Say Hello to my Little Friend
The Beretta Blog and Podcast

the blog and podcast of Glenn Peoples on philosophy, theology, politics, social issues


Thomas Aquinas is famous for – among other things – his five arguments for Christian theism, arguments called “the five ways” (quinque viae). The first way is the argument from the unmoved mover. The second way is the argument from the first cause (commonly called the cosmological argument). The third way is the argument from contingency and the fifth way is the argument from purpose (not from design, contra Richard Dawkins), namely the teleological argument.

What is the fourth way? In popular apologetics (and anti-apologetics) it is often referred to as the “moral argument” for God’s existence. However, if it is a moral argument, it is unlike any other moral argument you’re likely to hear. In Aquinas’ words:

The fourth way is taken from the gradation to be found in things. Among beings there are some more and some less good, true, noble and the like. But “more” and “less” are predicated of different things, according as they resemble in their different ways something which is the maximum, as a thing is said to be hotter according as it more nearly resembles that which is hottest; so that there is something which is truest, something best, something noblest and, consequently, something which is uttermost being; for those things that are greatest in truth are greatest in being, as it is written in Metaphysics. ii. Now the maximum in any genus is the cause of all in that genus; as fire, which is the maximum heat, is the cause of all hot things. Therefore there must also be something which is to all beings the cause of their being, goodness, and every other perfection; and this we call God.

If after reading this you’re wondering “where’s the moral argument in that?” you’re not alone. I’m not faulting the argument itself in saying that. It’s an argument in its own right, it’s just not a moral argument.

The moral argument as we know it was overtly introduced into philosophy of religion by Immanuel Kant. His was an argument that sought to explain the existence of moral duty, which is what we’ve come to expect of moral arguments. Moral duties are lacking in Aquinas’ fourth way. Aquinas’ argument is a platonic argument (an argument influence by Plato). In Plato’s thought, things that exist in the world are shadows of ideal things that exist in the world of forms or ideas. For example, a thing is a good train to the extent that it resembles the train, a blueprint of the perfect train, a train existing in the world of forms. This is the form of a train. Likewise, things that have goodness in this world, the “world of sight” as Plato put it, are good to the extent that they resemble the good, the perfect form or idea of goodness in concrete form (concrete in the sense that Plato spoke of “the good” rather than the more abstract “goodness”).

What Aquinas is really arguing here is that something perfect exists. After all, he reasons, degrees of perfection exist in things around us, but if degrees of perfection exist, then something maximally perfect exists, something that all other things resemble to the extent that they exhibit perfection.

Maybe you could re-tool the argument into a moral argument along the following lines: The best people in the world are righteous, and the worst are wicked, and this is a matter of fact. But if we measure things as righteous or wicked then there must be some standard according to which we measure them, something perfectly righteous that people can either resemble or fail to resemble. And this perfectly righteous thing is God. Make no mistake, this was not Aquinas’ argument. It also would not be the best version of the moral argument, even if Aquinas had argued this way. I’m not even sure that it’s sound, but if you want a moral argument closely modelled on Aquinas’ fourth way, that’s about as good as it gets.

Glenn Peoples

NB: My opinion is subject to change without notice.

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Alexander Pruss recently presented this “fun argument for dualism” at his blog:

  1. (Premise) Our embodiment is universally seen as funny.
  2. (Premise, justified inductively by 1) Our embodiment is objectively funny.
  3. (Premise) The essence of the funny is incongruity.
  4. (Premise) If materialism is true, there is no incongruity in our embodiment.
  5. (Premise) If materialism is false, then dualism is true.
  6. There is incongruity in our embodiment. (2 and 3)
  7. Materialism is false. (4 and 6)
  8. Dualism is true. (5 and 7)

My reply: Don’t ever do that again, or anything like it.

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Here’s the fourth installment on my series on the mind-body problem.

In this episode I look at the argument against physicalism from the afterlife. Here, some dualists argue that if physicalism were true, then the resurrection of the dead would be logically impossible. Their argument is:

  1. The doctrine of the resurrection of the dead entails that people will be raised back to life who are the same people who died long ago. In other words, they will have the same identity.
  2. Sameness of identity requires unbroken metaphysical continuity (that is, the continued, uninterrupted or “non-gappy” existence of whatever thing the functioning person is, whether a physical thing or an immaterial mind).
  3. In physicalism, it is logically impossible for there to be unbroken metaphysical continuity between a physical person who died a hundred years ago and a person who will be raised to life in the future.
  4. Therefore if physicalism is true, the doctrine of the resurrection of the dead is logically impossible. Stated differently, a physicalist cannot consistently believe in the resurrection of the dead.

How might a physicalist respond to this line of argument? Listen to find out. As promised in the episode, here are a few pieces of work by Trenton Merricks that relate to some of the material I cover:

“How to Live Forever Without Saving your Soul,” in Kevin Corcoran (ed.) Soul, Body, and Survival: Essays on the Metaphysics of Human Persons (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001), 183-200

“There Are No Criteria of Identity Over Time,” Noûs 32:1 (1998), 106-124.

“The Resurrection of the Body and the Life Everlasting” in Michael J. Murray (ed.), Reason for the Hope Within (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 261-286.

Enjoy. :)

Oh, one other thing: I’ve added a new feature to the blog: Buy me a beer. So if you like this episode, feel free to shout me a pint!

Glenn Peoples

If you liked this post, feel free to help support this project. Buy me a beer!

 
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Recently I posted a blog entry on the difference between ethical naturalism and ethical non-naturalism (explaining that the former of which is not the same thing as metaphysical naturalism). I also indicated there that not everyone shares the same understanding of what “naturalism” really refers to, and I explained what I think. In brief, I think the most helpful way to distinguish between ethical naturalism and ethical non-naturalism is as follows: In non-naturalism, moral “goodness” is a basic quality, not constituted by anything other than itself, not defined in terms of any non-moral facts, and not caused by any descriptive state of affairs. If any of these conditions (or anything relevantly like them) are met, then the view in question is a species of ethical naturalism. Yet another way of putting this is to say that ethical non-naturalism affirms the existence of sui generis, irreducible, brute moral facts. Stated differently yet again, according to ethical naturalism, the true claim “X is morally wrong” has a truthmaking set of true statements that do not use moral terms like “wrong” or “right.”

I entertain a divine command theory of ethics, and I think that one of a couple of versions of the theory (or anything that is similar to these versions) is the most plausible version. According to those versions, either: a) God’s willing or commanding that we do or not do an action causes that action to be morally right or morally wrong, or b) The property of being morally right or morally wrong just is (i.e. is identical with) the property of being morally right or morally wrong.


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G. E. Moore

G. E. Moore

Every now and then (and I’m assuming that this is true of most people who specialise in subject areas), I feel the urge to raise a complaint or point of clarification about a common phenomenon in a field of study (in this case, meta-ethics), and to explain why I think that something should be explained differently from the way that a lot of people explain it, or why I think that a widely held assumption or belief on the part of those who work in that field isn’t quite right. However, I’m also aware that sometimes that complaint needs some context or it won’t make a great deal of sense to a lot of people.

It’s a bit like standing in the room with a chemist who is intently focused on an experiment that he is undertaking while he also follows someone else’s notes. About two hours into the experiment he throws up his hands and says “Oh for the love of Pete, why did he have to use sodium monohydrogen phosphate? It’s obvious that he should have used sodium dihydrogen phosphate!” As an observer, you wouldn’t really know what either of those chemical compounds were, or why a chemist should use one rather than the other. In order to make the comment in a way that is helpful to the observer, the chemist would need to say “Look, this is the experiement I’m conducting. Here is what I’m trying to figure out. This is the method the other guy followed. He used sodium dihydrogen phosphate, and here is the effect of sodium monohydrogen phosphate. See how that effect isn’t going to be what the experiment requires? Now look, I’m going to use sodium dihydrogen phosphate, and look, it does just what we need.”

OK, enough with the analogy already. In some of the work I’m doing on meta-ethics, the moral argument for theism and divine command ethics, I’ve frequently encountered a characterisation of divine commands – one even accepted by some who advocate a divine command theory – which I think is unnecessary and unhelpful, but in order to say why I think it is so I need to first explain the subject matter that is the context of this characterisation. That subject matter is the concept of ethical naturalism.


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The podcast is back. Here’s part three of the series on philosophy of mind. We’ve moved from dualism in part one through to physicalism in this episode. I look at epiphenomenialism, reductionism, nonreductive physicalism and a constitution view.

As promised, here’s some suggested reading for those who want to look into the subject futher:

Nancey Murphy, “Nonreductive Physicalism and Free Will” http://www.metanexus.net/magazine/tabid/68/id/10501/Default.aspx

Nancey Murphy, “Is “Nonreductive Physicalism” an Oxymoron?” http://www.metanexus.net/magazine/tabid/68/id/10865/Default.aspx

Nancey Murphy and Warren Brown, Did My Neurons Make Me Do It?: Philosophical and Neurobiological Reflections on Moral Responsibility and Free Will (Oxford University Press, 2009).

Joel B. Green and Stuart L. Palmer (eds), In Search of the Soul: Four Views of the Mind-Body Problem (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2005). This volume includes contributions from Stewart Goetz (Substance Dualism), William Hasker (Emergent Dualism), Nancey Murphy (Nonreductive Physicalism) and Kevin Corcoran (Constitution View).

Joel B. Green (ed.), What About the Soul?: Neuroscience and Christian Anthropology (Abingdon Press, 2001). This volume includes contributions from Bill T. Arnold, D. Gareth  Jones, Joel B. Green, Patrick D. Miller, Charles E. Gutenson, Stuart L. Palmer, William Hasker, Michael Rynkiewich, Virginia T. Holeman, Lawson G. Stone and Malcolm Jeeves.

Warren S. Brown, Nancey Murphy and H. Newton Maloney (eds), Whatever Happened to the Soul: Scientific and Theological Portraits of Human Nature (Augsburg Fortress, 1998). This volume includes contributions from Nancey Murphy, H. Newton Malony, Ray S. Anderson, V. Elving Anderson, Francisco J. Ayala, Warren S. Brown Jr., Joel B. Green, Malcolm Jeeves, H. Newton Malony and Stephen G. Post.

Kevin Corcoran, Rethinking Human Nature: A Christian Materialist Alternative to the Soul (Baker Academic, 2006).

The website of Timothy O’Connor, featuring a number of articles.

Happy reading, and I hope you find this episode interesting! :)

Glenn Peoples

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A. J. Ayer

It has been a while since I added an installment in the “Nuts and Bolts” series, where I lay out some of the fundamental ideas and terms used in philosophy (and I’ll do some in theology as well). This time I’m briefly covering the perspective called logical positivism, a point of view with important consequences in science, epistemology, ethics, philosophy of religion and probably a whole lot more.

Logical positivism was primarily an earlier to mid twentieth century movement, arising among a group of philosophers now referred to as The Vienna Circle, but I won’t wade through the history of the movement here. Logical positivism is not a standpoint on what is true and what is not. Instead, it’s a standpoint on what kind of utterances count as real statements that have meaning.


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I’m going to start by painting pictures of two viewpoints. It might not be clear at first why I’m doing it, but just stay with me, all will be explained shortly.

On the one hand imagine a group of people who are moral relativists. Moral relativism is the view that there are no transcendant moral facts, but only relative moral perspectives. Regardless of one’s view of morality, pretty much everyone believes that a plurality of moral perspectives exist. This is just to say that not everyone agrees on moral issues – hardly a controversial observation. Different individuals and different cultural groupings hold different beliefs about morality. But moral relativists go much further than this simple factual observation. Moral relativists believe that this diversity of moral beliefs is reflective of the fact that there are really no universal moral facts. People hold different perspectives on morality, and those perspectives are all equally correct.

Relativism can be subdivided into two basic kinds: Subjectivism and conventionalism. Subjectivism is an individualistic take on relativism, where every individual person determines their own morality. Not only does a person decide what they believe about morality (a phenomenon that we all observe), but a person literally determines what is morally right for them. The boundary of moral truth is the individual. What is really moral within those boundaries depends on that individual, and is not binding on anyone beyond that boundary. You might hear overtones of subjectivism from people whether they have actually decided on subjectivism or not; “Abortion: maybe not right for you, but right for me!” “Don’t impose your moral views on other people, each person has to decide what’s right for them.” “If you think that your morals are right and mine are wrong, then you’re just being narrow minded.” You get the idea.

Conventionalism is more of a “group think” approach to relativism. Here, morality is the custom, consensus, or collective opinion of a group – perhaps a cultural category, tribal group, society, or some other kind of cluster of multiple people. In conventionalist relativism moral values are determined by one’s group, and what is deemed right really is morally right for that group, even if not for others. Different cultures will therefore have different moral codes, and what makes this a relativist approach is the further claim that none of these moral codes can truly be said to be morally better than any other, since there is no morality that stands over and above all different cultures. If I were a conventionalist, while I might not personally like Sharia law, female circumcision or honour killings, I would have no way of claiming that there was anything morally wrong with it, since it is acceptable to those cultures that practice it, and morality is constructed by cultures. As soon as I make the claim that other cultures ought not do those things or that they should conform to the values cherished by my culture, I have overstepped the mark, and I am no longer acting like a relativist.

The opposite of moral relativism is moral “objectivism” or moral “absolutism.” It’s the view that there really are moral facts – claims that are absolutely true, whether we follow them or not. Moral facts, being facts and not conventions, transcend individuals and cultures, much like, say, laws of science. I think that relativism is an absurd position to take, and it is no accident that moral philosophers have no time for it. It’s no accident that, as Chris Goawns noted, moral relativism has the rather undesirable distinction among ethical viewpoints “of being attributed to others, almost always as a criticism, far more often than it is explicitly professed by anyone” (see the “Moral relativism” link above). However, this blog entry is not intended as a critique of relativism, so I will not introduce reasons why I think it is wrong. The first thing I have set out to do is to paint a brief and accurate picture of what moral relativism is.

OK, that picture is painted. As promised, here is the second picture I want to paint. Imagine a group of people who are… there’s probably a really good one-word noun for it, but I can’t think of one off the top of my head, but we’ll call them people-who-believe-in-human-rights (I’d use the term “humanitarians,” but that’s a little broader than just a concern for rights). According to these people, everyone, everywhere, in all nations and cultures – all people – have some basic rights. These rights are basic things in that they’re fundamental. Human rights are not the product of human laws. In fact, these people say, it’s quite possible to have a collection of laws that are fundamentally wrong because they are contrary to human rights. Perhaps those laws deny people the right to freedom of speech or religion. Those laws might deny women to show their face in public. Perhaps those laws forbid journalists to publish anything that is unsupportive of the government. According to these advocates of basic human rights, there would be something terribly morally wrong with these laws, whether the laws were passed here in New Zealand, in Australia, in Japan, in Afghanistan – anywhere in the world. Rights are things that ought to be left alone so that people can enjoy them, and to do otherwise is wrong, whoever you may be. I’m not going to paint a picture that is so detailed that it requires you to imagine each and every one of the rights that these people believe in, for now it is enough just to say that they believe that there are some human rights of an unspecified number.

OK, the pictures have been painted. Now comes the claim that I want people to accept: These two pictures exclude one another. You cannot consistently think of yourself as belonging in both of these groups of people at the same time. You might believe in human rights, or you might be a moral relativist (or perhaps neither of these things apply to you), but you cannot consistently be a moral relativist and a believer in human rights.


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It’s not often that I’m likely to agree with the late Bertrand Russell on a subject like religion. In most ways he was simply dead wrong. However there is one claim he makes that I can happily echo. He said:

I am as firmly convinced that religions do harm as I am that they are untrue.

Funny, I feel the same way! The level of certainty that I have that religion, in and of itself, is harmful, exactly matches my certainty that all religion is false. Well said, Dr Russell.

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Mike Tyson - To know him is to love him?

Mike Tyson - To know him is to love him?

I came across a pretty bizarre claim today, courtesy of one Mr John Loftus. That claim is that omniscience is incompatible with the idea of a God who would inflict wrath. What inspired this unusual claim? Why, Oprah Winfrey interviewing Mike Tyson – naturally, what else?

Apparently Mr Loftus thought Mike was just a big jerk before watching the interview, but after watching the interview that jerked a few tears (OK I exaggerate), since he now understood where he had come from, John’s tune had been changed. And how exactly does this translate into the somewhat left field theological claim made above? Like so:

Once we understand someone and what made that person who he is, we can love him. If I only understood everything about a person and every experience he has ever had that made him who he is, then I could love him completely. An omniscient God supposedly has that understanding of all of us. Hence an omniscient God can never be angry with us. Q.E.D.

Q.E.D.? Seriously? That’s supposed to be a logical proof? How exactly does JL know that if God knew us completely he would also love us completely? This is only true if we are completely worthy of divine love. Are we? Maybe a proof of a similar form actually disproves the argument as follows: If I knew everything about a person, I would know whether or not they are worthy of complete and unqualified love (since this is something about a person). We have considerable flaws that make us unworthy of completely unqualified love. To borrow JL’s turn of phrase, “an omniscient God supposedly has that understanding of all of us.” Consequently an omniscient God knows whether we are worthy of such love and as such would not give us complete and unqualified love, leaving room for the possibility of divine wrath.

Is turnabout fair play?

Glenn Peoples

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