Waterboarding: Problem with the Political Discourse of Ethical Issues

I’ve said before that our public discourse concerning political and ethical issues lacks a certain philosophical foundation. The categories and distinctions philosophy provides can prove tedious, but they offer an important common language that we can use to dissect current issues. They allow us to distinguish between issues that are multi-layered and nuanced.

One of the philosophic distinctions missing in political discourse is the concept of inherently disordered acts. Instead of looking at acts in and of themselves, we tend to look solely at their consequences. In this way, our ethics has succumbed to a purely utilitarian outlook. Acts are good if they have a positive outcome – if they bring more pleasure to a larger amount of people – and acts are bad if they have a negative outcome.

For example, in the common discussion of torture, or enhanced interrogation methods, we normally focus on the outcome of the torture. Of course, there is lingering idea in most people’s minds that torture is unpleasant and that this may be a reason for disliking it; but the real determining factor is whether or not torture is effective.

If the pro-torture faction can prove that torture has in fact had positive results – like leading us to Osama – then they are one step closer, perhaps the final step, to demonstrating that torture is justifiable. And the faction opposing torture allows itself to fall into the same argument. It usually spends time trying to convince the public that torture has not had any tangible positive results, as if this is the reason we shouldn’t do it. Yes, it’s unpleasant; but it is really un-justifiable because it doesn’t provide us with anything that a more pleasant means of interrogation can’t.

The discussion should begin with the act of torture – or, more precisely, with the specific act in question, i.e. waterboarding. We must determine whether the act, in and of itself, can ever be performed. If not, then the debate is over. Period. If so, then we can move to questions like the need for torture, or the outcomes of the act.

Until we get back to the original discussion at hand, we aren’t really “doing ethics;” instead, we’re dealing with a form of mathematics, like economics. Just as a business deal is positive if it provides a profitable outcome, so too with moral acts. But this isn’t ethics. Ethics deals with humans as humans, as capable of understanding the world in a non-utilitarian mode.

Perhaps the problem is that a materialistic view of the world only allows for a utilitarian mode of ethics. Perhaps we need to see man as more than simply mass and matter in order to see that ethical debates are more than listing pro’s and con’s.

Defining Lying and Such

Introduction

I vividly remember having a conversation about ethics in high school. It concerned the morality and/or immorality of lying “for a good cause.” As usual in ethical debates, we drew the extreme situation in order to exercise and test the validity of the axioms we were claiming. In this case, we brought up the case of hiding Jews during WWII. If a Gestapo officer were to come into your house and ask you whether or not there were Jews in the house, can you say no if the answer is yes?

This sort of debate resurfaced in a the recent case when members of Live Action, a prolife group, impersonated false identities to uncover real reactions and advice from Planned Parenthood. Peter Kreeft wrote an article in response to this situation, defending the deeds of Live Action, and thereby defending the possibility and reality of lying not being immoral. I don’t intend to discuss the specifics of this ethical situation, but instead focus on the Catholic Church’s perspective on lying. In particular, I want to consider the definition of lying.

The Universal Immorality of Lying

Before diving into the varied and nuanced definitions of what it means to lie (even though it seems awfully obvious), I want to make it clear what the Church, via the Catechism, says about the morality of lying.

“By its very nature, lying is to be condemned” (2485).

“…behavior that is intrinsically disordered, such as lying…” (1753).

Lying is “intrinsically disordered.” Therefore, however, we decide lying is to be defined, no good purpose or positive intentions can make it right. We then get to the real sticking point: Is the definition of lying simply the act of not telling the truth, or is there something other implied? For example, is it lying if you don’t tell the truth to someone who “doesn’t deserve to know the truth?”

Two Definition and Their Issues

It seems obvious that in general use, the term “lying” simply refers to a statement of intentional falsity. If this is how the CCC defines it, then one can never lie, since the act of lying, as defined by the Church, is always disordered. For now, let me call the common everyday-use definition of lying “falsehood-telling.” We will discuss whether or not these two terms are one in the same; but for now, it will be helpful to distinguish between them.

It is important to note, when discussing the definition of the term lying that the CCC switched its definition from one edition to the next. Most online commentators choose the version that best fits their argument. Here’s the first definition:

“To lie is to speak or act against the truth in order to lead into error someone who has the right to know the truth” (CCC 2483).

This feels like the definition that I learned informally in discussing ethics. However, this definition was changed to read:

“To lie is to speak or act against the truth in order to lead someone into error” (CCC 2438).

Absent from this is a distinction made concerning the person to whom the lie is being spoken. In version 1, lying is contingent upon to whom you speak the falsehood. This is not the case in version 2. Of course, in version 2 (the present version) we still get the rather vague phrase “to lead someone into error.” I’ll deal with this at the end.

Why the Switch? Is the First Null?

My first question is, “Why the switch?” Was it because the first version is in fact completely incorrect and false? On the one hand, I want to say yes: that would be why they “corrected” their mistake. On the other hand, I want to say no: I’m not sure it would have made it into the first edition if it were flat-out wrong. So the first question leads to a second: “Is the first version now completely null?”

Perhaps they changed the definition because it could be used too easily to defend some wrong things. For example, since “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23), we could make the claim that no has a right to know the truth. At the very least, with this earlier definition of lying, it may be easy to justify lying to anyone that might seem not-so-pious. And what about the Christian-libertarian who says it’s alright to lie to the IRS since they don’t have a right to know the truth, since the truth in this case would concern our private monies.

So one mode of explanation is to say that the first version, while not incorrect, is just too prone to misuse. Or perhaps it simply isn’t correct. But was it correct while it was in print? And what if a 3^rd version nullifies the 2^nd version? I guess where I’m going with this is to say that perhaps none of the CCC’s statements, in any edition, are incorrect; but those in high places have a right and duty to make sure things are worded in such a way as to avoid misuse. This, of course, doesn’t completely explain the complete removal, from version 1 to 2, of the importance of to whom one is lying.

The Necessity of Second Part

Before deliberating on the meaning of the second part of the definition – “in order to lead someone into error” – let me take a moment to discuss its necessity in the CCC’s definition. I write this in response to an article I read that said that the CCC is saying that all lying is the same as falsehood-telling, since the second part of this definition isn’t really defining the act of lying so as much as dealing with a separate ethical issue, that of the intention; and since good intentions can never redeem an intrinsically immoral act, then lying for good intentions, or not intending to lead one into error, is still lying, and therefore always wrong. But I think this is a rather silly reading of the second version of the definition in the CCC.

Let me state it again: “To lie is to speak or act against the truth in order to lead someone into error” (CCC 2438). Basically, the arguer I was referring to above sees the proper definition as only the beginning of the statement: “To lie it to speak or act against the truth,” while the second part is concerned only with the intention of the act. There are two, somewhat obvious, problems with this.

First, this is not what is stated. The meaning of the sentence above, from a grammatical standpoint, is that the second part of the sentence is necessary; it is part of the very definition of lying. Let me use an analogy: If I were define “double-dribbling” in basketball, I may say something like, “Double-dribbling is when the player begins to dribble the ball again after having come to a complete stop.” The phrase “again after having come to a complete stop” is completely necessary to the definition; it is actually false without it. If I were to use the logic of the above arguer, I would say that double dribbling is “when a place begins to dribble the ball.” And this is obvious false.

The second argument pointing out the necessity of the second part of the definition is simply the fact that CCC chose to write it in. If to lie were simply “to speak or act against the truth” then that’s all that would be written. The second part would not be so closely connected, in a grammatical and meaning sense, to the first part.

Vagueness of Second Part of Definition

Of course, this does nothing to begin to plump the ambiguous depths of the phrase “in order to lead someone into error.” What does this mean? Let me try to tie this definition and phrase back to the Nazi-Jews situation. If I were hiding Jews from the Nazis, and a Gestapo asked me if I had Jews in my house, and I said no, obviously I would be speaking against the truth – but would I be leading someone into error?

On the one hand, yes: I am leading him into error, simply by making him think something that is contrary to the truth. But on the other hand, by saving the Jews, I would be consequently, even if incidentally, possibly saving the Gestapo from doing something very wrong to the Jews, like killing them or sending them to concentration camps. From this perspective, I would not be leading him into error; in fact, I would be preventing an error. But is this simply semantic nonsense? I don’t know.

In a certain way, the term “lead someone into error” can be a more easily abused phrase. If I lie in order to make a person feel better, am I leading them into error? If I lie in order to make someone do something right – i.e. “Don’t perform an abortion, or else you will die before the age of 50” – am I leading them into error? I don’t see the secondary definition clearing up any of the ambiguity of the first one. Perhaps the second version was intended to open up more exceptions rather than stem the tide, and not because Catholics like ethical loopholes, but simply because the issue is not so black-and-white.

Perhaps the second part of the statement simply means something like “intending a person to believe the untruth.” If you consciously lie in hopes of making the person believe the untruth, then you are lying. Perhaps it’s as simple as this. I don’t know. But then all falsehood-telling would be lying and therefore wrong, no matter the intent.

Kreeft’s Point

Kreeft brings up numerous interesting points. One of the most arresting, and I think persuasive, is the fact that the person hiding the Jews has a second and more important ethical claim: his promise to keep the Jews safe. On the one hand, this makes much sense. Even if telling a falsehood to the Gestapo would be lying, if I told them the truth, I would be forfeiting a higher ethical call, that of protecting those God has put in my care.

While I like this, it does potentially make the situation more opaque. Can this same logic let me outright kill people, in the name of keeping the Jews safe? Where is the line that I can’t cross? While the issues in this logic are real, I don’t think the argument should be discarded because of them. Real-life ethics is complex, and many attempts to simplify it often oversimplify and thereby misconstrue it.

Gut Feeling

There is something deep inside of me that rebels against a model of morality that disallows me to lie to the Gestapo to save the Jews. I grant that this is an emotional appeal. However, it feels rooted in my beliefs in the sanctity of life. This is no argument on its own. I have two possibilities that explain this feeling: a) The model is flawed. b) My gut feeling is wrong. I think that our ethical gut-feelings tend to be correct, especially when they are developed correctly. But, of course, our emotional reactions can be incorrect, sometime because of our fallen nature, sometimes for others reasons. For example, when Osama was killed, people rejoiced in his death; people wished him to be in hell. Both are decidedly disordered; in some ways, the latter is the most un-Christian thing to ever wish upon anyone, including Satan. So the “gut” is an important, but most definitely not the paramount, mode of judgment.

But still, a world where you can’t lie to the Gestapo to save a family of Jews? This doesn’t jive with so much other Christian feeling in me. I feel like Ivan Karamazov when I say this rather dramatic line (that I’m not sure I mean): Perhaps I reject a God, even if He is real and in charge, who has a system of ethics such as this.

Final Thoughts / Using the Definition Correctly

I’ll end by returning to the definition discussion, and cautioning our use of throwing around the world “lying” – at least in terms of Catholic ethical thought. Because the CCC doesn’t simply define the immoral act of lying as “telling a falsehood,” because it uses an additional phrase (albeit different phrases at different times), we can’t simply refer to all cases of falsehood-telling as lying. When we do, the case is already settled: the Church definitively states that all lying is always wrong. What we need to do is decide whether a specific instance of falsehood-telling also fulfills the more specific and nuanced definition of lying in the CCC.

For example, we shouldn’t ask the question, “Can a person lie to the Gestapo about hiding Jews?” This is morally settled. No. What we should ask is, “If a person tells a falsehood to the Gestapo about hiding Jews, is this lying, according to the Church’s ethical teaching?” If so, then it’s wrong. If not, then it might not be. You may disagree with my use of falsehood-telling, and say it’s one and same as lying. On the one hand, yes; but only in the usual sense of the term. When the CCC defines lying, it adds a phrase intentionally, and so it adds a level to the sin of lying beyond simple falsehood-telling. When we speak of ethics and grave matter, it is important to be specific.

Reframing Ethics: Our Perspective on Sin and Its Consequences

When it comes to ethics in general, and Christian ethics in particular, I think that outsiders and insiders alike make incorrect assumptions about the nature of sin and its consequences. For example, why does the Catholic Church say that premarital sex is wrong? Well, the argument goes, simply because they do – because they have the power to. There’s a certain level of randomness to sin – or perhaps malice: i.e. premarital sex is pleasurable, so the Church says it’s wrong.

Additionally, we often make incorrect assumptions about the consequences of sin. We can view it like we view legal systems. Punishment should “fit the crime,” when this is possible; but it isn’t intrinsically connected to the act of breaking the law. For example, if I steal a significant amount of money, that money should be returned – and perhaps more, along with jail time – but the stealing of the money doesn’t naturally necessitate the return of the money. We need an outside force – cops, judges, and legal systems – to enact this. And so with sin, we think that God “assigns” a punishment for our sins – a punishment that may fit the crime, but one that isn’t necessitated by the actual act of sin.

We need only look to the Greeks about 2,600 years ago to realize that the human race has often been confused about the nature of ethics. I think people tend to view morality the way Socrates presented religion in the text of Euthyphro. In this Socratic dialogue, Socrates questions Euthyphro, a priest and therefore an expert on piety, about the nature of piety. He asks this simple question: a) Are things pious because the gods say they’re pious, or b) are do the gods say they’re pious because they’re pious? In other words, a) do the gods simply decide what is good and bad, or b) do they simply relay this information?

For Euthyphro, both options are challenging. If he agrees with A, that the gods decide what is good and bad, then he is claiming that piety is arbitrary: things are not pious or impious inherently; an arbitrary decision makes them “thus or thus.” However, Euthyphro can’t find solace in option B either, that the gods simply relay the piety or impiety of things, since this would mean that “the pious” would precede the gods, thereby devaluing the gods themselves – something a priest doesn’t want to do.

A lot of people, Christian and outsiders, view Christian ethics like option A: The Church makes blanket statements about right and wrong – premarital sex is bad; eating meat on Fridays is bad; donating money is good – but these statements are essentially arbitrary. There is nothing inherently wrong with these supposed “sins.” Because people believe in the accidental nature of sin, they believe in the non-causal relationship between the sin and the “punishment.” 10 x premarital sex = 2 years in purgatory, or something like that.

Let me offer a Christian answer to the Euthyphro dilemma, and through doing this, offer a Christian perspective on sin and its consequences. Socrates offers a false dichotomy. He presents two options to Euthyphro, without acknowledging that there could be other options. I don’t blame either Socrates or Euthyphro; I think certain unique and awesome characteristics of God were revealed first through Christianity. Regardless, here’s a third option: Piety (or goodness) is the nature of God. Therefore, what is pious and good – and therefore what is right and wrong – isn’t arbitrary; it’s based on what God is or isn’t. Further, piety doesn’t precede or undermine the eternalness of God, since it is the nature of God.

Even though the world remains other to God, it is made in the image and nature of God. What is good reflects the pattern of reality as in God, and what is bad is somehow a disruption in this pattern. Good is a reflection of God, while Sin a negation or distortion of Him. This may sound all very cosmic and unconnected to practical day-to-day choices; however, we can all chose against life and existence – by giving into the negating and solipsistic tendency to selfishness – and we can all chose life and existence, by living in the communion of man-to-God and man-to-man.

In this light, “living a good life” has less to do with rules and commands, but simply being reflective of existence, living within the pattern of Being – aligning our being with Being. Living this sort of life has less to do with “pleasing the one above,” and more to do with living the sort of life that is most in line with reality; it is about living the sort of life that is that is best for us. So why does the Church say don’t have premarital sex? Because it isn’t good for us – no other reason.

This is a paradigm shift from “It’s bad for you because it’s sinful” to “It’s sinful because it’s bad for you.” Consider someone battling with giving in to premarital sex. He may feel cautious because he thinks it’s sinful; and as a “sin,” it is accompanied with guilt and consequences – perhaps even eternal punishment. But he is battling with “the consequence of the sin” and not the “act of the sin,” unconsciously finding no direct correlation between the two.

But in reality, the consequences of sin are natural by-products of sin itself. Sin is bad because it naturally produces negative results. “The wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23). Therefore, the consequences of premarital sex is what premarital sex naturally causes. The “list of sins” that the Catholic Church has created is simply a list of revealed acts that universally have negative effects on individuals. So the man battling with the temptation to premarital sex shouldn’t think that the sin would be fun and pleasurable, but the consequences, as determined by the Church or God, would be a negative and arbitrary by-product of the pleasure; instead, he should recognize that the act itself is somehow in conflict with reality or existence, and therefore he, in his deepest self, doesn’t in fact desire the act.

Just like the Christian answer to Euthyphro appeals to nature – i.e. piety is the nature of God – so too does the Christian ethics appeal to nature: The consequences of sin are the natural results of the sin. The chemist doesn’t say, “If you take enough rat poison, I will make sure you die, because I just don’t want you taking rat poison.” No; he says, “Enough rat poison itself will kill you.” The Church doesn’t say, “If you sin too much, God will not let you enter heaven.” No; She says, “If you sin too much, you are choosing not to enter heaven.”

I have two potential issues with this – issues I have answers, but not ones in which I’m not completely confident. First, what about sins like “not eating meat on Friday” and “not going to Mass on a Sunday?” I don’t think there’s a natural consequence to eating meat on a Friday, even if we’re in Lent. Second, what about Hell? What temporal action can be taken by fallen man that would naturally results in eternal damnation?

Let me take the former first. It seems apparent that, despite my earlier protestations, that certain sin is arbitrary. God’s first directive is “don’t eat this fruit.” As in Lewis’s Perelandra, perhaps God wants man to choose Him simply for Him, and not because of the natural repercussions of the act. Not eating meat on Friday would fit into this category. Of course, there is reason for this sort of rule: learning to control our natural appetites is an extremely important thing. As for other “arbitrary” rules like having to go to Mass on Sunday, there are reasons, too: God’s desire for us, coupled with our need for Him, is such that a once-a-week encounter with His living presence is so incredibly to our benefit and so essential to our spiritual survival that making this a “rule” is a good thing. But even with rules like these, they are to our benefit, not limitations.

Now to Hell. I’ve always had an internal question about Hell. What is it that man, with an inclination toward sin he did not chose, can do in his temporal existence that would deserve eternal damnation? There’s an unfairness that seems inherent in the very idea of perpetual punishment. For me, CS Lewis explores this idea in the most understandable way in his The Great Divorce. In a world after life, but neither heaven nor heaven – a quasi-purgatory – individuals make the decision to enter the realm of heaven, or travel further away, ultimately distancing themselves from God and others. How the individuals acted in life inclines them one way or the other; but the final decision comes after death. The chosen nature of heaven and hell gives me a reasonable look into the heaven-hell dilemma. Hell isn’t the punishment of sin; it is the chosen path by the sinner, the natural end result of a life without God or Godliness.

Charles Williams, an Anglican like Lewis, has explored the same idea in some of his novels. Like Lewis, often the ultimate decision made by the individual for heaven or hell – for God, life, and communion, or for solipsism, aloneness and selfishness – happens outside of temporal life. I think the reason for positing such a place of decision outside of physical history is to avoid the problem of the seeming limitations that our life on earth forces upon us. Death comes so quickly for many, and who is to say that the deceased has made a final decision for God or not-God? By allowing a space between the unpredictability of life and the finality of the afterlife, even in fiction, these writers offer us narratives concerning hell and heaven in ways that reveal the natural connection between sin and its consequences.

Beauty and Truth

And St. Augustine issues this challenge: Question the beauty of the earth, question the beauty of the sea, question the beauty of the air distending and diffusing itself, question the beauty of the sky . . . question all these realities. All respond: "See, we are beautiful." Their beauty is a profession [confessio]. These beauties are subject to change. Who made them if not the Beautiful One [Pulcher] who is not subject to change?

Thus the CCC quotes Augustine (32), and this idea is taken up by many writers I am sure. 'Tis not, I think, a panacea for the doubts of skeptics, but it does raise an important point: it draws the conversation about teleology (not having taken philosophy in an organized manner, I'm not 100% sure of terminology; I mean here arguments about causality) into the dimension of beauty. I think the beauty of truth is a fairly key component of "Good"; logical relations of facts (which may be actual or hypothetical) are transformed into Truth, and we call this Good (rather than rational, or 'not illogical').

One point of significance for debate (which is not the most important thing of course), is that the skeptic must not only ground morality (or dismiss it as a myth) but he must also ground our experience of beauty...I think this one is harder to dismiss -- one can say the moral claim [love thy neighbor = good] is false or nonsensical, but one cannot say the "beauty claim" [love thy neighbor = beautiful, in opposition to using/hating thy neighbor] is false, because it is perhaps more obviously subjective. But of course, subjective interior attraction to ethics and nature could be tied to pro-life or pro-societal traits of evolutionary fitness.

If nothing else, though, the believer at least can draw renewed inspiration to turn to the Father with delight, for "all Thy works praise Thee, O Lord" (Ps 145:10)

Let's Begin a Conversation about Islam

I have been thinking about Islam lately. I’ll admit that this present interest comes from watching Body of Lies, with Russell Crowe and Leonardo DiCaprio. (The movie was OK, but not incredibly successful.) However, this religious question has been on my mind for much longer.

I suppose the major question I have been posing and churning goes something like: Is there an inherent connection between the violence of terrorism – and all that goes along with this – and the religion of Islam? I know that I need to read up on this. I don’t know how long the Koran is, but I feel like I should begin here. All of this is simply to say that my spouting here is really critically unexamined and un-researched. However, most of my points aren’t final points or conclusions; they’re simply common-sense observations, most of them making analogies to my own understanding of Christianity and Catholicism.

Observation #1: Perhaps there are certain hostile and violent words, commands, or themes in the Koran or other important Islamic texts. I’m not sure, but let’s accept for now that there is. Well, there are certain things in the Bible that we outright reject, at least in its literal, contemporary interpretation. For example, the Bible says to kill adulterers and homosexuals, as well as other potentially disturbing things. As a believing Catholic, I know that we need to understand the social context of these Biblical passages, as well as other important interpretative information granted me by being Catholic and understanding Catholicism. However, why wouldn’t this be the case for the Islamic texts? Why are we willing to accept that certain hostile Biblical passages aren’t inherently hostile, but aren’t able to do this for Islamic texts?

Observation #2: There are incredibly violent and disturbing things done by people living now and recently in the name of Islam. But let’s remember our Christian history, particularly the Crusades. There was a lot done that was outright horrible in the name of the Christian God. We are able to see that these actions aren’t really connected to the Christian religion. However, we are hesitant to do this for the actions of the Islamists today, perhaps because it’s more present to us. But the Crusades were present at one time. Why are we able to separate the actions of specific Christians – the Crusades, sex-scandal, etc. – from their religious beliefs, even when these beliefs informed the action (according to the misinformed Christian), but not do this for Islam?

Observation #3: To combine #1 and #2, aren’t there specific passages in the Koran that disallow the killing of innocent people? Should we see the actions of certain contemporary Islamists as in contradiction to their religion? If not, why not?

Observation #4: I’m not sure if you took a poll throughout the whole world, what percentage of Muslims would consider themselves extreme, or extreme in our sense of the word. However, I’m pretty positive that this would only apply to a very small percentage in America. Therefore, in terms of a national dialogue, why are outsiders allowed to make assumptions and conclusions based on other peoples’ religion, people who disagree with these assumptions and conclusions? To make another analogy, I vehemently hate when people make claims about Christianity or Catholicism. When people say that my religion is oppressive or sexist or irrational or other such things, I like to say or think, “No, you don’t understand the religion if you think that. In fact, who are you, a non-Christian, to make claims about my religion?” So who are we to make claims about Islam, as outsiders? Why would I trust my word, even if it were more researched, over the word of someone in my own country who actually practices the religion?

Observation #5: I think one of the problems with this whole discussion is the lack of centrality in Islam. They don’t have hierarchy and structures like Catholicism. For example, it’s pretty easy, even if the answer is nuanced and complex, to find out what the Catholic Church teaches on a specific topic. We don’t have this with Islam. However, we treat Islam as if it were centralized, as if it were one static set of doctrine and dogma. I’m not sure where I’m going with this observation, other than saying that this is an important piece of information that we need to recognize and respond to in a critical manner.

Observation #6: In all of my analogies (I think there were 3), there are differences between the Islamic and Christian examples. Every analogy limps. So I know someone can respond and say something like, “Yeah, but Christianity is different than Islam because of X; and therefore, your argument fails to make its complete point.” I’m sure this is true at times. However, are we faced with differences to the extent that we, as outsiders of a multi-faceted world religion, can properly and reasonably conclude that this religion is inherently violent, basing our ideas on the actions and words of flawed and sinful people and the potentially inaccurate interpretation of another religion’s holy book?

Observation #7: When it comes to this discussion, I think the public and political focus should be on the things that we see as incorrectly practiced by people of this religion, and not on the religion itself. For example, probably most Muslims in America disagree with the statement that Islam is inherently violent; but they would agree that whipping or killing a girl that is raped, instead of supporting her and punishing the man, is seriously disturbed. We might disagree whether Islam “gets you” to this social practice or not, but we all agree it is wrong. (Side note: I see this sort of social practice as a “holding on” to ancient social ideals more than a religious thing. For example, a raped girl in ancient Greece (and Rome, too, I think) was defiled and better off dead.) The discussion of the inherent qualities of Islam should be explored, but in a more theoretic, philosophic, and theological manner, rather than a constant conversation in current political discourse. This leads to misinformed and/or lacking discussions.

Observation #8: Of course, what I need to do now is research more. I need to read the Koran, or pieces of it; and I need to read commentary from all perspectives: biased and attempted objectivity.

Is Cognition All That Important?

I’m on a bit of a “knock Descartes” tear, but this isn’t a bad thing. Of course, this Frenchie is someone people love to hate; it’s cliché to pick apart the problems in his “Western” mode of thought. Still, there is often, perhaps subconsciously, a train of thought that runs through my mind as follows: “You don’t want to believe in Descartes’ ideas and conclusions because it would mean that you cannot and will never really know anything for sure; and you don’t like that idea, do you?” Therefore, when I arrive at real issues with Rene, I chose to write them out; and since I’m writing them out, I may as well post them on the blog.

Let me get back to the Cartesian cogito. There is nothing incredibly wrong or illogical in saying, “I think; therefore, I am;” there’s nothing quite incorrect in saying that our cognition is a possible mode for proving our personal existence. However, what the cogito does not prove is that cognition is the only mode of proving things exist, that cognition is necessary for existence – or that cognition is what gives value to existence. Now, I don’t think Descartes thought that these were the case; however, it seems to be a byproduct of his intellectual endeavors. If cognition is necessary to prove existence – which I’m not saying is true; but Descartes thought so – then we can’t be sure of the existence of anything else without cognition. What happens here is an undue focus put on cognition. We can value it too highly; we can end up thinking that cognition is somehow necessary for the sake of value itself. This is logically false.

Here’s a faulty and probably stupid analogy. Let’s imagine that I have taken my undergraduate at Seton Hall University. One of the major modes of proof for this fact is my transcript. I can take this information and convince others and myself that I have indeed attended Seton Hall for 4 years, from the years 2001-2005, and that I earned a college degree. But is there any real connection between this piece of paper and my actual 4-year experience at Seton Hall? Not very much: the piece of paper simply happens to be a decent mode of proving that I was actually at Seton Hall for 4 years. Let me apply this to the cogito. Cognition is a nice mode of proving that I exist. However, there’s no real connection between my existence and my cognition. Yes, cognition is part of my existence, but only in the sense that it is one part of my present state of being. If I went into a coma tonight and lived for 5 more years, I would be existing without cognition.

I think the modern world unconsciously accepts some of this Cartesian falseness. How can we, as a global community that is moving toward equability and recognition of human value and freedom, be so callously ignorant in our discussion of the unborn? Somehow since the baby is out of sight and unable to think and reason, it is easier for us to think its existence isn’t proven – or, to be more appropriate, its value as a human person is not proven, since it has no cognition.

Let’s look at the other groups of people we tend to disvalue: the elderly, the handicapped, and the terminally ill. In many of these cases, cognition is hugely lacking. Old people who can’t think: Is this even life, we ask? But value does not come from cognition. One of the fears of accepting this fact is accepting that value comes elsewhere. When we think value comes from the chemical and biological processes involved in the brain that ensure consciousness, we have no need to look for value in anything that isn’t material. We have rightfully placed even value within a material category. Recognizing this error means either accepting the nihilism of valuelessness, or looking beyond the material for the sake of value.

The Frenchie and The Logical Error of Subjective Reality

I recently read an article in First Things about Heidegger by David Bentley Hart. It was a real good piece. Hart does what every good writer on Heidegger should do: make Heidegger comprehensible without losing his opaque and poetic incomprehensiveness.

The article touches lightly on Descartes. Heidegger, like Nietzsche, saw Descartes as the beginning of, or at least a major development in, the decline of Western thought – specifically, for Heidegger, Western thought’s discussion of Being/being. To be fair, Heidegger saw the foundational problem in Plato, in the Greek tendency to solidify and eternalize things not solid or eternal, and to create and sustain categories for things that are un-categorize-able.

But this whole conversation about Descartes got me re-thinking about the crazy, Catholic Frenchie. Descartes holds a significant place in my heart. Reading his Meditations on First Philosophy in my Introduction to Philosophy class was incredibly powerful and memorable. The initial framework for the text is narrative and easy to follow, and this made the ideas embedded within the narrative easy to follow. As a college freshman, Descartes’ hyperbolic doubt was both freeing and melancholic – and I don’t think you can ask for much more for a college freshman.

In more recent history, I still return to Descartes. As much as I reject the basic conclusion in Meditations, this is mainly because Descartes cannot rebuild what he destroys: his hyperbolic doubt is too powerful for his reworking of Anselm’s deontological argument for God. However, I often return to his initial premise – i.e. What is it that we can really know for sure? – and, although I reject Descartes’ path to surety, it is because of his failure to provide this surety that I am left with initial question: Can we know anything for sure?

Now, I know ways of answering this, and I’m satisfied with these sorts of arguments. The major issue is Descartes and others’ use of “knowledge” and how we “know” things. Still, it remains obvious to me that, according to a painstakingly strict empirical mode of epistemology, I can’t really prove anything but my existence. I can’t reason my way, empirically, outside of my own brain. But I’m not concerned with this problem or my own reasons why it isn’t really a problem. Instead, I’m concerned with the improper logical leap people make after accepting a certain set of his principles.

Philosophical historians, rightfully so, point to Descartes as pivotal in the development of subjective thought. Quite simply, he begins by saying we can only prove our own individual existence, and only from this point can we prove anything else. Whether or not you accept this premise is unimportant to my commentary. Let’s say, for the sake of the argument, that you do accept it. Let’s hypothetically agree that the only thing we can prove is our existence via our thought, our doubt – or, more appropriately, everything additional we can prove comes after and hinges upon our proof that we in fact exist.

What I’ve recently come to take issue with is where people go from this point. Even if we assume our proof of everything else in the world begins with proof of our own subjective existence – and even if this makes all other proof in some way subjective – this does not mean that all of reality is somehow defined through human existence. Our lens might be chosen for us and relative (our lens = our individual perception), but this doesn’t mean that the world we see through the lens is in anyway affected by the subjectivity of the lens.

Let’s get specific. Why is reality or morality subjective simply because our perceptions of these things may be subjective? This isn’t good logic. Perhaps, on account of our subjectivity, we can’t get to the objectivity; but this in no way means it doesn’t exist; plus, who’s to say one can’t use subjectivity to arrive at objectivity? That’s for another post…

Let’s get specific again. Why is truth or un-truth based on what we can prove through our subjective reality? Take God, for example. Either God exists or He doesn’t, and His existence or non-existence has nothing at all to do with our own existence. Somehow we can come to the conclusion that if we can’t prove His existence, then He mustn’t exist. But why is the world outside in anyway contingent upon our own modes of experience and knowledge. If Descartes proved anything, he proved the supreme limits of empirical knowledge – so why then would we assume that anything we can’t prove empirically can’t exist? Isn’t this simply a silly, naïve view of reality? Isn’t this like the toddler who puts his hands over his eyes and then assumes no one can see him?

More and more, I see those who point to the subjectivity of our existence as the basic for believing all is subjective as either blind and naïve – like our college freshman – or simply egotistical. How egoistical? By reversing the logic. Perhaps our perceptions of reality come to us only through our own subjective existence; but this in no way implies that reality is in any way shaped like or by those perceptions. This is the egoism of modernism.

Christmas Jingles, Utilitarian Christianity, and Reality as It Is

I love traditional Christmas music and carols; however, I really dislike almost all pop-Christmas music. It always presents to me with the image of a solitary man at a bar on Christmas Day, smoking a lone cigarette and nursing a double whiskey, no ice. As the music on the jukebox is playing “Santa is Coming to Town,” he tries to forget all of the mistakes he made in life that led him to be spending Christmas alone at the only bar open for 10 miles; but for the life of him, he can’t forget.

Enough of that. The real introduction to my topic is the song referenced above: “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.” One of the verses ends with this: “He knows if you've been bad or good, / So be good for goodness sake!” I always hear the second line first and think, “Yeah, we should be good for goodness sake.” Then I internalize the first line. In the song, children are being asked to be good not for goodness sake, as the second line makes it seem, but because Santa can see when children are good and/or bad, and he gives presents accordingly.

This gets me thinking about a version of Christianity – or perhaps “an articulation of the faith” is a better phrase – that always seems to unsettle me. I’m not sure if it’s automatically a false version of the faith, or simply a version with a misplaced focus. It’s the version of Christianity that focuses on reward. “Do good, so that you’ll get to heaven.” “Love your neighbor, because it’ll get you a crown in heaven.” “Love your enemies, so you can enter heaven earlier.” And so on.

I call this the “Utilitarian Version of Christianity:” The rules and dictates of the faith are worthy to be followed because you’ll end up in a good place. The consequences of following Christianity are worthwhile.

When I read Camus’ issues with Christianity, this is what I always see as his stumbling block. He finds a lot of truth and beauty in the Christian religion – in particular, its ideas of love, brotherhood, unity – but he finds the flaw in the fact that Christianity offers a reward for cooperating with those things: Heaven; eternal happiness.

There is much of the Bible that presents the faith as such. The Gospels are replete with dictates that we should follow Christ or do X or not do X “in order to attain eternal life.” And St. Paul is often more extreme. He tells us to love and smile at our enemies in this world, and to be sure we’ll see them burning on hot coals in the next. (I think this is in “Romans” – but I’m not positive; it’s one of his epistles, though.)

As odd as it sounds, I think the old Christmas jingle “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” helps demonstrate this seeming paradox. The second line is trying to claim that we should be good for goodness sake: we should act right because it is right, not because of the risks/rewards. However, the song is about Santa coming to give gifts to the good children, and overlooking the bad ones. It’s all about him “watching” you and “knowing if you’ve been good or bad.” So ending the verse by asking the children to be good for goodness sake seems ridiculous.

But shouldn’t we be good for goodness sake? Isn’t that the real point? It’s the heart of the Christian faith God’s love for us, and secondarily our response to that love, directed at Him and others? Shouldn’t I love my enemies because they are creations of God Almighty; as fellow-humans, aren’t so intrinsically connected to my own humanity, in a bond that is a reflection of the Trinity?

I often find myself during the holidays arguing with different family members about faith and morality. Often, I’m presented with the question: “So why does the Church say not to do X? Because it’s enjoyable? They love saying you can’t do things that are enjoyable.” And I have to repeat the same thing: The Church says not to do X because X isn’t good for me. It isn’t arbitrary; the Church attempts, through revelation, to get at the heart of reality, and formulate a system that best works with reality. And so I don’t do X because it isn’t good for me; and it isn’t good for me because it isn’t in line with “Reality as It Is.”

The Christian faith isn’t about rewards, then; it is about aligning oneself to Reality as It Is. If Heaven is the ultimate goal, this is only because it is the ultimate or final step in Reality as It Is.

So I’m not sure if the earlier proclamations about the Faith are fine, misguided, or just wrong. Perhaps they’re simply one way of viewing a complex matter. Even so, I find them an ill-advised way.