Hypotheses about the relation of sovereign power and the soul

1.) If the whole of man is not above sovereign power, then he rises above a power which extends to death and deprivation. But every person has some part of himself that is beyond all political power. Therefore, every man has a part of himself rising above the power of death and deprivation.

2.) If there is a soul, then there is a part of man that need not fear the power of the sovereign. But the whole of man must fear the sovereign power; therefore man has no soul transcending nature.

3.) If man rises above the fear of death by a power inherent in himself, then he need not rely on the power of Christ to be delivered from the power of death. But man must rely on the power of Christ to be so delivered, therefore etc.

4.) (same as three, with no reference to Christ, but put simply in terms of a need to be delivered from death.)

 

Prime movers

Aristotle made the number of prime movers, logically enough, equal to the number of prime movèds or mobiles. He wasn’t sure how many such mobiles there were: he had a hunch that there was only one, but the authorities of his time said there were over 50.  What does our physics think?

Presumably energy moves all things before anything else, and so far as we see it as shifting forms and being applied now here and now there we see it as mobile as well. But if this is right, why posit a mover of the energy itself? Isn’t this like positing a mover that makes steam expand, or a mover that tugs metal for magnets? Presumably, steam expands simply by itself, and magnets need no assistance to drag ferrous metal. If energy just is, as the textbooks agree, the ability to do work, and so to move things from one place to another, what help does it need to move anything? Why look for some cause other than this?

Aristotle would probably want to appeal to the ways in which energy not only moves, but is required to have a real and not merely logical unity projected onto something that is of itself merely an unconnected heap. Conservation laws must ultimately be cashed out on the level of the universe, and they presuppose that any form of energy can be cashed in for another form, and we either have to say there is some real cause of this or that the conservation laws are merely logical constructs. But such a cause would have to affect its work without using energy, or else our explanation becomes circular. This seems to require some cause ordering and giving an intelligible structure to energy, or whatever primary reality we posit to account for motion in different modalities.

But perhaps a more direct way to the idea of a prime mover from energy might begin with the textbook definition of energy as the ability to do work. While clear enough for physical purposes, this description glosses over an ontological division between abilities in first and second act. Things have the ability to move others both when they are doing so and when they aren’t, and so defining energy though an ability to move can’t of itself explain why anything is actually in motion; though it will allow us to say that all in motion is moved by energy, and this energy by definition moves it.

On this account of the first mover, it is the being whose essence and activity are identified, i.e. there is no difference between what he is and what he can do. Said another way, the first mover is that which is essentially in second act, that whose ability does not stand equally to action and inaction. Just what we are to make of such a being – if the idea is coherent at all – is not entirely clear, but we seem to be committed to the idea that such a being is either impossible or necessary.

Legislating Exceptionless Manners

Call manners a contingent expression of various universal desires – on this account sex, eating and friendship are universal desires while polygamy or rape culture; eating at table or with utensils; associating only with ones own race or with all races are manners. But this won’t get us close enough – manners also have to relate more or less directly to our relationships with other persons. And so while agriculture or tax law or scientific funding are in one way or another contingent expressions of universal desires (to eat? to survive? to know?) they don’t count as manners.

For Americans. the Civil Rights Act remains a watershed moment in the attempt to legislate manners, and the success of the law (where “success” has its most uncontroversial meaning of “accomplishing what it set itself to do”) has given great confidence in the power of law to affect manners in a far reaching way. The success of the Civil Rights movement is taken by many groups both the justification and the promise of what they are trying to do. It is the proof their enterprise can work too, and not only work but work justice.

This approach to manners makes them not only legislated but also universal or exceptionless – i.e. they apply to all places and times without exception. You can’t go off into the hills and form your own discrimination club, nor are there special festivals of discrimination at various times which allow everyone to exclude other races from whatever they’re doing. We view such exceptions as negations of the very thing we are trying to do. Our sense is that if we allowed groups or festivals like this they could only be proofs that what we were trying to do was a lie that no one believed in – the exception would be taken as showing what we really wanted to do, while the rule would be only a pretense or affected show.

But this view of manners is itself contained under manners, since it is a contingent expression of the universal desires. It is a contingent fact that exceptions are seen as negations; they might just as well be seen as confirming the existing order. Inverting a given order in some place or time is simply one way of recognizing it as the given order. To put a theoretical spin on that claim, perhaps the universal desires that we experience in ourselves are not the sort of thing that can exist in a single exceptionless set of manners. Perhaps the rule is rational, but human beings are not entirely rational in the same sense – perhaps there is some dark and irrational force that needs to be given its due as well.

I’m not arguing for exceptions here, only pointing out that they rest on an implicit and contingent anthropology. We must think either that there are no dark and irrational forces within us or that practical reason can deal with at least some of them by universal prohibition. We either deny all dark urges or deny they have any legitimate expression. The first option seems utterly ruled out by experience, which leaves us having to address the problem of how we can be essentially constituted by something that has no legitimate expression. Christianity has a clear and consistent answer to this paradox though the idea of original sin, but the secular world has yet to hit on an adequate response to the problem. Freudianism at least recognizes the problem, though the secular world no longer believes in Freud any more than in original sin.

But we can only get by so long without a serious institutional response to the dark forces intrinsic to the person. Just what will take the place of the divine will and initial act of creation? It seems quaint to insist on the necessity of the cultured gentleman. We might get by for a while by seeing the dark forces as not dark at all – perhaps when we let the lion out of the cage it will turn into a kitten. This is unlikely – chances are are we’ll spend a few years trying to crush it with more and more Byzantine legal restrictions before it dawns on us to raise the question of why we are trying to repress it at all.

Immoderate laughter and holiness

The saints rail constantly against immoderate laughter, though to leave it at this almost certainly makes them seem like sanctimonious twits. One approach to seeing the truth of what they’re saying is to see the holy as characterizing a situation or lived space which totally excludes jokes and irony. Flannery O’Connor describes a character recognizing this characteristic of the sacred in The River: 

Bevel rolled his eyes in a comical way and thrust his face, close to the preacher’s. “My name is Bevvvuuuuul,” he said in a loud deep voice and let the tip of his tongue slide across his mouth.

The preacher didn’t smile. His bony face was rigid and his narrow gray eyes reflected the almost colorless sky. There was a loud laugh from the old man sitting on the car bumper and Bevel grasped the back of the preacher’s collar and held it tightly. The grin had already disappeared from his face. He had the sudden feeling that this was not a joke. Where he lived everything was a joke. From the preacher’s face, he knew immediately that nothing the preacher said or did was a joke. “My mother named me that,” he said quickly.

“Have you ever been Baptized?” the preacher asked.

In this sense the holy has a strange affinity with the terrible. One of the hardest things to explain to people who didn’t live through September 11th is just how gravely serious the days were after it happened: radio stations that played bubble-gum pop cut all their programming and commercials and just turned into 24 hour reporting stations; late night comedy shows were mothballed for over a week and came back without jokes; football was cancelled on the following Sunday, etc. Everything lighthearted, entertaining, ironic, bawdy, clever, etc. all vanished. It was not so much that it was inappropriate to the time, though it was, but rather that it seemed to entirely lack its proper basis.

The holy and terrible are not dour or stuffy, but they do exist in a space above humor or irony. A partial explanation of this is found in the fact that both transcend normal, familiar categories of human experience since humor – like the sexual personhood that will always be the deepest source of humor – is something peculiar to human personhood.

This might account for the close unity between holiness and dread: it is not a mere recognition of sin, since even if one were sinless he would still feel this peculiar sort of dread in the holy places. The pocket catechism descriptions of the “fear of the Lord” all tend to miss this peculiar sort of dread in the face of the transcendent, and instead miss what fear of the Lord is in a desire to distinguish so called “servile fear” from “filial” fear. Fear of the Lord is the first awakening we have to the transcendent, understood as that place in which what we are doing is not something we can joke about.

An extreme thesis in natural theology

A: I’ll just say it – we need to posit evil in God.

B: But this is a settled question. God is entirely good and admits of no evil. It counts as a relatively rare case of philosophy coming to a definite conclusion. Placing evil in God would make him both good and evil, and therefore somehow incomplete, or that-than-which a greater could be thought.

A: I agree that God is entirely good, but this is why I want to place evil in him. Let me explain that. You accept that if God exists, the argument from evil must be unsound?

B: Absolutely.

A: And wouldn’t you also say that if the argument from evil is unsound, it must be because it is better to overcome evil than to never let it arise?

B: This seems right.

A: But then it is better to place evil in God as that which is eternally overcome than that which never arises.

B: Let me think about that.

A: God’s supreme goodness is his supreme overcoming, not some sort of serene, Platonic separation from the world that he made. He is the exemplar of what the world should be.

B: And so you see the drama of this world as reflected in the life of God himself?

A: Absolutely. Isn’t this what the Christian thinks? You have God tempted by Satan – but it is crucial to the story that he could have fallen – you aren’t Docetists, after all. Christ “had no sin” in the same way Adam did – it wasn’t given in advance that he couldn’t fall. We can’t vacate from Christ this moral victory in the face of evil, but to make his virtue invulnerable certainly seems to do just that.

B: What else do you think this explains?

A: It can make more sense of the reality of Hell, I think, and the value of Christ’s eternal sacrifice. We visualize Christ’s sacrifice as something which, even if it was made once, is now being done “automatically”, as though his offering to the Father is not ongoing. Where is the drama in that? One might as well be redeemed by an idol – if he simply stands there before the father like a fountain or a back-yard water feature that simply “pours out” grace automatically. We can likewise see the necessity of the eternity of Hell – it is populated by those who choose to be eternally overcome by infinite goodness.

B: Infinite goodness? But then how is there any drama in your God? How could infinite goodness ever lose out to evil?

A: Precisely because the infinite goodness consists in his continual overcoming.

B: So now we’re talking about continual overcoming – about time and incompleteness.

A: Maybe so. But the alternative, it seems to me, is to have a god so bound by his necessity that his personality is completely ridiculous. We only add personality on when we are forced to, and not because it is integral to our conception of God. How thin is St. Thomas’s reason for divine personality! What is it “that which is most perfect in nature is the person, etc.” But this idea of perfection is precisely the sort of determined act that freezes the divine existence.

B: So this is what it comes to – another complaint about the static character of existence in natural theology. Another complaint that it gives us an impersonal God.

A: Well, yeah.

Bias and reason

From an article speaking of confirmation bias:

In 2009, a study at Ohio State showed that we will spend 36 percent more time reading an essay if it aligns with our opinions

But a preference to spend more time reading things you agree with is either not a bias, or some biases are reasonable. It is almost tautological to say that, ceteris paribus, you spend more time with what you prefer, and so if bias means nothing more than preference then bias is both desirable and unavoidable. But presumably biases are irrational or distorting preferences, i.e. preferences that occlude the truth.

Confirmation bias really happens, and is easy enough to prove with experiments on even small groups of persons, like Peter Wason’s 2,4,6 experiment. But while it’s true that we spend more time looking for confirming evidence than disconfirming evidence, it does not follow that a person with perfect objectivity would spend an equal amount of time looking for both, and just what the appropriate time-ratio would be is probably a ridiculous question to raise.

But there is a deeper problem: calling something confirmation bias is just the first move in trying to out what a reasonable approach to evidence should look like. True, in Wason’s experiment almost everybody will fail to find the rule Wason wants them to find, but it doesn’t follow that a more reasonable person would be just as zealous to disconfirm an initial idea as to confirm it. For all I know, the sort of person that does well in the Wason experiment might make a worthless scholar; and my suspicion is that something like this might just be the case. It may not be reasonable to be just as open to doubt as to confirmation in our initial experiences with things, still less that we should prefer doubt to confirmation (Teleb, for example, argues that we should, and Descartes does the same thing with his methodological doubt).  Perhaps doubt can only be effective on a basis that can only be established by a preference for confirmation.

Cognitive research isn’t my field, but I’ve tried to read widely in the popular lit. One concern I have is with a short term bias that can’t yet raise the question of what a long-term view of what a reasonable person would do in the face of evidence. This is tied to a deeper question of what exactly counts as a reasonable response, and getting some short-term answers systematically wrong might well be compatible with this.

Two more Nows

4.) The Now of Remembrance. While physical nows divide up time purely sequentially, such that if there is a sequence of events A,B, C, then B is closer in time to A than C is, the now of remembrance is not like this. Birthdays, Anniversaries, events in the liturgical year, etc. are all moments when we experience being closer to an event in the past than we felt, say, two months before, even though the moment two months before was closer in sequential, physical time. We are closer to the resurrection on Good Friday than we were last Christmas, even if the latter is closer to it in physical time.

5.) The Now of Music. The melody is somehow whole, happening now, without needing to be present at once.

Different nows

1.) The now of physics. Discovered clearly from the beginning of physics, it is the infinitesimal boundary of past and future. It came to be an answer to an equation, a location in a “dimension”, where a dimension was a variable quantity we needed to know in order to figure out where an object was.

2.) The psychological now. Discovered by William James, it was the length of a single act of focused mental energy, lasting at most a few seconds, though this sort of description was extrinsic to it. It’s the length of time you can train on something before making that shift to processing it in memory. It was later discovered to have a basis in the structure of how the brain processes information.

3.) The now of conscience or of religious awareness. This is the now that Catholics speak of in the Hail Mary. It is the now of moral decision or the awareness of the significance of choice. It is in this now that we have to reject temptation, take the steps towards right, listen to the promptings of conscience, etc. It is crucial to understand this as a now – since the heart of this experience is the sense that something cannot be put off to later. The decision might not be dramatic – it might just a prompting to get back to work and stop screwing around, but it still happens within that now of decision.

Interestingly, we tend to treat now (1) as the definitive now on which the others are based, but it is clearly the most hypothetical and unconfirmable of all the nows. Physics has yet to say anything about the necessity of an infinitesimally small time that somehow limits past and future. The paradoxes involved in this are perhaps insurmountable, and it’s hard to see how we could ever physically confirm the existence of infinitely small quantities. Now (2) is at least confirmed experimentally. Now (3), however, is the most immadiately known and least theoretical of all the nows, and they are all, in different degrees, abstractions from its much richer ontological reality.

“God sees the future now”

When we say “God can see the future now” the now cannot mean to indicate a moment opposed to the past and the future. But this has consequences for what we mean by him knowing the future, since this future is defined precisely in opposition to the now.

Again, when we say “God now sees the future” the “now” is modifying when the action takes place, and so has to be taken either on the side of the agent or the object. If taken on the side of the object, it is false, for the future is not now. If taken on the side of the agent, we need to distinguish a sense of now as opposed to past and future, and some other possible sense. If taken in the first sense, it is false, for God does not exist or act now in a way that excludes past or future. If there is some other sense, then it must be one wholly appropriate to God. Either way, to say “God sees the future now” appears false in both of the initial ways of understanding it. We need a more critical and expurgated sense of the now involved.

This all remains true of expressions that drop the “now” but still imply it.

from Anselmianism to the Trinity

Assume the word “God” is the name for a nature* that, while remaining a true nature, is nevertheless not a logical abstraction but a true reality. Three things follow:

1.) Like any nature, “God” can be said of many individuals.

2.) Unlike any nature, “God” is not a mere logical abstraction, but is as equally real as what it is said of.

3.) Like any nature said of many, it is categorically different from any individual or number of individuals it is said of. To think that “canine” is a fourth member that can be added to Lassie, Fido, and Checkers is a category mistake; just as thinking one could add “even number” as a fourth member to 2,4, and 6.

From (1), God can be said of many – Assume it is said of three. But, from (2) such a predication of the nature “God” does not require that there are three Gods as opposed to one, for “God” subsists of itself and not merely in the individuals who it is said of. From (3) this God subsisting in itself is not a fourth being in addition to the three; nor are the three individuals the second, third, and fourth instances of the nature which subsists.

If by the word “self” one means an existent, intelligent being, then “God” is a self from (2) and the persons are each selves from (1). But this does not give us four selves from (3). Nor, from the juction of (1) and (3) do we have to say that each of the persons is the other.

Taken in this way, when Trinitarians deny that there are three gods, what they mean is that the nature does not have a merely logical existence, but is, if you like, a self. This self-as-nature has all the properties that can be attributed to divine nature, while preserving what is necessary for something to count as a nature, i.e. ability to be predicated of many.

But doesn’t this bring us to the point of saying that the divine nature is absolutely unique as divine but communicable as nature? And Isn’t this to speak of an incommunicable communicable thing?  But I think all this comes to is an opposition between nature and individual for us, which is precisely what (2) is trying to deny.

The mystery is that uniqueness and communicability reduce to a common source in existence, which is manifest in the fact that existence is simultaneously the most general and most formal of predicates; it is simultaneously what makes a thing differ from the non-existent, fictional, abstract, and other while also being something that does not allow for any difference among existents.

If this is right, it explain why Thomists deny haecceity: it would be superfluous since existence is at once the most abstract and most concrete of forms. This, however, seems to make “existence” a mere pointer word, indicating a convergence of the abstract and concrete that is not presently intelligible to us.

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For the purposes of this post, the following words are perfect synonyms of “nature”: essence, abstract form, form, divinity, idea, sort of thing etc.

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