaviorists say that such an analysis can be given!”  Obviously this would be a silly objection.  The critic of analytical behaviorism has given a reason to think the analysis cannot be carried out, while the analytical behaviorist has failed to show that it can be carried out.  So, until the analytical behaviorist succeeds in carrying out such an analysis, his charge that his critic begs the question will be groundless.

Similarly, critics of eliminativism have given reasons for concluding that the eliminativist needs to make use of notions which presuppose intentionality, so that no coherent statement of the eliminativist position can be carried out.  To rebut this charge, it will not do for the eliminativist merely to accuse his critic of begging the question.  The eliminativist has to provide the analysis his critic claims cannot be provided.  Merely insisting, dogmatically, that it can be provided and someday will be provided is not good enough to rebut the incoherence charge.  The eliminativist has actually to show us how to do it.  Until he does, he is in the same boat as the verificationist and the analytical behaviorist.  (Not a good boat to be in, since verificationism and analytical behaviorism are about as dead as philosophical theories get.)

The “lump under the rug” fallacy

Bakker wonders why we are “so convinced that we are the sole exception, the onedomain that can be theoretically cognized absent the prostheses of science.”  After all, other aspects of the natural world have been radically re-conceived by science.  So why do we tend to suppose that human nature is notsubject to such radical re-conception -- for instance, to the kind of re-conception proposed by eliminativism?  Bakker’s answer is that we take ourselves to have a privileged epistemic access to ourselves that we don’t have to the rest of the world.  He then suggests that we should not regard this epistemic access as privileged, but merely different. 

Now, elsewhere I have noted the fallaciousness of arguments to the effect that neuroscience has shown that our self-conception is radically mistaken.  For instance, in one of the posts on Rosenberg alluded to above, I respond to claims to the effect that “blindsight” phenomena and Libet’s free will experiments cast doubt on the reliability of introspection.  Here I want to focus on the presuppositionof Bakker’s question, and on another kind of fallacious reasoning I’ve called attention to many times over the years.  The presupposition is that science really has falsified our commonsense understanding of the rest of the world, and the fallacy behind this presupposition is what I call the “lump under the rug” fallacy.

Suppose the wood floors of your house are filthy and that the dirt is pretty evenly spread throughout the house.  Suppose also that there is a rug in one of the hallways.  You thoroughly sweep out one of the bedrooms and form a nice little pile of dirt at the doorway.  It occurs to you that you could effectively “get rid” of this pile by sweeping it under the nearby rug in the hallway, so you do so.  The lump under the rug thereby formed is barely noticeable, so you are pleased.  You proceed to sweep the rest of the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, etc., and in each case you sweep the resulting piles under the same rug.  When you’re done, however, the lump under the rug has become quite large and something of an eyesore.  Someone asks you how you are going to get rid of it.  “Easy!” you answer.  “The same way I got rid of the dirt everywhere else!  After all, the ‘sweep it under the rug’ method has worked everywhere else in the house.  How could this little rug in the hallway be the one place where it wouldn’t work?  What are the odds of that?”

This answer, of course, is completely absurd.  Naturally, the same method will not work in this case, and it is precisely because it worked everywhere else that it cannot work in this case.  You can get rid of dirt outside the rug by sweeping it under the rug.  You cannot get of the dirt under the rug by sweeping it under the rug.  You will only make a fool of yourself if you try, especially if you confidently insist that the method must work here because it has worked so well elsewhere.

Now, the “Science has explained everything else, so how could the human mind be the one exception?” move is, of course, standard scientistic and materialist shtick.  But it is no less fallacious than our imagined “lump under the rug” argument. 

Here’s why.  Keep in mind that Descartes, Newton, and the other founders of modern science essentially stipulated that nothing that would not fit their exclusively quantitative or “mathematicized” conception of matter would be allowed to count as part of a “scientific” explanation.  Now to common sense, the world is filled with irreducibly qualitativefeatures -- colors, sounds, odors, tastes, heat and cold -- and with purposes and meanings.  None of this can be analyzed in quantitative terms.  To be sure, you can re-define color in terms of a surface’s reflection of light of certain wavelengths, sound in terms of compression waves, heat and cold in terms of molecular motion, etc.  But that doesn’t capture what common sense means by color, sound, heat, cold, etc. -- the way red looks, the way an explosion sounds, the way heat feels, etc.  So, Descartes and Co. decided to treat these irreducibly qualitative features as projections of the mind.  The redness we see in a “Stop” sign, as common sense understands redness, does not actually exist in the sign itself but only as the quale of our conscious visual experience of the sign; the heat we attribute to the bathwater, as common sense understands heat, does not exist in the water itself but only in the “raw feel” that the high mean molecular kinetic energy of the water causes us to experience; meanings and purposes do not exist in external material objects but only in our minds, and we project these onto the world; and so forth.  Objectively there are only colorless, odorless, soundless, tasteless, meaningless particles in fields of force.

In short, the scientific method “explains everything else” in the world in something like the way the “sweep it under the rug” method gets rid of dirt -- by taking the irreducibly qualitative and teleological features of the world, which don’t fit the quantitative methods of science, and sweeping them under the rug of the mind.  And just as the literal “sweep it under the rug” method generates under the rug a bigger and bigger pile of dirt which cannot in principle be gotten rid of using the “sweep it under the rug” method, so too does modern science’s method of treating irreducibly qualitative, semantic, and teleological features as mere projections of the mind generate in the mind a bigger and bigger “pile” of features which cannot be explained using the same method.

This is the reason the qualia problem, the problem of intentionality, and other philosophical problems touching on human nature are so intractable.  Indeed, it is one reason many post-Cartesian philosophers have thought dualism unavoidable.  If you define“material” in such a way that irreducibly qualitative, semantic, and teleological features are excluded from matter, but also say that these features exist in the mind, then you have thereby made of the mind something immaterial.  Thus, Cartesian dualism was not some desperate rearguard action against the advance of modern science; on the contrary, it was the inevitable consequence of modern science (or, more precisely, the inevitable consequence of regarding modern science as giving us an exhaustive account of matter). 

So, like the floor sweeper who is stuck with a “dualism” of dirt-free floors and a lump of dirt under the rug, those who suppose that the scientific picture of matter is an exhaustive picture are stuck with a dualism of, on the one hand, a material world entirely free of irreducibly qualitative, semantic, or teleological features, and on the other hand a mental realm defined by its possession of irreducibly qualitative, semantic, and teleological features.  The only way to avoid this dualism would be to deny that the latter realm is real -- that is to say, to take an eliminativist position.  But as I have said, there is no coherent way to take such a position.  The eliminativist who insists that intentionality is an illusion -- where illusionis, of course, an intentional notion (and where no eliminativist has been able to come up with a non-intentional substitute for it) -- is like the yutz sweeping the dirt that is under the rug backunder the rug while insisting that he is thereby getting rid of the dirt under the rug.

That the modern understanding of what a scientific explanation consists in itself generates the mind-body problem and thus can hardly solve the mind-body problem has been a theme of Thomas Nagel’s work from at least the time his famous article “What is it like to be a bat?” was first published to his recent book Mind and Cosmos.  As we saw in my series of posts responding to the critics of Nagel’s book, those critics mostly completely missed this fundamental point, cluelessly obsessing instead over merely secondary issues about evolution.

Like Nagel, I reject Cartesianism, and like Nagel, I think a reconsideration of Aristotelianism is the right approach to the metaphysical problems raised by modern science -- though where Nagel merely flirts with Aristotelianism, I would go the whole hog.  I would say that although science gives us a correctdescription of reality, it gives us nothing close to a complete description of reality, not even of material reality.  It merely abstracts those features of concrete material reality that are susceptible of investigation via its methods, especially those features susceptible of quantitative analysis.  Those features of reality that are not susceptible of such investigation are going to be known by us, if at all, only via metaphysical investigation -- specifically, I would argue, via Aristotelian-Thomistic metaphysics.

Be all that as it may, in the present context it cuts absolutely no ice merely to appeal to “what science has shown” about the other, non-human aspects of reality, as a way of trying to establish the plausibility of a radically eliminativist re-conception of human nature.  For the issues are metaphysical, and science only ever “shows” anything of a metaphysical nature when it has already been embedded in a larger metaphysical framework -- in the case of eliminativism, in a naturalistic metaphysical framework.  But to appeal to such a framework is, from the point of view of Aristotelians and other non-naturalists, merely to beg the question.

Hands-free onanism

Bakker asks: “What would a post-intentional future look like?  What could it look like?,” and he says that it “regularly amazes” him that this question hasn’t been explored in greater depth.  But it really should not amaze him.  After all, nobody bothers exploring in depth what a world in which round squares existed would be like.  One reason for this is that there could, even in principle, be no such thing as a world where round squares existed, since the very notion is incoherent.  We can’t explore the idea in depth because we can’t explore it at all

Of course, nobody takes the idea of a round square seriously, whereas some people take eliminativism seriously.  But the problem is similar.  You can’t explore the idea of a post-intentional world in depth until you’ve first shown that the idea even makes sense at all.  That is to say, you first have to solve the incoherence problem.  And as I’ve said, nobody has done that.  Of course, we can write stories in which people say things like “There is no such thing as intentionality” and in which people treat each other as if they didn’t possess mental states.  But that is no more impressive than the fact that we can write stories in which people say things like “Round squares exist” and in which they attribute both straight and curved lines to the same geometrical figures.  The former no more involves imagining a “post-intentional future” than the latter involves imagining a world with round squares.  In both cases, all we’re really imagining is a world where people say odd things.  But that’s no different, really, from the actualworld, where all sorts of people say odd things (insane people, members of strange religious sects, eliminativists, etc.).

So, though its critics might be tempted to write off the project of imagining a post-intentional future as just so much “mental masturbation,”it really doesn’t even rise to that level.  After all, there’s no such thing as paralytic onanism -- onanism of the literal sort, that is -- since paralysis rules out the anatomical preconditions of onanism.  Similarly, onanism of the mental sort would require, as a precondition, the mental -- exactly what the eliminativist rules out.  The closest he’ll ever get to imagining a post-intentional future is not through active fantasy, but rather a dreamless sleep.

2015 Aquinas Workshop

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Mount Saint Mary College in Newburgh, NY will be hosting the Fifth Annual Philosophy Workshop on the theme “Aquinas and the Philosophy of Nature” from June 4-7.  The speakers will be William Carroll, Fr. James Brent, Alfred Freddoso, Michael Gorman, Jennifer Frey, Edward Feser, Candace Vogler, John O’Callaghan, and Fr. Michael Dodds.  More information here

Feynman’s painter and eliminative materialism

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In case you haven’t been following it, my recent critique of novelist Scott Bakker’s Scientia Salon essay on eliminative materialismhas generated quite a lot of discussion, including a series of vigorous and good-natured responses from Bakker himself both in my combox and at his own blog.  Despite the points made in my previous post, Bakker still maintains -- utterly implausibly, in my view -- that the incoherence objection begs the question against the eliminativist.  To see the problem with this response, consider a further analogy.

In Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!, physicist Richard Feynman tells the story of a painter he met who confidently insisted that he could get yellow paint by mixing together nothing but red paint and white paint.  Feynman naturally found this claim highly dubious.  As an expert in the physics of light, he knew this should not be possible.  Still, he was open to hearing the guy out and being proved wrong.  So he went and got some red paint and white paint and watched the painter mix them.  Yet just as Feynman expected, all that came out was pink.  Then the painter said that all he needed now was a little yellow paint to “sharpen it up a bit” and then it would be yellow!

Needless to say, the painter’s procedure was completely farcical.  Obviously, he had done absolutely nothing to show that yellow paint really could be derived from red paint and white paint alone.  It would be ridiculous for someone to say: “Well, I don’t know.  After all, he did get pretty far along the way with just red and white paint.  He only needed to add some yellow at the very end.  So that’s at least good reason to think that someday we might be able to get all the way to yellow paint with just red paint and white paint alone.  We need to just keep mixing red and white in different ways for a few more years and see what happens.” 

It would also obviously be ridiculous for someone to accuse Feynman of begging the question or of simply dogmatically asserting that red and white paint could never yield yellow paint.  For one thing, he had independent reason to think the painter was not going to succeed.  For another, he nevertheless was open to the possibility of being proved wrong and he even asked to see the evidence that he was wrong.  The painter simply failed to provide it.  If the painter persisted in insisting that yellow paint could be derived from red and white paint alone, the lapse in rationality would be his, not Feynman’s.  For the burden of proof was not on Feynman but on the painter, and he had failed to meet it.

I submit that the eliminative materialist who accuses the incoherence objection of dogmatically begging the question is committing exactly the same fallacy as the painter’s would-be defender.  In stating his position, the eliminativist makes use of notions like “truth,” “falsehood,” “illusion,” “theory,” “evidence,” “observation,” “entailment,” etc.  Everyone, including the eliminativist, agrees that at least as usually understood, these terms entail the existence of intentionality.  But of course, the eliminativist denies the existence of intentionality.  He claims that in using notions like the ones referred to, he is just speaking loosely and could say what he wants to say in a different, non-intentional way if he needs to.   So, he owes us an account of exactly how he can do this -- how he can provide an alternative way of describing his position without saying anything that entails the existence of intentionality. 

In particular, he needs to find some way of conveying the notions of truth and falsity without implicitly committing himself to the existence of intentionality.  For at the core of eliminativism are the claims that what Wilfrid Sellars called the “scientific image” of human nature is true, correct, accurate, etc. and that the commonsense or “manifest image” of human nature is false, incorrect, illusory, etc.  So, the eliminativist needs to find some way of reconstructing these claims without implicitly presupposing intentionality.  He needs to say what he wants to say using entirely non-intentional notions, otherwise he’ll be like Feynman’s painter, who ends up smuggling in yellow paint even though he had insisted that he needed to use only red and white paint.

Now, just as Feynman regarded the painter’s task of getting yellow paint from red and white paint alone as a hopeless one, the critic of eliminative materialism regards the task of formulating eliminativism without making use of intentional notions as a hopeless one.  Just as Feynman had independent reason to think it hopeless (i.e. what he knew about the physics of light) so too does the critic have independent reason to think the eliminativist’s task is hopeless (i.e. the intentional nature of crucial notions like “truth,” “falsehood,” “illusion,” “theory,” “evidence,” “observation,” “entailment,” etc. as usually understood).  Just as Feynman was nevertheless open to be proven wrong (since he asked the painter to show him how he got yellow paint from red and white paint alone), so too is the critic of eliminative materialism open to be proven wrong (since the critic asks the eliminativist to show how his position can be re-stated in entirely non-intentional terms).  And just as Feynman’s painter failed to show that he really could get yellow paint from red and white paint alone, so too has every eliminativist attempt to reconstruct eliminativism in entirely non-intentional terms proved a failure. 

So, just as Feynman was guilty neither of dogmatism nor of begging the question, neither is the critic of eliminative materialism guilty of these things.  Nor is it a serious response to suggest that the eliminative materialist is at least able to get rid of many, even if not all, intentional notions -- any more than it would be a serious response to Feynman to say that the painter was able to make at least much of his paint out of non-yellow paint.

So, if you persist in thinking eliminative materialism has a leg to stand on, then you should think that Feynman’s painter does too.  Perhaps we’ll see science fiction novels devoted to exploring in detail “what it might look like” for there to be a world in which we could get yellow paint from red and white paint!

Schall on Scholastic Metaphysics

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At Crisis magazine, Fr. James V. Schall very kindly reviews my book Scholastic Metaphysics: A Contemporary Introduction.  From the review:

Feser has done his homework. He is quite familiar with modern analytic philosophy along with other modern systems.  He came to Aristotle and Aquinas, whom he knows well, from his realization of problems in the modern systems.  Likewise, Feser is acquainted more than most with the various texts that were once profitably used in Catholic university and seminary philosophy departments but later abandoned during the last half century.  Feser recognizes that these writers, who were perhaps not perfect, were often very good thinkers in their own right as well as familiar with the intellectual tradition of the West…

One of the pleasures of this book is that Feser is locked in argument with those who seek to explain reality but whose examination of it often leaves out something important.  He is not afraid to say that an argument is “bogus” or “absurd” or “incoherent,” nor is he afraid to explain why.  Feser says these things only after he shows the point that grounds his judgment…

In this sense, Feser’s book is quite the opposite of the “fuzziness” of the modern mind that claims that nothing is true or that all is relative…

[I]t is one of the most refreshing books I have come across in years.  Who else is willing to make a case, to articulate in the name of scholasticism, a cohesive case, for teleology, analogy, prime matter, causality, substance, common sense, esse et essetia, and the validity of the mind’s knowing powers?

Feser is aware of many good philosophers who, like himself, are working their way through the modern mind.  They discover, often surprising themselves, that their pursuit leads them to Aristotle, Aquinas, and the scholastic tradition.  This tradition, newly reflected on, turns out, after having been downgraded by Catholic educators for decades, to be the newest thing on the block…

[Feser’s work] is a prime example of a quiet revolution that is taking place whereby the basics of the scholastic tradition are recovered and developed.  Such scholars as Feser see that more needs to be said than modern thought or most Catholic thought has been willing to acknowledge…

In Feser’s little “manual,” we have the seeds of something great, the realization that, on philosophical grounds themselves, the scholastic tradition in the heritage of Aristotle and Aquinas is in fact the newest thing in academia.

Links of interest

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Has mathematics misled modern science?  Bryan Appleyard, channeling physicist Lee Smolin and philosopher Roberto Mangabeira Unger, makes the case.

But maybe mathematical elegance should trump empirical evidence?  Some physicists seem to think so.  In Nature, physicists George Ellis and Joe Silk will have none of it.  Further commentary, and a roundup of other responses, from physicist Peter Woit

At the OUP Blog, John Searle on the intentionality of perceptual experience.  At the same blog: Federica Russo and Phyllis Illari on causation in science and Tad Schmaltz on causation in Aristotle and Hume.

Philosopher John Lamont on Thomism, “manualism,” and the nouvelle théologie, at Rorate Caeli

At The Catholic Thing: Frank Beckwith on misguided arguments for God’s existence; Fr. James Schall on natural resources; and Gerald Russello on the debate over Catholic social teaching.

What should we think about the recent terrorist attacks in France?  At Mercantornet, Fr. Schall draws some lessons from Paris.


Books about Leo Strauss just keep appearing. Robert Howse’s new one is reviewed at The National Interest, Michael and Catherine Zuckert’s at Public Discourse, and Arthur Melzer’s at The Week.


“Like rabbits”?  Commentary from Matthew Schmitz and Joseph Shaw.

Terence Parsons’ new book Articulating Medieval Logicis reviewedat Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews; Anna Marmodoro’s Aristotle on Perceiving Objectsis also reviewed.

Want a 24 volume Neo-Scholastic theology and philosophy collection?  Bid now.

What’s the deal with sex? Part I

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In the second edition of his book Practical Ethics, Peter Singer writes:

[T]he first thing to say about ethics is that it is not a set of prohibitions particularly concerned with sex.  Even in the era of AIDS, sex raises no unique moral issues at all.  Decisions about sex may involve considerations of honesty, concern for others, prudence, and so on, but there is nothing special about sex in this respect, for the same could be said of decisions about driving a car. (p. 2, emphasis added)

I have long regarded this as one of the most imbecilic things any philosopher has ever said.  That sex has special moral significance, indeed tremendous moral significance, is blindingly obvious.  That is why all of the world religions, and major thinkers from Plato to Augustine to Aquinas to Kant to Freud, have regarded sex as having tremendous moral significance.  Nor do you have to agree with the specific teachings of any of these religions or thinkers to see that it has tremendous moral significance.  Indeed, you don’t necessarily have to take any particular stand on any of the usual “hot button” issues -- abortion, extramarital sex, homosexuality, contraception, etc. -- to see that it has special significance.  What takes real effort is getting yourself not to see the unique significance of sex.  That takes ideological thinking, intellectual dishonesty and slovenliness, or just plain moral obtuseness -- or all of the above, as in the case of “ethicists” like Singer.

There are at least three respects in which sex has special moral significance, and manifestly so:

1. Sex is the means by which new people are made.  Now, how we treat people, especially in matters of life and death, obviously has moral significance.  Indeed, ethics is largely (even if not entirely) concerned with how we treat other people.  So, since sex is the way new people come into being in the first place, it obviously has special moral significance.  Moreover, no one denies that we have special moral responsibilities toward our immediate family members, and especially children.  But the new people who we bring about through sex are, of course, precisely our children.  Hence sex is very morally significant indeed.

Of course, some people deny that new people are directlybrought into being by sex.  For example, defenders of abortion often claim that embryos and even fetuses are not really persons but only “potential persons.”  Naturally, I disagree with this.  Embryos and fetuses are not “potential persons”; rather they are persons, but persons who have not yet realized certain of their key potentials.  But for present purposes this is not a debate that needs to be resolved.  Even people who make claims of the sort in question admit that abortion raises serious moral issues that the defender of abortion has to deal with.  For even they would at least allow that embryos and fetuses are “potential persons” in a way that other things are not “potential persons,” insofar as they have a natural tendency to become persons that other things (an unfertilized ovum, a dog, etc.) do not have.  But the way these “potential persons” typically come into being is, of course, through sex.  Hence sex has at the very least a unique indirect connection to the generation of new persons.  Thus if aborting so-called “potential persons” raises serious moral questions, it follows that sex raises serious moral questions. 

To be sure, defenders of abortion take different views about how serious the moral questions raised by abortion are.  Some admit that abortion is at least regrettable and better avoided all things being equal, even if they think it ought to be permitted.  They maintain that abortion should be “safe, legal, and rare.”  Others don’t particularly care whether it’s rare.  But even they typically admit that it takes a fair amount of argumentationto show that this attitude is morally legitimate.  Hence even Singer -- who explains that his book “contains no discussion of sexual morality” because he thinks sex lacks any special moral significance -- devotes an entire chapter to the subject of abortion.  Now if it weren’t for sex, there would of course be no abortion issue in the first place.  Hence if even Singer admits that abortion raises morally significant questions, he should also admit that sex has special moral significance.  After all, the reason for most abortions is precisely to avoid having to take the special moral responsibility for a new human being that letting the child be born would entail.  Even the abortion defender should admit that any behavior that puts you in the situation of having either to get an abortion or take special moral responsibility for some new human being is itself a pretty morally significant kind of behavior.

Note that it is not a good objection to point out that much sexual behavior does not actually result in new people, and that new people might come about in other ways (artificial insemination and cloning).  Obviously, sex and the production of new people are nevertheless connected in a special way.  For one thing, the biological function of sex is to make new people, even if it doesn’t always in fact result in new people.  Sex only exists in the first place because it has this reproductive function.  (This is so even given a reductionist naturalistic analysis of biological function rather than a non-reductionist Aristotelian analysis; and it is so whether or not one thinks biological function has all the specific moral implications we traditional natural law theorists claim it does.)  For another thing, the other ways in which new people might come about are either relatively rare (only a small percentage of pregnancies are the result of artificial insemination) or still theoretical (cloning), and they are in any event parasitic on the usual way new people come into being, viz. sexual intercourse.  It is only because people already generally reproduce by means of sex that there are natural processes which we might interfere with and thereby cause people to come into being in these other, idiosyncratic ways. 

Consider the following analogy.  I think it’s safe to suppose that most people who would take Singer’s attitude toward sex would also say that guns raise special moral questions that other human artifacts do not, because of the special dangers they pose to human life.  And they would say this despite the fact that most gun use does not result in death, and most deaths do not result from the use of guns.  For guns nevertheless have a propensity for causing death that entails that we ought to be very cautious in using them, and that raises special moral and legal questions.  (Note that it raises these questions however we end up answeringthem.  The point does not depend on whether one takes a liberal or a conservative view on questions about gun control.)  By the same token, sex obviously has a propensity for causing new people to exist that suffices to give it special moral significance, even if not all sexual intercourse results in new people and even if not all new people result from sexual intercourse. 

2. Sex is the means by which we are completed qua men and women.  Needless to say, a person’s sexual organs require those of another human being of the opposite sex if they are to fulfill their biological function.  In that sense we are incomplete without sex.  But it’s more than just plumbing or physiology.  Most people, for at least a significant portion of their lives, will feel frustrated and unfulfilled if they are unable to have the sort of romantic relationship with another person which has sex as its natural concomitant.  As I argued on natural law grounds in an earlier post, our psychology, no less than our physiology, is naturally “directed toward” another human being as the end required for its completion.  As I also there argued, this sexual psychology forms a continuum, from (to borrow some terminology from C. S. Lewis) mere Venus or basic sexual desire at one end to Eros or full-on romantic longing at the other. 

Of course, there are exceptions.  There are people who forsake such relationships because they are called to a higher state of the sort represented by the priesthood or religious life.  Precisely because the good is a higher good, the person so called is able to overcome the frustration that might otherwise attend such forsaking.  There are also some people who simply lack any significant sexual or romantic desires in the first place.  But in the typical case, human beings will be frustrated by the lack of a sexual relationship with another human being.

Now of course, we traditional natural law types maintain that such a relationship ought to exist only in the context of marriage, and also (as discussed in another earlier post) that the natural end toward which human sexual psychology is directed is a human being of the opposite sex, rather than merely “a person” in the abstract.  But once again, for present purposes, you needn’t agree with all that.  The book of Genesis characterizes our sexual incompleteness in decidedly heterosexual terms.  The myth of Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium famously portrays it in a much more freewheeling way.  But both testify to the antiquity of the idea that a human being needs another human being sexually for his or her completion.  Advocates of “same-sex marriage” testify to this need as well to the extent that they defend “same-sex marriage” in the name of romantic love and personal fulfillment. 

Failure to succeed in romantic relationships can be not only frustrating in itself, but can affect a person’s sense of self-worth, as can any indication that one simply lacks the capacity to attract or satisfy a lover.  Thus, to belittle a person’s romantic feelings or sexual advances, or to disparage his or her sexual performance or attractiveness to the opposite sex, are all actions considered especially cruel and humiliating.  The presence of a sexual aspect to other harms and misfortunes also makes them much harder to bear.  Adultery is considered a far deeper betrayal than any mere breach of contract.  Rape and child molestation are far more cruel and psychologically scarring than a non-sexual assault.  Exposure of one’s private sexual foibles is regarded as far more humiliating than the disclosure of financial improprieties or other crimes. 

Now, that people take there to be a great deal at stake where sex is concerned -- that they regard success in sexual matters as so important to their happiness, and misfortune in sexual matters as a source of such misery -- makes it simply ludicrous to suggest, as Singer does, that “sex raises no unique moral issues at all” or that “there is nothing special about sex” vis-à-vis the moral considerations relevant to it.  Given the importance people naturally attach to it, they can obviously do serious harm to themselves or to others depending on how they behave sexually.  You might as well say that there is nothing especially morally significant about being a parent, or about being extremely rich, or about being a policeman or a public official. 

It is fatuous to pretend that the moral considerations are entirely extrinsic to sex -- mere “considerations of honesty, concern for others, prudence, and so on… [which apply also to] decisions about driving a car,” as Singer claims.  You could equally well say this of matters Singer thinks do have special moral significance.  For example, you could with no less plausibility say about the distribution of wealth or the state of the environment that they “raise no unique moral issues at all” and that “there is nothing special about” them, but that they merely involve attention to “considerations of honesty, concern for others, prudence, and so on… [which apply also to] decisions about driving a car.”  Yet Singer devotes to each of these topics a chapter in Practical Ethics, and has devoted much attention to them elsewhere as well. 

3. Sex is that area of human life in which the animal side of our nature most relentlessly fights against the rational side of our nature.  Sexual pleasure is the most intense of pleasures.  The reasons for this have to do with the considerations raised in the first two points.  Sex is necessary for the generation of new human beings, but generating new human beings imposes on us enormous costs and responsibilities which we are very reluctant to take on.  Nature has thus made sex so extremely pleasurable that people will engage in it anyway, despite its propensity to generate new people for whom they will have to take responsibility.  Sex is also that act which consummates, in the most physically and emotionally intimate or unifying way possible, those romantic relationships in which we seek to remedy our sense of incompleteness.  This adds a further, psychologically rich layer of pleasure to the act, which greatly enhances what is already intensely pleasurable just at a raw animal level.

It is not surprising, therefore, that the satisfaction this kind of pleasure promises us can lead us to do all sorts of deeply irrational things.  For just a few moments of sexual pleasure, many people will risk damage to their reputations and the breaking up of marriages and families, both their own and those of others.  Sexual or romantic passion can prevent people from seeing that a certain person is simply not a suitable marriage partner or someone with whom to have children.  Romantic and sexual jealousy can tempt people to spy on and stalk the object of their affections, or even to commit murder.  The quest for romantic and sexual pleasure can take on a compulsive character.  Hence people become promiscuous, or addicted to pornography, or prone to excessive romantic fantasizing, constantly falling in and out of love.  And of course there are various less serious ways in which romantic love or the desire for sex can lead us to act in ways we would otherwise regard as obviously foolish (ill-considered attempts to impress someone to whom one is attracted, crude sexual advances, etc.).

There is another way in which sex can lead us to act irrationally.  We can be so troubled by its tendency to make us act irrationally that we overreact to its potential dangers.  Horrified by the extremes to which some people go in the pursuit of sexual pleasure, other people sometimes tend toward the opposite extreme.  They might prudishly judge that all sexual pleasure is of its nature suspect and better avoided entirely, or at least as far as possible, even in marriage.  Even when married, they might scrupulously fret and worry over the minute details of every sexual desire or every aspect of their lovemaking, constantly in a panic over whether they have fallen into sin.  (This is, of course, much less rare a tendency these days than the opposite extreme is.  But judging from some of the oddballs you’ll find pontificating here and there on the internet, and some of the email that shows up occasionally in my combox, it does exist.  Certainly it has existed in a great many people historically.)

Everyone knows all this; once again, you don’t need to agree with traditional natural law theory to see the point.  But it is obvious that this tendency of sex to cloud our reason is of special moral significance.  What it tempts us toward is a kind of vice; naturally, then, there must also be such a thing as virtue where sex is concerned, a sober middle ground that avoids irrational extremes.  Those who reject traditional natural law theory will of course disagree with it about the specific content of virtue where matters of sex are concerned, but it simply defies reason to pretend, as Singer does, that “sex raises no unique moral issues at all.”

Indeed, people who say, in the face of all the obvious evidence, that sex is “no big deal,” thereby merely provide yet a further example of the irrationality to which we are prone in matters of sex.  For this sort of remark is, of course, typically an attempt to rationalize or excuse sexual behavior widely thought to be morally questionable but which the speaker would like to engage in anyway. 

So far I have been appealing to considerations which, as I have said, any reasonable person should agree with, whether or not he accepts everything a natural law theorist or a Catholic moral theologian would maintain vis-à-vis sexual morality.  The point is to show that one needn’t be committed wholesale to traditional sexual morality to see that sex clearly has the kind of moral significance Singer denies it does. 

But even what has been said so far goes a long way toward showing how reasonable traditional sexual morality is.  Catholic moral theology distinguishes three ends or purposes of marriage: the procreation and education of children, the mutual aid of the spouses, and the remedying of concupiscence.  It should be evident that these purposes are aimed precisely at dealing with the three respects in which sex raises special moral problems.  Sex has a propensity to result in the generation of new human beings; marriage functions to secure for these new human beings a stable environment in which their material and spiritual needs can be met.  Our desire for sexual and romantic relationships reflects our sense of being in some deep way incomplete; the institution of marriage, by which we commit ourselves to another person through thick and thin, functions to ensure that we find completion that is stable and substantive rather than ephemeral and superficial.  Sexual desire tempts us to act contrary to reason in ways that threaten to damage both ourselves and others; marriage functions to discipline sexual desire by channeling it in a way that is both socially constructive and conducive to our own best interests.

Obviously, further argumentation would be required to defend the entire range of claims Catholic moral theology and natural law theory would make about sexual morality, but that is not to the present point.  The point is rather that there is simply no basis at all for the view -- by no means unique to Singer -- that “sex raises no unique moral issues at all,” or for the common, tiresome allegation that traditional moralists’ concern with sexual morality reflects mere superstition or prudery. 

Much more can be said about the special moral problems posed by sex, from a specifically Thomistic (and thus inevitably more controversial) point of view.  But that will have to wait for a follow-up post.

What’s the deal with sex? Part II

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In a previous post I identified three aspects of sex which manifestly give it a special moral significance: It is the means by which new human beings are made; it is the means by which we are physiologically and psychologically completed qua men and women; and it is that area of human life in which the animal side of our nature most relentlessly fights against the rational side of our nature.  When natural law theorists and moral theologians talk about the procreative and unitive functions of sex, what they have in mind are the first two of these aspects.  The basic idea of traditional natural law theory where sex is concerned is that since the good for us is determined by the natural ends of our faculties, it cannot be good for us to use our sexual faculties in a way that positively frustrates its procreative and unitive ends.  The third morally significant aspect of sex, which is that the unique intensity of sexual pleasure can lead us to act irrationally, is perhaps less often discussed these days.  So let’s talk about that.

Aquinas provides illuminating guidance on our subject in his discussion in the Summa Theologiae of the eight “daughters” or effects of lust.  Keep in mind that “lust,” when used pejoratively by Aquinas and other natural law theorists and moral theologians, does not mean “sexual arousal.”  There is nothing wrong with sexual arousal, even intense sexual arousal, in itself.  Rather, “lust” is used in natural law theory and moral theology as a technical term for sexual desire that is in some way disordered.  In what sense might it be “disordered”?  Aquinas writes:

A sin, in human acts, is that which is against the order of reason.  Now the order of reason consists in its ordering everything to its end in a fitting manner.  (Summa TheologiaeII-II.153.2)

So, reasonable or well-ordered sexual desire is sexual desire that is “order[ed]… to its end” and “in a fitting manner.”  Thus, sexual desire is unreasonable or disordered if it is indulged in a way that frustrates its natural ends, or if it is indulged in an unfitting manner.

Disorder of the kind that involves frustration of the natural ends of sexual desire would in Aquinas’s view exist when, for example, such desire is directed at something other than a human being of the opposite sex, or when the sexual act is prevented from reaching its natural climax in insemination.  An example of sexual desire that is disordered in its manner would be adulterous sexual desire.  Suppose you find some person of the opposite sex other than your spouse attractive.  So far there is no sin.  Suppose that sexual thoughts and images about this person enter unbidden into your consciousness.  So far, still no sin.  But now suppose that instead of pushing these thoughts and images out of your mind and turning your attention to something else, you willingly and actively entertain them.  Now there is a sin of lust.  Finding this other person attractive is of itself perfectly natural, and in the right circumstances (being married to the person) there would be nothing wrong with letting this attraction draw you into sexual fantasy and intense arousal.  But because you are not married to the person and are married to someone else, circumstances make such fantasy and arousal disordered and sinful. 

For present purposes, though, I will put to one side questions about what sorts of desire and behavior, specifically, count as lustful or disordered.  Controversies over the natural law position on extra-marital sex, homosexuality, contraception, etc. are not to the present point.  (I have addressed those matters in other places, such as here.)  For our topic here is primarily not lust itself but rather the “daughters” or effectsof lust -- the way in which sexual desire that is disordered tends to bring further moral disorders in its wake.

One more preliminary note: To say that some further moral disorder is an effect of lust is not to say that it invariably and fully follows from lust.  We are talking here about tendencies.  The longer and more thoroughly someone’s sexual desires are disordered, the more likely he is to fall into the other moral disorders Aquinas speaks of.  But if sexual desire is less thoroughly disordered, or if the disorder is counteracted by efforts to correct it, then naturally the secondary disorders are less likely to follow, or will not be as great as they otherwise would be.

The daughters of lust

Of the eight “daughters of lust,” the first four concern the intellect and the last four the will.  The first “daughter” or effect is what Aquinas calls “blindness of mind,” whereby the “simple [act of] understanding, which apprehends some end as good… is hindered by lust.”  What Aquinas has in mind here can be understood as follows.  The intellect has as its natural end or final cause the grasp of truth.  Truth, however, is a “transcendental,” as is goodness, and the transcendentals are convertible with one another.  That is to say, truth and goodness are really the same thing looked at from different points of view.  Hence the intellect is no less naturally directed toward the grasp of the good as it is toward the grasp of truth.  (See pp. 31-36 of Aquinasfor discussion of the transcendentals.) 

Now, when, for whatever reason, we take pleasure in some thing or activity, we are strongly inclined to want to think that it is good, even if it is not good; and when, for whatever reason, we find some idea attractive, we are strongly inclined to want to think that it is true and reasonable, even if it is neither.  Everyone knows this; you don’t have to be a Thomist to see that much.  The habitual binge drinker or cocaine snorter takes such pleasure in his vice that he refuses to listen to those who warn him that he is setting himself up for serious trouble.  The ideologue is so in love with a pet idea that he will search out any evidence that seems to confirm it while refusing to consider all the glaring evidence against it.  The talentless would-be actor or writer is so enamored of the prospect of wealth and fame that he refuses to see that he’d be better advised to pursue some other career.  And so forth.  That taking pleasure in what is in fact bad or false can impair the intellect’s capacity to see what is good and true is a familiar fact of everyday life.

Now, there is no reason whatsoever why things should be any different where sex is concerned.  Indeed -- and this is part of Aquinas’s point -- precisely because sexual pleasure is unusually intense, it is even more likely than other pleasures are to impair our ability to perceive what is true and good when what we take pleasure in is something that is in fact bad.  In particular, habitually indulging one’s desire to carry out sexual acts that are disordered will tend to make it harder and harder for one to see that they are disordered.  For one thing, the pleasure a person repeatedly takes in those acts will give the acts the false appearance of goodness; for another, the person will be inclined to look for reasons to regard the acts as good or at least harmless, and disinclined to look for, or give a dispassionate hearing to, reasons to think them bad.  Hence indulgence in disordered sexual behavior has a tendency to impair one’s ability to perceive the true and the good, particularly in matters of sexual morality.  In short, sexual vice makes you stupid.

Even here you don’t need to be a Thomist to see that much.  Everyone knows that overindulgence in sexual pleasure can blind someone to the likely bad effects of such indulgence.  In particular, everyone is familiar with examples like that of the lecherous boss or teacher who sexually pursues subordinates or students despite the risks to his family or career, the woman who deludes herself into thinking that the married man she is having an affair with will leave his wife and marry her, the pornography user who refuses to admit that he is addicted, and so on. 

Of course, there are lots of things the Thomist regards as sexually disordered which many people these days do not regard as disordered.  In part this is, from a Thomist point of view, a consequence of widespread intellectual error.  For when the general metaphysical framework underlying traditional natural law theory -- essentialism, teleological realism, and so forth -- is properly understood, it is pretty obvious that the general natural law approach to sexual morality is perfectly reasonable, and indeed pretty hard to avoid, given that metaphysical framework.  Moreover, the framework itself is not only perfectly defensible, but also (as I have argued at length) pretty hard to avoid when properly understood.  The trouble is that in contemporary intellectual life most people know nothing of, or at best know only crude caricatures of, that metaphysics and of the traditional natural law theory that rests on it.  Hence they fail to understand the rational foundations of traditional sexual morality.

But the Thomist is bound to judge that mereintellectual error is not the only problem.  For it’s not just that people in contemporary Western society commonly disagree, at an intellectual level, with the natural law theorist’s judgments about what is disordered.  It’s that they commonly act in ways that natural law theory says are disordered.  And if such behavior has a tendency to impair one’s capacity to perceive what is true and good, especially where sex is concerned, then it follows that widespread rejection of traditional sexual morality is bound to have as much to do with the sort of cognitive corruption that Aquinas calls “blindness of mind” as it does with the making of honest intellectual mistakes.  That people who don’t behave in accordance with traditional sexual moral norms also don’t believethat these norms have any solid intellectual foundation is thus in no way surprising.  On the contrary, that’s exactly what natural law theory itself predicts will happen.

It is in light of this fact that we need to evaluate the refusal of some contemporary academic philosophers even to consider arguments in defense of traditional sexual morality.  Those who take this attitude claim that such arguments need not be taken seriously because they are mere expressions of “bigotry.”  Now, one problem with this position is that it is manifestly fallacious.  It either begs the question, since whether traditional sexual morality really is “bigoted” rather than rationally justifiable is precisely what is at issue; or it is a fallacious ad hominem, an attempt to dismiss the arguments on the basis of the purportedly disreputable motivations of those who put them forward. 

Another problem, though, is that this strategy of dismissing the arguments for traditional sexual morality as mere rationalizations of “bigotry” can be stalemated by the counter-accusation that those who reject traditional sexual morality suffer from what Aquinas calls “blindness of mind.”  The traditional moralist might respond: “Of course you would dismiss the arguments as mere bigotry!  That’s because your intellect has been so clouded by sexual vice that you cannot even see what is good and true where sex is concerned, and don’t even want to try to see it!”

Of course, if the Thomist left it at that and merelyaccused the other side of blindness of mind, he too would be guilty of begging the question or of a fallacious ad hominem.  What that shows, though, is that there is simply no rational way to avoid engaging in debate with those with whom you disagree on the subject of sexual morality.  If the defender of traditional sexual morality is to avoid resorting to a mere question-begging ad hominem, then he has to give arguments for his position and to answer the arguments of the other side.  And if the critic of traditional sexual morality is to avoid resorting to a mere question-begging ad hominem, then he too has to give arguments for his position and to answer the arguments of the other side.  It is the side that merely flings abuse at its opponents and refuses to engage in debate that is the truly bigoted side

But I digress.  The other three “daughters of lust” that concern the intellect follow straightforwardly from blindness of mind.  The second is what Aquinas calls “rashness,” which concerns the way disordered sexual desire hinders “counsel about what is to be done for the sake of the end.”  What Aquinas means here is that just as pleasure in what is disordered can blind us to the true ends of our sexual faculties, so too can it blind us to the means to achieving those ends. 

The third daughter of lust is what Aquinas calls “thoughtlessness,” and what he appears to have in mind is a failure of the intellect even to attend to ends and means in the first place.  In other words, whereas “blindness of mind” involves the intellect’s attending to the question of the ends of sex but getting them wrong, and “rashness” involves the intellect’s attending to the question of the means of achieving those ends and getting those wrong too, “thoughtlessness” involves the intellect’s not even bothering with the question of what ends and means are proper.  The “thoughtless” man simply pursues the disordered pleasures to which he has become addicted in something like a sub-rational way, “mindlessly” as it were.  His intellectual activity vis-à-vis sex no longer rises even to the level of rationalization.

The fourth daughter of lust is “inconstancy.”  Here the idea seems to be that even when the lustful person is not utterly sunk in “blindness of mind,” “rashness,” and “thoughtlessness” and thus still has some grasp of the proper ends and means vis-à-vis sex, that grasp is nevertheless tenuous.  The pleasure of disordered sexual behavior constantly diverts the intellect’s attention, so that what is truly good is not consistently perceived or pursued.

Now, for Aquinas, will follows upon intellect, and thus, unsurprisingly, the daughters of lust include four disorders of the will in addition to the four disorders of the intellect.  Aquinas describes the fifth and sixth daughters of lust as follows:

One is the desire for the end, to which we refer "self-love," which regards the pleasure which a man desires inordinately, while on the other hand there is "hatred of God," by reason of His forbidding the desired pleasure.

“Self-love,” it seems to me, can be understood as follows.  The “thoughtless” person is entirely sunk in his disordered sexual pleasures.  The person manifesting “blindness of mind” and “rashness” is also sunk in disordered sexual pleasure, but has managed to cobble together a network of rationalizations for his pursuit of these disordered pleasures.   Either way, though, the lustful person’s focus has turned inward, on the self and its own pleasures and intellectual constructions, rather than outward, toward what is actually good and true.  The mind corrupted by lust wants to make reality conform to itself, rather than to make itself conform to reality.  Hence the very idea that there is such a thing as a natural, objective moral order, especially where sex is concerned, becomes unbearable to the lustful person. 

The sequel, naturally, is what Aquinas calls “hatred of God.”  For God is Being Itself, and since being, like truth and goodness, is a transcendental, it follows that God is also Truth Itself and Goodness Itself.  These are all just different ways of conceptualizing the same one divine reality.  Thus, to hate what is in fact true and good is ipso facto to hate what is in fact God.  Of course, the person lost in disordered sexual desire might claim to love God.  If such a person knows he is lost in disordered desire and seeks to be freed from it, this love is sincere.  He still has some perception of what is truly good and wants to strengthen his grasp of it and his ability to pursue it.  But suppose the person loves his disordered desires, hates those who would call him away from indulging those desires, and refuses to take seriously the suggestion that such indulgence is contrary to the divine will.  Then his purported love of God is bogus.  It is not really God that he loves at all, but rather an idol of his own construction. 

The last two daughters of lust are what Aquinas calls “love of this world” and “despair of a future world.”  Now, for Aquinas a human being qua rational animal has both corporeal powers (namely our animal powers of nutrition, growth, reproduction, sensation, appetite, and locomotion) and the incorporeal powers of intellect and will.  It is the latter, higher powers that make our souls immortal and destined for a life beyond the present one.  Since our animal powers, and the pleasure associated with their exercise, are natural to us, there is nothing wrong with our loving these things.  But by “love of this world” what Aquinas has in mind is an excessivelove of these things.  Disordered sexual pleasure, by virtue of its intensity, has a tendency to turn us away from the goods of the intellect.  In part this is because such pleasure blinds us to what the intellect would otherwise see to be true and good, but also in part because even where the lustful person can still perceive truth and goodness, its pursuit is difficult since the pleasure he might take in it is so much less intense than the disordered sexual pleasure to which he is in thrall.

Naturally, then, the lustful person is bound to be uninterested in the next life, and disinclined to do what is needed to secure his future well-being within it.  It will seem cold, abstract, and dull compared to what he has set his heart on in this life.  And thus it is no surprise that Christian theologians have traditionally emphasized the dangers sexual sins pose to one’s immortal soul.  This is not because such sins are the worst sins -- they are not -- but rather because the pleasure associated with them makes them very easy to fall into and, if they become habitual, very difficult to get out of.  (Churchmen who want to downplay the significance of sexual sins in the name of compassion are thus acting in a way that is in fact anything but compassionate.)

The opposite extreme

So far we have been talking about sins of excess where sexual pleasure is concerned.  But it is very important to keep in mind that here as in other areas of human life, there are disorders of deficiency as well as disorders of excess.  Speaking of pleasure in general, Aquinas writes:

Whatever is contrary to the natural order is vicious.  Now nature has introduced pleasure into the operations that are necessary for man's life.  Wherefore the natural order requires that man should make use of these pleasures, in so far as they are necessary for man's well-being, as regards the preservation either of the individual or of the species.  Accordingly, if anyone were to reject pleasure to the extent of omitting things that are necessary for nature's preservation, he would sin, as acting counter to the order of nature.  And this pertains to the vice of insensibility. (Summa TheologiaeII-II.142.1)

Aquinas immediately goes on to note that it is possible to forsake pleasure in a way that is not vicious, as when one chooses celibacy for the sake of the priesthood or religious life.  There are also unusual cases where even spouses might agree to abstain from sex for spiritual reasons.  But these are not (or should not be) cases where sexual pleasure is rejected as bad, but rather cases where it is regarded it as good but nevertheless forsaken for the sake of something even better.  And the normal course of human affairs is for people to marry, and when they marry to have sexual relations.  That means that sexual pleasure is simply a normal part of ordinary human life.  That is inevitable given that we are, by nature, as much corporeal and animal creatures as rational ones. 

A “vice of insensibility” vis-à-vis sexual pleasure would, accordingly, plausibly be manifest in a marriage where one spouse refuses to make love, or does so only grudgingly, or does so willingly but with complete lack of interest, the way one might without protest agree to do the dishes or take out the trash.  (Of course, spouses are sometimes ill, or tired, or stressed out, or otherwise just not in the mood and thus would rather not have sex.  There’s nothing necessarily wrong with that.  The problem is when one spouse exhibits a habitual aversion to or disinterest in sex.) 

Just as the will might be insufficiently drawn toward sexual pleasure, so too can the intellect take too negative a view of it.  For example, some Christian theologians of earlier centuries were suspicious of sexual pleasure, and erroneously regarded it as something that attends sexual intercourse only as a result of original sin.  Aquinas rejected this view, and in the centuries since his time, natural law theorists, moral theologians, and the Magisterium of the Catholic Church took an increasingly more positive view of sexual pleasure as nature’s way of facilitating the procreative and unitive ends of sex.

So just what is the deal with sex, anyway?  Why are we so prone to extremes where it is concerned?  The reason, I would say, has to do with our highly unusual place in the order of things.  Angels are incorporeal and asexual, creatures of pure intellect.  Non-human animals are entirely bodily, never rising above sensation and appetite, and our closest animal relatives reproduce sexually.  Human beings, as rational animals, straddle this divide, having as it were one foot in the angelic realm and the other in the animal realm.  And that is, metaphysically, simply a veryodd position to be in.  It is just barely stable, and sex makes it especially difficult to maintain.  The unique intensity of sexual pleasure and desire, and our bodily incompleteness qua men and women, continually remind us of our corporeal and animal nature, pulling us “downward” as it were.  Meanwhile our rationality continually seeks to assert its control and pull us back “upward,” and naturally resents the unruliness of such intense desire.  This conflict is so exhausting that we tend to try to get out of it by jumping either to one side of the divide or the other.  But this is an impossible task and the result is that we are continually frustrated.  And the supernatural divine assistance that would have remedied this weakness in our nature and allowed us to maintain an easy harmony between rationality and animality was lost in original sin

So, behaviorally, we have a tendency to fall either into prudery or into sexual excess.  And intellectually, we have a tendency to fall either into the error of Platonism -- treating man as essentially incorporeal, a soul trapped in the prison of the body -- or into the opposite error of materialism, treating human nature as entirely reducible to the corporeal.  The dominance of Platonism in early Christian thought is perhaps the main reason for its sometimes excessively negative attitude toward sexual pleasure, and the dominance of materialism in modern times is one reason for its excessive laxity in matters of sex.  The right balance is, of course, the Aristotelian-Thomistic position -- specifically, Aristotelian-Thomistic philosophical anthropology, which affirms that man is a single substance with both corporeal and incorporeal activities; and Aristotelian-Thomistic natural law theory, which upholds traditional sexual morality while affirming the essential goodness of sex and sexual pleasure.

Accept no imitations

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Given that he’s just become a movie star, Alan Turing’s classic paper “Computing Machinery and Intelligence” seems an apt topic for a blog post.  It is in this paper that Turing sets out his famous “Imitation Game,” which has since come to be known as the Turing Test.  The basic idea is as follows: Suppose a human interrogator converses via a keyboard and monitor with two participants, one a human being and one a machine, each of whom is in a different room.  The interrogator’s job is to figure out which is which.  Could the machine be programmed in such a way that the interrogator could not determine from the conversation which is the human being and which the machine?  Turing proposed this as a useful stand-in for the question “Can machines think?”  And in his view, a “Yes” answer to the former question is as good as a “Yes” answer to the latter.

This way of putting things is significant.  Turing doesn’t exactly assert flatly in the paper that machines can think, or that conversational behavior of the sort imagined entails intelligence, though he certainly gives the impression that that is what he believes.  (As Jack Copeland notes in his recent book on Turing (at p. 209), Turing’s various statements on this subject are not entirely consistent.  In some places he explicitly declines to offer any definition of thinking, while at other times he speaks as if studying what machines do can help us to discover what thinking is.)  What Turing says in the paper is that the question “Can machines think?” is “too meaningless to deserve discussion,” that to consider instead whether a machine could pass the Turing Test is to entertain a “more accurate form of the question,” and that if machines develop to the point where they can pass the test, then “the use of words and general educated opinion will have altered so much that one will be able to speak of machines thinking without expecting to be contradicted.”

This is very curious.  Suppose you asked me whether gold and pyrite are the same, and I responded by saying that the question is “too meaningless to deserve discussion,” that it would be “more accurate” to ask whether we could process pyrite in such a way that someone examining it would be unable to tell it apart from gold, and that if we can so process it, then “the use of words and general educated opinion will have altered so much that one will be able to speak of pyrite as gold without expecting to be contradicted.”  Obviously this would be a bizarre response.  Whether pyrite might be taken by someone to be gold and whether pyrite is in fact gold are just two different questions, and what I would be doing is simply changing the subject rather than in any way answering the original question.  How is Turing’s procedure any different?  And how exactly is “Can machines think?” any more “meaningless” than “Is pyrite gold?”

It’s no good, by the way, to object that the cases are not parallel insofar as an expert could distinguish gold and pyrite.  The cases are parallel in this respect, as Turing himself implicitly admitted.  Copeland points out (p. 211) that Turing elsewhere acknowledged that in a Turing Test situation, someone with expertise about machines might well be able to figure out from subtle clues which is the machine.  Turing thus stipulated that the interrogator should be someone who does not have such expertise.  He thought that what mattered was whether the ordinary person could figure out which is the machine.  So, whether an expert (as opposed to an ordinary observer) could figure out whether or not something is pyrite does not keep my example from being relevantly analogous to Turing’s.

So, why might Turing or anyone else think that his proposed test casts any light on the question about whether machines can think?  There are at least three possible answers, and none of them is any good.  I’ll call them the Scholastic answer, the verificationist answer, and the scientistic answer.  Let’s consider each in turn.

What I call the “Scholastic answer” is definitely notwhat Turing himself had in mind, though in fact it would be the most promising (if ultimately unsuccessful) way to try to defend Turing’s procedure.  The idea is this.  Recall that it is a basic principle of Scholastic metaphysics that agere sequitur esse (“action follows being” or “activity follows existence”).  That is to say, the way a thing acts or behaves reflects what it is.  A defender of the Turing Test could argue that if a machine acts like an intelligent thing, then it must be an intelligent thing.  But competent language use is a paradigmatically intelligent activity (especially for a Scholastic, who would define intellect in terms of the grasp of abstract concepts of the sort expressed by general terms).  Hence (so the argument might go) the Turing Test is a surefire way to test for intelligence.

But not so fast.  For a Scholastic, the principle agere sequitur esse must, of course, be applied in conjunction with other basic metaphysical principles.  And one of the other relevant ones is the distinction between substantial form and accidental form, a mark of which is the presence or absence of irreducible causal powers.  A plant carries out photosynthesis and a pocket watch displays the time of day, but these causal powers are not in the two objects in the same way.  That a plant carries out photosynthesis is an observer-independent fact about the plant, whereas that a watch displays the time of day is not an observer-independent fact about the watch.  For the metal bits that make up the watch have no inherenttendency to display the time.  That is a function we have imposed on them, from outside as it were.  The plant, by contrast, does have an inherent tendency to carry out photosynthesis.  That reflects the fact that to be a plant is to have a substantial form and thus to be a true substance, whereas to be a pocket watch is to have a mere accidental form and not to be a true substance.  The true substances in that case are the metal bits that make up the watch, and the form of a pocket watch is just an accidental form we have imposed on them.  (I have discussed the difference between substantial and accidental form in many places, such as here, here, and here.  For the full story, see chapter 3 of Scholastic Metaphysics.) 

Now, a computing machine is like a pocket watch rather than like a plant.  It runs the programs it does, engages in conversation, etc. in just the same way that the watch displays the time.  That is to say, it has no inherenttendency to do these things, but does them only insofar as we impose these functions on the parts that make up the machine.  (This is why, as Saul Kripke points out, there is no observer-independent fact of the matter about what program a computer is running, and why, as Karl Popper and John Searle point out, there is no observer-independent fact of the matter about whether something even counts as a computer in the first place.)  To be a computer is to have a mere accidental form rather than a substantial form.

In applying the principle agere sequitur esse, then, we need to determine whether the thing we’re applying it to is a true substance or not, or in other words whether it has a substantial form or merely an accidental form.  If we’re examining bits of metal and find that they display the time, it would silly to conclude “Well, since agere sequitur esse, it follows that metal bits have the power to tell time!”  For the bits are “telling time” only because we have made them do so, and they wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.  Similarly, if I throw a stone in the air, it would be ridiculous to conclude “Since agere sequitur esse, it follows that stones can fly!”  The stone is “flying” only because and insofar as I throw it.  Flying is, you might say, merely an accidental form of the stone.  What matters when applying the principle agere sequitur esse is to see what a thing does naturally, on its own, when left to its own devices-- that is to say, to see what properties flow or follow from its substantial form, as opposed to the accidental forms that are imposed upon it.

Now, seen in this light the Turing Test is just a non-starter.  To determine whether a machine can think, it simply isn’t relevant to find out whether it passes the Turing Test, if it passes the test only because it has been programmed to do so.  Left to themselves, metal bits don’t display time, and stones don’t fly.  And left to themselves, machines don’t converse.  So, that we can make them converse no more shows that they are intelligent than throwing stones or making watches shows that stones have the power of flight or that bits of metal qua metal can tell time.

So, while the Scholastic answer would (in my view, since I’m a Scholastic) be Turing’s best bet, at the end of the day it doesn’t really work.  But of course, Turing was no Scholastic.  Did he have in mind instead what I call the “Verificationist answer”?  The idea here would be this: The meaning of a statement is, according to verificationism, determined by its method of verification.  Now, we can’t peer into anyone else’s mind, in the case of human beings any more than in the case of machines.  So (the argument might continue), the only way to verify whether something is intelligent is to determine whether it behavesin an intelligent way, and intelligent conversation is the gold standard of intelligent behavior.  Hence the only way the question “Can machines think?” can be given a meaningful construal is to interpret it as asking whether machines can behave in an intelligent way.  Since that is precisely what the Turing Test seeks to determine, if a machine passes it, then there is nothing more that could in principle be asked for as evidence that it is genuinely intelligent.  Indeed (so the argument would go), there is nothing more for intelligence to be than the capacity to pass the Turing Test.

Now, verificationism was certainly in the air at the time Turing was writing.  It underlay the “philosophical behaviorist” view that having a mind is “nothing but” manifesting certain patterns of behavior or dispositions for behavior.  But there are serious problems with verificationism, not the least of which is that it is self-defeating.  For the principle of verification is not itself verifiable, which entails that it is, by its own standards, strictly meaningless.  If it were true, then it wouldn’t even rise to the level of being false.  Unsurprisingly, no one defends it any more, at least not in its most straightforward form.

But Turing does not in any case appeal to verificationism in the paper, and I don’t think that’s really what’s going on.  What I think he was at least tacitly committed to is what I call the “Scientistic answer” to the question of why anyone should think the Turing Test casts light on the question whether machines can think.  Turing’s view, I suspect, was essentially that there is no way to study intelligence scientificallyother than by asking what a system would have to be like in order to pass the Turing Test.  Hence that is, in his view, the question we should focus on.  Notice that this is not (or need not) be the same position as that of the verificationist.  His talk about “meaninglessness” notwithstanding, Turing need not say that it is strictlymeaningless to ask whether something could pass the Turing Test and yet not truly be thinking.  He could say merely that since there is no scientific way to investigate that particular question, there is no point in bothering with it, and we should just focus instead on what the methods of the empirical scientist might shed light on.

If this is what Turing is up to, then he is essentially doing the same thing Lawrence Krauss does when he pretends to answer the famous question why there is anything at all rather than nothing.  And what Krauss does, as I have discussed several times (here, here, here, and here), is to pull a bait-and-switch.  He pretends at first that he is going to explain why there is something rather than nothing, but then changes the subject and discusses instead the question of how the universe in its current state arose from empty space together with the laws of physics -- which, of course, are very far from being nothing.  His justification for this farcical procedure is essentially that physics has something to tell us about the latter question, whereas it has nothing to tell us about why there is anything at all (including the fundamental laws of physics themselves) rather than nothing.  What we should focus on, in Krauss’s view, is the question he thinks he can answer rather than the question we originally asked.

Now this is exactly the same fallacy as that of the drunk who insists on looking for his lost car keys under the lamp post, on the grounds that that is the only place where there is enough light by which to see them.  The fact that that is where the light is simply doesn’t entail that the keys are there, and neither does it entail that there is any point in continuing to look for the keys under the lamp post after repeated investigation fails to turn them up, or that there is no point in trying to find ways to look for the keys elsewhere, or that we should look for something else under the lamp post rather than the keys.  Similarly, the fact that the methods of physics are powerful methods doesn’t entail that those methods can answer the question why there is anything at all rather than nothing, or that we should replace that question with some other question that the methods of physics can handle, or that there is no point in looking for other methods by which to investigate the question.  To assume, as Krauss does, that the question simply must be one susceptible of investigation by physics if it is to be rationally investigated at all is to commit what E. A. Burtt identified as the fallacy of “mak[ing] a metaphysics out of [one’s] method” -- that is, of trying to force reality to conform to one’s favored method of studying it rather than conforming one’s method to reality. 

Turing seems to be guilty of the same thing.  Rather than first determining what thought isand then asking what methods might be suitable for studying something of that nature, he instead starts by asking what sorts of thought-related phenomena might be susceptible of study via the methods of empirical science, and then decides that those are the only phenomena worth studying.  The fallaciousness of this procedure should be obvious.  Characterizing “thought” as the kind of thing that a machine would exhibit by virtue of passing the Turing Test is like characterizing “keys” as the sort of thing apt to be found under such-and-such a particular lamp post.

In general, there is (as I have argued many times) simply no good reason to accept scientism and decisive reason to reject it.  There are at least five problems with it: First, formulations of scientism are typically either self-defeating or only trivially true; second, science cannot in principle offer a complete description even of the physical world; third, science cannot even in principle offer a complete explanation of the phenomena it describes; fourth, the chief argument for scientism -- the argument from the predictive and technological successes of science -- is fallacious; and fifth, the widespread assumption that the only alternative to natural science is a dubious method of doing “conceptual analysis” is false.  (See chapter 0 of Scholastic Metaphysics for detailed exposition of each of these points.)  So, the “Scientistic answer” also fails.

Needless to say, Turing was a brilliant scientist, and all of us who use and love computers are in his debt.  But his foray into philosophy resulted, I think, not in any positive contribution but only in an interesting and instructive mistake.

Augustine and Heraclitus on the present moment

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On the subject of time and our awareness of it, Augustine says the following in The Confessions:

But how does this future, which does not yet exist, diminish or become consumed?  Or how does the past, which now has no being, grow, unless there are three processes in the mind which in this is the active agent?  For the mind expects and attends and remembers, so that what it expects passes through what has its attention to what it remembers…

Suppose I am about to recite a psalm which I know.  Before I begin, my expectation is directed towards the whole.  But when I have begun, the verses from it which I take into the past become the object of my memory.  The life of this act of mine is stretched two ways, into my memory because of the words I have already said and into my expectation because of those which I am about to say.  But my attention is on what is present: by that the future is transferred to become the past. (Confessions11.28.37-38, Chadwick translation; an older translation is available online here)

So, it seems that for Augustine, for conscious awareness to “attend” to the present moment presupposes also both its “remembering” the immediate past and its “expectation” of the immediate future.  For example, when reciting the twenty third Psalm, my present awareness of speaking the words “…my shepherd…” has the significance and phenomenal feel that it does only because I simultaneously remember just having said “The Lord is…” and also simultaneously expect to follow the words I am speaking with “…I shall not want.”  Awareness of the present moment has intentionality in two directions: it “points” or is “directed” backwards toward the moment that preceded it, and forwards toward the moment that will succeed it. 

Augustine makes a similar point elsewhere, when he says that we cannot hear even a single syllable

unless memory helps us so that, at the moment when not the beginning but the end of the syllable sounds, that motion remains in the mind which was produced when the beginning sounded (De musica 6.5.10, quoted in Roland Teske, “Augustine’s Philosophy of Memory” in Stump and Kretzmann, The Cambridge Companion to Augustine, First edition)

This two-directional intentionality appears to be the key to our sense of the unity of the self over time.  Note that I say, not that it is the key to the self’s unity, but that it is the key to our sense of the self’s unity.  As I’ve said elsewhere, I think the self would in fact persist even if its memory of its past were obliterated.  What would be lost in that case is not its identity, but merely its knowledgeof its identity.  The Lockean idea that “who I am” is defined by my memories of the past and plans for the future is bad metaphysics, but it is good epistemology.  Such memories and expectations don’t constitute the self’s identity, but in normal cases (i.e. when one is not suffering from brain damage, mental illness, or the like) they will follow from and manifest its identity.  (They are, to use the Scholastic metaphysical jargon a little loosely, something like “proper accidents” of identity.)  The self’s remembrance of its distant past history and expectation of the carrying out of its long-range future plans is an extension of the memory of the immediate past and expectation of the immediate future of which Augustine speaks.

This two-directional intentionality in the subjective realm of the mind has a parallel in the objective world.  For the Scholastic metaphysician, the natural world is governed by the principle of finality and the principle of proportionate causality.  According to the principle of finality, efficient causes are “directed toward” or “point” forward to their characteristic effects, as toward a final cause.  And according to the principle of proportionate causality, effects “point” backwards, toward their efficient causes.  These principles are, to use Hume’s language (though not his principles), the “cement of the universe” that keeps things and events from being “loose and separate.” 

As I have argued many times, it was the early moderns’ abandonment of immanent final causality -- final causality as an inherent feature (as opposed to an observer-relative feature) of natural phenomena -- that paved the way for Humean skepticism about efficient causality.  As Aquinas argued, if efficient causes were not “pointed” or “directed toward” their characteristic effects, there would be no way to explain why those effects are in fact the ones which characteristically follow.  Things really would objectively be “loose and separate.”  (As usual, see Scholastic Metaphysics for detailed defense of all this Scholastic metaphysics.) 

If “directedness” did not exist even in the mind -- that is to say, if intentionality were an illusion, as eliminative materialism holds -- then the self’s sense of its own unity over time would also be undermined.  Just as the objective world breaks apart into innumerable disconnected distinct existences in the absence of final causality, so too does the subjective world break apart into innumerable disconnected distinct moments of awareness in the absence of intentionality.  Present awareness would not “point” backward to the immediate past or forward to the immediate future.  Its entire content would be limited to the present instant, and there would be no sense of a self that extended beyond that instant.

These implications of Humeanism and eliminativism are, of course, foreshadowed in Heraclitus’s philosophy, at least as traditionally interpreted.  For the Heraclitean, all is flux, and there are no abiding entities.  That includes the self.  There is no “I” that persists over time; there is only an awareness of the present instant followed by an awareness of the next instant followed by an awareness of the next, with no one abiding thing that has all of these awarenesses. 

Now, part of the significance of Augustine’s observation is that it indicates how the Heraclitean account is not true to the phenomenology of the sense of self.  We simply don’t perceiveourselves as existing merely in the present instant, for as Augustine points out, awareness of the present instant also involves in the normal case a remembrance of the past and an expectation of the future.  This two-directional intentionality is built into awareness of the present, and can be absent only when our cognitive faculties are malfunctioning. 

But there is a deeper lesson.  Augustine’s observation also helps us to see why the Heraclitean position cannot really be coherently formulated.  For suppose I try to think the thought that there is no abiding self.  As Augustine would point out, the words “…no abiding…,” as uttered inwardly to oneself, have their significance only insofar as I remember that they were preceded by an utterance of “There is…” and expect that they will be followed by an utterance of “…self.”  Now, these different utterances occur at different times, and are thus the objects of distinct acts of awareness.  But if the Heraclitean position is correct, there is no single abiding self that underlies these acts of awareness.  Thus there would be no one self that could have the thought that there is no abiding self.  The self that begins the thought would not be the same as the self which continues the thought, and neither would be the same as the self that completes the thought.  There would be nothing that actually has that particular thought.  Hence if Heraclitus’s position were correct, no one could so much as formulate it, for no one could last long enough to do so.  And yet we do formulate the position, as is evidenced by the fact that we can entertain it, argue about it, accept or reject it.  The very act of formulating Heraclitus’s position thereby refutes it.

So, Heraclitus was wrong.  How appropriate, then, that in the little montage above, Augustine seems to be hearing Heraclitus’s confession!

Braving the web

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The 10thAnnual Thomistic Seminar for graduate students in philosophy and related disciplines, sponsored by The Witherspoon Institute, will be held from August 2 - 8, 2015 in Princeton, NJ.  The theme is “Aquinas and Contemporary Ethics,” and faculty include John Haldane, Sarah Broadie, and Candace Vogler.  Applications are due March 16.  More details here.

Does academic freedom still exist at Marquette University?  The case of political science professor John McAdams, as reported by The Atlantic, Crisis magazine, and Slate

The late Fr. Richard John Neuhaus is the subject of a new biography by Randy Boyagoda.  Review at National Review, and podcast of an interview with Boyagoda at Ricochet.
 
At Aeon magazine, Philip Ball comments on physics, philosophy, and “half-baked” ideas like the “many worlds interpretation” of quantum mechanics.

If “Bush lied, people died,” then why didn’t the Bush administration play up the WMDs it did find, so as to make the “lie” more plausible?  Don’t ask Jon Stewart.

New books in philosophy of religion: Gaven Kerr’s Aquinas’s Way to God, Paul O’Grady’s Aquinas’s Philosophy of Religion, and Fiona Ellis’s God, Value, and Nature.

Christopher Blum on how Aristotle invented science.

Philosopher Tom V. Morris has written high powered academic philosophy books and many popular works.  He also has a blog.

Philosopher Dennis Bonnette asks: Does Richard Dawkins exist?

But the New Atheism is old hat.  Here’s philosopher Philip Kitcher’s “soft atheism.”

Thomas Ward’s new book John Duns Scotus on Parts, Wholes, and Hylomorphism is reviewed by Robert Pasnau at Notre Dame Philosophical Reviews

Asimov’s Foundation is reviewed at Omni Reboot.  Better late than never.

Descartes’ “indivisibility” argument

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In the sixth of his Meditations on First Philosophy, Descartes writes:

[T]here is a vast difference between mind and body, in respect that body, from its nature, is always divisible, and that mind is entirely indivisible.  For in truth, when I consider the mind, that is, when I consider myself in so far only as I am a thinking thing, I can distinguish in myself no parts, but I very clearly discern that I am somewhat absolutely one and entire; and although the whole mind seems to be united to the whole body, yet, when a foot, an arm, or any other part is cut off, I am conscious that nothing has been taken from my mind; nor can the faculties of willing, perceiving, conceiving, etc., properly be called its parts, for it is the same mind that is exercised [all entire] in willing, in perceiving, and in conceiving, etc.  But quite the opposite holds in corporeal or extended things; for I cannot imagine any one of them [how small soever it may be], which I cannot easily sunder in thought, and which, therefore, I do not know to be divisible.  This would be sufficient to teach me that the mind or soul of man is entirely different from the body, if I had not already been apprised of it on other grounds.

This is Descartes’ “indivisibility argument” for dualism.  As with many of Descartes’ other arguments, I think both that it is not compelling as it stands, but also that it is much more interesting than it is often given credit for.  I devoted a few pages to the argument in Philosophy of Mind.  I won’t repeat here everything I said there. 

As Dale Jacquette interprets Descartes in his own book Philosophy of Mind, the argument can be summarized as follows:

1. My body is divisible into like parts (bodies)

2. My mind is not divisible into like parts (minds)

3. My body ≠ my mind

Jacquette’s reason for speaking of divisibility “into like parts” is that Descartes does not deny that we can distinguish different faculties within the mind, such as willing, perceiving, and conceiving.  What Descartes denies (on Jacquette’s reading) is that the mind can be divided into parts which are themselves minds.  The idea would be that you cannot divide a mind into parts that are like what you started out with (two or more minds), whereas you can divide a material object into parts that are like what you started out with (two or more material objects).  So, material things have a property that minds lack, viz. divisibility into like parts.  And thus, by Leibniz’s Law, the mind cannot be identified with a material thing.

Suppose we accept Jacquette’s reading.  What should we think of the argument?  It might seem at first glance that the argument fails with the first premise.  For isn’t it simply false to say of material things in general that they are divisible into like parts?  To be sure, if you divide a stone in half, you get two stones, and if you divide a piece of wood you get two pieces of wood.  But if you divide a human body in half, you do not get two human bodies; if you divide a car, you don’t get two cars; if you divide a circular object, you don’t get two circles; and so forth.  Indeed, even with stone and wood, if you keep dividing them you’ll eventually get to something that isn’t stone or wood.

But this objection is too quick.  Since Descartes was obviously aware of these facts, he cannot have meant that if you divide a human body you’ll get two human bodies, etc.  So what does he mean?  Recall that for Descartes, the essence of matter is to be extended in space.  Matter just is extension, and nothing but extension.  Thus when he says that body is divisible into like parts, what he means, no doubt, is that if you divide an extended thing the result will be two or more things that are also extended.  They may not be human bodies, specifically, or cars, or what have you, but they will be extended.  So, given Descartes’ conception of matter, it is certainly understandable why he would take the first premise to be true.

We’ll come back to that, but let’s turn for the moment to the second premise.  If for Descartes the essence of matter is extension, the mind is, on his view, essentially that which thinks to itself: I think, therefore I am.  It is the “I,” the ego, the self which remains in Meditation II after everything else has been doubted away by the end of Meditation I.  When Descartes (as Jacquette interprets him) says that the mind cannot be divided into like parts, I would suggest that what he means is that you can’t break an “I” or ego down into two or more “I’s” or egos, the way you can break an extended thing down into two or more extended things.

Why does Descartes think that the self or ego is indivisible in this way?  Note first that Descartes says that “when a foot, an arm, or any other part is cut off, I am conscious that nothing has been taken from my mind.”  He seems to be alluding here to the argument of Meditation I to the effect that it could in principle turn out that none of his “hands, eyes, flesh, blood [and] senses” are real, insofar as his belief that his body exists could be a delusion foisted upon him by an evil spirit.  The point, I take it, is not that his mind might in principle exist even if his body did not; that would be the thrust of his “clear and distinct perception” argument for dualism, and the “indivisibility” argument is presumably supposed to be an independent argument for dualism.  The point in the present context seems rather to be to give an example of something that might at first glance appear to be a part of the self which on reflection is not really part of the self at all.  An arm might seem to be a part of the “I” or ego, yet the “I” or ego can conceive of a situation in which it turns out that the arm does not exist, and perhaps never existed but was always only ever a hallucination, and yet where the “I” or ego nevertheless exists all the same.  Hence the arm isn’t really a part of the “I” or ego, but at best just something contingently attached to it.  And of course, if separated an arm certainly wouldn’t constitute another “I” or self all on its own.

But couldn’t there be a case of a mental (as opposed to bodily) part of the self which, if it were to be lost, would constitute another “I” or self that has split off?  In particular, don’t the phenomena associated with “dissociative identity disorder” and “split brain” patients provide evidence that this can happen?  As I noted in Philosophy of Mind, the significance of such phenomena has been greatly exaggerated.  How to interpret these cases is a matter of controversy, and in my view there is nothing going on in them that amounts to a single mind splitting into two, but merely a single mind becoming severely addled.  But suppose for the sake of argument that in some of these cases there really are two or more utterly distinct minds where previously there seemed to be only one.  Would Descartes have regarded this as a refutation of his thesis?

I think not.  Suppose you found yourself in a situation in which another mind suddenly seemed to be sharing control of your body.  Perhaps it would invade your thoughts and you would consciously struggle with it for control, like Steve Martin does with Lily Tomlin in the movie All of Me.  Or perhaps it would completely take over control for extended periods of time without your realizing what is going on, as in (too-late spoiler alert!) Fight Club.  Either way, I imagine Descartes would argue as follows: You could easily conceive of being rid of this second mind or self and carrying on “one and entire” without it, just as you can conceive of your “I” or ego carrying on “one and entire” in the absence of your arm or foot.  And in that case this other mind or self was never really a part of the “I” or ego at all, any more than the arm or foot was, but only something contingently associated with it.  Even if it seemed that it had “split off” from you, this would be an illusion.  It could only ever have been something contingently attached to you which you had belatedly become aware of, like a barnacle on a ship that has been attached to it for weeks before it is detected and scraped off.  For if this second self had ever really been a part of you, then you could not conceive of continuing “one and entire” without it.  You would instead be conceiving of a case where you persist in a diminished or incomplete way in the absence of this other mind or self.  But in fact what you are conceiving of is continuing in a complete way in the absence of something alien which had for whatever reason come to be attached to you.  A purported second “I” or ego which splits off from my “I” or ego is thus like the body: I can conceive of existing without it, and thus it is not really a part of the original “I” or ego at all.

If this is correct, then Descartes’ argument might seem to go through.  If the “I” or ego were a material (i.e. extended) thing, then since from any material thing you can split off a part that is itself a material thing, it should also be the case that you can split off from the “I” or ego a part that is itself an “I” or ego.  But that is not the case.  So the “I” or ego is not a material thing.

But not so fast.  The argument is still problematic, and, it seems to me, more because of what Descartes says about matter than because of what he says about the “I” or ego.  For one thing, the argument seems to presuppose that matter is infinitelydivisible, that no matter how far down you go in dividing a material thing you will always be able to divide the resulting parts further.  And indeed, that is precisely what Descartes thinks.  But that is, needless to say, a highly controversial assumption.  Suppose a critic opted instead for an atomist account of matter on which there is a bottommost level of material bits which cannot be divided further, or a corpuscularian theory on which there is a bottommost level that might in principle be divided further but in fact is not so divided.  Would that sink Descartes’ argument?

The Cartesian might respond as follows: Even if there is such a level, it would not help the materialist.  For the materialist wants to identify the self with some material object at the macro level -- in particular, with the brain.  And macro level objects like the brain are in the relevant sense divisible into like parts.  Hence the “I” or ego could not be identified with any of them.

The trouble with this reply, though, is that a materialist willing to think outside the box could decide to identify the “I” or self with an atom or corpuscle.  He could say: “I’m happy to think of the ego or self, as Descartes does, as akin to a Leibnizian monad -- as simple, undivided, or non-composite.  But unlike Descartes and Leibniz, I think it should nevertheless be identified with a material thing that is simple, undivided or non-composite.  It’s comparable to what Leibniz would call the ‘dominant monad’ of a system.  It’s the one atom or corpuscle in the human body that is associated with thought, and governs all the other, unthinking atoms or corpuscles that make up the body.” 

Needless to say, this materialist move would itself be problematic in several ways.  Why would some atoms or corpuscles be associated with thought while others are not?  How exactly does this one purportedly thinking material particle govern the rest? How could there be any material thing, however minute, that is in principle indivisible or non-composite?

But to address such questions would be to go well beyond what Descartes has to say in the indivisibility argument itself.  So, because such questions would need to be addressed -- and because I think Descartes’ own conception of matter is just wrong -- I think the “indivisibility” argument as it stands is not compelling.  But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t insights in it that couldn’t be developed into a better argument.  Indeed, we Aristotelian-Thomists would certainly hold that there is a sense in which any material substance can be decomposed into component parts (insofar as even the simplest or bottommost material substances are still going to be composed of substantial form and prime matter).  And Thomists also hold that there is a sense in which the soul is simple or non-composite (though of course it does not have the absolute simplicity that is unique to God). 

But spelling all this out would take us far from anything distinctively Cartesian.  And that is no surprise.  As I have noted in earlier posts (here, here, and here) what is of abiding value in Descartes’ arguments typically turns out to be the elements he borrowed from the Scholastic tradition that preceded him rather than the novelties he introduces.

Nyāya arguments for a First Cause

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As I noted in an earlier post, arguments for a divine First Cause can be found in Indian philosophy, particularly within the Nyāya-Vaiśeșika tradition.  They are defended by such thinkers as Jayanta Bhatta (9th century A.D.), Udayana (11th century A.D.), Gangesa (13th century A.D.), and Annambhatta (17th century A.D.).  Translations of the key original texts and some of the most important studies in English are not easy to find, but useful discussions are readily available in books like Kisor Kumar Chakrabarti’s Classical Indian Philosophy of Mind: The Nyāya Dualist Tradition, Ben-Ami Scharfstein, A Comparative History of World Philosophy, and Parimal G. Patil’s Against a Hindu God: Buddhist Philosophy of Religion in India.

As with Aristotelian and Leibinizian versions of the cosmological argument, the Nyāya arguments are not arguments for a temporalFirst Cause.  On the contrary, the material universe is regarded as having always existed.  To be sure, the world is thought of as being cyclically created, destroyed, and recreated, but the material substrate underlying it persists throughout.  This substrate is conceived of in atomist terms.  The objects we perceive are wholes composed of parts.  The smallest perceivable parts are called triads, each of which is composed of three dyads, which are imperceptible.  Dyads in turn are each composed of two atoms, which, naturally, are also imperceptible.  The atoms, unlike the composites made out of them, neither come into being nor pass away.  They are the basic furniture of the material universe, indivisible and indestructible.  For the Nyāya atomist, there must be some such level of parts because otherwise things would be infinitely divisible, and thus have an infinite number of parts.  And in that case we would not be able to account for the different sizes of things, since if everything had an infinite number of parts they should all be of the same size.  (Compare Zeno’s paradox of large and small, from which he draws a very different lesson!)  The Nyāya view is also that a material effect is always made out of preexisting matter, so that the fundamental, atomic level of matter is not a kind of effect.

So, what Nyāya arguments for a First Cause purport to explain is neither the beginning of the universe (for it had no beginning) nor the existence of the atoms (for they are regarded, not as a kind of material effect, but rather as the basic preconditions of there being any material effects).  What such arguments purport to explain is rather the most fundamental sort of material effect, the kind that underlies every other, viz. the existence of dyads.  The reasoning is not that if we trace effects backward in time we’ll get to a temporally first effect, such as the Big Bang, and have to ask what caused that.  It is rather that if we trace effects downward here and now we’ll get to a metaphysically most fundamental sort of effect, the existence of dyads, and need to explain that.

Nyāya arguments also deploy a distinctive version of the principle of causality, according to which any effect requires a causal agent that is aware of the material stuff out of which the effect is made, desires to bring that effect about, and wills to do so.  The stock example is that of a pot, whose maker is aware of the clay out of which it is made, desires to make that clay into a pot, specifically, and wills to do so.  Why suppose that every effect has such a cause?  The Nyāya answer is that artifacts (pots, etc.) provide many confirming instances of this general principle, and that atoms are not counterexamples because they are not effects in the first place.  Moreover, though the atheist would claim that composite material things that are not artifacts (stones, etc.) are counterexamples, this charge (so the argument goes) begs the question.  For whether or not such objects are at least in part the effect of a causal agent with awareness, desire, and will -- namely God, as cause of the dyads out of which the objects are composed -- is precisely what is at issue.

No doubt the atheist will balk at this move, but Chakrabarti not implausibly suggests that it is really no different from the sort of move materialists commonly make in response to objections raised by dualists.  To take just one example (mine rather than Chakrabarti’s), if a dualist claims that material phenomena are all directly knowable from the “third-person” point of view whereas mental states are directly knowable only from the “first-person” point of view, the materialist will typically respond that by itself this claim begs the question and is thus no refutation of materialism.  For the materialist might argue that whether mental states really can be directly known only from the “first-person” point of view is precisely part of what is in question.  If the materialist regards this as a legitimate way of disarming a seemingly obvious counterexample to his position, why can’t the Nyāya theist similarly disarm the purported counterexamples atheists would raise against his version of the principle of causality?

With this background in place, I suggest that we might summarize the basic thrust of Nyāya arguments for a First Cause as follows:

1. Dyads are the fundamental sort of effect.

2. Any effect is the product of a causal agent which has awareness, desire, and will.

3. So dyads are the product of a causal agent which has awareness, desire, and will.

But why suppose there is a unique causal agent of this sort, and why attribute the divine attributes to such an agent?  The Nyāya approach to answering such questions might (roughly following Chakrabarti) be summarized as follows.  For the reasons already given, the causal agent in question must have awareness, desire, and will.  But it nevertheless cannot be comparable to a human causal agent.  For one thing, since human beings are composed of dyads, their existence presupposes dyads and thus cannot be the explanation of dyads.  For another thing, being imperceptible, the atoms out of which dyads are composed are not the sort of thing of which human beings can be aware, and a causal agent of the sort the argument posits must be aware of the materials out of which it makes the dyads.  So, the causal agent in question must, unlike human beings, be incorporeal.  Since it exists before the fundamental effect does, it must be without beginning.  If it is without beginning it must also be simple or non-composite, otherwise it would itself have parts and would exist only after those parts are combined.  If it is simple and thus without parts to be broken down into, it must be everlasting.  And considerations of parsimony (what in Western philosophy is called the principle of Ockham’s razor) tell against there being more than one such causal agent. 

Naturally, the Thomist is bound to find the overall project of such arguments congenial.  But he is also bound to take issue with the details.  Even if we were to accept atomism or some variant on atomism -- in the traditional philosophical sense of “atomism,” that is (naturally I do not deny the existence of atoms in the modern sense in which the term is used in physics) -- atoms would, for the Thomist, still have a cause.  For they would be composites of substantial form and prime matter and of essence and existence, and (as the Nyāya argument itself emphasizes) what is composite requires a cause.  (See pp. 177-84 of Scholastic Metaphysics for exposition and defense of the Aristotelian-Thomistic critique of atomism.)  Thus, the Nyāya argument is, from a Thomistic point of view, not radical enough in its attempt to trace the world to a divine cause.  Still, we cannot be too hard on it on that account.  That what is composite has a causeis an absolutely crucial insight in natural theology, and it is key to the Nyāya approach.

So, the Thomist would disagree with the claim of premise 1 that dyads are the fundamental sort of effect, but he would certainly agree with the deeper point that whatever the most fundamental composites turn out to be would require an efficient cause.  There are also problems with premise 2.  Here I think the atheist would be right to complain that we can’t draw general conclusions about efficient causality from the example of artifacts, because artifacts are rarer (indeed much rarer) than effects where no cause having awareness, desire, and will is evident.  So, while we are certainly justified in holding that composites, including non-artifacts, must have an efficient cause, getting to a cause that has awareness, desire, and will would require much further argumentation. 

Still, there is something to what the Nyāya approach is saying.  For the Thomist, we must attribute to any causal agent active potencyor power; potencies or powers are always directed toward the generation of a certain effect or range of effects; and what is in an effect is always first in its total efficient cause in some way, whether formally, virtually or eminently -- this last point being the Scholastic “principle of proportionate causality.”  (See chapters 1 and 2 of Scholastic Metaphysics for exposition and defense of the Aristotelian-Thomistic approach to efficient causality.)  These features are arguably analogous to those which the Nyāya premise 2 attributes to efficient causes.  In particular, active potency or power is analogous to “will,” the directedness of a cause toward its effects is analogous to “desire,” and a total efficient cause’s having what is in the effect before the effect is generated is analogous to “awareness.” 

But of course, non-human natural causes do not really have “will,” and non-animal natural causes do not really have “desire” or “awareness.”  For the Thomist, most of the efficient causes operative in the natural order are completely devoid of sentience, intellect and will (even if they ultimately derive their causal power, at every moment at which they operate, from a divine First Cause).  The Nyāya approach, tying efficient causality as it does directly to awareness and will, seems to threaten to lead to occasionalism.

William Wallace, OP (1918-2015)

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Fr. William A. Wallace has died.  Wallace was a major figure in Aristotelian-Thomistic philosophy of nature and philosophy of science, and the author of many important books and academic articles.  Still in print are his books The Modeling of Nature: Philosophy of Science and Philosophy of Nature in Synthesis(a review of which can be found here), and The Elements of Philosophy: A Compendium for Philosophers and Theologians.  Among his many other works are his two-volume historical study Causality and Scientific Explanation, the classic paper “Newtonian Antinomies Against the Prima Via” which appeared in The Thomist in 1956 (and is, unfortunately, difficult to get hold of if you don’t have access to a good academic library), and a collection of some of his essays titled From a Realist Point of View.  An interview with Wallace can be found here, and curriculum vitae hereHere is the text of a series of lectures by Wallace on philosophy of nature, and here is a YouTube lecture.  Some of Wallace’s articles are among those linked to here.  RIP.

Capital punishment should not end

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Four prominent Catholic publications from across the theological spectrum -- Americamagazine, the National Catholic Register, the National Catholic Reporter and Our Sunday Visitor -- this week issued a joint statement declaring that “capital punishment must end.”  One might suppose from the statement that all faithful Catholics agree.  But that is not the case.  As then-Cardinal Ratzinger famously affirmed in 2004, a Catholic may be “at odds with the Holy Father” on the subject of capital punishment and “there may be a legitimate diversity of opinion even among Catholics about… applying the death penalty.”  Catholic theologian Steven A. Long has issued a vigorous response to the joint statement at the blog Thomistica.net.  (See also Steve’s recent response to an essay by “new natural law” theorist and capital punishment opponent Christopher Tollefsen on whether God ever intends a human being’s death.) 

Apart from registering my own profound disagreement with the joint statement, I will for the moment refrain from commenting on the issue, because I will before long be commenting on it at length.  My friend Joseph Bessette is a professor of government at Claremont McKenna College.  Joe and I have for some time been working together on a book on Catholicism and capital punishment, and we will complete it soon.  It will be, to our knowledge, the most detailed and systematic philosophical, theological, and social scientific defense of capital punishment yet written from a Catholic perspective, and it will provide a thorough critique of the standard Catholic arguments against capital punishment.

More on that before long.  In the meantime, interested readers are directed to my previous writings on capital punishment.  In 2005, at the old Right Reason group blog, I engaged in an exchange with Tollefsen on the subject of capital punishment, natural law, and Catholicism.  My contribution to the exchange can be found here:


In a 2011 post I commented on the failure of some churchmen to present the entirety of Catholic teaching on the subject of capital punishment, and their resulting tendency to convey thereby the false impression that the Church’s attitude on this issue is “liberal”:


In 2011 I also engaged in a longer exchange with Tollefsen on the subject of capital punishment, both at Public Discourseand here at the blog.  My side of the debate can be found at the following links:





Finally, in a 2012 post I addressed some common confusions about retributive justice and its relationship to revenge:


Joe Bessette is also currently completing his own, separate book on capital punishment: Murder Most Foul: a Study and Defense of the Death Penalty in the United States.  Some of his previous writings on capital punishment and criminal justice more generally are linked here:

Why the Death Penalty is Fair (with Walter Berns)


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