Self-Transcendence and Virtue: Perspectives from Philosophy, Psychology, and Theology 1138602426, 9781138602427

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Self-Transcendence and Virtue

“This unique volume is a timely interdisciplinary exploration of an essential human characteristic and its corresponding moral excellence—self-transcendence and virtue. A brilliant group of philosophers, religious scholars, and psychologists set out to display in fascinating ways the complex nature of human selftranscendence and its profound moral implications.” —Reinhard Huetter, The Catholic University of America, USA Recent research in the humanities and social sciences suggests that individuals who understand themselves as belonging to something greater than the self—a family, community, or religious or spiritual group—often feel happier, have a deeper sense of purpose or meaning in their lives, and have overall better life outcomes than those who do not. Some positive and personality psychologists have labeled this location of the self within a broader perspective “self-transcendence.” This book presents and integrates new, interdisciplinary research into virtue, happiness, and the meaning of life by re-orienting these discussions around the concept of self-transcendence. The essays are organized around three broad themes connected to selftranscendence. First, they investigate how self-transcendence helps us to understand aspects of the moral life as it is studied within psychology, including the development of wisdom, the practice of moral praise, and psychological well-being. Second, they explore how self-transcendence is linked to virtue in different religious and spiritual traditions including Judaism, Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, and Confucianism. Finally, they ask how self-transcendence can help us theorize about Aristotelean and Thomist conceptions of virtue, like hope and piety, and how this helps us to re-conceptualize happiness and meaning in life. Jennifer A. Frey is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of South Carolina. Her main areas of research lie at the intersection of theories of agency, rationality, ethics, and law, with a particular emphasis on the relations among virtue, practical reason, and happiness. She has ten publications in venues such as Analytic Philosophy, Ergo, The Journal of the History of Philosophy, International Journal of Philosophical Studies, and in multiple edited volumes. She is the PI of several grants, including a $2.1 million research project titled Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life. She is currently editing a volume titled Practical Reason, Truth, and Knowledge, and is writing a monograph titled Action, Virtue, and Human Good. Candace Vogler is the David B. and Clara E. Stern Professor of Philosophy at The University of Chicago. She is the author of John Stuart Mill’s Deliberative Landscape: An Essay in Moral Psychology (Routledge), Reasonably Vicious, and essays in ethics, social philosophy, and other areas.

Routledge Studies in Ethics and Moral Theory

Moral Skepticism New Essays Edited by Diego E. Machuca Explaining Right and Wrong A New Moral Pluralism and Its Implication Benjamin Sachs Determined by Reasons A Competence Account of Acting for a Normative Reason Susanne Mantel Ethics and Self-Cultivation Historical and Contemporary Perspectives Edited by Matthew Dennis and Sander Werkhoven Moral Reality and the Empirical Sciences Thomas Pölzler Moral Evil in Practical Ethics Edited by Shlomit Harrosh and Roger Crisp Kant and Parfit The Groundwork of Morals Husain Sarkar Perspectives on Empathy Theoretical Approaches and Emerging Challenges Edited by Derek Matravers and Anik Waldow Putting Others First The Christian Ideal of Others-Centeredness T. Ryan Byerly Methodology and Moral Philosophy Edited by Jussi Suikkanen and Antti Kauppinen Self-Transcendence and Virtue Perspectives From Philosophy, Psychology, and Theology Edited by Jennifer A. Frey and Candace Vogler For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Studies-in-Ethics-and-Moral-Theory/book-series/SE0423

Self-Transcendence and Virtue Perspectives From Philosophy, Psychology, and Theology Edited by Jennifer A. Frey and Candace Vogler

First published 2019 by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 Taylor & Francis The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-60242-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-46957-2 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

Acknowledgments Introduction

vii 1

JENNIFER A. FREY AND CANDACE VOGLER

PART I

Perspectives From Philosophy 1 Epiphanic Moral Conversions: Going Beyond Kohlberg and Aristotle

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KRISTJÁN KRISTJÁNSSON

2 Fundamental Hope, Meaning, and Self-Transcendence

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NANCY E. SNOW

3 Aquinas on Sin, Self-Love, and Self-Transcendence

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JENNIFER A. FREY

4 The Place of Virtue in a Meaningful Life

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CANDACE VOGLER

PART II

Perspectives From Theology 5 Law, Virtue, and Self-Transcendence in Jewish Thought and Practice DAVID SHATZ

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Contents

6 Piety and Virtue in Early Islam: Two Sermons by Imam Ali

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TAHERA QUTBUDDIN

7 The Common Good in Aristotle and Aquinas

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KEVIN L. FLANNERY

8 Ethical Supernaturalism

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ANGELA KNOBEL

9 Confucian Excellence

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OWEN FLANAGAN

10 Virtue, Self-Transcendence, and Liberation in Yoga and Buddhism

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MATTHEW MACKENZIE

PART III

Perspectives From Psychology

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11 Wisdom Develops From Experiences That Transcend the Self

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HOWARD C. NUSBAUM

12 “I Am What Survives Me”: Generativity and the Self

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DAN P. MCADAMS

13 Reacting to Transcendence: The Psychology of Moral Praise

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RAJEN A. ANDERSON, DAVID A. PIZARRO, AND KATHERINE D. KINZLER

List of Contributors Index

291 297

Acknowledgments

The editors wish to extend their sincere gratitude to the following institutional partners for supporting the two-day capstone conference of the Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life project, held in October 2017 at The University of Chicago, which allowed for the initial presentation and feedback of much of the work that appears in this volume: The Chicago Center for Practical Wisdom, the Committee on Social Thought, the Lumen Christi Institute, the Martin Marty Center, the Neubauer Collegium for Culture and Society, The University of Chicago Department of Philosophy, The University of Chicago Divinity School, and The University of Chicago Division of Humanities. We further acknowledge the John Templeton Foundation for its generous financial support of that meeting, as well as our four crossdisciplinary working group meetings of philosophers, theologians, and psychologists that took place from Fall 2015 through Spring 2017 at The University of Chicago and the University of South Carolina. These meetings were the main intellectual context in which the work put forward in this volume took shape over the duration of the Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life project [grant #56194]. The editors also gratefully acknowledge the project co-directors, Jaime Hovey and Valerie Wallace, who principally organized and oversaw all events on our project. Both editors further acknowledge the editorial assistance provided by Jaime Hovey, Paula Lee, and Valerie Wallace in the preparation of this volume. Finally, Jennifer Frey wishes to acknowledge the help of her research assistant, Adam Omelianchuk.

Introduction Jennifer A. Frey and Candace Vogler

One hallmark of much contemporary philosophical theorizing about virtue and happiness is the centrality of concepts of individual benefit. Neo-Aristotelian philosophers in particular tend to expect that virtuous lives will be happy and meaningful precisely because they are good (Annas, 1993, 2006; Hursthouse, 1999; McDowell, 1979, 1980; Foot, 2001, 2004). We are told that if we want to be happy, then virtue is a safe bet. Scant attention has been paid to the fact that virtue and happiness have traditionally been conceived as securing what we call “self-transcendent goods,” these being goods that can often demand great personal sacrifice from individuals for the sake of something “greater than the self,” and whose benefits are not easily or best understood in terms of individual benefit or well-being. The importance of the enduring value of such goods across philosophical traditions is very difficult to fit into the conception of happiness put forward by many contemporary virtue ethicists. This volume seeks to recover the traditional importance of self-transcendence to human life and happiness. The essays in this volume are animated by the conviction that happy and meaningful lives are in various ways selftranscendent and that happiness in the deep sense of eudaimonia is itself a self-transcendent good. Our conviction that virtue is essentially related to self-transcendence has grown out of engagement with research throughout the humanities and the social sciences that has continued to suggest that individuals who understand themselves to be practically oriented to something greater than the self—a family with a long history and the prospect of future generations, a spiritual practice oriented towards due reverence for the sacred and the need to live right by and be consciously united to others, work on behalf of social justice and the improvement of one’s community—often feel happier, have a deeper sense of purpose and meaning in their lives, and have overall better life outcomes than those who do not (McAdams & Olson, 2009; Bauer, McAdams, & Pals, 2008; Wong, 2012). Some psychologists have labeled this necessity of locating one’s self within a broader context “self-transcendence.” In this volume, we emphasize the need to develop a new theoretical approach to virtue,

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one that is built around the concept of self-transcendence, understood principally in terms of a deep attachment to an overall good (happiness, or living well) that individuals cannot attain through dispositions of thought, action, and feelings that are ordered to securing individual benefit. Rather, we think that virtue is a practical orientation that transcends the narrow horizon of individual benefit or welfare, and directs us to goods that go beyond the self. Positive and personality psychologists have become increasingly interested in studying self-transcendence or connections to goods that are “greater than the self” and how this correlates with measures of wellbeing and a sense of purposefulness in one’s life (Wong, 2012; Reed, 2009; Koltko-Rivera, 2006). Some of this work suggests that personal narratives which relate the self primarily to transcendent goods correlate strongly with a deep sense of purpose and meaning in life, as well as more positive mental health outcomes (McAdams & Olson, 2009). Too much of this work, however, suffers from the employment of a theoretical model of self-transcendence that allows for deeply problematic behavior, such as self-sacrificial allegiance to a totalitarian and murderous regime, to count as self-transcendent. Most contributions to this volume proceed from the conviction that self-transcendence is valuable only if it orients us towards objective human goods and that the best hope for an account of objective goods grounds them in shared human capacities, needs, and desires—i.e., some objective account of human nature or the human being. Religious and wisdom traditions have long taught that self-transcendence is a basic principle of the good life. One commonality explored in this volume is the way that virtue is intimately connected to a social or communal vision of happiness, and how virtue can play an instrumental role in securing this goal for us. Contemporary philosophy that seeks to give an account of objective human goods that constitute a happy and flourishing life has much to learn from these traditions, which makes interesting points of contact with much research in the social sciences. Our volume also explores how self-transcendence can help us to connect the concepts of virtue and happiness with fundamental questions about the meaning and purpose of human life. With a few notable exceptions (Cottingham, 2002; Cottingham, 2017; Kauppinen, 2013; McPherson, 2017; Metz, 2016; Wolf et al., 2012; Wolf, 2014), contemporary philosophers have largely shied away from thinking critically about self-transcendence in relation to questions of happiness and meaning in life. We think that focus on virtue, understood as a self-transcendent orientation that fits us for happiness and deep purpose in life, is fertile soil in which new research that seeks to bring these different strands of thought together into a more unified theory can grow. This volume aims both to inform and revitalize cross-disciplinary work on virtue and happiness by focusing on the concept of self-transcendence and the pursuit of self-transcendent goods.

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We think this focus is key to uniting current research on virtue and on meaning and purpose in life. Within the past decade, there have been a growing number of interdisciplinary projects in which philosophers and social scientists work together to investigate a cluster of issues surrounding questions of happiness, well-being, and virtue. Several initiatives funded by the John Templeton Foundation have fostered this work, for example, the Science of Virtue Project at The University of Chicago, the Character Project at Wake Forest University, the Happiness and Well-Being project at St. Louis University, and the Institute for the Study of Human Flourishing at the University of Oklahoma; there has also been work supported by the Templeton Religion Trust, such as The Self, Motivation, and Virtue Project at the University of Oklahoma. This volume represents the fruits of another John Templeton Foundation funded initiative, The Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life project at The University of Chicago and the University of South Carolina. This three-year initiative primarily consisted of four, week-long, working group meetings that brought together a group of twenty-seven scholars from the social sciences, religious studies, and philosophy to discuss how work on self-transcendence can advance the study of virtue, happiness, and meaning in human life. Twelve of the thirteen essays in this volume are products of those intensive, multi-disciplinary, and multi-generational collaborations. Additionally, eight of the thirteen essays were presented at the project’s “capstone conference” at The University of Chicago in October 2017, which was the final gathering of all the project’s scholars. As a result of this close collaboration, the majority of the contributions to this volume are interdisciplinary in an especially deep sense. Another aim of this volume is to inspire further research into virtue that adopts a similar framework of collaborative, cross-disciplinary, network meetings, in which scholars can develop their works-in-progress over time, through sustained and meaningful interdisciplinary exchange. Like previous volumes that integrate different disciplinary perspectives on virtue, this volume aims to stimulate new, interdisciplinary research into virtue, happiness, and meaning of life by re-orienting the discussion around the concept of “self-transcendence.” This volume aims to shape the current trajectory of these debates by (1) familiarizing philosophers, theologians, and religious studies scholars with recent trends in psychology and other social sciences; (2) familiarizing those working in the Western traditions with non-Western approaches to understanding virtue and self-transcendence; and (3) familiarizing contemporary analytic philosophers with the insights that theologians and religion scholars bring to bear on the topics of virtue, happiness, and meaning in human life. Unlike previous interdisciplinary volumes, however, ours can be loosely categorized into three interrelated inquiries, each of which centers around the concept of self-transcendence. The volume address: (1)

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how the concept of a self-transcendent orientation helps us to understand aspects of the moral life as this is studied within psychology, including the development of wisdom, the practice of moral praise, and psychosocial development; (2) how self-transcendence has been linked to virtue in the belief systems of widely held and practiced religious traditions; and (3) how self-transcendence can help us theorize about particular virtues, such as hope and piety, but further, how virtue as a self-transcendent orientation can help us to re-conceptualize happiness and meaning of life. Within the volume, several themes emerge and one can discern widespread consensus within the volume on a whole range of issues relating to virtue and self-transcendence. First, there is convergence of opinion that a central aspect of the virtuous life is the cultivation of an ability to place oneself with respect to a larger whole. Second, there is consensus that the virtuous and meaningful life cannot be egoist or primarily self-directed. Third, there is a clear emphasis on the social dimensions of human nature and the cultivation and exercise of virtue. Fourth, there is widespread appeal to some kind of self-transcendent source of value as key to understanding the good life. Fifth and finally, there is general consensus among our scholars that virtue discourse is bound up with our discourse about the nature of the human person, our characteristic needs and capacities. This degree of consensus about our topic is central to moving work on virtue and self-transcendence forward.

Plan of the Volume The volume consists of thirteen essays and is divided into three parts. In Part I, there are four essays that address how self-transcendence can impact our understanding of virtue, happiness, and meaning in human life from a philosophical perspective that is informed by work in empirical psychology and theology. Part I opens with Kristján Kristjánsson’s essay, “Epiphanic Moral Conversions: Going Beyond Kohlberg and Aristotle.” This essay exemplifies the sort of cross-disciplinary work that we hope our volume will further inspire. Kristjánsson addresses the question of how to explain the abrupt and radical change of character that constitutes epiphanic moral conversions, the sort of experience that St. Paul is supposed to have undergone on the road to Damascus. Drawing on work in psychology, philosophy, and education theory, Kristjánsson suggests that the best explanation of the self-change evidenced by these “Damascus experiences” is that it comes about through the recognition of transpersonal ideals that inspire awe. Kristjánsson argues that in epiphanic experiences, we believe ourselves to have come into contact with some transcendent source of goodness, beauty, or truth; and, further, that such contact elicits powerful emotions of awe and wonder. The awe and wonder we

Introduction

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experience in the face of such self-transcendent ideals enables us to envisage new horizons for ourselves; we suddenly see ourselves and the world in a radically different way. Since awe-inspired attraction to transpersonal ideals and goods is a common psychological trigger of epiphanic moral conversions, and since proneness to such awe seems to explain proneness to such conversions, Kristjánsson argues that this recognitional capacity for self-transcendent goods and ideals, as well as the affective capacity to be elevated in their presence, are likely stable features of human nature. Kristjánsson closes his essay with suggestions for how to encourage this self-transcendent awe in children. In Chapter 2, “Fundamental Hope, Meaning, and Self-Transcendence,” Nancy E. Snow argues that there is a form of self-transcendent hope, called fundamental or existential, which is necessary for us to find meaning in a life that is vulnerable to absurd and terrifying circumstances, such as those that arose in Europe during World War II. Bringing the work of Catholic philosophers Joseph Pieper and Gabriel Marcel, and Jewish philosopher and Rabbi Emil Fackenheim, into conversation with work in various strands of psychology, Snow argues that this sort of hope orients us toward the possibility of reaching the fullness of our being, which she describes as the realization of the self in communion with God. Fundamental hope, she suggests, is often a response to trial, captivity, or situations that can, on their face, seem hopeless and meaningless; the person who possesses such hope is able to transcend these circumstances by believing and wanting to participate in a reality that transcends the self as limited by such circumstances. Snow argues that through fundamental hope in our ability to participate in the self-transcendent good of God’s eternal life, both individuals, as well as humanity as a whole, can find meaning and purpose in life. Snow ends her essay with a call for philosophers and psychologists to pay more attention to this form of hope. In Chapter 3, “Aquinas on Sin, Self-Love, and Self-Transcendence,” Jennifer A. Frey addresses the longstanding complaint against neoAristotelian virtue ethics—viz., that it is fundamentally egoist (Hurka, 2003). Frey addresses this charge in a new and surprising way, not by looking to virtue and successful lives, but towards vice, sin, and failure to live well. Drawing on the work of the Scholastic Aristotelian Thomas Aquinas, Frey argues that vice is a settled preference of the will for lesser goods. Aquinas thinks of lesser goods as private goods—i.e., goods whose benefit is understood in terms of individual welfare or well-being. Human happiness, according to Aquinas, is a common good, which means that all humans strive for it by nature, it is non-competitive, and it is never solely the possession of an individual but participated in and enjoyed by many. Happiness understood as a common good is a quintessential example of a self-transcendent good. To sin is to act in way that prevents one from being happy, where being happy is understood in terms of a common good one participates in with others.

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Frey argues that, for Aquinas, to sin is to fail to perceive one’s own life in relation to the greater whole in which one’s own perfection lies, which leads to a failure to desire to participate in that greater whole with others. What careful reflection on sin, in Aquinas’s view, makes clear is the absolute centrality of the common good to his account of virtue and the good life. The common good is what has gone missing from much of contemporary work on virtue, but the idea of participation in a shared common good is crucial to any account of virtue that takes seriously the Aristotelian formula that man is a political animal. Sin and vice impedes the full realization of our nature as political animals, because it prevents us from entering into the forms of communion with others that are the essence of a good and happy human life. Aquinas teaches that the pursuit of individual goods to the detriment of common goods fosters competition and coveting of goods that will not truly fulfill us. Sin, for Aquinas, is ultimately a failure to meet the self-transcendent demands of a good and happy life. In Chapter 4, “The Place of Virtue in a Meaningful Life,” Candace Vogler weaves together thought about virtue as enabling participation in common goods with thought about the place of virtue in a meaningful life. While Vogler argues that virtues do benefit the individual who possesses them, they do not do so qua individual, but the individual insofar as she conceives herself directed towards the common good of the larger human community. Vogler, like Frey, argues that this directedness to what is greater than the self is what makes the virtues inherently self-transcendent. In the second part of her essay, Vogler brings the Thomist account of virtue to bear on questions about meaning in human life. Vogler notes that virtually all works on meaningful lives agree that people who lead such lives operate under an understanding of themselves as participating in a good larger than their own individual welfare or advantage (or even that of their intimate circle). In this respect, meaningfulness in life is also inherently self-transcendent. Vogler suggests that if we tease out the implications of this thought in detail, then we will be well on our way towards vindicating the view that Vogler ultimately wants to suggest, which is that a virtuous life will be a meaningful life, and that a meaningful life will require cultivation of the virtues. Any account that can make this work will need to have the concept of self-transcendence front and center. In Part II of the volume, six essays discuss the role of self-transcendence in theorizing about virtue within different religious traditions. In Chapter 5, “Law, Virtue, and Self-Transcendence in Jewish Thought and Practice,” David Shatz addresses the relationship between virtue and law in the Jewish tradition, and how two different notions of self-transcendence arise and how they are integrated in Jewish thought about the relationship between law and virtue. The two forms of self-transcendence that interest Shatz are (1) obedience and submission to God’s authority as the source of the law, which requires transcending the self and its desires to

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connect with God; and (2) transcending the self through virtue by learning to think of and act for the sake of the good of others and the wellbeing of the larger communities in which one participates. Both forms of self-transcendence are thought to be crucial to living well according to some strands of the Jewish tradition, but they also at times stand in tension with one another. Shatz’s contribution both outlines and navigates these tensions, by presenting an overview of Jewish thought about virtue and law, the ultimate upshot of which is that virtue and law are not antitheses but rather are fundamentally interrelated. Tahera Qutbuddin, in “Piety and Virtue in Early Islam: Two Sermons by Imam Ali,” addresses the conceptual relations between virtue and happiness in early Islamic thought by focusing on the writings of Ali ibn Abi Talib (d. 661). Ali is considered the first Imam after the Prophet Muhammed according to the Shia, and fourth Caliph according to the Sunnis—in either tradition he is a figure of fundamental importance for the trajectory of thought about virtue within the Islamic tradition. According to Qutbuddin, for Ali, piety contains all the rest of the virtues, insofar as to be pious just is to be virtuous, and to be virtuous just is to be pious. Piety should be understood as awareness or consciousness of God, and requires an understanding of the demands of virtue as necessary for attaining happiness, which is with God in the next life. Human life on earth is about preparing for eternal life, and virtue and piety express the intimacy and love of God that is part of that necessary preparation, for if one loves God they will wish to please God by emulating the divine attributes—i.e., by living according to the virtues that Ali discusses. Qutbuddin goes over those virtues in detail in her contribution and shows how they enable us to love God and to live a joyous life on earth with family and community. In Chapter 7, “The Common Good in Aristotle and Aquinas,” Kevin L. Flannery returns to the Aristotelian tradition to think about selftranscendence in terms of common good, in order to think through how it might be in conflict with our contemporary picture of the human person and the just social order. His essay helpfully reviews the notions of the common good in both Aristotle and Aquinas with an eye to contemporary concerns about individual rights and the question of whether they can be respected on a political and moral theory that emphasizes happiness as a common good. Flannery argues that both philosophers take common goods to be higher goods because they are more completely fulfilling of our natures; human happiness is a common good because the human good is the good of living in friendship with others—i.e., in a society in which individuals participate. Virtues are inherently self-transcending insofar as they orient an individual toward participating in the greater whole of which he is a part (this includes, for both thinkers, participation in the ordered complex that is the whole of the universe). As a political animal, the

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human person is ordered, qua individual, to ends beyond himself; therefore, any notion of individual right will respect this natural ordination and a society of just laws that respect such rights will engender no conflicts between rights and the promotion of the common good. Flannery ends his discussion by weighing in on 20th-century debates within the Catholic intellectual tradition on the question of the primacy of the common good in political and moral philosophy. In Chapter 8, “Ethical Supernaturalism,” Angela Knobel argues that because Aquinas understands the goal of the moral life to transcend anything the human being can accomplish through the operation of her unaided natural powers, including her powers of practical reason and will, Aquinas’s ethics is inherently self-transcendent. The goal of the moral life goes beyond the natural fulfillment of the individual—it is participation in God’s eternal life. While no one doubts that Aquinas thinks our beatitude is selftranscendent in that it is a supernatural end, Knobel insists that most readers of Aquinas have not fully appreciated what this means for his theory of right practical reasoning and his account of natural virtue. Aquinas holds that we possess a natural habit of first principles of practical reason (synderesis) that supplies us with an inchoate knowledge of what it is good generally to pursue in life. Knoble argues that whereas these naturally possessed principles give us an inchoate knowledge of, and desire for, our natural good, the theological virtues of faith, hope, and love, which are infused in us by God’s grace, give us an inchoate knowledge of and desire for our ultimate supernatural good. This rational superstructure raises the question of how our natural principles are related to our supernatural principles, or more simply, how grace interacts with nature. Knobel argues that Aquinas does not believe we have supernatural principles that operate alongside our natural principles—she calls this the parallel principles view—but, rather, that Aquinas believes that our natural principles become transformed through supernatural grace such that they orient us towards our ultimate, supernatural end. The person who possesses faith, hope, and love, Knobel argues, no longer possesses merely natural principles or natural virtues at all. Knobel calls this the transformed principles view and argues that it is the best way to understand the self-transcendent aspect of Aquinas’s moral theology. The upshot of her reading is that Aquinas is committed to an ethical supernaturalism, a moral theory that cannot be understood in terms of individual self-realization or self-perfection, but that must be understood in terms of self-transcendence. Owen Flanagan’s contribution, “Confucian Excellence,” turns to the Confucian tradition for insights into the connections between virtue and self-transcendence. Flanagan’s interest in the Confucian picture of virtue stems from his more general interest in the question of to what extent we can arrive at an “unforced consensus” about the good life when looking

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at it from the perspective of various philosophical and religious traditions. He argues that we find many similarities between the Confucian and Aristotelian traditions when it comes to thought about virtue and living well. First, in both traditions, virtues are fundamental and considered necessary (but not sufficient) for a good life. Second, virtues are grounded in natural teleology. Mencius develops a picture of the “four sprouts” that are universal and common to human nature—dispositional roots that can grow into virtue if properly cultivated over time. These four sprouts are compassion, shame/disgust, deference, and approval/ disapproval, which, when properly cultivated, develop into the four cardinal virtues of the Confucian system: benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and wisdom. All four are intrinsically social and lead us to a social life lived with and for others. Third, virtues are self-transcendent in that they relate us to participate in goods that go beyond the self. The fate of the self is tied to the fate of the whole in which that self participates. Fourth, like the Abrahamic traditions of virtue, Confucians see nature and morality as grounded in a transcendent source. While Flanagan is sensitive to the respects in which Confucian ethics differs from both the Greco-Roman and Abrahamic traditions, he thinks that we see enough significant overlap to arrive at the idea that there is a common project that human communities are engaged in and significant consensus about how to execute that project successfully. In the final chapter of Part II, “Virtue, Self-Transcendence, and Liberation in Yoga and Buddhism,” Matthew MacKenzie discusses the connections between virtue, self-transcendence, and spiritual liberation in the traditions of Patanjali Yoga and Abhidharma Buddhism. In both traditions, MacKenzie argues, self-transcendence is conceptualized as a progressive overcoming of egoism as a necessary condition of acquiring virtue and achieving liberation, which is “the irreversible transcendence of egoic modes of psychological functioning.” Both Yoga and Buddhism share a strong commitment to moral discipline as central to the development of a path towards the goal of liberation. Of particular note is MacKenzie’s discussion of loving-kindness meditation in the Buddhist tradition, as it mirrors in several respects the process of having an enlarged self discussed by Frey in an earlier chapter. In such meditation, one first focuses on feeling kindness, but then learns to expand this goodwill to friends, to strangers, towards difficult persons, and eventually to all sentient creatures. This intentional, directed wish for the well-being of others is central to relinquishing selfish attachments and seeing oneself as part of a much greater whole. This increases compassion and allows one to take joy in the happiness of others. MacKenzie closes his essay with an illuminating account of the senses of “self” that underlie each account of self-transcendence. Part III of the volume begins with a discussion by Howard C. Nusbaum on wisdom, titled “Wisdom Develops from Experiences That Transcend

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the Self,” which draws on empirical research into the sort of meditation practices discussed philosophically by MacKenzie. Nusbaum takes a cross-disciplinary approach to the topic, drawing on philosophical and religious traditions, contemporary psychology, and neurobiology. He argues that from the perspective of psychology and philosophy we can think about practical wisdom as going beyond the self in important respects that link it to moral virtue. Practical wisdom involves an ability to balance interpersonal, intrapersonal, and extrapersonal interests. Psychologically, it is characterized as a complex process that is related to interactions of higher-order processing, emotional activity, reward processing, and sensitivity to risks and negative outcomes. As practical wisdom develops, a person experiences a diminished self-centeredness and a deeper understanding and appreciation of the needs of others. The reflective dimension of wisdom is characterized by being able to take up the perspective of others. Wisdom also involves the ability to reflect on one’s own and other’s thoughts, beliefs, actions, and feelings through empathy, compassion, and prosocial behavior. Drawing on empirical work into meditation practices, such as lovingkindness meditation, Nusbaum argues that meditation can help people to see themselves in relation to a greater whole in order to identify with and take up the perspective of others, which helps to explain the significant statistical correlation between such practices and increases in measured wisdom. This helps to bring empirical work on wisdom into conversation with both the Aristotelian and Buddhist traditions. In Chapter 12, “’I Am What Survives Me’: Generativity and the Self,” Dan P. McAdams discusses the psychology of generativity, which he defines as an adult’s concern for and commitment to promoting the goods of future generations. The prototypical manifestation of this concern and commitment lies in giving birth to and raising children, but is also seen in long-term projects such as teaching, mentorship, leadership, and various kinds of service to one’s community. McAdams attributes the classical conception of generativity to Plato. In the Symposium, Plato argues that love is a desire for immortality, which one achieves by giving birth to something good and beautiful that outlasts oneself. The psychoanalytic theorist Erik H. Erikson argues that the challenge of midlife is to invest oneself in activities that aim at immortality in Plato’s sense—that one’s work is aimed into a future of which one will not be a part. McAdams argues that generativity is a virtue. First, because highly generative adults exert a positive impact in their families, schools, neighborhoods, professions, and communities. Second, because they have a heightened sensitivity to moral issues, higher levels of wisdom, greater sense of purpose in life, better mental health, better marriages, greater resilience in the face of suffering, and greater satisfaction in their social roles. And third, there are strong correlations between scoring high in generativity, and self-reports of happiness and a sense of meaningfulness in life.

Introduction

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While McAdams holds that generativity is a virtue, he is careful to note that it is an ambivalent one. He cautions that generativity springs from the same source as narcissistic tendencies and notes that both generativity and narcissism are powerful assertions of the self. Some research even shows a modest correlation between generativity and narcissism. The assertion of the self becomes good or virtuous, it seems, when it is oriented towards concern and care for future generations and thus becomes a kind of self-assertion that is also self-transcendent. In the final chapter, titled “Reacting to Transcendence: The Psychology of Moral Praise,” Rajen A. Anderson, David A. Pizarro, and Katherine D. Kinzler survey recent work on the psychology of moral responsibility. Throughout the volume, we have been interested in the social aspects of virtue and meaning in human life. Anderson, Pizarro, and Kinzler ask about the reactions of others to one’s character and actions, focusing on the moral psychology of praise and blame. In so doing, they trace and discuss important similarities and differences in assignments of praise and blame. Both involve judgments about responsibility for immoral actions. Both involve consideration of the agent’s authority in a situation, both are sensitive to the context of the action in question, and both rely in part on the agent’s affective tone and character. An agent who is clearly remorseful about her bad behavior is seen as less bad than an agent who seems indifferent or self-satisfied with her bad conduct. Assignments of praise or else blame are also sensitive to the relative spontaneity of the conduct in question. If an agent acts well spontaneously, we tend to think better of her than if she seems to need careful deliberation before settling on doing what she ought to do, provided that what she ought to do is fairly clear and straightforward. There are, nevertheless, important differences between praise and blame. Horrendously immoral conduct, for example, incurs correspondingly strong judgments of blameworthiness. Extraordinary acts of self-sacrifice in the service of an acknowledged and clear higher good, on the other hand, do not receive correspondingly strong praise, perhaps because such actions are so far out of the ordinary that they remind us too vividly of our own moral shortcomings. Anderson, Pizarro, and Kinzler argue that both praise and blame are crucial social means for fostering the cultivation of virtue in the young. Very young children show sensitivity to most of the dimensions our authors trace in discussion of adult judgments of praise and blame, and our authors argue that while blame tends to work socially to reduce immoral conduct, praise works both to socially affirm virtue and to help build moral character. Praise can only fulfill this role if, like blame, it is directed to conduct rather than character. In a sense, this provides indirect support to the neo-Aristotelian insistence that young people build character by performing virtuous actions. It is through repeated performance of just, brave, temperate, or thoughtful acts that young people begin to cultivate the corresponding virtues. Anderson, Pizarro, and Kinzler counsel

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that it is by directing praise and blame to acts that young people can be knit into the moral community in which they grow up. In this way, our final essay points us to the ways that we can begin to help to nurture a moral community that provides a clear context in which to lead full and good lives.

References Annas, J. (1993). The morality of happiness. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Annas, J. (2006). Virtue ethics. In D. Copp (Ed.), The Oxford handbook of ethical theory (pp. 515–536). Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Bauer, J. J., McAdams, D. P., & Pals, J. L. (2008). Narrative identity and eudaimonic well-being. Journal of Happiness Studies, 9(1), 81–104. Cottingham, J. (2002). On the meaning of life. New York, NY: Routledge. Cottingham, J. (2017). Philosophy, religion, and spirituality. In D. McPherson (Ed.), Spirituality and the good life (pp. 11–28). Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Foot, P. (2001). Natural goodness. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Foot, P. (2004). Rationality and goodness. Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement, 54, 1–13. Hurka, T. (2003). Virtue, vice, and value. New York, NY: Oxford University Press.Hursthouse, R. (1999). On virtue ethics. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Kauppinen, A. (2013). Meaning and happiness. Philosophical Topics, 41(1), 161–185. Koltko-Rivera, M. E. (2006). Rediscovering the later version of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs: Self-transcendence and opportunities for theory, research, and unification. Review of General Psychology, 10(4), 302–317. McAdams, D. P., & Olson, B. D. (2009). Personality development: Continuity and change over the life course. Annual Review of Psychology, 61(1), 517–542. McDowell, J. (1979). Virtue and reason. The Monist, 62(3), 331–350. McDowell, J. (1980). The role of eudaimonia in Aristotle’s ethics. In A. O. Rorty (Ed.), Essays on Aristotle’s ethics (pp. 359–376). Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. McPherson, D. (2017). Homo religious: Does spirituality have a place in NeoAristotelian virtue ethics? In D. McPherson (Ed.), Spirituality and the good life: Philosophical approaches (pp. 63–83). Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Metz, T. (2016). Meaning in life (Repr. ed.). Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Reed, P. G. (2009). Demystifying self-transcendence for mental health nursing practice and research. Archives of Psychiatric Nursing, 23(5), 397–400. Wolf, S. (2014). The variety of values: Essays on morality, meaning, and love. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Wolf, S., Macedo, S., Koethe J., Adams, R. M., Arpaly, N., & Haidt, J. (2012). Meaning in life and why it matters. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wong, P. T. P. (Ed.). (2012). The human quest for meaning: Theories, research, and applications (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Routledge.

Part I

Perspectives From Philosophy

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Epiphanic Moral Conversions Going Beyond Kohlberg and Aristotle Kristján Kristjánsson

1.

Introduction: The Road to Damascus

Why include a chapter on epiphanic moral conversions in a volume with self-transcendence as a major theme? As a neo-Aristotelian, I worry that many current virtue-based theories of the good life, including neo-Aristotelian ones, fail to account for human beings’ deep-seated orientation or urge—sometimes referred to as “a transcendent urge” (Cottingham, 2012)—towards extraordinary, idealized experiences of the true, good, and beautiful. This urge is revealed, inter alia, in the inter-human aesthetic impulse and a strong drive towards some sort of spirituality. In a 2000 survey conducted in that pretty secular country, the United Kingdom, 75% of respondents claimed to be “aware of a spiritual dimension to their existence” (cited in Evans, 2017, p. 6). One could even argue that the desire for getting high on drugs—especially psychedelic drugs—has the same psychological or biological provenance (Evans, 2017). Sensuous affinity for the landscapes and life-forms of the world, as well as their representation in art, and awe before the immensity of the universe are examples of the sought-after experiences. Incorporating these considerations into his (naturalistic) account, Flanagan describes the good life in terms of a complex “psycho-poetic performance” (2007, pp. 16, 187). In contrast, despite his profound interest in the moral value of poetry, Aristotle did not see art as satisfying a transcendent urge (see further in Kristjánsson, 2016). The entry point of this chapter is the assumption that lack of engagement with the transcendent urge as a facet of human existence—or human nature, if you like—explains the conspicuous absence of the topic of epiphanic moral conversions from most current agendas in moral philosophy, moral psychology, and moral education. If broached at all by academics, such (alleged) conversions tend to meet with skepticism or outright denial. The eerie silence and lingering skepticism are perhaps not unreasonable scholarly responses. As we see in Section 2, there are various good reasons—logical, psychological, and developmental—for questioning the legitimacy of this phenomenon, and the skeptics include some

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of the biggest names in the relevant fields, from Aristotle to Kohlberg. Yet, most ordinary people seem to have either heard of abrupt moral conversions in others or had such experiences themselves. When I ask my students every year about their own experiences, only a few—but always a few—say they have had a moral conversion, or at least experienced formative events of intense moral enlightening. A 2002 Gallup poll found 41% of Americans answering in the affirmative the question of whether they had ever had a “profound religious experience or an awakening that changed the direction of their life” (cited in Yaden & Newberg, 2015, p. 31). However, as this was a double-barreled question, we do not know how many would have said yes to the latter part only: namely to the sort of experiences that interest me here. The challenge facing this chapter is to make sense of such experiences while responding satisfactorily to the academic misgivings that cast doubt on them. My exploration will be unapologetically cross-disciplinary. The best way to understand this elusive topic is to shed light on it from many different academic lanterns: in philosophy, psychology, and education. My exploration will also, however, be apologetically eclectic and cursory. In default of a firm discursive tradition, the safest bet is to be inclusive at the beginning and to wade through the crests and troughs of as many sources as possible. Most of this chapter, therefore, assumes the form of a critical review. On the road to Damascus, Saul—the rabid persecutor of early Christians—had a divine revelation that had a profound effect on his life (Acts 9.3–7). Motivated by this “Damascus experience,” the sinner Saul turned into the apostle Paul through a religious conversion and a radical self-change of moral reform. World literature is also brimming with descriptions of epiphanic moral conversions, although we may obviously question the extent to which those mirror moral reality. To choose two examples almost at random, Dostoyevsky’s (2015) famous short story, “The dream of a ridiculous man,” written in 1877, illustrates the life of a man obsessed from an early age with his own ridiculousness and the meaninglessness of his existence. Determined to end his life, and wandering outside at night with a revolver in his hand, the protagonist stumbles upon a desperate young girl of 8, wearing nothing but a wretched little dress, “crying for her mammy.” Assuming that her mother must be lost or dying, he wants to help her, but the girl abandons him before he can carry out his intention. In the wake of this experience, however, the “ridiculous man” comes to the conclusion that his life is not so ridiculous after all; he is still a person with feelings rather than “nothingness” at the core of his being and an inner voice telling him to love others like himself. The story ends on a positive note with an observation about how he tracked down the little girl—and “shall go on and on.” In an even shorter story by the Chinese writer Lu Xun (2005), “An incident,” written in 1920, the protagonist is a world-weary, misanthropic

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traveler, being pulled towards his destination by a rickshaw man. The rickshaw accidentally hits an old woman in rags; she falls to the ground without being seriously injured. The traveler impatiently orders the driver to move on, but the latter disobeys and decides to help the old woman to a police station. In an act of contrition, the protagonist aspires to give money to the rickshaw man. Afterwards, however, the incident has a prolonged and profound effect on his life, “teaching me shame, urging me to reform, and giving me fresh courage and hope.” In sum, both stories convey the message of how a coincidental event can creative cognitive dissonance in people, strong enough to motivate them to change their overall moral outlooks in abrupt and radical ways, by envisaging horizons of moral goodness that were previously closed to them. Social science seems to be lagging behind literature in illuminating morally reformative “Damascus events.” This is not to say that the topic has eluded all social scientific scrutiny; I discuss a number of salient sources in Section 3. However, the greatest attention paid to moral conversions in social science is in areas that are slightly peripheral to the interests of the present chapter. One is in the field of near-death studies, which is peripheral in terms of frequency. For obvious (and fortunate) reasons, very few people will ever have the experience of being at death’s door and then returning from there unscathed. Moreover, some of the experiences described in this literature are somewhat airy-fairy and may cause brain hemorrhages in the analytically minded. The other area is that of religious conversions (Lonergan, 1990) and a sub-area of those, “calling experiences,” studied extensively within the fields of psychology and sociology of religion (see e.g. Batson & Ventis, 1982; Yaden & Newberg, 2015). Research in this field rarely focuses specifically, however, on the change of moral beliefs or priorities. For present purposes, more enlightenment may be gained by turning the attention to philosophical research, both in the history of ideas and in the field of emotion studies. I tap those sources in Section 4. In the field of education in general, and moral education in particular, the topic of epiphanic moral conversions is sometimes brought up in connection with a popular, if somewhat cliché-ridden, theme of a charismatic teacher who successfully challenges students to reform. Recall, for example, Jaime Escalante in the film Stand and Deliver, John Keating in Dead Poets Society, or Jean Brodie in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Some “charismatic” teachers may be accused of a degree of superficiality, and the self-change they bring about in students may, similarly, turn out to be short-lived and superficial. Be that as it may, Escalante, Keating, and Brodie all seem to turn their students’ self-conceptions upside down in ways that are morally relevant (see further in Kristjánsson, 2010, chap. 10). But what distinguishes the self-changing experiences depicted there from those of more ordinary (gradual/incremental) personal development and growth, and how can self-change of this kind—if needed—be

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triggered through classroom interventions? I address the educational questions relating to moral conversions in Section 5. I have already given readers an indication of the sort of roadmap that I propose to follow. Before I proceed further, however, let me clarify my methodological assumptions by listing the criteria I see as characterizing the phenomenon of epiphanic moral conversions and that I have used as guiding lights to identify the relevant literatures. I list these criteria here simply to narrow down the topic. There may be interesting psychological experiences that do not satisfy all these criteria but are still worthy of study. However, my present focus is on (alleged) experiences that satisfy all of them. First, I take it that epiphanic conversions constitute abrupt, swift, or even catastrophic turning points (cf. MacLaughlin, 2008, chap. 1). William James made a distinction between gradual/incremental and sudden conversions (1958, pp. 152–153). The former are obviously the bread and butter of all moral development/education and may deserve, as such, the descriptor “conversion,” but it is only the latter that occupy my current scrutiny, as they involve “quantum psychological changes” (Bien, 2004) or “Aha moments” (Irvine, 2015) that present unique and puzzling features. The relative swiftness of the actual turning point, however, does not exclude a period of gradual moral preparation that may be noticed when the conversion experience is viewed in hindsight (Irvine, 2015, chap. 4). Second, the conversions in question must be “epiphanic.” The meaning of this term may not be crystal clear, nor admit of a consensual academic specification, but I assume here that it refers to awakenings (to purported new truths) that are not only abrupt in a temporal sense, but also spontaneous and dramatic, involving radical reconfigurations of mental structures (see e.g. Jonas, 2015a; Schinkel, 2016). While these changes may sometimes be ill-definable, or even seen as ineffable by the self-transforming agent, they will nonetheless typically be experienced as sudden “irradiations” disclosing meanings that were previously “occluded” (Cottingham, 2012). Third, the events eliciting the conversion will normally be unplanned and fortuitous, or what Irvine (2015, p. 17) calls “unbidden.” This is not a necessary defining feature, however. In some cases, agents themselves may undertake measures to facilitate their self-change because of a perceived need to change. As we see in Section 2, such cases present particularly thorny problems of their own from a logical point of view. Moreover, educators may deliberately design interventions to shake the moral foundations of their students, especially if those have been found wanting (see Schinkel, 2016). Nevertheless, the results of any such self-induced or other-induced interventions will always retain some measure of uncertainty and fortuitousness, as epiphanies rely on spontaneous reactions, and spontaneity can, by definition, never be fully planned. As Dees observes, if I am waiting for a specific conversion to happen, “I am already converted” (1996, p. 533).

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Fourth, epiphanic moral conversions are strongly emotionally laden. This can mean either that they are triggered by intense emotions, such as awe or elevation (see Section 4), or elicit fierce emotional responses during and after the conversion, or both. Fifth, those conversions involve radical self-change. What precisely that means depends on one’s self-theory. Realists (such as the present author) will take it to mean that it involves an essential change of the deep, underlying self, perhaps constituted by emotions of which the agent is unaware; anti-realists (who do not acknowledge the existence of any underlying self) consider it to involve a radical shake-up of the agent’s “self-concept” or “(moral) identity,” referring to the totality of the beliefs and attitude she harbors about herself (see Kristjánsson, 2010, chap. 2, on different self-theories). Obviously, a conversion of this kind might involve changes to both selfhood and identity although the agent still remains “the same” through the personal metamorphosis in a deeper metaphysical sense (Morland, 2016); we are not talking about a Kafkaesque change of a Gregor Samsa into a gigantic bug. Notice that this fifth criterion excludes cases where the agent “experiences” reform self-deceptively but where a radical self-change has actually not taken place. Sixth, the change of heart triggered by the moral conversion must be towards moral improvement or reform. This is not said to exclude the possibility of epiphanic experiences that may disrupt or subvert moral convictions (e.g., in the field of science or arts, see Irvine, 2015, or dramatically negative moral experiences of great evils), but is simply presented here as a defining feature of the topic under present scrutiny. In addition to the intrinsic moral reform, the conversion experience will also often be seen to produce some extrinsic benefits, for example in terms of improved health or subjective well-being (see MacLaughlin, chap. 5), although I will not be focusing on those benefits here.

2.

Academic Musings and Misgivings

Although Lawrence Kohlberg’s (1981) theory of moral development— once the towering paradigm in moral psychology—has mostly fallen out of academic favor of late, it is still taught in most undergraduate textbooks in developmental psychology. I assume that readers are familiar with his well-known developmental theory of six stages, culminating in the stage of post-conventional, autonomous Kantian moral reasoning. For those who are not, what matters is that Kohlberg saw moral development purely in terms of the advancement of capacities to reason well about moral issues. What matters even more for the present line of inquiry is that Kohlberg assumed that moral development is a slow and laborious process and that all agents need to progress through the stages in the same order, albeit not at the same pace. Even after a famous metaanalysis (Blasi, 1980) demonstrated scant correlations between stages of

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moral reasoning and actual moral behavior, Kohlbergian assumptions about the slowness of the moral developmental process still linger on in academic circles. To be sure, Kohlberg did not see this developmental trajectory as an unproblematically incremental and continuous progress. For example, he noticed a dip at college age in many students, where—lured by skeptical relativism—they regress temporarily to Stage 2 hedonist-subjectivist reasoning. He called this “Stage 4½,” as it does not involve a complete reversal to child-like reasoning (Kohlberg & Kramer, 1969). However, Kohlberg did not, in his heyday, envisage a return from this dip—or from any other lower level of development—in terms of a sudden epiphany. As with other forms of reasoning, it takes time to sort out the puzzles and understand where reason leads you to and why. Kohlberg proposed moral dilemmas as a handy tool not only to measure moral maturity but also to stimulate moral growth, and he described transitional experiences where students, working through such dilemmas and engaging with conflicts in their own cognitive structures, gradually progress. But, as Schinkel (2016) correctly notes, even those transitional experiences lack the full epiphanic quality of the moral conversions under discussion here; at best they could be described as semi-epiphanic, for Damascuslike moral conversions need not involve any prior engagement with conflict at all; one may see the light of truth “in a flash,” without any prelude of deep reflection, ambiguity, or uncertainty. There is no space here to rehearse the considerations that gradually blunted the force of Kohlberg’s otherwise impressive and epoch-making paradigm, following on from Blasi’s already mentioned meta-analysis (1980). Kohlberg himself seems to have grown increasingly skeptical and disappointed about the low number of people advancing to Stages 5 and 6 (with the latter one almost empty), according to his own scoring system. Late in life, however, in an article that was published posthumously (Kohlberg & Ryncarz, 1990), Kohlberg presented an unexpected twist on his theory by hypothesizing the existence of a further, metaphorically named, “Stage 7” (yet not necessarily requiring full command of the previous stages). Perhaps influenced by existentialist and humanist psychology (see e.g. Maslow, 1964), Kohlberg and his colleague now mused that there could be a unique peak experience stage of moral development, characterized by a “cosmic” or “transcendental” perspective, where moral truths are embraced through existential resolutions—intuitive jumps into the unknown—or sudden gestalt-switches, rather than dispassionate moral reasoning (see Gibbs, 2014, pp. 91–93). Notwithstanding this evidence of a late Kohlbergian “conversion,” it seems that the 1990 article has escaped the attention of most psychologists, and the most immediate arguments against epiphanic moral conversions in social scientific circles continue to be of Kohlbergian provenance.

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Kohlberg’s philosophical and methodological assumptions were as much Platonic as Kantian. He shared Plato’s unremitting moral rationalism and he was a devout motivational internalist, believing that moral judgments are intrinsically motivating (without the aid of emotion), to the radical point of affirming that “he who knows the good chooses the good” (1981, p. 189). Yet one thing Kohlberg failed to pick up from Plato was the latter’s ready accommodation of epiphanic moral conversions. Although this section is mostly devoted to misgivings about such conversions, it is instructive to bring in some insights from Plato here as an antidote to the theories of both his late disciple, Kohlberg, and his student, Aristotle, to whom I turn soon. Mark Jonas has studied Plato’s views on moral conversions in some detail and offered helpful reviews and recommendations (2015a, 2015b). He reads from dialogs such as the Republic the conviction that through the dialogical seductive power of persuasive myths, the desires of the non-virtuous can be swayed in the right path for long enough to entice them to begin a process of moral self-reform. Asher (2017, p. 33) refers to this as a Platonic process of “ecstatic transport.” In the Republic, for example, the hedonistic Glaucon is inspired to something like a conversion via moments of insight serving as transformative catalysts—although the whole process clearly needs more time and self-work in order to be completed. Even more paradigmatically, the dialog Lysis involves the deliberate use of specious arguments in order to trigger epiphanies in interlocutors. In the end, for example, Lysis himself is compelled to “quit thinking and begin seeing”—in his case, seeing in a flash what true friendship with a beloved person is. Plato’s method is particularly interesting here for its educational implication: that there actually is a method of instruction—the Socratic dialogue—in which the conditions for spontaneous conversions can be created, by an insightful teacher, in those seen in need of a conversion experience. That said, taking on board Plato’s insights may come at a hefty price, as the attraction to be inspired in the student is towards moral truths residing in a realm of “forms,” which will seem metaphysically weird to most moderns, and the evoked attachment is supposed to be purely rational rather than elicited and sustained through emotional responses (cf. Chappell, 2014, chap. 12, however, for a demythologized version of Platonism, relevant for present concerns). Notoriously skeptical of the assumptions and methods of his mentor Plato, Aristotle does not seem to have given much credence to the possibility of Platonic conversion experiences. Indeed, while Aristotle is often presented nowadays as Kohlberg’s nemesis in moral education, their views on moral development seem surprisingly similar with respect to epiphanies. It is not as if Aristotle explicitly denies their existence—he does not mention them at all—but a plausibly Aristotelian position can be inferred from his general line of argument regarding the preconditions and nature of moral development. Yu (2007, p. 16) remarks that

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Aristotle “clearly does not seem to have much patience for converting wicked adults.” That sounds almost like an understatement. Aristotle firmly believed that in order to be capable of ever reaching the high ground of the phronimoi (fully virtuous, practically wise persons), the soul of the moral learner needs to have been “prepared by habits” (that is, via systematic early-years habituation) “for enjoying and hating finely, like ground that is to nourish seed.” The effects of the antecedent circumstances of bad upbringing cannot be undone because of the intractability of altering “by argument what has long been absorbed by habit”; for a person in such a condition “would not even listen to an argument turning him away, or comprehend it [if he did listen]; and in that state how could he be persuaded to change?” (Aristotle, 1985, p. 292 [1179b11–31]). Bad upbringing compromises, stifles, and stunts. It is, therefore, “very important, indeed all-important” to acquire the correct sort of habits of character right from youth (1985, p. 35 [1103b21–5]). Although Aristotle does acknowledge character formation to constitute a life-long process, the period of early-years education is essential, even constituting what some people would call an unoverridable determinant (see further in Kristjánsson, 2015, chap. 5). All in all, “no one has even a prospect of becoming good” without proper habituation (1985, p. 40 [1105b11– 12])—at least if “good” is understood as “virtuous” (although Aristotle does leave some room for reforming vice, by becoming continent, in the badly brought up, as a “second-best tack”; see 1985, p. 52 [1109a34]). These textual references show that although Aristotle is not widely considered to have presented a systematic stage theory of moral development, akin to Kohlberg’s, he does seem to envisage moral development as a slow, incremental process, requiring a long early period of moral habituation, including most prominently emotional sensitization, followed by another long period of reason-infusion, during which already acquired traits (hexeis) are revised and honed in light of the student’s own (budding) practical moral wisdom (phronesis). There seems little, if any, room for epiphanic conversions—even for moral conversions at all. Things are not quite as simple as that, however, for in another (and more obscure) place in his corpus, Aristotle seems to offer a “Plan B”: The bad man, if he is being brought into a better way of life and thought, may make some advance, however slight, and if he should once improve, even ever so little, it is plain that he might change completely, or at any rate make very great progress; for a man becomes more and more easily moved to virtue, however small the improvement was at first. It is, therefore, natural to suppose that he will make yet greater progress than he has made in the past, and as this progress goes on, it will change him completely and establish him in the contrary state, provided he is not hindered by lack of time. (1941, p. 32 [13a22–31], my italics)

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Aristotle is clearly talking here about the possibility of a complete change towards full virtue—a radical self-change—rather than just change towards the second-best tack of “continence” (by forcing oneself to be good). But how can “the bad man” be “brought into a better way of life” if his soul has not been prepared for it through proper habituation? Knobel (2016) argues that, in some cases at least (e.g., the fictional one of Ebenezer Scrooge), a relatively sudden change can satisfy Aristotle’s prior-habituation condition if the person simply reverts back to and picks up the thread from a habituation process that occurred at some time in the past but from which s/he then departed in an opposite direction. The required moral understanding may still be there, albeit dormant and masked, and allow for a relatively sudden retrieval. This explanation only suffices, however, for those who have somehow been led astray from virtue and are finding their way back. In an earlier work (Kristjánsson, 2015, chap. 5), I tried to carve out an alternative route, reasonably faithful to Aristotle’s own texts, to explain the above-mentioned Plan-B maneuver. My strategy was to fasten on Aristotle’s own conception of the intellectual virtue of practicing contemplation, a virtue which in fact turns out to be the supreme one in his system. Contemplation reflects upon the unchanging form and telos (final end) of substances, most specifically of the objects of mathematics, logic, and physics. However, it is also possible to reflect upon the telos of human life and, by so doing, discover the unique ergon (function) of human beings. But if it is possible to reflect upon and gain wisdom about the ergon, then the ergon will presumably lead one to understand the specific eudaimonia (flourishing) of human beings also. Moreover, even if that ergon is, in its most ideal form in human beings, concerned with contemplation only (as Aristotle assumes), in the actual, non-utopian world it will require us to exhibit our moral virtues to the full. The successful contemplator will thus, in principle, through mere contemplation, be able to gauge the significance of the phronetic life and what it demands— possibly leading to a moral conversion. Nevertheless, for a number of different reasons, I remain pessimistic about Aristotle’s putative Plan B being able to account for epiphanic moral conversions. First, although contemplative scientists may no doubt have their occasional “eureka moments” of wonder, followed by paradigm-shifts in thinking, none of what Aristotle says about contemplation indicates any intense emotional engagement of awe—hence violating one of the already mentioned characteristics of standard epiphanic conversions (cf. Kristjánsson, 2016, 2018, chap. 8). Second, whatever subsidiary moral function we may want to ascribe to contemplation, it cannot override Aristotle’s general doubts about a mere theoretical study of morality ever being able, on its own, to activate character change. What else would be needed, then? Well, at least the contribution of true character friends, preferably at a higher level of moral development than

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oneself, who could pull one along towards reform. However, that condition rules out fortuitous moral conversions, so we are left with a possible explanation only of a sub-category of the explanandum: other-induced conversions. Third, moral enlightenment along the contemplation route will, by psychological necessity, require a higher-than-average level of IQ and self-knowledge. No available evidence on epiphanic conversions indicates, however, that such conversions are limited to high-IQ people. In short, no matter how we twist Aristotle’s texts, those will scarcely yield more of a constructive explanation of epiphanic moral conversions than Kohlberg’s, on a standard reading. Not only moral philosophers and moral psychologists are skeptical of swift and dramatic changes in character or selfhood. In personality psychology, the reigning Five-Factor Model of personality considers any such change severely restricted by the content of one’s Big-Five profile, which is supposed to be largely set in stone (McCrae, 2009). No “Damascus experience” will suffice, for example, to turn an introvert into an extrovert. In social psychology, William Swann (1996) offers a whole theory of self-verification to explain people’s resistance to change. Swann has conducted a number of psychological experiments demonstrating that people tend to pay attention to, seek, believe, value, and retain feedback that confirms their self-concept, whether that self-concept is positive or negative. These findings contradict the well-entrenched assumption that people are in general self-enhancement seekers and praise junkies, consumed by an overwhelming desire to think well of themselves. In contrast, Swann’s studies suggest that once people have incorporated a given characteristic—however negative—firmly into their self-concept, they seek feedback that verifies that characteristic, even if it brings them intense pain. We thus like to seek out others who see us as we see ourselves, and we tend to flee contexts in which such self-verifying evaluations are not forthcoming. Swann refers to this tendency as “self-traps”: stubborn impediments to self-change (see Kristjánsson, 2010, chap. 10, for a fuller discussion). It must be noted, however, that nothing in what Swann says excludes the possibility of dramatic moral conversions; he simply explains our resistance to them. Indeed, one could put a positive spin on Swann’s theory and argue that it supports the conception of epiphanic conversions, given in this chapter, by accounting for one feature characterizing them: namely, why they are so rare. Moreover, Swann’s theory could perhaps account for other-induced moral conversions insofar as we seek verification from others of a new self-concept that they have induced us to adopt. It remains to consider one final skeptical point, recently advanced by philosopher Ryan Kemp (2015). He provides a logical argument against the possibility of radical self-transformations. The argument turns out to be slightly less encompassing than one envisages at the beginning of his article. Kemp does admit the possibility of radical self-transformations

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(which could include epiphanic moral conversions) when those are brought about fortuitously and/or heteronomously (i.e., by external forces). He does argue, however, that autonomous (self-induced or selfauthored) self-transformations are impossible. The argument follows a familiar pattern from disputes about the logical status of other reflexive phenomena such as self-deception or self-constraint. How can the same self both be the deceiver and the one deceived? Similarly here, how can the self reinvent itself when the only ingredients it has got at its disposal to exercise such a reinvention are contained within the self? A decision to make a radical self-change seems, by logical necessity, to outstrip the self’s own repertoire of available resources. I do appreciate the apparent paradoxicality here but there are maneuvers at hand to solve it, similar to those that have been used for other self-reflexive concepts. For example, although it seems paradoxical to claim that a person directly constrains her own freedom, there is nothing logically odd about saying that in the case of Ulysses and the Sirens, Ulysses indirectly constrained his own freedom, through the agency of others, by asking his shipmates to tie him to the mast. Analogously, a person who has found herself thrown into some sort of perceived moral imbalance might devise steps to bring about her own transformation, although she would have to rely on other people, or some other external forces, to assume causal responsibility for the transformation. All that Kemp’s argument establishes is that it is impossible to be the sole autonomous creator of one’s own conversion and to determine its content systematically beforehand (cf. also Battaly, 2016). But that concession fits well with the nature of the conversions under discussion in this chapter; this is exactly why they are appropriately described as “epiphanic.” A more radical antidote to the supposed self-transformation inertia is suggested by philosopher L. A. Paul (2014) who thinks that we make choices that are both epistemically and personally transformative on a regular basis—witness the apparently mundane choice of deciding to have a child rather than to remain childless, or to opt for a new career. Those choices, she argues, generate phenomenological transformations deep enough to count as radical self-change. While Paul’s account opens the door to self-elicited transformations, flowing from deliberate decisions, those are not tantamount to decisions to undergo a moral conversion; she is rather describing the possibility (and commonness) of decisions to take spectacular jumps into the unknown—and those do not necessarily alter the orientation of one’s moral compass.

3.

Some Relevant Psychological Evidence

Having so far focused mostly on the misgivings and skepticisms about radical moral conversions, it is now time to review briefly some of the more favorable psychological evidence. Notwithstanding the general

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claim made earlier, that such experiences have been subject to widespread and protracted indifference, there are some notable exceptions. William James’s (1958) treatise on the varieties of religious experience (written in 1901–1902) includes a long discussion of religious conversions. Although the empirical evidence discussed lies outside the purview of the present chapter, since it relates to religious experiences, James draws many helpful distinctions that apply equally well to moral conversions. I have already mentioned his distinction between gradual and abrupt conversions—indicating that I am only exploring the latter here. That said, the borderline between the two can be fuzzy. For example, the closest I have come myself to a moral conversion is when, as a first year undergraduate, I got to know a German Ph.D. student in theology who was suffering from terminal cancer. Accepting his predicament with incredible equanimity, he decided to spend his last months engrossing himself in what he liked most, philosophy and theology, and working on the thesis he knew he would not complete—never apparently complaining or despairing. Since this experience, I feel I appreciate life more and have a markedly reduced tendency to fuss about trifles. This “conversion” shares many of the characteristics of the epiphanic ones, listed in Section 1, but it did not originate in a single “Damascus event,” and although it happened over days rather than months or years, it may be moot whether to call it “gradual” or “abrupt.” Someone might also point out that if talk of a “Damascus experience” is relevant here at all, that experience befell the German student, not me, and that I was only experiencing the “benefits” vicariously or second-hand. The larger question, then, is whether a vicariously experienced epiphany makes it any less of an epiphany. James also distinguishes between volitional and self-surrender types of conversions, where the former involve a high ratio of quick assent to and awareness of what is taking place, while the latter are characterized by an initial resistance to what is happening “to” oneself, although the resistance is eventually given up. Thirdly, James distinguishes between new birth-type and layered conversions, where the former signify a complete about-face by the agent (as when Saul metamorphosed into Paul), but the latter relate to conversions which, while remaining epiphanic, still point in a direction into which the agent was already heading, however tentatively and sub-consciously, before the conversion experience (see MacLaughlin, 2008, chap. 2). Perhaps supporting the concept of a “layered” conversion is the latter-day “kindling hypothesis” in depression research, which holds that in the context of chronic stress, a relatively minor event can cause a tip into severe depression (Monroe & Harkness, 2005). This hypothesis is obviously not about moral conversions, nor indeed conversion for the better, but it opens up the question of whether a “minor” event can count as a “Damascus” one by tipping the scales towards a major change of compass. To return to James, the biggest inspiration to be gained from his work, dated as some of it may be, lies

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in his confidence that radical conversions are real and his willingness to explore them scientifically. The humanist psychologist Abraham Maslow (1964) believed that in order to fully actualize their potential, human beings needed to activate their Dionysian side as well as their Apollonian one. The very top of his famous pyramid of needs thus includes ecstatic “peak experiences”— experiences that are simultaneously, in Maslow’s view, “spiritual,” “cosmic,” and explicable within a naturalistic framework. Those alleged peak experiences often include conversions from a sense of meaninglessness to a sense of cosmic meaning and purpose—including a moral purpose—and can thus fall under the heading of epiphanic moral conversions. However, much of Maslow’s work is questioned in today’s academic (including “positive”) psychology for its “grandmotherly” tone and method. Maslow relied substantially on biographical analyses of the lives of unique individuals and, in addition to that, on narrative interviews with a relatively small number of participants. Recent methodological misgivings have unfortunately led to a dearth of interest in some of Maslow’s more exciting topics, such as the concept of a “peak experience,” although those continue to be studied within a fringe movement in psychology, called “transpersonal psychology,” which focuses on the nature of self-transformations (Davis, 2003). It would be churlish to complain that the next topic on my agenda has not been studied with scientific rigor. I am thinking here of neardeath experiences, about which much has been written of late. The “typical” cases of such experiences relate to persons who, during a physical emergency—like the truck driver Thomas Sawyer crushed under his own truck in 1978 (recounted in Gibbs, 2014, pp. 212ff)—experience a complete, epiphanic review of their lives, accompanied by the perception of a glimpse into a deeper, transcendent reality. The experience typically evokes “emotional involvement and moral assessment” (Lorimer, 1990, p. 10). Following this experience and its retrospective review, the person is transformed, which in Tom’s case meant that his previous self-centered and abusive behaviors were replaced by an attitude of love and altruism. Greyson (2006) reviews much of the available empirical data and finds clear trends, many of which coincide substantially with the characteristics identified in Section 1 as those of epiphanic moral conversions. The near-death experiences are catastrophic, unplanned, epiphanic, and emotionally laden and result in a morally positive self-change. Greyson presents both qualitative and quantitative data supporting the reality of those experiences and their (lasting) effects. Yet—apart from only accounting for a small percentage of alleged radical conversions—near-death experiences are often discussed in a language that will turn secular theorists off, as it seems to assume contact with some supernatural reality or being. Moreover, skeptics may complain that first-person accounts of near-death experiences typically rely on “flashbulb memories,” which are generally

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not considered very reliable (Talarico & Rubin, 2003). Nevertheless, some psychologists consider near-death experiences to offer significant insights not only into the phenomenon of moral conversions but the nature of moral development in general (see e.g. Gibbs, 2014). Emilie Griffin (1980) followed in the footsteps of William James by trying to unravel the phenomenology of religious conversions. In doing so, she produced a four-stage model—of desire, dialectic, struggle, and surrender—which might, at first sight at least, be considered equally relevant to moral as to religious conversions. The desire stage refers to a period of dissatisfaction with the agent’s status quo—a feeling of emptiness or turmoil. The dialectic stage (which may be short in abrupt conversions) includes a weighing of intellectual reasons for and against the conversion. The struggle phase refers to the person’s ambiguity in wanting at the same time to embrace the conversion and to step on the brakes. The final stage of surrender is then characterized by the complete assent of the convert to the reality and content of the new outlook. Griffin’s model is better at explaining gradual than abrupt conversions. More significantly, the more accurate a picture we take this model to paint of religious conversions, the more those seem to differ from moral conversions, or at least the sort of moral conversions under scrutiny in this chapter. For, as MacLaughlin (2008, chap. 4) correctly points out, the latter are typically less reflective than the conversions identified by Griffin; they do not universally present any preliminary desire phase; and they often include no experience of a struggle and eventual surrender. The reason why Griffin’s model seems to have some intuitive appeal, however, may have to with how well it relates to an historically powerful model of moral progress in general—found in a number of Western religions, but also in essentially non-religious ideologies such as Platonism, Rousseau’s primitivism, Marxism, and Surrealism—according to which such progress inevitably follows a cycle of fall, self-estrangement, and redemption. One of the problems with this fall-redemption model is that it may produce moral inertia through the assumption that one needs to hit rock bottom before one begins to climb up again. Just like an alcoholic believing in this developmental model may delay entering rehab by conveniently moving the presumed “bottom,” which she needs to hit first, ever further downwards, so the young moral learner may be discouraged from continuing to make slow, laborious progress by the anticipation that a “turning point,” where struggles are transcended, is awaiting around the corner. Not feeling fragmented and torn before the “big event” will, then, be seen as a sign of self-suppression and immaturity rather than of self-harmony and maturity. Epiphanic moral conversions are here elevated from an exception to a rule in moral progress, but that seems to fly in the face of empirical evidence. The distinctions pointed out by MacLaughlin above remind us of the need to distinguish epiphanic moral conversions from cases of “post-traumatic

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growth”—about which research findings are proliferating. While the nature of such growth is still inherently controversial (Jayawickreme & Blackie, 2014), and written off by some as a “positive illusion” (Taylor & Armor, 1996), it is typically conceptualized as a gradual, reflective process, often involving inner struggles, and thus may have more in common (phenomenologically) with Griffin’s model than the characteristics presented in Section 1. Moreover, while one could reasonably predict post-traumatic growth to target intellectual virtues such as wisdom or phronesis, epiphanic moral conversions are more likely to affect (at least in the short run) specific emotion-imbued moral virtues such as compassion and generosity. Pointing in a different direction from most of the post-traumatic-growth research, however, is another finding from psycho-therapy, more specifically cognitive therapy (CT), which shows some CT-patients experiencing sudden gains: large symptom improvement in between-session intervals, as if through a gestalt-switch. Survival analyses show that only one-third of those sudden-gain-responders relapse in two years (Tang, DeRubeis, Hollon, Amsterdam, & Shelton, 2007). Kirk Schneider’s (2009) book, Awakening to Awe, contains an analysis of qualitative interviews with a number of people who have experienced profound transformations as a result of embracing the objects of awe. Schneider’s book is highly relevant for the present review, as I hypothesize in the following section that awe may hold the key to some of the enigmas of epiphanic moral conversions. The agents with whom Schneider engages all seem to have faced some existential crisis, as a result of childhood traumas, drug addiction, chronic illness, depression, or aging, but then to have epiphanically recovered through intense attachments to objects of awe (for instance, in nature or in art). The details provided by the transcribed interviews are salutary for eliciting an account of educational interventions that might work for individuals standing in need of radical self-transformations. However, none of the interviewees describes a particular “Damascus experience,” but rather a series of awe-inspiring episodes that gradually got them back on track. Schneider’s research questions and findings are thus slightly out of sync with the remit of this chapter. I would finally like to mention Alfredo MacLaughlin’s Ph.D. thesis (2008), which neatly synthesizes and critiques much of the available social scientific sources on moral conversions. In addition to offering a helpful overview, which can serve as a springboard for further explorations, MacLaughlin presents useful taxonomies of his own, such as his distinction between conversions in terms of their (a) content, (b) degree of commitment, and (c) behavioral coherence with the new standards (2008, chap. 5). MacLaughlin’s examples show that a conversion that can be counted as radical on one of those variables need not necessarily be so on others. What MacLaughlin’s thesis demonstrates more than anything else, however, is the current lack of empirical studies, especially

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of the quantitative kind, homing in on different varieties of moral conversions. As we have seen, the focus so far has clearly been on cases that, from the perspective of moral psychology and moral philosophy, may be lacking in relevance, either because they are exclusively about religious conversions, or about conversions that only cover a very limited number of cases, such as near-death experiences. For instance, no study is, to the best of my knowledge, available that explores differences between fortuitous, self-elicited, and other-elicited moral conversions. In sum, the currently available diet on which philosophical or psychological theories of epiphanic conversions can feed is severely restricted. Therefore, the best that one can offer at the moment are exploratory suggestions, such as those pursued in the following section.

4.

Disenchantment, Awe, and Elevation

The phenomenon of epiphanic moral conversions still seems to elude a satisfactory comprehensive account. Previous sections indicate that the problem does not lie so much in the concept itself—which has been clarified considerably by a number of theorists—as in the lack of empirical evidence of under which conditions such conversions actually take place. How frequent are they? What triggers them? How can they fit into a plausible account of moral development? Is there a difference between conversions in childhood and adulthood? Are conversions reversible?— and so forth. Those are the questions needing scrutiny, and answering them requires more than musings from the philosophical armchair. Nevertheless, in order to get a firmer grip on those questions, I offer further philosophical reflections in the present section and engage in some hypothesizing about the possible mechanisms at work. Historically, it may be possible to trace the failure of theorists to acknowledge epiphanic moral conversions (recall Section 2) all the way back to Aristotle’s radical rejection of Platonic idealism. Since then, but especially since the fall of the medieval transcendental and teleological worldview, we have—according to Charles Taylor at least—lived in a world of increasing “disenchantment.” Taylor rails in particular against three components of disenchantment: scientism, mechanism, and instrumentalism (2007, p. 773). Disenchantment is, for him, not only a theoretical peril; it is a practical evil that makes human lives humdrum and mediocre. Taylor does offer a reprieve, however; for underneath our daily travails, there will for most of us be moments of experienced depth, joy, and fullness that give us a clue that somewhere, “in some activity, or condition,” there “lies a fullness, a richness” where life is “more worthwhile, more admirable, more what it should be” (Taylor, 2007, p. 5). But in default of this fullness—even for people who seem to be flourishing according to external criteria—there looms a sense of “terrible flatness in the everyday” (2007, p. 309).

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Taylor does not specifically single out the loss of belief in epiphanic moral conversions as a symptom of the general malaise of disenchantment, but in a number of places he mentions the “epiphanic” quality of those rare occasions when moderns still come into contact with, or at least sense the presence of, a transcendental reality (2007, pp. 544– 546, 607–609, 728–732). Often those experiences will have to do with aesthetic ecstasy, when confronted with works of great art or awe at the wonders of nature. Whatever the reductionist tenets of disenchanted science, human beings are thus—just as Plato envisaged—inexorably drawn towards ideals of beauty, truth, and goodness. In one place, Taylor mentions that momentary intimations of fullness can be part of a “conversion” experience where one perceives oneself to have come into full contact with the source of goodness (2007, pp. 728–730). He then describes in some detail the epiphanic moments of awe experienced one day by Václav Havel, the late Czech writer and statesman, when, languishing as a dissident in prison, he began to gaze into the crown of an enormous tree that rose up and over the prison fences (2007, p. 728). Awe is quite an interesting emotion for present purposes, for lack of attention to awe—or the tendency to consign it into inconsequence— seems to constitute a nodal point of several causalities that contribute to skepticism about conversions. Consider Aristotle again, for example. Often deservedly lauded nowadays for the significant role that he ascribed to emotions as part of the good (flourishing) life in general and the virtuous life in particular, Aristotle nevertheless had no interest in awe; at least he did not mention it among the numerous emotions he analyzed and evaluated. When one looks at the emotions that Aristotle describes, those fall broadly into three categories with respect to their targets: emotions directed at oneself (like pride), at other people (like compassion), or at external events (like fear). Notably missing from this list are emotions directed at transpersonal (non-self-or-selves-directed) ideals or idealizations, such as beauty, truth, and goodness. There is no awe—either inspired by a heightened sense of beauty in art/nature, the immensity of the universe, or the goodness of an ideal of self-sacrifice. There is obviously a lot of wonder in Aristotle, but while it is difficult to determine exactly at what point wonder shades into awe proper, a careful study of lay uses of the words “awe” and “wonder” may hold the key here (Darbor, Lench, Davis, & Hicks, 2016). It indicates that whereas “wonder” is associated with curiosity in trying to understand the world and contemplate its workings, awe is more related to observing it existentially—reflected in greater use of perception words. As Jules Evans puts it, drawing on Sam Harris, “we may wonder at Hubble photographs, but we are unlikely to lose control of ourselves, feel our egos dissolve in a love-connection to the cosmos, and come away with a sense of deep personal transformation” (2017, p. 197)—as we would in awe.

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Speculating on the reasons for the elision of awe, as distinct from wonder and contemplation, in Aristotle would lie outside the present inquiry (see, however, Kristjánsson, 2016), but it may partly explain why Aristotle did not fit epiphanic moral conversions into his theory of moral development. For without experiences of awe, it is difficult to see how some of the characteristics of such conversions, listed in Section 1, could be accounted for. That said, it would be premature to exclude the possibility here that intense experiences of more everyday “Aristotelian” emotions, such as shame or compassion, could elicit conversions. Awe has come under the spotlight of contemporary psychology of late (in particular positive psychology), and an often-cited analysis by Keltner and Haidt (2003) suggests that two appraisals are prototypically central to awe: perception of vastness and a need for accommodation. Vastness can involve physical or social “size”: in fact, “anything that is experienced as being much larger than the self, or the self’s ordinary level of experience or frame of reference” (2003, p. 303). This feature makes awe the self-transcendent emotion par excellence. Accommodation “refers to the Piagetian process of adjusting mental structures that cannot assimilate a new experience”; it involves confusion and obscurity to begin with and then, ideally, a realignment of structures (2003, p. 304). These two appraisals are central in the sense that emotional experiences that lack one of them cannot count as “awe.” I do have a number of problems with Keltner and Haidt’s analysis (see Kristjánsson, 2018, chap. 8). For example, I do not consider “accommodation,” in their sense, a necessary condition of all awe experiences. In many cases, awe simply confirms or reinforces already existing structures, for example structures that have come into existence as a result of previous awe experiences directed at similar targets. However, I agree that a radical alignment of cognitive structures characterizes some awe experiences (cf. the empirical findings in Shiota, Keltner, & Mossman, 2007). More specifically, I would hypothesize that (a) awe is a common (perhaps even a psychologically crucial) emotional trigger of epiphanic moral conversions; and (b) awe-proneness is associated with proneness to such conversions. Awe is perhaps best seen not as a single discrete emotion but, rather, as a name for family of emotions that includes intellectual elevation and moral elevation, as well as aesthetic ecstasy (Kristjánsson, 2018, chap. 8). Of those, moral elevation (see Haidt, 2003) would probably be most relevant for moral conversions, so my third hypothesis is that (c) epiphanic moral conversions are strongly correlated with reported experiences of moral elevation. This is in line with Haidt’s (2003) suggestion that in order to understand elevation, we need to examine “peak experiences” empirically. I hope that by exceeding my remit as a philosopher, in advancing those three hypotheses and encouraging psychologists to test them, I have put some flesh on the bones of the complaint made at the close of Section 3 that epiphanic

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moral conversions require more empirical work. It is not just that I consider them to stand in need of any kind of empirical scrutiny but, rather, empirical scrutiny with a particular focus. That said, while the hypotheses are empirical, they are based on a view that is philosophical (in this case both moral and conceptual) about the nature of awe as a potentially virtuous emotion and how this emotion helps us place ourselves and our lives in relation to self-transcendent goods. I have argued for this specific nature of awe elsewhere (Kristjánsson, 2018, chap. 8), and while there is no space to rehearse that argument here, I simply flag it at this juncture as a reminder of my firm belief that no serious headway can be made in the study of a phenomenon such as that under discussion in the present chapter without an input from both social scientists and philosophers.

5.

Education for Epiphanies

Since we are still awaiting a full empirical theory of epiphanic moral conversions, it may seem premature to so much as begin to suggest educational interventions to stimulate such conversions. Someone might even argue that given the very epiphanic and unpredictable nature of conversion experiences—which can at worst elicit moral regress rather than progress—this topic should not even be touched with a barge pole in the classroom. At present, the only thing I can offer are some scattered observations, based on anecdotal evidence and the yet-to-be-confirmed hypotheses about an association between awe and epiphanic conversions. If we return to the popular accounts (mentioned in Section 1) of charismatic teachers producing radical self-change in students, those can quite easily be reconceptualized as exercises in awe education. What John Keating did, for example, in Dead Poets Society was to inspire in students awe at great literature and the messages it conveys about how to lead our lives. Unfortunately, schools often seem to function as vehicles of a disenchantment process where a sense of mystery at the wonders of life is gradually educated out of students. Schneider, whose research shows awe as literally life-saving for many people, complains that schools are sites of enculturation of intricate defenses against mystery (2009, pp. 7–8). If that is true and if my empirical hypotheses above hold water, then less awe-proneness in students will decrease the likelihood of their undergoing moral conversions, either presently or later in life. That is not good news for those who believe that some people urgently need such conversions. This situation must be seen as potentially remediable, however; schools do not necessarily need to serve such a deflationary function. Indeed, Schneider’s interviews indicate various avenues open to innovative schools and teachers, in order to cultivate awe, and he even produces helpful lists of educational conditions that may enhance awe awakenings (2009, pp. 181–183).

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Not everyone would agree with Schneider, however. Educational philosopher John White has written an inspiring book (2011) on a revolution in schooling towards a paradigm of human flourishing. Yet even White is hesitant to expand the standard conception of flourishing to include awe. Indeed, he devotes a whole chapter in his book (2011, chap. 12) to demonstrating that all the “depth” we need in order to live well can be achieved within an explicitly mundane view of flourishing. Reveling, so to speak, in disenchantedness, his main foils are anything spiritual and other-worldly. My impression is that White throws the baby out with the bathwater. Not to see anything irreducibly awe-inspiring in the workings of the universe—the singularity of a black hole, the possibility of endless parallel worlds, etc.—involves, in my view, a concession to a life of pedestrian flatness, or even to philistinism. There is in my view, contra White, no necessary connection between awe-proneness, in general, or epiphanic moral conversions, in particular, and a religious worldview. Indeed, one of the strengths of the already existing literature on conversions is the willingness, on the part of most of the leading theorists, to distinguish clearly between religious and moral “Damascus experiences.” Usually, the best place to start an inquiry into the educational stimulation of an emotional trait would be with Aristotle, who saw moral education essentially as a refinement of sensibility. For reasons that will have become apparent to readers, however, Aristotle’s texts will not be of much help here—except as a general reminder about the educational uses of great art (including music) and literature to cultivate deep emotions (cf. Asher, 2017). That said, Aristotelians would be quick to remind us that if we wanted to accommodate awe as a praiseworthy emotional trait, to be promoted through moral education, we would need to make a clear distinction first between virtuous and non-virtuous awe; the awe of an acid trip does not count (Vogler, 2017). Regarding potential Aristotelian methods, Snow (2016) identifies in Aristotle’s constant emphasis on learning virtue by doing virtue a “paradox of striving”: of spoiling our efforts by trying too hard. Perhaps, to prepare us for awe, Gandhi’s method of purifying the mind and waiting to be touched will work better. However, that frame of mind requires a certain sort of humility, which is not standardly considered to be an Aristotelian virtue (Kristjánsson, 2018, chap. 8). Alternatively, perhaps those of us who tend to take Aristotle as gospel on moral education need to accept a reason for winding the clock back slightly and paying heed to Plato. As Jonas (2015a) cleverly argues, the approach modeled in some of Plato’s dialogs, such as Lysis, offers contemporary educators a method for using Socratic questioning to guide students in a profitable direction towards abrupt insights, without dictating the way. Students can thus be given the scaffolding necessary for seeing the light of truth while being expected to take ownership for where the pursuit of this light leads them (2015a, p. 51). In addition to Plato’s

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insights, considerable literature exists on the potential role of the teacher as an “evoker” of epiphanic educational experiences in general—not only moral ones—which lies outside of the purview of the present chapter (see e.g. Hogan, 2004) but should ideally be consulted by anyone aiming for an educational account of sudden moral conversions. The lessons learned from this literature indicate that education for epiphanies is very much a hit-and-miss affair (Aldridge, 2014). I am tempted to conclude, at the end of this exploration, that schooling that forecloses the option of an epiphanic moral conversion does not constitute good education—least of all in a liberal society. To what extent this option should be buttressed and stimulated in the classroom is another question, however, an answer to which will not only require a much fuller, empirically informed, theory about moral conversions but also considerable educational phronesis on the part of the teacher.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Eranda Jayawickreme, Blaine Fowers, Mark Jonas, Anders Schinkel, Sophie-Grace Chappell, David Walker, Candace Vogler, and Jennifer A. Frey for helpful comments on an earlier draft—and Schinkel, in particular, for access to an unpublished draft. I am also grateful to my friend Clark Morgan for his literature tips. This chapter was written under the aegis of the Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life project (The University of Chicago and the University of South Carolina) and presented at its December 2016 seminar.

References Aldridge, D. (2014). Three epiphanic fragments: Education and the essay in memory. Educational Philosophy and Theory, 46(5), 512–526. Aristotle. (1941). Categories. E. M. Edghill (Trans.). In R. McKeon (Ed.), The basic works of Aristotle. New York, NY: Random House. Aristotle. (1985). Nicomachean ethics. T. Irwin (Trans.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing. Asher, K. (2017). Literature, ethics, and the emotions. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Batson, C. D., & Ventis, W. L. (1982). The religious experience: A socialpsychological perspective. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Battaly, H. (2016). Developing virtue and rehabilitating vice: Worries about selfcultivation and self-reform. Journal of Moral Education, 45(2), 207–222. Bien, T. (2004). Quantum change and psychotherapy. Journal of Clinical Psychology, 35(4), 493–501. Blasi, A. (1980). Bridging moral cognition and moral action: A critical review of the literature. Psychological Bulletin, 88(1), 1–45. Chappell, T. (2014). Knowing what to do: Imagination, virtue, and Platonism in ethics. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Cottingham, J. (2012). Human nature and the transcendent. Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplements, 70, 233–254.

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Darbor, K. E., Lench, H. C., Davis, W. E., & Hicks, J. A. (2016). Experiencing versus contemplating: Language use during descriptions of awe and wonder. Cognition and Emotion, 30(6), 1188–1196. Davis, J. (2003). An overview of transpersonal psychology. The Humanistic Psychologist, 31(2–3), 6–21. Dees, R. H. (1996). Moral conversions. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 56(3), 531–550. Dostoyevsky, F. (2015). The dream of a ridiculous man. Retrieved August 11, 2016, from http://thoughtaudio.com/titlelist/TA0120-RidiculousMan/RIDIC ULOUSMAN_Dostoyevsky.pdf Evans, J. (2017). The art of losing control: A philosopher’s search for ecstatic experience. Edinburgh, Scotland: Canongate. Flanagan, O. (2007). The really hard problem: Meaning in a material world. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Gibbs, J. C. (2014). Moral development and reality: Beyond the theories of Kohlberg, Hoffman, and Haidt (3rd ed.). Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Greyson, B. (2006). Near-death experiences and spirituality. Zygon, 41(2), 393–414. Griffin, E. (1980). Turning: Reflections on the experience of conversion. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Haidt, J. (2003). Elevation and the positive psychology of morality. In C. L. M. Keyes & J. Haidt (Eds.), Flourishing: Positive psychology and the life welllived (pp. 275–289). Washington, DC: APA Books. Hogan, P. (2004). The politics of identity and the epiphanies of learning. In W. Carr (Ed.), The Routledge-Falmer reader in the philosophy of education (pp. 83–96). London, England: Routledge-Falmer. Irvine, W. B. (2015). Aha! The moments of insight that shape our world. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. James, W. (1958). The varieties of religious experience: A study in human nature. New York, NY: Mentor Books. Jayawickreme, E., & Blackie, L. E. R. (2014). Post-traumatic growth as positive personality change: Evidence, controversies and future directions. European Journal of Personality, 28(4), 312–331. Jonas, M. (2015a). Education for epiphany. The case of Plato’s Lysis. Educational Theory, 65(1), 39–51. Jonas, M. (2015b). Habituation and role-modeling in Plato’s thought. Paper presented at a Jubilee Centre for Character and Virtues Conference, Oriel College, Oxford, January 8–10. Retrieved August 11, 2016, from www.jubilee centre.ac.uk/userfiles/jubileecentre/pdf/conference- papers/Varieties_of_ Virtue_Ethics/Jonas_Mark.pdf Keltner, D., & Haidt, J. (2003). Approaching awe, a moral, spiritual and aesthetic emotion. Cognition and Emotion, 17(2), 297–314. Kemp, R. (2015). The self-transformation puzzle: On the possibility of radical self-transformations. Res Philosophica, 92(2), 1–29. Knobel, A. (2016). Scrooge and sudden moral change. Paper delivered at the Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life Workshop, Columbia, South Carolina, December 14. Kohlberg, L. (1981). Essays on moral development, vol. 1: The philosophy of moral development. San Francisco, CA: Harper & Row. Kohlberg, L., & Kramer, R. (1969). Continuities and discontinuities in childhood and adult moral development. Human Development, 12(2), 93–120. Kohlberg, L., & Ryncarz, R. A. (1990). Beyond justice reasoning: Moral development and consideration of a seventh stage. In C. N. Alexander & E. J. Langer

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(Eds.), Higher stages of human development: Perspectives on adult growth (pp. 191–207). Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Kristjánsson, K. (2010). The self and its emotions. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Kristjánsson, K. (2015). Aristotelian character education. London, England: Routledge. Kristjánsson, K. (2016). Flourishing as the aim of education: Towards an extended, “enchanted” Aristotelian account. Oxford Review of Education, 42(6), 707–720. Kristjánsson, K. (2018). Virtuous emotions. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Lonergan, B. J. F. (1990). Method in theology (2nd ed.). Toronto, Canada: University of Toronto Press. Lorimer, D. (1990). Whole in one: The near-death experience and the ethic of interconnectedness. London, England: Arkana. MacLaughlin, A. J. (2008). Narratives of hope: A philosophical study of moral conversions. Ph.D. diss. Loyola University, Chicago. Maslow, A. (1964). Religions, values, and peak-experiences. Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books. McCrae, R. R. (2009). The Five-Factor Model of personality traits: Consensus and controversy. In P. J. Corr & G. Matthews (Eds.), The Cambridge handbook of personality psychology (pp. 148–161). Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Monroe, S. M., & Harkness, K. L. (2005). Life stress, the “kindling” hypothesis, and the recurrence of depression: Considerations from a life stress perspective. Psychological Review, 112(2), 417–445. Morland, P. (2016). Metamorphosis: How and why we change. London, England: Profile Books. Paul, L. A. (2014). Transformative experiences. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Schinkel, A. (2016). Morally formative experiences (manuscript under construction). Schneider, K. J. (2009). Awakening to awe: Personal stories of profound transformation. Lanham, MD: Jason Aronson. Shiota, M. N., Keltner, D., & Mossman, A. (2007). The nature of awe: Elicitors, appraisals, and effects on self-concept. Cognition and Emotion, 21(5), 944–963. Snow, N. (2016). Virtue acquisition: The paradox of striving. Journal of Moral Education, 45(2), 179–191. Swann, W. B., Jr. (1996). Self-traps: The elusive quest for higher self-esteem. New York, NY: W. H. Freeman & Co. Talarico, J. M., & Rubin, D. C. (2003). Confidence, not consistency, characterizes flashbulb memories. Psychological Science, 14(5), 455–461. Tang, T. Z., DeRubeis, R. J., Hollon, S. D., Amsterdam, J., & Shelton, R. (2007). Sudden gains in cognitive therapy of depression and depression relapse/ recurrence. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 75(3), 404–408. Taylor, C. (2007). A secular age. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Taylor, S. E., & Armor, D. A. (1996). Positive illusions and coping with adversity. Journal of Personality, 64(4), 873–898. Vogler, C. (2017). Virtue, the common good, and self-transcendence. In D. Carr, J. Arthur & K. Kristjánsson (Eds.), Varieties of virtue ethics (pp. 217–230). London, England: Palgrave-Macmillan. White, J. (2011). Exploring well-being in schools: A guide to making children’s lives more fulfilling. London, England: Routledge.

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Xun, Lu. (2005). An incident. Retrieved August 11, 2016, from www.marxists. org/archive/lu-xun/1920/07/x01.htm Yaden, D. B., & Newberg, A. B. (2015). Road to Damascus moments: Calling experiences as prospective epiphanies. In D. B. Yaden, T. McCall & J. H. Ellens (Eds.), Being called: Secular, scientific, and sacred perspectives (pp. 27–44). Westport, CT: Praeger. Yu, J. (2007). The ethics of Confucius and Aristotle: Mirrors of virtue. London, England: Routledge.

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Fundamental Hope, Meaning, and Self-Transcendence Nancy E. Snow

Introduction The thesis of this essay is that there is a form of hope, called “fundamental” or “existential” hope by some philosophers, which is deeply related to our ability to make or find meaning in our lives, and that both the form of hope and the kind of meaning it makes possible are self-transcendent. Fundamental hope is found in the writings of the Christian philosophers Gabriel Marcel and Josef Pieper, who wrote in the aftermath of World War II, and the Jewish philosopher and theologian Emil Fackenheim, who was concerned with the meaning of the Holocaust for Jewish faith, history, and identity. In Part I, I offer a brief primer on hope and situate fundamental hope in the larger conceptual landscape of theories of hope. Part II takes up fundamental hope in the thought of Marcel and Pieper. In Part III, I turn to Fackenheim’s work on the hope of the Jews during and after the Holocaust. The essay concludes with reflections about fundamental hope and its role in our lives. One might wonder why I concentrate on Marcel, Pieper, and Fackenheim. All three wrote in the shadow of World War II. This event presented thinkers, especially Europeans and Jews, with an absurd scenario: the destruction of European Jews as well as most of the continent of Europe by a nation that had achieved great heights in music, the arts, literature, mathematics, and the sciences. The tragedies of World War II and similar depredations teach us that absurdity, or a lack of meaning or intelligibility in human lives, can destroy hope and be met with despair. Following the war, a great deal of existentialist literature questioning the meaning and point of human life and suggestive of a despairing outlook was produced. So, too, were deeply interesting writings on hope. Common to these writings is that they articulate versions of “fundamental” or “existential” hope—a form of hope that, I believe, lies at the deepest levels of our psyches. Fundamental hope enables us to transcend, overcome, or simply survive the forcible loss of meaning in our lives. This is true of communities as well as individuals.

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Two further introductory comments are in order. One might ask what I mean by “self-transcendence,” and why the theological views discussed here should be of interest to secular readers.1 The answers to these questions are related. As for self-transcendence, I maintain that it is an orientation to the world that promotes a kind of receptivity associated with hope and meaning. Since hope and meaning are, ceteris paribus, goods, it follows that self-transcendence is an orientation toward a selftranscendent good or goods. For religious believers, the ultimate good toward which self-transcendence orients us is God. That said, the path by which we find God is through the circumstances of our journey on earth, that is, through the goods that we have in our lives. We encounter God through other people—our families, colleagues, and the communities in which we live—as well as through nature and art. We even find God in suffering. For religious believers, self-transcendence is both a preintentional orientation and an achievement. It is a pre-intentional orientation in the sense that it is a creaturely orientation toward God placed in us by our creator. It is an achievement, inasmuch as we are tempted away from God, and must strive, through both intellect and will, to overcome temptation and truly orient ourselves toward Him. For religious believers, self-transcendence, hope, meaning, and other goods are inextricably intertwined—all part of a “bundle,” one might say, that characterizes the trajectory of a life that is properly oriented toward the divine. If we begin to lose various parts of the bundle, we risk losing our way. An inordinate focus on the self, for example, can lead us to neglect or ignore our relationship with God and with others; it can stunt our sensitivities or cause us to focus on transitory goods without lasting value. Should we come to depend too heavily on such goods, fail to achieve them, or be placed in circumstances in which they are forcibly removed, we could easily lose hope and, thus, meaning, in our lives. Concentration camp inmates faced circumstances in which the goods that imbued their lives with meaning and value were forcibly removed in the cruelest possible way, and the horror of their experiences reverberates down to the present. Thinkers in post-World War II Europe grappled with the enormity of the Holocaust from many different perspectives. Viktor Frankl is a secular thinker and camp survivor whose work resonates in many respects with the theological perspectives explored here. In his famous book, Man’s search for meaning, Frankl recounts his own experiences in the camps and describes how he helped inmates to find hope and meaning through a form of self-transcendence that was oriented outward from the self, albeit not toward the divine. Though my focus is on theological thinkers, I will, when appropriate, note similarities between their views and Frankl’s. These similarities, I think, lend credence to the notion that the experiences of camp inmates in finding hope and meaning through self-transcendence are universal, though they can be interpreted through both secular and religious perspectives. It is

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worth noting that for Frankl, self-transcendence is an intentional act of the will, an “inner decision” as to how one would bear the suffering and indignities of camp life (see Frankl, 2006, pp. 66–67). Of some inmates, he writes (2006, p. 67), “The way they bore their suffering was a genuine inner achievement. It is this spiritual freedom—which cannot be taken away—that makes life meaningful and purposeful.” I believe that taking this intentional stance would not be possible were it not for the fact that self-transcendence is also a pre-intentional state or orientation. This pre-intentional orientation away from the self is part of the deep psychic structures or foundations that enable us to intentionally hope and seek meaning, purpose, and value in our lives.

I.

Hope and Fundamental Hope in Brief2

A review of literature on hope from various disciplines gives rise to two distinctive theories of what hope is and how it is generated. The first has been called “agency” theories; I call the second “receptivity” theories. Fundamental hope is found in receptivity theories. Common to both agency and receptivity theories is what I will call the “bare bones” conception or “belief-desire” model of hope. The “bare bones” conception or “belief-desire” model can be gleaned from the work of philosophers as diverse as Thomas Aquinas (2008), Thomas Hobbes (1968), Victoria McGeer (2004), and Margaret Walker (2006). According to this account, hope, at its most basic, is the desire for an end or object and the belief that it is possible to attain it. The belief that the end or object is possible carves out a space for hope between certainty and impossibility. If a desired end is certain, it does not make sense to hope for it. If it is impossible, hoping for it is fruitless and can be self-destructive. The belief-desire model has been enhanced in various ways. One way is through the development of “agency” theories of hope, which focus on personal agency as a pathway to attaining hoped-for ends, and on hope as enhancing the agency of the individuals who possess it. Walker (2006, pp. 47–48), for example, stresses that hope is not simply a beliefdesire complex, but an emotional attitude consisting of a variety of hope phenomena—such as plans, imaginings, and expectations. Some of our hopes, of course, outstrip the reach of our agency. For example, we can hope for good news about a biopsy outcome or pleasant weather for the afternoon ball game. Other hopes might engage our agency, yet the effects of our hope might be minimal, as when we hope for an end to war, animal abuse, or famine. McGeer (2004) and Walker (2006), as well as the psychologist C. R. Snyder (2000), emphasize the motivational force of hope and its connections with agency. Hope, in their view, can motivate us to rise to challenges and undertake tasks that are possible, even though not probable. In yet another expansion of the belief-desire model,

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Shade (2001, p. 136) writes of the virtue of hopefulness, which is an entrenched character state or disposition of energetic openness to future possibilities. This kind of disposition forms the basis of hope as a virtue, which, according to some theorists, such as Aquinas (2008), lies between the extremes of presumption, which is the certainty that good things are to come, and despair, which is the certainty that they won’t.3 The second way in which the “belief-desire” model of hope has been enhanced is through “receptivity” theories of hope. Receptivity theories do not preclude the importance of agency for hope, nor roles for hope in promoting and sustaining effective agency. Instead, they are larger theoretical frameworks within which individual agency and hope’s effects on it are theorized and contextualized. According to this type of theory, hope is “received from” or “inspired by” external sources and then empowers the agency of its possessor. Examples of receptivity theories include those of the French Christian existentialist Gabriel Marcel (1978), the East German Marxist Ernst Bloch (1986), and the conception of hope attributed to the Crow tribe by Jonathan Lear in his book, Radical hope (2006). Pieper (1994, 1997), too, can be read as having a version of a receptivity theory of hope, and the hope that Fackenheim attributes to the Jews during the Holocaust is also consistent with a receptivity theory. I believe that all of these receptivity theories feature versions of fundamental hope, though Bloch’s view and radical hope are here left aside. Agency theories and views such as Shade’s dispositional account of hopefulness furnish views according to which hope, though deeply entrenched parts of character, does not have the depth at which fundamental or existential hope operates. Intimations of the depth of fundamental hope are found in Pieper’s thought, who, as a Thomist, was deeply influenced by Aquinas. Fundamental hope is the hope without which one is hopeless in the sense that one has lost hope per se (Pieper, 1994, p. 26). Pieper distinguishes it from ordinary hopes, which have earthly objects, and contends that it is not directed toward anything that we can have, but rather has to do with what one is—with one’s own being as a person, with one’s self-realization, or well-being (1994, pp. 27–28). In distinguishing fundamental hope from ordinary hopes, Pieper follows Herbert Plügge, a Heidelberg internist who clinically studied and offered phenomenological analyses of the inner states of two kinds of people: those suffering from incurable illness and those who were suicidal (Pieper, 1994, p. 27, n. 21). Phenomenological analyses of inner states mesh well with the work of a contemporary philosopher, Matthew Ratcliffe, who has written on hope and despair. Ratcliffe (2008, 2010, 2011) advances a view according to which hope, hopelessness, and other states such as deep depression and guilt are pre-intentional orientations. His approach is to give phenomenological analyses of first-person accounts of deep depression, guilt, and hopelessness. Based on his studies, he arrives at the notion

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of pre-intentional states as emotions with no specific objects that are, instead, determinants of a person’s general outlook. They are not actually “about” anything, but color one’s view of life. These emotions, which he calls “existential feelings,” are the deepest we have. Existential feelings are deep-seated orientations toward the world and life in general and determine the kinds of intentional states available to us. As Ratcliffe writes, “Not all emotions are intentional states associated with how a particular state of affairs matters to us. Deeper emotions shape the kinds of significance we are receptive to. They are pre-intentional, by which I mean that they determine what kinds of intentional state it is possible to have” (2010, p. 604; italics his). I regard this as a helpful framework for thinking about fundamental hope in Marcel’s, Pieper’s, and Fackenheim’s senses, in that, like Ratcliffe, they see fundamental hope as a deep state of being that structures the kinds of meaning to which we are receptive. I also think the account of hope as a pre-intentional state is helpful for understanding Frankl’s perspective on how some camp inmates found meaning. He recounts (2006, pp. 80–84) a story in which the senior block warden of his hut observed a recent increase of deaths through illness or suicide. The warden contended that the real reason for these deaths was that inmates had given up hope and asked Frankl to give guidance to his comrades for sustaining hope and thereby preventing more deaths. Frankl’s advice was to point out that each inmate who was alive had reason to hope. He spoke of the goods that each inmate still possessed; links that existed in each inmate’s life between the past, present, and future; and how each man could take responsibility for imbuing his sacrifice with meaning, so that his suffering was not in vain. The complexity of this advice is obvious, but what it did, to my mind, was to encourage each person to construct a narrative of his life that gave it meaning and intelligibility, and especially to situate his camp experiences in that self-transcendent frame. Frankl (2006, p. 83) writes: “The purpose of my words was to find a full meaning in our life, then and there, in that hut and in that practically hopeless situation. I saw that my efforts had been successful.” I suspect that those who responded positively to Frankl’s message had hope as a pre-intentional orientation in Ratcliffe’s sense or something like it, inasmuch as there was something deep inside their psyches that allowed them to be open to Frankl’s advice. In the terminology of Marcel, Pieper, and Fackenheim, these inmates had a reserve of fundamental hope lying below the surface of their intentional states. Frankl’s encouragement tapped into that nonconscious resource, activating it, so to speak, and bringing reasons to hope to each inmate’s conscious awareness. If this analysis is correct, then, unlike agency theories of hope, receptivity theories, which include fundamental hope, feature hope at two levels of our psychological economies. Fundamental hope, at the deepest level of our psyches, is part of the nonconscious workings of the mind, and is a

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pre-intentional state or orientation. It is, to use Pieper’s language, a state of being. Receptivity theories, like agency theories, can accommodate the belief-desire model of hope, according to which hope has an object. But this differs from fundamental hope, which is pre-intentional, without a specific object. To be pre-intentional is not to have hope in anything or for anything; it is simply to have hope. To have hope in anything is to have an object of hope—an intentionality or directedness about hope. Fundamental hope lies at a deeper level of our psyches than intentional hope—even very general hope, like hope in God. Fundamental hope is the state that makes these intentional hopes possible. Interesting questions remain.4 Is fundamental hope given by grace, or is it a gift? Or is it simply a matter of luck that we have it? Is it natural to us, such that lacking it is a kind of spiritual disability? If we lack it, can we do something to get it? That is, if someone reacts despairingly to great trials, is she spiritually negligent in the sense that something deep in her being could have been activated, but wasn’t? How one answers these questions will depend on the theory one has, and I do not pretend to do anything more than offer vague gestures in the direction of the shapes that answers might take. Theistic writers could well view fundamental hope as given by grace or as a gift, though it is doubtful they would regard having it as a matter of mere luck. If it is given by grace or a gift, or even a part of the creature’s natural endowments from God, it is possible for it to be present, yet occluded by the temptation to despair. For secular theorists, a likely explanation of fundamental hope would be that it is part of our deep natural psychological make-up, shaped by factors such as heredity, temperament, and early upbringing. For example, if one is optimistic and upbeat by temperament and these qualities are encouraged by one’s early upbringing, one’s nonconscious reserve of fundamental hope could be more readily accessible to activation than one who is temperamentally morose and pessimistic, and who has not been encouraged early in life to develop in positive, hope-cultivating ways. If this speculation is on track, then fundamental hope could be a natural substratum that depends for its development on a variety of factors, both internal and external to the hoper. Both the psychologist Erik Erikson and the philosopher Victoria McGeer stress the importance of hope for early development and maturation, and argue that parental support is crucial for creating good hopers (Erikson, 1964; McGeer, 2004). I do not mean to attribute to either thinker a commitment to the notion of fundamental hope, only to conjecture that fundamental hope could be part of a set of pre-intentional orientations out of which capacities for hoping in the belief-desire and dispositional senses could be developed. However fundamental hope might be explained, it seems true that good or bad hoping at the intentional or deliberate level can be learned, and that learning, I surmise, could well draw on the nonconscious resource of fundamental hope.

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Marcel and Pieper on Fundamental Hope5

As mentioned earlier, non-theistic views can accommodate fundamental hope. I have imputed it to Frankl and believe it can be found in the non-theistic views of Bloch and the hope that Lear (2006) attributes to the Crow chief Plenty Coups. However, the theistic thinkers Marcel and Pieper have explicit and profound views about the deep sense of hope that Pieper calls “fundamental” or “existential” hope (1994, pp. 27, 30, 107). These views are well worth considering. As noted, fundamental hope is the hope without which one is hopeless in the sense that one has lost hope per se, and is distinguished from ordinary hopes for earthly objects. Fundamental hope has to do with one’s being as a person (Pieper, 1994, pp. 26–28). Both Pieper and Marcel recognize the transcendent dimension of fundamental hope. Marcel stresses hope’s prophetic character, contending that: “[H]ope is a knowing which outstrips the unknown—it is a knowing which excludes all presumption, a knowing accorded, granted, a knowing which may be a grace but is in no degree a conquest” (1978, 10). Fundamental hope transcends the boundaries of that which is known because it is bestowed by the grace of a higher power upon struggling humanity. It transcends the human condition and is eschatological insofar as it pulls one forward through time to a better, as yet unrealized future. Both Marcel and Pieper regard hope as the virtue of humanity in process and progressing toward an infinite end, which is God. Pieper expresses this point by saying, “The virtue of hope is preeminently the virtue of the status viatoris: it is the proper virtue of the ‘not yet’” (1997, p. 98). Pieper contrasts the status viatoris with the status comprehensoris (1997, p. 92). The comprehensor possesses beatitude; the viator is on the way. The viator stands between the state of sin or nothingness and the state of consummation or beatitude. Pieper writes: “The concept of the status viatoris designates, in a special sense, the inner structure of man’s creatureliness” (1997, p. 96). Hope, instilled in us by God, leads us, in fact, pulls us, towards the fulfillment of the possibilities inherent in our being. In Pieper’s words, The ‘way’ of homo viator, of man ‘on the way,’ is not a directionless back-and-forth between being and nothingness; it leads toward being and away from nothingness; it leads to realization, not to annihilation, although this realization is ‘not yet’ fulfilled and the fall into nothingness is ‘not yet’ impossible. (1997, pp. 97–98) The challenge of the not-yet-fulfilled and still-in-the-process-of-becoming creature is to not turn toward nothingness. Hope orients the creature

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toward the possibility of the fullness of being. In this scheme of things, the realization of the self through hope is the realization of the self in God. However, both the turn toward nothingness and the turn toward fulfillment of being through hope are acts of the creaturely will. In other words, though hope orients humanity in the direction of God, humans have choices to make. The role of the will in the drama of creaturely existence brings talk of hope out of the realm of transcendent ontology and into the ambit of moral psychology. At the intersection of transcendent ontology and moral psychology, Marcel offers one of his most brilliant insights (1978, p. 30). It is the idea that fundamental hope is a response to the experience of trial or captivity. Writing as he does in the wake of World War II, it is difficult not to connect Marcel’s thought to the Holocaust. Yet his views have a wider range, for “trial” or “captivity” can be interpreted in many ways. He writes of a deep psychological trial, in which “I find I am deprived for an indefinite period of a certain light for which I long. In fact, I should say that every trial of this order can be considered as a form of captivity” (1978, p. 30). How is such a trial a form of captivity? In one sense, such a trial holds us captive insofar as it trammels our capacities for agency. We are not able to do that which we want or need to do. Deep depression can be viewed in these terms—our cognitive and affective processes are impaired and we are sapped of the will to act. Another interpretation of captivity arises from the experience of physical illness as cutting us off from the robust experience of our physical being. In yet another sense, trial and captivity alienate us from our deepest spiritual and psychological selves. As Marcel states, “We can, therefore, say, that all captivity partakes of the nature of alienation” (1978, p. 30). All of these trials, which are assaults on psychological, spiritual, and sometimes physical dimensions of the self, can be considered forms of captivity. Consistently with the theistic interpretations being developed here, the deepest sense of trial as a form of captivity is that in which, being immersed in sin, I am cut off from the light of God. Here we might interpret captivity as a cognitive-affective deficit. Ensnared in the attractions of sin, I lose my way; my vision of the good becomes occluded. Not knowing where to turn to find the path, I can only wait for God to rescue me. He does this by eliciting my hope as a response to the trial I endure. The trial—the captivity—itself evokes or elicits fundamental hope. Marcel writes: “Hope is situated within the framework of the trial, not only corresponding to it, but constituting our being’s veritable response” (1978, p. 30; italics his). According to him, the only possible source of this absolute hope is God (1978, pp. 46–47). I would add that the hope so exhibited is a manifestation of God’s grace, a respect in which the creature, encountering the darkness of sin, makes contact with the spark of light that guides her toward salvation. Fundamental hope in captivity is the creature’s response, but it is a response that is in the first instance

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and essentially an irruption of divine power into the sinful conditions that alienate the creature from full participation in her own being. In other words, fundamental hope is not only the person’s response to conditions of captivity, it is also and more essentially the creature’s response to God’s invitation to salvation. From the creature’s perspective, it is at once response, restoration, and relief: response to God’s goodness, restoration of the creature to a fuller participation in the life that God offers, and relief from the pangs of darkness. At bottom, then, fundamental hope is the experience of God’s grace breaking into the world. The hope given by God breaks into the world, but, untrammeled by the limits of human possibilities, also breaks out of it. As Pieper puts it, “The object of existential [fundamental] hope bursts the bounds of ‘this’ world” (1994, p. 197). Fundamental hope enables self-transcendence, in that it enables the hoper to break the bonds of the circumstances that hold her captive—to transcend them. How does this transcendence happen? As with Aquinas, both Marcel and Pieper avow that hope is a mean between presumption and despair (Marcel, 1978, pp. 36–37; Pieper, 1997, pp. 113–121). Marcel goes so far as to assert that there can be no hope without the temptation to despair: “Hope is the act by which this temptation is actively or victoriously overcome” (1978, p. 36). He also distinguishes hope from related phenomena: the mere acceptance of one’s trial, which can be a form of resignation, and abdication or giving up (1978, pp. 37–38). Hope is a form of non-acceptance. As such, it is positive, and thus distinguishable from abdication, which can be a way of relinquishing. What are the positive elements that mark hope as an active non-acceptance of one’s trial? Patience, relaxation, confidence, and a kind of “domestication of one’s circumstances” are hallmarks of hope (1978, pp. 39–40). Each of these speaks to the fact that, for Marcel, hope is the inner working of a creative process, a “taking of one’s time.” When one hopes, one does not give up or accept defeat; neither does one accept one’s trial in the sense of becoming resigned to what one thinks is inevitable. Instead, one waits in patient expectation. Consistently with Ratcliffe’s notion of hope as a pre-intentional state that is an openness to certain kinds of meaning, Marcel believes that fundamental hope involves relaxing into an openness to possibility. He explains, “From this point of view, hope means first accepting the trial as an integral part of the self, but while so doing it considers it as destined to be absorbed and transmuted by the inner workings of a certain creative process” (1978, p. 39). In other words, one accepts the trial and absorbs it into one’s being, while waiting for the creative working of God’s grace to provide a way through it. I read Marcel’s claim that hope involves a “domestication of one’s circumstances” in this light (1978, p. 40). One “tames” the conditions that would otherwise frighten or upset one by integrating them into one’s life and letting them be transformed by God

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working within and through one. Marcel here reminds us that there is an active element of hope; the hoper participates in the creative process and is not a mere spectator. He warns against the degradation of the patience that is integral to hope into mere weakness or complacency (1978, p. 40). In Marcel’s remarks about “domesticating one’s circumstances,” we find a connection between hope, meaning, and transcendence. By “absorbing” one’s circumstances, one takes them into oneself, turning them over in one’s mind, and allowing the creative process to work in one through God’s grace. Hope, then, enables one to find in or attribute meaning to what would otherwise be challenging or even absurd circumstances. The forcible destruction of meaning is often a way of destroying hope. Vladimir Nabokov’s novel, The Beheading, describes the plight of a man who is taken prisoner for no apparent reason then subjected to a series of meaningless tasks, interactions, and so on. Kafka’s novels, such as The Trial and The Castle, also describe absurd, meaningless situations. In the movie, “Cool Hand Luke,” the vindictive warden makes Luke dig deep holes, then fill them up again—a meaningless activity—as part of multiple efforts to break his spirit. When one’s spirit is broken, one is deprived of hope. One cannot make sense of present circumstances, in which one is trapped or held captive, and cannot envision a meaningful future. As can be seen in our discussions of the Holocaust, hope provides a lifeline by which to survive. It is a light which comes in the darkness of captivity, allowing those receptive to it to have a “hope in things unseen”—to look forward to a better future that one cannot at present envision—and even, in some cases, to find meaning in present circumstances in which no future is possible. I refer here to the hope of the dying. Nursing science studies of terminally ill patients have found a form of hope that is the ability to find meaning in the present, as opposed to a desire for a future good, such as the good of their children or projects in which they have been invested (see Nekolaichuk & Bruera, 1998; Herth & Cutcliffe, 2002; Parker-Oliver, 2002). We should note that the aforementioned circumstances are those in which the agency of persons is trammeled. In captivity, such as that experienced by Nabokov’s prisoner and Luke, agency is curtailed; the meaningless of what they are forced to do induces a state of cognitive and affective disorientation and further disrupts their agential capacities. In Kafka’s novels, agency is limited not through imprisonment but by the absurdity of the circumstances in which the agent is enmeshed. In the terminally ill, agency is rendered impotent by the effects of illness or disease. Such circumstances are those in which receptivity accounts supplant agency theories, making sense of the possibility and existence of hope when agency is in abeyance. To sum up the overview of Pieper and Marcel so far, we can say that fundamental hope is a deep state of being having to do with who one is. In this regard, it is consistent with Ratcliffe’s notion of hope as a

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pre-intentional state that determines the kinds of meaning to which one is open. Marcel writes that fundamental hope is God’s light irrupting into the darkness of trial or captivity, allowing the patient recipient to relax into her situation, to absorb and “domesticate” her circumstances. In this process of “domestication,” the hoper co-creates with God, in the sense that, inspired by hope, she is able to transform her interpretation of her circumstances. In this way, hope is an openness to new kinds of meaning, inspired by and developed with God, that enables one to transcend difficult circumstances. Amplifying the story thus far is another theme found in both Marcel and Pieper: the distinction of hope from optimism and the notion that hope is a mystery (Marcel, 1978, pp. 42–44). Marcel paints a picture of what one might call a relentlessly realistic worldview that slides into pessimism. This is the kind of view that is tethered to earthly facts. The person who slips into despair is mesmerized by these facts and their impact on the self. Faced with their problems, those without hope are worried, hurried, anxious, and, at worst, in despair. The focus on earthly facts obscures a deeper reality—that imparted by hope in a transcendent God—a God whose power flies in the face of all human facts. Imbued with hope, even a person facing a trial is able to relax, be patient, and calmly engage in a process of expectant transformation. For the one who hopes, time is the medium of transformation. For the one who despairs, it is a heavy burden. In painting this picture, Marcel frankly asks if there is an illusion at the heart of hope (1978, p. 44). If there is, the illusion is that there exists a transcendent God whose grace has the power to transform earthly facts into a different sort of reality. In Marcel’s vision, the one who despairs or is overwhelmed by earthly facts has only half the picture. The picture is not only completed, but also transformed, by the acknowledgment of the transcendent ontological ground of hope, namely, God. Once we recognize the infinite being of God as the transcendent ground of hope, we can realize that hope is not mere optimism. Optimism is, for Marcel, essentially the perspective of a cheerful spectator who remains entirely at the level of the individual and is very close to wish (1978, pp. 34–35). Hope, by contrast, is deeper, a process that is a mystery. For Marcel, hope is not a problem to be settled by calculations of the probabilities of outcomes, but a mystery to be experienced (Marcel, 1978, pp. 35, 66). Hope is an assertion or affirmation of the power of divine transcendence that is beyond the reach of objective criticism (Marcel, 1978, p. 66). It enables one to move beyond both despair and optimism by transforming the circumstances that might elicit those attitudes. This transformation is effected by an act of God’s grace. Experiencing God’s grace in the form of hope, the believer comes to realize that she is not alone in her circumstances. She is accompanied by a higher power with the capacity to effect salvation—to release the creature from trial or captivity. Grace,

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in the form of the believer’s hope, transforms the circumstances that elicit despair or optimism, as the case may be, by inducing the believer to participate in a wider reality. In this reality, the narrow perspective of the individual as alone and in a (possibly hostile) universe that gives rise to either despair or optimism is supplanted by the vantage point of the creature-as-part-of-God’s-world-and-part-of-God’s-plan. This enriched outlook makes it possible for the believer to trust that God’s agency will deliver her from the ills that beset her, even when her own capacities are curtailed. We should note that the receptivity involved in fundamental hope is active, not passive. Passive receptivity is akin to being an inert receptacle into which God’s grace is poured. If this were what is meant by the notion that fundamental hope is capable of transforming one’s circumstances, it would indeed be mysterious—an example of magical or wishful thinking. In my view, passive receptivity is not the kind of receptivity that lends fundamental hope its transformative power. Active receptivity does this. The creature must be attuned to signs and signals from God; she must be able to read the messages that God, through grace, is sending her, and to acquiesce in reinterpreting her situation in the manner those signals suggest, in order for hope to have a transformative effect on her ways of thinking and feeling. Though fundamental hope is, as Marcel puts it, a mystery, it is not, for that reason, wholly unintelligible. A way of approximating the difference between active and passive receptivity that occurs in contexts in which fundamental hope comes into play can be found by thinking about chess. Suppose that one has just been confronted with a surprising (that is, unforeseen) and potentially devastating move by one’s opponent. A passive recipient sees the move, but then is blocked from reinterpreting her strategic responses. This blockage could be due to any number of reasons, for example, habits or patterns of play that have become ingrained features of her mindset as a chess player, or perhaps, emotional upset caused by the surprise of the unforeseen move. By contrast, an active recipient, though perhaps initially caught off guard by the move, is able to step back from the situation and re-vision the board, looking for the response that is there, waiting to be discovered. The surprise move actively engages her capacities and thus enables her to see the board in a new way—one in which the appropriate response emerges as salient. Similarly, in situations in which fundamental hope comes into play, the passive recipient is blocked from receiving hope through God’s grace because of creaturely deficits, such as the skepticism that her circumstances can be genuinely transformed, or a temptation to despair. The active recipient, by contrast, is open to the grace of God working in and through her. She allows her capacities to be actively engaged by God’s grace, thus generating fundamental hope and a renewed outlook on worldly circumstances. Her receptivity is active, because she participates

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in the process of reinterpreting how she thinks and feels about her circumstances. Pieper also distinguishes hope from optimism and asserts that optimism about progress is linked with the philosophy of despair (1994, p. 93). To grasp the meaning of this claim, we need to understand his vision of hope and history. We can start this project by noting that Pieper accepts, in the main, Marcel’s contrasting vision of personal life with and without the belief in a transcendent God, and adapts this basic outlook to the trajectory of human history, asking how fundamental hope enters into and transforms our vision of history, and depicting the frightening and arid landscape that looms without it. Though he discusses other authors, Pieper’s view of hope and history is best thrown into relief by understanding how he situates it between two alternative perspectives: those of the French Catholic theologian Pierre Teilhard de Chardin on the one hand, and the East German Marxist Ernst Bloch on the other. Teilhard offers a vision of Christian hope as being fulfilled within the confines of human history as part of the biological process of evolution (1994, pp. 65ff). Bloch believes that hope will be consummated in human history with the attainment of the Marxist utopia—the classless state (1994, pp. 73ff). Pieper rejects these and similar views because they aver that the hope of humanity will be fulfilled within human history (1994, pp. 62–65). To the contrary, Pieper asserts that just as fundamental hope will be fulfilled only after individual death, so, too, the hope of humanity as a whole will be fulfilled only after the end of human history. Humans are in a state of “not yet being” that drives them toward the state of fulfillment of being after death. We are now in a better position to understand Pieper’s claim that optimism in progress is linked with a philosophy of despair (1994, p. 93).6 This remark should be understood against the background of his view of fundamental hope as fulfilled outside of the bounds of human history, as well as his experience of the human condition in the aftermath of World War II. The social aftermath of the war saw Europe in shambles. Even more alarming was the political aftermath—the emergence of two superpowers in the Cold War, namely, Soviet Russia and the United States, between which Europe was sandwiched. The rise of Communism was a great threat to humankind, but a direct threat to the future of humanity lay in the development of the atomic bomb. The rise of technology and of weapons of mass destruction gave to humanity, for the first time, the opportunity to destroy itself. Any optimism in progress had to be read against the looming possibility of mass destruction. Such optimism, in Pieper’s philosophical worldview, could be seen only as thin bright thread in an overall tapestry of darkness. Despair in the possibilities for humankind took center stage; optimism emerged as a weak response to the terrors of the age. Thus, optimism in progress is linked with the philosophy of despair. In the face of the threats to human history emerging in the

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aftermath of the Second World War, humanity seemed faced with two options: despair or optimism in progress. Pieper rejects both. Against the possibility of mass destruction, Pieper contends that the evolutionary hope of Teilhard and the Marxist utopia of Bloch offer no more than false hope. So, too, for any other vision of hope confined within the limits of human history. Whether one believes in the Christian God or not, for Pieper, the only real hope is that of the God of Christianity, who “bursts the bounds” of this world and overcomes death—even the destruction of the human species. Of course, such an overcoming is impossible without divine transcendence. Fundamental hope, offered by God, provides a way through this life and into the next. It is, indeed, the only hope and the only comfort in the face of the threat of mass destruction. Through hope in transcendence—in an afterlife with God—both individuals and humanity as a whole find meaning in the midst of absurd or terrifying circumstances. Let us pause to register that fundamental hope is played out both in individual lives and in the context of human history. The possibility of transcendence through fundamental hope is then, not only a matter of the transformation of an individual hoper’s outlook on her circumstances, but also the transformation of entire communities of believers as they move through time toward the eschaton. The fulfillment of fundamental hope takes time—indeed, its complete fulfillment occurs, for Pieper, only after death. To hope well, it seems—to keep faith with fundamental hope and not be tempted to despair—requires the virtue of patience, as well as strength or resilience. Theists believe that these qualities are not possible through human efforts alone. Before turning to Part III, we must ask how fundamental hope, expounded in this very theological way, can be a resource for the secularminded. I believe that Frankl provides a way forward. He writes (2006, pp. 110–111): By declaring that man is responsible and must actualize the potential meaning of his life, I wish to stress that the true meaning of life is to be discovered in the world rather than within man or his own psyche, as though it were a closed system. I have termed this constitutive characteristic “the self-transcendence of human existence.” It denotes the fact that being human always points, and is directed, to something, or someone, other than oneself—be it a meaning to fulfill or another human being to encounter. The more one forgets himself—by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love, the more human he is and the more he actualizes himself. For religious thinkers, the human psyche opens itself to God. For the secular, the opening of the psyche can be only toward earthly things beyond the self. As recounted earlier in the story of Frankl’s guidance to his comrades,

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reasons for hope are found in the goods now available to one, in the construction of an intelligible narrative that gives meaning to one’s life, and in taking responsibility for how one bears one’s sacrifices and suffering. In a secular sense, one “domesticates” one’s circumstances by deciding how one will respond to them. One can relax into patient waiting, but the secularist waits not for God’s grace, but for inspiration from earthly sources external to the self. Again, this does not suggest passivity. The secularminded person who seeks hope must be open to actively interpreting her circumstances in ways that make them meaningful. Her inspiration in doing so comes not from God, but from external circumstances viewed as goods or in other ways meaningful from her perspective. This requires focusing one’s mind not on the self and its trials and tribulations, but on externalities that point to a world beyond the self. Frankl (2006, p. 69) gives an example in the story of his encounter with a young woman who knew she would die in the next few days. She was cheerful and told Frankl she was grateful that fate had hit her so hard; in her former life, she said, she had been spoiled and superficial. He continues (2006, p. 69): Pointing through the window of the hut, she said, “This tree here is the only friend I have in my loneliness.” Through that window she could see just one branch of a chestnut tree, and on the branch were two blossoms. “I often talk to this tree,” she said to me. I was startled and didn’t quite know how to take her words. Was she delirious? Did she have occasional hallucinations? Anxiously I asked her if the tree replied. “Yes.” What did it say to her? She answered, “It said to me, ‘I am here—I am here—I am life, eternal life’.” The young woman’s encounter with the tree was clearly self-transcendent in Frankl’s sense of going beyond the self, and it clearly gave the young woman meaning and hope in her hour of extremity. It also had a clearly spiritual dimension, though explicit mention of God, faith, or theistic beliefs is not made in the story. In this sense, I believe, Frankl offers interpretations of hope, meaning, and self-transcendence that closely parallel the theistic accounts considered earlier in this section. That said, Frankl does not explicitly consider the arc of history, as do Pieper, Marcel, and, as we’ll see, Fackenheim. Moreover, any historical trajectory that would be available to Frankl’s analysis would have to end with human history—it could not move beyond the end of humanity to the eschaton, as do Christian accounts. Yet this would not prevent Frankl from contending that people can find meaning by seeing how their lives fit into the narrative of a larger history—of a people, an ethnic group, a community, a family, a profession, or an institution. In Part III, we will see how themes discussed in this section play out in the context of a Jewish interpretation of the Holocaust.

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Hope in the Holocaust: The Voice of Auschwitz

An idea that emerges from our treatment of fundamental hope in Marcel and Pieper is that hope can arise in response to experiences of trial or captivity, poverty, and other forms of human suffering. The notion that hope can arise in such settings follows the Christian logic of the cross and the resurrection. Jesus, condemned to death for humanity’s sins, rose from the dead, thereby fulfilling the hope of Christians in their Messiah and providing hope for the faithful for their own resurrection after death. For the Jews, however, the Messianic event is yet to come. Is hope possible for Jews in response to the Holocaust, and if so, what logic does it follow? Let me begin with a remarkable story from the Holocaust. Aleksander Kulisiewicz was a musical performer who was imprisoned in Sachsenhausen concentration camp near Berlin from October 1939 until his liberation on May 2, 1945 (see Hirsch, 2002, p. 47). As a prisoner, he not only collected and illegally performed poetry and songs, he also composed fiftyfour camp songs, fifteen of which included lyrics and music. He referred to his repertory as “songs from Hell” (Hirsch, 2002, p. 47). Here is a stanza from a song entitled “Birkenau”: Bathed in blood and tears, Birkenau, forgotten by God, Godforsaken hellhole, Birkenau, Thorny path, Where millions of victims lie In a common grave. Birkenau, evil kingdom, Where there is no God. This is Birkenau. (Hirsch, 2002, p. 48) The late David H. Hirsch, a professor of English and American literature and Judaic Studies who studied Kulisiewicz’s work, remarks that the lyrics alone do not do the song justice (2002, p. 48). The music, he claims, is needed for full effect, as well as the sound of the singer’s raspy voice, which is “a legacy of his captors’ efforts to silence him by injecting him with diphtheria bacilli” (2002, p. 48). The desolation expressed in the stanza from Kulisiewicz is a direct challenge to Jewish theologians—indeed, to anyone—to explain how a just and loving God could have allowed the Holocaust. Yet, arguably, the very existence of the song and of the spirit that moved Kulisiewicz to compose and sing, despite being tortured, bear witness to the expressive power of the human spirit, and perhaps, to the possibility of hope in conditions of extremity. There is a vast literature on the Holocaust and its implications. Jewish theological analyses, too, are numerous and varied (see, for example,

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Morgan, 2001a, 2001b; Cohn-Sherbok, 2002). I address the inquiry that guides this part of the essay, namely, “Is hope possible for Jews in response to the Holocaust, and if so, what logic does it follow?” primarily through the work of the post-Holocaust philosopher and theologian Emil L. Fackenheim.7 Like other theologians and students of the history of Judaism, Fackenheim struggles to integrate the rupture of the Holocaust into the narrative of the experience of the Jews as the chosen people of God (see Fackenheim, 1970a, 1994; Cohen, 1981; Lang, 2007, pp. 290–292). The Holocaust fits well neither with catastrophes in the religious history of the Jews, such as the destruction of the temple or the expulsion from Spain, nor with other genocides in the broader history of humanity. Something about the evil of the Holocaust sets it apart—not simply its enormity, but its systematicity. The Holocaust was the organized, bureaucratized destruction of millions of people, Fackenheim claims, simply for evil’s sake (2001, p. 123). One might be tempted to counter that there have been other such events in post-Holocaust history—ethnic cleansing in the Balkans and Rwanda, and Pol Pot’s assaults on his own people in Cambodia. Fackenheim asks a telling question that distinguishes the Holocaust from even these brutal events: In what other genocide was human skin made into lampshades and human body fat made into soap? In what other genocide were human beings ground into bits and manufactured into household products?8 Even when the Nazis had nothing to gain from killing Jews, they continued. The relentless extermination of the Jews, even when absolutely nothing was to be gained from it, places the Holocaust beyond rational explanation. How can such an event be integrated into Jewish history? How can meaning be found in such extremity? Can such a profound rupture with Jewish history ever be mended? The answer, for Fackenheim, is to be found in part in those Jews who did not become Musselmänner, the term used in the camps for those who had lost hope (Morgan, 2007, p. 262). The key to an adequate Jewish response to the Holocaust—and to mending the rupture it caused—is found in two sources: the ontological fact of the resistance of some camp inmates to Nazi debasement, and the notion of the reenactment of “root experiences” in traditional Jewish religious life. As with our treatment of fundamental hope in Marcel and Pieper, the fundamental hope that Fackenheim finds has individual as well as community and historic dimensions. Fackenheim situates the fact of resistance in the context of the deliberate dehumanization of the Jews by Nazis. Nazis saw the Jews as disgusting subhuman vermin and used conditions in the camps to force Jews to see themselves that way, too. Using the notion of “excremental assault,” Fackenheim recounts how Jews, suffering from dysentery, were forced to live in their own excrement. In this way, Nazis sought to induce in the Jew self-disgust and a self-loathing that eventually “anaesthetizes his or her sense of worth and vitality” (Morgan, 2001a, p. 184).9 Frankl (2006, p. 21), too, writes of how

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prisoners on work detail were often splashed in the face with latrine waste, and how expressions of disgust or attempts to wipe one’s face were met with blows, thus deadening normal reactions to degradation. How can a person resist in such conditions? Central to Fackenheim’s answer is the testimony of a Polish noblewoman, Pelagia Lewinska: They had condemned us to die in our own filth, to drown in mud, in our own excrement. They wished to abase us, to destroy our human dignity, to efface every vestige of humanity, to return us to the level of wild animals, to fill us with horror and contempt towards ourselves and our fellows. But from the instant that I grasped the motivating principle . . . it was as if I had been awakened from a dream . . . I felt under orders to live . . . I was not going to become the contemptible, disgusting brute my enemy wished me to be. (quoted in Morgan, 2001a, p. 184; see also Fackenheim, 1994, p. 217) Fackenheim finds in the solitary struggle of Pelagia Lewinska, as well as in armed Jewish resistance to the Holocaust, a way of being (see Morgan, 2001a, pp. 184–185). This resistance is characterized by the resolution to preserve human dignity in a world that sought to destroy it. Fackenheim claims, “In such a world . . . life does not need to be sanctified: it is already holy” (Fackenheim, quoted in Morgan, 2001a, p. 185). He finds in the command heard by Lewinska and others the Voice of Auschwitz— the Voice of God, shorn of all but commanding power. Fackenheim calls the command to hope as heard by Lewinska the 614th commandment, a supplement to the traditional 613 of Judaism (see Morgan, 2001a, p. 161). This is the Voice that allowed some not to lose hope in the camps (see Fackenheim, 1970a, p. 88, 1970b, pp. 90–91). It is a Voice that others heard or felt, though not always expressed as a command: Three forces carved the landscape of my life. Two of them crushed half the world. The third was very small and weak and actually, invisible. It was a shy little bird hidden in my rib cage an inch or two above my stomach. Sometimes in the most unexpected moments the bird would wake up, lift its head, and flutter its wings in rapture. Then I too would lift my head because, for that short moment, I would know for certain that love and hope are infinitely more powerful than hate and fury, and that somewhere beyond the line of my horizon, there was life indestructible, always triumphant. (quoted in Langer, 1991, pp. 127–128)10 For Fackenheim, the Voice is heard as a command to hope addressed not only to camp inmates but also to Jews in the post-Holocaust era.

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Post-Holocaust Jews, whether secular or religious, are commanded by the Voice to continue being Jews so as not to give Hitler posthumous victory (Fackenheim, 1970a, pp. 81, 89). Post-Holocaust religious Jews hear the Voice and participate in the Holocaust by way of reenactment in the “root experience” of those who heard the Voice in the camps. A root experience in Judaism satisfies several conditions (Fackenheim, 1970a, pp. 8–14). Important for our purposes is that: (a) Jews having root experiences perceive God in them—they do not infer God from these experiences as the best explanation for them, but directly perceive God; (b) root experiences have a public, historical character; (c) Jews reenact past root experiences as a present reality; and (d) this reenactment occasions a complex dialectic between past and present whereby the past experience legislates to the present. Religious Jews reenact important events in Jewish history in which God’s presence is manifest—the parting of the Red Sea, for example. Reenactment is a form of remembering and participating in a past event in which God revealed himself in such a way that God, through the reenactment, represents himself to humanity in the present (Fackenheim, 1970a, pp. 11–14). Religious Jews must reenact the Holocaust, to the extent they can, by remembering the plight of their brothers and sisters and heeding the commanding Voice of Auschwitz to affirm and nurture their Jewishness—their lives, their ethnicity, and their religious tradition—in the post-Holocaust era. In this way, Fackenheim asserts, “memory turns into faith and hope” (1970a, p. 14). The ultimate victory over Hitler, the declaration of the triumph of the God of Israel and his people, is to continue being a Jew. This mandate, he believes, applies to secular as well as to religious Jews and is a way in which religious elements irrupt into the lives of secular Jews. To the extent that secular Jews maintain their Jewishness, they, too, reenact the Holocaust experience and heed the Voice’s command (Fackenheim, 1970a, pp. 87, 89). Through this reenactment, a tikkun—mending—of the rupture caused by the Holocaust takes place. Indeed, Fackenheim asserts that this tikkun of the post-Holocaust Jewish world is made possible by the fact that tikkun was already actual during the Holocaust (Fackenheim 1994, p. 300). It was already actual in those who heard and heeded the Voice of Auschwitz—in those who heard the command to survive to tell the tale, to preserve and bear witness to their Jewishness in the face of unthinkable assault and debasement (Fackenheim, 1970a, pp. 85–86). Secularists might contend that what Fackenheim claims is the Voice of God is not divine but simply a survival instinct—a purely naturalistic response, or as Frankl’s account, the inner decision, born of spiritual freedom, not to be degraded by circumstances. Whether one interprets the experience reflected in testimonies such as those of Lewinska and the other narrator quoted earlier in this section in purely secular, naturalistic terms or as the workings of a divine presence, it is clear that some who endured the Holocaust found hope in captivity, and that the power of hope sustained

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them in their plight, enabling them to transcend their circumstances by looking beyond to some presently unforeseeable, but better, future. We find testimony to this in Frankl’s work. In defense of Fackenheim’s interpretation of the hope of survivors, we can say that at least some who had hope had it precisely because of their Jewishness; in virtue of being a Jew they felt commanded to resist and survive. That is, even if a naturalistic survival instinct was in play, some Jews who felt it interpreted it in terms of their religious identity. As Jews, they were open to a certain kind of meaning in their circumstances. This meaning was motivationally crucial to their will to live—they felt commanded to survive and bear witness as Jews. Thus, a complete explanation of the hope of these survivors cannot be given solely by invoking a naturalistic survival instinct or a wholly secular inner decision to resist one’s degradation, since the impetus to survive was seen by its possessors as a supernatural command from God. It is at least questionable whether a naturalistic survival instinct or an inner decision not interpreted in divine terms would have had similar motivational impact, though Frankl’s account suggests that in many cases, it did. I regard Fackenheim’s theory about the Voice of Auschwitz as a receptivity theory of hope, because Jews during the Holocaust and after must be receptive to hearing the Voice as it expresses itself to them personally, in the context of each of their lives as Jews. The Voice as the God of the Jews gives meaning to an evil the enormity of which, in many ways, otherwise defies intelligibility. The Holocaust is made meaningful, in part, by commanding Jewish survivors to bear witness and, in part, by commanding that the event itself be integrated into the history of the Jews as a people. The hope of which Fackenheim writes is transcendent—hope occurs because of a transcendent God leading his people out of captivity, and enables meaning to be made in individual lives through their participation in the history of the chosen people. The Jewish people, led by God, moves forward through human history—through events that are evil as well as good. As with fundamental hope in the Christian sense, God pulls his people forward. If Fackenheim and the testimonies of some camp survivors are correct, hope can abide even in the face of the deliberate and sustained destruction of humanity. Let us conclude this section with stanzas from a camp song that expresses the force of hope and the will to live. The song is taken from the ranks of the Moorsoldaten, inmates of the “moor camps” established in 1933 in northern Germany who were used as laborers to drain marshes. Prisoners from these camps were later used to build concentration camps, including Sachsenhausen, to which they were transferred (Gilbert, 2005, p. 109, n. 33). From the Moorsoldaten: Here on this barren heath The camp is built. Where, far from any joy,

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We are packed behind barbed wire, We are the moor soldiers . . . ... But there is no complaining for us, It can’t be winter for ever. One day we will cheerfully say: My country, you are mine again. Then the moor soldiers Will no longer march with their spades Into the moor! (Gilbert, 2005, p. 112; italics hers)

Concluding Remarks In this essay, I’ve sought to shine a light on “fundamental” hope—a type of hope that takes root at the deepest level of our being and structures the kinds of meaning to which we’re receptive. Fundamental hope not only allows us to make meaning of otherwise demanding or even unintelligible circumstances, it also enables us to transcend them, both as individuals and as communities. Fundamental hope, I suggest, is an essential condition of meaningful human life. It goes beyond the theistic articulations by Marcel, Pieper, and Fackenheim, appears in the work of Bloch, and is attributed by Lear (2006) to the Crow chief, Plenty Coups. These latter theories suggest that one need not be a theist to have fundamental hope. Indeed, I believe that fundamental hope, that is, a pre-intentional deep state of being that structures the kinds of meaning to which we are receptive, could well be at work in Frankl’s notion of self-transcendence. Moreover, as I briefly observed, an intimation of fundamental hope is found in studies of the terminally ill. Fundamental hope, I believe, merits further philosophical, social scientific, and medical study, as it has clear implications for human capacities to survive traumatic events, as well as for the well-being of survivors. I would encourage empirical scientists to study fundamental hope and the processes by which it enables us to find or make meaning in situations of extremity, thereby allowing us to transcend them.11

Notes 1 I thank Jennifer Frey for pressing me on these points, as well as for other helpful comments on an earlier version of this essay. 2 This section draws on Snow (2018, pp. 407–427). 3 For Aquinas (2008), we hope to achieve unification with God at the eschaton. Simply put, presumption is the certainty that we will achieve this; despair, the conviction that we won’t. For a nuanced discussion of presumption in Aquinas, see Lamb (2016, p. 309). Some philosophers question whether hope fits nicely as a mean between extremes in this way. Luc Bovens, for example, suggests that fear, as well as despair, is a contrary of hope (personal conversation,

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Nancy E. Snow December 28, 2014); see also Spinoza (Wild, 1958, p. 270), Hume (1978, pp. 439–448); Day (1969, p. 89); and Miyazaki (2017, p. 3) for discussions of the complexities of hope. I am grateful to Jennifer Frey for raising these questions. For an interesting treatment of Marcel on hope, see Hernandez (2011). See also Polkinghorne (2002, p. 94), who distinguishes hope from the utopian myth of progress. Fackenheim’s work is multifaceted and complex; the interpretation offered here sketches deeper thought elaborated elsewhere. My interpretation of Fackenheim relies onFackenheim (1970a, 1970b, 1994); see also Morgan (2001a, 2007); and Lang (2007). I can no longer find the passage in which these specific questions are asked, but passages expressing similar sentiments can be found at Fackenheim (1994, pp. xiv–xv, 11–12, 171ff) and Fackenheim (1970b, p. 84). Fackenheim takes the phrase “excremental assault” from Terence Des Pres, The Survivor, where he read the testimony of Pelagia Lewinska (see Morgan, 2001a, pp. 183–184). See Frankl (2006, p. 37) for the description of the moment in his camp experiences when he realized that “The salvation of man is through love and in love” (italics his). Most of the research supporting this essay was funded by a generous grant from The John Templeton Foundation through the Science of Virtues project.

References Aquinas, T. (2008). Summa theologica. Prima pars secundiae. Retrieved September 24, 2017, from http://dhspriory.org/thomas/summa/index.html Bloch, E. (1986). The principle of hope (3 vols.). N. Plaice, S. Plaice & P. Knight (Trans.). Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Cohen, A. A. (1981). The Tremendum: A theological interpretation of the Holocaust. New York, NY: Crossroad. Cohn-Sherbok, D. (Ed.). (2002). Holocaust theology: A reader. New York, NY: New York University Press. Day, J. P. (1969). Hope. American Philosophical Quarterly, 6(2), 89–102. Erikson, E. H. (1964). Insight and responsibility: Lectures on the ethical implications of psychoanalytic insight. New York, NY: Norton. Fackenheim, E. L. (1970a). God’s presence in history. New York, NY: New York University Press. Fackenheim, E. L. (1970b). The commandment to hope: A response to contemporary Jewish experience. In W. H. Capps (Ed.), The future of hope (pp. 68–91). Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. Fackenheim, E. L. (1994). To mend the world: Foundations of post-Holocaust Jewish thought. Bloomington, IN and Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press. Fackenheim, E. L. (2001). Holocaust. In M. L. Morgan (Ed.), A Holocaust reader: Responses to the Nazi extermination (pp. 122–130). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Frankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Gilbert, S. (2005). Music in the Holocaust: Confronting life in the Nazi ghettos and camps. Oxford, England: Clarendon Press. Hernandez, J. G. (2011). Gabriel Marcel’s ethics of hope. New York, NY: Continuum. Herth, K., & Cutcliffe, J. R. (2002). The concept of hope in nursing, 3: Hope and palliative care nursing. British Journal of Nursing, 11(14), 977–983.

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Hirsch, D. H. (2002). The Holocaust and camp songs. In D. Cohn-Sherbok (Ed.), Holocaust theology: A reader (pp. 47–49). New York, NY: New York University Press. Hobbes, T. (1968). Leviathan. C. B. MacPherson (Ed.). Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England: Penguin Books. Hume, D. (1978). A treatise of human nature. P. H. Nidditch (Ed.). Oxford, England: Clarendon Press. Lamb, M. (2016). Aquinas and the virtues of hope: Theological and democratic. Journal of Religious Ethics, 44(2), 300–332. Lang, B. (2007). Evil, suffering, and the Holocaust. In M. L. Morgan & P. E. Gordon (Eds.), Modern Jewish philosophy (pp. 277–299). New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Langer, L. L. (1991). Holocaust testimonies: The ruins of memory. New Haven, CT and London, England: Yale University Press. Lear, J. (2006). Radical hope: Ethics in the face of cultural devastation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Marcel, G. (1978). Homo viator: Introduction to a metaphysic of hope. P. Smith (Trans.). Chicago, IL: Gateway Editions. McGeer, V. (2004). The art of good hope. Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 592, 100–127. Miyazaki, H. (2017). Obama’s hope: An economy of belief and substance. In H. Miyazaki & R. Swedberg (Eds.), The economy of hope. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Morgan, M. L. (2001a). Beyond Auschwitz: Post-Holocaust Jewish thought in America. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Morgan, M. L. (Ed.). (2001b). A Holocaust reader: Responses to the Nazi extermination. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Morgan, M. L. (2007). Emil Fackenheim, the Holocaust, and philosophy. In M. L. Morgan & P. E. Gordon (Eds.), Modern Jewish philosophy (pp. 256– 276). New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Nekolaichuk, C. L., & Bruera, E. (1998). On the nature of hope in palliative care. Journal of Palliative Care, 14(1), 36–42. Parker-Oliver, D. (2002). Redefining hope for the terminally ill. American Journal of Hospice and Palliative Medicine, 19(2), 115–120. Pieper, J. (1994). Hope and history: Five Salzburg lectures. D. Kipp (Trans.). San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press. Pieper, J. (1997). Faith, hope, love. San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press. Polkinghorne, J. (2002). The God of hope and the end of the world. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Ratcliffe, M. (2008). Feelings of being: Phenomenology, psychiatry, and the sense of reality. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Ratcliffe, M. (2010). Depression, guilt and emotional depth. Inquiry, 53(6), 602–626. Ratcliffe, M. (2013). What is it to lose hope? Phenomenology and Cognitive Science, 12(4), 597–614. Shade, P. (2001). Habits of hope: A pragmatic theory. Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press. Snow, N. E. (2018). Hope as a democratic civic virtue. Metaphilosophy, 49(3), 407–427. Snyder, C. R. (Ed.). (2000). Handbook of hope: Theory, measures, and applications. San Diego, CA: Academic Press. Walker, M. U. (2006). Moral repair: Reconstructing moral relations after wrongdoing. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Wild, J. (Ed.). (1958). Spinoza selections. New York, NY: Charles Scribner’s Sons.

3

Aquinas on Sin, Self-Love, and Self-Transcendence1 Jennifer A. Frey

Inordinate love of self is the cause of every sin. —Thomas Aquinas, ST I-II 77.4

A longstanding complaint against the Aristotelian approach to ethics is that it is egoist (Hills, 2010; Hurka, 2003).2 In this chapter, I will attempt to answer this old charge in a new and hopefully illuminating way: by looking to vice and sin. To that end, this essay explores Aquinas’s account of sin from a philosophical perspective.3 The reason to turn to Aquinas is that he thought much more deeply about bad human action and its essential motivational structure and causes than Aristotle did, and his account of it makes especially clear that egoism, understood as a theory of rational motivation that is grounded in one’s own private self-interest, is incompatible with both acquiring and exercising the virtues that are constitutive of living well. For Aquinas, sin (peccatum) just is bad human action, broadly construed, but sin in the deeper and more troubling sense of moral fault (culpa) is restricted to rational creatures, and is characterized as voluntary action that is against nature because it is against right reason. To sin is to fail to hit the goal of human life, which is happiness (beatitudo). And although we may sin through passions or ignorance, what is most striking and strange about us is that we have the power to sin from malice (malitia), as we do when we calmly and deliberately choose to act in ways we clearly know are sinful, without regret or compunction. We can even act from malice habitually—with ease and pleasure—as the vicious person does. On Aquinas’s view, vicious actions are sin par excellence, as they spring from an entrenched disorder of the will itself, the very power through which we are supposed to attain the good human life. Aquinas diagnoses this disorder generally as inordinate self-love and opposes it to the well-ordered self-love that is virtuous action. In order to understand Aquinas’s theory of sin, we need to be clear about the rational structure of action. A proper account of this, however, must begin with his theory of goodness. Therefore, I begin Section I with

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a discussion of Aquinas’s account of substances as self-movers ordered to a single, unifying end and relate this to his account of evil as privative. In Section II, I discuss sin as a failure to hit the target of human life (happiness) through failure to correctly apply principles of practical reason. In Section III, I discuss sin in the sense of moral fault, and in Section IV, I discuss the sources of this kind of sin, with a special focus on malice and vice. I argue that whereas virtue is a self-transcendent orientation that leads to happiness with others, vice is a self-centered orientation that prioritizes individual or private goods over common goods. In Section V, I discuss Aquinas’s view that vice, like all sin, springs from inordinate love of one’s own good to the detriment of the good of others and communal life. In Section VI, I show how his theory of sin and vice can help us understand not only why Aquinas’s moral psychology is not egoist, but also points to the importance of recovering the notion of common good for contemporary virtue ethics.

I.

Good and Evil

Evil (malum), for Aquinas, is conceptually and ontologically derivative; it is a lack of form, due order, or measure in some thing. In order to grasp this formula, we have to understand something of his account of being. First, being is not a univocal concept; there is no sense to be made of “being as such.” That is, being does not have a single account, definition, or nature such that we could refer to it as a genus. For Aquinas, to talk about being is already to have restricted one’s thought to some essence, nature, or form. Aquinas does speak of “modes of being” (modus essendi). In his discussion of the Aristotelian categories, Aquinas notes that being can meaningfully be spoken of in different ways: substance, quantity, quality, place, time, relation, and so on. In this sense, being “transcends” the ten categories but only insofar as it runs through them all. Second, Aquinas, like Aristotle, gives priority to substance as the primary sense of being, because substances exist through themselves (they are ens per se), whereas the other modes of being only exist in substances (and so are ens per accidens). Third, the paradigmatic case of substances is living things: individual substances that share a common form or nature with other members of their kind, such as sago palms, cats, and human beings.4 Now, a human being is a living thing, and living things are natural, per se unities. A per se unity is an agent (agens), and acts in characteristic ways. Aquinas appeals to a special form of explanation for agents; let us call this natural teleological explanation: NTE: The movement of any part of a living thing, at any moment, is explained by reference to the movement of the whole thing towards a single, internal, unitary end: the nature or life form.

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To act (to be an agent) is to possess an internal principle of activity, movement, and rest. Aquinas calls this internal principle appetite or inclination, but Aquinas means by this a “principle or source of movement or change” (ST I-II 6.1), rather than a conscious desire in our contemporary sense. This is just to say: the explanation of what a natural agent does makes a necessary appeal to its nature or form. All vital movement makes reference to form. Aquinas explains vital movements in terms of capacities or powers (potentiae) for certain ends that define and measure its activities. On this view, each power is its own internal principle of movement and rest, but all powers are ultimately ordered to the realization of form. A power (in operation) is not merely a potential for a certain end but in some sense an actualization of it (though perhaps an imperfect one, if the power is impeded or interfered with). The concept of interference itself contains within it the idea that there is a tendency in the thing itself—an order and inclination to a specifiable end that can be interfered with. Thus, Aquinas argues that powers are, like the arrow of a tensed bow aimed at a specific target by an archer, stretched towards a determinate target, such that if the capacity (in operation) attains its end, just like when the archer hits his target, this will be no accident.5 Finally, the perfection of a power is its complete actualization; a power is fully actualized when it reaches the end towards which it is naturally ordered. Aquinas also calls living things “self-movers,” because they “determine themselves” to their own acts (ST I 18.1). Aquinas argues that in order to make sense of self-motion, we must have some conception of a unified subject that directs its various capacities to a single end: the realization of its own form of life. For a self-mover, all of its movements are ordered as parts or phases of its other movements, and all for the sake of realizing the subject’s nature or form. For instance, the fern just outside my office engages in many life activities, such as growing roots, producing spores, and developing fronds. The intelligibility of all these movements is ultimately explained by the coming to be, maintenance, and reproduction of its form. It is a self-mover: it moves itself through its own principles of change for the sake of making itself actual. It has an internal principle of movement and change. Armed with the idea that self-movers are ordered to the realization of their unified natures, we can see that evil is kind of natural defect—the failure of a substance to realize itself fully. For instance, an oak can fail to develop strong roots due to lack of rain, exposure to a virus, or an infestation of a parasite. One could truly assert of such an oak that its condition is bad, defective, lacking, and yes, evil, precisely because an oak is the kind of thing that needs strong, deep roots in order to achieve its characteristic end—the mature life of the oak. On Aquinas’s account of substance, knowledge of what a thing is—its being—is at the same time knowledge of its end and good. On this view,

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a living thing can no more cease to strive to attain its nature than it can cease being what it is (ST I 5.1).6 We might sum up the view this way: to have being is to have some measure of actuality or reality. Every act implies some sort of perfection, because every act, as an exercise of a capacity, is ordered to an end that both defines the act and measures it. What good adds to being, then, is the desirability of attaining the condition of complete actualization of the potential inherent to it. It is desirable for an oak tree to attain its mature stage of existence, or its perfection, because anything short of that is an imperfect or incomplete condition.7 Perfection is the condition of lacking nothing that ought to pertain to a thing according to its nature. Evil is ontologically and epistemically derivative of good because it is a lack or privation of some perfection that it pertains to some being to possess in actuality. Although evil is not its own independently intelligible reality, it still exists in things. And so, Aquinas concludes that “evil can only be in good” (QDM, 1.2 trans. 2001).

II.

Failures of Making

So far we have spoken of malum simpliciter, the most general sense of natural defect. Sin (peccatum) and moral wrongdoing (culpa) fit within this schema, but each is more specific in its application. Whereas malum refers to any privation of being, peccatum specifically refers to defective acts—acts that lack the measure or due order that belongs to a thing by its nature. For sin “properly consists in an action done for a certain end and lacking due order to that end” (ST I-II 21.1). Aquinas typically restricts his use of sin to the exercise of rational powers in doing and making. Within that sphere, he distinguishes between peccatum in actu artis and peccatum in moralibus (QDM 2.1, 2.2; ST I-II 58.3). The former is relative to making (facere), whereas the latter refers to the totality of human life (agere).8 Thus, when a chef makes a soufflé that falls or an NBA player misses his shot, these are sins in Aquinas’s sense of missing the mark or failing to hit the target of one’s intended goal.9 So sin unqualified does not imply moral fault. Nevertheless, the structure of both sins reflects the deeper analogy between skill and virtue. Let us begin with mistakes in skill. Missing the mark presupposes a capacity to hit it—a skill (techne). For example, Steph Curry does not just happen to make a three-point shot, the way that I have once or twice. My successful three-point shot is quite unlike Curry’s, because his is the exercise of a skill. The difference comes down to the fact that the movements of Curry’s body are informed by the practical rules (the appropriate means or technique) that govern making a three-point shot within a game of basketball; in making such a shot, he knowingly deploys such rules (Small, 2012, 2017). By contrast, I am throwing up a ball at the basket and hoping for the best.

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Aquinas thinks of the possessor of a skill as having a kind of practical knowledge that perfects his acts on the court. The practical knowledge of rules that constitutes the skill is not observational knowledge. Skill is a habit of the practical intellect and thus requires habituation, primarily of intellect but also bodily disposition (see QDV 4.1; ST I-II 57; ST II-II 47.4). Only through such habituation can the rules come to inform the bodily movements of the skilled player.10 Aquinas thinks of habits as stable dispositions to act in ways that are ordered to certain ends—a kind of existential readiness to act in ways that tend to the successful achievement of them. Since his practical knowledge flows from a habit, Curry does not typically have to deliberate about what to do on the court. Although he reliably and easily makes his shots, Curry sometimes misses. And when he does, on Aquinas’s account he sins.11 Citing Aristotle as precedent, Aquinas argues: There may be fault both in things that come to be by nature and in things that come to be by human skill when nature or skill does not attain the end for which it acts. And what acts by skill or nature may not attain its end because it deviates from the measure or rule of requisite activity. And the measure or rule in the things of nature is indeed the very inclination of nature that results from a form, and the measure or rule in artifacts is the very rule governing the skills. Therefore we can note two things in faults, namely, departure from the rule or measure and departure from the end. (QDM 2.1) Here Aquinas argues that sin is faulty action, but what is essential to it is not simply missing the mark, since that can happen faultlessly by bad luck or interference. A sin has to be attributable to the agent’s capacities directly; it must be a failure to hit the mark of action explained by lack of correct application of the rules that govern it.12 The emphasis on principles or rules reflects the fact that skills are rational powers, or “two way” powers. Natural powers are principles of action and change that realize a single end unless externally impeded or interfered with (Metaphys. IX.2). A rational power, by contrast, is for opposing ends; therefore a rational power is perfected by habits (dispositions) that are acquired through decision and knowledge, that reliably dispose a two way power to be exercised towards one end. For instance, the skill of medicine orders medical acts towards healing rather than harming the human body; when a doctor heals, he correctly applies the principles that govern his craft. Although medicine disposes a doctor to heal through application of principles, a doctor can also expertly harm in the same manner; in the same way, Curry can expertly miss a shot. Whether or not such mistakes

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are sins in either of Aquinas’s senses depends on the ends to which the actions are ordered. If Curry misses a shot in order to teach better techniques to those who want to win basketball games, this is not a sin. Now, let us imagine that Curry misses shots in a playoff game in order to ensure that his team loses, all for the sake of making money since he has placed bets against his own team. To act in such a way is to sin in the sense of culpa. To sin in this deeper sense, to cheat and lie for personal gain, is a failure to hit the mark not of basketball but of living well. To predicate this sort of failure to Curry’s acts we must admit that he is held to higher standards than those internal to the game of basketball—viz., the standards of good human conduct. It is for this reason that Aquinas argues that skill falls short of virtue: the possession of any skill is no indication of its proper use in the context of human life more generally. Proper use of skill, like proper use of all the principle powers of the human person, depends on having a good will. This last point brings out the fact that Curry’s actions are ordered to ends whose intelligibility go beyond those internal to the game of basketball; as we have already shown, Aquinas thinks that every human act is ordered and measured by the natural end (happiness) that constitutes a good human life in general. This means that every human act is moral—it is either good or bad qua human act. It is good if it contributes to happiness and bad if it detracts from it. Because Curry is a human person ordained to this end like any other, his actions on the court can be assessed according to this more general measure. It follows that Curry needs more than skill to succeed; he needs virtue, which, unlike skill, enables him to become what he essentially is—not a basketball player but a man.13 In order to understand sin in the more familiar sense of culpa or moral fault, we need to understand Aquinas’s account of the internal, practical principles that define and measure human life as a whole.

III.

Failures of Living

Whereas the skilled player sins qua player through the improper use of practical reasoning within a techne, and thereby fails to produce good works, a man fails qua man through improper use of practical reasoning as a whole, and thereby fails to be happy or live well. To understand sin in the sense of culpa, then, we must first understand the goal it misses. We cannot understand the role that happiness plays in Aquinas’s theory of human action unless we take seriously the fact that life and natural teleological explanation is at the center of the account. The will is not only a vital power, but more importantly, “the principle of life in man,” and Aquinas likens sin to a disease that weakens and deforms it (ST I-II 75.2). Now humans are alive and self-movers; therefore, we determine ourselves to our own acts. We have already seen that the concept of

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self-movement implies a unified subject that directs itself by a natural inclination to a single end: the coming to be and maintenance of its own natural form. Like the unifying end of any other living thing, human happiness is that which can perfect us; it describes the condition in which the potential inherent in us by nature is fully realized. Rational creatures are engaged in the process of determining themselves to act through the use of practical reason and will; in this way they move themselves to their natural end in a far more perfect sense than other living things—freely, in accordance with a general cognition of the universal good. Thus, Aquinas argues that what is essential to human acts14 is that they are voluntary, which he describes in terms of a certain kind of knowledge. Aquinas writes: It is essential to the voluntary act that its principle be within the agent, together with perfect knowledge of the end. Now knowledge of the end is twofold; perfect and imperfect. Perfect knowledge of the end consists in not only apprehending the thing which is the end, but also in knowing it under the aspect of the end (ratio finis) and the means to the end. And such knowledge belongs to none but the rational nature. But imperfect knowledge of the end consists in mere apprehension of the end, without knowing it under the aspect of the end, or the relationship of an act to the end. Such knowledge of the end is exercised by irrational animals, through their senses and their natural estimative power. (ST I-II 6.2) There are three important points to make about this passage. First, voluntary action is also a form of self-motion; the principle of voluntary (human) action is internal to the agent, which directs it to an end—living well—that both defines and measures it qua voluntary (human or moral) action. The internal principle of human action is a principle of practical knowledge. Second, whereas the movements of plants are in no sense voluntary because plants do not have capacities of cognition or desire, animal motion is imperfectly voluntary. The difference between animal and human action is a difference in the capacities (or internal principles) by which they move themselves to their natural ends; both move by knowledge and desire, but a rational animal moves by universal or general knowledge and desire. Animals have perceptual powers and thus act in accordance with what they perceive in the world as good or bad. Aquinas argues that animals recognize goods for themselves and act and react accordingly. A sheep, for instance, sees the wolf as a danger or threat and engages in avoidance behaviors. This is no accident; a sheep has instincts that incline it towards what is conducive to its life and to avoid what is harmful to it.

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While an animal can regulate its behavior in terms of what it can perceive as good or bad for it, it cannot make choices in light of meaningful alternatives. In order to be able to transcend its instincts, the sheep would have to possess capacities of intellect, reasoning, and will that would allow it to perceive and desire goods (ends) under different intentional descriptions (and levels of description), an ability that implies that one possesses a general conception of how to live. An animal determines itself to act in a more perfect way than plants, but it still doesn’t act for reasons—there is no logos or account it has or could give of what it does. Human action is perfectly voluntary because it proceeds from “perfect knowledge of the end.” For Aquinas, a human not only knows its ends when it acts voluntarily, but knows them in relation to its other ends, and further, how these ends are ordered to its conception of how his life ought to go on the whole. A human doesn’t merely see what it is after; it sees what it is after in relation to his general conception of how to live. This sort of general, conceptual knowledge is necessary to act for a reason, or voluntarily, at all. This does not mean that all voluntary action is living well; “perfect knowledge of the end” doesn’t mean infallible knowledge of what is truly good. It may help to make sense of Aquinas’s conception of such practical knowledge as the internal principle of voluntary action by seeing it in relation to contemporary work on action. Aquinas would agree with Elizabeth Anscombe that one displays this “perfect knowledge” insofar as one can answer a certain sense of the question “Why?” with respect to what he does (Anscombe, 1957, p. 11). Sincere answers to the question give reasons that justify (and in so justifying, also explain), thereby making the action practically intelligible to others. Such answers typically refer to some end or good that is being knowingly pursued in action, and such goods are typically made intelligible either in relation to other ends or simply in light of one’s vision of life generally (which Aquinas thinks of as the ultimate end). This picture of reason is teleologically ordered, for “ends are the reasons why one wills means” (QDM 2.2). If one can answer this sort of “Why?” question, then one demonstrates not only that one knows what one is doing in a first personal, non-observational manner, but further, that one knows that for the sake of which one does it, and how this practical structure connects with one’s vision of how to live. To possess the ability to act in this manner, in which the general life in progress is rationally manifest in the particular action, is to act from practical reason and will—i.e., voluntarily.15 Such a person is able (at least potentially) to relate his particular action to his conception of the “universal good” or “happiness.” This ultimate end—happiness, living well, or the universal good—is not itself chosen; it is the condition for the possibility of choice or having reasons to act (DV 22.5; ST I 82.1–2; ST I-II 13.3; DM 16.5).

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Of course, the determination of what happiness consists in is the necessary work of practical reason and is acquired and revised over time; Aquinas does not think this vision needs to be especially articulate (or true) in order to act voluntarily. Although Aquinas argues that we all necessarily want to be happy (i.e., to participate in the universal good) just in virtue of having a will, we have to form our own general conception of what happiness or the good life consists in, and we also need to develop the virtues that will enable us to live consistently in accordance with this vision.16 A final point about “happiness” or “the universal good”: it is a common good. For our purposes, there are three points to make about a common good as Aquinas understands it. First, it is a good that is common to all human beings in virtue of their nature, as happiness is the end to which we are all ordained. Second, a common good is not competitive, which means that no individual’s happiness should in principle detract from anyone else’s. Third, a common good is never the sole possession of an individual, because the enjoyment of common goods only comes through activities in which others also participate such that the good is enjoyed in common between them. In fact, the pleasure of the activity is intensified when participated in common with others. For instance, the characteristic joy of playing Beethoven’s ninth symphony well could never be identified solely with a single French horn player; such a joy cannot be attained alone but only with the other members of the orchestra playing together. And the joy of playing the instrument is intensified when shared. Happiness, then, as a common good, must be universal, non-competitive, and enjoyed with others. We are now in a position to say something substantive about virtue. A virtue is “a disposition whereby the subject is well disposed according to the mode of its nature” (ST I-II 71.1). Virtues are habits that perfect our natural human powers of thought, action, and emotion so that they reliably act in accordance with principles of right practical reason in order to attain and maintain happiness, our natural end. Because we are not naturally determined to any particular action, Aquinas argues that we need to cultivate such habits in order to live well. Now, if happiness is a common—i.e., universal, non-competitive, and shared—good and the virtues dispose us to possess it, then the cultivation of virtue involves coming to see ourselves as happy together rather than as isolated individuals—i.e., seeing ourselves as parts of a greater whole.17 Once a person recognizes himself as an integral part of a larger whole, he understands the good of the whole as his own. The virtues, then, enable us to see that our perfection or happiness is a self-transcendent good. The language of self-transcendence can be traced back to developments within humanistic and positive psychology. It is often described in terms of “going beyond” the self, or being motivated by goods whose value cannot be grasped in terms that are self-directed. To value such

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goods requires that one have a grasp of the value and meaning of one’s life in relation to something greater than oneself. Abraham Maslow, for instance, argues that the fully developed and mature person in good conditions “tends to be motivated by values which transcend his self” (Maslow, 1969, pp. 3–4). Viktor Frankl, working more within the psychoanalytic tradition, argues that even in the worst possible conditions, human beings need a self-transcendent vision of life in order to have reasons to try to survive. Based on his own experience in Auschwitz, Frankl argues that the human person “always points, and is directed, to something or someone other than oneself” (Frankl, Winslade, & Kushner, 2006, p. 110). When people are no longer able to place themselves within this larger context, human beings tend to lose the sense of meaning and purpose in their lives, and subsequently lose the will to live. Frankl and Maslow’s views about the importance of a self-transcendent practical orientation have been borne out in more recent studies that have found strong correlations between measures of self-transcendence and lack of depression, bitterness, and anger (Christensen, Allworth, & Dillon, 2012; Lyubomirsky, 2014). Work on generativity—acts that are concerned with caring for future generations—also consistently score highly in measures of overall human flourishing (McAdams, 2013). And finally, positive psychologists have become increasingly interested in studying self-transcendence or connections to goods that are “greater than the self” since Christopher Peterson and Martin Seligman (2004) put transcendence on their universal list of virtues found across history and cultures. Under transcendence, Peterson and Seligman place character strengths that allow persons to “forge connections to the larger universe and provide meaning” (Peterson & Seligman, 2004, p. 30). Transcendence “can be something or someone that inspires awe, hope, or even gratitude—anything that makes our everyday concerns seem trifling and the self seem small” (Peterson & Seligman, 2004, p. 39). Focus on the ways in which virtue orients us to common goods and therefore the cultivation of a practical orientation is self-transcendent in the sense highlighted within certain strands of psychology helps to put Aquinas into contemporary interdisciplinary conversations without distorting his own views. Aquinas would agree with Maslow and Frankl that the human person has a natural desire to transcend itself, and he would agree with positive psychologists that we do this by seeing ourselves as parts of a greater whole that gives greater meaning and value to our lives.18 For Aquinas, what explains this is our common nature: man is a political animal. This means, among other things, that his happiness is found in friendship with others within the context of a political life that operates under just laws. Without this context, the development of virtue and the attainment of happiness isn’t possible.19 Vice is contrary to virtue because “the vice of a thing seems to consist in its not being disposed in a way befitting its nature” (ST I-II 71.1). Sin

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is opposed to virtue since sin is inordinate insofar as it takes us away from the end towards which our wills are naturally ordered—happiness. Whereas the virtues unify our natural powers and thereby enable us to hit the target, vice and sin create disunity and cause us to fail. Now if virtue is self-transcendent in that it orients us towards a common, universal, participatory good that is greater than individual benefit, then vice is a self-centered orientation that results in our lack of free participation in this common good. For Aquinas, vice is a practical orientation of thought, feeling, and action that focuses one on private, competitive, or individual goods rather than more common and universal goods. The vicious person attempts to privatize happiness—to cut it off from its proper context within the larger whole. This is to act against human nature and right reason, since man is by nature a political animal, whose happiness is participated in with others.

IV.

The Causes of Sin

If to sin is to act against reason and nature, and in so doing to fail at life on the whole, then why do we ever sin? Aquinas’s answer is Aristotelian in form but Augustinian in spirit: the sinner acts from inordinate selflove. In order to get clear about this formula, we must look to his account of the primary and proximate causes of sin. Aquinas divides sin into three categories based on their respective proximate etiologies: sins of ignorance, sins of passion, and sins of malice. The gravest sins are those from performed from settled malice or vice. The least voluntary and therefore least culpable sins are those caused by ignorance. Just as ignorance of grammar is the cause of bad speech and writing, so ignorance of the object of practical wisdom—the truly universal good—can be the cause of bad actions. Now this practical knowledge of how to live can be general or particular. For instance, one might possess general knowledge of how to live but not particular knowledge of the circumstances. For example, one might know that shooting an innocent person is wrong but not know that what he aims at, here and now, is an innocent person. Such a person intends to kill but does not intend to sin by killing an innocent human being; depending on the circumstances, he may be blamelessly ignorant. On the other hand, one might lack the general practical knowledge of good and bad human action. Aquinas is clear that one cannot sin unless one knows what one does under the description of sin or bad action.20 The second cause of sin is inordinate passion; we can act contrary to our knowledge of how to live on account of the force of some intervening passion.21 Aquinas recognizes that human passions are notoriously stubborn, in large part because they are realized through physical changes. The experience of fear can involve bodily perturbations—quickening of pulse, shaking, sweating, chills, nausea—that can impede sound deliberation

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and affect choice. On Aquinas’s account of akrasia, the passions distract us from our general knowledge of the good life and lead us to do things we would never do with our wits about us. Consider Peter’s denial of Christ. His action is explained by his overwhelming fear of the consequences of being truthful about his friendship. His choice to deny Christ was not “clear-eyed”;22 he is distracted by his fear, which makes him focus his practical attention on his safety rather than his friendship. Peter regrets his choice as soon as his fear subsides.23 Peter acts wrongly in putting his individual safety above his friendship, but the explanation of his doing this is his fear not his reason or a bad will. Sinning from malice (malitia) is the gravest kind of sin, for it is the “root of all sin” (ST I-II 19.4). There are two senses of malice in contemporary English. The first refers to a kind of spite and mean-spiritedness that animates actions that intend to inflict harm or suffering on another person. Such a definition is far too narrow; on Aquinas’s view even a virtuous person might sin from malice on occasion, and moreover a sin from malice needn’t imply any intent to harm another. A glutton overeats with malice. The second sense refers to a legal category: intent to commit an unlawful act without excuse. This is much closer to Aquinas’s notion of malitia, or fully intentional wrongdoing—that is, wrongdoing that cannot be explained by mitigating factors that lie outside our capacity to choose. A malicious action is one with a particular sort of “deficient cause”—a defect located in the will itself. To sin from malice is to sin deliberately in the clear knowledge that what one pursues is a sin. According to Aquinas, such a person “chooses evil knowingly”24 and is said to “love defect itself” (QDM 3.12). Of such a person, Aquinas writes, “not only will we say that the person wills the good that they chiefly will, but also that they will the very deformity that they choose to suffer lest they be deprived of the good they desire” (QDM 3.12). Consider a sin such as adultery. According to Aquinas’s analysis, the adulterer’s reason for acting is the anticipated pleasures of sexual intimacy.25 Now the pleasure of sexual intimacy is a real and deeply attractive human good and is what the adulterer chiefly intends. However, the adulterer also intends the deformity or defect of sin as the means to this pleasure. Aquinas argues that such a person loves his own sensual pleasures to such an extent that she is willing to do what she knows is unjust in order to attain it. The cause of such sins of malice is a bad will, the capacity for rational desire or choice. When a person sins in the heat of passion or in ignorance, Aquinas says that he sins “while choosing” but not “by choice.” Peter’s choice is made in a state of clouded judgment; for that reason, Aquinas argues that he does not sin “by choice,” because his choice does not truly reflect his conception of how to live (the “universal good”). By contrast, the adulterer who sins from malice makes a deliberative decision to commit

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an injustice for the sake of satisfying his own appetites; he would make the same choice in the heat of sexual passion or in a cool hour. Such a person places his own gratification ahead of the demands of justice. In such acts, Aquinas argues that the sinner “is moved to evil of its own accord” (ST I-II 78.3). This is possible because the evil (adulterous intimacy) is chosen as a means to a real good (sensual pleasure). So while malice is desiring the bad—knowingly sinning—it is nevertheless in keeping with Aquinas’s general metaphysical principle that “evil can only be in good.” How can the will be moved to evil if it is a rational appetite for the universal good, and if all that one does is willed as contributing to this good? Aquinas’s answer is Augustinian: a person can knowingly choose evil (i.e., decide to sin) because of a preference for a lesser good—typically an individual or private good, such as sensual pleasures, money, or honors, over more common goods, such as friendship. The worst form of malice, sin par excellence, is that which springs from vice. Vice is a settled habit or disposition that inclines the will to acts of sin with ease and pleasure, without regret or compunction. The vicious person has a fixed and settled intention to sin. The cultivation of any vice leads its possessor into a settled ignorance about what is truly good, for when a person is disposed to want something inordinately, his capacity for sound practical judgment is impaired. Even though vice makes us unwise, Aquinas locates the error of vice primarily in the will rather than the judgment. For example, a greedy man might exploit his workers and deny them a just wage while paying himself exorbitantly, pollute and destroy the environment, cook the books, and so on, all to keep accumulating wealth for himself. Such a person knows that he is unjust; he acts these ways because he thinks great wealth makes him a real man—that it is a central mark of the good life. Aquinas argues such a person “sins in ignorance” and not “because of ignorance” (QDM 2.3.9), similar to the way that one who sins from weakness sins “while choosing” but not “by choice.” For it is not just that the vicious person lacks some knowledge, it’s that the account of this ignorance can ultimately be traced to disordered desires that direct his attention to the pursuit of lesser goods. Because the vicious person has a disordered will, Aquinas argues that, “one who sins out of malice sins most seriously and most dangerously and cannot be recalled from sin as easily as one who sins out of weakness” (QDM 3.13). And since the cause of the sin is in the will, and the will is the capacity for voluntary action, it is the most voluntary of the sins and the least excusable.

V.

Sin, Self-Love, and Self-Transcendence

We have seen that contrary to the characterization of his views in the contemporary literature, Aquinas does have a theory of willful wrongdoing. But one might still protest that insofar as Aquinas argues that a rational

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creature pursues evil sub specie boni, even the worst sinner is nothing more than a well-intentioned idiot who strives to be good and fails. As David Velleman (1992) has famously complained against this tradition, it looks as though it rules out the idea of a truly satanic agent—one who wants evil simpliciter. If we think of Satan as someone who at bottom really seeks the good, Velleman argues, we drain all the terror and awe out of him; we turn him, in short, into “a very sappy Satan” (p. 19). Although we have already seen that the vicious man pursues his own happiness by knowingly committing evil, and therefore is hardly wellintentioned, it is still useful to take up Velleman’s challenge to give an account of a satanic agent who does not fall prey to his objection. Unlike Aristotle, Aquinas does have an account of Satanic agency—he provides a moral psychological account of the fall of Satan at the moment of his creation. Satan is a rational creature—an angel—but in many respects he is practically alien from humans insofar as he possesses a higher form of intelligence and is not embodied. Thus, Satan is not subject to ignorance or error, he is not subject to the corruptions characteristic of original sin, and he experiences no passions or bodily needs. Further, it is part of Aquinas’s theory of angels that all have attained their full natural perfection from the first moment of their creation (making them very different from ourselves). But angels, like all rational creatures, also have a supernatural perfection, which consists in their participation in God’s eternal life. This is clearly a higher good than their merely natural perfection. Satan rejects this higher good because he wants to attain it without having to rely on God’s grace. Satan prefers “pleasure in his own power” or his own glory rather than his being glorified by God (QDM 16.3). Satan’s pride and inordinate self-love causes him to lose sight of the value of a higher, more universal and common good. Aquinas argues that the devil “turned himself toward his own good without regard for the rule of the divine will” (ST I 63.1).26 So while Satan’s choice does involve an intellectual error—a failure to appreciate at the moment of choice that eternal communion or friendship with God is a higher perfection and fulfillment—the ultimate source of that failure is his inordinate desire for and pleasure in his sense of his own individual excellence.27 In fact, Aquinas is clear that, given Satan’s nature as the highest angel, it could have no other source. What the discussion of Satan’s fall shows, I think, is that a rational creature is able to choose its own individual good over higher goods. Free will contains the potential to sin, and necessarily so. This seems to be built into Aquinas’s understanding of it as free—as the exercise of a two way, or rational, power. Aquinas’s account of the fall of the devil brings his formula of sin as inordinate self-love into stark relief. Aquinas follows Aristotle in thinking there is a hierarchy of goods, and that the more universal and common a good is, the greater value it has (Aristotle trans. 1984 EN 1.2

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1094b5–10). He follows Augustine in understanding all sin as ultimately rooted in inordinate desire for more individual or selfish goods, and explains the possibility of such disordered preferences in the fact that one can love oneself in the sense of one’s own private good inordinately by wishing goods only, or primarily, for oneself (ST I-II 77.4).28 Aquinas calls this problematic self-love a general covetousness (cupiditas), which is the inordinate desire to possess goods for oneself, and he also calls it pride (superbia), which is the inordinate desire for one’s own excellence. He distinguishes the two aspects of self-love because he thinks that self-love under the aspect of desire for personal excellence (superbia) refers to the will for the end, or happiness, while self-love under the aspect of desire for worldly goods (cupiditas) is the will for the means. This is not a psychological claim; that is, it is not a claim about a person’s self-conscious psychological aims or thoughts either during or prior to acting. Aquinas does not think that sinners are necessarily thinking in these specific terms while or before acting any more than he thinks that they are self-consciously considering their own happiness or universal good while or before acting. These are claims about the practically rational structure of human action and sin. Bearing that in mind, Aquinas thinks that all sin is selfish in the sense that it ultimately springs from wanting happiness in the sense of a private form of excellence, one whose benefits redound back primarily to oneself, often at the expense of or to the neglect of others. And the means by which such “happiness” is achieved is by coveting goods that do redound back primarily to the self, such as bodily pleasures, honors, luxuries, adornments, wealth, and power. This self-centered self-love is, as it were, the most general framework for understanding sin as inordinate self-love. Aquinas refers to this general pride and covetousness as the remote or “primary” causes of sin. The more proximate causes have already been discussed, but they are all ultimately to be understood as forms of this general kind of egoism—this chosen preference for one’s own individual good apart from one’s participation in the common good. Now, if sin is inordinate self-love, this presupposes that there is something that is a well-ordered self-love in which human happiness properly consists. And Aquinas does think this. We have already seen that according to his theory of practical reasons, our reasons come from our ends, especially the ultimate end towards which the will naturally tends: happiness or the universal good. The very structure of willing, then, implies self-love, insofar as whatever action one chooses is chosen for the sake of one’s own happiness. Further, if to love is to will the good for someone, in willing one’s own happiness one acts as a friend to oneself; for friends love one another and will the good for each other. As David Gallagher helpfully puts the point, “Every person naturally loves himself with a love of friendship and wants or wills for himself all the goods necessary

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for this end” (Gallagher, 1999, p. 29). Aquinas is clear that this self-love is natural, necessary, and good (ST I 60.3). But one cannot be happy merely by being a friend to oneself, for humans are political animals and our happiness is found in social, law governed relations with others. By nature we are parts related to a larger whole (ST I-II 90.2). A political animal might choose to isolate himself for some reason, but as Alasdair MacIntyre (to my mind successfully) argues, he could only freely choose to do so qua political animal, that is, as a product of social and political contexts in which he learned how to act for reasons in the first place (MacIntyre, 2001). In friendship as Aquinas understands it, one takes the good of the friend as an essential part of our own good, such that their happiness becomes part of one’s own. The happiness of friends is a common good in which both friends participate. We are not in competition with our friends—we rejoice in their good when it is attained, and sorrow when harms befall them. When friends seek goods for each other, they treat the friend as “another self.” What the friend wants for himself (his happiness) is no longer understood in a private way; he wants it to be something shared, in a reciprocal way, with the friend. In this way happiness becomes a “common good” shared with the friend. Friendship involves a self-transcendent perspective in which one sees one’s life and one’s good in relation to a greater whole. A friend understands himself as part in the sense of a participant in a union of affection and will with others. Insofar as one takes up this practical perspective, one doesn’t see one’s happiness as in competition with the other—rather, one’s own happiness is now bound up in intricate ways with the happiness of the friend. If my friend suffers, I suffer. If my friend flourishes, I flourish. Friendship transcends the perspective of the individual. Such love of friendship is not disinterested; it manifestly does involve pleasure and a perception of some commonality or likeness between the friends. But neither is it selfish or egoist in any sense. For it is not the case that I will the good of the friend as a means to my own good; that would be to use that person rather than to will the good for them. Rather, in true friendship, I will the good of the friend for her own sake. A friend is not an instrumental but an intrinsic good. In such friendships, we are willing to make sacrifices and suffer for our friend’s sake, precisely because we love them for their own sake, will their good, and see our own good as bound up inextricably with theirs. For example, I can give up many enjoyable ways of spending my free time for a sick child who needs my loving care and attention. I sacrifice in this way—for the child—so that the child will benefit, because I love the child and the child’s good. If I do so from proper self-love, then I sacrifice because I value our relationship more than I value my free time. Aquinas argues that “the part does indeed love the good of the whole . . . not however so as to refer the good of the whole to itself, but rather itself to

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the good of the whole” (ST II-II 26.3.2, emphasis added). A good parent always ultimately prefers the goods of family life, goods that can only be shared in common and not solely by oneself, over private goods.29 To achieve “self-transcendence” in love for others is not a form of “selflessness” or forgetting the self; rather, it involves transcending a more enclosed mode of selfhood for the sake of a higher, more expansive mode of selfhood. In friendship the self is extended or enlarged through affective identification with the friend; in genuine friendships, participants experience both the happiness and unhappiness of the other as one’s own; thus we wish and pursue good for them in a way that is the same as we would wish them for ourselves. As David McPherson has recently argued, such love is neither self-regarding rather than other-regarding, nor other-regarding rather than self-regarding, because the regard for the self now necessarily includes regard for the other (McPherson, 2016). Let us return now to the idea of ordinate self-love, the love that animates virtuous action. For Aquinas, this only comes about through the acquisition and exercise of virtue. As we grow in virtue, we learn to love in ways that transcend the self, by expanding our conception of the self such that the good of others becomes essential to our own conception of living well. We become willing to sacrifice the pursuit of individual or private goods for the sake of greater, common goods. We even become willing to make ultimate sacrifices, such as the mother who dies so that a child might live. Such a mother takes herself to be more perfect when properly related to something greater than her own individual good, and this will be reflected in her choices. To become properly ordered to the common good involves more than having the correct vision of life; it is primarily about loving others and willing the good for them. The life of friendship is the happy life, in which we take joy in flourishing together, rather than flourishing ourselves at someone else’s expense.

VI.

Virtue and Egoism

For Aquinas, to sin is to fail to transcend the self. More specifically, it is to fail to perceive one’s own life in relation to the greater whole in which one’s own perfection lies, which leads to a failure to desire to participate in that greater whole with others. This is a failure of self-knowledge, to be sure—a failure to see that one is a political animal whose happiness is shared in common with others—but the explanation of this failure ultimately lies in the will and one’s inordinate love of one’s own private good. Aquinas’s vicious person—the steady and stable sinner—is what we would today call an egoist. The egoist takes all reasons for acting as properly understood in terms of individual or private benefit. As I have argued elsewhere (Frey, 2016), in order for an agent to be called an egoist, he

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must not only be able to take account of the good of others over against his own, but also have a steady disposition to reject the good of others in favor of what he takes to be his own, private good. Thus, in order to be an egoist of any kind, one must make a practical distinction—a distinction within practical thought and deliberation—between one’s own individual sense of good and the sense of the good of others, and possess a stable preference (rational or otherwise) for one’s own private good in matters of choice. When we put the point this way, it is clear that Aquinas’s virtuous exemplar is no egoist, but his wicked person, and the sinner more generally, is. And yet, to say that Aquinas’s theory is not egoist is not to say that it vindicates altruism. Insofar as we tend to think of altruism as disinterested love of the other, Aquinas is no altruist either. Participation in common goods is not disinterested. The virtuous person sees that her happiness is with others. Aquinas would never suggest that one is disinterested in one’s own happiness or perfection. Rather, one is necessarily (by nature) ordained to one’s happiness or perfection. This necessity is baked into his account of self-movement and his metaphysics of substance. While some (McDonald, 1990) have suggested that this is a kind of “meta-ethical egoism,” again, as I have argued elsewhere (Frey, 2016), this rests on a mistaken notion of what egoism could possibly be. In this essay, I have argued that Aristotelian virtue ethics, properly understood, is not egoist. I have turned to Aquinas on sin to show this, because what reflection upon sin in Aquinas makes clear is the absolute centrality of the common good to his account of virtue and the good life. The common good is what has gone missing from much of contemporary work on virtue, but the idea of participation in a shared common good is crucial to any account of virtue that takes seriously the Aristotelian formula that man is a political animal. Sin and vice impedes the full realization of our nature as political animals, because it prevents us from entering into the forms of communion with others that is the essence of a good and happy human life. Aquinas teaches that the pursuit of individual goods to the detriment of common goods fosters competition and coveting of goods that will not truly fulfill us. On Aquinas’s view, the deeper meaning and purpose of human life is to live with and for others. Sin, for Aquinas, is ultimately a failure to meet the self-transcendent demands of life with others. In short, it is a failure of love.

Notes 1 Thanks to audiences at the University of Notre Dame, Centre Culturel Irlandais, and the University of Stockholm for many helpful comments and suggestions on an earlier draft. I would also like to thank participants in a working group meeting and summer seminar of the Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life project, grant ID #56194.

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2 The charge goes back at least as far as Sidgwick (1907). 3 It is therefore obviously incomplete as an analysis of Aquinas’s full account of sin. But as Aquinas himself writes, “The theologian considers sin chiefly as an offense against God; and the moral philosopher as something contrary to reason” (ST I-II 71.6.5 trans. 2008). I will, qua moral philosopher, limit my attention to how sin is an offense against human reason. I will leave questions about sin as an offense against God to the theologians. 4 It can be hard to keep track of the different terminology here—substance, essence, nature, and form—but it may be helpful to note that Aquinas often uses these terms interchangeably. Every substance is a nature, and essence is by another name, called nature. For the purposes of this essay, I will tend to prefer talk of nature, since Aquinas seems to associate nature with essences “according as it has an order toward the proper operation of the thing.” DE, c.1, lines 36–49 (trans. 1968). For further discussion of the use of natura in Aquinas’s metaphysics, see Dewan (2001). A further reason to prefer nature over form is that the latter is always ambiguous between natural forms and forms of reason. 5 By comparison with an archer, Aquinas in no way means to imply that vital powers involve psychic awareness of a goal. Psychic awareness only comes into his picture once he discusses conscious animals and rational creatures. 6 For contemporary defenses of this kind of “natural goodness,” see Foot (2001) and MacIntyre (1999). 7 Of course, Aquinas does not think of desirable in this sense psychologically. He is thinking of it in terms of potential being actualized, where full and complete actualization is the desirable condition for the thing in question. 8 Roughly this corresponds to Aristotle’s distinction between poiesis and praxis. While much has been written about this distinction, for our purposes it is best to understand it as marking a contrast between an action whose end is a product that can be evaluated independently, such as a shoe, a work of art, or even the outcome of a game or sport, and an action whose end is living well or living a good life. 9 As Josef Pieper (2001) points out, this broader notion of sin is something that Aquinas inherits from tradition. Pieper argues that the Greek word for sin used in the New Testament, hamartia, originally had a more general meaning. For instance, Homer employs this term repeatedly to describe a warrior hurling his spear and failing to hit his target. A similar use can be found in Aristotle, who also uses it to refer to failures of skill and ethical failure (pp. 16–17). 10 Likewise, one also needs to see that the rules that govern the action must be realized in the proper matter. I could never be as good as a typical NBA player, no matter how hard I trained with experts. In addition to lack of innate talent, these men possess a different physique from me, one far more conducive to playing good basketball. 11 There are two levels at which we might invoke the notion of rule here. There is the general level of the rules of the game, which gives intelligibility to any basketball move qua move in the game of basketball (i.e., a lawful move within the game, as defined by the rules of the game that serve as means to the end of the game, which is winning). But at a more particular level we may think of the rules that govern the three-point shot. Here we think of the means necessary to attain that end, which include, among other things, proper positioning of one’s limbs, proper grasp of the ball, proper jump technique, and so on. 12 Of course, there may simply be a failure of execution—maybe one’s hands don’t do what one intended they would, for whatever reason. Aquinas has

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almost nothing to say about that, although my guess is that it would not be the sort of failure that most interests him, which is the failure of judgment of means. See also QDM 1.3. “In order that man may make good use of the art he has, he needs a good will, which is perfected by moral virtue; and for this reason the Philosopher says that there is a virtue of art; namely, a moral virtue, insofar as the good use of art requires a moral virtue. For it is evident that a craftsman is inclined by justice, which rectifies his will, to do his work faithfully” (ST I-II 57.4.2). Aquinas makes a distinction between human acts proper and “acts of a man.” Examples of the latter are stroking one’s beard or tapping one’s fingers on the table. The principle of these acts is not reason but imagination. Although one does them knowingly—they are self-aware of the acts—the principle of the act is not practical judgment (ST I-II 18). Anscombe allows that one might answer “no particular reason” in response to the “Why?” question, and that this would not be a refutation of the question. I see no reason why Aquinas cannot say the same for acts that are “indifferent” in their type, such as counting the number of azalea blooms in the bushes at the park. But one could not say “no reason” in response to an act of killing without raising suspicion and alarm. For Aquinas’s discussion of indifferent act types, see ST I-II 18.8. Aquinas would agree with Gareth Evans (Evans, 1982, p. 104) that concepts are inherently general such that a potentially endless series of different objects can be brought under them. Evans calls this the Generality Constraint. For evidence that Aquinas holds a similar position, see his discussion of intellectual operations in ST I 75.5. For “a man’s will is not right in willing a particular good, unless he refers it to the common good” (ST I-II 19.10). For a comprehensive discussion, see Sullivan (2014). Part of the explanation of this is that virtue requires training and reinforcement. It also helps to remember that for this tradition the extended family was the basic political unit. This does not mean that one acts with the thought, “I am sinning.” It simply means that if you asked them if it was in some sense bad or wrong, they would acknowledge it, even if only in a qualified way. A complication here is when one’s ignorance is a result of negligence. In such cases, there must be some admission or recognition that one “could have and should have known.” Such cases are obviously very difficult to adjudicate. In fact, he uses these terms interchangeably. For excellent discussion, see Kent (2007) and Kent and Dressel (2015). The notion of clear-eyed akrasia has no conceptual foothold in Aquinas’s system any more than it does in Aristotle’s. In the Gospel according to Matthew, we read that Peter immediately “went out and began to weep bitterly” (Matt 26:75 New American Bible). Aquinas’s definition: “A sin committed through certain malice is one that is done through the choice of evil” [peccatum ex certa malitia dicitur esse quod est ex electione mali] (ST I-II 78.1). Some might protest that they have committed adultery primarily for love, not sexual pleasure. To this the only response is to point out that there are innumerable ways to express and feel love for another person; what makes adulterous love unique has to involve desire for sexual intimacy with a person who is the spouse of another, and that particular form of intimacy makes no sense outside the context of distinctively sexual pleasures.

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26 Aquinas gives a structurally similar analysis of the fall of Adam (ST II-II 19.7). 27 For an excellent discussion of the implications of this view for our understanding of the inter-relations between will and practical judgments, see Hoffman (2007). 28 In other places (ST II-II 25.7), Aquinas draws the contrast between material goods of the outward man and spiritual goods of the inner man, rather than private vs. common goods. This is the same contrast of lesser and greater, now thrown into a theological register, given that his topic is caritas. 29 This doesn’t mean that parents don’t ever value private goods. Of course, they do and must! It is just to say that ultimately, they value the good of the family more, and they are willing to subordinate their needs to that of the family when it is demanded of them.

References Anscombe, G. E. M. (1957). Intention (2nd ed.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Christensen, C. M., Allworth, J., & Dillon, K. (2012). How will you measure your life? New York, NY: Harper Business. Dewan, L. (2001). Nature as a metaphysical object. Retrieved July 16, 2018, from https://maritain.nd.edu/jmc/ti01/dewan.htm Evans, G. (1982). The varieties of reference. Oxford, England: Clarendon Press. Foot, P. (2001). Natural goodness. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Frankl, V. E., Winslade, W. J., & Kushner, H. S. (2006). Man’s search for meaning. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Frey, J. A. (2016). Was Leibniz an egoist? Journal of the History of Philosophy, 54(4), 601–624. Gallagher, D. M. (1999). Thomas Aquinas on self-love as the basis for love of others. Acta Philosophica, 8, 23–44. Hills, A. (2010). The beloved self: Morality and the challenge from egoism. Oxford, England and New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Hoffmann, T. (2007). Aquinas and intellectual determinism: The test case of angelic sin. Archiv Für Geschichte Der Philosophie, 89(2), 122–156. Hurka, T. (2003). Virtue, vice, and value. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Kent, B. (2007). Aquinas and weakness of will. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 75(1), 70–91. Kent, B., & Dressel, A. (2015). Weakness and willful wrongdoing in Aquinas’s De malo. In M. V. Dougherty (Ed.), Aquinas’s disputed questions on evil: A critical guide (pp. 34–55). Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Lyubomirsky, S. (2014). The myths of happiness: What should make you happy, but doesn’t, what shouldn’t make you happy, but does. New York, NY: Penguin Books. MacIntyre, A. C. (1999; rev. ed., 2001). Dependent rational animals: Why human beings need the virtues. Chicago, IL: Open Court. Maslow, A. H. (1969). The farther reaches of human nature. Journal of Transpersonal Psychology, 1(1), 1–9. McAdams, D. P. (2013). The positive psychology of adult generativity: Caring for the next generation and constructing a redemptive life. In Positive psychology (pp. 191–205). New York, NY: Springer. https://doi. org/10.1007/978-1-4614-7282-7_13

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McDonald, S. (1990). Egoistic rationalism: Aquinas’s basis for Christian morality. In M. Beaty (Ed.), Christian theism and the problems of philosophy (pp. 327–54). Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. McPherson, D. (2016). Nietzsche, cosmodicy, and the saintly ideal. Philosophy, 91(1), 39–67. Peterson, C., & Seligman, M. E. P. (2004). Character strengths and virtues: A handbook and classification. Washington, DC and New York, NY: APA Books and Oxford University Press. Pieper, J. (2001). The concept of sin. South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press. Sidgwick, H. (1907). The methods of ethics (7th ed.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing. Small, W. (2012). Practical knowledge and the structure of action. In G. Abel & J. Conant (Eds.), Rethinking epistemology (Vol. 2). Berlin, Germany and Boston, MA: De Gruyter. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110277944.133 Small, W. (2017). Ryle on the explanatory role of knowledge how. Journal for the History of Analytical Philosophy, 5(5). Sullivan, E. (2014). Natural self-transcending love according to Thomas Aquinas. Nova et Vetera, 12, 913–946. Velleman, J. D. (1992). The guise of the good. Noûs, 26(1), 3–26. https://doi. org/10.2307/2215684

4

The Place of Virtue in a Meaningful Life Candace Vogler

Learning to Be Good It may be that talk about virtue has never been common in ordinary life. It may be that the only common talk about virtue in North America happened a long time ago and was primarily concerned with women and their sexual habits, where “virtue” concerned chastity. But in the latter part of the 20th century, Anglophone philosophers started talking about virtue again, and we now confront a wide variety of different kinds of talk about virtue in both moral philosophy and areas of empirical social science directed to exploration of moral psychology and moral education. By most of these lights, a specific virtue is a character trait that tends to make its bearer a better person than she would be without it, and the sorts of virtues that are topics of inquiry are acquired virtues—virtues that develop through training and practice. There are accounts of virtue that find their philosophical ancestor in the 18th-century Scottish philosopher David Hume. There are accounts of virtue that draw extensively from the work of Roman thinkers such as Cicero. There are accounts of virtue rooted in work by the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle. The theorist of virtue I have found most useful is a scholastic neo-Aristotelian— Thomas Aquinas. For Aquinas, there are four cardinal virtues—practical wisdom, justice, temperance, and courage. We need all four. Michael Pakaluk (2013) puts the point this way: A virtue is a trait that . . . makes someone such that his activity— what he does, what he is responsible for—is reasonable. But there are four basic types of such activity: his thinking itself, as practical and directed at action; his actions ordinarily so-called . . .; and how he is affected. This last category splits into two, Aquinas thinks, on the grounds that acting reasonably in the realm of the passions involves regulating both the passions by which we are drawn to something and the passions by which we are repulsed from something. These two sorts of passions imply two sorts of tasks or achievements . . .

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which the ordinary distinction between the virtues of temperance and courage confirms. (p. 39) Virtues foster coordination and cooperation among our various powers in such a way that we can pursue human good, and avoid what is bad for us, smoothly and well. In this sense, the unity of the virtues for Aquinas is drawn from the unity of the human person seeking to live a reasonable life. And for Aquinas, even a fully virtuous person is likely to make mistakes in trying to act well. Secondary virtues—generosity, for instance, or humility, or gratitude, or kindness—work to strengthen and support the operation of cardinal virtues on this picture. Cultivating virtues is part of sound moral development. And sound moral development is crucial to human life, on this view. Unlike nonhuman animals, humans need more than just a combination of good fortune, instinct, and training to lead good lives. We need developed characters. Some contemporary neo-Aristotelians (and some more venerable theorists) think that acquired virtue is all that we need to lead a good human life. They think that living virtuously is enough to make us happy and that, since virtue is its own reward, living virtuously ought to be enough to make our lives full and meaningful as well. For those who think that virtue is all that we need, what virtue does, for the most part, is make each of us a stronger and better person. This will give the virtuous person a measure of resilience when things do not go her way. It will help guide her when exercising virtue looks to put her at a tremendous disadvantage—as it will, for instance, if she called upon to deliver truthful testimony in court condemning a mob boss; or if she is called upon to care for an infirm parent who is demanding, ungrateful, and generally unkind; or if being mindful of the needs of her children and spouse requires turning down a very shiny job offer in a distant place. Virtuous activity can put the virtuous person at risk of death, misery, or serious personal disappointment. And, in general, one would have to be appallingly lacking in imagination to be incapable of thinking of anything more exciting to do than pay debts; help those in need; or work hard not to lie, cheat, abandon others, or steal when bad acts offer big rewards. Aquinas knows that virtuous action can put the virtuous person at a disadvantage, as far as worldly success is concerned. He does not think that having developed a good character will, all on its own, make everything go well for the virtuous person. But his understanding of virtue has two features that are uncommon in other accounts of virtue, both of which give virtue a proper place in a meaningful life. First, any specific virtue is directed to the common good, for Aquinas. Although he shares the general Aristotelian conviction that my virtues, if I have any, are good for me, the benefit that I get from my own good

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character is not the most interesting thing about my virtues for Aquinas. What my virtues do is direct me to good larger than just my own welfare and the welfare of those in my inner circle. Although what Aquinas means by saying that virtue is directed to common good, in the first instance, is not exactly what a contemporary Anglophone philosopher would generally mean by invoking common good, and although the reach of Aquinas’s thought about common good is disputed by contemporary scholars, Aquinas’s understanding is not opposed to what we would mean either. On my reading, for Aquinas, the common good of interest operates on a cosmic scale. On this reading, one could, for example, develop an interesting form of environmental ethics by meditating on Aquinas’s thought about common good. The commonality at issue reaches out toward the whole of creation. The human community is, of course, part of creation. That virtue is inherently directed to the good of the larger human community on this view makes virtue inherently self-transcendent. There may be some neo-Aristotelian accounts of virtue that are rightly charged with painting a picture of the individual human being as more interested in the beauty of her own soul than she is in whether she is of any use to anyone else. By insisting that there is no such thing as an entirely idiosyncratic or self-involved, self-absorbed virtue, Aquinas’s account escapes this charge. Second, and relatedly, Aquinas does not think that happiness and a sense of meaning in this life are the highest objects of aspiration for us. The highest object of aspiration is eternal happiness in a resurrected life. We cannot get that for ourselves without God’s help, but, in a strong sense, it is what we are made for, and virtue in this life supports us in our efforts to be right with ourselves, right with our fellow creatures, and right with God. So much for a very quick introduction to virtue in Aquinas. What place do our efforts at moral self-improvement have in meaningful lives?

Meaning in Human Life I will approach concern over meaning in human lives—rather than, say, the meaning of human life—through 20th century and recent mainstream philosophy. Among Anglophone philosophers who understand themselves to be working in what gets called the “analytic” school—although almost none of these does strictly analytic philosophy these days—meaning in life is a new and hot topic. Those in the area often point to venerable sources. I am in favor of looking to historical figures in philosophy for insights into many questions. But there are good reasons for thinking that Susan Wolf (2010) was not wrong to claim that “academic philosophers do not talk much about meaningfulness in life” (p. 7), and that “most philosophers have failed to notice it altogether” (p. 35), or to suggest with Robert Adams (2010) that Anglophone philosophers “have published relatively

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little about meaningfulness in life, despite its apparently profound human importance” (p. 75). As near as I can tell, what the contemporary academic philosophers are doing in claiming Aristotle or Immanuel Kant as their sources is either assimilating concern over meaning in life to concern over final ends— things pursued for their own sake that organize and lend coherence to one’s other pursuits—or else assimilating questions about meaning in life to questions about what makes for a good human life. Strictly, as near as I can tell, questions about what makes life meaningful are relatively new questions in European philosophy. Some contemporary Anglophone thinkers, for example Daniel J. Peterson and G. Michael Zbaraschuk (2014) and Terry Eagleton (2008), trace explicit emergence of questions about meaning in life to work by Friedrich Nietzsche and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, and link these questions to the development of modern European “negative” or “radical” theology. But it looks as though the topic started to rise up explicitly for European thinkers in the wake of what was called “The Great War” and again, with different urgency, in the wake of their Second World War, partly in response to the utter destructiveness of these ventures and pointedly after the second of our World Wars in response to the way that neighbors turned on neighbors during efforts to annihilate Jewish people, gypsies, people with leftist political views, homosexual people, and disabled people, and to enslave many other peoples. In mainstream English-language philosophy, the topic of meaning in life—taken up in those terms—did not get much currency until late in the 20th century. Part of the reason that mainstream Anglophone philosophers are reluctant to wade into questions about meaning in life is that there is no single, clear, precise characterization of what counts as meaning in this area. There are desiderata—conditions that any adequate account of meaning in human life ought to meet if the view is to be a view about the sort of thing that despairing people find elusive and people leading significant or meaningful lives have. Anglophone philosophers being the kinds of intellectuals that they are, every one of the points I am about to list as reasonable starting points for thought about what makes life meaningful has been contested by at least one of the people taking up the question in the last thirty years. I will, for all that, move forward boldly rather than tracing out the disputations. Here are what I take to be reasonable starting points for thought about what makes life meaningful: 1. Meaning in human life is not merely a matter of subjective satisfaction with how things are going—people enduring serious hardship and shouldering great burdens can be leading tremendously meaningful lives even when they do not expect that their efforts in any of their areas of activity will succeed. By the same token, people can be perfectly content with how things are going in their lives

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Candace Vogler and be spending much of their time and energy on things of little consequence. Meaning in human life has an important objective dimension—I can take it that my life has not been worth living and be wrong; by the same token, I can take it that my life is filled with meaning and be wrong. Related to (1) and (2), to whatever extent assessments of happiness in life are importantly subjective, happiness is distinct from meaningfulness. Whatever kinds of activities, relationships, ways of living, or experiences contribute to meaning in human life, meaningful lives are better than meaningless lives—that is, “meaning” is not a purely descriptive term in this setting. Related to (4), there is an important distinction between meaning in life and moral status (however moral status is assessed)—full lives, empty lives, and lives that are neither especially full nor especially empty have moral status.

There are various ways to carve the territory of recent Anglophone philosophical work on meaning in life. My starting points put me on one side of the great divide between subjectivist and objectivist accounts. Subjectivist accounts have two things to be said in their favor. First, since empirical work on the topic tends to rely on self-reports, subjectivist accounts of meaning in life can make use of a lot of recent psychological research on meaningful lives. I have not found empirical research in psychology that relies upon an objectivist construe of meaning in life. Second, since the topic is often highly charged—we are worried, say, about high suicide rates or other indicators of self-destructive impulses among our youth, or we are worried about very privileged adults leading lives of quiet desperation—it can feel, however inchoately, even to academic philosophers, that what is called for is an account of how individuals might make sense of their lives to and for themselves. The subjectivists are interested in understanding what is going on when I take my life to be meaningful. It’s an important topic, and it’s not one that those of us who tend to find concern over final ends or what makes life worth living ignore. But to the extent that what a person thinks about her own life, and how things are with her own life can come apart—I think that they can—there is room for a significant objective element in thought about meaning in life. Another clear line of distinction demarcates naturalist views from supernaturalist views (although for a view that sits in between traditional monotheist supernaturalist views and naturalist views, see Richard Kearney (2010)). Supernaturalist views hold that our relations to and participation in a spiritual order is crucial to having a meaningful life. Such views, notice,

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might be true even if there is no such thing as the variety of spiritual order postulated by the relevant supernaturalist theorist of meaning. If there is no such order, then our lives are not lives that can be meaningful, by these lights. Some supernaturalist views are distinctively theistic— ordinarily, these are monotheistic views focused on our relation to God. Other supernaturalist views find a spiritual order in the natural world, sometimes linked to pantheistic or polytheistic understandings of that order. These latter varieties of supernaturalism have not been explored extensively in the Anglophone philosophical literature. The philosophers have stuck with monotheism, for the most part. There tend to be three important dimensions to monotheistic supernaturalist views about the meaning of life: 1. Metaphysical dimension: God’s existence is necessary to ground meaningful lives because an infinite, essentially good, almighty creator, and legislator God anchors objective value generally, and the objective value of human life as part of this. 2. Relational dimension: A meaningful life is informed by sound (if necessarily incomplete) understanding of God and involved in practical engagements that bring individual human beings into right relations with God. 3. Ethical dimension: It is not possible to be in right relations with God unless one is also in right relations with one’s fellow human beings. Naturalist views, on the other hand, hold that there is no supernatural, distinctively spiritual order but that this is no hindrance to thinking about what makes life meaningful. On such views, I could find meaning in life through pursuit of truth or justice, or by understanding my life as made possible by the struggles of people who came before me, hoping to carry good forward to those who will come after me. This is the territory in which contemporary Anglophone philosophical exploration about questions of the meaning of life hangs out. Within each of the categories, there are many divergent views, and, by most philosophers’ lights, no one strand of thought on the topic is entirely fully developed at this point. There is, however, a common thread that runs through all the work, as near as I can tell, a thread that takes some of its coloring from the usual ways of distinguishing questions about meaning from questions about happiness. It goes like this: in virtually all contemporary work (except work committed to thoroughly subjectivist naturalism), meaningful lives are meaningful in part because those leading meaningful lives operate with an understanding of their lives as participating in a good larger than their own welfare or advantage and the welfare or advantage of those they regard as members of their intimate circle. What sort of “larger” is involved in this larger good? Thaddeus Metz (2013) offers the following proposal:

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Candace Vogler [T]he concept of meaning is the idea of connecting with intrinsic value beyond one’s animal self. The animal self is constituted by those capacities that we share with (lower) animals, i.e., those not exercising reason. These include the fact of being alive, the instantiation of a healthy body, and the experience of pleasures. These internal conditions may well be intrinsically valuable, but they do not seem to be the sorts of intrinsic value with which one must connect to acquire significance. To say that the concept of meaning is the idea of relating positively to intrinsic value beyond one’s animal self is to say that while merely staying alive or feeling pleasure logically cannot make one’s life meaningful, connecting with internal goods involving the use of reason, and with all sorts of external goods, can do so. (p. 88)

Perhaps more than any other Anglophone analytic philosopher working on questions about the meaning of life, Metz is immersed in the whole of the relevant contemporary literature. He covers the waterfront better than anyone else. And he is acutely aware of the points at which his treatment of the concept departs from some recent analytic work on the topic. For all that, one can complain about various features of Metz’s account of the concept of meaning from a Thomist point of view. Here are a few of them. First, Metz’s way of distinguishing what we share with nonhuman animals from our distinctively human capacities diverges from Aquinas’s metaphysics of human nature. For Aquinas, we are the animals with intellect. Intellect is not the same as what contemporary philosophers mean by “reason.” In an early work, Aquinas (c.1256–1259) remarks on aspects of nonhuman animal apprehension and appetite that have something of reason in them: It should be noted . . . that not only in the apprehensive powers but also in the appetitive there is something which belongs to the sensitive soul in accordance with its own nature and something else according as it has some slight participation in reason, coming into contact at its highest level of activity with reason at its lowest. . . . Thus the imaginative power belongs to the sensitive soul in accordance with its own nature, because forms received from sense are stored up in it, but the estimative power, by which an animal apprehends intentions not received by the senses, such as friendship or hostility, is in the sensitive soul according as it shares somewhat in reason. . . . The same principle is verified also in regard to the appetitive power. The fact that an animal seeks what is pleasurable to its senses (the business of the concupiscible power) is in accordance with the sensitive soul’s own nature; but that it should leave what is pleasurable and seek something for the sake of a victory which

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it wins with pain (the business of the irascible), this belongs to it according as it in some measure reaches up to the higher appetite. (q. 25, a. 2, resp.) It is hard to separate the most complex operations of nonhuman animal apprehension and appetite from their simplest human counterparts. For all that, intellect sets humans apart from other animals on this view, and, among intellectual creatures, humans are further distinguished by having discursive reason—we are, as Aristotle might put it—the chatty animals. This is, for Aquinas, part of the way in which we are animals. Second, not just any intrinsically valuable, discursively assessable goods will count as goods to which we can connect in a way that confers meaning on our lives. Active participation in a thriving human community, for example, will only count as lending significance and meaning to one’s life if that community is, itself, ordered to justice and guided by due concern for the common good. If we had to find a slot for Aquinas in the contemporary philosophical taxonomy, he will count as a supernaturalist for whom the metaphysical, relational, and ethical dimensions are all intertwined. Finally, concern about virtue is kept at a distance in Metz’s treatment of meaning. If we wanted to ask Aquinas to speak to questions about meaning in human life, virtue would have a secure, central place in our discussion.

Putting Virtue in Its Place—A Thomist Picture How will a friend of Aquinas handle a question about the place of virtue in a meaningful life? First off, a friend of Aquinas, if I understand those of us who are friends of Aquinas, will urge that a properly virtuous life will, insofar as it is virtuous, be a meaningful life. It may not be a happy life, on any ordinary understanding of happiness. I can be as wise, just, brave, and temperate as you please but face ethical circumstances so challenging and hostile that my good character makes me a target for abuse rather than an esteemed person. In this sense, a Thomist account will square with the first and third of the starting points for an account of meaning. Second, the fact that even a person with a full complement of acquired virtues—a strong character—can make mistakes and will occasionally have good reason to regret her decisions and her actions squares with the objectivity constraint on claims to meaning in human life. I might throw myself into a cause, for example, after careful consideration and in good conscience only to find that the thing I fought for was not worth fighting for. Third, because acquired virtue on Aquinas’s understanding is perfective of my nature as a human being, virtuous lives are better than vicious

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lives in a sense isomorphic with the sense in which meaningful lives are better than meaningless lives. Perhaps most importantly, because acquired virtues are directed to common good in the first instance for Aquinas, a genuinely virtuous life will, by necessity, involve the right kinds of relations with intrinsically valuable internal and external goods to meet the kind of criterion for meaning sketched by Metz (echoing dominant trends in contemporary Anglophone philosophical work on the topic). In this sense, pulling Aquinas into conversation with contemporary Anglophone philosophers on questions about meaningful lives gives thought about virtue a central role in thought about meaning, underlining the sense in which morals and meaning are both inherently self-transcendent.

References Adams, R. M. (2010). Comment. In S. Wolf (Ed.), The meaning of life and why it matters (pp. 75–84). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Aquinas. (c. 1256–1259). Questiones disputatae de veritate. q. 25, a. 2, resp. Retrieved from https://dhspriory.org/thomas/QDdeVer25.htm#2 Eagleton, T. (2008). The meaning of life: A very short introduction. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Kearney, R. (2010). Anatheism: Returning to God after God. New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Metz, T. (2013). The concept of a meaningful life. In J. W. Seachris (Ed.), Exploring the meaning of life (pp. 79–94). Oxford, England: Wiley-Blackwell. Pakaluk, M. (2013). Structure and method in Aquinas’s appropriation of Aristotelian ethical theory. In T. Hoffmann, J. Müller & M. Perkams (Eds.), Aquinas and the Nicomachean ethics (pp. 33–51). Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Peterson, D. J., & Zbaraschuk, G. M. (2014). Resurrecting the death of God: The origins, influence, and return of radical theology. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Wolf, S. (2010). The meaning of life and why it matters. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Part II

Perspectives From Theology

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Law, Virtue, and SelfTranscendence in Jewish Thought and Practice David Shatz

In an address at Princeton Theological Seminary concerning the interface between science and religion, Albert Einstein stated: [I]nstead of asking what religion is, I should prefer to ask what characterizes the aspirations of a person who gives the impression of being religious: a person who is religiously enlightened appears to me to be one who has, to the best of his ability, liberated himself from the fetters of his selfish desires and is preoccupied with thoughts, feelings and aspirations to which he clings because of their superpersonal value. (Einstein, 1941) Einstein’s own indulgence of material desires aside, his conception of religious enlightenment tallies with an approach found often in Jewish texts. Thus, in the Talmudic tractate Avot (known popularly as Ethics of the Fathers), Antigonus of Sokho declares: “Do not be like servants who serve the master for the sake of reward; rather, be like servants who serve the master not for the sake of receiving reward.”1 Moses Maimonides (1138–1204), the most important of Jewish philosophers, distinguishes between serving God out of fear and serving Him out of love; love requires eradicating all self-interested motives for serving God, leading to the ideal of disinterested worship. Since love of God involves centering one’s life on something larger and higher, it is almost self-evident that such disinterested love enables self-transcendence, not only by requiring the shedding of egoistic motivations, but by giving meaning and purpose to life.2 This stress on eradicating egoism is not immune to objections. Some critics of Maimonides noted that if one does not care about reward and punishment, one may lose consciousness of God’s providential control.3 A Maimonidean may respond, however, that those who serve God with disinterested love are perfectly capable of recognizing that He dispenses rewards and punishments4 even though these rewards and punishments do not motivate their actions. Another challenge to portraying Judaism as

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anti-egoistic is that (as Kant observed) the Bible appeals to self-interest— people’s desire for health, wealth, and security—as reason to obey God’s laws. Likewise, critics might adduce the practice of petitionary prayer to paint theistic religion as focused on one’s material needs. Jewish thinkers have often sought to explain away or mitigate such egoistic formulations about reward and punishment and petitionary prayer. For example, some maintain, including Maimonides, that promises and threats are aimed at the masses, who are not initially capable of disinterested worship, but who later in life may (in some cases) transcend self-interest by practicing the very law that they earlier followed out of self-interest.5 With regard to prayer, one might argue that a focus on one’s own needs makes one grateful and thus connected to the being who satisfies those needs. Additionally, concern for one’s own needs makes one sensitive to the needs of others.6 In these and other ways, the doctrine of reward and punishment and the practice of petitionary prayer are consistent with the quest for self-transcendence. My interest here, however, is in two forms of self-transcendence that are present in Jewish thought and law but are at times in tension. Judaism has an extraordinarily complex legal system known as Halakhah. Halakhah dictates the forbidden, the obligatory, the permissible, and the recommended, down to the minutest details. The roots of the system lie in the Bible and in the rabbinic activity that created the Talmud and Midrash in roughly the 2nd through 7th centuries. But in every generation, rabbis occupy themselves with the analysis, interpretation, and further building of the legal system. Thus, the first form of self-transcendence in Judaism is submission to authority. This includes both divine and rabbinic authority, for God’s laws include the rule to follow rabbinic authorities—their interpretations of the Bible and their rulings about cases.7 Although certain precepts are actually enjoyable to perform and do not require the conquest or eradication of desires but rather bring joy to the performers (for example, the observance of Sabbath and holiday celebrations with family and others), most halakhic rules require either the conquest or eradication of egoistic desires. One also surrenders autonomy (even if she does so by an autonomous choice) and follows the guidance of this higher being. Submission requires transcending oneself to connect with God and, having secured this connection, infuse life with meaning and purpose. Religion is not God serving humanity, it has been said, but humanity serving God.8 On the other hand, as we move through various Jewish issues and texts, we will see that Judaism asks of individuals to transcend themselves in another way. This second form of self-transcendence may be characterized as follows: even when self-interested conduct is permissible when viewed solely through the lens of rules governing actions (whether biblical or rabbinic laws) people should nonetheless transcend their selves and their personal interests by thinking of and acting for others—family,

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friends, community, the world—rather than availing themselves of the technical law that requires less. In many cases this involves not only performing particular acts, but developing virtues like kindness, compassion, and caring. Jennifer Frey and Candace Vogler (2016) have cogently argued that self-transcendence may be achieved by developing virtues oriented to the common good. Incorporating considerations about virtue into assessing conduct—and not only considerations about rules— promotes both personal virtue and community solidarity, helping secure this common good. Finally, in one conceptualization, ethically virtuous individuals also enter into a relationship with God by emulating His ways, thus blending a theocentric focus with a focus on other human beings. I’ll put the matter another way. Because law and rules play a central role in Judaism, one may initially assume that its code of conduct is best characterized as a rule-based morality rather than a virtue-based morality. As a result, one expects questions about proper conduct to be answered by rabbinic authorities formalistically—by derivation of the law from legal precedents, such as by use of analogies—rather than by considerations of virtue that might override the formalism. To a large extent, these expectations about Jewish ethics are correct. But only to a large extent—not through and through. As will become evident, to a significant extent Jewish ethics can be characterized as concerned with both technical rules and virtue.9 The question before us is how this high regard for virtue, particularly virtue that promotes the good for others, which is one type of self-transcendence, interacts with the other form of self-transcendence in Judaism, namely, the rule-centered orientation of Jewish law. Sometimes a choice must be made between these two forms of self-transcendence—submitting to God’s rules and caring for others. We will see that considerations of virtue sometimes impact on norms and sometimes override formalistic derivations of proper conduct—but also that sometimes this is not the case. The topic itself is not new, but I aim at a synthesis, analysis, and assessment that is somewhat distinctive, largely because of the stress on self-transcendence.10 The literature on virtue in Judaism is immense, a proverbial sea. The tractate Avot (popularly known as Ethics of the Fathers), which is virtually devoid of technical discussions, may be viewed in this light.11 We have Maimonides’ work Eight Chapters, which is largely an Aristotelian treatment of virtue, as well as a section of his monumental legal code Mishneh Torah titled “Laws of Character Traits.” Medieval pietistic literature is a goldmine for explorations of character, and the Musar (translation: ethical) movement in the 19th century addressed in prodigious detail what traits are desirable and how to acquire them. Humility, faith, self-control, fear of heaven, wisdom, love, kindness, compassion—these and more are foci of the huge virtue ethics literature in Judaism. Attesting to the significance of virtues is the fact that in legal controversies between the school

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of Hillel and the school of Shammai, the school of Hillel, says the Talmud, merited that the majority follow their opinion because they were “easy and forbearing” and “taught [and/or studied] the words of the school of Shammai as well as their own” (suggesting respect for their partners in debate).12 In focusing on virtues that benefit others and promote a common good, I am relating implicitly to a larger theme of self-transcendence that is virtually ubiquitous in Jewish tradition: work on behalf of bettering the community and promoting others’ welfare. When Frey and Vogler speak about individuals who feel they belong to something bigger and better than they are on their own—a family with a long history and the prospect of future generations, a spiritual practice oriented towards the due reverence for the sacred and the need to live right by others, work on behalf of social justice and the improvement of one’s community, they are furnishing a description that applies instantly to Judaism. The great sage Hillel taught, “Do not separate yourself from the community.” He also said, “If I am not for myself, who is? And if I am for myself, what am I?” The Talmud declares “all Israelites are responsible for one another.”13 These proverbs are not empty slogans; they explicitly or implicitly undergird particular laws. Contemporary Judaism focuses on “tikkun olam,” repairing the world, a term that has found its way into the secular lexicon.14 There are, to be sure, cases in which individual good is placed over the collective good—but, overall, the collective emphasis is clear.15 Jewish mystics maintain that the Jewish people are an organism; when one part is hurt, the pain is felt throughout. Important, too, is generativity, which Frey and Vogler describe as “serious attachment to past generations and dedication to moving good forward for future generations.” Remembering and connecting to the past is an imperative in Judaism. “Remember the days of yore, understand the years of generation after generation; ask your father and he will relate it to you, and your elders and they will tell you” (Deut. 32:7). At the end of the morning prayers the Jew recounts six biblical “rememberings”— most famously, the exodus from Egypt and the revelation at Sinai. The holidays commemorate past events, of course. The Passover Seder not only recounts but relives the experience in Egypt and the Israelites’ liberation from slavery. Jews dwell in booths (sukkot) during the festival of Sukkot because God provided their ancestors with such dwellings in the desert (Lev. 23:43); Shavuot in Jewish tradition celebrates the revelation at Sinai. Judaism also highlights the notion of masorah, the transmission of Jewish biblical exegesis, law, thought, practice—everything embraced under the rubric “tradition.” This notion of masorah involves both receiving from the past and transmiting to future generations. (Masorah

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literally means giving over.) The Bible emphasizes informing children and later descendants about the Sinaitic revelation and teaching Torah (e.g. Deut. 4:9, 6:7; Isaiah 59:21). The requirement referred to as “Talmud Torah” encompasses both Torah study and teaching Torah. The practice of studying Torah with a havruta (study partner) points to the collective orientation. And dialoguing with predecessors of centuries or millennia ago along with contemporaries is part of the warp and woof of engaging the masorah. Frey and Vogler add: “Participation in collective pursuit of knowledge is often self-transcendent.” Judaism fits this description. In the situations I will discuss, it would be somewhat grandiose to state that through the relevant act or omission, the individual is promoting the common good to a significant degree. The scenarios involve localized interactions between two individuals and small benefits for the beneficiary. However, the virtues exemplified by the actor will manifest themselves in many situations, augmenting the common good. So, the impact of the virtue considerations is large. My goal is to show how the following theses about the law-virtue relationship are developed in certain Jewish texts, as well as to explore some questions and disagreements surrounding some of the claims. 1. If we follow Maimonides and others, both forms of self-transcendence are present in Judaism. One is manifest in the proper motivation while performing ritual commandments, the other in the proper motivation practicing commandments “bein adam la-havero” (“between one person and his comrade,” such as a giver of charity and the recipients). 2. Some biblical laws are based on the desire to inculcate certain ethical virtues. These particular laws are not based on the belief that the actions proscribed or prescribed are technically wrong or right in and of themselves, i.e., independent of considerations about virtue. 3. Repentance over character traits is distinct from, and superior to, repentance over acts. 4. A concern for virtue expands the parameters of obligation and on occasion overrides a formalistic, technical assessment of actions. This concern for virtue is often rooted in the biblical commandment of “you shall walk in His ways” (Deut. 28:9), i.e. imitatio Dei. 5. At times doing the right thing may diminish one’s character. 6. At times, doing the right thing reflects an antecedent character flaw— some right actions are such that a good person would not perform them. 7. At times, nonetheless, concern for abstract rules overrides considerations of virtue. Many of these claims have analogues in general philosophical literature, and this essay will utilize some of that material in examining the Jewish texts.16

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One caveat: We often seem to encounter in Judaism a view that we may call the ineluctability of heteronomy—the idea that the mandate to acquire virtue and the mandate to acquire specific virtues are just that— mandates; they are dictated by rules. And so, in a sense even Judaism’s virtue ethics arises in a rule-centered morality, so that Judaism would seem to be at its core inimical to virtue ethics. I will return to this issue at the end.17

Moral Motivation The contrast between the two forms of self-transcendence, and their co-existence within Judaism, is affirmed by Maimonides, albeit without invoking the notion of self-transcendence, in his commentary to the Mishnah.18 It is helpful to enter into Maimonides via Kant (six centuries after Maimonides). Kant considers first a person who benefits others only out of feelings of sympathy. “An action of this kind, however dutiful and amiable,” Kant maintains, “has nevertheless no true moral worth. It is on a level with such actions as arise from other inclinations, e. g. the inclination for honor” (Kant, 1981, first section). Kant concedes that sympathetic acts of this sort deserve “praise and encouragement,” but, he adds, “not esteem.” Acts motivated by sympathy have no moral worth because they flow from inclination, not duty—the agent acts in accordance with duty, but not from duty. By contrast, a person lacking sympathy or a misanthrope who does what duty requires solely from the motive of duty—that person has done something that bears moral worth and is superior morally to an act done out of sympathy. Nice guys, for Kant, finish morally last. Kant’s appraisal has been widely mocked. Perhaps the most trenchant parody came from Friedrich Schiller in Xenia: Scruples of Conscience: “Gladly do I serve my friends, but alas I do it with pleasure. Hence I am plagued by doubts that I am not a virtuous person.” Decision [responding]: “Sure, your only resource is to despise them entirely, and with aversion to do what your duty requires.” (Schiller) At first blush, one could say that for Kant, the coldhearted philanthropist does the right thing, but does not possess or display virtue. So, the thought goes, Kant is against virtue ethics, and this is precisely why his judgment goes so wrong. But, it isn’t true that the misanthropic philanthropist lacks virtue, because for Kant, as it has been put, virtue is “a kind of strength or fortitude of will to fulfill one’s duties despite internal and

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external obstacles” (Cureton & Hill, 2015, p. 87). Hence, we are not dealing with a case of virtue vs. duty, but with the virtue of being sympathetic or kind vs. the virtue of being strong-willed about being dutiful.19 While Kant is right to identify such strength as a virtue, explications of the term “virtue ethics” are usually dominated by traits other than strength of will to fulfill one’s duty. (“Self-discipline” and “continence,” however, come close.20) With that said, let’s look at Maimonides. Maimonides presents a contrast between two personality types.21 One is (in the common Hebrew translation from the Arabic) the hasid—the pious or virtuous person; the other is the continent man, the one who conquers urges. The hasid “follows in his action what his desire and the state of his soul arouse him to do; he does good things while craving and strongly desiring them.” In other words, the hasid’s actions and omissions (i.e., refrainings) are motivated by a desire to help others, or show respect to others, for example, independently of a divine command to do so. The continent man, by contrast, “struggles against his craving [to perform bad actions] and opposes by his [right] action what his [appetitive] power, his desire and the state of his soul arouse him to do.” Maimonides asks which of these types ranks higher.22 The philosophers along with King Solomon rank the hasid higher than the continent man, he says, while the Sages appear to rank the continent man higher. Maimonides notes some rabbinic texts that on his reading affirm the value of struggling against impulse, as opposed to doing the right without struggle. Let not a man say, “I do not want to eat meat with milk, I do not want to wear mixed fabric [the prohibited mixture of wool and linen called sha‘atnez], I do not want to have illicit sexual relations,” but [let him say], “I want to, but what shall I do—my Father in heaven has forbidden me.” Whoever is greater than his friend has a greater [evil] impulse than he. According to the pain is the reward.23 While it is initially tempting to view the contrast between prizing the hasid and prizing the one who conquers desire as a contrast between accepting virtue ethics and accepting act-morality, we could instead view it, along lines sketched earlier, as a contrast between giving primacy to the virtue of natural sympathy and benevolence and giving primacy to the virtues of obedience and continence or strength of will.24 In any event, Maimonides seeks to reconcile the respective views of the philosophers and the Sages. He maintains that the rabbis and the Sages “are not in disagreement” because the evils which philosophers term such—and of which they say that he who has no longing for them is more to be praised than he who

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We can readily understand Maimonides’ point about the continent person being inferior as regards ethical conduct. If you’re sitting on a bus and the passenger next to you informs you, “I have this great temptation to murder you, but I am overcoming it,” you would have no thought whatsoever that this person is great because he overcame his desire. Or, consider this example:26 A person visits a friend who is in the hospital. The patient thanks the visitor for coming and expresses appreciation for the latter’s friendship. To which the visitor replies, “Bikkur holim [visiting the sick] is a mitzvah [commandment].” The response clearly is alienating and less than ideal. All will find the visitor’s saying this objectionable, but in addition, submission to God’s law seems not to be the ideal motivation for visiting the sick. In fact, some rabbinic thinkers believe that it best to give charity out of feeling for another and not to be motivated by obedience. Rabbi Jacob Jehiel Weinberg (1966), a major 20th-century rabbinic figure, wrote, “If [the benefactor] gives only because God so commanded, he diminishes the nature of love” (1966, 1, p. 61).27 Others agree—for example, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik: When a person visits the sick, he must join in their pain; when he comforts the mourners, he must mourn with them in his heart; and when he gives a person charity, he must bear that person’s burden and empathize with his pain. (1975, p. 170)28 This opinion seems to converge with that of Maimonides. Potential evidence for the view is that whereas, when someone performs a ritual mitzvah, one recites the blessing, “Blessed art Thou. O Lord our God, king of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to [for instance] kindle the Hanukkah lights,” the blessing is not recited in the case of interpersonal mitzvot such as charity. One widespread explanation is that ethics is incumbent on everyone, Jew or nonJew, so to reference God’s relationship to Israel is inappropriate. Another explanation, however, relevant to the present discussion, is that one who

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performs a deed that benefits another, whether materially or by, say, preserving dignity, should do it out of natural feeling, not because of a command. Further indication that one should act benevolently not because of a command but because of natural feeling is that the Talmudic debate about whether one must have the intention to fulfill a commandment in order to fulfill it properly is never applied to interpersonal, ethical mitzvot.29 Thus, obedience to God is not even the proper motivation for fulfilling ethical obligations! If a goal of Judaism’s ethical code is to create feelings of friendship and good feeling it would be best, perhaps necessary, that people not act because they have been commanded.30 However, Maimonides’ distinction between ritual mitzvot, where the overcoming of desire carries “more merit and a greater reward” than having no desire or temptation, and ethical mitzvot, where it is best to have no desire for the wrong and best not to perform commandment out of obedience, is problematic. The key point here has been made by Jed Lewinsohn (2016, pp. 243–255): people can act or refrain from acting from multiple motives.31 It would therefore seem, first of all—and this point has been made by some who wish to soften Kant’s position about the misanthropic philanthropist—that even if someone performs a certain commanded act or refrains from a prohibited one for reasons other than obedience to God’s command, that is, because of the act or omission’s non-religious value, this is no reason to preclude obedience to God’s command as one of the (additional) motives. In fact, Lewinsohn further argues, the performance or omission would lack any religious significance if unaccompanied by the motive of obedience (ibid., pp. 251–253, 254, n. 16). One could therefore further require that the motive of obedience be strongest, because that gives priority to the religious significance of certain conduct, without disallowing an additional motive. Allowing for multiple motives handles the case of the hospital visitor: the ideal, from within a religious framework, would be both to act from obedience and to act out of feelings of friendship. It is possible, of course, that this is Maimonides’ view as well, but his language leads me to think it is not.32 Some later commentators disagreed with Maimonides’s claim that the hasid is superior with respect to actions that are generally agreed to be wrong, but my sense is that most agreed. Among the dissenters, some simply viewed the one who conquers his desires as greater even in the case of ethical commandments.33 Others, more plausibly, drew a distinction between reward and standing. One who struggles may receive greater reward because he or she struggled, but the ideal would have been not to struggle, and so the one who does not ranks higher. As Rabbi Yitzchak Blau (2000) points out, we might admire and praise a weak student who by great effort earns a ninety on an exam, but a very bright student who gets a ninety-five still should get the higher grade.

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While feeling for the other is the ideal motivation, Jewish law regards the duty of charity as fulfilled even when the motive is self-interested. “Someone who says—‘This sela (a kind of coin) [will be donated to charity] so my son can live,’ or ‘that I will merit the world-to-come’—he is a complete tzaddik (righteous person).”34 The common practice in general society of naming buildings, programs, and the like after donors and enticing potential donors with offers of such recognition reveals that society as a whole goes along with this notion. Interestingly, when Soloveitchik says that the ideal is acting from sympathy, even though giving constitutes tzedakah no matter what the motive, he groups submission to norms with egoistic motives (Soloveitchik, 2017, pp. 143–148, 153–164).35 To sum up thus far, Maimonides makes room for both forms of selftranscendence, for he confers importance upon both the virtues of (natural) benevolence, love, and compassion and the habit of obedience to God (which, we noted, requires the virtue of strength of will). One motivator is favored in the interpersonal realm, the other in the realm of ritual. For other rabbis as well, and pace Kant, submission to rules is not the “favored” motive, or mode of self-transcendence, in interpersonal ethics.

Harm to One’s Character A variety of Jewish sources manifest a concern for virtue and character. When it comes to interacting with other living beings (human or nonhuman), the Bible—on certain interpretations—does not rest content with prescribing or prohibiting certain acts just because logic supports the prescription or prohibition (or rather, logic supports it when we set aside considerations of virtue). On those interpretations, there are acts that would be permitted were virtue considerations set aside, but the Bible prohibits them anyway because of its concern for virtue. The Law of the Bird’s Nest In Deuteronomy 22: 6–7, the following law appears: If, along the road, you chance upon a bird’s nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life.36 What is the reason for this law? Why send away the mother bird? Maimonides and Moses Nahmanides—a great exegete, legal authority, and Kabbalist (1194–1270)—give competing answers to this question. Their respective views are linked to differing interpretations of a Talmudic

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text, but because of space limitations I will here bypass the Talmudic material and focus instead on Maimonides’ and Nahmanides’ bottom line explanations of the mitzvah.37 Maimonides captures our natural reaction: namely, that the act of sending away the mother before taking the offspring is an act of humaneness legislated to minimize psychic pain to the mother bird, who would otherwise have to witness the abduction of her offspring. In a word, the law of the mother bird is rooted in compassion for the mother; the mother’s pain functions in the moral calculus (Maimonides, 1963, pp. 599–600 [3:48]). Nahmanides, in contrast, (in his commentary to Deut. 22:6) does not assign moral significance to the mother’s psychological state per se. Drawing on a view concerning duties to nonhuman animals that is similar to that of Aquinas, Kant, and others, he argues that causing psychic pain to the bird would not in and of itself be prohibited. Nevertheless, he maintains, inflicting such harm will be harmful to the development of virtue, for the pursuit of virtue requires instilling compassion and preventing the trait of cruelty. Hence there is an imperative to send the mother bird away. Nahmanides understands other precepts regarding duties toward nonhuman animals in this fashion—as directed, ultimately, at the exercise of virtue in the context of interactions between humans. The duty fulfilled by sending the mother away is a duty to humans, albeit an indirect one. Nahmanides’ position that the psychic pain of animals does not per se count in the moral calculus jars some contemporary sensibilities, but this is not my present concern. We may ask: Where is the priority—action or virtue? Is the Torah’s concern that lack of sensitivity toward nonhuman animals will spill over and make a person likely to commit wrong acts vis-à-vis human beings as well? Or does the law aim at inculcating virtue and preventing vice because it cares about character per se, in which case a virtue that is never translated into action due to lack of opportunity will be of value nonetheless?38 (I favor the former, instrumentalist interpretation.) A further question: Might we consider the pursuit of virtue to be the fulfillment of a duty to oneself? More centrally for our purpose, Nahmanides’ account supposes that character traits (both virtues and vices) cannot easily be turned on and off depending on the precise details of a situation. After all, in his view, there is a theoretical distinction between human and nonhuman animals qua moral “patients,” yet he is concerned that knowledge of this distinction will not suffice to prevent indifference or cruelty vis-a-vis the mother’s situation from generating indifference or cruelty in inter-human situations. The principle here seems to be a companion to one articulated by the late British philosopher J. L. Mackie (1977, p. 188): “Virtues cannot be too finely discriminating.” If you possess a certain virtue, you will tend to exercise it even when, by the criteria for assessing acts, you have

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acted wrongly. Similarly for vices: cruelty or indifference in one context (birds) spills over into another context (humans) even when one believes intellectually that the contexts are different. Another issue, raised by the 16th-century luminary Rabbi Yehudah Betzalel Loew of Prague (known as Maharal—who legend has it created the golem), is whether we can even declare what traits are desirable in the absence of divine commands to have those traits (Loew, 1979, p. 6). Maharal’s issue is what I earlier called the ineluctability of heteronomy and will be addressed at the end of this chapter. At the end of the day, both Maimonides and Nahmanides put a brake on the indulgence of egoistic desires. By sending away the mother bird one “self-transcendently” either places oneself in a larger unit that includes suffering animals (Maimonides), or (per Nahmanides) one places oneself in the context of a human society (inasmuch as sensitivity to animals promotes virtue vis-a-vis humans).39 Cursing There is a prohibition against cursing another person.40 For Maimonides, the reason for the prohibition is neither that curses work (they don’t) nor that a person being cursed will be distressed upon hearing the curse (for it is prohibited to curse even the deaf). Rather, Maimonides proffers the following reason for the prohibition:41 “Because the Torah does not look only at the situation of the one being cursed, but at the situation of the curser, who is warned not to arouse his soul to vengeance and not to habituate her to become angry.” Were it not for this concern that cursing will produce vice, there would have been no prohibition against cursing. War Nahmanides discerns the effects of actions on character also in the laws pertaining to behavior in war. Speaking about going to battle, the Bible presents a somewhat cryptic imperative: “You shall guard yourselves against anything evil” (Deut. 23:11). Nahmanides explains that war poses a threat of moral and spiritual attrition. Self-discipline is attenuated, and, further, specific acts that one must perform in a war—acts of killing or attempting to kill—can create the traits of cruelty and fury even in people who previously were of a soft and upright nature. Therefore, Scripture warned, “You shall guard against anything evil” (Nahmanides, 2010, p. 582). Given that Nahmanides posits that the Bible is addressing soldiers in a jusified war, we may draw the same connection to virtue ethics as before: an act that is morally justified (indeed, sometimes war is obligatory in Jewish law) may have harmful effects on character. War can be a moral hell; it carries risks of moral attrition. In this case (there’s a contrast to the law of

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the bird’s nest), the war is not called off, but the soldiers are given a specific imperative to guard against such deterioration.42 As before, Nahmanides’ concern may not be the emergence of vices per se, but rather the impact those vices may have on ritual observance and interpersonal actions. Still, his approach illustrates a version of virtue ethics, one that views certain laws as growing out of the recognition that even justified deeds, indeed even fulfillments of imperatives, can cause attrition of character. Let me place the foregoing examples of the bird’s nest, war, and cursing in a virtue-ethics perspective. Before studying ethics seriously, many people probably adopt the following twofold thesis: a right act makes the world a better place, and the performance of a right action always goes along with good traits of character. As regards the first notion, that a right action makes the world a better place, in Philo 101 people come to the realization that, contra utilitarianism, doing the right thing may reduce utility drastically rather than “make the world a better place.”43 The second common assumption is that, if you think a certain action/ refraining is right, then you should think well of the person who performs it (assuming, at least, that you trust she acted with a sense of rightness). It is similarly tempting to assume that, if you think a certain action/refraining is wrong, you think ill of the person who performs it. But, in truth, judgments about actions and judgments about agents do not coincide this neatly. Suppose you meet someone at a party and learn that over the summer he took a job as an executioner. You might be a strong advocate of capital punishment on the grounds that it deters crime or that it restores a moral balance to the world. Nonetheless, do you think well of the character of a person who volunteers to perform executions? Again, a group of Jews hiding in a World War II bunker might be of the opinion that one may suffocate a baby to save the lives of the group by preventing its telltale cries, provided that the baby would be killed anyway.44 But even if they are right—that’s not relevant here—the person who actually volunteers to perform this presumably obligatory act of “hatzalat rabbim” (saving the many) might be suspected of callousness. In a midrash, Rabbi Joshua ben Levi is chastised by the prophet Elijah (in a dream) for persuading a fugitive to give himself up to the Romans so as to prevent reprisals for the community (and one assumes the man himself). When Rabbi Joshua protests to Elijah that the act was in accordance with an explicit teaching, Elijah asks him, “Is this a teaching for the pious?”45 Elijah might be saying that a right action, even when motivated by a commitment to follow a rule, may reflect ill on its doer. In short, sometimes a person performs a right act (e.g., a justified violent one) but reveals thereby a defect of personality, and sometimes a person does something wrong but reveals thereby a good trait of character. Some right acts may be such that no good person is likely to perform them; some wrong acts may be such that bad people are not likely to perform them. “Morally good people may be led by what makes them morally

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good to act wrongly” (Hursthouse & Pettigrove, 2016).46 Judgments about actions do not fit hand in glove with judgments about character. Whereas previously we dealt with a prospective concern—which virtues and vices certain acts produce—we now have seen a retrospective concern about people’s antecedent character. Psychological realities set limits to the repertoire of virtuous agents. Compassion and kindness cannot be turned on and off to suit moral distinctions concerning merit or social consequences. Again: “Virtues cannot be too finely discriminating” (Mackie, 1977, p. 188). Interpersonal self-transcendence at times overrides rules; at other times the Torah issues a special warning to prevent moral attrition.

Repentance Although Aristotle did not hold repentance in high regard,47 Maimonides, who subscribes to much of Aristotle’s thinking about virtue, offers a soaring panegyric to repentance in the section of his legal code called Laws of repentance. In this context, Maimonides’ concern with virtue shines through.48 Initially, in chapter 2 of Laws of repentance, Maimonides tells us what repentance is: one is placed in the same circumstances as those in which one earlier sinned, but this time does not sin. If a man had illicit relations with a woman and later, while alone with her, had the opportunity to sin again, even while still loving her and still being able to commit the sin, but this time does not sin, because of repentance, this is a complete ba‘al teshuvah (penitent). Since the clause requiring that the person refrains “because of repentance” introduces circularity into the characterization, it appears likely that Maimonides is presenting the no-duplication-in-the-same-circumstances condition as evidentiary and epistemic rather than constitutive. The criticism that follows, I believe, attaches to both interpretations. Surely, “no duplication in the same circumstances” is a curious candidate for either a sufficient or a necessary condition for repentance. As a sufficient condition, it is inadequate because the fact that person S does A in circumstances C on one occasion and refrains from A in circumstances C on another occasion does not automatically shows that S has undergone a fundamental change in character. There could be additional circumstances (beyond “fear and weakness,” which Maimonides mentions), i.e., tiny variables like a momentary guilt pang or a moment of moral inspiration, that explain why people do things one way on one occasion and another on another occasion. Certainly there is no guarantee the socalled ba‘al teshuvah will not sin the time after that, even with an inner resolution of the sort Maimonides speaks about in another passage. Does

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rejecting a doughnut after having indulged in one at an earlier time tell us anything about the future? The no-duplication condition, then, does not seem sufficient for repentance, let alone for “complete” repentance. And as a necessary condition it is problematic as well. A definition of repentance on which people can repent only if they have the luck of being in the same circumstances seems too restrictive.49 Maimonides’ next statement is even more astounding: Even if he repents only in old age, and at a time when he cannot do the act again—even though this is not a high level of repentance, it is effectual for him and he is a ba‘al teshuvah. This sinner is considered a penitent of some degree even though on the next occasion he lacked the very ability to sin! How can we explain Maimonides’ lenient attitude? I suggest, as others have, that Maimonides works with two categories of repentance: repentance over actions and repentance over character traits. He regards the first as cheaply obtainable: all we need is non-duplication in the same circumstances. But repentance over character traits—that is the true repentance. He writes five chapters later: Do not say that repentance applies only to transgressions that involve an act. . . . Just as a person must repent of those, so too he must investigate his bad traits and repent of them: anger, hatred, envy, competitiveness, derisiveness, the pursuit of money and honor and gluttony. . . . . And these sins [note that having the bad trait is itself called a sin-DS] are harder than those that involve an action, for at the time one is mired in them it is difficult to separate oneself from them.50 Maimonides’ language cannot but remind us of how easily the noduplication condition is satisfied as compared to the changing of character traits. Now, Maimonides does not expressly say that repentance over character traits is superior to or more important than repentance over actions. But it seems to me that he believes this, for only after he presents repentance over character traits does he offer his soaring panegyric to repentance. Someone who is ill-tempered, greedy, or lustful may learn to curb his or her behavior in certain circumstances, but the traits that caused the behavior may express themselves in other circumstances. Cognizant of this, Maimonides calls for an overhaul of traits but sets people on a certain path by speaking, initially, about repentance over actions. My late colleague Charles Raffel compared the situation to someone with car trouble who first replaces this part, then that part, then another . . . and finally realizes she needs a new car. Maimonides’ account of repentance thus puts on display the importance of character and virtue in his thought. Some of the virtues he

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lists affect social welfare and reflect the interpersonal form of selftranscendence. I would argue further (but won’t give the argument here) that for Maimonides, repentance over character traits manifests true free will while repentance over actions does not. Middat Sedom (Sodomite Trait) The prophet Ezekiel characterizes the wickedness of the biblical city of Sodom (Genesis 18–19) simply as “she and her daughters had pride, surfeit of bread and abundance of idleness, but she did not strengthen the hand of the poor and needy.”51 However, in Jewish law the term “middat Sedom”—“Sodomite trait”—takes on a more specific meaning. It is defined as: “This one benefits, and that one loses nothing.” That is: if (a) an act is such that I am not required to do it according to the technical rules, but (b) another person will be affected adversely if I do not do it, or stands to gain by my doing it, and (c) it is no skin off my back to perform it (I “lose nothing”), and (d) I don’t do it—in such a case, a court will compel me to do it—it creates “compulsory altruism” (Lichtenstein, 2009a). We may say that in these cases my duty to the other is not dispatched by doing what is technically permitted to me; alternatively, we may say that, while my duty in the specific case might seem limited to what the technical law requires, nevertheless, in each instance, I have a more general duty not to exemplify a bad trait, and the courts have the duty to ensure that I don’t. The Jewish legal literature mentions this principle of compelling a person not to exemplify a Sodomite trait in connection with certain commercial cases of some complexity, but banal, simple scenarios give us a start into understanding the concept. You are driving around for a parking space, going a bit nuts from failure to find one. Then you see a space between two cars that was large enough for two other cars, but someone has parked his car smack in the middle of that space, making it impossible for another driver to maneuver in. You ask the driver to move back a bit so you’ll have room, but he coolly, snootily exits his car and leaves the scene. No law obligates him to make room for another driver, but it would have been no skin off his back—“no loss”—to back up a little. His not making room for you reflects a “middat Sedom”— you would benefit, and he loses nothing. Another example: you have a free ticket to a World Series game and can’t go. Rather than give it to your neighbor, a dyed-in-the-wool fan, you throw it out. Here, too, “this one benefits [or would benefit] and that one loses nothing.” It of course seems wild to say in these illustrations that “the court compels him [the protagonist]” not to behave that way, but the point is that in cases of greater gravity, such as dividing up land, Jewish law seeks to block people from exercising property rights when there is no loss to them and others will benefit. To see how far this idea extends, suppose you have a second home and have no intention

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whatsoever of renting it. If someone enters it and parks himself, you cannot evict this squatter unless you can demonstrate that you have suffered a loss because of the takeover. It may be simply psychic loss (like worrying that the intruder will drop a match and destroy the house), but absent any adverse consequence, it is a middat Sedom to evict him. (The phrase “middat Sedom” is not used in that context, but it seems applicable.)52 What sort of person stands on legal rights in this way? A spiteful one, we assume, or at the least someone who is indifferent to others’ welfare. Alternatively, though, we might be dealing with an independence fanatic, someone who believes as an ideology that no one should be dependent on anyone else, and implements this attitude whether it is his or her welfare at stake or another’s.53 In the words of a mishnah, “Mine is mine and yours is yours,”54 which one opinion regards as a middat Sedom. But what is the reason for the court’s concern? Is it concerned with communal welfare (the benefit of the other party)? Or is it concerned with the individual’s virtue and vice—about having citizens who act in such a way?55 Lichtenstein leaves this last inquiry into the rationale unresolved but notes some legal differences between the positions. He is forthright that in the modern world the idea of compelling character traits is unacceptable.56 But viewing middat Sedom also in terms of virtue seems plausible.

Imitatio Dei Relating to God and relating to community are both forms of selftranscendence. There is a particular imperative that blends the two, and that is the imperative of imitatio Dei, emulating God. In numerous places the Bible commands “and you shall walk in His ways.”57 The “plain meaning (peshat)” of the text is that one should walk in the paths God has set, to wit, the mitzvot. However, the Sages understood the verse to mean that one should imitate God. There are, however, two formulations of how people should emulate God. One formulation involves God’s actions; another involves His attributes. The “actions” formulation appears in the Talmud with several examples: Just as God clothed Adam and Eve (Gen. 3:21), so too you should clothe the naked; just as God visited Abraham when he was ill after being circumcised (an imaginative rabbinic reading of Gen. 18:1), so too you visit the sick; just as God buried Moses (Deut. 34:6) so too you should bury the dead. Here, the imitation or emulation is of deeds. The more interesting formulation for our purposes is the one in terms of attributes: specifically, some of the attributes mentioned in Exodus 34:6–7. In those verses, God reveals to Moses that He is compassionate, gracious, patient, full of loving-kindness and truth . . . and more.58 A rabbinic interpretation is, “Just as He is compassionate, so too you be compassionate; Just as He is gracious, you be gracious as well.”59 Imitiatio Dei has been invoked in a variety of contexts—for example, to explain the prohibition against causing pain to animals (tza‘ar ba‘alei

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hayyim).60 After all, Psalms 145:9 affirms, “His compassion extends to all His works.” We emulate this universal compassion. That same verse is invoked in numerous texts to make certain obligations that Jews have toward Jews incumbent upon them vis-à-vis non-Jews as well.61 Imitatio Dei also attenuates distinctions between treatment of the deserving and treatment of the undeserving. One critical text illustrating this idea is the rabbinic reading of Moses’ dialogue with God in Exodus 34, the chapter in which God reveals His attributes to Moses.62 The rabbis imaginatively present Moses as asking: Why do the righteous suffer and the wicked prosper? According to one (albeit only one) view, God rebuffs Moses, stating, “‘And I shall be gracious to whom I am gracious’ [Ex. 33:19]:—even though he is not fitting.” In other words, “God’s graciousness is in a sense uncontrolled, undiscriminating.” In the same spirit, a Midrashic text states that God’s graciousness entails extending “a gratuitous gift.”63 If we look only at X’s merits, X may not deserve my help and attention, but a gracious character who seeks to imitate God will open a hand to X anyway. Of course, no one thinks that God is or should be generous to the wicked without limit, but His generosity will sometimes result in a degree of protection for them.64 An application of this concept that God and one who imitates God do not fuss over distinctions is provided by Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein (2009b) in an article on tzedakah (charity). The Torah commands giving charity (Deut. 15:7–11); it is not an elective endeavor. Rabbi Lichtenstein’s focus is a poor person and thus potential recipient of charity who could be working to earn a living and is simply exploiting the general generosity of the public. Is one obligated to give in this case? Lichtenstein responds by invoking two distinct ways of grounding the imperative of tzedakah. One is “love your neighbor as yourself” while another is imitatio Dei. Both are bases for the law, but they have different implications. “Love your neighbor as yourself” is qualified by various considerations, including how much the other is doing to help himself. If we look to this verse as the basis for charity, “[i]t is unreasonable to obligate a person to do for his neighbor that which he [the neighbor] would not make the effort to do for himself” (Lichtenstein, 2009b, p. 18). However, tzedakah also is an act of imitatio Dei: The obligation to imitate God does not depend upon any other factor, for God’s kindness is unconditional. . . . Not with calculated and planned steps, and not out of considerations of reciprocity and mutuality, agreement and parallelism, does man walk in the footsteps of his Creator, but precisely with acts of kindness that breach the dams of balance and reckoning; which are given, as formulated by Rambam [Maimonides], even to “one who has no right at all to claim this from you.” (ibid., pp. 18–19)65

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In the end, Lichtenstein does not affirm that imitatio Dei is decisive in this context (he prefers a more nuanced account in terms of balancing conflicting values), but his analysis displays the potential for imitatio Dei to affect specific obligations, blending a self-transcending relationship with God with a self-transcending relationship to humans. People who emulate God’s attributes will at times not avail themselves of leniencies and will act in a supererogatory fashion, doing more than strict duty requires. This brings us to another manifestation of virtue.

Holiness and Supererogation A salient instance of virtue determining the law involves the imperative, “You shall be holy” (Lev. 19:2). Nahmanides, struck by the vagueness of this command, notes (in his commentary on the verse) that the rules formulated in the Bible permit intercourse in a marital relationship and do not prohibit what one might regard (and he regards) as excessive sex. Similarly, the Bible’s rules allow drinking wine and eating meat, and do not legislate against drunkenness and gluttony. There is, as well, no explicit prohibition against foul language. For Nahmanides, the rule, “Be holy,” is meant to fill these gaps—to limit sexual relations and to interdict drunkenness, gluttony, and foul language. “Be holy” means “separate yourself” (holiness implies separation)—and in particular, as the Talmud puts it, “sanctify yourself with that which permitted to you.”66 Nahmanides claims that underlying the Bible’s rules is a certain notion of holiness, and it is this ideal—rather than the rules per se—that provides elaboration on the verse, “Be holy.” Were it not for the imperative to “Be holy,” someone could be a “naval bi-reshut ha-Torah”—a yucky person acting with the permission of the law. (Pardon the translation, but I believe it’s accurate.) Obviously, Nahmanides’ particular ideal of holiness draws on his own subjective, ascetic predilections, but for our purposes the key is his objective of integrating law and virtue.67 Supererogation, going beyond what duty requires, is another key concept in Jewish law. There is a battery of terms that capture supererogation, most prominent of which are lifim mi-shurat ha-din (lit. “within the line of the law,” but meaning, in essence, beyond what the law requires) and middat hasidut (a trait of the pious). These concepts are not phrased in terms of virtue, and indeed refer to certain actions, but it seems fairly obvious that a person acts supererogatorily because he or she has a virtue Paradoxically, there is a legal imperative to go beyond what the law requires.68 The paradox is removed if we state matters as follows: “There is a rule that states: ‘Go beyond the other rules of the Torah,’ and that meta-rule is a law.” Although rabbinic tradition includes the notion that only people of a high character have this obligation, other sources make supererogation incumbent upon all.

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Making Virtue Secondary69 Notwithstanding everything we have seen thus far about the primacy of virtue, there are cases in which rules prevail over considerations of virtue. As we have seen, some acts that the Torah permits or prescribes (e.g., going to war) can have adverse effects on character—but the acts are not therefore forbidden. The commentators show awareness and appreciation of virtue, but this does not alter the bottom line as to what is required in these situations. To those cases we may add another: sacrificing one’s life for another. Jewish tradition contains—though far from monolithically—strongly negative views toward altruistic self-sacrifice (by which I here mean sacrificing one’s life for the sake of another). There seems to be a radically strong imperative to pursue self-interest when one’s life is at stake. If two people are in danger of dying from lack of water, and one is in possession of a flask, the great Talmudic sage Rabbi Akiva permits the possessor to save his own life by drinking rather than requiring him to hand the flask over to his equally deprived and imperiled comrade, or splitting the water. “Your life takes precedence over the life of your comrade,” states Rabbi Akiva.70 According to some rabbinic authorities, even if I prefer to hand the flask over, I am not permitted. On such views, Rabbi Akiva’s ruling is a mandate rather than a mere prerogative. Further, although most authorities permit one to undertake some risks to save others from certain or nearcertain death—indeed, they obligate a person to do so when the risk is small enough, as “you must not stand idly over the blood of your neighbor” (Lev. 19:16)—incurring truly significant risks to rescue another is prohibited by important authorities.71 This, even though the duty to rescue exists by dint of a biblical command (Lev. 19:17)—and even though, in other contexts, as we’ve seen, it encourages supererogatory acts under rubrics like middat hasidut and lifnim mi-shurat ha-din. To be clear, some rabbinic figures regard an individual who risks or even voluntarily gives up his life for another as “saintly” and “pious,”72 at least in certain circumstances. But the fact that Jewish opinion on altruistic self-sacrifice is so polarized—altruistic self-sacrifice is either saintly or prohibited—cries out for explanation. I have suggested elsewhere (Shatz, 2009) that the dispute between the two positions73 about giving up one’s life for another person can be understood as a dispute between virtue-ethics and action-ethics. My suggestion was (and is) that we distinguish between our evaluation of the act and our evaluation of the agent. Marcia Baron writes: We admire the qualities that enable the person who dives in midwinter into the Potomac in an effort to save the victims of a plane crash. . . . The fact that we (correctly) admire and appreciate such people is, however, no reason for thinking that their heroic actions are inevitably right. Suppose (imagining a different case from the

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actual one in the Potomac) that the would-be rescuer is almost certain to drown, as well as not to save anyone. . . . We need, in short, to disentangle the admirable from the right. (Baron, 1987, pp. 253–254) In cases like Baron’s, common sense morality displays a halo effect; it prizes admirable traits of character, and therefore it prizes the acts produced by admirable traits, and calls them “right” or “supererogatory,” even when they cause more loss of life than there would be were they not performed. Of course, we don’t justify the mass suicide of a cult’s members as higher just because these people display the “admirable” trait of devotion or courage. But altruistic acts are so closely connected to traits that lie at the heart of morality—sympathy, compassion, benevolence— that at least sometimes they are endowed with a halo. Return now to the dispute between rabbinic authorities as to whether altruistic self-sacrifice is laudatory or instead prohibited. Contrary to what one would surmise from popular writings, which present Rabbi Akiva’s statement in the case of the scarce resource (the flask), “Your life takes precedence over his life,” as endorsing a straightforward principle of partiality toward the self,74 Jewish legal authorities in the main assert that he is not operating with a principle of partiality toward the self, but rather a principle of impartiality. According to one analysis, he implements a “principle of least change” (my term), such that when one is faced with a choice between saving X (which could be himself) and saving Y, one should choose whom to save on the basis of what action will introduce the least change into the status quo. If I own the flask, handing it to you would introduce a greater change into the status quo than taking it for myself. Hence, I am the one to drink. This is not a general passivist mandate—Judaism mandates intervention to benefit others and save lives, and is heavily activist in this regard—but the mandate is used when circumstances are dire. The least change principle is a broad version of the killing/letting die distinction, and perhaps entails it; it yields an objective, impartial determination of who drinks from the flask.75 Even if one deems the least change principle dubious (even the killing/letting die distinction has been challenged), other impartial principles might serve. For example, there is the threat of an infinite series. If A were obligated to hand the flask to B, we would merely be replicating the original scenario of “Two are traveling and they have one flask of water, and . . .,” etc. So B must hand it back to A, A must then hand it back to B, and so on ad infinitum. In this account, too, the priority given to the self in the “two travelers” case is impartial and—this is the key point—is not, in the stringent views under consideration, dislodged by considerations of virtue and supererogation. The opposite point-of-view, that handing the flask to the other person is a saintly and pious act, utilizes considerations of virtue to permit supererogatory sacrifice of one’s life.

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At the same time, virtue considerations are not incompatible with being obligated to prioritize oneself. Virtue ethics might say: “Even if you are not permitted, in a given situation, to surrender your life for another person, you must not withhold the aid with equanimity and without feeling.” Rather, deep feelings for the other—love, devotion, sympathy—must be present even when prioritizing oneself is the correct result according to impartial principles.76

Conclusion: Two Remaining Questions The upshot of the preceding discussion is that there is an effort in the history of Jewish thought and law—to be sure, not monolithic or unchallenged— to integrate thinking about virtue with the technicalities of law, and in that way integrate, in effect, and in our terms, two forms of self-transcendence. The integration occurs on several fronts and in numerous contexts. However, some issues (besides altruistic surrender of one’s life) remain on the table that call into question the extent to which Judaism embraces a virtue ethic as commonly understood. First is the issue I earlier labeled the ineluctability of heteronomy. The mandate to utilize virtue as a consideration in decision-making about conduct, such as by following the mandate to imitate God’s ways and to act supererogatorily (lifnim mi-shurat ha-din [beyond what duty requires], middat hasidut [way or trait of the pious]), was given by God—more precisely, by the rabbis invested with the authority to interpret Scripture. So, too, the imperative to be humble, kind, honest, and not cruel—the table of virtues and vices—is dictated or imposed. Hence in Judaism the imperative to have certain virtues, and the imperative not to stick to legal technicalities but to integrate virtue considerations, are just that—divine imperatives. Heteronomy seems ineluctable in Jewish virtue ethics; we cannot find independent reason to endorse the virtues that we endorse. But is heteronomy ineluctable? I don’t think so. After all, the question of whether heteronomy is ineluctable is not whether the permission or mandate to have certain virtues and set aside technicalities is given by God, but whether the permission or mandate must be given by God in order to be properly grounded. This brings us to the Euthyphro question, whether an act is commanded by God because it is right or it is right because God commanded it. (Plato actually phrased it differently, but I follow the conventional formulation of the question.) One may argue that a permission or mandate to have certain virtues and utilize virtue considerations in conduct is evident to reason—“had they not been written, they should have been written,” as the rabbis said about the laws called mishpatim. God’s command may not be needed to ground the permission or mandate to follow God’s ways, even though de facto Judaism grounds the norms that way. A related question pertains to supererogation—the very notion that one can be commanded to go beyond laws is itself mandated by a

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law. But it doesn’t follow that there is no independent reason for supererogatory action. (Philosophers have labored, to be sure, to find such an independent reason even in a secular context.) In short, one reply to the ineluctability-of-heteronomy-objection is that heteronomy is not ineluctable. As an alternative reply, one might simply say, “Yes, heteronomy is ineluctable. So what?” Is there some problem with utilizing a virtue ethics just because the reason to acquire and cultivate certain virtues is that God commanded us to do so? While both of these replies are cogent in themselves, they do concede that virtue ethics and rule-following are not antitheses. To have virtue and act virtuously, and to have these-or-those specific virtues—these duties are imposed heteronomously as rules. In Judaism rules about virtue are far less specific and determinate than rules about action, and leave a good deal up to human interpretation as to what certain virtues entail, both by way of inner states and by way of conduct in specific cases. Perhaps the same is true in the realm of secular virtue ethics: perhaps there are rules we can devise about what virtues one should have, but we remain unclear as to what those virtues require. The existence of a huge philosophical literature on specific virtues attests to that unclarity, though rules about actions are not models of clarity either. A second issue is the instrumentality of virtue. Do Jewish thinkers prize virtues because they lead to right actions, or because they are good independently of whether they produce proper actions? On the first view, an unexercised virtue (an unactualized disposition), or a virtue that because of insuperable obstacles consistently fails to attain its intended results, is not of much value. On the second view, being forgiving or courageous or benevolent without having had opportunities to be forgiving or courageous or benevolent is still a very good thing. We have seen this distinction between perspectives in connection with middat Sedom and other topics, and the question must be left unresolved, subject to different readings of sources and differing philosophical perspectives. In whatever way we qualify or temper Jewish virtue ethics, however, virtue—and the self-transcendence it entails—clearly has a place within Judaism’s framework of obedience to divine law, a law that itself enables self-transcendence. To invoke a well-worn phrase, Jewish ethics shows an interest not only in what we should do—but in what we should be. And this ethical form of self-transcendence often overrides the selftranscendence of obedience to rules.

Acknowledgments Work on this essay was supported by the project “Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life,” sponsored by the John Templeton Foundation and The University of Chicago. I thank the scholars in the project for their valuable comments at a discussion of the essay in June 2017. Thanks as

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well to the editors of this volume, to Yitzchak Blau, and to Meira Mintz for their valuable comments.

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Avot 1:3. See Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Laws of Repentance, chap. 10. See Abarbanel (1953, pp. 55–56.). Abarbanel lived 1437–1508. I won’t enter into how Maimonides, who has strongly naturalistic tendencies, understands divine providence. In Mishneh Torah, Laws of Repentance, chapter 9, Maimonides has a different approach, one that itself implies the need to transcend material interests. See Soloveitchik (1978, p. 65): “Whoever permits his legitimate needs to go unsatisfied will never be sympathetic to the crying needs of others. A human morality based on love and friendship, on sharing in the travail of others, cannot be practiced if the person’s own need-awareness is dull.” This imperative is based on Deut. 17:11: “Do not deviate from what they tell you, to the right or the left.” The verse is subject to several interpretations, and the rabbis’ understanding of the verse confers authority upon themselves, a circularity that may seem perplexing. Leaving the broader discussion aside, the verse does confer authority on human beings. This is a common paraphrase of the views of Isaiah Leibowitz (1903–1994). See, for example, Leibowitz (1992). A moral theory might blend act-morality (deontological or utilitarian or a hybrid) and agent-morality, so the question before us is one of emphasis. Particularly useful analyses are offered in Blau (2000, pp. 19–41) and Wurzburger (1994). Although many of the statements by the different Sages in Avot are framed in terms of actions, it is hard to resist the notion that often they are derived from reflection on virtue. BT, Eruvin 13b. See, respectively, Avot 2:4, Avot 1:14; Sanhedrin 27b. In our times, tikkun olam is equated with social action. This usage is relatively recent, but significant Jewish figures like Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (19th century) and Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik (20th century) spoke of Jewish responsibility to the world. See Schacter (2009). See for example, Gottlieb (1974) and Roth (1977). Another source of tension between the two forms of self-transcendence is that there are at least prima facie conflicts between divine commands in the Bible and moral beliefs (such as the belief that it is wrong to destroy whole nations or to permit slavery). Various resolutions have been proposed by those who are not content with simply demanding submission to divine commands. However, my concern here is with virtue, and conflicts between act-morality and divine commands fall outside this focus. I have addressed the issues and approaches elsewhere (Shatz, 2013). The phrase “Judaism says,” while oft used, rarely describes a position that is embraced unanimously. Indeed, controversy and disagreement are central to Jewish law, Jewish thought, and Jewish life. Cognizant of this, I am not trying to construct not what “Judaism says,” but rather to identify and analyze parts of the tradition that support or undermine a virtue ethic.. The Mishnah is a large body of laws and some non-legal material compiled by Rabbi Judah the Prince ca. 200 C.E. What is called “the Talmud” is the Mishnah plus “the gemara.” The latter in part is a commentary on

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the Mishnah, but this description does not begin to capture the variegated and expansive nature of Talmudic discussion and debate. There are actually two Talmuds, the Babylonian Talmud and the Jerusalem Talmud (Bavli and Yerushalmi), reflecting the two ancient centers of Torah study. In common usage, the phrase “the Talmud” usually refers to the Babylonian. Some interpreters of Kant maintain that he agrees that acting in a way that accords with “inclination” (e.g., natural sympathy or desire for reward) is fine as long as this inclination is causally inert when one acts. Having sympathy for one’s beneficiary is thus compatible with performing morally worthy acts that benefit that individual, so long as the act is not performed out of that inclination. In fact, going further, one could allow multiple motives as long as the motive of duty is strong enough to prevail should the other motives oppose it. See Henson (1979); Herman (1981); see also Baron (1984) and Schoenecker and Wood (2015, p. 68). As Schonecker and Wood point out, Kant believes that people should cultivate love and sympathy. Actually, Kant understands other virtues prized by virtue ethicists within this framework. See Cureton and Hill (2015, esp. 92–93). See his introduction to his commentary on the tractate Avot (known as Eight Chapters), chapter 6. His distinction corresponds to that between “full virtue” and “continence” that I have seen in virtue ethics literature. The three texts are found in, respectively: Sifra (a collection of midrashim) to Leviticus 20:26; BT Sukkah 52a; Mishnah Avot 5:3. In the Sifra text, Maimonides misidentifies the sage who made the statement. It was Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah, not Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel. Another saying: “One who is commanded and performs [mitzvot] is greater than one who is not commanded but performs” (Bava Kamma 38b). Jennifer Frey pointed out that “natural feeling” and “natural sympathy” can mean either “not a cultivated disposition” or (the Aristotelian sense) “second nature.” Maimonides’ definition of the hasid is that he “craves and strongly desires good things” and does not struggle. My term “natural” is meant to capture only this. Maimonides’ distinction between ritual and ethical commandments parallels a distinction drawn in the Talmud between “hukkim” and “mishpatim.” Both terms mean “laws,” but according to Talmudic Sages they denote laws of different types. Hukkim have been variously understood as commandments with no reason, commandments whose reasons are not known to any human, and commandments whose reasons are not known to the masses. Mishpatim are defined in the Talmud as commandments such that “had they not been written, they should have been written” (BT Yoma 67b). That is, they are worthy of being adopted independent of God having legislated them. In the text we are examining, Maimonides stresses that the actions prohibited by hukkim would not be wrong if not for divine command. This is a religious version of a case in Stocker (1976). The translation is from Lewinsohn (2016, p. 254, n. 17). Quoted and translated by Blau (2000, p. 21). Blau (2000), p. 31). See Blau (2000, pp. 31–32). Rabbi Weinberg’s statement quoted earlier seems to have kept this in mind, and Rabbi Soloveitchik’s statement does not per se rule out the motivation of following God as an additional motivation. But see anon. Lewinsohn (2016, pp. 248–251) proffers a nuanced analysis of why ritual commands are best implemented when there is a struggle against desire. He distinguishes positive ritual acts from ritual commandments that require

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refraining from some action. In the case of positive ritual acts, a person might have multiple motives, one of which is obedience. But in the case of refraining (e.g., refraining from eating meat and milk together), if the person has independent reason to refrain, then the alleged refraining is not genuinely a refraining, since the person is not motivated to violate the prohibition. This is whyMaimonides and his sources speak of refrainings. See the commentary of the prominent 18th-century rabbi, Jacob Emden, to Maimonides’ discussion. BT Pesahim 8a–b. Probably the text means: he is a completely righteous person with respect to this particular act. Others suggest that the text should read, “this is a complete act of charity (tzedakah).” In an intriguing twist, Soloveitchik maintains that if the lack of sympathy translates into lack of action, then, but only then, does God hold it against the miser. The translation is from the Jewish Publication Society Bible. The relevant Talmudic text is BT Berakhot 33b, where two Sages differently interpret a mishnah which states that if someone (probably a prayer-leader) proclaims, “Your compassion extends to a bird nest,” we silence him. For a novel account of the Maimonides-Nahmanides dispute, see Stern 1998, chapter 3 (pp. 49–66). See Blau (2000, p. 21). Maimonides, it should be repeated, abundantly appreciated virtue. He devoted the work Eight Chapters to the theme and refers to virtue in many places in other writings. The rabbis understand the biblical prohibition against cursing the deaf (Lev. 19:4) as a prohibition against cursing any person. (See Midrash Sifra to Lev. 19:4.) Maimonides (1967), negative prohibition 17. In a similar vein, Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin (1999), Ex. 32:29, Num. 25:12, Deut. 13:18) sees in biblical material a recognition of the potentially harmful effects that justifiable acts of violence inflict upon the character of the actors. His solution is that God miraculously prevents attrition. One response is that, even when doing the right thing reduces utility as utilitarians understand utility, it makes the world a better place because the performance of right action itself makes the world a better place. A post facto ruling on this case was formulated by Rabbi Shimon Efrati (1960/1961, pp. 23–30). In his responsum, the suffocation in the actual incident is described as accidental. Some suspect that this characterization is an exercise in tact. The logic of the responsum has been criticized. Bereshit Rabbah 94:9. The punch line here is not identical with that in another version: “It would have been better for this to have been by someone else and not by you.” Without this phrase, the text seems to object to anyone following the law that permits handing over the fugitive; all should be “pious.” When the phrase is included, Elijah’s criticism may have to do with either the moral bar for a sage or his position as a leader. The authors maintain that an appeal to phronesis can undermine the quoted view. See Nicomachean ethics. The Aristotelian influence is evident not only in Maimonides’ endorsement of the mean and the general tenor of his discussion, but in his view that it is better to give a small amount of money to 1,000 poor people than the same aggregate amount to one poor person—because by performing many such acts as opposed to one, the agent develops and entrenches a certain character. See Maimonides’ commentary to Avot 3:15.

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49 It is interesting that whereas a Talmudic passage requires two situations of not duplicating a sin in the same circumstances, Maimonides requires only one, which makes his leniency more striking still. 50 Laws of Repentance 7:3. 51 Ez. 16:49. 52 See Lichtenstein (2009a). In the case at hand, the squatter has already squatted. Whether you are permitted to refuse to let a person dwell in the house ab initio when you have no plans to put it up for rental—that is a different issue, and the law is less permissive. See Lichtenstein (2009a, pp. 48–54). 53 The possibility of an independence fanatic has been raised against Kant’s fourth example of a categorical imperative, the case of refusing to aid those in need. 54 Avot 5:10. 55 See Rabbi Jacob ben Asher [d. 1327]: “We compel him to distance himself from evil traits and to perform acts of hesed [loving kindness] for his fellow.” Cited by Lichtenstein (2009a, p. 69), from Responsa of the Rosh [Hebrew], 97:2. 56 The idea of middat Sedom is about property rights and not only virtue. See Lichtenstein, 2009a, pp. 68–70. 57 See Deuteronomy: 8:6, 11:22, 13:5, 28:9. 58 God also has harsh attributes, such as vengefulness, and commentators often exclude these from the imperative of imitatio Dei. 59 Maimonides, who objected to anthropopathism (the imputation of humanlike emotions to God) and understood anthropopathic expressions as referring to God’s actions (as did Christian and Muslim theologians), used a nuanced language found in a midrash: “Just as he is called compassionate, so too you be compassionate.” This nullifies the anthropopathic implication. See Maimonides (1967), positive commandment #8, which draws on Sifrei to Deut. 11:22. The text in BT Shabbat 133b states “just as he is” rather than “just as He is called.” In my discussion, I accept anthropopathism. 60 BT Bava Metzi‘a 32b. 61 For sources, see Blau (2000, p. 27). 62 BT Berakhot 7a. 63 Sifrei, Ekev 49. 64 In the case of God, lack of discrimination between the deserving and undeserving obviously cannot be traced to psychological limitations. This suggests that God is setting a proper model for humans and not merely making concessions to their psychology. 65 The reference is to Maimonides (1963, pp. 630–632) (3:53), defining hesed. 66 BT Yevamot 20a. 67 There is an obvious analogy to Dworkin (1967), who maintains, in a celebrated article, that court decisions are reached not by merely applying rules, but by applying the “principles” behind the extant rules. Principles prevent yucky results. 68 On lifnim mi-shurat ha-din, see Berman (1975, 1977); Lichtenstein (1975); and Newman (1998). 69 This section includes some material published in Shatz (2016). 70 BT Baba Metzi‘a 62a. See also Sifra to Leviticus 25:36. The Talmud and Midrash cite only two positions—split it (Ben Petura) or take it for yourself (Rabbi Akiva). But I have put into the mix the more natural alternative to Rabbi Akiva, to wit, give it to your comrade. 71 See also Shatz (2009). Excellent English surveys of Jewish views are found in Kirschenbaum (1976) and Herring (1989, vol. 2, chap. 1, chap. 4). 72 This is the language of Weinberg (1953, 1966, vol. 1, pp. 314–315).

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73 Actually, there are three; the third position is that only calculated altruism is permitted but not blind altruism. I explain this distinction in Shatz (2009). 74 It is common to go on, homiletically, to stress that if one does not care about oneself, one will not care about others. 75 Using the least change principle to explain Rabbi Akiva’s position enables us to harmonize Rabbi Akiva’s ruling with the ruling that one may not kill another person in order to save oneself (BT Sanhedrin 74a; Pesahim 25b). The latter ruling is restricted to cases in which one would be actively or, more precisely, directly, killing the other; in the case of the flask, the “killing” of the other is not direct. The direct/indirect (or active/passive) distinction is a consequence of the least change principle (cf. Tosafot, Sanhedrin 74b, s.v. ve-ha). For a different analysis of Rabbi Akiva’s position (and that of his adversary, Ben Petura), see Sokol (1990, esp. sec. II). Other arguments prohibiting transfer of the flask are given by Rabbi M. Sternbuch in Weinberg (1953, pp. 386–387) and Unterman (1983, pp. 15–16). 76 See Blau (2000, pp. 25–26).

References Abarbanel, I. (1953). Nahalat avot. New York: D. Silberman. Baron, M. (1984). The alleged repugnance of acting from duty. Journal of Philosophy, 81, 197–220. Baron, M. (1987). Kantian ethics and supererogation. The Journal of Philosophy, 84, 237–262. Berlin, N. T. Y. (1999). Ha’amek Davar. Jerusalem, Israel: Yeshivat Volozhin. Berman, S. (1975). Lifnim mi-shurat ha-din. (1). Journal of Jewish Studies, 26, 86–104. Berman, S. (1977). Lifnim mi-shurat ha-din (2). Journal of Jewish Studies, 28, 181–193. Blau, Y. (2000). The implications of a Jewish virtue ethics. The Torah u-Madda Journal, 9, 19–41. Cureton, A., & Hill, T. E. (2015). Kant on virtue and the virtues. In N. Snow (Ed.), Cultivating virtue: Perspectives from philosophy, theology, and psychology (pp. 87–110). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Dworkin, R. (1967). The model of rules. University of Chicago Law Review, 14–46. Efrati, S. (1960/1961). Mi-gei ha-haregah. Jerusalem, Israel: Yad Vashem. Einstein, A. (1941). Science, philosophy and religion: A symposium. Retrieved from www.sacred-texts.com/aor/einstein/einsci.htm#SCIENCE Frey, J., & Vogler, C. (2016). Virtue, happiness, and the meaning of life. Philosophical News, 12 (June). Gottlieb, D. (1974). Collective responsibility. Tradition, 14(3) (Spring), 48–65. Henson, R. (1979). What Kant might have said: Moral worth and the determination of dutiful action. Philosophical Review, 88, 39–54. Herman, B. (1981). Acting from the motive of duty. Philosophical Review, 90, 359–382. Herring, B. (1989). Jewish ethics and Halakhah for our time. New York, NY: Ktav. Hursthouse, R., & Pettigrove, G. (2016). Virtue ethics. In The Stanford encyclopedia of philosophy. Retrieved May 5, 2018, from https://plato.stanford.edu/ entries/ethics-virtue/ Jewish Publication Society. (2003). JPS Hebrew-English Tanakh: The Traditional Hebrew Text and the New JPS Translation, 2nd edition (2003). Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society.

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Kant, I. (1981). Grounding for the metaphysics of morals. J. W. Ellington (Trans.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing. Kirschenbaum, A. (1976). The “Good Samaritan” in Jewish law. Dine Israel, 7, 7–85. Leibowitz, Y. (1992). Judaism, human values, and the Jewish state. E. Goldman (Ed.), Y. Navon, Z. Jacobson, G. Levi, R. Levy(Trans.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lewinsohn, J. (2016). Ritual and rationality. In D. Frank & A. Segal (Eds.), Jewish philosophy past and present (pp. 243–255). New York, NY and London, England: Routledge. Lichtenstein, A. (1975). Does Jewish tradition recognize an ethic independent of Halakha? In M. Fox (Ed.), Modern Jewish ethics (pp. 62–88). Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press. Lichtenstein, A. (2009a). Kofin al middat Sedom: Compulsory altruism? Alei Etzion, 16, 31–70. Retrieved from http://etzion.org.il/en/alei-etzion-16-kofinal-middat-sedom-compulsory-altruism. Lichtenstein, A. (2009b). The responsibilities of the recipient of charity. Alei Etzion, 16, 7–30. Loew, Y. [Maharal]. (1979). Tiferet Yisrael. Tel Aviv, Israel: Yad Mordechai. Mackie, J. L. (1977). Ethics: Inventing right and wrong. London, England: Penguin Books. Maimonides, M. (1963). Guide of the perplexed. S. Pines (Trans.). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Maimonides, M. (1967). Book of commandments. London, England: Soncino. Nahmanides, M. (2010). The Torah with Ramban’s commentary. N. Kasnett, Y. Blinder, Y. Schneider, L. Schwartz, N. Spirn, Y. Bulman, A. M. goldstein, F. Wahl (Trans.). Brooklyn, NY: Mesorah Publications. Newman, L. E. (1998). Law, virtue, and supererogation in the Halakha: The problem of lifnim mi-shurat ha-din reconsidered. In L. Newman, Past imperatives: Studies in the history and theory of Jewish ethics (pp. 12–44). Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Roth, S. (1977). The Jewish idea of community. New York, NY: Yeshiva University Press. Schacter, J. J. (2009). Tikkun Olam: Defining the Jewish obligation. Rav Chesed: Essays in Honor of Rabbi Dr. Haskel Lookstein, 2, 183–204. Schoenecker, D., & Wood, A. W. (2015). Immanuel Kant’s groundwork for the metaphysic of morals: A commentary. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Shatz, D. (2009). Concepts of autonomy in Jewish medical ethics. In D. Shatz, Jewish thought in dialogue (pp. 355–386). Boston, MA: Academic Studies Press. Shatz, D. (2013). Ethical theories in the Orthodox movement. In E. N. Dorff & J. Crane (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of Jewish ethics and morality (pp. 241– 57). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Shatz, D. (2016). “As thyself”: The limits of altruism in Jewish ethics. In H. Tirosh-Samuelson & A. W. Hughes (Eds.), David Shatz: Torah, philosophy, and culture (pp. 69–97). Leiden, The Netherlands and Boston, MA: Brill Academic Publishers. Sokol, M. (1990). The allocation of scarce medical resources: A philosophical analysis of the halakhic sources. AJS Review, 15, 63–93. Soloveitchik, J. B. (1975). Shiurim le-zekher avi mori (Lectures in memory of my father and teacher). Jerusalem, Israel: Mossad Harav Kook. Soloveitchik, J. B. (1978). Redemption, prayer, and Talmud Torah. Tradition, 17(2), 55–72.

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Soloveitchik, J. B. (2017). Halakhic morality. Jerusalem, Israel: Maggid Books. Stern, J. (1998). Problems and parables of law. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Stocker, M. (1976). The schizophrenia of modern ethical theories. Journal of Philosophy, 83, 443–466. Unterman, I. Y. (1983). Shevet mi-Yehudah. Jerusalem, Israel: Mossad Harav Kook. Weinberg, Y. Y. (Ed.). (1953). Yad Shaul (Memorial volume for Rabbi Dr. Shaul Weingart). Tel Aviv, Israel: Self-Published. Weinberg, Y. Y. (1966). Seridei Esh [Responsa]. Jerusalem, Israel: Mossad Harav Kook. Wurzburger, W. (1994). Ethics of responsibility. Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society.

6

Piety and Virtue in Early Islam Two Sermons by Imam Ali* Tahera Qutbuddin

What is the relationship between virtue and piety? Grounded in the Qur’an and the Prophet Muhammad’s sayings, the teachings of Ali ibn Abi Talib (d. 661)—first Imam after the Prophet Muhammad according to the Shia, and fourth Caliph according to the Sunnis—contend that they are essentially linked. In this article, I analyze Ali’s sermons and sayings to demonstrate that in his vision virtue and piety go hand in hand such that each entails and informs the other: you cannot be truly pious if you are not truthful and kind and you cannot be truly virtuous if you do not humble yourself before your creator. In his conception, all virtue is contained in the idea of piety such that a description of piety is a description of virtue and a description of virtue is a description of piety. Underscoring the vital correlation, he preaches that the fundamental source for acquiring knowledge of virtue is divine revelation: we originally learned virtue, and continue to learn virtue, from the guidance of the prophets sent by God through the ages to teach humankind. Most contemporary secular virtue ethicists have nothing to say about piety. But Islam, like most faith traditions, intrinsically connects the two, and its scriptures contain abundant examples of this association. The Qur’an links prayer with behavior, saying, “Ritual prayer restrains you from indecency and dissipation,”1 and it makes material charity one of the so-called pillars of the faith.2 Muhammad’s hadith tie the spiritual with the social aspect of human life, such as the hadith which says: “Those who believe in God and the last day should honor their neighbors.”3 Explaining and elaborating the nexus in rich detail, Ali’s teachings firmly link virtue with piety. After brief contextualizing remarks on Ali’s life, teachings, and ethics of virtue, the article presents texts and analyses of two famous sermons that address the relationship between virtue and piety, namely, “The Four Pillars of Faith” and “Description of the Truly Pious.” (I treat piety and faith synonymously in several places in this chapter, insofar as both focus on mindfulness of God, belief in him, and behavior based on his commands.) These sermons are among Ali’s most comprehensive presentations on the topic, but much of his oeuvre lends itself to

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the discussion at hand, and the section following highlights some of his notable teachings on brotherhood and pluralism. The final section brings Ali’s vision into sharper focus by comparing his ethics of virtue in general terms with certain types of self-oriented and ascetic Muslim approaches. Throughout the article, Ali’s sermons, epistles, and sayings are examined alongside historical reports regarding his character and practice. Referencing the umbrella topic of the present volume—that virtue orients us to self-transcendent goods—the concluding remarks cite a final text by Ali predicating human happiness on a combination of piety and virtue.

Ali’s Life: Courage and Conviction in Adversity Ali is an eminent figure in Islamic history.4 The Prophet Muhammad’s cousin, ward, and son-in-law, he was the first male to accept Islam. The Shia believe him to be the Prophet’s legitimate successor in both his spiritual and temporal roles, while Sunnis regard him as the fourth historical Caliph. Both Shia and Sunni Muslims extol his deep personal loyalty to the Prophet, his valor in the early battles, and his profound piety, learning, and justice. They invoke benedictions upon him whenever they mention Ali’s name, such as “God’s blessings and peace upon him” (Shia), and “May God honor his face” (Sunni). They recount numerous sayings from the Prophet praising him, among the most famous of which are: “I am the city of knowledge and Ali is its gateway”; “Ali is to me as Aaron was to Moses, except that there is no prophet after me”; “You, Ali, are my brother in this world and the next.”5 Dedicated to preaching virtue and piety, Ali’s life was also a litany of fortitude. Born in Mecca around 600 AD, he was raised by his older cousin Muhammad. He was about 10 years old when Muhammad began the call to Islam, and 23 at the time of his migration to Medina. Shortly thereafter, he married Muhammad’s daughter Fatima, with whom he had two sons, Hasan and Husayn, and two daughters, Zaynab and Umm Kulthum. In Medina, he put his life on the line for his principles and played a leading role in establishing Islam, with a crucial part in the major Battles of Badr, Uhud, Khaybar, and The Trench against the Meccans and their allies. Muhammad’s death in 632 AD struck him hard, as he mourned a deeply revered leader and beloved benefactor. In the wake of Muhammad’s demise, and Fatima’s two months later, he conceded command to the first three Sunni caliphs, Abu Bakr, Umar, and Uthman, though upholding his right to the succession. For the next twenty-five years, he lived a life of retirement from politics, dedicated to collecting the Qur’an and educating his children. Even after becoming caliph in 656 AD, he was faced by repeated uprisings from within. In the four years he ruled, he fought three pitched battles against dissenting Muslims: first, the Battle of the Camel against the Prophet’s widow A’isha, the Prophet’s companions Talha and Zubayr, and the people of Basra; then, the Battle of Siffin against Mu’awiya

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from the rival Umayyad clan and the people of Syria; and finally, the Battle of Nahrawan against the Seceders (Arabic: Kharijites) from his own Iraqi army. He migrated from Medina to Kufa to confront the insurgency of the Camel and stayed there, using it as a base for the fight with Mu’awiya. Some of his closest associates and family members were killed at Siffin and in its aftermath. After the post-Siffin arbitration went against him, most of his supporters pulled back, and he spent the last few months of his life persuading them to resume the fight. Meanwhile, Mu’awiya was going from strength to strength, taking over Egypt, and sending raiding parties into the Arabian Peninsula and even Iraq itself, not far from Ali’s capital, Kufa. This state of affairs continued until in 661 AD, a Kharijite killed Ali while he was praying in the grand mosque in Kufa. The orations and epistles quoted in this article—which articulate his morality and conviction, and champion justice and charity—were mostly spoken and written during the turbulent years of his caliphate.

Ali’s Teachings: Piety, Philosophy, and Governance Ali is the preeminent sage and orator of Islam. Hundreds of orations, epistles, and sayings are attributed to him, composed and initially transmitted orally, and compiled in tens of collections and thousands of pages of pithy, vivid, rhythmic prose.6 Major extant compilations include The Path of Eloquence (Nahj al-balāgha) compiled by the Twelver Shi’ite scholar Sharif Radi (d. 1041)7 and A Treasury of Virtues (Dustūr maʿālim al-ḥikam) compiled by the Fatimid Shafi’i-Sunni judge Quda’i (d. 1062). Considered the epitome of Arabic eloquence by medieval and modern litterateurs and critics, Ali’s words are also deemed authoritative. For the Shia, they are second in stature only to the Qur’an and hadith, and the majority of Sunnis also deeply revere them. This broad-based veneration is a large part of the reason why the themes of Ali’s sermons have influenced the development of Muslim thought. Clearly, Ali’s teachings have had enormous currency through the ages and continue to resonate today. Moreover, his orations cover a wide array of both spiritual and material subjects. Learned philosopher, pious ascetic, governing caliph, warrior, and commander, Ali’s persona and words bring together disparate aspects of the human experience.8

Ali’s Ethics of Virtue Ali’s orations are among Islam’s foundational texts for ideas of virtue and piety. After the Qur’an and the sayings of Muhammad, they form the most copious and significant early source for notions of virtue ethics in Islam. The texts attributed to Ali are mostly from his public preaching, and given their homiletic and persuasive function, it is to be expected that they do not offer a detailed theoretical analysis of virtue. But from

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the abundance of sermons, sayings, and epistles, we can distill some philosophical underpinnings. Broadly, Ali’s sermons preach worship of the creator, promote awareness of the transience of human life, and focus on the subsequently urgent need to prepare for the imminent and permanent hereafter. This multi-pronged umbrella theme of Ali’s philosophy connects directly with his ethics of virtue. Preparation for the hereafter, he says, is achieved not solely through prayer and fasting. He fully encourages devotion and ascetic practice but combines them with an uncompromising requirement of humanitarian good. (By “humanitarian” good, I mean as it relates to behavior among humans, which is seen by contemporary virtue ethicists as secular; in Ali’s view, “humanitarian” virtues are not different in category than “religious” virtues.) In order to worship God sincerely, Ali says, you must also be just, wise, and compassionate toward others. You must cultivate forbearance and gratitude. The rich among you must take responsibility for feeding the poor. You must perform good deeds and participate in building an equitable society, for all creatures are God’s own creation. In Ali’s vision, piety and virtue cohere, and together form the basis for true happiness. In this, he draws on Qur’anic and prophetic teachings, some of which I cited in my Introduction, where piety and virtue are also intrinsically linked. Moreover, and as I also mentioned at the outset, Ali’s linking of virtue and piety is based on the understanding that religious teachings are the primary source for acquiring awareness of virtues. How did humans first become differentiated from animals? How did we learn goodness? In Ali’s vision, we learned it through the example of God’s prophets and the teachings of his revealed books.

Sermon 1. “The Four Pillars of Faith”: Text and Analysis It is reported that a man named Abbad ibn Qays asked Ali, “Commander of the Faithful, tell us: What is faith?” Ali replied with a homily, in which he presented faith as an edifice grounded in a number of fundamental religious and humanitarian virtues. Parsing faith into essential elements of forbearance, conviction, justice, and struggle against evil, he parsed each of the four further into sixteen supporting characteristics, intertwining the spiritual with the humanitarian. Binding the list of traits in a complex narrative sustained by the themes of rationality and societal engagement, he presented spiritual virtues as both the spur and the source of humanitarian ethics, while holding up the teachings of the prophets as the originating point for all virtue. This is the text of the sermon:9 Faith, Abbad, stands on four pillars: forbearance, conviction, justice, and struggle against evil.

‫ﺍﻹﻳﻤﺎﻥ ﻳﺎ ٱﺑﻦ ﻗﻴﺲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﺭﺑﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﺃﺭﻛﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺮ ﻭﺍﻟﻴﻘﻴﻦ ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺪﻝ‬ .‫ﻭﺍﻟﺠﻬﺎﺩ‬

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‫ﻭﺍﻟﺼﺒﺮ ﻣﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﺭﺑﻌﺔ‬ Forbearance stands on four columns: Longing, ‫ﺃﺭﻛﺎﻥ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟ ﱠﺸﻮﻕ ﻭﺍﻟﺸﻔﻘﺔ‬ fear, rejection of worldliness, and expectant ‫ ﻓﻤﻦ ٱﺷﺘﺎﻕ‬.‫ﻭﺍﻟﺰﻫﺪ ﻭﺍﻟﺘﺮﻗّﺐ‬ waiting. Whoever longs for the garden is .‫ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺠﻨّﺔ ﺳﻼ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﺸﻬﻮﺍﺕ‬ diverted from indulging desires. Whoever ‫ﻭﻣﻦ ﺃﺷﻔﻖ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺭ ﺭﺟﻊ ﻋﻦ‬ fears the fire retreats from forbidden things. ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺯﻫﺪ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ‬.‫ﺍﻟﺤﺮﻣﺎﺕ‬ Whoever rejects worldliness makes light of ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ‬.‫ﻫﺎﻧﺖ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺍﻟﻤﺼﻴﺒﺎﺕ‬ calamities. And whoever awaits death hastens .‫ﺗﺮﻗّﺐ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﺳﺎﺭﻉ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺨﻴﺮﺍﺕ‬ to perform good deeds. Conviction also stands on four columns: Perceptive sagacity, counsel offered by this world’s lessons, interpretation of God’s wisdom, and following the practice of the earlier prophets. Whoever perceives with sagacity interprets God’s wisdom. Whoever interprets God’s wisdom recognizes these lessons. Whoever recognizes these lessons also recognizes the path trodden [by earlier prophets]. And whoever recognizes the path trodden [by earlier prophets] is like someone who has lived with them and been guided to the steadfast faith.

‫ﻭﺍﻟﻴﻘﻴﻦ ﻣﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﺭﺑﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﺃﺭﻛﺎﻥ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺗﺒﺼﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﻔﻄﻨﺔ‬ ‫ﻭﻣﻮﻋﻈﺔ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺮﺓ ﻭﺗﺄﻭﻳﻞ ﺍﻟﺤﻜﻤﺔ‬ ‫ ﻓﻤﻦ ﺃﺑﺼﺮ ﺍﻟﻔﻄﻨﺔ‬.‫ﻭﺳﻨّﺔ ﺍﻷﻭّﻟﻴﻦ‬ ‫ﺗﺄﻭّﻝ ﺍﻟﺤﻜﻤﺔ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺗﺄﻭّﻝ ﺍﻟﺤﻜﻤﺔ‬ ‫ﺗﺒﻴّﻦ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺮﺓ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺗﺒﻴّﻦ ﺍﻟﻌﺒﺮﺓ‬ ‫ﻋﺮﻑ ﺍﻟﺴﻨّﺔ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻋﺮﻑ ﺍﻟﺴﻨّﺔ‬ ‫ﻓﻜﺄﻧّﻤﺎ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﻭّﻟﻴﻦ ﻓﭑﻫﺘﺪﻯ‬ .‫ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟّﺘﻲ ﻫﻲ ﺃﻗ َﻮﻡ‬

Justice in its turn stands on four columns: Deep comprehension, abundant knowledge, blossoms of wisdom, and flowerbeds of restraint. Whoever comprehends understands particulars from the generalities of knowledge. Whoever knows the path of wondrous wisdoms is guided to the repositories of self-control and does not stray. And whoever possesses restraint eschews extremes in his affairs and lives among people respected and loved.

‫ﻭﺍﻟﻌﺪﻝ ﻣﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﺭﺑﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﺃﺭﻛﺎﻥ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻏﺎﻣﺾ ﺍﻟﻔﻬﻢ ﻭﻏﻤﺮﺓ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻌﻠﻢ ﻭﺯﻫﺮﺓ ﺍﻟﺤُﻜﻢ ﻭﺭﻭﺿﺔ‬ .‫ ﻓﻤﻦ ﻓﻬﻢ ﻓﺴّﺮ ﺟﻤﻞ ﺍﻟﻌﻠﻢ‬.‫ﺍﻟﺤﻠﻢ‬ ‫ﻭﻣﻦ ﻋﻠﻢ ﺷﺮﺍﺋﻊ ﻏﺮﺍﺋﺐ ﺍﻟﺤُﻜﻢ‬ .ّ‫ﺩﻟّﺘﻪ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﻌﺎﺩﻥ ﺍﻟﺤﻠﻢ ﻓﻠﻢ ﻳﻀﻞ‬ ‫ﻭﻣﻦ ﺣﻠﻢ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻔﺮّﻁ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻣﺮﻩ‬ .‫ﻭﻋﺎﺵ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﺣﻤﻴﺪًﺍ‬

Struggle against evil stands on four columns: Enjoining good, forbidding evil, valor in battle, and abhorring the corrupt. Whoever commands good strengthens the believers’ resolve. Whoever forbids evil cuts off the hypocrites’ noses. Whoever is valorous in battle has discharged his duty. And whoever abhors the corrupt has been roused to anger for the sake of God—so God will be roused to anger on his behalf.

‫ﻭﺍﻟﺠﻬﺎﺩ ﻣﻦ ﺫﻟﻚ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﺭﺑﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﺃﺭﻛﺎﻥ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻷﻣﺮ ﺑﺎﻟﻤﻌﺮﻭﻑ‬ ‫ﻭﺍﻟﻨﻬﻲ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻨﻜﺮ ﻭﺍﻟﺼﺪﻕ‬ .‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺍﻁﻦ ﻭ َﺷﻨَﺂﻥ ﺍﻟﻔﺎﺳﻘﻴﻦ‬ ‫ﻓﻤﻦ ﺃﻣﺮ ﺑﺎﻟﻤﻌﺮﻭﻑ ﺷ ّﺪ ﻅﻬﺮ‬ ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻧﻬﻰ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻤﻨﻜﺮ‬.‫ﺍﻟﻤﺆﻣﻨﻴﻦ‬ ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ ﺻﺪﻕ‬.‫ﺃﺭﻏﻢ ﺃﻧﻒ ﺍﻟﻤﻨﺎﻓﻘﻴﻦ‬ ‫ ﻭﻣﻦ‬.‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺍﻁﻦ ﻗﻀﻰ ﻣﺎ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ‬ ‫ﺷﻨﺊ ﺍﻟﻔﺎﺳﻘﻴﻦ ﻓﻘﺪ ﻏﻀﺐ ﻟﻠﻪ ﻋ ّﺰ‬ ‫ﻭﺟ ّﻞ ﻭﻣﻦ ﻏﻀﺐ ﻟﻠﻪ ﺟ ّﻞ ﻭﻋ ّﺰ‬ ‫ﻏﻀﺐ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﺟ ّﻞ ﺛﻨﺎﺅﻩ ﻟﻪ‬.

This is faith, Abbad, and its columns and pillars.

‫ﺫﻟﻚ ﺍﻷﻳﻤﺎﻥ ﻳﺎ ٱﺑﻦ ﻗﻴﺲ ﻭﺩﻋﺎﺋﻤﻪ‬ .‫ﻭﺃﺭﻛﺎﻧﻪ‬

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Table 6.1 The Four Pillars of Faith The Four Forbearance Pillars of Faith

Longing for the garden Fear of the fire Rejection of worldliness Expectant waiting for death

Conviction

Perceptive sagacity Counsel offered by this world’s lessons Interpretation of God’s wisdom Following the practice of the earlier prophets

Justice

Deep comprehension Abundant knowledge Blossoms of wisdom Flowerbeds of restraint

Struggle against evil

Enjoining good Forbidding evil Valor in battle Abhorring the corrupt

Abbad’s question is about the essence of faith (īmān), and Ali parses it as a conglomeration of religious and humanitarian virtues. He describes faith in terms of a metaphorical castle, with “pillars” and “columns” holding it up (Table 6.1). He structures his answer using a mnemonic device called the “method of loci” (Latin: places) also called the “memory palace technique,” which involves filing new information under previously stored memories of space, physical or figurative;10 here, mapping new material within a predictable, structural, list-form. In this numerically framed sermon, we have four pillars and sixteen columns, twenty characteristics in all. They include both religious and ethical traits, forming a synergistic whole. Humanitarian virtues are explained on a religious plane, while religious concepts are parsed and presented in terms of humanitarian ethics. Islam (literally: commitment to God’s will) has also been described from early times as an edifice with pillars, framed by its monotheistic doctrine, and constituted by its practice of ritual prayer, fasting, the almslevy, and the Hajj pilgrimage. Īmān (literally: faith) on the other hand is widely seen as Islam’s internal manifestation, and Ali’s sermon presents a granular parsing of what faith translates into in terms of character and behavior. The following is a summary of the sermon’s schema in which each pillar represents an elementary trait and each column denotes a supporting characteristic: The edifice of faith is constructed on the pillars of

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forbearance, conviction, justice, and struggle against evil (Arabic: ṣabr, yaqīn, ʿadl, and jihād). The pillar of forbearance is supported by the columns of longing, fear, rejection of worldliness, and expectant waiting. The pillar of conviction is supported by the columns of discernment, counsel offered by this world’s lessons, interpretation of God’s wisdom, and following the practice of the earlier prophets. The pillar of justice is supported by the columns of comprehension, knowledge, wisdom, and restraint. And the pillar of struggle against evil is supported by the columns of enjoining good, forbidding evil, valor in battle, and abhorring the corrupt. These characteristics—cast as the pillars and columns of faith—include both religious and ethical behaviors and characteristics. For each pillar of faith, Ali explains how its columns work together to form a complex, interlinked whole. For the first pillar, forbearance, Ali lists supporting columns of longing, fear, rejection of worldliness, and expectant waiting. Then he explains the connection between the traits: “Whoever longs for the garden is diverted from indulging desires; whoever fears the fire retreats from the forbidden; whoever rejects worldliness makes light of calamities; and whoever awaits death hastens to perform good deeds.” Here, qualities of spirituality—fearing the fire, rejecting worldliness, and awaiting death—are presented as a spur to humanitarian ethics. Another keystone of Ali’s philosophy of virtue is visible in the sermon’s presentation of religious teachings as the source of humanitarian ethics. This idea underpins the whole text but is most clearly visible in the explanation of the second pillar of faith, conviction, where, alongside sagacity and worldlessons, God’s wisdom and his prophets’ teachings are held up as essential elements. After listing these four, Ali explains how one leads to the other and how, through practicing them all together, one achieves conviction: Whoever perceives with sagacity interprets God’s wisdom. Whoever interprets God’s wisdom recognizes these lessons. Whoever recognizes these lessons also recognizes the path (sunna) trodden by earlier prophets. And whoever recognizes the path trodden by earlier prophets is like someone who has lived with them and been guided to the steadfast faith. In addition to the remarks he makes in this text, throughout his oeuvre Ali refers to the prophets as exemplars. In an oration denouncing the base character of this world, he lauds Muhammad, Moses, and Jesus for their disengagement from materialism:11 An indication of the world’s lowliness is that God has by consideration and choice turned it away from his intimates and devotees, and presented it instead to his enemies as a test and a trial. He raised Muhammad above its lowliness, when he tied a tight belt around his waist from hunger. He protected his intimate and confidant Moses

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Next he praises Solomon for concentrating on prayer and God’s forgiveness. Then, referring to all the prophets collectively, he commends their rejection of the world’s corrupt aspects, “These, the prophets of God, his chosen and select, distanced themselves from the world, and rejected of it what God urged them to reject.” He ends the segment by explicitly stating that humans learned piety by walking the path shown to them by the prophets: “The pious learned from their example and followed in their footsteps. They focused their reflection and benefited from exemplary lessons.” In this theme as in others, Ali’s teachings reiterate the Qur’an’s presentation of the verbal and exemplary guidance of the prophets for humankind. Among many other verses extolling the prophets collectively or individually, one oft-quoted Qur’anic verse about the Prophet Muhammad declares: “God’s messenger is a beautiful exemplar (Arabic: uswa ḥasana) for those who place their hopes in God and the last day and remember God unceasingly.”12 Another much-cited verse lauds Muhammad’s strong moral fiber, “Truly, you possess the noblest character traits.”13 It is clear that the Qur’an considers Muhammad an exemplar for humankind, and that virtue is among the most significant things he exemplifies—a doctrine that Ali echoes. The third pillar of faith presented in this sermon is justice.14 Justice for the weak and downtrodden was not only a crucial refrain in Ali’s sermons, but also the hallmark of his rule. In a widely accepted hadith, Muhammad himself extolled Ali’s justice to his companions, “The most just (and/or: the best judge) among you is Ali.”15 As mentioned earlier, Ali was simultaneously a ruler, a commander, an ascetic, and a sage. In his capacity as ruler, he practiced the justice he preached. His letters to governors instructed them to be fair and compassionate in administering their subjects. When he appointed Muhammad ibn Abi Bakr as governor of Egypt, he urged him in the letter of appointment to be kind and evenhanded to the people he governed: “Lower your wing for them, offer them your softer side, show them your face, and give equal attention to all in glance and look.”16 Regarding his own governing practice, Ali said, I would prefer to sleep on a bed of thorns and be dragged in iron fetters, rather than coming to my meeting with God and his messenger

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having oppressed any of God’s servants, or having usurped any part of someone’s property.17 Justice in Ali’s view is a primary virtue, while virtues such as generosity are secondary, being contingent on an absence of conflict with primary virtues. In this, he is going against the grain of the classical Arabic poetic tradition inherited from pre-Islamic bards, where generosity (alongside courage) is one of two principal virtues praised in any leader. Once Ali was asked, “Which is better, justice or generosity?” He replied, “Justice puts everything in its rightful place, while generosity takes things out of their proper sphere. Justice is a universal driver, while generosity is a particular aspect. Thus, justice is the nobler and better of the two.”18 You should practice both, but when one comes up against the other, you must give priority to justice. As university professors, we could take the familiar example of fairness in grading students’ work: if a teacher were to be “generous” with her grades, in the sense that she gave everybody an “A” whether their performance merited it or not, she would be unfair to the students who worked hard to earn that “A.” In this kind of situation, one must give precedence to justice over generosity. Ali’s conception of justice and compassion was pluralistic. He enjoined his tax collectors, for example, to be gentle to all subjects of the realm. In one such letter, he wrote to them: “Do not block anyone from their needs . . . do not whip anyone for silver. Do not appropriate the property of any one of the people, whether they pray the prayer of Islam (i.e., Muslims) or are protected through a covenant (i.e., Jews and Christians).” A large proportion of the people in Ali’s realms were Christians and Jews, and in Egypt the majority of the population was Coptic Christian. Among the Muslims in his realm, a large proportion of the people were not his Shia followers, yet he made no distinction between them in terms of rights in the state. Here too, his directions for just and kind government applied equally to all. All were accorded safety of life, honor, and property under Ali’s rule; his exhortations to equitable treatment did not discriminate on the basis of race, religion, or gender. In his letter of appointment as governor for Malik al-Ashtar, Ali instructed him to be just, and explained why in this famous line, “They are either your brothers in faith or your peers in humanity.”19 It is important to remember that Ali preached this message from a position of power. He preached it because he believed it to be the right thing to do. Society is messy; Ali’s words and practice show that although he was not expecting that we can wave a magic wand and resolve all our differences, he believed we can and should learn to understand and respect each other’s beliefs. Indeed, Ali had his own strong faith convictions; in addition to making conviction one of the pillars of faith, he speaks of his own state in one text where he says, “I have not been separated from truth since the first time it was shown to me.”20 Elsewhere, he declares, “Removing the

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veil (of the body, at the time of death) will not increase my conviction.”21 But from this conviction sprang inclusivism, openness, and tolerance. In Ali’s rule, all in the state were accorded equal rights. A companion of Ali named Dirar al-Nahshali described him in a celebrated passage that highlights his exemplary justice (among other virtues such as discernment and simplicity, two of Ali’s justice-supporting “columns”):22 Ali was farsighted and strong. When pronouncing judgment, he was discerning. When commanding, he was just. Knowledge gushed from his person. Wisdom spoke upon his tongue. He shied away from the ornaments of this world, taking solace in the lonely night. He wept copiously in prayer, thought deeply, and turned his hands one over the other, admonishing himself before admonishing others. He favored simple food and plain clothes. He lived among us as one of us, responding when asked, and answering when questioned. But despite our intimacy, we would approach him with reverent awe, hesitating to call him out for a casual conversation. He respected the pious and was kind to the poor. The powerful did not dare presume upon a favorable ruling and the weak never despaired of his justice. Showcasing another fundamental aspect of Ali’s vision, three of the columns supporting the sermon’s pillar of justice—comprehension, knowledge, and wisdom—underscore the importance of learning and rationality, as do two of the columns supporting the pillar of conviction, viz., sagacity and world-lessons. A cornerstone of Ali’s teachings, learning and rationality are emphasized heavily throughout his oeuvre. A famous sermon addressed to his companion Kumayl begins with the assertion that “knowledge is better than wealth,”23 and it compares the two in very specific ways. Ali’s teachings on all aspects of spiritual and worldly life, on theology as well as practical matters, stress rationality. For Ali, faith is not blind faith; faith is only complete when based on logic and understanding. The final pillar of faith in Ali’s sermon is struggle against evil. The Arabic term is well known—jihad. In our time, most people translate the term as holy war. In fact, Arabic has other, more specific terms for warfare, viz., ḥarb and qitāl, while the root meaning of the word jihad is “effort.” The connotation of the word in Ali’s sermon is based on its nuanced usage in the Qur’an and in Muhammad’s teachings.24 A report about Muhammad reinforces Ali’s combined humanitarian and religious presentation of jihad, and it also endorses my translation of the term as struggle against evil: Muhammad returned to Medina one day from a major battle against his Meccan enemies and said to his followers, “We have returned from the lesser jihad to the greater jihad.” Surprised, they asked him what could be more challenging than the battle they had just fought, in which they had put their lives on the line to defend Islam.

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Muhammad said, “The greater jihad is the fight against your own immoral desires.”25 In Ali’s sermon, jihad is presented as an effort to combat evil in all its forms and in all ways possible, internal and external, on the level of the community and on the level of the individual. He parses jihad, as we have seen, as enjoining good, forbidding evil, valor in battle, and abhorring the corrupt, and he explains the contribution of each of these four traits to the fight against evil.

Sermon 2. “Description of the Truly Pious”: Text and Analysis It is reported that a companion of Ali named Hammam said to him, “Commander of the Faithful, describe to me the truly pious such that I see them before my eyes.” In a succinct initial answer, Ali recited the Qurʾanic verse: “God is with those who are pious and perform good deeds” ْ َ‫)ﺇِ ﱠﻥ ٱﻟﻠﱠﻪَ َﻣ َﻊ ٱﻟﱠ ِﺬﻳﻦَ ٱﺗﱠﻘ‬26 Hammam asked for a fuller reply, and ( َ‫ﻮﺍ ﻭﱠٱﻟﱠ ِﺬﻳﻦَ ﻫُﻢ ﱡﻣﺤْ ِﺴﻨُﻮﻥ‬ Ali responded with a lengthy sermon. He opened with theological lines setting up the discourse as a relationship between the divine being and the human being, in which he constructed the parameters of human piety vis-à-vis their obedience to God:27 ّ God created the people when he created them ‫ﺇﻥ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﺳﺒﺤﺎﻧﻪ ﻭﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﺧﻠﻖ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻖ‬ ً ‫ﺣﻴﻦ ﺧﻠﻘﻬﻢ ﻏﻨﻴًّﺎ ﻋﻦ ﻁﺎﻋﺘﻬﻢ ﺁﻣﻨﺎ‬ not needing their obedience and untouched by their disobedience. The disobedience of ‫ﻣﻦ ﻣﻌﺼﻴﺘﻬﻢ ﻷﻧّﻪ ﻻ ﺗﻀﺮّﻩ ﻣﻌﺼﻴﺔ‬ those who disobey does not harm him, and ‫ﻣﻦ ﻋﺼﺎﻩ ﻭﻻ ﺗﻨﻔﻌﻪ ﻁﺎﻋﺔ ﻣﻦ‬ the obedience of those who obey does not ‫ ﻓﻘﺴﻢ ﺑﻴﻨﻬﻢ ﻣﻌﻴﺸﺘﻬﻢ‬.‫ﺃﻁﺎﻋﻪ‬ benefit him. He distributed sustenance among .‫ﻭﻭﺿﻌﻬﻢ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻣﻮﺍﺿﻌﻬﻢ‬ them, and placed them in various places on the earth. Next, in the body of the sermon, he listed a large number of religious and humanitarian virtues side by side as essential components of true piety. Hammam’s question is about the qualities of the truly pious, and Ali’s response begins with the framing line, “The pious in this world are people of virtue.” Like the Qur’an verse he had cited initially, the line fundamentally connects piety and virtue, predicating one on the other, and offering them as equivalents. After the framing line, the bulk of Ali’s description of the pious takes the form of a list of approximately eighty virtuous behaviors. The catalog contains items we normally categorize under religious virtues and others we usually consider humanitarian virtues. Although items from both categories are juxtaposed at what seems initially to be an ad hoc system, the apparent random mixing is not random at all. In Ali’s vision, the distinction is moot because the text’s main takeaway is that there is no distinction: religious virtues are humanitarian and humanitarian virtues are religious, and together they form an intrinsic whole. This is the body of the sermon:

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.‫ﻓﺎﻟﻤﺘّﻘﻮﻥ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ ﻫﻢ ﺃﻫﻞ ﺍﻟﻔﻀﺎﺋﻞ‬ The pious in this world are people of vir‫ﻣﻨﻄﻘﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﺼﻮﺍﺏ ﻭﻣﻠﺒﺴﻬﻢ‬ tue. Their speech is rational, their garments ‫ ﻏﻀّﻮﺍ‬.‫ﺍﻹﻗﺘﺼﺎﺩ ﻭﻣﺸﻴﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﺘﻮﺍﺿﻊ‬ simple, and their walk the embodiment of ‫ﺃﺑﺼﺎﺭﻫﻢ ﻋ ّﻤﺎ ﺣﺮّﻡ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﻢ‬ humility. They lower their eyes avoiding ‫ﻭﻭﻗﻔﻮﺍ ﺃﺳﻤﺎﻋﻬﻢ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻌﻠﻢ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﻓﻊ‬ things God has forbidden them to see, and ‫ ﻧ ّﺰﻟﺖ ﺃﻧﻔﺴﻬﻢ ﻣﻨﻬﻢ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺒﻼء‬.‫ﻟﻬﻢ‬ dedicate their ears to hearing words of wis‫ ﻭﻟﻮﻻ‬.‫ﻛﺎﻟّﺘﻲ ﻧ ّﺰﻟﺖ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺮﺧﺎء‬ dom that bring them benefit. Their hearts are ‫ﺍﻷﺟﻞ ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻛﺘﺐ ﻟﻬﻢ ﻟﻢ ﺗﺴﺘﻘ ّﺮ‬ at peace in times of tribulation and in times ‫ﺃﺭﻭﺍﺣﻬﻢ ﻓﻲ ﺃﺟﺴﺎﺩﻫﻢ ﻁﺮﻓﺔ‬ of prosperity. If not for the lifespans decreed ‫ﻋﻴﻦ ﺷﻮﻗًﺎ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﺜﻮﺍﺏ ﻭﺧﻮﻓًﺎ ﻣﻦ‬ for them by God, their souls would not linger ‫ ﻋﻈﻢ ﺍﻟﺨﺎﻟﻖ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻧﻔﺴﻬﻢ‬.‫ﺍﻟﻌﻘﺎﺏ‬ in their bodies the blink of an eye, but would ‫ ﻓﻬﻢ‬.‫ﻓﺼﻐﺮ ﻣﺎ ﺩﻭﻧﻪ ﻓﻲ ﺃﻋﻴﻨﻬﻢ‬ instantly depart, yearning for God’s reward ‫ﻭﺍﻟﺠﻨّﺔ ﻛﻤﻦ ﻗﺪ ﺭﺁﻫﺎ ﻓﻬﻢ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ‬ and fearing his punishment. The creator’s ‫ ﻭﻫﻢ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﺎﺭ ﻛﻤﻦ ﻗﺪ ﺭﺁﻫﺎ‬.‫ﻣﻨﻌّﻤﻮﻥ‬ majesty in their hearts makes all else small in ّ ‫ﻓﻬﻢ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ‬ ‫ ﻗﻠﻮﺑﻬﻢ ﻣﺤﺰﻭﻧﺔ‬.‫ﻣﻌﺬﺑﻮﻥ‬ their eyes. Paradise is before their gaze—they ‫ﻭﺷﺮﻭﺭﻫﻢ ﻣﺄﻣﻮﻧﺔ ﻭﺃﺟﺴﺎﺩﻫﻢ ﻧﺤﻴﻔﺔ‬ see it as clearly as though they themselves .‫ﻭﺣﺎﺟﺎﺗﻬﻢ ﺧﻔﻴﻔﺔ ﻭﺃﻧﻔﺴﻬﻢ ﻋﻔﻴﻔﺔ‬ were enjoying its blessings. Hellfire too is ‫ﺻﺒﺮﻭﺍ ﺃﻳّﺎ ًﻣﺎ ﻗﺼﻴﺮﺓ ﺃﻋﻘﺒﺘﻬﻢ ﺭﺍﺣﺔ‬ before their gaze—they see it as clearly as ‫ ﺗﺠﺎﺭﺓ ﻣﺮﺑﺤﺔ ﻳﺴّﺮﻫﺎ ﻟﻬﻢ‬.‫ﻁﻮﻳﻠﺔ‬ though they themselves were being tortured ‫ﺭﺑّﻬﻢ ﺃﺭﺍﺩﺗﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﻓﻠﻢ ﻳﺮﻳﺪﻭﻫﺎ‬ in it. Their hearts are sorrowful, their malice .‫ﻭﺃﺳﺮﺗﻬﻢ ﻓﻔﺪﻭﺍ ﺃﻧﻔﺴﻬﻢ ﻣﻨﻬﺎ‬ never feared, their bodies emaciated, their needs few, and their persons chaste. They patiently endure these few days here, awaiting the long comfort of the hereafter, and a profitable trade bestowed in ease and security by their lord. The world approached them but they turned away. It shackled them but they ransomed their souls and set them free. ‫ﺃ ّﻣﺎ ﺍﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﻓﺼﺎﻓّﻮﻥ ﺃﻗﺪﺍﻣﻬﻢ ﺗﺎﻟﻴﻦ‬ In the night they stand in worship reciting ً ‫ﺗﺮﺗﻴﻼ‬ ‫ﻷﺟﺰﺍء ﺍﻟﻘﺮﺁﻥ ﻳﺮﺗّﻠﻮﻧﻪ‬ sections of the Qurʾan, chanting it in sweet ‫ﻳﺤ ّﺰﻧﻮﻥ ﺑﻪ ﺃﻧﻔﺴﻬﻢ ﻭﻳﺴﺘﺜﻴﺮﻭﻥ‬ melody, moving their own hearts to tears and ‫ﺑﻪ ﺩﻭﺍء ﺩﺍﺋﻬﻢ ﻓﺈﺫﺍ ﻣﺮّﻭﺍ ﺑﺂﻳﺔ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ‬ finding in it the cure for their illness. If they come across a verse that rouses yearning, they ‫ﺗﺸﻮّﻕ ﺭﻛﻨﻮﺍ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﺎ ﻁﻤﻌًﺎ ﻭﺗﻄﻠّﻌﺖ‬ ‫ﻧﻔﻮﺳﻬﻢ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﺎ ﺷﻮﻗًﺎ ﻭﻅﻨّﻮﺍ ﺃﻧّﻬﺎ‬ latch on to it hungrily and their hearts stretch ‫ ﻭﺇﺫﺍ ﻣﺮّﻭﺍ ﺑﺂﻳﺔ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ‬.‫ﻧﺼﺐ ﺃﻋﻴﻨﻬﻢ‬ out toward it in desire—its promised bless‫ﺗﺨﻮﻳﻒ ﺃﺻﻐﻮﺍ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﺎ ﻣﺴﺎﻣﻊ ﻗﻠﻮﺑﻬﻢ‬ ings are visible right in front of their eyes. If ّ ‫ﻭﻅﻨّﻮﺍ‬ ‫ﺃﻥ ﺯﻓﻴﺮ ﺟﻬﻨّﻢ ﻭﺷﻬﻴﻘﻬﺎ‬ they come across a verse that stokes fear, they ‫ ﻓﻬﻢ ﺣﺎﻧﻮﻥ‬.‫ﻓﻲ ﺃﺻﻮﻝ ﺁﺫﺍﻧﻬﻢ‬ incline their hearts toward its warning—the ‫ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﻭﺳﺎﻁﻬﻢ ﻣﻔﺘﺮﺷﻮﻥ ﻟﺠﺒﺎﻫﻬﻢ‬ hiss and crackle of the inferno fills the innermost parts of their ears. They bow their spine, ‫ﻭﺃﻛﻔّﻬﻢ ﻭﺭﻛﺒﻬﻢ ﻭﺃﻁﺮﺍﻑ ﺃﻗﺪﺍﻣﻬﻢ‬ ‫ﻳﻄّﻠﺒﻮﻥ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻰ ﻓﻲ ﻓﻜﺎﻙ‬ laying their forehead, palms, knees, and toes .‫ﺭﻗﺎﺑﻬﻢ‬ on the earth, beseeching God to free their necks from the fire.

Piety and Virtue in Early Islam

137

‫ﻭﺃ ّﻣﺎ ﺍﻟﻨﻬﺎﺭ ﻓﺤﻠﻤﺎء ﻋﻠﻤﺎء ﺃﺑﺮﺍﺭ‬ In the day they are kind, wise, good, and ‫ ﻗﺪ ﺑﺮﺍﻫﻢ ﺍﻟﺨﻮﻑ ﺑﺮﻱ‬.‫ﺃﺗﻘﻴﺎء‬ pious. Fear has emaciated them like arrow ‫ﻓﻴﺤﺴﺒﻬﻢ‬ ‫ ﻳﻨﻈﺮ ﺇﻟﻴﻬﻢ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﻅﺮ‬.‫ﺍﻟﻘﺪﺍﺡ‬ shafts. The observer thinks them ailing, but ‫ﻣﺮﺽ‬ ‫ﻣﺮﺿﻰ ﻭﻣﺎ ﺑﺎﻟﻘﻮﻡ ﻣﻦ‬ they are not ill. He says, “They are crazy!,” ‫ﺧﺎﻟﻄﻬﻢ‬ ‫ﻭﻟﻘﺪ‬ ‫ﻭﻳﻘﻮﻝ ﻗﺪ ﺧﻮﻟﻄﻮﺍ‬ but they are crazed only by something ‫ﺃﻋﻤﺎﻟﻬﻢ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ‬ ‫ﻳﺮﺿﻮﻥ‬ ‫ ﻻ‬.‫ﺃﻣﺮ ﻋﻈﻴﻢ‬ immensely grave. They are not satisfied with ‫ﻓﻬﻢ‬ .‫ﺍﻟﻜﺜﻴﺮ‬ ‫ﻳﺴﺘﻜﺜﺮﻭﻥ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻘﻠﻴﻞ ﻭﻻ‬ a few good deeds, and they do not think ّ ‫ﺃﻋﻤﺎﻟﻬﻢ‬ ‫ﻭﻣﻦ‬ ‫ﻬﻤﻮﻥ‬ ‫ﺘ‬ ‫ﻣ‬ ‫ﻷﻧﻔﺴﻬﻢ‬ their numerous endeavors too many. They ّ ‫ﺧﺎﻑ‬ ‫ﺃﺣﺪﻫﻢ‬ ‫ﻲ‬ ‫ﻛ‬ ‫ﺯ‬ ‫ﺇﺫﺍ‬ .‫ﻣﺸﻔﻘﻮﻥ‬ constantly chide themselves and fear the ‫ﻣ ّﻤﺎ ﻳﻘﺎﻝ ﻟﻪ ﻓﻴﻘﻮﻝ ﺃﻧﺎ ﺃﻋﻠﻢ ﺑﻨﻔﺴﻲ‬ consequence of their actions. If one of them ‫ﻣﻦ ﻏﻴﺮﻱ ﻭﺭﺑّﻲ ﺃﻋﻠﻢ ﺑﻲ ﻣﻦ‬ is praised he is apprehensive, and replies: ‫ﻳﻘﻮﻟﻮﻥ‬ ‫ﻧﻔﺴﻲ ﺍﻟﻠﻬﻢ ﻻ ﺗﺆﺍﺧﺬﻧﻲ ﺑﻤﺎ‬ I know myself better than you know me, ّ‫ﻭٱﺟﻌﻠﻨﻲ ﺃﻓﻀﻞ ﻣ ّﻤﺎ ﻳﻈﻨ‬ ‫ﻭٱﻏﻔﺮ‬ ‫ﻮﻥ‬ and my lord knows me even better. Lord, .‫ﻟﻲ ﻣﺎ ﻻ ﻳﻌﻠﻤﻮﻥ‬ do not hold me to what they say about me, make me more virtuous than they estimate, and forgive those of my actions they do not know. Their hallmark is strength in faith, resolve with gentleness, belief with conviction, voracity for knowledge, knowledge with maturity, temperance in affluence, humility in worship, forbearance in indigence, patience in hardship, seeking the licit, enthusiasm in following guidance, and aversion to greed. They perform good deeds while always being on guard. They spend the night thanking God and the morning praising him. They sleep vigilant and awake in joy, vigilant because they have been warned against neglect and joyful because they have gained blessings and mercy. If their ego bucks against doing something it dislikes, they do not allow it full rein in letting it do what it desires. Their joy is centered on things which bring lasting reward, while they care little for commodities which will not remain. They combine maturity with learning and words with action.

‫ﻓﻤﻦ ﻋﻼﻣﺔ ﺃﺣﺪﻫﻢ ﺃﻧّﻚ ﺗﺮﻯ ﻟﻪ‬ ‫ﻗﻮﺓ ﻓﻲ ﺩﻳﻦ ﻭﺣﺰ ًﻣﺎ ﻓﻲ ﻟﻴﻦ ﻭﺇﻳﻤﺎﻧًﺎ‬ ‫ﻓﻲ ﻳﻘﻴﻦ ﻭﺣﺮﺻًﺎ ﻓﻲ ﻋﻠﻢ ﻭﻋﻠ ًﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﻓﻲ ﺣﻠﻢ ﻭﻗﺼﺪًﺍ ﻓﻲ ﻏﻨﻰ ﻭﺧﺸﻮﻋًﺎ‬ ‫ﻓﻲ ﻋﺒﺎﺩﺓ ﻭﺗﺠ ّﻤ ًﻼ ﻓﻲ ﻓﺎﻗﺔ ﻭﺻﺒﺮًﺍ‬ ‫ﻓﻲ ﺷ ّﺪﺓ ﻭﻁﻠﺒًﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺣﻼﻝ ﻭﻧﺸﺎﻁًﺎ‬ ‫ ﻳﻌﻤﻞ‬.‫ﻓﻲ ﻫﺪﻯ ﻭﺗﺤ ّﺮﺟًﺎ ﻋﻦ ﻁﻤﻊ‬ .‫ﺍﻷﻋﻤﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻟﺤﺔ ﻭﻫﻮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻭﺟﻞ‬ ‫ﻳﻤﺴﻲ ﻭﻫ ّﻤﻪ ﺍﻟﺸﻜﺮ ﻭﻳﺼﺒﺢ ﻭﻫ ّﻤﻪ‬ ‫ ﻳﺒﻴﺖ ﺣﺬﺭًﺍ ﻭﻳﺼﺒﺢ ﻓﺮﺣًﺎ‬.‫ﺍﻟﺬﻛﺮ‬ ّ ‫ﺣﺬﺭًﺍ ﻟﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﺣﺬﺭ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻐﻔﻠﺔ ﻭﻓﺮﺣًﺎ ﺑﻤﺎ‬ ‫ ﺇﻥ‬.‫ﺃﺻﺎﺏ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻔﻀﻞ ﻭﺍﻟﺮﺣﻤﺔ‬ ‫ٱﺳﺘﺼﻌﺒﺖ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﺗﻜﺮﻩ ﻟﻢ‬ ‫ ﻗﺮّﺓ ﻋﻴﻨﻪ‬. ّ‫ﻳﻌﻄﻬﺎ ﺳﺆﻟﻬﺎ ﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﺗﺤﺐ‬ .‫ﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﻻ ﻳﺰﻭﻝ ﻭﺯﻫﺎﺩﺗﻪ ﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﻻ ﻳﺒﻘﻰ‬ .‫ﻳﻤﺰﺝ ﺍﻟﺤﻠﻢ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﻠﻢ ﻭﺍﻟﻘﻮﻝ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﻤﻞ‬

138

Tahera Qutbuddin

ً ‫ﺗﺮﺍﻩ ﻗﺮﻳﺒًﺎ ﺃﻣﻠﻪ‬ ‫ﻗﻠﻴﻼ ﺯﻟـﻠﻪ ﺧﺎﺷﻌًﺎ‬ You will see this—their needs are few, their slips ً ‫ﻗﻠﺒﻪ ﻗﺎﻧﻌﺔ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﻣﻨﺰﻭﺭًﺍ ﺃﻛﻠﻪ‬ are rare, their hearts are humble, their souls are ‫ﺳﻬﻼ‬ ‫ﺃﻣﺮﻩ ﺣﺮﻳ ًﺰﺍ ﺩﻳﻨﻪ ﻣﻴّﺘﺔ ﺷﻬﻮﺗﻪ‬ content, their fare is meager, their manner is ‫ ﺍﻟﺨﻴﺮ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻣﺄﻣﻮﻝ‬.‫ﻣﻜﻈﻮ ًﻣﺎ ﻏﻴﻈﻪ‬ easygoing, their faith is protected, their appetite ‫ ﺇﻥ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻓﻲ‬.‫ﻭﺍﻟﺸ ّﺮ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻣﺄﻣﻮﻥ‬ is dead, and their rage is held in check. Their ‫ﺍﻟﻐﺎﻓﻠﻴﻦ ﻛﺘﺐ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺬﺍﻛﺮﻳﻦ ﻭﺇﻥ ﻛﺎﻥ‬ goodness is always anticipated, and their evil never dreaded. If they sit with the heedless they .‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺬﺍﻛﺮﻳﻦ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻜﺘﺐ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﻐﺎﻓﻠﻴﻦ‬ ‫ﻳﻌﻔﻮ ﻋ ّﻤﻦ ﻅﻠﻤﻪ ﻭﻳﻌﻄﻲ ﻣﻦ ﺣﺮﻣﻪ‬ are still listed among the heedful, and if they ‫ ﺑﻌﻴﺪًﺍ ﻓﺤﺸﻪ ﻟﻴّﻨًﺎ‬.‫ﻭﻳﺼﻞ ﻣﻦ ﻗﻄﻌﻪ‬ sit with the heedful they are not listed among ‫ﻗﻮﻟﻪ ﻏﺎﺋﺒًﺎ ﻣﻨﻜﺮﻩ ﺣﺎﺿﺮًﺍ ﻣﻌﺮﻭﻓﻪ‬ the heedless. They forgive those who oppress ً .‫ﻣﻘﺒﻼ ﺧﻴﺮﻩ ﻣﺪﺑﺮًﺍ ﺷﺮّﻩ‬ them, give to those who hold back from giving to them, and foster those who cut them off. Lewdness is far removed from them, gentleness imbues their words, and wrongdoing is absent from their actions. Their decency is ever present, their goodness always forthcoming, and their evil always distant and removed. In calamities they remain calm and dignified, in catastrophes they remain patient, and in happy times they remain thankful. They never wrong an enemy or transgress to help loved ones. They acknowledge the dues they owe to another before testimony is given against them. They never squander something they have been given in trust. They never forget a thing of which they have been reminded. They never call others vile names. They never harm a neighbor. They never gloat at another’s misfortune. They never enter into wrongdoing and never leave the truth.

‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺰﻻﺯﻝ ﻭﻗﻮﺭ ﻭﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﻤﻜﺎﺭﻩ‬ ‫ ﻻ‬.‫ﺻﺒﻮﺭ ﻭﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺮﺧﺎء ﺷﻜﻮﺭ‬ ‫ﻳﺤﻴﻒ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﻦ ﻳﺒﻐﺾ ﻭﻻ ﻳﺄﺛﻢ‬ ّ ‫ ﻳﻌﺘﺮﻑ ﺑﺎﻟﺤ‬. ّ‫ﻓﻴﻤﻦ ﻳﺤﺐ‬ ‫ﻖ ﻗﺒﻞ ﺃﻥ‬ ‫ ﻻ ﻳﻀﻴﻊ ﻣﺎ ٱﺳﺘﺤﻔﻆ‬.‫ﻳﺸﻬﺪ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ‬ ‫ﻭﻻ ﻳﻨﺴﻰ ﻣﺎ ﺫ ّﻛﺮ ﻭﻻ ﻳﻨﺎﺑﺰ‬ ‫ﺑﺎﻷﻟﻘﺎﺏ ﻭﻻ ﻳﻀﺎ ّﺭ ﺑﺎﻟﺠﺎﺭ ﻭﻻ‬ ‫ﻳﺸﻤﺖ ﺑﺎﻟﻤﺼﺎﺋﺐ ﻭﻻ ﻳﺪﺧﻞ ﻓﻲ‬ ّ ‫ﺍﻟﺒﺎﻁﻞ ﻭﻻ ﻳﺨﺮﺝ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻟﺤ‬ .‫ﻖ‬

‫ﺇﻥ ﺻﻤﺖ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻐ ّﻤﻪ ﺻﻤﺘﻪ ﻭﺇﻥ‬ If they are silent their silence is not burden‫ﺿﺤﻚ ﻟﻢ ﻳﻌﻞ ﺻﻮﺗﻪ ﻭﺇﻥ ﺑﻐﻲ‬ some. If they laugh they are not raucous. If ‫ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺻﺒﺮ ﺣﺘّﻰ ﻳﻜﻮﻥ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﻫﻮ‬ attacked in treachery they are patient—God ‫ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻓﻲ ﻋﻨﺎء‬.‫ﺍﻟﺬﻱ ﻳﻨﺘﻘﻢ ﻟﻪ‬ himself avenges them. They weary themselves ‫ ﺃﺗﻌﺐ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ‬.‫ﻭﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻓﻲ ﺭﺍﺣﺔ‬ by constant chiding while never causing oth.‫ﻵﺧﺮﺗﻪ ﻭﺃﺭﺍﺡ ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻣﻦ ﻧﻔﺴﻪ‬ ers unease. They push themselves to prepare for the hereafter and never cause others harm. ‫ﺑﻌﺪﻩ ﻋ ّﻤﻦ ﺗﺒﺎﻋﺪ ﻋﻨﻪ ﺯﻫﺪ ﻭﻧﺰﺍﻫﺔ‬ ‫ﻭﺩﻧﻮّﻩ ﻣ ّﻤﻦ ﺩﻧﺎ ﻣﻨﻪ ﻟﻴﻦ ﻭﺭﺣﻤﺔ‬ Chaste and upright, they stay away from ‫ﻟﻴﺲ ﺗﺒﺎﻋﺪﻩ ﺑﻜﺒﺮ ﻭﻋﻈﻤﺔ ﻭﻻ ﺩﻧﻮّﻩ‬ those who distance themselves. Kind and .‫ﺑﻤﻜﺮ ﻭﺧﺪﻳﻌﺔ‬ merciful, they draw near to those who seek to come close. Their detachment is not from arrogance or grandiosity, and their drawing near is not from cunning or trickery.

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The Arabic term that I have rendered as “piety” is taqwā (in the plural active participle, muttaqūn), an encompassing characteristic that entails the possession of a comprehensive set of humanitarian virtues and religious merits. Taqwā is a fundamental concept in Islam, its verbal nouns and imperatives among the most visible lexemes of the Qurʾan and hadith. The early Islamic sermon too is permeated with injunctions to taqwā; the formula “I counsel you to piety” is a standard unit in orations,28 which also frequently cite the Qurʾanic verse, “Gather your provisions; the best provision is piety.”29 Faḍāʾil, translated in the present article as “virtues,” can also be rendered as “excellent qualities” (cf. Greek “arête”);30 yet, it is relatively unproblematic to translate—translating taqwā is more complicated. Often rendered imprecisely as “fear of God,” Muslims understand taqwā to mean something more than simple fear. As with many signifiers that are culture-specific, no English word or phrase exactly conveys its full range of implications, but its scope comes close to the English (Christian) usage of “godfearing,”31 or the biblical Mosaic command to “be holy” (Hebrew: qedoshim).32 In Islam, taqwā means desisting from evil deeds, fearing God’s retribution for any wrongs you may do, being aware that God sees and knows everything, and indeed, most importantly and paradoxically, being in awe of him while also taking comfort from his presence at all times.33 This attitude entails believing in God, being ever conscious of him, and thus always thinking and acting righteously. I typically render taqwā as “piety” or “consciousness of God.” Ali’s Description-of-the-Pious sermon itemizes the characteristics that are necessarily inherent in taqwā. In Ali’s vision—as seen in this sermon and others—piety is what unifies the virtues, because all goodness stems from God. Virtues are not random acts of charity and decency, but rather, all are expressions of piety. God’s love serves as a kind of capstone that integrates all virtues—if you truly love God, you will wish to please him by emulating his attributes, and his attributes represent the virtues. For example, mercy is a divine attribute that is forcefully emphasized in the Qur’an; all but one of its chapters open with the line, “In the name of God, most merciful, ever merciful” (‫)ﺑﺴﻢ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻤﻦ ﺍﻟﺮﺣﻴﻢ‬. Imbibing virtues is to actually experience God’s presence: in ordinary acts for an individual, it means that I try my best not to be selfish. If I abide with God in my daily life, I self-orient to compassion, to virtue. Piety functions to energize and motivate. Consciousness of God alters my perception. It animates random little acts of kindness, in an expression of the intimacy I have with God. Turning the issue on its head, virtue is essential to piety. Only if I speak the truth, only if I am kind to others, am I achieving closeness to my creator and theirs. In the following two lists—solely for the purpose of highlighting the strong presence of both in Ali’s description of piety—I separate the categories into religious and humanitarian virtues. Indeed, many virtues may potentially be listed under both headings; performing good deeds,

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avoiding evil deeds, and seeking knowledge, for example, could fall under both classifications. Virtues in Ali’s sermon that we presently deem religious—which speak of God, of spiritual practices, and the hereafter—are the following, twenty-three in all (there is some overlap among the items within this list, and also within the next list of humanitarian virtues, but nuances and contexts differ): 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

Avoiding looking at things God has forbidden you to see Dedicating ears to hearing only words of wisdom that bring benefit Chastity Praying through the night Reciting the Qur’an Taking the Qur’an’s words to heart Fear of God’s punishment Anticipation of the hereafter Breaking free of worldliness Strong faith Thanking God and praising him Bodily emaciation from fear of doing wrong Belief with conviction Humility in worship Seeking the licit Enthusiasm in following guidance Good deeds Vigilance against neglect Joyfulness in God’s blessings and mercy Centering joy on things that bring lasting reward Caring little for commodities that will not remain Mindfulness of the hereafter Preparation for the hereafter

Virtues in Ali’s sermon that are usually deemed secular humanist—which relate particularly to humans’ behavior toward each other—are the following, fifty-seven in all: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

Rationality in speech Simplicity in dress Humility in walk Kindness Patience Contentment Good deeds Modesty regarding stature and achievements Resolve with gentleness

Piety and Virtue in Early Islam 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

Voracity for knowledge Maturity in knowledge Forbearance in indigence Patience in hardship Aversion to greed Maturity with learning Words with action Needs few Slips rare Humble hearts Meager fare Easygoing manner Full control of physical appetite Holding rage in check Reining in self from indulging base desires Always doing good Never doing evil Forgiving those who oppress Giving to those who hold back from giving Fostering those who cut off ties No lewdness Gentle words Absence of wrongdoing Decency ever present Never causing others harm Calm and dignity in calamities Patience in catastrophes Thankfulness in happy times Never wronging an enemy Never transgressing to help loved ones Acknowledging dues owed to others Never squandering something given in trust Never forgetting lessons learned Never calling others vile names Never harming a neighbor Never gloating at another’s misfortune Never enter into wrongdoing Never forsaking the truth Their silence is not burdensome Their laughter is not raucous Patience when attacked in treachery Constant self-chiding Chastity and uprightness Staying away from those who distance themselves Never being arrogant or grandiose

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55. Kindness and mercy 56. Drawing near to those who seek to come close 57. No cunning or trickery Religious and humanitarian virtues are interwoven in the sermon’s narrative primarily by juxtaposition. For example, Ali talks in the same breath about “strength in faith, voracity for knowledge, temperance in affluence, humility in worship, forbearance in indigence, patience in hardship, seeking the licit, enthusiasm in following guidance, and aversion to greed”— here, both kinds of virtues—such as worship (religious) and temperance (humanitarian)—are placed side by side and fuse smoothly. In another example of the combination between religious and humanitarian, he says of the pious, “their needs are few, their slips are rare, their hearts are humble, their souls are content, their fare is meager, their manner is easygoing, their faith is protected, their appetite is dead, and their rage is held in check”—here too, both kinds of traits meld. Virtues are not given in a list of single words, but rather, they are explained in real-life situations. An example is seen in the following line: “In calamities [the pious] remain calm and dignified, in catastrophes they remain patient, and in happy times they remain thankful.” Here, dignity, forbearance, and gratitude are enjoined within the contexts of calamity, catastrophe, and happiness. Additionally, traits are explained alongside real-life actions. An example is seen in the following line: “Chaste and upright, [the pious] stay away from those who distance themselves. Kind and merciful, they draw near to those who seek to come close. Their detachment is not from arrogance or grandiosity, and their drawing near is not from cunning or trickery.” Here, chaste disinterest and merciful kindness are lauded within the context of fostering social relationships, and explained from the perspective of righteous motivation. Like taqwā, another term in this sermon that needs to be understood in context is amal; commonly (and in this setting, incorrectly) translated as “hope,” amal is a flaw that is warned against in Ali’s sermons and in the early Arabic homiletic tradition more generally, and it customarily signifies denial of one’s own mortality, having “long (and false) hopes” that one will live forever and enjoy the pleasures of this earth without end.34 Ali is not criticizing hope in the positive meaning we commonly denote by the term. Here, he praises the pious, saying (in literal translation), “their hopes are near” (‫)ﺗﺮﺍﻩ ﻗﺮﻳﺒًﺎ ﺃﻣﻠﻪ‬, which I have rendered idiomatically as “their needs are few.” Contextualization is crucial to understanding this sermon and others. If we want to apprehend what virtues Ali espouses and what traits he warns against, we need to recognize the associations of the words and idioms he uses and translate sentence-by-sentence; direct word-to-word translation of a passage is frequently inadequate.35 To denote positive hope, Ali typically uses another word, rajāʾ. A virtue regularly associated with having faith in

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God, rajāʾ is used in another sermon by Ali in the line: “Place all your hopes (rajāʾ) in your lord.”36 Elsewhere, he applauds the virtue of positive hope without using either term, amal or rajāʾ, “The time remaining in a believer’s life is priceless,”37 meaning there is always hope—no matter what you did earlier, there is still time to turn over a new leaf, to be good, to do good. Similarly, though rajāʾ is not a term used in the present sermon, the virtue of hope permeates it entirely. The subtext of the piece is that pious and virtuous people are people of hope. They inculcate characteristics of piety and virtue, and perform acts of piety and virtue, because they hope for God’s pleasure and reward in this world and the next.

Teachings on Brotherhood and Pluralism The hundred virtues listed in our two texts—twenty in “Pillars of Faith” and eighty in “Description of the Truly Pious”—are not the only virtues Ali emphasizes. There are a myriad of teachings underlining the sanctity of life and property, condemning oppression, and forbidding slander even of enemies. Others preach forgiveness and gentleness. The following is a sample of his sayings on these topics: • • • • • •

The true worth of a man is measured by the good he does.38 Gentle character is a sign of nobility.39 How you wish to be treated should be the measure of how you treat others.40 Do not let someone’s ingratitude stop you from doing good. The one who reaps no benefit from your generosity [i.e., God] thanks you.41 Believers are brothers: they should not cheat, slander, or hesitate to help one another.42 I dislike you slandering [our enemies]. It is better that you simply describe their deeds . . . and instead of name-calling, say: God, preserve our blood and their blood from being spilt, heal the relationship between us, and guide them out of their errant ways.43

Like Ali’s pluralistic conception of just governance, on the level of individual ethics we also find that he preaches brotherhood and affection among the human family. The tone is set for this stripe of preaching by a popular hadith of the Prophet Muhammad, “We are all children of God, and God loves best those who most benefit his children.”44 Morphing this idea with the Arabian reverence for illustrious genealogy, Ali is reported to have said in a verse of poetry, “All humans are peers and equals: Their father is Adam, their mother is Eve.”45 Moreover, although the majority of Ali’s sayings exhort personal piety and deeds, these transpose seamlessly into the public sphere. This is clear from the many sayings in which he connects individuals with society, and bridges a person’s

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personal traits into behavior with others. In a frequently quoted line, Ali says “Live among people in such a manner that while you live they long for your company, and when you die they weep over you.”46 In addition to his call for brotherhood among humans, Ali also exhorts his followers to be kind to birds, insects, and animals. Emphasizing that these animals are God’s own creation, he marvels at the physiognomy and living habits of the ant, the locust, the crow, the eagle, the pigeon, and the ostrich,47 and expresses amazement at the physical features of the bat and the peacock.48 Bringing this approach to bear on human virtue, he directs his followers, “Be gentle with your horses and camels. Do not keep them standing while loaded. Do not make them drink with their bits in their mouths. Do not load them beyond their capacity.”49

Comparison With Self-Oriented and Ascetic Approaches in Muslim Ethics The study of virtue ethics in Islam has focused largely on the work of philosophers, theologians, jurists, and mystics;50 these draw directly on Ali’s ideas to some extent, or at least converge with them, while diverging from them in others. This is too large a topic to wrap our arms around adequately here, but a few cases of difference will serve as a foil to bring Ali’s ideas into sharper focus. Ali’s conception of an ideal life, a life of happiness and meaning, is distinct from self-oriented approaches among certain Sufis. Sufism is not a monolith and not all Sufi individuals or groups are so minded;51 some even come close to Ali’s version. But the influential Sufis Junayd (d. 910) and Rabi’a al-Adawiyya (d. 801), for example, focus on a person’s love for God as an exclusive and personal phenomenon. Rabi’a’s ideas in particular could be construed as a rejection of the whole idea of living harmoniously and productively in human society.52 While in Ali’s conception as we have seen, we need to maintain a balance between striving for individual spiritual closeness with God, and promoting a healthy, closeknit, and godfearing community. Similar to Aristotle’s promotion of the Golden Mean, Ali says, “Whoever leaves the middle road deviates,” and with echoes of the Greek philosopher’s concept of Eudaimonia, he advocates a life of engaged productivity.53 Ali strongly encourages reflection and contemplation, but solitude for thought is different than leading a solitary life. Ali’s approach is also different from certain ascetically oriented presentations of Islam, which, in some ways, come close to the Buddhist advocacy of unequivocal detachment for the spiritual elite and monasticism—54such as the Sufi master Qushayri’s (d. 1074) approach, which lauds hunger, poverty, and celibacy.55 In contrast, Ali advocates living a joyous life on earth with family and community, in accordance with God’s law and Islam’s moral code. One should enjoy and give thanks for God’s temporal and spiritual blessings, while all the time worshipping

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the creator and practicing virtue in action—thus, ultimately leading to a joyous life in the hereafter. In one celebrated sermon, he says, The pious partake of the joys of this world and those of the next. . . . In this world, they reside in the most splendid of residences and consume the finest of delicacies. . . . Yet, when they depart, they leave with full provisions and a large profit.56 In this, as in other ideas, Ali echoes the balance promulgated by the Qur’an, which directs, “Through the blessings that God has granted you, seek the abode of the hereafter; but do not forget to enjoy your share of this world.”57 To complicate things further, however, Ali preaches that for those who gain deep knowledge, the world progressively becomes anathema, even though, paradoxically, they are more and more at peace.58 Moreover, as noted earlier, Ali’s sermons contain strong criticisms of worldliness. But Ali himself is described in the historical reports as only engaging in ascetic practices—eating coarse grain, wearing patched garments, sleeping in the mosque—in the last few years of his life.59 During his early years with the Prophet, there are no reports of such austerities. Most importantly, even in his final years of strict self-denial, Ali was actively engaged in the community, governing the Islamic empire, commanding in various battles, engaging in trade, farming his land, caring for his family, and all the while preaching piety and virtue. Ali encourages detachment from temporal desires, yet, as we have seen, he simultaneously preaches positive social engagement for the spiritual novice as well as the spiritual adept. He strongly advocates responsibility of the individual for the wellbeing of family and community, for just and compassionate governance, for coming together in earthly living and communal worship; in other words, an appropriate balance between detachment and attachment. Among present-day Muslims, there are some who choose to foreground one or the other, virtue or piety. Over the past decade, I have conversed anecdotally with individuals from practicing Muslim families who have said they want to focus on “just being good human beings.” The unspoken implication is, of course, that they no longer wish to commit to an organized faith denomination. Many continue to love and revere Muhammad, Ali, and other prominent and pious Muslim leaders as part of their traditional legacy, but they choose to deliberately let go, to a smaller or larger extent, the practice and laws they also inherited from their forebears. There are others on the further end of the spectrum who are steadfast practitioners, but whose focus on religious ritual downplays the importance of inculcating virtue. In Ali’s vision, this is a false dichotomy. As we have seen in the texts analyzed in this article, he advocates an inseparable combination of both piety and virtue as two indivisible sides of the same coin.

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Concluding Remarks Ali’s teachings have resonated with Muslims through the fourteen centuries since the coming of Islam, and they continue to hold immense consequence today. As a system of values, they have the potential to promote a just and compassionate vision of Islam. Especially in several strife-torn Muslim-majority countries, I believe they could unify Shia and Sunni in their common creed of Islam, and Muslims and people of other faiths in their common humanity. The divide between Shiism and Sunnism in Islam is largely based—to put the issue simplistically—on the perception of Ali’s role as first Imam vs. fourth Caliph. His own words and his example can and should be used not to create divisions between groups, but to heal, to bring people together. Centered in a distinct Islamic and Qur’anic worldview, Ali’s ethics are also universal, applicable to the lives of humans in different times and places. At the heart of his teachings, we find the promotion of virtues such as justice and compassion, in conjunction with consciousness of the creator. In Ali’s vision, piety is not only about worship of God, but it is also about translating that worship into righteous behavior. Conversely, Ali also preaches that full virtue is only attained through consciousness of God, and that virtue, like piety, is learned through the divine guidance of his prophets. In short, true piety cannot be attained without virtue, and true virtue cannot be attained without piety. In Ali’s vision, it is this combination of piety and virtue that generates meaning in life, and I close with a final quote. Offering his companion Nawf al-Bikali a simple yet profound formula for self-realization, Ali conjoins prayer with justice, devotion with detachment. He predicates on both, on piety and virtue, an individual’s path to happiness in this world and the next:60 Happy are those who reject worldliness and focus their desire on the hereafter. They take God’s earth for a carpet, its dust for a bed, its water for perfume, the Qurʾan as their garment, and prayer as their robe. They cut their bonds with the world in the manner of the Messiah, son of Mary. God revealed to his servant, the Messiah: “Command the children of Israel that they should not enter any of my houses except with pure hearts, eyes cast down, and unsullied hands. I do not answer the prayer of any who has rendered an injustice to one of my creatures.” For Ali, ultimate happiness is in the next life with God. But in this world too, the pious and virtuous are always connected to God, and thus truly happy; as stated in the Qurʾanic verse he cited at the head of his “Description-of-the-Truly-Pious” sermon, “God is with those who are pious and perform good deeds.” As we have seen, Ali parses in the body of that sermon what it means to “be pious and perform good deeds” in a

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list of eighty religious and humanitarian virtues; to repeat a few here, it means being compassionate and generous, as well as performing good deeds, taking the teachings of the Qurʾan to heart, praying the ritual prayer, and supplicating God. In his “Pillars-of-Faith” sermon, Ali preaches a further twenty virtues—forbearance, conviction, justice, and struggle against evil, and many supporting character traits. In both the sermons we see that among the virtues one must acquire to become truly pious and faithful, virtues that transcend the self play a crucial role. To be sure, many also focus inward, but as in everything else, Ali advocates a balance; in addition to cultivating one’s individual betterment, worldly and spiritual, one must also do all one can to help others. If you are not just and compassionate, you are not truly pious. Just as virtue is incomplete without piety, piety is incomplete without self-transcendent virtue, and the combination of both leads to complete happiness. Taking the middle ground between secular humanism and insular faith, Ali propagates a holistic model for happiness, combining individual devotion and betterment with virtuous and dynamic social engagement.

Notes * (i) All translations in the article are my own. (ii) To balance accessibility with clarity, diacritical marks are not used for the names of people and places in the text of the narrative, but they are used for titles and terms therein, and for authors and titles in the Endnotes and Bibliography. 1 Qurʾān, ʿAnkabūt 29:45: (‫َﺮ‬ ِ ‫)ﺇِﻥﱠ ﺍﻟﺼﱠﻼﺓَ ﺗَ ْﻨﻬَﻰ ﻋ َِﻦ ْﺍﻟﻔَﺤْ ﺸَﺎ ِء َﻭ ْﺍﻟ ُﻤ ْﻨﻜ‬. From the vast field of Qur’anic studies, the following are some general suggestions for further reading: For overviews, see McAuliffe, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Qurʼān, and Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’an. For Qur’anic ethics, see Isutzu, Ethico-Religious Concepts in the Qurʾān, Rahman, “Some Key Ethical Concepts of the Qur’ān,” Reinhart, “Ethics and the Qur’ān,” and Abou El Fadl, “Qurʾanic Ethics and Islamic Law.” 2 Qurʾān, Baqara 2:43, “Stand up for the ritual prayer, and pay the alms-levy” ْ ُ‫ﻮﺍ ٱﻟﺼ ٰﱠﻠﻮﺓَ َﻭﺁﺗ‬ ْ ‫ ;) َﻭﺃَﻗِﻴ ُﻤ‬and passim. (َ‫ﻮﺍ ٱﻟ ﱠﺰ ٰ َﻛﻮﺓ‬ 3 Quḍāʿī, Light in the Heavens, §2.96. I am not aware of any dedicated overviews of ethics in the hadith of the Prophet Muhammad, but two primary sources are Quḍāʿī’s compilation and Nawawī’s Gardens of the Righteous. 4 Primary and secondary works on Ali abound. For a brief biography and further references, see Qutbuddin, ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib, and Introduction to Qutbuddin, ed. and trans., A Treasury of Virtues, xii–xv. Sunni sources include Ṭabarī, Taʾrīkh, trans. as The History of al-Tabari: vol. 16: The Community Divided, and vol. 17: The First Civil War; and Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt, 3:13–29. Shia sources include Nuʿmān, Sharḥ al-akhbār, vols. 1–2 passim, Mufīd, Irshād, vol. 1, and Majlisī, Biḥār al-anwār (for volume and page nos., see Index vol. 3:133–54). The Shia view of Ali’s role is supported and documented by Madelung, The Succession to Muhammad, the Sunni view by Afsaruddin, Excellence and Precedence. 5 Cited widely, including: Nuʿmān (Shia), Sharḥ al-akhbār, 1:89, 97; Tirmidhī (Sunni), Sunan, §3720, §3725, §3730, §3731; Ibn Saʿd (Sunni), Ṭabaqāt, 3:16–18; Ibn Māja (Sunni), Sunan, §121. 6 For an overview of the orality, authenticity, aesthetics, and themes of Ali’s oeuvre, see Qutbuddin, “Introduction,” Treasury, xvi-xvii, xx-xxii. For further

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sources of materials quoted, see ʿAbd al-Zahrāʾ, Maṣādir. On aesthetics and themes of Ali’s oration, see Qutbuddin, “Sermons of Ali: At the Confluence of the Core Islamic Teachings of the Qur’an and the Oral, Nature-Based Cultural Ethos of Seventh Century Arabia,” “A Sermon on Piety by Imam ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib: How the Rhythm of the Classical Arabic Oration Tacitly Persuaded,” and “ʿAlī’s Contemplations on this World and the Hereafter in the Context of His Life and Times.” In addition to Ali’s prose, a Dīwān of ad hoc verse is also compiled by Kaydarī. For an overview of the genre of oration in early Islam, see Qutbuddin, Arabic Oration: Art and Function; idem, “Khoṭba” in EIr, and idem, “Khuṭba: The Evolution of Early Arabic Oration.” For a list of primary historical and literary sources for Ali’s words, see Qutbuddin, “ʿAlī’s Contemplations,” 334, n. 4. The Path of Eloquence is one of the most influential works of Arabic literature and has generated hundreds of commentaries, among them a 20-volume commentary by the Sunni-Mu’tazili scholar Ibn Abī l-Ḥadid (d. 1257); for a list of 210 commentaries, see ʿĀmilī, Shurūḥ Nahj albalāgha. See extended comments Ali’s virtues and eloquence in the commentators’ introductions. Many scholars have commented on the broad reach of Ali’s teachings. Raḍī writes in the introduction to the Nahj (30): “If a person were to ponder [Ali’s] words about renunciation and counsel . . .—while putting aside the knowledge that they were spoken by one such as Ali whose stature was lofty, whose commands people followed, and whose rule encompassed a multitude—he would have no doubt that these are the words of one who knows nothing but renunciation, who has no occupation other than worship, who has withdrawn to a lonely corner of his house, or leads a solitary life at the base of a mountain, hearing no other voice, and seeing no other person. He would never imagine that they could have been spoken by one immersed in war.” Rowan Williams—Archbishop of Canterbury and head of the Church of England—writes in a “Foreword” to the Treasury (xii): “ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib was of course a military leader among other things, but a military leader in the Western Europe of the day would have been most unlikely also to have produced prayers of eloquence and intensity, philosophical considerations of the ‘grammar’ of God’s eternity and self-sufficiency, and ‘wisdom’ sayings of profound economy and insight.” Raḍī, Nahj, wisdom §30 (the text following it explains the four pillars of unbelief and doubt); Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §5.14 (preceded by an explanation of the meaning of Islam). Ḥarrānī, Tuḥaf al-ʿuqūl, 122–23. Further sources cited in ʿAbd al-Zahrāʾ, Maṣādir, 4:214–15. Ancient Roman rhetors such as Cicero and Quintillian described the method of loci as a means of organizing and remembering points in speeches. A number of examples are found in Ali’s speeches, e.g., Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §7.19, §7.20. Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §2.10.3. ْ ‫ُﻮﻝ ٱﻟﻠﱠ ِﻪ ﺃُ ْﺳ َﻮﺓٌ َﺣ َﺴﻨَﺔٌ ﻟﱢ َﻤﻦ َﻛﺎﻥَ ﻳَﺮْ ﺟ‬ Qurʾān, Aḥzāb 33:21: ﴾‫ٱﻵﺧ َﺮ‬ ‫ُﻮﺍ ٱﻟﻠﱠﻪَ َﻭ ْٱﻟﻴَﻮْ َﻡ‬ ِ ِ ‫ﻟﱠﻘَ ْﺪ َﻛﺎﻥَ ﻟَ ُﻜ ْﻢ ﻓِﻲ َﺭﺳ‬ ‫ﱠ‬ َ َ َ ‫﴿ َﻭﺫﻛ َﺮ ٱﻟﻠﻪَ ﻛﺜِﻴﺮًﺍ‬. See also Qurʾān, Mumtaḥana 60:4, 6: “You have a beautiful exemplar in [the Prophet] Abraham and those who were with him . . . They are a beautiful exemplar for you.” Qurʾān, Qalam 68:4: (‫َﻈﻴﻢ‬ َ ‫) َﻭﺇِﻧﱠ‬. ِ ‫ﻖﻋ‬ ٍ ُ‫ﻚ ﻟَ َﻌﻠَ ٰﻰ ُﺧﻠ‬ For a Sufi-oriented presentation of Ali’s justice, see Shah-Kazemi, Justice and Remembrance, and Lakhani et al, The Sacred Foundations of Justice in Islam. References include Nuʿmān (Shia), Sharḥ al-akhbār, 1:91; Ibn Māja (Sunni), Sunan, §154: (‫)ﺃﻗﻀﺎﻛﻢ ﻋﻠ ّﻲ‬. Raḍī, Nahj, epistle §265.

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17 Ibid., oration §221. 18 Ibid., wisdom §431. 19 Raḍī, Nahj, epistle §291: (‫)ﺇ ّﻣﺎ ﺃﺥ ﻟﻚ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺪﻳﻦ ﺃﻭ ﻧﻈﻴﺮ ﻟﻚ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻖ‬. UN Secretary-General Kofi Anan quoted these lines in his address at Tehran University in 1997 (Press Release SG/SM/6419 OBV/34, www.un.org/press/en/1997/19971209. SGSM6419.html). 20 Raḍī, Nahj, wisdom §184. 21 Jāḥiẓ, One Hundred Proverbs, appended to Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §1. 22 Citations include Qālī, Amālī, 2:147; Nuʿmān, Sharḥ al-akhbār, 2:391–92. 23 Raḍī, Nahj, wisdom §147; Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §4.3. 24 For a discussion of the earliest contexts of jihad, including its usage in the Qur’an and hadith, see Afsaruddin, Striving in the Path of God: Jihad and Martyrdom in Islamic Thought. 25 Citations include Bayhaqī, Zuhd, §373. 26 Qurʾān, Naḥl 16:128. 27 Raḍī, Nahj, oration §191 (and section in oration §86); Ibn Qutayba, ‘Uyun, 2:380–81; Ibn Abī l-Dunyā, Tawaḍuʿ, 1:52; Abū Nuʿaym, Ḥilyat al-awliyāʾ, 1:79, 6:52–53, 306; Ibn ʿAsākir, Ta’rīkh, 4:493; Qurṭubī, Jami‘, 1:230; Ibn Kathīr, Bidāya, 7:6; Ḥarrānī, Tuḥaf al-ʿuqūl, 119–21. 28 E.g., Raḍī, Nahj, oration §159, §186, §193, §194: (‫)ﺃﻭﺻﻴﻜﻢ ﺑﺎﻟﺘﻘﻮﻯ‬. ْ ‫﴿ َﻭﺗَ َﺰ ﱠﻭﺩ‬. 29 Qurʾān, Baqara 2:197: ﴾ ‫ُﻭﺍ ﻓَﺈِﻥﱠ َﺧ ْﻴ َﺮ ٱﻟ ﱠﺰﺍ ِﺩ ٱﻟﺘﱠ ْﻘ َﻮ ٰﻯ‬ 30 Lane, Lexicon, s.v., F-Ḍ-L. Other Qurʾanic terms denoting virtue ethics include birr, ṣāliḥ, khayr, maʿrūf, akhlāq/khuluq, and iḥsān. Additional terms in classical Arabic denoting virtues/merits include manāqib, maʾāthir, and mafākhir. Each has a slightly different flavor. 31 The Oxford English Dictionary gives the meaning of “godfearing” as “characterized by deep respect for God; deeply or earnestly religious” (Oxford University Press; accessed on May 1, 2018, www.oed.com.proxy.uchicago. edu/view/Entry/79655?rskey=xj98rf&result=2&isAdvanced=false§eid). 32 In “Two Moments in the Biography of Holiness (Qedushah),” (paper presented at Virtues, Happiness and Meaning of Life workshop, University of Chicago, 2017), Joseph Stern discussed the perspectives of Maimonides and Nahmanides on the biblical prescription in Lev. 19, 2: “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” 33 Exegetes explain the word taqwā in the Qurʾān (Baqara 2:197) as: “fearing the performing of evil deeds” (Zamakhsharī); “fearing God’s punishment which is meted out to those who disobey Him” (Ibn Kathīr); and “good deeds” (Qurṭubī). Altafsir.com: www.altafsir.com/Tafasir.asp?tMadhNo=1& tTafsirNo=2&tSoraNo=2&tAyahNo=197&tDisplay=yes&Page=2&Size=1 &LanguageId=1. Accessed May 9, 2018. 34 E.g., Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §1.279: “Whoever gallops forward loosening the reins of his hopes (amal) will stumble into death.” 35 See comments on translation method in Qutbuddin, “Note on the Text,” Treasury, xxxii-xxxiii, and Light in the Heavens, xxxiv–xxxv. 36 Raḍī, Nahj, oration §82. 37 Thaʿālibī, Tamthīl, 30. 38 Jāḥiẓ, One Hundred Proverbs, §5, in the volume Quḍāʿī, Treasury. 39 Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §1.115. 40 Ibid., §4.1.9. 41 Ibid., §4.1.100. 42 Ibid., §1.127. 43 Raḍī, Nahj, oration §204. See also Ali’s instructions to the commander of his vanguard at Siffin, “Fear God, whom you will have to meet . . . do not attack any except those who attack you . . .” (Ibid., epistle §250).

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Quḍāʿī, Light in the Heavens, §9.54: (‫)ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻖ ﻋﻴﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﻭﺃﺣﺐّ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻖ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﺃﻧﻔﻌﻪ ﻟﻌﻴﺎﻟﻪ‬. Kaydarī, Anwār, 95: (‫)ﺍﻟﻨﺎﺱ ﻣﻦ ﺟﻬﺔ ﺍﻟﺘﻤﺜﺎﻝ ﺃﻛﻔﺎء—ﺃﺑﻮﻫﻢ ﺁﺩﻡ ﻭﺍﻷ ّﻡ ﺣﻮّﺍء‬. Raḍī, Nahj, wisdom §9. Ibid., oration §183. Ibid., oration §153, §163. Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §4.1.60 Overviews of Islamic ethics include Fakhry, Ethical Theories in Islam; and Vadet, Les idées morales dans l’Islam. For a discussion of how Muslim philosophers combined Greek philosophical ideas and Islamic precepts in theorizing virtue, see Qutbuddin, “Healing the Soul.” A primary philosophical text dedicated to the theory of virtue is Miskawayh, Refinement of Character. For a medley of articles on Islamic ethics relating to various disciplines, see Carney, et al. Focus on Islamic Ethics—Foundational Issues, special issue of The Journal of Religious Ethics 11(2), including Reinhart, “Islamic Law as Islamic Ethics.” For a broader spectrum of Sufi ethics, see Heck, “Mysticism as Morality: The Case of Sufism.” See, e.g., Junayd, “On Annihilation,” and anecdotes about Rābiʿa, in Sells, Early Islamic Mysticism, 257–65, 151–70. Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §1.250. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, §1106a-§1109a, §1095a-1999a, and passim. It should be noted that this is a case of intersection, not stimulus. Although Greek thought had great influence on the development of Islamic philosophy and science, it was not until the Baghdad translation movement of the 8th–10th centuries—a century after Ali—that their ideas came systematically into the Islamic world. For more on the translation movement, see Gutas, Greek thought, Arabic culture. See, e.g., “Samaññaphala Sutta: The Fruits of the Homeless Life,” trans. Maurice Walshe, in [Buddha], The long discourses, pp. 91–109. See, e.g., Qushayrī, “On Sorrow,” “On Hunger and the Abandonment of Lust,” and “On Spiritual Poverty,” in The Risalah, pp. 167–72, 327–35. Raḍī, Nahj, epistle §265. Qurʾān, Qaṣaṣ 28:77: (‫ﻚ ِﻣﻦَ ﺍﻟ ﱡﺪ ْﻧﻴَﺎ‬ َ َ‫َﺼ ْﻴﺒ‬ َ ‫﴿ َﻭٱ ْﺑﺘ َِﻎ ﻓِﻴ َﻤﺎ ﺁﺗَﺎ‬. َ ‫ﻙ ﺍﻟﻠﱠﻪُ ﺍﻟﺪﱠﺍ َﺭ ْﺍﻵ ِﺧ َﺮﺓَ َﻭ َﻻ ﺗَ ْﻨ‬ ِ ‫ﺲﻧ‬ See, e.g., Ali’s censure of the world in Raḍī, Nahj, oration §223. Regarding Ali’s asceticism, see, e.g., report of his patched garments in Ibn Saʿd, Ṭabaqāt, 3:20, and the eulogy by his son Hasan in which he said Ali left behind neither gold nor silver, in ibid., 3:28. See also the report of Dirar quoted earlier in the article. Quḍāʿī, Treasury, §4.6.1; the first half is also cited in ibid., §2.5, and Raḍī, Nahj, wisdom §105. Translated here as “happy” (and in the Treasury as “blessed”), Arabic ṭūbā is a complex word that may be rendered variously (including as the name of a tree in paradise), but which in all renderings signifies deep and eternal bliss.

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Afsaruddin, A. (2002). Excellence and Precedence: Medieval Islamic discourse on legitimate leadership. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill Academic Publishers. Afsaruddin, A. (2013). Striving in the path of God: Jihad and martyrdom in Islamic thought. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. ʿĀmilī, Ḥusayn Jumʿah. (1983). Shurūḥ Nahj al-balāgha: 210 shurūḥ. Beirut, Lebanon: Maṭbaʿat al-Fikr. Carney, F. S., ed. (1983). Focus on Islamic ethics: Foundational issues. Special issue of The Journal of Religious Ethics, 11(2). Fakhry, M. (1991). Ethical theories in Islam. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill Academic Publishers. Gutas, D. (1998). Greek thought, Arabic culture: The Graeco-Arabic translation movement in Baghdad and early ʿAbbāsid society (2nd–4th/8th–10th centuries). London, England: Routledge. Heck, P. (2006). Mysticism as morality: The case of Sufism. Journal of Religious Ethics, 34(2), 253–286. Isutzu, T. (1966). Ethico-religious concepts in the Qurʾān. Montreal, Canada: McGill-Queen University Press. Lakhani, M. A., Shah-Kazemi, R., & Lewisohn, L. (2006). The sacred foundations of justice in Islam: The teachings of ʿAli ibn Abi Talib. Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom. Madelung, W. (1997). The succession to Muhammad: A study of the early Caliphate. Cambridge, England and New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. McAuliffe, J. D. (Ed.). (2006). The Cambridge companion to the Qurʼān. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Qutbuddin, T. (1995). Healing the Soul: Perspectives of medieval Muslim writers. Harvard Middle Eastern and Islamic Review, 2, 62–87. Qutbuddin, T. (2005). Ali ibn Abi Talib. In M. Cooperson & S. Toorawa (Eds.), Dictionary of literary biography, vol. 311: Arabic literary culture, 500–925 (pp. 68–76). Farmington Hills, MI: Gale Research. Qutbuddin, T. (2008). Khuṭba: The evolution of early Arabic oration. In B. Gruendler & M. Cooperson (Eds.), Classical Arabic humanities in their own terms (pp. 176–273). Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill Academic Publishers. Qutbuddin, T. (2012). The sermons of ‘Alī ibn Abī Ṭālib: At the confluence of the core Islamic teachings of the Qur’an and the oral, nature-based cultural ethos of seventh century Arabia. Anuario de Estudios Medievales, Linda Jones (Ed.), 42(1), 201–228. Qutbuddin, T. (2013). Khoṭba. In E. Yarshater (Ed.), Encyclopaedia Iranica. Retrieved from www.iranicaonline.org/articles/kotba-sermon Qutbuddin, T. (2016). ʿAlī’s contemplations on this world and the hereafter in the context of his life and times. In A. Korangy, W. Thackston, R. Mottahedeh & W. Granara (Eds.), Essays in Islamic philology, history, and philosophy (pp. 333–353). Berlin, Germany and Boston, MA: De Gruyter. Qutbuddin, T. (2017). Qurʾan citation in early Arabic oration (khuṭba): Mnemonic, liturgical and testimonial functions. In N. Alshaar (Ed.). The Qurʾan and Adab: The shaping of literary traditions in classical Islam (pp. 315–40). Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Qutbuddin, T. (In press). A sermon on piety by Imam ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib: How the rhythm of the classical Arabic oration tacitly persuaded. In J. Scholz, M. Stille, S. Dorpmüller & I. Weinrich (Eds.). Religion and aesthetic experience: Drama-Sermons-Literature, special issue of Heidelberg studies on transculturality. Heidelberg, Germany: Heidelberg University Press. Qutbuddin, T. (In press). Arabic oration: Art and function. In M. Fierro, M. Ş. Hanioğlu, R. Holod, F. Schwarz, G. Beckman, C. Leitz, B. Levine,

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P. Michalowski & P. Miglus (Eds.), Series, Handbook of Oriental Studies, Section 1: Near and Middle East. Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill Academic Publishers. Rahman, F. (1980). Major themes of the Qur’an. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Rahman, F. (1983). Some key ethical concepts of the Qur’ān. The Journal of Religious Ethics, 11(2), 170–185. Reinhart, K. (1983). Islamic law as Islamic ethics. The Journal of Religious Ethics, 11(2), 186–203. Reinhart, K. (2001–2006). Ethics and the Qur’ān. In J. D. MacAuliffe (Ed.), Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān (Vol. 2, pp. 55–79). Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill Academic Publishers. Sells, M. A. (Trans.). (1996). Early Islamic mysticism: Sufi, Qur’an, Mi’raj, poetic and theological writings. New York, NY: Paulist Press. Shah-Kazemi, R. (2006). Justice and remembrance: Introducing the spirituality of Imam ʿAlī. London, England and New York, NY: I.B. Tauris. Vadet, J. C. (1995). Les idées morales dans l’Islam. Paris, France: Presses universitaires de France.

7

The Common Good in Aristotle and Aquinas Kevin L. Flannery

Remarks by both Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas related to their understanding of the common good—understood as the good aimed at and promoted by those with political authority—might give even readers who describe themselves as Aristotelians or Thomists pause. The main worry would be that, since both authors speak occasionally about the good proper to those in positions of political authority as more important than that proper to individuals, this might suggest that the common good overrides the good of the individual in ways incompatible with the rights of the individual. The present essay argues that a broader understanding of the related theory (or theories) as found in Aristotle and Thomas does much to assuage this worry. Aristotle’s remarks related to the common good are many and they are made in various contexts. The present essay, in successive sections, looks primarily at remarks found in three places: Nicomachean Ethics 1.2, Nicomachean Ethics 6.8, and Metaphysics 12.10.1 Thomas Aquinas discusses these remarks in his commentaries on these Aristotelian works, but also in other places, such as his Summa Theologiae.2 In what follows, the term “common good” usually refers to that which is aimed at by those with political authority. As will become apparent, however, especially in Section 3, the term can refer in an analogical way to other goods; indeed, that these other (yet mutually related) “common goods” exist is part of the solution to the worry identified just above. When the term “common good” refers to these other goods, this will be made apparent.

Nicomachean Ethics 1.2 Aristotle begins his primary work in ethics, the Nicomachean Ethics [EN], with remarks about the ends of both individual human actions and the practical structures within which they might take place. “Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and choice, is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim.” Among these practical structures is

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what he goes on to call the science of politics. It would appear, he says, that this science is “the most important and especially architectonic” (EN 1.2.1094a26–27).3 The science of politics is not just a discipline to be studied but one to be put into practice; it is not separate from human actions, for their end is in a special way its end: “The good for man” (EN 1.2.1094b7). As he puts it, since this science legislates as to what we are to do and what we are to abstain from, the end of this science must include those of the others, so that this end must be the good for man [τἀνθρώπινον ἀγαθόν]. For even if the end is the same for a single man and for a polity, that of the polity seems at all events something greater and more complete both to attain and to preserve; for though it is worth while to attain the end merely for one man, it is finer and more godlike to attain it for a people or for polities. (EN 1.2.1094b5–10) Aristotle is speaking here in a somewhat paradoxical manner. If the “good for man” for the single man is the same as the “good for man” for the polity, how can the latter be “something greater and more complete both to attain and to preserve”? But we shall see below that he says a similar thing about the principal virtue of the individual and the principal virtue of the politician. He says, that is, that it is the same virtue but that it animates good actions in distinct spheres, each of which requires its own expertise: the sphere of the individual’s personal life and the sphere in which the politician operates qua politician. In the just quoted passage, Aristotle speaks, of course, of an end, not a virtue; but a virtue is a virtue only insofar as it allows a particular nature (such as a human nature) to prosper as the type of nature it is—which is only to say that the virtue orients its possessor toward his nature’s end.4 And so the end (“the good for man”) can be the same for the individual and for the politician—who share a human nature—even while (in some sense) the politician’s end is more important. (The politician’s end is sometimes referred to as “the common good,” but it is best for the moment to avoid this term because of Aristotle’s insistence here in EN 1.2 that the good “for a polity”—its end—and the good “for a single man” are the same thing.) Aristotle characterizes the science of politics in a way that would raise objections today of excessive control of the private sector by government. He says, for instance, that among the sciences it is the “most authoritative” since it “ordains which of the sciences should be studied in a polity, and which each class of citizens should learn and up to what point they should learn them” (1094a28-b2). Falling under it are military strategy, household management, and rhetoric; “it legislates,” he says, “as to what we are to do and what we are to abstain from” (1094b5–6).5 An example of the latter would be what he says in his Politics: that pregnant women

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should not be idle or limit themselves to a meager diet. “The first of these prescriptions,” he says, “the legislator will easily carry into effect by requiring that they shall take a walk daily to some temple, where they can worship the gods who preside over birth” (Pol. 7.16.1335b13–16). These remarks must, of course, be understood within their historical context. When Aristotle speaks of a “polity” (or a πόλις), he has in mind what is now often referred to as a “city state,” such as ancient Athens, which included the city itself plus the surrounding countryside and had an area of approximately 1,000 square miles. So, any government control was quite close to those controlled, who—provided the polity was, like Athens, a democracy and they were citizens—might have a direct say in what the government ordained. It should also be borne in mind that, in the Politics, Aristotle recognizes that the household (or οἰκία) is subject to household justice, which is distinct from the justice of the polity.6 Still, there are things that Aristotle says about the authoritativeness of the science of politics that give one pause. What then does Thomas have to say about these remarks by Aristotle? In the relevant sections of his commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics [= in EN], it is apparent that he is interested in interpreting Aristotle in a way that “loosens” somewhat government control. This is not to say that Thomas’s interpretation is a false—or even a forced—one: the relevant points he makes are all based upon things that Aristotle says. In the second lesson (or lectio) of the commentary, for instance, although he acknowledges that, according to Aristotle, the science of politics “dictates to the smith not only that he use his skill but also that he use it in such a fashion as to make knives of a particular kind,” he also calls attention to the perfectly Aristotelian distinction between the practical sciences and the speculative sciences. The science to which knife-making belongs is a practical; geometry, on the other hand, is a speculative science. “The political ruler,” he says, “does not dictate to geometry what conclusions it should draw about a triangle, for this is not subject to the human will nor can it be ordered to human living but it depends on the very nature of things” (in EN §27). So, the politician’s right conduct would depend upon his respecting the true findings of the speculative sciences. Thomas also offers a striking interpretation of Aristotle’s statements that, “even if the end is the same for a single man and for a polity, that of the polity seems at all events something greater and more complete both to attain and to preserve” and that, “though it is worth while to attain the end merely for one man, it is finer and more godlike to attain it for a people or for polities” (EN 1.2.1094b7–10). Says Thomas: Certainly it is a part of that love which should exist among men that a man pursue and preserve the good even of a single human being. But it is much better and more divine that this be done for a whole people and for polities.7

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There is no suggestion here that the interests of the polity necessarily override those of individuals. Quite the contrary: Thomas insists that each individual is obliged by love to “pursue and preserve the good even of a single human being.” Aristotle’s position would be, therefore, that there is a duty to pursue and preserve the good of the individual and that this duty is multiplied—and so yet more imperative—as the number of individuals is itself multiplied. Indeed, Thomas (in EN §31) calls attention to something that Aristotle says in EN 1.2 that brings the whole discourse out beyond the aegis of the science of politics, even as Aristotle understands it. As we have seen, just after saying that the end of the polity is “greater and more complete,” Aristotle says that “it is finer and more godlike to attain [the human good] for a people or for polities” (EN 1.2.1094b9–10). But his science of politics is not about governing peoples or multiple polities but about governing individual policies.8 In his Politics, Aristotle remarks a number of times that, in order to be well governed, a polity must not be too big, and in book seven he explains why: “For law is order, and good law is good order; but a very great multitude cannot be orderly: to introduce order into the unlimited is the work of a divine power—of such a power as holds together the universe” (Pol. 7.4.1326a29–33). It would seem, therefore, that when Aristotle says that “it is finer and more godlike to attain it”—that is, the end which is the same “for a single man and for a polity”—“for a people or for polities” (1094b10), Aristotle is suggesting that this same end is the end also of something beyond the science of politics. As he concludes the second lesson of the commentary, Thomas recalls what Aristotle has said about the science of politics’ being “the most important and especially architectonic” (EN 1.2.1094a26–27), and then he says: But we should note that he says the science of politics is the most important, not simply, but in that division of the practical sciences which are concerned with human things, the ultimate end of which the science of politics considers. The ultimate end of the whole universe is considered in divine science [scientia divina] which is the most important with respect to all things. He says that it belongs to the science of politics to treat the ultimate end of human life. This however he discusses here since the matter of this book covers the fundamental notions of the science of politics. (in EN §31) Obviously, Thomas is saying here that the science of politics is not absolutely “the most important” and “architectonic.” There is another science, divine science, to which it is subordinate.9 This entails that the politician, in order to be a just politician, must not impose measures

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incompatible with what Thomas calls elsewhere eternal law (ST 1–2.91.1). Thomas, however, is not contradicting Aristotle here. His speaking of “this book” (“the matter of this book covers the fundamental notions of the science of politics”) shows that he is well aware that in the tenth and final book of the Ethics Aristotle himself suggests that there is a type of activity above political activity (the practice of the science of politics): philosophical contemplation, which is itself in some sense divine (EN 10.7.1177a12–18). According to Aristotle, according to Thomas, the science of politics is supreme only so long as we limit our attention to the properly political sphere: the governance of polities. In chapter seven of book one of the Ethics, Aristotle describes in the most superlative terms the end that men seek. It is, he says, “complete”—or perhaps “perfect,” that being an alternative translation of the word he uses: τέλειον. This end is “complete without qualification,” he says; “it is always desirable in itself and never for the sake of something else” (EN 1.7.1097a28–34); it is “self-sufficient” (EN 1.7.1097b 8). But in chapter ten of book one, Aristotle suddenly pulls back and acknowledges that the end he has been describing—and the corresponding activity—is as complete or perfect as is available to men, subject as they are in this life to upsets and vicissitudes (EN 1.10.1101a6–19). Referring to the conditions he has set out in Chapter Seven—“complete without qualification,” “desirable in itself,” etc.—he says: “we shall call blessed those among living men in whom these conditions are, and are to be, fulfilled—but blessed men.”10 Thomas comments: But because these things seem not to measure up in all respects to the conditions required for happiness above (EN 1.7), he adds that those we call happy are men subject to change in this life, who cannot attain perfect beatitude. Since a natural desire is not in vain, we can correctly judge that perfect beatitude is reserved for man after this life. (in EN §202) We see here something similar to what we saw just above regarding the end for the individual and the end for the polity. The good for man is here described as, first, the end for the individual, but then it is distinguished (the same end) as pertaining to the single man in this life and as pertaining to him in the afterlife. It would seem, therefore, that the very human good that is sought by individuals (and also by polities) is a good that transcends our present life. Thomas is certainly attributing this position to Aristotle, and there is good reason to do so. The question of whether Aristotle recognized an afterlife for the individual intellect—as opposed to the individual intellect’s merging into a common immortal intellect—has been disputed since

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at least the time of Alexander of Aphrodisias (who lived into the 3rd century A.D.). Thomas in his On the Unity of the Intellect: Against the Averroists argues persuasively that Aristotle does recognize the survival after death of the individual intellect—and so of the human soul. Even, however, if he is wrong, it is not to be excluded that Aristotle held that, as Thomas puts it in the passage just quoted, there is a supreme good— “perfect beatitude”—attainable “after this life.” As already mentioned, pertinent remarks are also to be found in the tenth book of the Ethics. In EN 10.7 Aristotle speaks about the limitations of the science of politics as pursued in this life and also quite explicitly about a science superior to that science. The inadequacy of the science of politics is that it has an end outside of itself. At his worst, the politician seeks “despotic power and honors”; at his best, he seeks “happiness, for him and his fellow citizens—a happiness different from political action, and evidently sought as being different” (EN 10.7.1177b12–15). For Aristotle, a science’s seeking something outside itself is an inadequacy: that makes it more like one of the productive arts, such as housebuilding, which, in order to attain its goal (qua housebuilding), has to wait until the house is built. A superior science would “aim at no end beyond itself” and would “have its pleasure proper to itself” (EN 10.7.1177b20–21). These are in fact marks of the activity of Aristotle’s supreme being, the “first unmoved mover,” who is thought thinking itself (Metaph. 12.7.1072b19–21; 12.9.1074b33–35) and whose “actuality is also pleasure” (Metaph. 12.7.1072b16). But they are also the marks of philosophical contemplation—and, in particular, of the contemplation that is divine science or metaphysics—in which also we humans can engage, at least until we grow weary, as is inevitable. This limitation should not, however, discourage us from living a life devoted to philosophical contemplation. [F]or it is not in so far as he is man that he will live so, but in so far as something divine is present in him; and by so much as this is superior to our composite nature is its activity superior to that which is the exercise of the other kind of excellence. If intellect is divine, then, in comparison with man, the life according to it is divine in comparison with human life. But we must not follow those who advise us, being men, to think of human things, and, being mortal, of mortal things, but must, so far as we can, make ourselves immortal, and strain every nerve to live in accordance with the best thing in us; for even if it be small in bulk, much more does it in power and worth surpass everything. (EN 10.7.1177b27–1178a2) Aristotle is not rejecting here what he says in EN 1.2 about the good for the individual and the good for the polity (sometimes called the common

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good). Our natural end remains an end sought within a community— within, that is, a polity. We are by nature political animals (Pol.1.2.1253a2–3). But, if we might think of an end as having extension, within that end is a small opening to the transcendent. Occupying oneself with—or within—that end is superior to any other human activity. It is for this reason that the science of politics, although in one sense “the most important and especially architectonic” (EN 1.2.1094a26–27), is subject to divine science. Commenting upon EN 10.7 but recalling also the earlier remarks in Book One, Thomas points out that the end (in some sense) distinct from itself that the science of politics pursues is in fact the “contemplative happiness to which the whole of political life seems directed.” But he immediately adds a caveat: “As long as the arrangement of political life establishes and preserves the peace that gives to men the opportunity of contemplating truth” (in EN §2101).11 A politician who adopts measures that do not preserve such peace—or who fails to adopt measures that would preserve it—is not acting in accordance even with the science of politics itself.

Nicomachean Ethics 6.8 So then, one way that Aristotelians and Thomists can avoid the espousal of excessive governmental influence over the private sector is to point out that, for Aristotle and Thomas, the common good (the good aimed at and promoted by those with political authority) is intrinsically bound up with goods that inhibit (or, at least, should inhibit) possible excesses effected in its name. Another way of doing the same has been proposed by John Finnis. For Finnis, the common good specific to the civitas as such—the public good—is not basic but, rather, instrumental to securing human goods which are basic (including other forms of community or association, especially domestic and religious associations) and none of which is in itself political, i.e., concerned with the state.12 This statement presupposes Finnis’s (and his colleagues’) interpretation of Thomas’s ST 1–2.94.2, according to which Thomas is speaking there of certain “basic human goods” such as are recognized as goods to be pursued by every human individual. These goods include human life, marriage, and “living in fellowship or companionship {in societate} with others.”13 This is not the place to mount an argument against this interpretation of ST 1–2.94.2. One can certainly acknowledge here that from the individual’s point of view—or even from the point of view of one responsible for a family—the good that government provides is indeed instrumental, but one should also add that, when Aristotle and Thomas speak of “the common good specific to the civitas as such,” they are

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acknowledging the existence of a perspective broader than that of the individual (or the parent) and, within that perspective, speaking about the concerns of the politician acting qua politician. A good vantage point from which to appreciate this more general perspective—this larger “stage”—is the sixth book of the Nicomachean Ethics. That book has to do largely with the virtue called by Aristotle φρόνησις. English translations tend to render that Greek word as “practical wisdom,” but, since Thomas (and those who did the Latin translations he used) refer to that virtue as prudentia, it would be best here to call it “prudence.” Prudence, according to Aristotle, is an intellectual virtue, for one who has it is capable on a steady basis of reasoning well about what to do. Prudence is not unconnected with the strictly speaking “moral virtues,” such as continence, courage, and justice, for it is the moral virtues (and their attendant inclinations) that allow a person’s thinking about what to do to be prudent. Nonetheless, although dependent upon moral virtue in this way, prudence is “in charge,” for ultimately supreme in Aristotle are always the intellectual virtues. It is only insofar as they are thinking—that is, rational—animals that humans are capable of performing actions with moral significance. Chapter Eight of Book Six of EN opens with the following remark: “Political science and prudence are the same state of mind [ἕξις], but to be them is not the same.” Aristotle goes on to mention a couple of the parts of “the prudence concerned with the polity,” including what he calls “legislative prudence.” He then says: “Prudence also is identified especially with that form of it which is concerned with a man himself— with the individual; and this is known by the general name ‘prudence’” (EN 6.8.1141b29–31). What Aristotle is saying in this passage is, on first reading, anything but apparent. In particular, one wonders what it means for two intellectual virtues—political science and prudence—to be “the same state of mind” and yet, with respect to their being, to be different. In commenting on this passage, Thomas very usefully depicts the proportional relationship among certain Aristotelian virtues and says something too about the ranking of types of prudence: He [Aristotle] says then that political science and prudence are substantially the same habit [habitus] because each is right reasoning [ratio] about things to be done about what is good or bad for man. But they differ with respect to the reasoning,14 for prudence is right reasoning about things to be done in the light of what is good or bad for one man, that is, oneself. Political science, however, is about things good or bad for the whole civic multitude. Consequently, political science is to prudence simply as legal justice to virtue, as was indicated heretofore in the fifth book. When the extremes have been stated, we see the median, i.e., household management, which

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Kevin L. Flannery holds a middle place between the prudence regulating one man and that regulating the polity. (in EN §1196)

The proportional relationship here identified—political science stands toward prudence as legal justice stands toward virtue—helps one to understand what Aristotle means in saying that political science and prudence are “the same state of mind” but differ regarding their being.15 In the passage in Book Five to which Thomas refers, EN 5.1.1130a10–13, Aristotle says exactly the same thing of the relationship between legal justice and virtue. He says, that is, that “they are the same but being them is not the same; what, as a relation to others, is justice is, as a certain kind of state [ἕξις] without qualification, virtue [ἀρετή].”16 When Aristotle speaks here of “legal justice,” he means simply moral uprightness as it bears upon others; “virtue-without-qualification” is virtue simply speaking (or simpliciter).17 Aristotle’s (and Thomas’s) point, therefore, is that legal justice is the same thing as virtue-without-qualification when it (virtue-without-qualification) concerns—or is understood as concerning— not just the agent himself but also others. Aristotle defines virtue as “a state [ἕξις] concerned with choice, lying in a mean relative to us, this being determined by reason and in the way in which the man of prudence would determine it” (EN 2.6.1106b36– 1107a2). The word translated here as “state” or, at EN 6.8.1141b24, as “state of mind,” finds its way into Latin as habitus, rendered just above in the quotation from Thomas as “habit.” Aristotle’s—and Thomas’s— point is that, like legal justice and virtue-without-qualification, political science and prudence are the same virtue—the only difference being the context within which they are understood to be operative, that is, the type of reasoning involved. If the context is a political one and the reasoning has to do with promoting politics’ specific end, the virtue is called political science. If the context is not political and the reasoning has to do simply with the human good as pertaining to individuals—or, as Thomas puts it in the passage just quoted (in EN §1196), if the reasoning has to do with “what is good or bad for one man, that is, oneself”—then the same virtue is called prudence. This is not to say that an individual’s decisions might not involve also others: a spouse, for instance, or children or even certain fellow citizens. But even such decisions—which might be either prudent or imprudent— say something about the individual’s moral character qua individual. One should also add though that political science does require (indeed, is) the practical knowledge about how polities are best run. When in the political world we encounter a man who fulfills well his political responsibilities, we recognize that character trait (or ἕξις or habitus) as the same character trait possessed by the man who simply makes prudent decisions about his own life or the life of his family—even though it may be the

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case that the latter, should he become a politician, if he lacks knowledge of how polities are best run, would not be considered politically prudent. On the other hand, Aristotle appears to hold that one who possesses the science of politics will also be prudent with respect to that which is good or bad for himself. Aristotle says in this same section of the Nicomachean Ethics that “we think Pericles [the great Athenian statesman] and men like him have prudence, viz. because they can see what is good for themselves and what is good for men in general” (EN 6.5.1140b7–10). So, in a sense, Finnis is right: when Thomas speaks in ST 1–2.94.2 of a natural inclination to live (as Finnis puts it) “in fellowship or companionship with others,” he is talking about the human good of getting along as an individual with others. Finnis is also right to say that the polity in which an individual lives can be (merely) instrumental in achieving this individual good. But the virtue that allows one personally to live in fellowship with others is the same virtue that a person, should he be given political responsibilities and perform them well, exercises. For such a person, the good of living in society is what his life and activity aim at: it is hardly instrumental. As we have seen, at the very beginning of EN, Aristotle says that “every action and choice, is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim” (EN 1.1.1094a1–3). The actions and choices not just of private individuals but also of politicians aim at what is regarded as “the good” (“the good for man”), although the politician performs and makes them within a political context and so they will be quite different from the actions and choices of the private individual (qua private individual). If the politician’s actions and choices truly promote that good, he is said to be politically prudent. His being such is not an instrumental but—for him as politician and for the polity he serves—a “basic” good, in accordance with the laws of human nature. According to both Aristotle and Thomas, an action (whether good or bad), a vice, or a virtue is defined—receives, that is, its species—from its object. An act of theft receives its species from a thing belonging to another (insofar as it is taken by one to whom it does not belong); the vice of cupidity receives its species from riches (insofar as they are desired inordinately), and the virtue of temperance receives its species from the concupiscible passions (insofar as they are mastered in accordance with reason).18 In his commentary (quoted above) on the opening remarks of EN 6.8, Thomas notes that the object of both political science and prudence is “things to be done about what is good or bad for man”—whether one is reasoning about what is good or bad “for one man” or rather “for the whole civic multitude.” In either case, whether the virtue concerns an individual or a polity, the virtue can be called a self-transcending one, for it orients the person possessing it to the whole of which he is a part: “What is good or bad for man.” It is true that pursuing the good and avoiding the bad “for one man” does not per se involve altruism—just as

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virtue-without-qualification does not per se involve legal justice. But, as noted above, man is a political animal (Pol.1.2.1253a2–3). And so it is that “the end is the same for a single man and for a polity” but that the end of the polity is “something greater and more complete,” “finer and more godlike” to attain and to preserve (EN 1.2.1094b7–10). Before moving on to the final Aristotelian passage, it is worth taking note of one other thing that Thomas says in his commentary on the opening remarks of EN 6.8 (that is, at the end of the passage quoted above). Having first identified the proportional relationship “political science : prudence :: legal justice : virtue,” he remarks that, “when the extremes have been stated, we see the median, i.e., household management, which holds a middle place between the prudence regulating one man and that regulating the polity” (in EN §1196). This is an implicit acknowledgment by Thomas that, when in ST 1–2.94.2 he mentions society as a good within which one might flourish, he is not excluding as merely instrumental that which pertains to the polity. In fact, he recognizes a hierarchy based (in part) on numbers: first comes the prudence of the individual, next comes the prudence known as household management, and at the top comes political prudence (in its various manifestations). There is certainly no suggestion here that Thomas considers the latter— considered in itself—as merely instrumental.

Metaphysics 12.10 This alternative approach to Finnis’s constitutes in itself a response to the objection that an Aristotelian/Thomistic understanding of the relationship between the individual and the political good entails excessive political control over the individual. For, given that both the virtuous politician and the virtuous individual are such because they are possessed of what is substantially the same virtue (prudence), that virtuousness is incompatible with acts or policies that override genuine individual rights. The virtue that inheres in the souls of both the private individual and the politician prevents either from acting unreasonably—which is to say, immorally. We saw a similar thing also in the first section of the present essay, in particular, in Thomas’s remark that “it is a part of that love which should exist among men that a man pursue and preserve the good even of a single human being” (in EN §30). But now that it has been established that neither Aristotle’s nor Thomas’s writings can be used as the basis of an endorsement of the inordinate wielding of power in the interest of the (apparent) political good, it will be useful in conclusion to explain why, according to both authors, close association of the individual with a more ample or universal good is a good thing. The key text in this regard is Aristotle’s Metaph. 12.10. This is the last chapter of the book (within the Metaphysics) in which Aristotle arrives

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finally at what the whole work has been aiming: as he states in the first book, knowledge of “the supreme good in the whole of nature” (Metaph. 1.2.982b6–7).19 Much of what he says in Metaph. 12.10 has to do with the order of the universe itself, but it has implications also for how we are to understand his conception of the relationship between the political good and the good of the individual human being, for, as the examples he uses show, he understands the relationship between the universe and its first principle—the first unmoved mover or God—as analogous to that between specifically human organizations and their leaders. Metaph. 12.10 begins as follows: We must consider also in what way the nature of the universe possesses the good and the highest good: whether as something separate and itself [good] in itself or as the order. Or ought we not to say in both ways, as an army does? For it is in the order and it is the leader— and preferably he, for he is not [good] because of the order but the order because of him.20 Aristotle goes on to draw an analogy between the good (or highest good) of the universe with the “common good” [τὸ κοινόν] (Metaph. 12.10.1075a22) of the household—which creates a bit of terminological confusion insofar as today the term “common good” typically refers to the political good, as distinct from the individual or household good— not to mention the good of the universe. It must be borne in mind, however, that Aristotle was writing long before the terminology became as fixed as it is today. In any case, Aristotle’s image of an army and its leader might provoke in the minds of some the reaction that, if this is the way he understands things, he must be advocating something quite incompatible with any modern way of conceiving the relationship between the individual and the more universal contexts in which he finds himself. But what Aristotle goes on immediately to say should set their minds at rest, for he speaks of all things as “ordered together somehow, but not all alike,—both fishes and fowls and plants; and the world is not such that one thing has nothing to do with another, but they are connected” (Metaph. 12.10.1075a16– 18). The order of the universe is unlike that of an army on parade, where a leader shouts an order and the identically uniformed soldiers perform together one and the same move. No, the image of the army and its leader is meant only to convey the idea that the good of the universe’s highest principle is the same as that of its various parts. The activity of any soldier—qua part of that particular army—receives its end (its sense) from the end determined by the leader and not vice versa. But the parts of the universe have each their own way of pursuing the highest good, depending upon the part’s role with the whole. We find the same situation in an army (except, perhaps, when marching in formation). A soldier

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whose role it is to clean weapons spends his day doing something quite different from what his leader does; their end, however, is the same—or, as Aristotle says, perhaps it is primarily that of the leader, for it is he who determines that end. The basic idea is the one we saw in EN 1.2, where Aristotle says that “the end is the same for a single man and for a polity,” although the latter is also distinct and “more godlike” [1094b5–10].21 And, indeed, the analogy (already mentioned) that Aristotle goes on to use suggests that the good at which any rational being aims itself falls under (or within) the good of the universe and, ultimately, under the external good of the universe itself: God. Having first stated that all in nature is ordered toward one end, he says: But it is as in a household, where for the freemen it is permitted rarely that they do something by chance but all or most things are ordered; for slaves, on the other hand, and beasts, little that they do feeds into the common [good] [τὸ κοινόν] and most occurs by chance, for the nature of each is a principle of this sort.22 According to Thomas, by means of this simile Aristotle is identifying a hierarchy of beings within the universe: something at the bottom of the hierarchy, such water in a stream, is subject to random movement; things at the top—in particular, the “separate substances”—behave in a manner reflected in the utterly regular movements of the entities they govern: the heavenly bodies. They are like the sons in an Aristotelian household, who participate directly in the organization determined by the paterfamilias: “For it is not proper for the sons to act in a haphazard or disorderly way,” says Thomas, “but all or most of the things that they do are ordered.”23 Elsewhere Thomas associates Aristotle’s separate substances with the angels—rational beings whose “practical thoughts” are without variation in accordance with God’s will.24 Between these higher entities and the lower (such as water in a stream) are located human beings, who, provided that they are thinking and acting reasonably, approach the rational consistency of the angels. So, given Aristotle’s simile of the household, like the separate substances or the angels, human rational agents are ordered toward their individual ends (or goods) but also toward the more universal good, which is the separate good toward which nature itself is ordered. And, of course, since the politician is a rational being, he too can be fit into the same schema: his pursuit of his polity’s good would be substantially the same as his pursuit of the external good of the universe. Human beings come in a special way to see that they have ends beyond themselves once they understand themselves as part of the ordered complex which is God’s creation. What happens when someone spurns this schema, when, that is, one denies the superiority of the more universal good in its various forms and its connection with individual natures? An answer to this question

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has been provided by Charles De Koninck, the leading modern scholar in these regards. In 1943, De Koninck published an essay entitled “De la primauté du bien commun contre les personnalistes” (“The primacy of the common good against the personalists”).25 The personalism he criticizes in this essay is one that so emphasizes the individual good, that the order of the universe as depicted in Metaph. 12.10—that is to say, the good of the order of the universe which is itself subordinate to the external good which is God its creator—becomes secondary.26 De Koninck describes such personalism in the following manner: If the human person were truly what the personalists say, man would have to be able to find in himself a loveableness which would be his as opposed to his end: the self would be itself the principle of its destiny and would be as well the term: he would not subordinate himself to an end other than himself except to subordinate it to himself; he would be borne toward things other than himself only in order to make them his own as the end. In truth, the end of persons would consist in the expansion of their personality.27 De Koninck acknowledges that the term “personalism” might be used in reference to theories that do not go so far as this description suggests. But he recommends its non-use because of the inevitably associated theory’s philosophical and theological implications. He cites Thomas’s invocation of Augustine who, while acknowledging that the term “fate” might be given a Christian interpretation, says that the term ought not to be used of God’s providence since people typically understand by the term a force inherent in the configuration of the stars. “If someone attributes [certain events] to fate because he calls the will or power of God ‘fate,’ allow him to maintain the opinion but correct his way of speaking.”28 For this reason De Koninck discourages—because it is rooted in ideas that go quite contrary to a comprehensive understanding of man’s relationship to the universe and to its maker—use of the term “personalism.” De Koninck also acknowledges that the academics he criticizes do not necessarily espouse the consequences that he sees following from personalism as he defines it.29 De Koninck’s essay elicited considerable opposition, including a response by I. Thomas Eschmann, O.P., who thought that De Koninck was attacking Jacque Maritain.30 De Koninck (who denied that he had Maritain primarily in mind) responded to Eschmann in a lengthy essay entitled, “In defence of Saint Thomas: a reply to Father Eschmann’s attack on the primacy of the common good.” With a view to portraying the individual good as primary, Eschmann lashes out at a straw man that he presents as De Koninck’s position. He maintains that according to De Koninck individual human beings are “material parts materially composing and materially constituting”

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the common good or order of the universe. By speaking of “material parts”—a term never used in the pertinent contexts by De Koninck— Eschmann ignores everything that De Koninck says about the relationship between persons and the more universal good as depending upon their intellectual grasp of that toward which their nature is ordered and upon the various ways in which this grasp connects them with their fellows and with the order of the universe itself.31 In effect, Eschmann ignores the complex schema of Metaph. 12.10 as interpreted by Thomas and expounded by De Koninck in which the individual human being fits into the larger universe as a “part” only insofar as his nature finds its fulfillment as a nature in the good (variously understood) outside itself. Indeed, Eschmann’s straw man is a fair representation of the position that De Koninck rejects and associates with totalitarianism: the thesis that the individual is a self-contained part inserted into a whole, to the operation of which it is wholly subordinate and to which it has no intrinsic connection.32 De Koninck characterizes Eschmann’s version of personalism in the following manner: [Τ]he greatest good of the person is held to be each individual person himself, taken separately, so that each and every one of them is, absolutely speaking, a greater good than any or all of the other persons. Each person, then, because he is in the image of God, is a better created good than any and all of the other created persons who are also in the image of God. Such personalism, argues De Koninck, constitutes not a way to human happiness but quite the opposite, for it would generate nothing but social disintegration, itself borne of necessarily competing—and incompatible— self-interests. Eschmann fails to appreciate Thomas’s idea that God created this complex and teleologically structured universe and gave us a place in it precisely in order that we might transcend ourselves in the multiple ways it provides. De Koninck recognizes that the term “common good” has many meanings, related analogically.33 Employing the term “common good” in some of its various meanings and speaking of “the good of the family” and “the good of political society” as subordinate to a yet higher good, he has this to say: [I]f the rational creature cannot be ordered entirely to a subordinate common good, to the good of the family, for example, or to the good of political society, this is not because his singular good, taken as such, is greater, but because of his ordination to a higher common good to which he is principally ordered. In this case, the common good is not sacrificed to the good of the individual, but to the good of the

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individual insofar as he is ordered to a more universal common good. Singularity alone cannot be the per se reason.34 In other words, any sort of subordination to a common good (of a household, for instance, or nation) might be overridden by virtue of a person’s subordination to a higher common good. Of course, the overriding involves the person, but not simply because the person is a person— which is the central thesis of personalism—but because the person “is ordered to a more universal common good.” Take away this understanding of the individual’s good as part of a teleologically ordered universe, and life becomes vicious. De Koninck concludes his “Defence of St. Thomas” with a quotation from C. S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters. It is a good way to conclude also the present essay. Referring to God as “the Enemy,” the coldly rational demon Screwtape explains: The whole philosophy of Hell rests on recognition of the axiom that one thing is not another thing, and, especially, that one self is not another self. My good is my good and your good is yours. What one gains another loses. Even an inanimate object is what it is by excluding all other objects from the space it occupies; if it expands, it does so by thrusting other objects aside or by absorbing them. A self does the same. With beasts the absorption takes the form of eating; for us, it means the sucking of will and freedom out of a weaker self into a stronger. “To be” means “to be in competition.” Now the Enemy’s philosophy is nothing more nor less than one continued attempt to evade this very obvious truth. He aims at a contradiction. Things are to be many, yet somehow also one. The good of one self is to be the good of another. This impossibility he calls love, and this same monotonous panacea can be detected under all He does and even all He is—or claims to be.35

Notes 1 In this essay, quotations from Aristotle are usually from Barnes (1984), occasionally adjusted in order to suit the context. In a couple of instances, I offer my own translation of an entire passage (and indicate that I am doing this). The following abbreviations are used: EN = Nicomachean Ethics; Metaph. = Metaphysics; Phys. = Physics; Pol. = Politics. 2 Aquinas (1941). In this essay, the abbreviation ST refers to this work, e.g., Summa Theologiae. It is in three parts, the second part itself being divided into two parts. The first part is abbreviated as “ST 1,” the first part of the second part as “ST 1–2,” the second part of the second part as “ST 2–2.” The first number that follows these abbreviations refers to the question, the next number to the article. The commentary on the Nicomachean ethics (Aquinas, 1993) is abbreviated as in EN, the commentary on the Metaphysics (Aquinas, 1995) as in Metaph.

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3 The Revised Oxford translation speaks of this as “the most authoritative art and that which is most truly the master art” (EN 1.2.1094a26–27), even though in the immediately preceding sentence Aristotle says: “We must try, in outline at least, to determine what it is, and of which of the sciences or capacities it is the object.” What the politician is engaged in is no mere capacity [δύναμις], so it must be considered here a science [ἐπιστήμη]. 4 For the relationship between nature and end, see EN 2.6.1106a14–24; for the relationship between human virtue and reason, see EN 2.6.1106b36–1107a2. At Phys. 2.7.198a25–26 suggests that a form—such as a nature—is identical with its end. 5 The term at issue here, ἡ οἰκονομικὴ—which is elliptical for ἡ οἰκονομικὴ τέχνη—is often translated “economics.” It is derived from the noun οἶκος (house) and the adjective νομικός (relating to laws). Accordingly, it refers to the management of a household (an οἰκία) and would concern not just the household’s finances but also its organization and operations. 6 Pol. 1.7.1255b16–17; see also Pol. 1.12–13 and EN 8.10.1160b22–27. 7 The Litzinger translation renders the words quod homo quaerat et conservet bonum etiam uni soli homini as “that a man preserve the good even of a single human being” (in EN §30); that is, it does not translate the word quaerat, which adds to the obligation to preserve the individual’s good the more positive obligation to pursue it. 8 There is one place in Pol. where Aristotle suggests that his ideas on individual polities might be applicable more “internationally.” Speaking of the Hellenic race, he says at Pol. 7.7.1327b29–33 that “it continues free, and is the bestgoverned of any nation, and, if it could be formed into one state, would be able to rule the world.” But the remark is isolated and hypothetical. 9 Divine science remains, however, part of philosophy: see ST 1.1.1 obi./ad 2 (. . . quaedam pars philosophiae dicitur theologia, sive scientia divina . . .); see also Aristotle’s Metaph. 6.1.1026a19. 10 EN 1.10.1101a19–21 (emphasis in the Revised Oxford translation). 11 In what sense is the higher end distinct from the end of the science of politics? Relying on what Aristotle says in EN 1.2 (as interpreted above), it would be distinct in as much as it is the end of a science not concerned directly with political matters. 12 Finnis (1998, p. 247). (The passage itself includes a number of notes that have not been included here.) Finnis uses the Latin term civitas when referring to what we have been calling the polity. The passage quoted is followed immediately by the following sentence: “If that proposition needs qualification, the qualification concerns the restoration of justice by the irreparable modes of punishment reserved to state government.” As will be argued just below, the role of government in the establishment of justice is not a “qualification” of Thomas’s basic position but an essential part of it. 13 Finnis (1998, pp. 81–82). By Finnis’s colleagues, I am referring to, for instance, Germain Grisez and Robert P. George. Grisez’s interpretation of ST 1–2.94.2 is found in Grisez (1965, pp. 168–201). 14 The Litzinger translation has here “they differ specifically.” It is best, however, to avoid the word “specifically” since for both Aristotle and Thomas a well-defined virtue is specifically one; that is, it is a species in itself. In this section of EN 6 Aristotle is speaking about a virtue (prudence) that is specifically one, although differentiated with respect to the type of reasoning [ratio] involved. 15 Thomas speaks of the same proportional relationship at ST 2–2.47.10 ad 1; see also ST 2–2.47.11 and ST 2–2.50.1–2.

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16 In speaking of legal justice, Thomas has in mind justice as discussed at EN 5.1.1129b11–1130a13. 17 Aristotle’s term “legal justice” is misleading. He is not speaking about positive law—in fact, later in EN 5 (at EN 5.7.1134b18–19) he does speak of positive law, employing a slightly different Greek expression—but simply about virtue insofar as it has a bearing upon others (that is, society). In order to avoid the suggestion that in these two places Aristotle is speaking about the same thing, scholars often speak of the earlier “legal justice” as general justice. 18 See ST 1–2.18.2, ST 1–2.55.4, ST 1–2.60.4, and ST 2–2.19.3. 19 That Thomas accepts the ideas set out in Metaph. 12.10 is apparent in the use he makes of them at, for instance, Aquinas (1929–1947) (1.44.1.2), on whether God could have made the universe better. 20 Ἐπισκεπτέον δὲ καὶ ποτέρως ἔχει ἡ τοῦ ὅλου φύσις τὸ ἀγαθὸν καὶ τὸ ἄριστον, πότερον κεχωρισμένον τι καὶ αὐτὸ καθ’ αὑτό, ἢ τὴν τάξιν. ἢ ἀμφοτέρως ὥσπερ στράτευμα; καὶ γὰρ ἐν τῇ τάξει τὸ εὖ καὶ ὁ στρατηγός, καὶ μᾶλλον οὗτος· οὐ γὰρ οὗτος διὰ τὴν τάξιν ἀλλ’ ἐκείνη διὰ τοῦτόν ἐστιν (Metaph. 12.10.1075a11–15). This (very literal) translation is my own. It is very interesting that Aristotle says that the good is in the order but is the leader; the Revised Oxford Translation has: “For the good is found both in the order and in the leader . . . ” [1075a14]. 21 See also Pol. 2.2 where, in criticizing Plato, Aristotle says that the polity “is not made up only of so many men, but of different kinds of men; for similars do not constitute a state. It is not like a military alliance [συμμαχία]” (Pol. 2.2.1261a22–25). 22 ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ἐν οἰκίᾳ τοῖς ἐλευθέροις ἥκιστα ἔξεστιν ὅ τι ἔτυχε ποιεῖν, ἀλλὰ πάντα ἢ τὰ πλεῖστα τέτακται, τοῖς δὲ ἀνδραπόδοις καὶ τοῖς θηρίοις μικρὸν τὸ εἰς τὸ κοινόν, τὸ δὲ πολὺ ὅ τι ἔτυχεν· τοιαύτη γὰρ ἑκάστου ἀρχὴ αὐτῶν ἡ φύσις ἐστίν (Metaph. 12.10.1075a19–23). The translation is my own. 23 Metaph. §2633. See also this larger section: §§2633–37. 24 On the angels, see especially ST 1.59.1 and 3. See also Aquinas (2000) (8c), where, while discussing angels and without an explicit reference to Metaph. 12.10, Thomas says: “For it is manifest that the good of the universe is twofold: (1) something that is separate, that is, God, who is like the leader in an army; and (2) something in things themselves—and this is the order of the parts of the universe; like the order of the parts of an army, this is the good of the army.” He goes on then also to allude to the example of the household: “It is necessary that the higher parts of the universe participate more in the good of the universe, which is order. But those things in which there is order per se participate more perfectly in the order than do those in which the order is only per accidens.” 25 De Koninck (1943). In what follows, references will be to the English translation of this work: De Koninck (2009b, pp. 5–79). 26 See De Koninck (2009a, p. 248). In this place, De Koninck compares this version of personalism to ideas found in the Manichaeans and in Origen. 27 De Koninck (2009b, p. 90). 28 De Koninck (2009a, p. 336). The remark is found at Augustine’s De civitate Dei 5.1; Thomas cites it at Summa contra Gentiles 3.93 (§2685). 29 See De Koninck (2009b, p. 73). 30 Eschmann (2009, pp. 173–204). The original of this article appeared in The Modern Schoolman, 22 (1945), 183–208. 31 See Eschmann (2009, p. 179). See also De Koninck’s response at De Koninck (2009a, pp. 214–220).

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32 See De Koninck (2009b, pp. 102–103). At one point Eschmann characterizes De Koninck’s understanding of the situation of individuals with respect to the universe in the following manner: “Being material parts of the cosmos and subordinated, as material parts, to the stars and the spheres, they will have just as much responsibility, just as much choice, as the pistons in a steam engine” [Eschmann, p. 181]. 33 See De Koninck (2009a, pp. 262, 319–320). 34 De Koninck (2009b, p. 78). 35 Lewis (1945, p. 92).

References Aquinas, T. (1929–1947). Scriptum super libros Sententiarum Magistri Petri Lombardi Episcopi Parisiensis. P. Mandonnet & M. Fabianus (Eds.). Paris, France: Lethielleux. Aquinas, T. (1941). Summa Theologiae, cura et studio Instituti Studiorum Medievalium Ottaviensis (5 vols.). Ottawa: Garden City Press. Aquinas, T. (1993). Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. C. Litzinger (Trans.), with Foreword by R. McInerny. Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books. Aquinas, T. (1995). Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics. J. P. Rowan (Trans.). Notre Dame, IN: Dumb Ox Books. Aquinas, T. (2000). Opera Omnia: Vol. 24/2. Quaestio disputata de spiritualibus creaturis. Rome and Paris, France: Commissio Leonina and Éditions du Cerf. Barnes, J. (Ed.). (1984). The complete works of Aristotle: The revised Oxford translation (2 vols.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. De Koninck, C. (1943). De la primauté du bien commun contre les personnalistes. In De la primauté du bien commun contre les personnalistes; Le principe de l’ordre nouveau (pp. 5–79). Quebec: Éditions de l’Université Laval and Éditions Fides. De Koninck, C. (2009a). In defence of Saint Thomas: A reply to Father Eschmann’s attack on the primacy of the common good. In R. McInerny (Ed. and Trans.), The writings of Charles De Koninck (Vol. 2, pp. 205–363). Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. De Koninck, C. (2009b). The primacy of the common good against the personalists, and The principle of the new order. In R. McInerny (Ed. and Trans.), The writings of Charles De Koninck (Vol. 2, pp. 63–163). Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Eschmann, I. T. (2009). In defense of Jacques Maritain. In R. McInerny (Ed. and Trans.), The writings of Charles De Koninck (Vol. 2, pp. 173–204). Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Finnis, J. (1998). Aquinas: Moral, political and legal theory. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Grisez, G. (1965). The first principle of practical reason: A commentary on the Summa Theologiae 1–2, question 94, article 2. Natural Law Forum, 10, 168–201. Lewis, C. S. (1945). The Screwtape Letters. London, England: Geoffrey Bles.

8

Ethical Supernaturalism Angela Knobel

According to Aristotle, moral perfection consists in becoming most fully what one already is. We attain moral goodness when we realize our already possessed potential. Moreover, although our ability to attain this goal is in some respects outside our control (looks, wealth, and upbringing, for instance, can all either enhance or diminish our chances) our own actions are the most important factor in our attainment of moral goodness. I will call an ethical system like Aristotle’s, where moral goodness (1) consists in realizing already possessed potential and (2) is achieved through natural means (i.e., it is achieved through one’s own natural resources, upbringing, society, etc.), a “natural” ethic. In this chapter, I am interested in examining the difference between the kind of ethic Aristotle describes, and the account of the moral life offered by Thomas Aquinas. On the one hand, Aquinas seems to be very much an Aristotelian, for he not only appropriates but expands upon many of Aristotle’s key insights. Where Aristotle merely says that we become good by fulfilling our nature, for instance, Aquinas explicitly describes the capacities that allow us to pursue such fulfillment. But, at the same time, Aquinas also insists that one’s highest moral perfection does not consist in merely becoming a better version of what one already is, in the fulfillment of already possessed capacities.1 The highest possible moral perfection, for Aquinas, consists in participation in the divine life and is made possible only when we are transformed by God’s free gift of grace. Aquinas likewise claims that the virtues that order one to this latter kind of perfection cannot be attained by one’s repeated good acts but must be bestowed by God. I will call an account like this—an account where unqualified moral goodness cannot occur unless our nature is elevated or transformed, and where such a transformation cannot occur through our own efforts—a “supernatural” ethic. All of this seems rather problematic, if not even downright paradoxical. If true perfection cannot be achieved by our own efforts, why does Aquinas spend so much time describing how it is that one cultivates Aristotelian natural virtue? The traditional response by Thomists has been to focus on how Aquinas believes Aristotelian natural virtues are related to the supernatural

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virtues that God bestows along with grace. Usually, scholars propose that Aquinas envisions some sort of supporting role for Aristotelian natural virtue, i.e., that one needs to cultivate Aristotelian natural virtues to somehow “round out” one’s infused virtues, or that that the Aristotelian natural virtues provide the “matter” that the supernatural virtues perfect.2 In this chapter, however, I want to approach this question from a different angle, namely by examining how Aquinas thinks that the gift of grace affects the very principles that allow us to cultivate Aristotelian virtues in the first place. As I will show, we can understand the effect of grace on these principles in two very different ways. On the most coherent3 interpretation, I will argue, we are no longer left with the problem of carving out a role for nature and natural virtue in the life of grace, because nature is accommodated even while it is transcended. I will end by considering how the interpretation I propose fits into the debate over the relationship between natural and supernatural virtue. This chapter will have three parts. In the first part, I will examine how Aquinas not only appropriates but expands Aristotle’s account of nature and our ability to cultivate the natural virtues. In the second part of this chapter, I will examine Aquinas’s account of how the gift of grace transforms nature. Then, in the final part of this chapter, I will examine two different ways of understanding how Aquinas envisions the transformative effect of grace on nature and argue that one way is far superior to the other. I will also argue, however, that opting for the version I propose does not (contrary to what many assume) commit one to a specific view of how the natural and supernatural virtues are related.

Aquinas’s Aristotelian Roots I described a “natural” ethic as an ethical system (1) where moral perfection consists in becoming the best version of what one already is and where (2) moral goodness is achieved through natural means. My choice of both criteria was, of course, inspired by Aristotle. For it is Aristotle who insists that all things have a “function” and that good things are those that perform their unique function well. And while Aristotle acknowledges that at least part of what enables us to perform our function well lies outside of our control (looks, wealth, and upbringing, for instance, can all enhance or diminish our chances of fulfilling it) our own actions are the most important factor in whether or not we achieve moral perfection: our repeated good acts create the virtues that are the most important ingredient in our flourishing. But—as I will point out in this section—in certain key respects, Aquinas seems to offer an even stronger natural ethic than Aristotle does. For Aquinas not only adopts the Aristotelian account of nature but seems to think that nature provides us with far more resources to work toward the fulfillment of that nature than Aristotle does.

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Aristotle says that a good human being performs its unique function well, and he says that this means exhibiting the excellence of reason in the activities of life. But beyond insisting on the need to cultivate virtues, Aquinas offers a more substantial account of the resources nature gives us to cultivate virtue in the first place. Aristotle says that we are all “by nature” capable of virtue and that virtue is “up to us,” but he also seems to believe that quite a bit about actually becoming virtuous depends on luck: we need to be born in the right place (namely Athens) and have the right upbringing and the right amount of external goods. Aquinas, though, locates the capacity to act according to right reason squarely within us. Although even on Aquinas’s account circumstances and upbringing are hardly irrelevant to the cultivation of virtue, on his account the key player is still nature itself. Aquinas thinks that we all, by the very constitution of our nature, have the capacity to cause habits ordered to our natural fulfillment (i.e., natural virtues) in ourselves through our repeated good acts. In different texts, Aquinas asks whether virtue is “natural” to man: i.e., whether we possess virtues by the very constitution of our nature. He consistently responds that although we do not naturally possess the virtues, we do possess a natural “aptitude” for them (Aquinas, T. (2005); Aquinas, T. (in progress)).4 One thing “having an aptitude” could mean is that the thing in question is particularly suited to be changed in some way, even if it cannot bring about the change on its own. A piece of clay is particularly suited to be manipulated and molded in various ways, but it does not (of course) mold and shape itself. Conversely, though, we might mean that the thing in question has an aptitude not only to be changed, but also to bring about the change in itself. When we say that someone has a natural “aptitude” for languages, for instance, we seem to attribute to her not merely a passive receptivity (like that of the clay) but also an active one: the person who has an aptitude for languages doesn’t just receive knowledge of language from an external source in the way that a sculptor imposes shape on clay. She herself plays a causal role in her acquisition of the language: she is in some sense both the sculptor and the clay. Aquinas thinks our aptitude for natural virtue5 is just like that: he thinks, that is to say, we have both an active and a passive “aptitude” for virtue; it’s not just that dispositions to act virtuously can be imposed on our appetites and will, but that our intellect and will also themselves have the capacity to cause the very acts that produce those dispositions. He thinks, moreover, that our very nature gives us that capacity (DVC a. 8; ST q.63 a. 1). All of this is of course deeply Aristotelian. But Aquinas attributes to us even more natural resources for the cultivation of virtue than Aristotle does. For he holds that nature also gives us the very starting points or “seeds” of the acquired moral virtues. When Aquinas explains how it is that we are naturally capable of causing natural virtue in ourselves, he consistently points to the basic,

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orienting knowledge that—in his view—we all possess from our very first interactions with the world. Aquinas thinks that from our very first interactions with the world, we know, and are motivated by such naturally known, moral principles. These principles, says Aquinas, give us a vague and inchoate knowledge of our natural good and hence are the “seeds” of the virtues (DVC a. 10; ST I-II q.63 a. 3). They are “seeds” of virtue because they provide us with the basic orientation to our good and the basic principles of action that makes virtuous action possible. Aquinas says, tellingly, that the ends of the natural virtues “pre-exist” in these seeds; that is to say, this basic moral knowledge gives us an inchoate grasp of and desire for our natural fulfillment. Aquinas will argue that these “seeds of virtue,” together with our natural ability to reason, allow us to produce acts ordered to our natural fulfillment and, when we produce such acts repeatedly, to cultivate the natural virtues. The second important “active principle” that enables us to cultivate the natural virtues in ourselves is reason itself, which can move from these naturally known moral principles to a correct conclusion about what should be done. Aquinas does not, of course, think it is always easy to reason from our basic moral knowledge to a correct conclusion about what we should do. Indeed, we might well require the help of parents and teachers, just as we require their assistance in the acquisition of speculative knowledge. What Aquinas does think, however, is that when we receive such assistance, our teachers only minister to our reason; a teacher can help our reason to move along the appropriate paths, but it is ultimately our own reason that must arrive at the appropriate conclusion (Aquinas, T. (1953)). It is in the same way, says Aquinas, that medicine is related to healing: the body might make use of medicine, but it is ultimately the body that must heal itself. Since the powers of our soul are receptive to habituation, we can also, if we do such actions frequently enough, cause habits ordered to right action (i.e., virtues) in ourselves through our repeated good acts. In Aquinas’s words, we can cause the natural virtues in ourselves because we naturally possess both the active and the passive principles of virtue. Aquinas, then, thinks that our very nature gives us the resources to develop habits ordered to our natural fulfillment: both an orientation to our natural fulfillment, in the form of naturally known basic moral principles; reason itself, which is capable of applying this basic moral knowledge in concrete instances; and passions that are susceptible of habituation. Where the cultivation of natural virtue is concerned, then, Aquinas seems to offer a thoroughly natural ethic. We all by nature possess an orientation toward natural virtue, and we all—again by the very constitution of our nature—possess the resources we need to develop that ordering into full blown virtues. The problem, of course, is that Aquinas does not think that the goal of the moral life is to become the best version of what we already are, to

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perfect our already possessed capacities. Aquinas thinks that the goal of the moral life is to become something far better than we already are—to participate in the divine life—and he thinks that this cannot occur without direct divine intervention. Specifically, he believes that God bestows the gift of grace. “Grace” can mean different things in different religious traditions, and even within traditions, it is often used in different ways. In this instance Aquinas means that God bestows a habit that inheres in the very essence of the soul (rather than in one of its powers) with the result that the habituated human nature is now ordered to supernatural beatitude rather than a purely natural fulfillment. Aquinas also holds that God bestows corresponding virtues along with grace, so that the powers of the soul are also appropriately ordered. These are commonly referred to as “infused” virtues. All this seems to pose a problem. If the goal is not the attainment of the good proportionate to our created nature and the cultivation of natural virtue, why spend so much time discussing it? Or, since Aquinas does spend so much time discussing it, shouldn’t it be the case that the cultivation of natural virtue has some continued role to play even in the life of grace? But on the other hand, if we attempt to carve out some supporting role for natural virtue, aren’t we conceding that Aquinas does (at least to some extent) offer a purely natural ethic? Although scholars have offered a variety of answers to these questions, in what follows I want to explore the notion of infused virtue from a different angle, one that is implied by Aquinas’s text. Specifically, I want to examine Aquinas’s assertions in various texts about the need for and role of the “theological virtues,” aka the divinely given virtues of faith, hope, and love. Though Aquinas believes that all the moral virtues are bestowed along with grace, he believes that the divinely given virtues of faith, hope, and love are logically prior and that they play a foundational role in grounding the other divinely given virtues. As I will show, Aquinas consistently motivates his account of the theological virtues by insisting that man needs the same kind of resources to pursue supernatural union with God that he already possesses at the natural level. Whatever account Aquinas ultimately wishes to give of the relationship between nature and grace, or of natural virtue and supernatural virtue, it will begin with whatever fit he envisions between the theological virtues and the natural principles described above.

Ordering the Natural to the Supernatural In the preceding section I described the features of Aquinas’s account that would—if he considered natural fulfillment the goal of the moral life—suffice to make his account a “natural” ethic. But here matters get a bit more complex. For while Aquinas does think that natural fulfillment is a genuine kind of fulfillment, he also thinks that man is only truly fulfilled by a more than natural fulfillment. This seems to put nature and

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our pursuit of its perfection in an awkward place. However, the guiding thesis of this chapter is that, even though Aquinas is not interested in offering the kind of autonomous “natural” ethic Aristotle lays out, nature is not as awkwardly situated in his account as it might seem, and that we can shed some light on nature’s role by examining what Aquinas thinks actually occurs when God bestows the gift of grace on man. In some sense the answer is obvious: it is well known, for instance, that Aquinas thinks that the theological and moral virtues and the gifts of the Holy Spirit are bestowed along with the gift of grace. But what is less obvious—and what matters quite a bit for present purposes—is the question of how these additional gifts are related to nature. This is what I will examine in this section. As will be clear, Aquinas envisions a specific role for each infused habit, and in each case the gift remedies a specific way in which our natural resources are insufficient for the pursuit of our supernatural fulfillment. In question 62 of the prima secundae Aquinas considers the theological virtues. God bestows the theological virtues, Aquinas argues, because our good is twofold. We have one good that we can pursue through our own natural resources, and one—participation in the divine life—that entirely surpasses our nature. Since our natural resources sufficiently direct us to the former good but not to the latter, we need to be ordered to our divine good by the supernatural equivalent of whatever it is that orders us to our natural good: “Since this second sort of beatitude exceeds any proportion to human nature, a man’s natural principles, by which he proceeds to act well in a way proportioned to his nature (secundum suam proportionem), are not sufficient for ordering the man toward this beatitude” (ST I-II q.62 a. 1). Thus, says Aquinas, man needs to be given new principles that do at the supernatural level what the principles he already possesses do at the natural level: Hence, principles by which he might be so ordered toward supernatural beatitude have to be divinely added to a man—in just the way in which he is ordered by his natural principles toward his connatural end (though not without God’s help). And these principles are called theological virtues. (ST I-II q.62 a. 1) Each theological virtue supplies something specific that our natural principles lack. In the preceding section, we saw that (at least according to Aquinas) man is capable of pursuing his natural good because he has, by his very nature, an inchoate knowledge of it on the part of his intellect and a desire for it on the part of his will. Aquinas believes that in order to pursue our supernatural good we need a similar knowledge and desires that correspond to it.6 This is why he believes we need the theological virtues. Our

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intellect naturally knows first principles that guide us in speculative and practical matters: enough to allow us to pursue the good proportionate to our nature (ST I-II q.62 a. 3). But in order that we can pursue the divine good, says Aquinas, our intellect needs something more, namely: “certain supernatural principles that are grasped by a divine light (divino lumine capiuntur), and these are the things to be taken on faith (credibilia), with respect to which there is faith” (ST I-II q.62 a. 3). Similarly, since we naturally tend to what is connatural to us, our will already tends to the good of reason. Thus in order for our will to be ordered to the divine good, Aquinas says that we need to first, be united to that good in some way, and, second, see the attainment of that good as possible: “Each thing’s appetite naturally moves and tends toward the end that is connatural to it, and this movement proceeds from the thing’s being conformed in some way to its end (iste motus provenit ex quadam conformitate rei ad suum finem)” (ST I-II q.62 a. 3). The theological virtue of charity achieves the former, while the theological virtue of hope achieves the latter: The will is ordered toward its supernatural end both (a) with respect to the movement of intention, which tends toward the end as something possible to attain, and this pertains to hope, and also (b) with respect to a certain spiritual union through which the will is in some sense transformed into its end, and this is accomplished through charity. (ST I-II q.62 a. 3) Especially because it will be important for what follows, it is important to note that Aquinas believes that there is a distinct dis-similarity between what our natural speculative and practical first principles provide us with and what the theological virtues, as principles, provide us with. Aquinas certainly believes that each set of principles provides us with an inchoate knowledge of and desire for some good: our naturally possessed principles give us an inchoate knowledge of and desire for the good of reason, and the theological virtues, in turn, give us an inchoate knowledge of and desire for our supernatural good. But Aquinas also thinks that the former ordering is more self-sufficient than the latter. That is to say, together with our natural ability to reason and our natural desire for the good of reason, our naturally possessed first principles give us everything we need to cultivate the natural virtues. Teachers might initially help our reason to move along the appropriate paths, but recognizing the appropriate action in a given situation is something that we do on our own. As we develop the natural virtues, we come to rely on the assistance of teachers less and less: we become increasingly adept at recognizing how to pursue the good of reason in a particular instance. But Aquinas does not, importantly, think we ever become similarly “self-sufficient” at applying the knowledge given us by the theological virtues.

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While Aquinas repeatedly compares the theological virtues to our naturally known moral principles, he also repeatedly insists that they do not order us to our supernatural fulfillment as completely or as entirely as our natural principles order us to our natural fulfillment: There are two ways in which human reason is perfected by God: (a) by its natural perfection, i.e., in accord with the natural light of reason, and (b), as was explained above (q. 62, a. 1), by a certain supernatural perfection through the theological virtues. Even though this second sort of perfection is greater than the first, nonetheless, the first is had by a man in a more complete way than is the second. For the first sort of perfection is had by a man as a full possession, so to speak, whereas the second is had as an incomplete possession, since we know and love God in an incomplete way. (ST I-II q.68 a. 2) Because the theological virtues direct us to our good in an “incomplete” way, we cannot—as when we order our acts to our natural good—be the ultimate cause of acts ordered to supernatural beatitude: Now it is clear that if a thing has a nature or form (or virtue) completely, then it can operate in its own right (per se) in accord with that nature or form (though this is not to exclude the operation of God, who operates interiorly in every nature and will). By contrast, if a thing has a nature or form (or virtue) incompletely, then it cannot operate in its own right without being moved by another. (ST I-II q.68 a. 2) In the case of our natural good, our reason and our first principles of action are sufficient to enable us to perform appropriately ordered acts: “With respect to what falls under human reason, i.e., in relation to man’s connatural end, a man can operate through the judgment of reason” (ST I-II q.68 a. 2). But even with the new order provided by the theological virtues, reason is insufficient: On the other hand, with respect to man’s ultimate and supernatural end, toward which reason moves one insofar as it is formed in an incomplete way by the theological virtues, the movement of reason is not itself sufficient without the prompting and movement of the Holy Spirit from above. (ST I-II q.68 a. 2) Aquinas believes that we become capable of receiving this “prompting and movement” thanks to a further divine gift also bestowed along with grace, namely the gifts of the Holy Spirit.

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It’s clear from the preceding that Aquinas believes we need and receive new principles, new sources of action, if we are to be ordered to a good that transcends our nature. His very description of these new principles clearly conforms to his Aristotelian understanding of nature. Thus, nature at the very least provides the guiding principles of its own transformation. But we are still left with the question of what happens to nature when these new sources of action are added. Aquinas says that faith, hope, and love function at the supernatural level “just as naturally known principles do at the level of our natural activities” (DVC a. 10); but how does natural activity align with supernatural activity? How does our natural habitual knowledge of the first speculative and practical principles relate to the knowledge God infuses with the theological virtue of faith? How does our natural desire for the good of reason relate to the desire that arises when God unites us to himself in charity? In what follows, I will describe what some common interpretations of Aquinas’s view of the relationship between the natural and supernatural virtues imply about the relationship between these two sets of principles. I will argue that, under these interpretations, the two sets of principles remain in an uneasy relationship with each other, and the tension between nature and grace remains. I will then propose a better account of the relationship between these two sets of principles and offer some concluding thoughts about what my proposal means for the relationship between natural and supernatural virtue.

Parallel Principles? There is very little scholarship devoted to the question of how Aquinas believes the natural and supernatural principles described in the preceding section are related to each other. There is, however, a great deal of literature devoted to the question of how Aquinas believes the natural and supernatural virtues are related to each other. In this section I wish to make two points. First, I will argue that the former question is prior to and presupposed by the latter: a thesis about how grace affects the natural virtues will necessarily imply a thesis about how grace affects our natural principles. Second, I will examine what the traditional account of the relationship between the natural and supernatural virtues implies about the relationship between man’s natural and supernatural principles. The traditional account, I will argue, implies that even in a Christian in a state of grace, the natural and supernatural principles of action play distinct but parallel roles, and the account thus does nothing to resolve the tension between grace and nature. In the preceding section, we saw that Aquinas envisions a direct connection between virtue and the “principles” or seeds that initially order man to virtue. The principles that order man to natural virtue, moreover, are very clearly distinct from the principles that order man to supernatural

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virtue: the former cannot do the job of the latter or vice versa, because each gives man an inchoate knowledge of and desire for a very different kind of good. It might seem only natural to suppose that these new principles replace or transform the old; that our natural inchoate knowledge of and desire for the good of reason becomes an inchoate knowledge of and desire for supernatural beatitude; that our natural knowledge of the first practical principles is deepened and broadened to include knowledge of the truths of faith; and so on. But if Aquinas envisions this kind of continuity between the natural and supernatural principles of virtue, then there is no room for the separate cultivation of natural virtue in the Christian moral life. For if the principles or “seeds” of the natural virtues are transformed in this way, then every morally good action will stem from those transformed, supernatural principles and hence be an act of supernatural, rather than natural, virtue. At least given the examination of the preceding section, it would seem that the only way it will be possible for the Christian in a state of grace to cultivate natural—as opposed to supernatural—virtues will be in the event that his original natural principles and their operation remain distinct from the operation of the supernatural principles he receives along with grace, even after he receives grace and the theological virtues. As I will show in what follows, traditional accounts of the relationship between the infused and acquired virtues seem to assume just this. Such assumptions, I will argue, only serve to deepen, rather than diminish, the apparent tension between Aquinas’s Christian commitments and his Aristotelian sympathies. Interpreters of Aquinas have attempted to explain his view of the relationship between the infused and acquired virtues in a variety of ways. One very common strategy is to maintain that the Christian simply possesses two distinct kinds of virtue, one natural and one supernatural. Though they uniformly agree that the supernatural virtues are the most important, they also insist that the Christian’s natural virtues play some sort of necessary supporting role. Some scholars, for instance, argue that Aquinas believed the Christian cultivates natural virtues insofar as he pursues the civic good and supernatural virtues insofar as he pursues his supernatural good.7 On this view, grace perfects the natural virtues and renders their acts meritorious, but the perfection is “extrinsic” rather than “intrinsic”: even in the Christian the natural virtues are still ordered to man’s natural, rather than his supernatural, fulfillment.8 This means that the Christian sometimes acts out of (meritorious) natural virtue and sometimes out of supernatural virtue. This in turn requires one to explain what determines whether one acts out of natural or supernatural virtue. At least some scholars seem to believe that whichever good I in fact pursue in a concrete instance is determined by the motive with which I act: if I go to war in order to defend my country (say), I make use of natural virtue, but if I go to war for the glory of God, I make use of supernatural virtue (Reichberg, 2010, pp. 337–368).

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Still other scholars find in Aquinas a distinction between the kind of virtue “necessary for salvation”—i.e., supernatural virtue—and a “fuller” version of virtue, which involves both natural and supernatural virtues. These scholars argue that supernatural moral virtues enable us to perform morally good actions in those areas “necessary for salvation” but not necessarily in other areas of life; in order to act rightly in those areas of life that are not “necessary for salvation,” one needs to cultivate the natural virtues. Michael Sherwin (2009), for instance, argues that this distinction can explain the clear moral failings of many saints. St. Louis IX, for instance, while widely recognized for his holiness, also seemed to lack virtue in important respects, most notably in his decision to launch the seventh crusade and in his neglect of the needs of his country and his queen (p. 29–52, 41). Sherwin argues that St. Louis IX’s moral deficiencies indicate that he possessed supernatural virtues but failed to cultivate the natural virtues: he possessed virtue “in those things necessary for salvation” but not in other areas of life. Joseph Pieper offers virtually the same explanation in his discussion of prudence, again distinguishing between the kind of prudence sufficient for salvation (infused prudence) and a “fuller” prudence, namely infused prudence that is supplemented by a natural prudence that I acquire through my own repeated good acts.9 Both of the interpretations described above treat the cultivation and practice of natural virtue as something distinct from the activity of supernatural virtue, even in the Christian moral life. But if, as Aquinas consistently claims, natural and supernatural virtues are not just ordered to different goods but also originate from different principles, then it is not merely that the Christian sometimes performs acts of natural and sometimes acts of supernatural virtue, it must also be the case that the Christian sometimes operates from one set of first principles and sometimes from another. When he pursues the civic good (on the first account) or reasons about matters “unnecessary for salvation” (on the second account), he will take his natural knowledge of and desire for the good of reason as his point of departure. But when he pursues the supernatural good (on the first account) or reasons about matters “necessary for salvation” (on the second account), he will turn out to have reasoned from the new, supernatural principles given by grace. When we consider interpretations like those described above in light of Aquinas’s assertions about the difference in the principles from which acts of natural and supernatural virtue arise, the implication is clear: the new principles given in grace provide a second option for action; they exist alongside our natural principles, playing parallel but distinct roles. The implication of accounts like the ones above is that I can either reason from my naturally known first practical and speculative principles (albeit now more perfectly, since my nature has been healed by grace) or I can make use of the new supernatural principles that I grasp by divine light.

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When I order my acts to the political common good (on the first interpretation) or reason about things unnecessary for salvation (on the second interpretation) I operate according to my natural knowledge of and desire for the good of reason. Grace might perfect that natural knowledge and desire and even my ability to reason about how best to pursue those goods, but it does not change what my acts are fundamentally about, namely, the pursuit of the good of the present life (or things unnecessary for salvation, on the second account). But when I order my acts to my supernatural good (or, on the second interpretation, reason about things necessary for salvation) I operate according to the new principles of action that God bestows along with grace, namely the theological virtues. These views imply, that is to say, that the new principles of action that God bestows along with grace remain not only distinct but separable from the principles we all naturally possess. I can be proficient at acting according to the former without being proficient at acting according to the latter, and vice versa. Perhaps more importantly, these interpretations imply that it is not merely possible but sometimes completely appropriate to set aside the new supernatural principles of action that one receives along with grace. I will refer to this as the “parallel principles” view. I think that the parallel principles view is problematic for many reasons, but the problem most pertinent to the present discussion is that it does nothing to resolve the tension between nature and grace, between a natural ethic and a supernatural ethic, as I alluded to at the beginning of this paper. On this account a nature perfected by grace seems to oscillate between performing acts ordered to its natural good and performing acts ordered to supernatural beatitude. On accounts like these, Aquinas’s moral theory consists of an uncomfortable and unclear marriage between a natural ethic and a supernatural ethic; nature remains in an uneasy and unclear relationship with grace. We can emphatically assert that the two sets of principles and their associated virtues complement each other, but doing so doesn’t shed any light on the details.

Transformed Natural Principles? An alternative to holding that grace provides a new set of principles that operates alongside our natural principles (what I have described as the “parallel principles” view) is to hold that the new principles received by grace perfect our already possessed natural principles.10 With respect to the new foundational knowledge given by faith, for instance, it would not be the case that the knowledge of “supernatural principles grasped by a divine light” exists alongside our knowledge of the first speculative and practical principles as an alternate first principle that I use only when ordering my acts to my supernatural, rather than my natural, good, but that my grasp of my original first principles is now informed and deepened by the knowledge given me by faith; the knowledge given me by

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faith illuminates and transforms even my natural knowledge of first principles. One’s natural desire for the good of reason, similarly, would now be informed by hope and charity, so that one would now properly desire one’s natural good insofar as it was part of or conducive to one’s supernatural good. I will call this view the “transformed principles” view.11 This view or something like it is implied by those contemporary interpreters of Aquinas who insist that any pre-existing acquired virtues are “taken up” or “transformed” by the gift of grace, so that all the Christian’s virtues are infused virtues.12 If every morally good act of the Christian is necessarily an act of infused virtue, then it would follow— given Aquinas’s own account of how virtuous acts arise—that every morally good act of a Christian in a state of grace arises from those principles. On such a view, Aquinas really does ultimately offer a supernatural ethic, and a natural ethic only insofar as one’s attempts at attaining natural fulfillment dispose or prepare one to receive the gift of true perfection from God13 (DVC a.11, Shanley, 1999). But this is also a non-traditional interpretation. In what follows, I will mention some of the difficulties I think this view must overcome. The first and most obvious challenge that this view must overcome is the apparent elimination of the natural virtues. The “parallel principles” view not merely accommodates Aristotle but provides a clear role for the cultivation of Aristotelian natural virtue in the Christian moral life. But on this view, natural virtue as such has no place. The Christian should not strive to cultivate the natural virtues because they represent an inferior kind of perfection. To attempt to cultivate and perfect purely natural virtues would be to attempt disregard, at least in some aspects of one’s life, the great gifts that are given in grace. This seems not merely unwise, but even sinful. But if this is the correct picture of the Christian moral life, then Aristotle seems to go out the window. And since Aquinas’s account is so clearly and so thoroughly indebted to Aristotle, it seems that something must have gone awry somewhere.14 In my view, however, this apparent problem is a non-starter. The worry described above is at heart the worry that nature is disregarded. But it should be clear from the preceding sections that this is not at all true. The Aristotelian account of nature is present at every step in Aquinas’s account of grace. It is the Aristotelian description of nature that Aquinas looks to in order to see what needs to be transformed, and it is that same nature that Aquinas believes is transformed. Nature remains. An inchoate knowledge of and desire for the end of human life remains, even if what is known and desired is fundamentally changed. The powers of the soul remain, even if their fulfillment changes. Reason remains, even if it is now assisted in its acts by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. What is no longer part of the picture is a purely natural fulfillment, or virtues ordered to a purely natural fulfillment. But this, in my view, is entirely as it should be.

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A different worry, and one that I think does raise some genuine philosophical questions, has to do with the aspects of life that we do not typically think of as moral. I have been making the argument that if grace transforms the very principles of nature, there is no longer any place in the Christian moral life for virtues that stem from the perfection of untransformed principles. But some of the things that arise from the perfection of our natural principles are not particularly moral. The natural principles that Aristotle and Aquinas describe also order us to other things, like mathematical and scientific knowledge. If I am correct in arguing that all Christian action should be understood as arising from transformed natural principles, then it looks like even the development of mathematical and scientific knowledge in the Christian should be thought to arise from principles transformed by grace. I am not sure what to say about this latter problem; I am not sure, in fact, if it is even a problem at all. While we do not typically think that religion has anything to do with such areas of life, it’s not clear that it couldn’t, or that faith and hope and love wouldn’t alter even the way in which a mathematician does mathematics.

Conclusion In the preceding I argued that one can give an account of Aquinas’s ethical system that at the same time both fully accommodates Aristotle’s insights about nature and still characterizes true fulfillment as thoroughly supernatural. On the account I have been offering, Aristotle’s understanding of virtue as stemming from and perfective of our nature provides the blueprint for Aquinas even while he insists that man’s true fulfillment and true perfection is supernatural. I have argued that Aquinas continues to use Aristotle’s structure even as he maintains that those natural principles themselves are transformed. This account seems to me to be far superior to an account where Aristotelian nature remains alongside and unclearly and uneasily related to separate, supernatural principles. At the same time, however, I do not think that I have proposed anything radical. I wish to conclude by locating what I am proposing in the context of some alternatives. My proposal is, I hope to show, more moderate than some of the most common alternatives. In 1994, Bonnie Kent published a paper, “Moral Provincialism,” in which she criticized MacIntyre for his “morally provincial” interpretation of Aquinas. A “morally provincial” ethic, as Kent defined it, is when it understands moral goodness to be an entirely contingent matter, based on factors outside the agent’s control, like eye or hair color. Kent argues that MacIntyre, by interpreting Aquinas in such a way as to make grace a necessary prerequisite of even natural goodness, offers a morally provincial interpretation of Aquinas. Kent’s criticism generated a long discussion about the so-called “Augustinianism” of Aquinas, about whether Aquinas really was

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the Augustinian that MacIntyre seems to imply (Kent, 1994; Shanley, 1999; Osborne, 2003; McKay 2005; Osborne, 2007; McKay, 2009; Stump, 2011). Both extremes of this debate are problematic. If one ascribes to the view that Kent attributes to MacIntyre, namely that no virtues, even natural ones can be successfully cultivated apart from supernatural grace, then one seems to preclude any real hope of genuine moral progress outside the life of grace. This would mean, among other things, that no real common ground can be found between Christians and non-believers. But on the other hand, if one insists that a significant component of the life of grace is the continued pursuit of a purely natural fulfillment (albeit a pursuit that grace makes easier and more successful), if one compartmentalizes the Christian’s pursuit of supernatural flourishing to some vanishingly small portion of his life, then the real differences grace makes are minimized. What I have proposed above avoids both of these extremes. On the account I am offering, Aquinas does believe that created human nature contains the seeds of its fulfillment, and he does believe that this fulfillment—while not the highest possible fulfillment—is nonetheless both a genuine good and something that one can pursue even apart from the life of grace. My interpretation, then, avoids the view so frequently attributed to Augustine, namely that all that is not of grace is sin, and it avoids the charge of “moral provincialism” that Kent levels at MacIntyre. Both Christians and non-Christians can agree on the importance of natural flourishing and what the pursuit of it consists in. At the same time, however, I have also insisted that what flourishing is inherently changed by grace, that grace gives the Christian a transformed nature and with that transformed nature a transformed goal. While the Christian can acknowledge natural flourishing as a genuine and important good, he now sets his sights on something higher.

Notes 1 Aquinas does, of course, hold that we all naturally possess a “passive potency” or what some scholars call a “special obediential potency” for supernatural beatitude, namely the capacity for our nature to be elevated to participation in divine life by God’s free gift of grace. Such a potency is far different, however, from our capacity to order ourselves to the good proportionate to our nature. Since we can achieve the latter sort of good through our own efforts, Aquinas refers to this latter potency as an “active potency.” 2 For a thorough overview of the various strategies scholars adopt, see Christoph (2010). For examples of various reconciliation strategies by contemporary scholars, see Goris and Schoot (2017). 3 Although I believe that the view I advocate in this chapter is the most coherent reading of Aquinas and the view that Aquinas should hold, I would not go so far as to claim that it can be explicitly found in Aquinas. My own view is that Aquinas is at best simply unclear about how he envisions the relationship between our natural and supernatural principles of action.

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4 All quotations of the De Virtutivus end Communis in this chapter are taken from the translation by E.M. Atkins (2005). All quotations of the Summa Theologiae in this chapter are taken from A. Freddoso’s in-progress translation: www3.nd.edu/~afreddos/summa-translation/TOC.htm. 5 Throughout this chapter, the term “natural virtue” refers to virtues that are ordered to the perfection of our created human nature, as opposed to those virtues ordered to our supernatural perfection. 6 A great deal of ink has, of course, been spilled over the question of whether man can be said to have a “natural desire” for supernatural beatitude. A full treatment of such questions is outside the scope of this chapter. All that matters for present purposes, however, is that man does not naturally possess the kind of order to supernatural beatitude that he does to the good proportionate to his nature. This point is uncontroversial. 7 Though I think this view is deeply problematic, I also think that this is almost certainly the view that Aquinas puts forward in his early Commentary on the Sentences. I simply think that if this is also Aquinas’s mature view, then Aquinas is wrong. For a fuller discussion of this point, see Knobel, “Aquinas’s Commentary on the sentences and the Relationship Between Infused and Acquired Virtue” (forthcoming). 8 This view is characteristic of interpretations of Aquinas put forth in the early 1900s. See for instance Coerver (1946) and Falanga (1948). 9 Though a full discussion of this view is beyond the scope of the present chapter, I find this interpretation deeply problematic. First, I am not at all convinced that it is desirable or even possible to carve up the moral life in this way. Why should we think that only some of our acts are directly ordered to supernatural beatitude (as the first interpretation implies), or that some actions, like an overenthusiasm for launching crusades (or an inability to recognize the needs of one’s wife!) are “unnecessary” for salvation? What, indeed, does it even mean for something to be “necessary” or “unnecessary” for salvation? Moreover, the textual basis for this interpretation is slim at best. 10 I say “an” alternative because it seems to me that there are a number possible ways the principles bestowed along with grace could be related to our original natural principles. I present this one because I think it is the view that some contemporary interpreters of Aquinas implicitly hold. 11 It would be a consequence of this view that even traditionally non-moral activities, like mathematical reasoning, would necessarily arise from “transformed” principles. Some account of this would need to be given. 12 The account put forward by Bill Mattison would be an example of this view (Mattison, 2011, pp. 558–585). 13 Aquinas says that this occurs, he is somewhat vague on the details of just how the cultivation of natural virtue disposes us to receive the gift of grace. Some scholars, most recently Brian Shanley (1999), have speculated about how exactly the cultivation of natural virtue might prepare one for the gift of grace. 14 In this chapter, I am assuming a particular interpretation of Aquinas, one which some scholars might take issue with. A discussion of those debates would be outside the scope of this chapter.

References Aquinas, T. (1953). De veritate. J. McGlynn (Trans.). Chicago, IL: Henry Regerny Company. Aquinas, T. (2005). Aquinas: Disputed questions on the virtues. E. M. Atkins (Ed. and Trans.), T. Williams (Ed.). New York, NY: Cambridge University Press.

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Aquinas, T. (in progress). Summa Theologiae (Vol. 1–2). A. Freddoso (Trans.). Retrieved from www3.nd.edu/~afreddos/summa-translation/TOC.htm. Christoph, M. (2010). Justice as an infused virtue in the secunda secundae. Unpublished Doctoral Dissertation. University of Fribourg, Fribourg, Switzerland. Coerver, R. F. (1946). The quality of facility in the moral virtues. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press. Falanga, A. (1948). Charity, the form of the virtues according to Thomas Aquinas. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press. Goris, H., & Schoot, H. (Eds.). (2017). Thomas Instituut Utrecht, vol. 17: The virtuous life. Leuven, Belgium: Peeters Publishers. Kent, B. (1994). Moral Provincialism. Religious Studies, 30(3), 269–285. Knobel, A. (forthcoming). Aquinas’s Commentary on the Sentences and the Relationship between Infused and Acquired Virtue. Mattison, W. (2011). Can Christians possess the infused cardinal virtues? Theological Studies, 72(3), 558–585. McKay, A. (2005). Prudence and acquired moral virtue. The Thomist, 69(4), 535–555. McKay, A. (2009). Aquinas and the pagan virtues. International Philosophical Quarterly, 51(3), 339–354. Osborne, T. (2003). The Augustinianism of Aquinas’s moral theory. The Thomist, 67(3), 279–305. Osborne, T. (2007). Perfect and imperfect virtues in Aquinas. The Thomist, 71(1), 39–64. Reichberg, G. M. (2010). Aquinas on battlefield courage. The Thomist, 74(3), 337–368. Shanley, B. (1999). Pagan virtue. The Thomist, 63(4), 553–577. Sherwin, M. (2009). Infused virtue and the effects of acquired vice: A test case for the Thomistic theory of infused cardinal virtues. The Thomist, 73(1), 29–52. Stump, E. (2011). The Non-Aristotelian character of Aquinas’s ethics. Faith and Philosophy, 28(1), 27–50.

9

Confucian Excellence Owen Flanagan

An Unforced Consensus About the Good Life? It is an interesting and important matter philosophically and practically whether different traditions conceive of an excellent life in similar terms. Philosophically, convergence of expert opinion, an unforced consensus about the good life or the range of lives that are good, especially among independent traditions, would provide some basis for confidence that there are universal and objective answers to the deepest, and also shared, existential questions. It would support the view that these answers are accessible across otherwise different cultural traditions, and not esoteric or accessible only by way of the right culturally parochial metaphysics or theology. Practically, such consensus would offer some basis for hope that peoples of different traditions might find a healthy and respectful modus vivendi centered on the deep structure of shared values, and not see reason to be at each other’s throats over more superficial differences in culture, customs, and habits.

Confucian Good Life In this chapter, I approach the topic of whether, and if so to what extent, there is unforced consensus on the shape, structure, and fine-grained texture of the good life across traditions, by describing the classical Confucian view on the matter. My aim is to reveal the orthodox Confucian view of the good life at a level of grain that allows comparison and contrast with the views of other great world traditions. There is a nest of concepts familiar in Western philosophy for talking about the good life: character, virtue/vice, sense of rightness/wrongness, meaning/purpose, happiness/ well-being, as well as several varieties of transcendence (self, social, soteriological). We’ll watch whether and how these concepts, or near relations, play a role or not, in Confucian thought. The first observation is that the concept of virtue, where a virtue is conceived as a disposition to perceive, feel, think, and act in the right way given the circumstances, and to do so at, what Confucians consider, the

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mean, is central to the Confucian picture of a good person and the good life. This is not entirely surprising. My considered view from my crosscultural work (2016) is that every philosophical tradition has a theory of virtue, a theory of what dispositions, skills, or habits of the heart/ mind (xin) make up good character or make a person good (or not). This is compatible with most every tradition also having deontological and consequentialist elements that play a role in specifying where various virtues, values, ends, and actions sit along scales that plot instrumental vs. intrinsic goods, what is permissible, what is obligatory, appropriate sanctions for immorality, and so on. It is also compatible with the list of specific virtues that are prized being different in content or scope, rank, and trumping powers in different traditions. Indeed, what often differs across traditions is the specific content or texture of virtues, the hierarchy of virtues, and trump relations among them. This is the case with the Confucian inventory of virtues. Virtue—a very specific set of virtues—is a necessary condition of an excellent life for Confucians. What else is necessary? Physical and psychological health, material success, a long life, and strong family relations are common additional ingredients. Virtue plus these things make for what we might call a meaningful life—perhaps it is what we would call a happy life. But these last two concepts, meaning/purpose and happiness, are not as central to the ecology that yielded classic Confucianism as they are to us. It makes sense then to start by elucidating the canonical conception of the virtues necessary for a good life.1

Two Methods for Enumerating Virtues In classical Confucian sources, there are two methods used to enumerate the virtues required for a morally cultivated person, a gentleperson—junzi (see Confucius 2003; Mengzi 2008; Xunzi, 2014). One way involves asking what psychological dispositions are basic and considering what good traits these might yield in healthy environments. The second way involves asking what the basic human relations are and what virtues these relations require to flourish. Both ways occur in the Mengzi, the book of Mencius (389 BCE–289 BCE). The first way of enumerating virtues involves a kind of natural teleology and appears in 2A6 and 6A6. Thanks to heaven’s mandate (tianming), humans are endowed with four basic dispositions, beginnings, sprouts, or seeds that equip us for convivial social life. In Mengzi 2A6, it is said: All human beings have a mind that cannot bear to see the sufferings of others . . . Here is why I say that all human beings have a mind that commiserates with others. Now, if anyone were suddenly to see a child about to fall into a well, his mind would be filled with alarm,

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The four sprouts are dispositional roots that can grow into and become virtues, but not as virtues themselves (Flanagan, 2013; see Ivanhoe, 2000, 2002, 2013 for deep analysis of the various—botanical and agricultural metaphors that describe the cultivation process): • • • •

Compassion (ceyin) Shame/disgust (xiuwu) Deference (cirang) Approval/disapproval (shifei)

Just after the famous passage, 2A6, where he posits the four sprouts, Mencius says this: “People having these four sprouts is like their having four limbs.” Later at 4A27, he writes that if one grows all four moral sprouts, all four limb buds, “then without realizing it one’s feet begin to step in time to them and one’s hands dance according to their rhythms.” Assuming one grows the seeds properly then one is truly human and a good or decent person. One can fail to be fully human, or at least a fully developed human, if any one of the seeds lies latent or dies (Van Norden, 2007). Just as the loss or failure to grow any of the four limbs would lead to difficulty moving through space, loss or failure to grow any of the four Mencian sprouts will lead to difficulty negotiating socio-moral space; one will not acquire the ability to “dance” in the effortless and graceful (wu-wei) way that a morally well-formed person does.2 All four of the innate dispositions—compassion, shame, a sense of deference to the authority of the wise, and a sense of right and wrong—are intrinsically social. To speak in an Aristotelian way, each of the sprouts has a trajectory, a directionality, a proper function, an ergon, a potential that it seeks to actualize. But the spouts are only sprouts. They can fail to grow into their proper form. Their proper form is their telos. And thus in a healthy environment, these four spouts mature into the four cardinal Confucian virtues. The virtues that the sprouts yield are these: • •

Benevolence (ren) Righteousness (yi)

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Ritual propriety (li) Wisdom (zhi)

A great deal would need to be said about the specific details of these virtues to give a real sense of the Confucian form of life and how it differs from, say, Buddhist, Aristotelian, Thomist, or secular liberal conceptions. Benevolence (ren), for example, takes a graded form where the scope involves family first and foremost, and not the universal compassion jian ai, of the Chinese Mohists (not to be confused with Maoists). Ritual propriety (li) involves matters that contemporary Westerners might think are merely matters of etiquette, but that internal to Confucianism are matters of deep moral significance and express deep generational gratitude and respect for one’s lineage. And one might notice that Platonic and Aristotelian virtues such as courage or temperance or secular liberal ones such as fairness do not appear straightforwardly on the Confucian list of the mandatory four virtues. Furthermore, virtues do not need to be infused by divine grace. But they are, as conceived among Christians, difficult historical achievements that need to be carefully cultivated and shaped by fellow humans, including by oneself. Throughout the Mengzi, Mencius is both responding to and is met in conversations by other philosophers who think humans are naturally moral blank slates (Mozi), or that there is a human nature but that it is not good. It is egoistical (Yang Zhu) or neutral (Gaozi) or “bad” (6A6) in the sense of disorderly or undisciplined rather than naughty or selfish or evil.3 Note his insistence in 2A6 that the disposition to, in this instance respond to the distress of small children, is not a strategic response to a world that offers rewards (money, fame, fortune) to heroes. Experiencing alarm and automatically rushing to help is just what any person is disposed to do when it sees a child about to fall into a well. The moral community then takes this disposition—imagine it is in fact only triggered initially to distress of small and young members of one’s own species, which it then shapes and extends to involve a disposition of benevolence to family and fellow citizens of all ages (See the parable at 1A7 for how compassion is extended). Mencius’s dispositional method of locating and enumerating the four cardinal virtues can be summarized as follows: First, we identify the seeds, hearts, or sprouts that reveal themselves universally in human nature. Mencius sees four such dispositions in individual human nature. These are a disposition to care about the weal and woe of youngsters, to feel shame, to defer/conform to authority, and to be a sensitive detector of certain basic rights and wrongs, e.g., knowing without being taught that humiliation and dishonesty are wrong. These four sprouts are universal. They consist of distinct innate cognitive-conative-affective dispositions that possess both the potential and a natural trajectory to develop into each of the four cardinal virtues (Mencius does not engage the modern

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thought that all phenotypic traits reveal variation). If these sprouts are planted in a nourishing environment they will grow like the four limbs do. If they receive suboptimal nourishment, they will grow some; and if they are not nourished at all, they will not grow (See 6A8 for a discussion of the consequences of a barren moral ecology). The best outcome is that the four sprouts blossom into the four cardinal virtues. Barring congenital abnormality or abnormality in social conditions the best outcome will occur and virtuous agents emerge. “Let the four sprouts have their complete development, and they will suffice for the man to protect all within the four seas. Let them be denied that development, then the man will not even serve his parents.” This passage comes close to suggesting that the realization of the four cardinal virtues is sufficient for a good human life, even a great one. But I think the best interpretation is that they are necessary, not sufficient. Good fortune is also necessary. It is also not only to have the virtues that equip a person for excellent social relations, it is necessary to actually have those relations. This comes out in the second way Mencius enumerates virtues and expands the list of virtues beyond the four cardinal ones. The second way of enumerating virtues involves specifying certain roles and the virtues that are required by one’s position in the role, the virtues required for success in that role. This method occurs in Mengzi 3A4. We learn that: “King Shun appointed Xie to be the minister so as to teach people about human relations: between father and son, there is affection; between sovereign and minister, righteousness; between husband and wife, attention to their separate functions; between old and young, a proper order; and between friends, trustworthiness.” Mencius identifies five basic human relations and the virtues that govern them. The five basic human relations are: • • • • •

Relation between father (parents) and son (children) (fuzi) Relation between husband and wife (fuqi) Relation between sovereign and ministers (junchen) Relation between old and young (zhangyou) Relation between friends (pengyou) The five essential virtues that govern these five basic relations are:

• • • • •

Affection (qin) Gendered separation of functions (bie) Righteousness (yi) Proper order (xu) Trustworthiness (xin)

The Book of Rites, one of the five texts that constitute the Confucian canon (along with Confucius’s Analects, Mengzi, and Xunzi), lists ten

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role-relational virtues that can be seen as further specification of the five relational virtues described in the Mencius, where, for example, the first four virtues below specify the most essential qualities that are necessary for excellence in different familial roles, the next two the essential virtues of husband and wife, and so on. • • • • • • • • • •

Loving of the father (fuci) Filial piety of the son (zixiao) Kindness of the elder brother (xiongliang) Obedience of the younger brother (didi) Righteousness of the husband (fuyi) Submission of the wife (futing) Giving of the elder (zhanghui) Deference of the younger (youshun) Benevolence of the ruler (junren) Loyalty of the minister (chenzhong)

The difference between the first method of enumerating the virtues that are necessary for the good life and the second is this: The first method focuses on natural dispositions in individuals that equip them for social life. The second method focuses on the roles that are required for a good human life and then specifies the required virtues in terms of the roles. According to the second method of enumerating the virtues—notice the virtues are different from the four that emerge from the sprouts and that, as it were, equip one for a virtuous life in general—the nature of the five roles determines the virtues that are necessary for excellence in those roles, for, we might say, achieving those roles. In this way of proceeding, filling the roles are ends. The virtues associated with the roles, e.g., parental love for children, are not so much means to ends, as components of excellence in the roles. It cannot be that all five roles specified in Mengzi are necessary for an excellent Confucian life since, for example, most people will not be rulers. But it is fairly safe to say that being a member of a family, and thus a father or mother, a son or daughter, brother and sister, and grandfather or grandmother—ideally occupying as many of these roles as possible given one’s gender—is thought to be the usual way a good life is lived. It is not clear, however, that any of the roles, other than once being a child of parents, is absolutely necessary for an excellent life since there are ministers who are celebrated in Confucian texts who are not married (actually some are eunuchs). Living a long and healthy life as well as material success are also components of an excellent Confucian life. One might think these are independent goods, that is, independent of ethical excellence, or, better one can think that a long, healthy, and materially secure life might allow one to play more of the worthy roles and play them virtuously and in this way provide further conditions for an excellent life. On this way of thinking

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a life is an excellent Confucian one only if one is virtuous (as specified by the tradition) and if one gets to enact virtue over a long and healthy life. A short virtuous life is second best. A long, healthy, materially successful life without virtue is not good at all. It is common in Anglophone philosophy to conceive of the ethical component of the Confucianism as a virtue theory. And indeed, it is replete with lists of virtues. But it also contains deontological and consequentialist elements (Van Norden, 2007). It might be best to analyze the core of classical Confucian ethics as both a virtue morality and a role morality (Ames, 2011). Taken together, the canonical Confucian virtues plus the virtues required by specific social roles mean that goodness is always a relational good—dyadic (parent-child), triadic (mother-child-citizen), quadratic (mother, aunt, daughter, wife), and so on. In many roles, virtues are special and asymmetrical. Eldest sons have special responsibilities that daughters and middle and youngest sons do not. Parents have special role responsibilities to children that children do not, at least when they are children, have to parents. Wives rather than husbands, have special responsibilities for performing ancestor worship rituals. Harmony (he) is a very high value inside the tradition, and role virtues and responsibilities are thought to be necessities for maintaining harmonious communal life.

Meaning, Purpose, and Happiness Insofar as classical Confucianism theorizes what we would nowadays gloss as meaning and purpose, and, what is different happiness, it requires living a virtuous life. A virtuous person is one who reliably displays the four sprout enabled virtues: they are benevolent; have a firm sense of right, wrong, and shame; defer appropriately to elders; and practice the rites and rituals that confirm and sustain a form of life that expresses gratitude to past generations and commitment to sustain harmonious social relations that they (going back to sage kings) embodied and modeled. In addition, a virtuous person acquires and self-cultivates the virtues required by the roles they occupy—affection if one is a parent, filial piety if one is a child, and so on. Enacting the virtues in the roles is enacting the roles. It is a common theme in Confucianism that an unfilial child (xiao) is not in fact a child, where this means that the way they enact being a child is not being a child as heaven (tian) intended or mandated (ming). The idea is that as a matter of social ontology a father is one only if he is a good father, a child a child only if they are filial. A selfish ruler is not a ruler, or only nominally so. Aligning the actual performance of roles with heaven’s mandate (tianming) is the project of what Confucians call “rectification of names”— what a Platonist might describe as achieving participation in the forms, and a Christian would describe as doing God’s will. The vocabulary of meaning and purpose is not deployed in Confucian texts. Nor is there the sort of focus on subjective hedonic states or the

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focus on interiority that makes talk of happiness so available to us. That said, the seven basic emotions presented in The Book of Rites are: • • • • • • •

Happiness (xi) Anger (nu) Grief (ai) Fear (ju) Joy (ai) Liking/disliking (wu) Desire (yu)

All these emotional states have good and bad forms. Happiness, unlike anger and fear, always feels good. But feeling good and being good come apart. For Confucians, the goodness of any emotional state is determined by its fit and content. Happiness (xi) is valued and good if it is happiness about worthy things, if as we would say according to an appraisal theory of the emotions, the content of the happiness is, for example, that one is a good parent, as opposed say to happiness over the fact that one successfully exploited human weakness and became rich. A virtuous person has legitimate reason to be happy. Whether they are happy depends on luck in temperament and other life circumstances. Happiness (xi) over unworthy things is not worth anything.

Metaphysical Transcendence and Self-Transcendence Transcendence occurs in two places in Confucian philosophy. First, there is a transcendent ground for the Confucian way (dao) in heaven’s mandate (tian-ming), which serves, when necessary, as the ultimate justification for the Confucian dao. Second, the way (dao) calls upon persons to care, first and foremost, about units that are larger than the individual self. The first is metaphysical transcendence; the second is moral self-transcendence. Metaphysical transcendence occurs at the foundations of the metaphysics of morals according to which heaven (tian) enacts or endorses something like the proper way (dao) that both the natural world and the world of social relations unfolds. The proper dao for social relations was realized in a golden age in the distant past when sage kings ruled and embodied heaven’s mandate (tian-ming). The Confucian project is to reinstate the way (dao) as heaven (tian) intended. There was controversy among different philosophical schools as to what heaven (tian) intended and thus what the dao is.4 There is a vast intellectual industry that discusses Chinese religion, and whether tian names a personal God or not. There is no doubt that in Chinese folk religion(s) person-like spirits are common. But it is safe to say that in the classical Confucian texts tian and tian-ming are not

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personal forces. The sage kings are not made in the image of tian, which possesses all the virtues in perfect form, as for example one sees in the Abrahamic traditions. Instead, tian is the wellspring of the forces of good that the sage kings exemplify and model. We, ordinary souls, see the excellence of the sage kings when they are spoken of (the way we just see the beauty of a sunset) and long for a return to their kind of world (the platonic resonances are unmistakable). It may be that the best explanation of Confucian confidence that the dao of the sage kings is the right dao is some sort of consilience between the telos of the sprouts in us, and the way the sprouts are realized in the sage kings. The inborn sprouts of virtue provide our own initial moral compass. We detect or intuit their telos and can see that our own sprouts, weak and partial as they are, were perfected once in the lives of the sage kings. When we wonder about what is good and righteous, it is normally enough to remind ourselves of how the sage kings saw things and behaved. In this way, heaven (tian) and its mandate (ming) both set and model a secure metaphysical foundation to morals. Tian is transcendent in the sense that it grounds morality and politics. But heaven and its mandate are not transcendent in the sense that they are outside the spatiotemporal world. Heaven grounds morality in that world. It is immanent. The bottom line is that the Confucian concept of heaven (tian) should be understood as sui generis. The concept is embedded in a different way of worldmaking than similar concepts in the Platonic or Abrahamic lineages. That said it would not be a mistake to say that heaven (tian) and heaven’s mandate (tian-ming) have resonances in the lineage we associate with the Aristotelian natural law tradition. It is an interesting and important question to what degree completely independent great philosophical traditions such as the Confucian and the Aristotelian that depend on reading nature’s intentions, nature’s best plans, and nature’s ideals read her in similar ways, and to the degree that they do not what explains that. There is another sense of transcendence in Confucian philosophy that is most relevant to the concerns of the present volume. This pertains to self-transcendence conceived as a moral quality, not as a metaphysical one. Moral self-transcendence has to do with the degree to which a tradition conceives of an excellent life as one in which it is every ego for itself, and where excellence or salvation accrues (in this life or a future life) from individual self-actualization, or, on the other side, where excellence comes from getting over the self, the ego, and conceiving of the fate of oneself as dependent on how the whole of which one partakes fares. Some say Buddhism is a self-transcendent view par excellence. It denies that there is a self, and claims that only if we give up the illusion that there are selves and enact compassion (karuna) for all sentient beings that we as persons (without selves) can be happy.5 Contemporary America, including its universities, is dominated by the view that it is every ego for itself, and that meaning, purpose, and

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happiness are achieved by actualizing the self. Psychologists describe the problem in such terms as narcissism and hyper-egoism. One might think that there is no fact of the matter about whether excellence lies down the road of egoism or self-transcendence, that it is a matter of perspective and/or the one’s culture, both contingent phenomena. The egoists will say they are realized persons, their opponents will say they are selfish creeps. The self-transcenders will say they live in blissful union with all sentient beings, while their opponents will say they have characters of mush and that they are in fact self-indulgent, disguised narcissists of the most childish sort, thinking they are one with the ONE. Is Confucian excellence self-transcendent, and if so, in what sense(s)? Recall the two ways of enumerating the virtues discussed earlier. The first way involves locating universal dispositions in individuals, every one of which involves social relations—there is compassion for the child falling in the well and endangering myself for its sake; there is deference to those who are wiser, and shame in the eyes of others for doing wrong. The second way involves specifying virtues required for successfully abiding certain desirable social roles. Occupying all the main social roles—parent, child, spouse, citizen, ideally grandparent, with the single exception for most of us of the ruler role is a necessary condition for an excellent life. Enacting the virtues and resultant success in living is not something one can do on one’s own. This, however, may be true of every great world philosophy. One needs to look at the details. How outside of myself, my own ego’s desires, does Confucianism demand I live? Some say that act-consequentialism is the most self-transcendent ethical theory since it demands that I take the good of everyone (possibly every sentient being) into account when I act. Does Confucianism require that? The best answer is that although classical Confucianism is not egoistic or individualistic in one pejorative contemporary sense, it conceives the focal point of morality as involving one’s family’s well-being, first and foremost. Thus Confucian ethics is not individualistic in one sense. The unit that flourishes in not an individual, but a family (and then larger units, extended families, villages, etc.). The well-being of the whole (the family) is both enabled and inherited by the parts (persons). At least in classical Confucianism it is not passed from the parts to the whole. Classical Confucianism is metaphysically pretty tame. There are persons, and there are persons in relations, in groups. Which is prior, individual persons or people in roles and relations? Confucians conceive persons are real, but on certain plausible interpretations, the person in roles and relations is the only unit that can properly be said to flourish. Compare: Livers, kidneys, and hearts are person parts. Living persons depend on functioning livers, kidneys, and hearts. We can perfectly sensibly talk about the health of these parts. Indeed, one can say that a heart’s proper function is to pump blood. Even though a heart is disposed to

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pump blood, it realizes its potential only if it succeeds in oxygenating a living body. There are no livers, kidneys, and hearts that flourish except as proper parts of flourishing persons. So it is with persons. No person flourishes unless they partake of, help create and sustain, certain roles and relationships. We can sensibly say of some individual that they are healthy and living well. But in a Confucian context this is mostly a way of saying that such an individual is both dispositionally suited and actually partaking of good social relations, especially family relations. Moral concern for well-being aims first for the well-being of the family, not the self, and only secondarily for the well-being of larger units. Love is graded both morally and practically. That is, moral concern, especially as exemplified by the particular virtue of ren, is rightly focused—it is not just a matter that practically it is easier to love those near and dear—first and foremost on the well-being of one’s own family. Once one’s family’s well-being is secure, one attends to the needs of other families, one’s village, nation state, and the world in that order. The moral community has grown the sprout of compassion to work this way. Furthermore, how one attends to the well-being of units other than one’s own family is structured by rules governing roles: sons enter into politics to succor the masses; a daughter brings chicken soup to the needy elders who live next door, a married daughter cares for her husband’s family before her birth family. There are two observations a contemporary person who is a fan of selftranscendence might make. First, the picture is self-transcendent in one way. This is good. Individual egos are not units that flourish; families and other larger social units do. But second, family based morality is not very self-transcendent since it encourages a kind of family chauvinism. This last criticism was made against Confucians by their own contemporaries, the Mohists. Mozi claimed than ren, as conceived by Confucians, was too partial, and needed to be replaced by universal love, jian ai. One rebuttal the Confucians offer to the Mohists is that the fact that ren is graded is morally defensible given the psychologically realistic demands of affection and love, and in addition, it will practically result in universal well-being if anything will. There is an additional feature of Confucian self-transcendence worth noting. The care and concern one focuses on kin is not only horizontal and synchronic, devoted to those living souls who are near and dear; it is also vertical and diachronic, historical in a deep way. Moral concern extends to duties to one’s ancestors and one’s descendants, to a lineage. These duties are multiply motivated: they involve expressions of gratitude for being born to loving parents, who were nurtured by loving grandparents, as well as a natural desire (expressed in the sprouts in one’s nature) to pass on wise practices of prior generations to the youth. The moral self is self-transcending in the powerful sense that an individual life is a good one only if the individual lives in healthy social relations with others and

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if, in addition, they seed the world with goodness that is available for and accrues to future generations after one is gone. In this chapter, I have tried to describe the classical Confucian picture of an excellent human life. One might wonder whether and how a 2,000-year-old vision is of more than antiquarian interest. One answer is that this tradition lives on in the blood and bones of many people in East Asia and in those who have come to the West from lineages that began there. There are aspects of the view sketched here that contemporary people in the North Atlantic will find hierarchical, conservative, and gendered in objectionable ways. Fair enough. But the picture of Confucian excellence in Confucius, Mencius, and Xunzi reveals serious reflection of what looks to be a universal question, the one we call “Socrates’s question,” How shall I live? And classical Confucian discussions of how suited human nature is to achieving such excellence, what the virtues and relations are required for an excellence, what else besides goodness is necessary, engage many of the same topics—love, family, friendship, responsibilities to others, partiality vs. impartiality, self-transcendence, the moral emotions. Furthermore, there is I think considerable overlap in the vision of the good life as conceived inside the Confucian tradition with the ones independently conceived in Greco-Roman and Abrahamic traditions. This I think should be read as good news. Despite the vast cultural differences among the peoples of the earth, there is a common project that unites us. And wise souls everywhere catch glimpses of what look to be similar answers. How much consensus is there on the details of the answers, and how much do the differences matter? I’ll let the reader think on that.

Notes 1 Three points: (1) Even egoism is a view that requires a special virtue, namely a disposition to skillfully detect what is good for me. From the perspective of most other conceptions, this virtue is a vice. (2) It is not unusual across many traditions to think that a person might be (subjectively) happy but not good. (3) It is unusual but not entirely unheard of for a virtue in one tradition to be considered a vice in another tradition. Anger at the mean (orge) is a virtue for Aristotle, but a vice for Stoics and Buddhists. Acquisitiveness is a vice in early Christianity, but under the guise of ambition and conscientiousness is a virtue among many modern Christians. 2 Slingerland (2014) makes a persuasive argument that wu-wei, the mature ability to effortlessly negotiation of the social world, is a shared aim across otherwise different classical Chinese traditions. Ancient sage kings are revered because virtue and delicacy came to them easily, naturally. This wu-wei way of being-in-the-world can be regained according to Confucians (see especially Xunzi) by practicing the ritual propriety and virtue modeled by noble ancestors or alternatively, according to Daoists, by aligning oneself, not with stale and ancient customs, but with the natural ways of nature, with the way a river or a stream flows. 3 Xunzi, the third great Confucian alongside Confucius and Mencius, who lived after Mencius, entitles a famous chapter in Xunzi, “Human Nature is Bad,” and

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holds the (partially) disordered or untamed view of human nature. Indeed, it is Xunzi not Kant who coins the “crooked wood” metaphor to describe humanity. 4 Daoism and Mohism were live alternatives to Confucianism, as eventually was Buddhism in about 300 CE. When one reads classical Chinese philosophy, one will note a great deal of disputation about proper funeral ceremonies between Confucians, Mohists, and Daoists, all of which reveal heart-felt and existentially monumental disagreements about how heaven (tian) expects generational respect to be enacted. It is an early lesson in how freighted disputes about fine details of virtues and rituals can seem monumental even though all parties agree that death is extremely significant, funerals matter, and so on. 5 There is a strand in early Buddhism where the arahant—a saint, sage, or realized person—can reach enlightenment on their own by perfecting meditatively virtues of compassion, and such, without ever enacting them. The bodhisattva ideal of later Buddhism requires enactment. My own view (Flanagan, 2011, 2016) of much contemporary North American Buddhism is that it is self-indulgent and narcissistic, and involves well-off people working quietly on themselves to feel as if they are realized www.huffingtonpost.com/owen-flanagan-phd/do-americanbuddhists-miss-the-point-of-buddhism_b_964188.html. 6 Max Weber famously thought that capitalism was seeded by the Protestant ethic and its associated individualism. Some have thought that Christianity also provides fertile ground for what eventually becomes an entirely secular view that it is every ego for itself. Why? Well, even on the traditional view, one might gain heaven and all the bliss it affords without being with anyone one loved, without continuing to partake of any of the relationships that constituted the very life one has been rewarded for living.

References Ames, R. (2011). Confucian role ethics: A vocabulary. Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press. Confucius. (2003). Analects: With selections from traditional commentaries. E. G. Slingerland (Trans.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing. Flanagan, O. (2011). The Bodhisattva’s brain: Buddhism naturalized. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Flanagan, O. (2013). Moral spouts and natural teleology: Modern moral psychology meets classical Chinese philosophy. Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press. Flanagan, O. (2016). The geography of morals: Varieties of moral possibility. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Ivanhoe, P. J. (2000). Confucian moral self cultivation (2nd ed.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing. Ivanhoe, P. J. (2002). Ethics in the Confucian tradition: The thought of Mengzi and Wang Yangming (2nd ed.). Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing. Ivanhoe, P. J. (2013). Confucian reflections: Ancient wisdom for modern times. New York, NY: Routledge. Mengzi. (2008). Mengzi, with selections from traditional commentaries. B. Van Norden (Trans.). Cambridge, MA: Hackett Publishing. Slingerland, E. (2014). Trying not to try: The ancient Chinese art and modern science of spontaneity. Victoria, BC: Crown Pub Incorporated. Van Norden, B. (2007). Virtue ethics and consequentialism in Chinese philosophy. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Xunzi. (2014). Xunzi: The complete text. E. L. Hutton (Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

10 Virtue, Self-Transcendence, and Liberation in Yoga and Buddhism Matthew MacKenzie

1.

Introduction

This chapter will discuss the important connections between virtues, selftranscendence, and spiritual liberation in the Indian traditions of Pātañjala Yoga and (early and Abhidharma) Buddhism. Both Yoga and Buddhism are philosophical systems (darśana) as well as carefully articulated paths (marga) for the cultivation of virtue and, ultimately, spiritual liberation (mokṣa, nirvāṇa). Furthermore, in both traditions, self-transcendence in the form of the progressive overcoming of egoism is thought to be a necessary condition of virtue and liberation. For the Yogic and Buddhist schools, hypo-egoic forms of psychological functioning are reciprocally linked to the development of central virtues, such as non-violence (ahiṃsa), contentment (saṃtoṣa), compassion (karuṇā), and equanimity (upekṣa). With regard to spiritual liberation, both schools hold that liberation (at least in part) consists in the irreversible transcendence of egoic modes of psychological functioning. However, despite these similarities, the two schools profoundly disagree on the metaphysical status of the self (ātman, puruṣa). Whereas in Yoga, the ego is transcended in order to realize the true spiritual self, Buddhists deny the existence of the self as such. The chapter will begin (Section 2) with a discussion of the basic philosophical commitments of each school as well as their respective eightfold paths of spiritual development. Section 3 will discuss in more detail the central virtues of each school as well as virtue and vice in their connections with hyper- and hypo-egoic modes of psychological functioning. Section 4 will discuss the theories of self and ego in each tradition, as well the differing accounts of spiritual liberation. Finally, Section 5 will conclude with a discussion of Yogic and Buddhist accounts of post-egoic or liberated modes of living.1

2.

Yoga and Buddhism as Views and Paths

In the classical Indian tradition, both Yoga and Buddhism are considered comprehensive philosophical systems (darśana, “view”) involving rigorously articulated and defended metaphysical, epistemological, ethical,

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and phenomenological dimensions. Yoga is one of the six orthodox (astika) Hindu schools of philosophy, and its primary text is Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtras (c. 200 CE), which consists of 196 aphorisms (sūtra) on the view and path of Yoga.2 This text is not the origin of the Yoga school but rather draws on earlier traditions and sources. The tradition takes the text as an authoritative presentation of the Yoga philosophy. The term yoga has a broad application in the context of Indian spiritual traditions. For instance, in the Bhagavad Gītā (Schweig, 2010), yoga refers to a number of distinct paths to spiritual liberation, such as karma-yoga (the path of action) or bhakti-yoga (the path of devotion). More commonly, however, the term yoga refers to contemplative meditative techniques deployed in service of attaining a soteriological goal, such as liberation or union with divinity. It is yoga in this sense that is the primary concern of the Yoga school of philosophy. Indeed, Patañjali famously defines yoga as the “stilling of the modifications of mind” (citta vṛtti nirodha), a state that is a precondition of spiritual liberation (kaivalya). Thus, Yoga, like Buddhism, is not just a systematic philosophical view, it is also a soteriological philosophy and practice. Drawing on the metaphysics of the older Sāṅkhya school, Yoga philosophy is based on the fundamental ontological distinction between prakṛti and puruṣa. Prakṛti here refers to material reality in all its variegated forms. Puruṣa here refers to the most essential conscious, spiritual self— what most other Hindu schools refer to as ātman. On this view, there is only one dynamic material reality, while there are many individual selves. Puruṣa and prakṛti are equally real, mutually distinct, and irreducible. They are, therefore, the two ultimate principles of the metaphysically dualistic systems of Sāṅkhya and Yoga. It is important to note, however, that the dualism of the Sāṅkhya and Yoga schools is in certain respects quite different from forms of mind-matter dualism in the West. In the most familiar Western forms of dualism the ontological dualism is between body and matter, on one hand, and the mind, on the other. In contrast, according to the Sāṅkhya and Yoga view, mind (citta) is a subtle form of prakṛti and therefore material. What we call the mind is constituted by the integrated functioning of intelligence (buddhi), ego (ahaṅkāra), and other forms of mentation (manas). These are capacities and functions of a living sentient being, conceived as a complex material system. Thus, perhaps surprisingly, Yoga has a non-reductive materialist theory of mind. Puruṣa, as pure awareness,3 is ontologically independent from prakṛti, including the mind. Hence, the fundamental dualism here is between mind and body, on one hand, and pure consciousness, on the other. The soteriological goal of Yoga is the liberatory recognition of puruṣa in its pristine and eternal independence (kaivalya) from prakṛti. The bound individual is embroiled in the world and falsely identifies with the body-mind as her true nature. The practice of yoga, then, involves techniques allowing for direct recognition of one’s true nature as puruṣa and

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subsequent liberation from bondage to the world. As Patañjali puts it in the first chapter of the Yoga Sūtras: I.2 Yoga is the stilling of the modifications of mind. I.3 When that is accomplished, the seer abides in its own nature. I.3 Otherwise, there is identification with the modifications [of mind].4 As will be discussed more extensively in Section 4, liberation in Yoga necessarily involves a transcendence of the ego or false sense of self and recognition of one’s true nature or self as pure awareness. The path to this soteriological goal consists of the well-known eight limbs (aṣṭāṅga) of yoga. The eight limbs are: moral restraint (yama), moral observance (niyama), posture (āsana), breath control (prāṇāyāma), sensory withdrawal (pratyāhāra), concentration (dhāraṇā), meditation (dhyāna), and contemplative absorption (samādhi). There is no need here to go into great detail concerning each limb. However, two points are worth noting. First, yoga is an explicitly holistic and integrated path of development or self-cultivation. Careful attention to the body, breath, senses, and mind is thought to be required to achieve liberation from spiritual bondage. In this way, rigorous cultivation of body and mind can serve as the vehicle for the recognition of oneself as pure consciousness. Second, moral restraint (yama) and moral observance (niyama)—that is ethical self-cultivation—is at the foundation of the path. Thus, the cultivation of virtue is a necessary condition of self-realization. Turning now to the Buddhist tradition, the first thing to note is the tradition’s great diversity. Over the course of its development in India, Buddhism encompasses several distinct religious and philosophical subtraditions. However, despite this diversity, Buddhism is grounded in a few shared ideas and commitments. The foundation of the Buddhist tradition as both a philosophical system and a spiritual path is the four noble truths, which serve as a diagnosis of and prescription for the human condition of spiritual bondage (saṃsāra). First is the noble truth of duḥkha, suffering or dissatisfaction. On the Buddhist analysis, human life as normally experienced and lived is pervaded by suffering. This ranges from the obvious suffering of mental and physical pain, to the subtler forms of suffering that arise from the impermanence of all things and our maladaptive habitual tendencies. Recognition of the pervasiveness of duḥkha is the first step to its transcendence. Second is the noble truth of the cause of suffering. There are more and less elaborated analyses of the causes of suffering that arise in the tradition. One of the most common analyses focuses on the three unwholesome roots (akuśula-mūla) of suffering: greed (rāga), aversion (dveṣa), and delusion (moha). On this view, the vicious cycle of suffering and spiritual bondage is driven by these deeply engrained maladaptive tendencies toward greed, aversion, and delusion.

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Third is the noble truth of the cessation of suffering. The Buddhist tradition is based on the proposition that it is possible to be liberated from suffering and spiritual bondage—that is, to achieve nirvāṇa. This is to be accomplished by uprooting the three unwholesome roots and cultivating their opposites, the three wholesome roots of generosity (dāna), kindness (maitri), and wisdom (prajñā). Fourth is the noble truth of the eightfold path to liberation. The Buddhist eightfold path is typically organized into the three domains of wisdom, ethics, and meditation. The domain of wisdom is comprised of the first two aspects of the path, right (samyak) view and right intention. Right view involves an understanding of the three marks of conditioned existence, namely impermanence (anitya), suffering (duḥkha), and no-self (anātman). Right intention involves a commitment to act harmlessly, without ill will, and in light of right view. The domain of ethics or moral discipline (śīla) is comprised of right speech, right action, and right livelihood. One is to refrain from false and divisive speech, observe the five moral precepts, and maintain a lifestyle consistent with and conducive to Buddhist practice. The domain of meditation (samādhi) is comprised of right mindfulness and right concentration. Here one practices a variety of meditative techniques to develop a clear, stable, and pliable mind. Furthermore, the meditatively cultivated mind is considered indispensable for the cultivation of wisdom and the development of virtue. Thus, as with the eight limbs of Yoga, the Buddhist eightfold path is considered an integrated method of spiritual development. Whereas Yoga philosophy is based on a fundamental distinction between puruṣa and prakṛti, Buddhist thought is grounded in an analysis of the dependent origination (pratītyasamutpāda) and basic marks or traits of phenomena (dharma). On the Buddhist view, the internal and external phenomena we encounter in experience arise on the basis of a complex network of causes and conditions. For instance, the phenomenon of a fire might arise on the basis of appropriate fuel, sufficient oxygen, and a spark. Likewise, a feeling of anger might arise on the basis of a short temper, a frustrating situation, and a perceived slight. From a Buddhist perspective, it is by coming to understand the dependent arising and continuation of phenomena that we may effectively intervene in these processes. Indeed, as we have seen in the formulation of the four noble truths, it is by understanding that suffering arises from our own maladaptive tendencies to greed, aversion, and delusion that we may begin to develop the skillful means to mitigate that suffering and foster genuine happiness (sukha) and freedom (mokṣa). The three marks of conditioned existence are thought to be a direct consequence of the fact of dependent origination. Phenomena are impermanent (anitya) in that they arise and persist only on the basis of other phenomena, which themselves are dependent, and so on. Thus, on this view, anything that arises will also cease. Furthermore, phenomena are

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also changing every moment. Phenomena are unsatisfactory (duḥkha) because they are conditioned and impermanent. Yet, this is not so much a judgment of their inherent worth or lack thereof. Buddhist thinkers do not claim that all phenomena are inherently bad or painful. Rather, phenomena are unsatisfactory in the sense that they cannot be proved to us with the permanent satisfaction we unrealistically expect from them. I may implicitly desire that a job, or health, or a partner will provide me with permanent satisfaction, but this is inconsistent with the impermanence of all phenomena. Thus, phenomena are unsatisfactory because there is a fundamental mismatch between the nature of phenomena and what I desire from them. Finally, phenomena are without self (anātman) in two related senses. First, because they are dependent and impermanent, Buddhist thinkers argue that phenomena lack a fixed or permanent nature or substantial core. Thus, the analysis of phenomena in terms of dependent origination yields a generally non-substantialist and nonessentialist ontology. And this view very much applies to ourselves as persons. In sharp contrast to the Yoga view affirming an eternal spiritual self, Buddhists deny that we are such selves. Instead, (as will be discussed further below) on the Buddhist view we are a complex network of dependently originated mental and physical events and processes. Second, all phenomena are no-self in that, as part of the cultivation of meditative insight and wisdom, practitioners are to relinquish identification with phenomena as “I, me, and mine.” On the Buddhist account, we must come to truly see that all conditioned phenomena, including ourselves, are impermanent, selfless, and that craving or grasping after them will not lead to the lasting peace and satisfaction we desire. Therefore, an intellectual, experiential, and practical grasp of the three marks of conditioned existence is at the root of right view and wisdom. Yet if phenomena are impermanent, unsatisfactory, and selfless, how is liberation possible? On the early Buddhist view, reality is not exhausted by conditioned phenomena, but also includes the unconditioned reality of nirvāṇa itself. As we find in the Udāna: There is, monks, an unborn—unbecome—unmade—unfabricated. If there were not that unborn—unbecome—unmade—unfabricated, there would not be the case that escape from the born—become— made—fabricated would be discerned. But precisely because there is an unborn—unbecome—unmade—unfabricated, escape from the born—become—made—fabricated is discerned. (Thānissaro, 2012, p. 113) As an unfabricated or unconditioned reality, nirvāṇa is said to be beyond birth and death, and beyond the fluctuating happiness and suffering of our saṃsāric experience. Whereas conditioned phenomena are impermanent, the unconditioned is deathless. Whereas conditioned phenomena

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are unsatisfactory, the unconditioned is great happiness (mahāsukha). By parity of reasoning, then, one might expect that whereas conditioned phenomena are selfless, the unconditioned would be the true self (ātman). However, the Buddhist tradition is adamant that the unconditioned too is selfless. As the Buddha advises, an awakened person (arhat): directly knows nibbāna (Skt: nirvāṇa) as nibbāna. Having directly known nibbāna as nibbāna, he should not conceive [himself as] nibbāna, he should not conceive [himself] in nibbāna, he should not conceive [himself apart] from nibbāna, he should not conceive nibbāna to be “mine,” he should not delight in nibbāna. (Ñāṇamoli & Bodhi, 1995, p. 87) On their view, all notions of “I, me, and mine” are conditioned and constructed. The unconditioned is therefore beyond all such forms of identification.

3.

Yama, Niyama, and the Four Immeasurables

Despite their important differences, Yoga and Buddhism share a commitment to the centrality of moral discipline and development to the spiritual path to liberation. For both traditions, the cultivation of virtues and the progressive transformation of character are essential elements in the overall system of thought and practice. In Pātañjala Yoga the first five of the eight limbs—moral restraint (yama), moral observance (niyama), posture (āsana), breath control (prāṇāyāma), and sensory withdrawal (pratyāhāra)—are called the outer limbs (bahiraṅga) because they concern a practitioner’s basic orientation to the social world and to the senses. And among these outer limbs, yama and niyama provide the moral foundation of all practice and development. Furthermore, yama concerns primarily moral restraint with regard to others, while niyama concerns primarily observances with regard to a practitioner’s own person and spiritual life. Thus, on my interpretation, these two limbs constitute Yoga’s framework for developing both other-regarding and self-regarding virtues and virtuous modes of living. The yama limb is subdivided into the restraints of non-harming (ahiṃsā), truthfulness (satya), non-stealing (asteya), sexual restraint (brahmacarya), and non-greed (aparigraha). The integrated practice of yama is called the great vow (mahāvratam). Ahiṃsā or non-harming is the foundational restraint in Yoga. The practitioner is to refrain from harming sentient beings, and in some interpretations, all living beings. And yet it is recognized that, as an embodied being, the practitioner will inevitably cause some harm. Prakṛti, the natural world, is a dynamic interwoven fabric of cause and effect in which it is impossible to avoid all harm. However, the restraint of ahiṃsā places the ideal of peaceful co-existence

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at the center of the moral and spiritual life. Truthfulness involves not lying, of course, but also includes a commitment to honesty guided by non-harming. Hence the practitioner is to avoid dishonesty, harsh speech, slander, and self-deception. Non-stealing involves refraining from taking what is not freely given. Sexual restraint in Patañjali’s historical context would primarily refer to the practice of celibacy. However, it can also include concerns of fidelity and avoiding harm caused by sexual activity. Non-greed involves refraining from taking more than one needs, practicing material simplicity, as well as cultivating generosity. Practicing yama, then, involves a fundamental commitment to living in the world in a way that avoids the harms caused by the human tendencies to violence, greed, and dishonesty. The niyama limb is subdivided into the observances of purity or cleanliness (śauca), contentment (saṃtoṣa), self-discipline (tapas), self-study (svādhyāya), and devotion to the divine (īśvarapraṇidhāna). Śauca literally means “cleanliness,” but has a quite broad scope in the context of Yoga. The observance includes bodily cleanliness as well as considerations of, for example, ritual and dietary purity. The practice of contentment involves overcoming greed and practicing gratitude toward one’s life and circumstances. Self-discipline here includes the commitment to the rigors of regular and comprehensive spiritual practice. However, the term tapas here means “heat” and, in the broader Indian context, can refer to various, sometimes severe forms of asceticism and the power that is thought to arise from them. So, while Pātañjala Yoga is not based on harsh austerities, the notion of self-discipline carries a sense of vigorous and disciplined practice. Self-study traditionally involves the practitioner’s commitment to studying and internalizing the teachings of the tradition. For example, one might memorize, recite, and contemplate passages from important texts such as the Bhagavad Gītā or the Yoga Sūtras. Finally, īśvarapraṇidhāna involves loving dedication to the divine or the Lord (īśvara). Īśvara here is conceived as a pure consciousness (puruṣa) that has never been bound by false identification with prakṛti, and thereby fully manifests the divine qualities of awakened consciousness. The Lord serves as both an object of devotion as well as an ideal to which the practitioner aspires. Practice of niyama, then, involves the primarily self-directed cultivation of traits and habits conducive to traveling the spiritual path. We can see that ethical self-cultivation is at the root of the spiritual path of yoga. The yamas and niyamas serve both as forms of moral restraint or observance as well as dimensions of moral experience to which the practitioner is to become progressively more attuned. In addition to the more fine-grained detail of these limbs of the path, Patañjali also remarks (I.20–21) that “faith (śraddhā), energy (vīrya), mindfulness (smṛti), contemplation (samādhi), and wisdom (prajñā) form the path to realization. For those who seek liberation wholeheartedly, realization is

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near.” Hence, these core virtues provide the requisite foundation for the detailed and rigorous practices of the eight limbs. With regard to the Buddhist eightfold path, we have seen that moral discipline is of central importance. Furthermore, liberation from suffering is often conceptualized as a process of uprooting the unwholesome traits of greed, aversion, and delusion, while cultivating the wholesome roots of generosity, kindness, and wisdom. More specifically, in the early Buddhist tradition, moral cultivation is centered on the four immeasurable (apramāṇa) virtues of loving-kindness (maitrī), compassion (karuṇā), sympathetic joy (muditā), and equanimity (upekṣā). The immeasurables may refer to occurrent feelings or attitudes, domains of moral training, or stable character traits. They are constitutive of the character of an awakened being (arhat) and are articulated within a moral psychology that includes an analysis of the “near” and “far” enemies of each state, as well as the use of the immeasurables as “antidotes” to negative states.5 The term maitrī (Pāli: mettā), often translated as “loving-kindness,” is related to mitra, “friend,” and connotes an attitude of friendliness or good will toward all sentient beings. In particular, it involves the wish for the happiness and well-being of others. In its ideal form, loving-kindness is universal in scope and includes the wish that all beings achieve both worldly happiness and awakening. Its opposite or far enemy is hatred or ill-will (dveṣa). Its counterfeit or near enemy is selfish attachment (upādāna). In general, attachment refers the mistaken desire to cling to what is impermanent, unsatisfactory, and insubstantial (“selfless”) as if it were permanent, satisfactory, and substantial. As the near enemy of true maitrī, it has the connotation of a self-centered, possessive, compulsive, or anxious way of relating to those one cares about. It is considered a near enemy because our love and concern for others is so often mixed with (or conflated with) these maladaptive ways of relating. On the Buddhist view, loving-kindness can be cultivated through specific forms of meditation. For instance, in the form of meditation known as maitrī-bhāvanā (“loving-kindness cultivation”) the meditator evokes a feeling of kindness first toward herself, then toward a friend, a neutral person, a difficult person, and finally all sentient beings. The meditation technique involves both affective self-priming and stabilizing—that is, evoking and maintaining the feeling of kindness or love in oneself—as well as imaginative extension. Finally, it can serve as an antidote to both acute and chronic forms of ill-will. When one notices the arising of ill-will, one can evoke the feeling of loving-kindness toward the object of one’s ill-will. This is thought to counteract the arising of ill-will. Moreover, repeated practice of maitrī-bhāvanā is thought to reduce the tendency to hatred or ill-will over time, as well as make it easier to counteract specific instances of these negative states. Compassion (karuṇā) involves the concern for others’ suffering. It includes both sympathy for the plight of others and the active wish to alleviate their suffering. Like maitrī, it is ideally universal in scope. In

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terms of strength, the compassionate person is said to care for the suffering of others as much as she cares for her own suffering. Its far enemy is cruelty, while its near enemy is pity. Pity is considered a near enemy because it involves a sense of condescension or superiority toward its object based on a sense of fundamental difference between oneself and the other. In contrast, true compassion is based on a deep sense of our shared plight as sentient beings who do not want to suffer. Sympathetic joy (muditā) involves taking joy in the happiness and welfare of others. Its far enemy is envy or resentment. Its near enemies are biased joy in others’ good fortune, such as joy only when one’s own child does well, or vicarious enjoyment based in states such as craving, as in celebrity worship. Techniques to cultivate sympathetic joy include attending to or contemplating the good qualities of others, especially those one may envy or resent. Equanimity (upekṣā) involves both mental stability or tranquility and a lack of bias or undue partiality in one’s perceptions and interactions with others (and oneself). The far enemies of equanimity are disturbing emotions such as craving and anxiety. These emotions are problematic both because they disturb one’s inner peace or emotional equilibrium and because they tend to bias one’s assessment of moral situations. Someone in the grip of craving, for instance, may not have the clear unbiased understanding of her situation required to act virtuously. The near enemies of upekṣā are cold indifference and apathy. Attempting to maintain one’s inner peace by ignoring or being unconcerned with the happiness and suffering of others is not virtuous, nor is attempting to be impartial by being equally uncaring toward all. While the four immeasurables are conceptually distinct and each has its own techniques of cultivation, these virtues are considered mutually supporting. Loving-kindness and compassion are, of course, complementary. Cultivating sympathetic joy can facilitate cultivating loving-kindness or compassion, and vice versa. Equanimity serves to ensure that other virtues are universal in scope and free of prejudice, while the other three virtues serve to ensure that equanimity does not fall into mere indifference. Finally, it is important to note the guiding roles of attention—in the forms of mindfulness and attentional stability—and wisdom in cultivating and expressing the virtues. Stable attention is important insofar as an agitated and unfocused mind is an impediment both to acting virtuously and to the meditative techniques required to cultivate the virtues. Mindfulness is important in that it is said to increase awareness of both one’s internal states and processes, and morally salient features of one’s situation. For instance, the mindful individual may notice the subtle feelings of anger just as it is starting to arise and thereby more easily address it. Most important, wisdom—a deep insight into the impermanent, unsatisfactory, and insubstantial nature of reality—guides and constrains the four immeasurables. An action motivated by compassion, but not guided by

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wisdom, risks missing its target or worse, being counter-productive or harmful. On the Buddhist view, appropriate action must be well motivated and wise.6

4.

Self, Ego, and Transcendence

As mentioned above, on my interpretation Buddhism and Yoga share a commitment to two central ideas. First, that the cultivation of virtue is at the foundation of the spiritual path. Second, that spiritual liberation involves a form of self-transcendence—that is, a fundamental transformation beyond one’s normal sense of self. Further, as a corollary of these two ideas, on my view Yoga and Buddhism are committed to the idea that moral development involves self-transcendence. In other words, both virtue and spiritual freedom require transcending the ego. And yet, as discussed in this section, the traditions are diametrically opposed on the ultimate ontological status of the self. In the second chapter of the Yoga Sūtras, Patañjali discusses the nature of spiritual practice, including the most fundamental obstacles to spiritual liberation. These are called kleśas, meaning “afflictions” or “poisons.” He writes: II.3

The impediments [kleśas] are ignorance, egoity, attachment, aversion, and clinging to life. II.4 Ignorance is the field [of the other kleśas] . . . whether they are in a dormant, weak, attenuated, or active state. II.5 Ignorance is the notion which mistakes the eternal, pure, joyful self for the impermanent, impure, painful non-self. II.6 Egoity (asmitā) is to confuse the seer and the power of seeing as one self. Patañjali, then, is very clear that asmitā—literally “I-am-ness,” but here having the sense of egoity or egotism—arises from ignorance and is an impediment to spiritual development. Ignorance (avidyā) is the primordial confusion that conflates self and non-self, puruṣa and prakṛti. This ignorance might take gross form in the false identification with external forms, such as one’s social status, power, or bodily form. However, egoity is thought to be a much subtler form of ignorance at the very root of one’s normal sense of self. Recall that in the Sāṅkhya and Yoga schools of thought mind and mental processes are considered subtle forms of prakṛti. Therefore, the psychological sense of self—(ahaṃkāra, “I-maker”) the cognitive, affective, and conative modes of self-awareness and self-identification—is a function of what is ultimately the non-self. Now, on the Yoga view, egoity plays a central role in the psychological economy of embodied sentient beings such as ourselves. For instance, we experience our bodies as our

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own in both feeling and action. We identify various mental contents and events (vṛttis), such as thoughts, feeling, images, or memories as parts of our ongoing mental lives. Out of these and other elements we build a self-image, which shapes our way of being in the world. Each of these is an aspect of asmitā as our egoic sense of self. Yet, most fundamentally asmitā refers to basic “I-am-ness,” the persistent sense of subjectivity or minimal selfhood at the core of our experience. In this sense, the Yoga concept of egoity is similar to views of the minimal self found in the phenomenological tradition, as well as Antonio Damasio’s notion of the core self. For proponents of the minimal self, an experiential sense of the I or a basic for-me-ness is a necessary structural feature of phenomenal consciousness. This yields an egological theory of consciousness. “An egological theory,” as Dan Zahavi (2005) explains, would claim that when I watch a movie by Bergman, I am not only intentionally directed at the movie, nor merely aware of the movie being watched, I am also aware that it is being watched by me, that is, that I am watching the movie. . . . Thus, an egological theory would typically claim that it is a conceptual and experiential truth that any episode of experiencing necessarily includes a subject of experience. (p. 99) In a similar vein, Damasio (2003) holds that a core sense of self is a necessary feature of conscious experience and the complex integrated functioning of sentient beings. For him, the basic sense of self arises from the unconscious integration of information about the environment, the organism’s internal milieu, and the dynamic relations between them. This unconscious integration gives rise to a conscious sense of self. Indeed, on Damasio’s view, “without a sense of self and without the feelings that integrate it, such large-scale integration of information would not be oriented to the problems of life, namely survival and the achievement of well-being” (p. 208). On my interpretation of the Yoga view, egoity both plays an important psychological role and constitutes an impediment to spiritual liberation. Egoity serves the integrated functioning and survival of the body-mind complex within the larger natural world of prakṛti. As Damasio argues, the core self provides orientation and concern. He writes, The sense of self introduces, within the mental level of processing, the notion that all the current activities represented in brain and mind pertain to a single organism whose auto-preservation needs are the basic cause of most events currently represented. The sense of self orients the mental planning process toward the satisfaction of those needs. That orientation is only possible because feelings are integral to the cluster of operations that constitutes the sense of

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Now, of course, classical Indian thinkers such as Patañjali did not base their views of the ego on evolutionary biology or neuroscience. However, Damasio’s reflections on the function of the ego or core self are, I think, congruent with the Yoga and Sāṅkhya views. In his discussion of the kleśas, after defining ignorance and egoity, Patañjali goes on to say, II.7 II.8 II.9 II.10

Attachment stems from [experiences of] happiness. Aversion stems from [experiences of] pain. Clinging to life affects even the wise; it is an inherent tendency. These kleśas are subtle; they are destroyed when [the mind] dissolves back into its original matrix.

Primordial ignorance is the field (kṣetra) within which the subsequent kleśas take root and grow. Ignorance gives rise to egoity, the (ultimately false) identification of the body-mind as self, as the I-am. The emergent ego-self then plays a central role in the psychological economy of the individual. That is, egoity orients the individual toward the pursuit of its (felt or perceived) interests. It is within this egoic framework that the individual is motivated to pursue pleasure, avoid pain, and survive. Within the framework of egoity, these are the primary forms of concern. In this sense, the ego is a normal psychological function. However, note that in the above passage, the pursuit and experience of pleasure gives rise to attachment (rāga), while the avoidance or experience of pain gives rise to aversion (dveṣa). Yet, these are considered maladaptive modes of psychological response. Rāga is a form of craving and unhealthy attachment to the object of craving. Dveṣa involves dysfunctional forms of fear, anger, or hatred. Clinging to life (abhivineśā) involves not just a survival instinct or auto-preservation in Damasio’s terms, but also a deeply rooted fear of mortality. Attachment, aversion, and clinging to life, then, are the psychological patterns that characterize our egoic mode of being. And, according to Yoga, these patterns inevitably lead to suffering and spiritual bondage. That is, insofar as we are driven by ignorance, egotism, attachment, aversion, and clinging to life, we are not free. As mentioned, according to Patañjali, primordial ignorance consists in conflating self and non-self. Egoity, then, is the more particular form of ignorance in which the seer is conflated with the instrumental faculty or power of seeing. He further elaborates: II.17 II.20

The conjunction between the seer and the seen is the cause [of suffering] to be avoided. The seer is merely the power of seeing; [however] although pure, he witnesses the images of mind.

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The cause of conjunction is ignorance. By the removal of ignorance, conjunction is removed. This is the absolute freedom of the seer.

The seer (dṛk) here refers to puruṣa, pure consciousness. This pure light of consciousness is, we might say, refracted through the prism of the body-mind. The source of confusion arises because there is a misidentification between pure consciousness and buddhi or intelligence. Buddhi refers to the various cognitive capacities of the mind, including the capacity for perception of the world (the “instrumental power of seeing” (darśana) mentioned in II.6). In effect, the mind takes itself to be the self when it is in fact the non-self. The true self is the eternal, pure light of consciousness. And yet, in II.20 Patañjali somewhat confusingly calls the seer “merely the power of seeing” (dṛśi-mātra). I think the idea here is that, while the mind provides the instrumental capacity to cognitively engage with the natural world, it is pure consciousness that is the true power of seeing because only it allows for conscious perception. Without the light of pure witnessing consciousness, all cognitive operations would go on “in the dark”—that is, without being phenomenally conscious at all. Mental activity without pure consciousness would be akin to global blindsight. The body-mind might be informationally sensitive to its environment, but there would be nothing it is like for it to cognitively engage the world. On this view, puruṣa as pure consciousness is a form of transcendental subjectivity. It is the condition of the possibility of any phenomenal experience—that is, experience of the various objects of the phenomenal world. Indeed, the Yoga tradition draws a sharp distinction between transcendental consciousness or subjectivity and any actual or possible empirical objects of consciousness. Consciousness is the pure witnessing or illumination (prakāśatā) of experiential objects or contents and is therefore distinct from any such objects. That is, on the Yoga view, pure consciousness, as that which reveals all objects, can never itself be an object. This view of consciousness is in certain respects similar to Jean-Paul Sartre’s. In Being and Nothingness, Sartre (1956) states, “All consciousness, Husserl has shown, is consciousness of something. This means that there is no consciousness that is not a positing of a transcendent object, or if you prefer, that consciousness has no ‘content’” (p. 11). Consciousness has no content for Sartre in the sense that any intentional object of consciousness is not itself a part of consciousness. In this sense, in both Yoga and Sartre’s phenomenology, consciousness is radically transparent and therefore radically distinct from the world of objects.7 And crucially, this claim extends to both external physical objects as well as to internal mental contents. Since thoughts, feelings, images, and so on are actual or possible objects of awareness—they are in this sense empirical phenomena—they too are distinct from consciousness itself. Given

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this account of pure consciousness, Yoga is committed to the radical elusiveness of the true self. The true self can never be an object of consciousness. Therefore, any mental or physical phenomena one might come to identify as the self is ipso facto not the self. Phenomenologically, primordial ignorance is the experiential confusion of transcendental subjectivity (the seer) with its various empirical objects (seen), including the various states and processes of the empirical psyche. And, as Patañjali states, eliminating this confusion yields the “the absolute freedom of the seer.” As discussed in Section 2, in contrast with Hindu thinkers like Patañjali, classical Buddhist thinkers were proponents of anātmavāda, “the view of no-self.” That is, they denied (and vigorously argued against) the existence of the self. While there are complex psychophysical systems with a sense of self, there is not—and never has been—any such entity as a self. There are three paradigmatic features of Buddhist anti-realism about the self. First is the rejection of the existence of the self as a substance or enduring entity. There are causally and functionally integrated psychological processes, but there is no self at the center. Second is the denial that the sense of self is a necessary and invariant feature of experience. The sense of self is rather a variable construct. Third is the view that the sense of self, no matter how natural it seems, necessarily involves some kind of error, illusion, or distortion. That is, the sense of self leads to mistaking the ontologically selfless flow of experience for the existence of a self. Hence, the anti-realist about the self must develop an ontology and phenomenology of experience—including self-experience8—that does not rely on the existence of the self. Rejecting the existence of the substantial self, the Buddhists argue the existence of a person (pudgala) consists in the existence of the five skandhas (bundles or aggregates) organized in the right way. The five skandhas are: material form (rūpa), affect (vedanā), perception and cognition (saṃjñā), conditioning and volition (saṃskāra), and consciousness (vijñāna). The skandhas are not to be taken as independent things, but instead are seen as interdependent aspects of a causally and functionally integrated psychophysical (nāma-rūpa) system or process (skandhasantāna, an “aggregate-stream” or “bundle-continuum”). The dynamic system of the skandhas has no enduring self at its center, and the system itself is not an enduring substance. Rather it is a complex process ultimately composed of ephemeral physical and mental events. On this kind of Buddhist analysis, the existence of the individual person just consists in the existence of the right kind of system of sub-personal events. Persons are conventionally real (saṃvṛtisat), but not ultimately, irreducibly real (paramārthasat). Mainstream Buddhist views of personal identity are thus reductionist in Derek Parfit’s (1984) sense, in that they reject a separately existing self and explain diachronic personal identity in terms of the weaker relation psychological continuity. Moreover, given Buddhist views on rebirth, they are arguably committed to the idea that

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identity is not what matters in survival. The sense of being a stable self arises from and is sustained by a complex set of impersonal causes and conditions, which are not transparent to the system itself. This sense of self can be useful—though it is ultimately maladaptive according to Buddhist thought—but it functions as a kind of user illusion. The system comes to represent and experience itself as if there were a homuncular, enduring self that is an owner, subject, and agent. Yet, this representation of a self-obscures the complex psychophysical processes that actually drive experience and action. Now, while Buddhist philosophers argue deftly against the existence of the self on ontological and epistemological grounds, the fundamental motivation for anti-realism about the self is deeper. As discussed above, on the Buddhist analysis, our innate tendencies toward affective and conative distortions such as craving and attachment drive the vicious saṃsāric cycle of frustration, suffering, and alienation. The root cause of these distortions is the innate tendency to reify self (ātmadṛṣṭi) and world. This deep-seated self-grasping (ātmagraha) is thus parallel to the Yogic idea of asmitā as egoity. Self-grasping anchors a mode of psychological functioning wherein our attempts to attain happiness and avoid suffering are self-defeating. The three poisons of craving, aversion, and delusion are dysfunctional forms of our basic impulses of attraction, aversion, and indifference, on the basis of which we respond to changing circumstances, seeking happiness and avoiding suffering. Because these basic forms of reaction are distorted or dysfunctional, as long as we are bound to them, our attempts to secure the lasting happiness we desire are doomed to fail. On the Buddhist account, then, the most fundamental form of cognitive distortion is the sense that one is a fixed, enduring self and the self-centeredness and self-cherishing that goes along with this sense. The path to liberation must involve deconstructing and overcoming the view of the self that is the lynchpin of saṃsāra. The deconstruction of the reified sense of self involves first-, second-, and third-person methods. Third-person methods include contemplating and internalizing philosophical arguments against the existence of the self, recognition of the impermanent and conditioned nature of phenomena, and the analysis of the sentient being into the five skandhas. On my interpretation, the function of these third-person methods is to gain insight into the nature of phenomena. One comes to see sentient beings, not as enduring mental subjects, owners, and agents, but as complex conditioned networks of mental and physical processes. Second-person methods of deconstructing the self include cultivating the four immeasurables and using them as antidotes to afflicted or unskillful states. For instance, as discussed in Section 3, loving-kindness meditation is used to cultivate interpersonal kindness and as an antidote to feelings or attitudes of aversion or hatred. However, when coupled with the internalized wisdom of selflessness, the meditation can serve as a way to deconstruct any sense of ontological

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separation between “self” and “other.” First-person methods for overcoming self-grasping include, for example, contemplative methods associated with classical mindfulness. On the classical Abhidharma view, the cultivation of mindfulness is closely linked to ethical vigilance (apramāda) and insight (vipaśyana) (Dunne, 2011). The basis of the first-person method of mindfulness is the development of attention regulation through the cultivation of smṛti (focus or attentional stability) and samprajanya (meta-awareness or introspective vigilance). Smṛti is the capacity to hold one’s attention on an object, such as the breath or bodily sensations. Samprajanya is the capacity to monitor the quality of one’s focus on the object of attention. Thus, noticing that one’s attention has wandered from the object, or that one’s attention is dull rather than clear are instances of samprajanya. In cultivating the joint operation of smṛti and samprajanya, the practitioner is supposed to develop a calm, focused mind and the increased level of attention to her mental life is supposed to bring a clearer comprehension of her own mental processes. This leads to the cultivation of apramāda (ethical vigilance or heedfulness). Here the increased awareness of one’s intentions and positive and negative mental states allows one better to keep her actions of body, speech, and mind in accord with her ethical commitments and spiritual goals. Lastly, one develops penetrating insight (vipaśyana) into the impermanent, unsatisfactory, and selfless nature of the phenomena constituting one’s mind-body complex (nāma-rūpa). That is, one realizes directly that the mental and bodily events that constitute this very stream of experience are (1) constantly changing; (2) that grasping after them cannot lead to true happiness and satisfaction; and (3) that the phenomena are not related to a fixed, enduring self. Thus, according to the classical Abhidharma, the cultivation of mindfulness and the related qualities of heedfulness and insight yield a profound transformation in self-experience, from a sense of being a fixed self to a selfless flow of experience. In this way, the cultivation of mindfulness, virtue, and self-transcendence are deeply intertwined in the Buddhist path.

5.

Conclusion

Yoga and Buddhism, as complex integrated philosophical and spiritual systems, are committed to a deep connection between the cultivation of virtue, transcendence of the ego-self, and spiritual liberation. Both traditions place moral discipline and the cultivation of virtues such as non-violence, compassion, and contentment at the foundation of their respective paths. A key aspect of moral cultivation in these schools is the attempt to diminish selfish motivations and the often harmful actions that arise from them. Thus, the moral life involves a move to transcend the narrow interests and concerns of the ego, in favor of a mode of being based on kindness, compassion, and non-attachment. Furthermore, in

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both traditions, the saṃsāric predicament of humanity is rooted in a fundamentally egoic mode of psychological functioning. This mode of functioning involves maladaptive states such as greed, hatred, and excessive self-concern. This leads to endless cycles of frustration and dissatisfaction (duḥkha) wherein our restless craving to meet the needs of the ego-self are fundamentally self-defeating. As the 8th-century Buddhist philosopher Śāntideva puts it, “Hoping to escape suffering, it is to suffering that they run. In the desire for happiness, out of delusion, they destroy their own happiness, like an enemy.” In this view, our only hope to escape this vicious cycle is to radically transcend our false sense of self. Indeed, this idea reflects a core theme in Indian philosophical and spiritual traditions: that human beings suffer a deep-rooted case of mistaken identity and the key to our spiritual freedom is to understand our true nature. In the case of the Hindu traditions such as Yoga and Vedānta, this involves transcending the false ego-self and experientially recognizing the true spiritual self (ātman or puruṣa). More specifically, in Yoga the practitioner overcomes the false identification of the self with the body-mind, and realizes the primordial purity, joy, and freedom of the self as pure consciousness. The self here is pure transcendental subjectivity and thus can never truly be bound by the world of objects. In the case of Buddhism, overcoming mistaken identity involves a recognition that all notions of self are ultimately false constructions. Thus, one transcends the false sense of self and realizes a truly selfless mode of being. The great joy and peace of nirvāṇa is said to be utterly beyond all constructions of self. The ultimate forms of spiritual freedom in these traditions seem to be quite remote from our everyday experience. The yogic state of kaivalya (independence, aloneness) is often thought to involve the complete separation of puruṣa from prakṛti.9 Likewise final liberation (parinirvāṇa) in the Buddhist tradition occurs only after the final death of the body and is generally thought to transcend conceptual understanding. However, both traditions affirm the possibility of spiritual liberation in the midst of embodied existence and life. And the key to these liberated modes of living, I take it, is the transformation from an egoic to a post-egoic mode of psychological functioning. In Yoga, this form of embodied or living liberation is called jīvanmukti. The living liberated individual (jīvanmukta), through yogic practice, has purified and transformed her body-mind to such an extent that it is no longer an obstacle to her spiritual freedom. Indeed, the properly transformed body-mind is yoked to the higher consciousness of the true self and serves as a vehicle for the expression of the qualities of awakening innate to puruṣa. In particular, the liberated person manifests the qualities of virtue (dharma), knowledge (jñāna), dispassion (vairāgya), and autonomy (aiśvarya) (Whicher, 1998). In early Buddhism, the awakened person, other than the Buddha himself, is called the arhat or worthy one. The awakened person has uprooted

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the unwholesome roots of greed, aversion, and delusion. She therefore is said to experience the great joy that comes from release from these negative states. The arhat is also said to have perfected the four immeasurable virtues, to have achieved penetrating insight into the nature of reality, and to have gained the freedom that comes from mental self-control. The awakened being, then, is characterized by joy (sukha), virtue (śīla), insight (prajñā), and freedom (vimukti). Despite their important philosophical differences, then, the traditions of Yoga and Buddhism share an account of human life as rooted in egoism and prone to suffering, yet through integrated moral, philosophical, and meditative training, capable of transcending all false notions of self and achieving extraordinary levels of happiness, virtue, and freedom.

Notes 1 This work is supported in part by the Colorado State University Department of Philosophy endowment fund. 2 Dating of the Yoga Sūtras is uncertain and contested. Proposed dates of composition range from as early as the 3rd century BCE, to as late as the 5th century CE. 3 Unless otherwise specified, I will use consciousness and awareness interchangeably. 4 All translations are my own. See Bryant (2009) for the full Sanskrit text, translation, and commentary. 5 The following discussion of the four immeasurables draws on the more extensive account of Buddhist virtues in MacKenzie (2018). 6 It is interesting to note that Patañjali mentions the four immeasurables as part of yoga. He writes (I.33), “The mind calms as one radiates friendliness toward the pleasant, compassion toward the distressed, sympathetic joy toward the meritorious, and equanimity toward the unmeritorious.” 7 It is important to note, however, that the Yoga tradition explicitly denies that all consciousness involves being directed toward an object. This is because they affirm states of pure consciousness, wherein objectless awareness discloses its own nature. On the Yoga view, when the modifications of mind are stilled, pure awareness abides in its true nature. 8 By “self-experience” here I mean both the various forms of self-consciousness and the sense of self. 9 Though see Whicher (2002) for a different and I think more plausible view.

References Bryant, E. F. (2009). The Yoga Sūtras of Patañjali: A new edition, translation, and commentary. New York, NY: North Point Press. Damasio, A. (2003). Looking for Spinoza: Joy, sorrow, and the feeling brain. London, England: William Heinemann. Dunne, J. (2011). Toward an understanding of non-dual mindfulness. Contemporary Buddhism, 12(1), 71–88. MacKenzie, M. (2018). Buddhism and the virtues. In N. E. Snow (Ed.), Oxford handbook of virtue (pp. 153–170). Oxford, England: Oxford University Press.

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Ñāṇamoli, B., & Bodhi, B. (1995). The middle length discourses of the Buddha: A translation of the Majjhima Nikāya. Somerville, MA: Wisdom Publications. Parfit, D. (1984). Reasons and persons. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press. Sartre, J.-P. (1956). Being and nothingness. New York, NY: Philosophical Library. Schweig, G. (2010). Bhagavad gītā: The beloved Lord’s secret love song. New York, NY: Harper Collins. Thānissaro, B. (2012). Udāna: Exclamations. Retrieved from www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/thanissaro/udana.pdf Whicher, I. (1998). The integrity of the yoga darśana. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Whicher, I. (2002). Revisioning classical yoga: “Getting it right with prakṛti”. Studies in Religion, 31(2), 195–207. Zahavi, D. (2005). Subjectivity and selfhood: Investigating the first-person perspective. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

Part III

Perspectives From Psychology

11 Wisdom Develops From Experiences That Transcend the Self Howard C. Nusbaum

Introduction In industrialized, technologically advanced societies, intelligence is a prized quality of human psychological ability. In vernacular use, intelligence is generally thought about as the ability that aids in understanding and adaptively solving difficult problems. This modern view of intelligence derives from a particular aspect of psychological science in history. Spearman (1904) defined intelligence as the ability to solve diverse complex problems. He argued that whatever was in common as ability across different kinds of problems, which he called “g” reflected intelligence. Specific sensory abilities, or manual dexterity, or even prodigious memory, if not used across a wide range of different types of problems would not be part of intelligence even if such specific abilities contribute to particular classes of problems only. By contrast, Thurstone (1938) argued for a multi-factor theory of intelligence, that intelligence is a complex of different abilities such as verbal comprehension, number ability, spatial ability, and different kinds of reasoning. Regardless of the specific concept of intelligence used (cf. Sternberg, 2000), societies seem to value intelligence highly as a way of solving daily problems, financial problems, and societal problems requiring policy, and as important for education. Indeed, the modern intelligence test (e.g., Stanford-Binet test, Roid, 2003) was developed originally (Binet & Simon, 1905) at the request of the French government in order to assess potential for investing educational effort and resources. However, it is interesting then that Binet, sometimes called the father of the modern intelligence test, was interested in intelligence as reflected by complex psychological processes rather than simple dimensional mechanisms such as working memory or number ability (see Brody, 2000). But the kind of complex psychological processes considered by Binet are not what is measured on IQ (intelligence) tests. Rather, relatively simple cognitive mechanisms are measured. But intelligence as measured is specifically defined in terms of problem solving and reasoning ability and thus is purely cognitive. It does not address interpersonal social problem solving, or personal ethical

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or moral dilemmas, or decision-making that involves emotion. If education is grounded in IQ, that suggests what society values in an educational system—cognitive problem solving and cognitive expertise such as reading, writing, and math. These are not necessarily the qualities that produce the best citizens of a society, at least from some perspectives. Moreover, the leadership of a society is putatively selected on this definition of intelligence that is divorced from considerations of empathy, ability to care about social connection and concern, affect, self-regulation, and bias; this would be a calculating leadership but not a caring one. Sternberg (2005) has talked about smart people doing foolish things and how understanding human intelligence (see Sternberg, 1985, 1997) is insufficient to account for good leadership. It is compelling to think that it is possible to be very smart and still make decisions and choices that have bad outcomes. What society considers intelligence in terms of problem solving does not necessarily make for the best outcomes for society, for decisions that involve more than just the decision maker. This kind of “cold cognitive” intelligence might optimize outcomes on some objective dimensions but ignore the implications for other people. It is easy to characterize this in terms of the history of psychological science research as a consequence of advances in economics in terms of utility maximization and rational choice on the one hand and cognitive psychology and objective test performance on the other, wherein quantifiable metrics such as Gross Domestic Product or performance accuracy or speed have been taken as providing the basis for a scientific foundation. This means that the standard view of a desirable psychological ability for advancement of society and in society is being smart. But the capacity of being smart is focused on individual intellectual abilities. It is interesting that Binet did not define intelligence in this cold, cognitive, calculating way, despite what was and has been measured in these IQ tests. In describing intelligence, Binet and Simon (1916) wrote: It seems to us that in intelligence there is a fundamental faculty, the alteration or the lack of which, is of the utmost importance for practical life. This faculty is judgment, otherwise called good sense, practical sense, initiative, the faculty of adapting one’s self to circumstances. What is good sense, good practical judgment? Practical judgment seems a lot like common sense (Rosenfeld, 2011), and practical judgment and common sense are definitely lacking in foolish people—one can clearly be smart but not have good judgment and common sense. This idea of judgment and good sense then is something that would be better for society and for people in society than intelligence alone as conceived of as a cold cognitive process. Presumably judgment and good sense are not simply calculating but take into account social implications and emotion and would involve empathy.

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In many respects, this seems like Aristotle’s description of phronesis or practical wisdom in the Nicomachean Ethics Book VI—practical judgment in decision-making. But Aristotle’s depiction of practical wisdom is specifically described as practical decision-making that leads to human flourishing. The notion of human flourishing then is a key aspect that distinguishes wisdom from intelligent decision-making or just good common sense. This means that human flourishing is critical to practical wisdom as opposed to being smart or having good practical judgment. Although in the vernacular, to flourish might be taken as “doing well” in health and personal wealth and well-being generally, in Aristotelian terms, it may be better thought of as grounding in the moral virtues. In thinking about human flourishing, and thus for practical wisdom, it is important to consider moral virtues such as generosity, honesty, trust, and gratitude. And these and other moral virtues link practical wisdom to judgment and decision-making that goes well beyond one’s own directly personal considerations. From Aristotle, the moral virtues as critical to human flourishing thus serve as the driver of practical wisdom, although they may not figure into common sense or good judgment to the same degree. How they function in respect of practical wisdom is not entirely clear. From Tiberius’s (2008) view of practical wisdom, the moral virtues are the value commitments that frame our affective responses to prospective choices both personally and in taking the perspective of others. We evaluate prospective choices against our and others’ (through perspective taking) value commitments and the feeling states that are consequent of this evaluative process for us and others then is critical to guiding a wise decision. In this respect, the moral virtues serve as guideposts in the prospective evaluation of a decision. To the extent that a decision is made based on the moral virtues, this seems consistent with the Aristotelian view of practical wisdom as decision-making in service of human flourishing. Of course, there are other ways in which moral virtues play a role in practical wisdom—as general goals or principles, as patterns to shape choice or action. In this respect, practical wisdom is important specifically because we distinguish practical wisdom from other forms of judgment, whether the moral virtues function as goals, values, or action patterns in the process of decision-making. Regardless of the way in which they actually function in respect of human flourishing for practical wisdom, we can consider the moral virtues a form of social intelligence (Snow, 2010)—a way of improving one’s social interactions and relationships. Perhaps it is better put to say that the moral virtues provide the social intelligence that is critical for improving society and societal functioning. If human flourishing refers to someone doing well because of their prosocial interactions beyond immediate personal needs, then the moral virtues such as empathy and compassion, gratitude and generosity, and trust and honesty, for example, need to be a critical aspect of practical wisdom. In this respect, from the perspective

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of psychology and philosophy, we can think about practical wisdom as going beyond the self in important ways that are linked to the moral virtues. Thus, practical wisdom depends on a form of self-transcendence. We can think about “social intelligence” as a way of improving the performance of individual cognizers such as humans or computers. For example, Hutchins (1995) introduced the notion of “distributed cognition” in which perception, thinking, understanding, and memory actually reside in (distributed among) a group of people rather than in an individual. In this case, the memory or the understanding emerges from the interaction of individuals such that no particular individual has the memory itself. Hutchins observed this in the interaction of people working in teams and described how such interactions yield distributed cognition and intelligence. This suggests there is cognitive power in going beyond the self and connecting to others in effective teams. Individuals are limited in capacity, perspective, and scope of processing, but social networks can connect individuals into groups that broaden these. Indeed, computers originally were designed to be self-contained in terms of processing power, memory, and inputs and outputs such that each computer stood alone and everything to be processed was stored locally on that computer alone. And for the longest time, in the era of modern cognitive psychology (see Gardner, 1985), this was the operative metaphor for understanding the human mind, especially in respect of cognition. However, the metaphor of the mind as a stand-alone computer was changed in two important ways. First, the development of a new computing metaphor based on analog neurons, rather the digital propositional computing, provided a better model of some cognitive mechanisms and more closely fit how the brain might operate (e.g., see Rumelhart & McClelland, 1986). Second, engineering high-speed computing interconnections over networks changed the state of computing, and with wireless networks and omnipresent connectivity, along with constant human data flow, the power of distributed digital computing has become clear. Information can reside across the network, distributed among different storage locations. Processing can be distributed as well, and as with people working in teams, different computers can address pieces of a computation. Networked computers that share information and distribute processing throughout the network transcend the limitations of the individual computer to harness the power of a network. In this way, we have a new model of human social cognition in which decision-making depends on social connections formed in a variety of ways that transcend the cognition of a single person but leveraged on the foundation of more fundamental human social group cognition as manifest in teamwork. In this respect, practical wisdom becomes more important than ever before as a concept of human thought and reasoning. Given that practical wisdom is decision-making in service of human flourishing, the moral

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virtues serving as social intelligence may provide the interpersonal social connection that allows distributed cognition to function effectively over our more widely dispersed groups, connected by email, text, and voice. Practical wisdom, per Aristotle, depends on self-transcendence in the way that the moral virtues couple individual smart decision makers socially and through the social intelligence of the moral virtues, but there is more to wisdom than just this form of social intelligence. Practical wisdom through its connection to human flourishing provides an important function for society in reinforcing social relationships and societal flourishing. Moreover, the focus of practical wisdom on human social challenges and problems engages emotion, creativity, and intellectual struggle in ways that other kinds of decision-making may not.

Understanding Wisdom In general, wisdom is a quality of human nature that has been discussed extensively throughout history, perhaps most notably (for psychological scientists) in Western philosophy by Aristotle and Socrates. In modern times, however, despite being considered a high point of human psychological ability, there has been little public discourse about wisdom or its importance in human enterprise, and even less scientific study of wisdom, although in recent years the scientific study of wisdom has been increasing significantly. It is important to distinguish between Aristotle’s notion of sophia, as theoretical wisdom, and phronesis, as practical wisdom. From the perspective of understanding wisdom in people, the approach to understanding wisdom has focused on phronesis. Practical wisdom can be understood in the context of decision-making of a certain kind. Focusing on practical wisdom allows for the notion that wisdom can increase with experience. Instead of talking about a wise person, it may be better and more scientifically tractable to talk about making wiser decisions. And then, in this specific context to consider how experiences can lead to making wiser decisions. Much of the scientific study of wisdom has focused on describing components of wisdom and its association (or lack thereof) with age, and not on wisdom as a unified construct, or on how wisdom may result from experiences in life, although this too has been changing in recent research. In general, wise decisions and action go beyond being smart, clever, or knowledgeable—being wise requires the quality of prudent judgment based on reflection on the reasons and values underlying one’s own and others’ thoughts, motivations, and behaviors. As noted above, Aristotle viewed wisdom as a more prosocial view of practical decision-making in terms of right reason in service of the human good. On this view, which is in line with modern philosophical and psychological descriptions, wisdom integrates a balance of cognitive, affective, and social expertise, and selfregulation and self-knowledge.

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In contrast to descriptions arising from ancient Western philosophy, early Eastern descriptions of wisdom, originating primarily from India and China, emphasized emotional balance. While there have been distinct differences in the way wisdom has been characterized between Eastern and Western cultures, there is also significant overlap in descriptions of wisdom, including aspects of prosocial consideration, gaining an understanding of oneself and others through careful reflection, epistemic humility, and tolerance. The empirical study of wisdom began in earnest in the 1970s when psychologists began to make inquiries into the skills and dispositions that contribute to successful aging. Accordingly, initial research on the association of age and wisdom has been driven by folk psychological intuitions that wisdom comes with age (Clayton & Birren, 1980). This makes intuitive sense, as each day that a person lives provides opportunities to gain and learn from experience and these experiences may facilitate wisdom (Baltes & Staudinger, 2000). It appears then that age may be necessary but certainly not sufficient for wisdom. Emotional regulation and reappraisal are two characteristics that tend to improve with age and may account for age-related increases in wisdom (Sullivan, Mikels, & Carstensen, 2010). Furthermore, research indicates that everyday practical wisdom increases with experience (e.g., Grossmann, Na, Varnum, Kitayama, & Nisbett, 2012), which suggests that perhaps instead of age being necessary for wisdom, age may serve as a proxy for experience and we need to understand better the kinds of experiences that lead to wisdom. As wisdom research has developed beyond the scope of associations between wise reasoning and aging, investigation has shifted focus from the nature of context general wisdom (Staudinger, Smith, & Baltes, 1992), to focus on the practical applications of wisdom and wise reasoning to complex everyday situations. Prior to the relatively recent emergence of multiple psychological theories, definitions, and descriptions of wisdom (e.g., Ardelt & Achenbaum, 2013; Grossmann et al., 2012; Meeks & Jeste, 2009; Staudinger et al., 1992; Sternberg, 2013; Tiberius, 2008; see Ferrari & Weststrate, 2013; Sternberg, 1990), the study of wisdom was largely the province of philosophy and religion. However, the amount of wisdom research is increasing as researchers across scientific disciplines seek to understand more generally positive human characteristics (as in Positive Psychology) related to well-being and how such positive human characteristics may be cultivated. Wisdom is inherently difficult to define, as reflected in the numerous psychological definitions that currently exist in wisdom literature (e.g., see Ferrari & Weststrate, 2013; Sternberg, 1990), though this hardly makes wisdom not worth studying and reflects similar difficulties that existed in early intelligence research (Sternberg, 2013). In spite of the variation in theories and approaches, there are important commonalities among definitions, such as the need for pragmatic knowledge about

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people and one’s self, gained from life experiences, along with the skills of reflectiveness, perseverance, engagement of intellectual struggle, and prosocial attitudes and behaviors. At the end of a research project supported by the John Templeton Foundation referred to as the Defining Wisdom Project (Wisdom Research, 2011), a group of scholars and scientists proposed the following as a definition: We distinguish wisdom from intelligence, cleverness, knowledge, and expertise. Wisdom requires moral grounding, but is not identical to it (i.e., wisdom must be moral but morality need not be wise). Wisdom can be observed in individual or collective wise action or counsel. Action or counsel is perceived as wise when a successful outcome is obtained in situations involving risk, uncertainty, and the welfare of the group. (We recognize that understanding the definition of a successful outcome is a substantial problem on its own.) Wisdom flexibly integrates cognitive, affective, and social considerations, but can be studied profitably by understanding its constituent elements. Because of the fundamentally multifaceted nature of wisdom, interdisciplinary discourse is extremely useful in advancing the research.

Roots of Wisdom Research By Socrates’ account wisdom was an awareness of and humility toward ones’ own knowledge and its limitations. Aristotle further defined wisdom as an intellectual virtue of harmony between plan and action, without regret. He made a distinction between general wisdom, as pertains to the knowledge of a godlike entity, and practical wisdom, which is gained through everyday experience and insights taken from ones’ own life. In the Aristotelian view wisdom is treated as an integrated trait reserved for persons who follow a virtuous development into male adulthood, though contemporary views tend to represent wisdom as a multicomponent characteristic distributed across the general population and not restricted to one or another gender. Concepts of wisdom go far back into Eastern traditions as well, as ancient practices like Buddhism view it as one part of a series of attributes, trainable by contemplation, toward a path of enlightenment. Eastern philosophy tends to emphasize wisdom as having a strong component of emotional stability, compared to the strong emphasis on knowledge and cognition in Western philosophy. However, significant overlap between Eastern and Western philosophy exists in defining wisdom as including components of compassion, altruism, and insight. Present-day psychological models of wisdom are varied but have in common a core of attributes influenced by these ancient roots, including an extensive knowledge of the world and how it works, social expertise based in empathy, compassion, and prosocial behavior toward others, and decision-making based

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on insights gained from reflection on oneself and others (Ardelt, 2003). By viewing wisdom as a synthesis of existing personal characteristics situated in specific but varying contexts and situations, early neuroscientific research into these characteristics, contexts, situations, and their interactions can help move forward an understanding of the neural bases for wisdom and wise decision-making.

Modern Wisdom Research Ancient philosophers described the nature and function of wisdom and in recent years philosophers such as Tiberius (2013) have carried on this tradition, while contributing further to describe the process by which wisdom may be practiced and developed. Tiberius describes wisdom as knowledge and reasoning based on practical reflection on the reasons behind decisionmaking in situations that involve multiple conflicting values, in which wise reasoning should lead to the best possible outcome for the largest number of people. Tiberius’ description of wisdom is a process model that allows for the development of wisdom through life experience. Wise reflection takes into account one’s own values and perspectives as well as the values and perspectives of others affected in a particular situation or context. Determining the most appropriate or wise action relies on knowing what matters in a particular situation, presumably based on knowledge gained from life experience, awareness of the limitations of that knowledge, and based on sensitivity to ones’ own and others’ emotions. In this way, wisdom may increase with experience, though the extent to which this relationship exists depends on the types of experiences that occur and the perspective taken toward knowledge gained and the ability to reflect on and tolerate multiple conflicting points of view. Wisdom as practical reflection on the values and reasoning behind beliefs fits well with psychological models of wisdom that have developed over the past forty years. Following initial work by Clayton and colleagues (e.g., Clayton & Birren, 1980) to understand wisdom as it may relate to aging, the effort to measure and describe wisdom systematically was initially led by the Berlin wisdom research group that conceptualized wisdom as a sort of expert pragmatic knowledge system based largely in cognitive processes that develop with age (e.g., Baltes & Staudinger, 2000). The Berlin group describes a multicomponent model of wisdom using data taken from responses to vignettes describing possible real-life social scenarios involving other people. This model includes five interacting parts including: (a) a rich and practical factual knowledge of the world and its complexities; (b) a rich procedural knowledge of strategies to solve problems related to life; (c) life span contextualization, or the ability to understand the varying contexts and temporal relationships of life; (d) a relativistic point of view, in which one has an understanding of individual differences in goals and values; and (e) a comfort with uncertainty and the

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ability to manage it. Researchers in this group have described wisdom largely by collecting from typical people, and from individuals deemed to be wise, responses to a “life-review problem.” Success in resolving such problems is determined by trained researchers who independently judge responses based on the Berlin model of wisdom. Of course, practical wisdom is not pragmatic knowledge alone, but also relies on balancing interpersonal, intrapersonal, and extrapersonal selftranscendent interests in order to come to a solution that strikes a balance between adapting to the existing environment, changing this environment, and selecting a new environment (Sternberg, 1998). In the context of group social affiliation and leadership wisdom exists as a synthesis of intelligence—the ability to successfully adapt to the environment—and creativity—the ability to produce high quality, novel, and appropriate solutions for the task at hand (Sternberg, 2007). Intelligence in this context refers to pragmatic intelligence, influenced by personal and social experiences, as opposed to abstract reasoning abilities such as crystallized intelligence and working memory (Grossmann et al., 2012). Wisdom incorporates intelligence and creativity that focus on moral virtues as a unique attribute, as a wise person must make and carry out decisions through a balance between a need for change, requiring creativity, and a need to maintain the stability of existing environmental and social structures, requiring intelligence (Sternberg, 2013) with prosocial consideration. By this model a wise person would necessarily be both intelligent and creative, but an intelligent or creative person would not necessarily be wise. Successful leaders, for example, require wisdom and the disposition to carry out wise decisions, in addition to intelligence and creativity, to be successful in the long term. Consider that a leader who is intelligent in a relevant domain, and creative in their approach to problem solving, would require pragmatism and interpersonal sensitivity to ensure that wise decisions are carried out and are not only self-serving but also take into account the greatest common good transcending the self. Clearly practical wisdom varies across people. While it might be possible to conceive of a genetic substrate to wisdom, it seems implausible given the complexity of knowledge and processes required to make wiser decisions. Thus it seems reasonable to assume that wisdom grows through life experience but can be described as the use of certain types of pragmatic reasoning skills that are prosocial and help to navigate and resolve important life challenges. Like the concept of multiple intelligences (Gardner, 1983), wisdom may be conceptualized as having overlapping but distinct cognitive, reflective, and affective dimensions (Ardelt, 2003). The cognitive dimension of wisdom is similar in part to Baltes’ definition of wisdom as a deep pragmatic knowledge of life (Baltes & Smith, 1990), or to Socrates’ concept of epistemic humility—to be aware of the strengths of and acknowledge the limits of what one knows. As such, knowledge of positive and negative aspects of human nature, the inherent limits of

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knowledge, an understanding of life’s unpredictability, and comfort with uncertainty are characteristics of the cognitive dimension of wisdom. Diminished self-centeredness and a deeper understanding of others’ affairs characterize the affective dimension of wisdom. The affective dimension of wisdom is marked by compassion and overlaps with Aristotle’s concept of wisdom as by definition being tied with a virtuous disposition. The reflective dimension of wisdom is characterized by an increased accuracy in perceiving reality brought about by looking at it from many different points of view. Because it is associated with gaining a deep understanding of life and because genuine feelings of sympathy and compassion require perspective taking, reflective wisdom is said to be the most crucial dimension of wisdom, facilitating the cultivation of cognitive and affective wisdom. In considering these psychological attributes of wisdom, they seem extremely complex and difficult to quantify. As a result, from this level of description it seems hard to understand how one could study wisdom scientifically much less identify the causal aspects of experience that lead to making wiser decisions. However, human neuroscience has in relatively recent years begun to address exactly these kinds of complexities of human psychology and experience.

Neurobiology of Wisdom As wisdom is manifest in human thought and behavior within specific contexts and environments, if it exists as a part of human psychology, it will be illuminating to understand the neurobiological basis of wisdom. This is important because understanding the neurobiological mechanisms informs about the potential plasticity of these mechanisms so as to be modified by experience. The seminal overview (Meeks & Jeste, 2009) of the neurobiology of wisdom outlines a broad set of brain regions associated in the processing of information related to characteristics aligned with the components of wisdom described above. Meeks and Jeste point out in their analysis that wisdom is a unique psychological characteristic and not merely a convenient label for a collection of desirable traits. In considering the neurobiological bases of wisdom, they considered six aspects of human psychology that can be used to understand the possible neurobiological substrates. Wisdom by this model is a stable but malleable psychological attribute that depends on: (1) prosocial attitudes and behavior, (2) social decisionmaking, i.e., pragmatic knowledge of life, (3) emotional homeostasis, (4) reflection and self-understanding, (5) value relativism, and (6) acknowledgment of and dealing effectively with uncertainty and ambiguity. The brain regions associated with these categories include frontal and parietal regions related to intelligence and reasoning (Jung & Haier, 2007) as well as limbic and subcortical regions associated with affect and reward. The inclusion of limbic and subcortical regions (Kim & Hamann, 2007;

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McClure, Laibson, Loewenstein, & Cohen, 2004) points to the importance of emotional self-regulatory strategies (Hariri, Bookheimer, & Mazziotta, 2000; Lieberman et al., 2007) that bring about the emotional homeostasis needed for wise decision-making. More specifically, frontal and prefrontal regions interact with limbic and subcortical emotional regions to down-regulate emotion in contexts that require reason and prudent use of intelligence. While neuroscientific research into components of wisdom—such as self and other reflection, moral reasoning, prosocial attitudes and behavior, and emotional homeostasis—indicate a large variety of unique and networked regions of activation (Sanders & Jeste, 2013), some such as the medial prefrontal and cingulate cortex appear particularly important for bringing together cognitive strategies and emotional regulation for the goal of wise reasoning.

Wisdom as a Psychological Process Wisdom can therefore be characterized as a complex psychological process that is related to interactions of higher-order processing in the cortex, emotional activity in limbic, and reward processing in striatal regions of the brain as well as insula processing related to homeostatic regulation and, along with other regions such as the amygdala, sensitivity to risks and negative outcomes. To the degree that wisdom is considered the successful integration of thought and affect during decision-making, the discussion of potential neuroscientific models of wisdom is related to the way individuals make moral decisions based on a pragmatic knowledge of life and how such decisions are rooted in empathy, compassion, and altruism. Based on evidence from aging research (Jeste, 2018) and given the need in wise reasoning to take on multiple conflicting points of view, emotional regulation is a critical component of wisdom and such regulation is again rooted in the interaction of frontal, limbic, and reward processing regions of the brain. Of particular interest is how individuals use self-reflection and other-reflection and social interaction to overcome individual emotional reactions to stress and anxiety—owing to the uncertainty and ambiguity that exists in complex real-life problem solving scenarios, where personal values and those of others may come into conflict. After the dust settles following a particularly challenging situation, decisions are often judged as wise when they are shown to lead to the largest benefit for the greatest number of people over the long term. Wise reasoning then depends on thought processes that take into account multiple points-of-view and an understanding of the larger third-person perspective. Reducing uncertainty and confusion in conflict resolution may require what Tiberius (2008) refers to as practical reflection. Such reflection must take into account not only the facts as they pertain to the context and situation, but also one’s personal values and the possibly conflicting values of others. Taking into account the values of others is

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not just a matter of knowing what is important to other people—it also depends on feeling the impact of those value commitments. In order to realize that impact, it is important to be able to adopt someone else’s perspective. As a result, wise reflection depends on flexibility in shifting perspective. In this way, reflection and perspective taking are central to wise reasoning, and both rely largely on the cognitive awareness of facts and contingencies, as well as on the subjective sense of possible affective outcomes of decision-making. This description incorporates psychological constructs of wisdom by requiring a strong pragmatic knowledge base, the ability to reflect on ones’ own values and the values of others, and the disposition to carry out reasoned decision-making with regard for social goods. Further, wisdom and wise reflection suggest a process by which wisdom could be practiced and cultivated. In situations that require wisdom, decisions are based on value judgments. Values differ between and within groups of people. Therefore, people have some level of consideration that their values are justified. However, as Tiberius points out (2008), sometimes this is just a sense that values are justifiable, which means that people sometimes accept what others around them do (perhaps through culture) and that there exists some justification that could be recovered in some fashion. Sometimes, justification simply occurs at a gut level through some intuitive sense from cultural exposure, but also value justification can be based on reflection from internal considerations, as well as from discussions with others. In general, this view suggests that we generally take a perspective in which one set of value commitments holds and that for a reflective person, these value commitments frame the decision process. A wise person can go beyond this process, flexibly shifting perspectives to adopt or consider other value commitments than their own, and that the value commitments of the wise person in some perspectives are grounded in virtues such as generosity or kindness. This does not necessarily mean that wise reasoning through practical reflection leads to objectively correct conclusions, but that such reflection leads to decisions that are based on what is known and on a mental simulation of how outcomes of wise reasoning will play into ones’ own interests as well as the interests of others.

Experiences and Increasing Wisdom There is good reason to believe that practical wisdom develops as a result of life experience, though the type of experience and reactivity of the individual in context is critical to the cultivation of wisdom. Wise reasoning seems to be invoked by the ability to reflect on ones’ own and others’ thoughts, beliefs, and actions, by empathy, compassion, and prosocial behavior, and by epistemic humility. If wisdom may be increased by some intervention, this may occur by targeting specific components of wisdom that are thought malleable, such as perspective taking, compassion, and

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prosocial behavior. There are gender and cultural differences in perspective taking, which may inform ways in which perspective taking may be targeted for improvement, and recent research indicates that certain forms of contemplative practice may train key components of wisdom such as compassion. Complementary to this research, some structured practices, such as meditation and even ballet are associated with measured increases in wisdom (Williams, Mangelsdorf, Kontra, Nusbaum, & Hoeckner, 2016). While research into the cultivation of wisdom by practice is only beginning, it holds great promise for the development of “curriculum” for the intentional “teaching” of wisdom. The ability to take others’ perspectives is vital to reflecting on others’ points-of-view, which contributes to wise reasoning. Perspective taking is often linked to Theory of Mind (ToM), or the ability to take on the mental states of others to understand their emotions, motivations, and frames of mind, and how these differ from our own (Premack & Woodruff, 1978). An extensive literature shows that these abilities develop during the preschool ages of 3 to 5 years old (Bartsch & Wellman, 1995; Flavell, 1999) and that ToM and related skills continue to develop throughout life. While ToM skills develop similarly in all typically developing children, interdependent East Asian cultures tend to have increased abilities in ToM compared to individualistic cultures such as those in Western countries. Further, gender differences in ToM that are evidenced in Western cultures, whereby females score higher on tests of mentalizing compared to males, are not as strong among East Asian cultures (Kessler, Cao, O’Shea, & Wang, 2014). Understanding the mechanisms by which these differences occur can help to inform future interventions aimed at increasing perspective taking and facilitating the reflective nature of wisdom. Evidence that an interdependent point-of-view may lead to better perspective taking comes from research in which either Chinese or American participants were asked to follow instructions on how to move objects in a grid, following a director’s instructions (Wu & Keysar, 2014). Chinese participants in this study made fewer critical mistakes—mistakes that required perspective taking to avoid. By careful analysis of decisions and reaction times, the authors were able to determine that increased perspective taking abilities stemmed from a focusing of attention toward others and away from the self. Given the Chinese culture of interdependence, increased perspective taking comes about because the self is defined by its relationship with others, increasing the importance of and focus on the role that others play, as well as of their actions, knowledge, and needs. Kessler and colleagues (2014) have additionally found that Westerners are slower than East Asians at tasks involving embodied perspective taking and show stronger gender differences in speed and depth of mental perspective taking. Taken together these results suggest that individuals with a stronger ability to take on the thoughts, emotions, and motivations of others, rather than simply imagining their visual point-of-view are better perspective takers and have increased

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associated social skills. It is possible that such increases are also associated with increased wise decision-making, though continued research must be conducted into whether this is the case.

Practice That Affects Wisdom We have experiences throughout life and throughout each day but it is unlikely that all such experiences necessarily improve wise reasoning. Clearly, though, some experiences may help to develop practical wisdom. For example, experiences that increase understanding of other people’s perspectives or develop the cognitive control necessary to take their perspective (see Tiberius, 2008) would lead to increasing practical wisdom. Giving explanations of policies rather than the reasons for attitudes about the policies may increase epistemic humility (cf. Fernbach, Rogers, Fox, & Sloman, 2013), which could increase wise reasoning. Perhaps systematically attempting to explain things that are more complex than they seem could lead to an enduring epistemic humility. One way of improving wise decision-making could be through experiences that affect components of wisdom rather than directly changing wisdom itself. In this respect, we attempted to reduce economic biases by providing a series of experiences. The endowment effect (Kahneman, Knetsch, & Thaler, 1990) is a bias in which owning something immediately raises the value of that thing. Handing someone a cup as a present immediately makes that cup worth more to that person even if nothing else is changed. As a result, that person would want more money for that cup compared to the identical cup at a store next door. This kind of bias seems like other biases that could distort wise reasoning—why should a cup cost more simply because you owned for a brief moment? Knowing that experience could reduce this bias could be informative about how experiences could more generally improve wise reasoning. List (2011) showed that trading experience (selling things) reduces or eliminates this bias. In other words, increased knowledge of training (greater expertise) in an area of human interaction leads to better decisions. But how does this work? We compared people with substantial trading experience to people who had little to none and replicated the original behavioral result of a reduced endowment effect related to trading experience (Tong et al., 2016). Moreover, the same result was obtained by inducing people with little or no prior trading experience to practice making trades on eBay. Using neuroimaging methods we were able to test among three different explanations of why practicing trading reduced the endowment bias. One hypothesis was that the practice of trading allowed the traders to exert cognitive control over their affective response to parting with an owned object. A second hypothesis was that the practice of trading increased the pleasure of each trade, which then offset any negative response of selling an owned object. The third hypothesis was that selling a possession, even briefly owned, has a negative emotional aspect to it and experience in trading reduced the

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intensity of the negative affect associated with the trade. Each hypothesis predicts different changes in neural activity following trading experience or when comparing traders and non-traders. The results demonstrated clearly that trading experience works by reducing the endowment effect in association with reduced activity in the anterior insula, which is associated with negative affect. This suggests that practicing selling decreases the negative emotional consequences of selling a possession. Practice and experience then could provide knowledge or could change responses to new situations for wiser decision-making. It could increase cognitive control thereby allowing more rational responses. It could change the way attention is directed to a problem thereby providing different information for wiser reasoning. It could increase the positive affective responses to choices that are made taking into account other’s perspectives to increase human flourishing, or it could reduce negative affective responses that change the attractiveness of some alternatives. There are a number of ways in which practice could make habitual certain kinds of responses leading to wiser decisions. One method by which perspective taking may be enhanced is by structured meditation practice. Participants trained in a secularized compassion meditation program (Cognitive-based compassion training; CBCT) show increased empathic accuracy in the Reading the Mind in the Eyes Task, compared to an active control group (Mascaro, Rilling, Negi, & Raison, 2013). The RMET involves identifying the affect expressed in a series of black and white pictures of eyes, requiring the cognitive simulation of others’ feelings from minimal visual cues, and performance has been shown to improve with the experimental administration of oxytocin (Domes et al., 2007), a hormone associated with social bonding. Mascaro and colleagues (2013) claim that meditation could act as a behavioral intervention to enhance empathy by defending against deleterious nervous system responses during stressful or adversarial situations. If meditation experience leads to increased understanding of others’ emotions, which in turn increases interpersonal and prosocial interactions, this could indicate that it increases wisdom over a period of sustained practice. Meditation interventions based in the practice of loving-kindness have also been used in recent years to facilitate increased compassionate feelings and responding. Recent interest in the experimental manipulation of compassion for the easement of suffering and promotion of prosocial behavior has deep roots in ancient contemplative practices linked to the cultivation of wisdom and cessation of suffering (Bajracharya & Bajracharya, 2009). A steadily growing body of literature is building the case that brief compassion training may increase positive interpersonal skills and behavior, skills that are important for wisdom and wise reasoning. Further, these changes in interpersonal skills have been tied to changes in different networks of activation in the brain related to affiliation and perception of pain (Klimecki, Leiberg, Ricard, & Singer, 2013).

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Some of the earliest studies of compassion provide evidence of increased wisdom related skills and dispositions, such as increased support and implicit positive evaluation of others following compassion state induction brought about by a brief loving-kindness meditation (Flavell, 1999; Hutcherson, Seppala, & Gross, 2008). In a study of loving-kindness meditation, participants who practiced only a brief meditation showed increased connectivity to and positive regard for others, compared to controls. When participants played a social-Simon task, which measures the integration of own and others’ perspectives in decision-making, practicing Buddhists showed greater self-other integration than non-religious controls (Colzato et al., 2012). Moreover, in a study that used magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) to measure cortical grey matter volume in expert meditators compared to novices, experts had greater grey matter volume in regions of the brain associated with affective regulation (Leiberg, Klimecki, & Singer, 2011). This suggests that increased social-connectedness, and subsequently increased compassion and empathy, are related to long-lasting effects of meditation practice over time. More recently, compassion training has been associated with decreased negative affect in response to videos depicting others in distress—videos that previously elicited increased negative affect following a similar program to train empathy in the same participants (Klimecki et al., 2013). The authors of this study used behavioral and neurobiological measures to suggest that compassion increases the ability to cope with distress not by suppression of negative emotions in response to suffering but by the generation and strengthening of positive affect. This is in line with concepts of the wise individual as one who does not push away negative emotions, but instead sees things from a larger perspective in order to cope with a situation appropriately. Compassion training has further been associated with increased prosocial behavior, in both laboratory-based and in real world settings (Condon, Desbordes, Miller, & DeSteno, 2013; Leiberg et al., 2011). This recent body of research holds promise for the development of programs to cultivate wisdom through compassion, possibly through long-term changes in regions of the brain associated with empathy, feelings of affiliation with others, and prosocial behavior. Indeed, while these studies demonstrate that important aspects of practical wisdom are affected by mediation training, they do not specifically test for a relationship between wisdom and meditation. We recently did test this specifically (Williams et al., 2016) by measuring the cognitive, reflective, and compassionate dimensions of wisdom, with Ardelt’s threedimensional wisdom scale (3DWS) in a cross-sectional study of fifty-four people who practice meditation regularly ranging from less than 5 hours of meditation practice to more than 40,000 hours with an average of 9.6 years of experience. The results demonstrated a significant statistical relationship between amount of meditation practice and measured wisdom, even controlling statistically for age, gender, and income. The

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results demonstrate clearly that there is a relationship between meditation and wisdom. But because of the design we do not know if years of meditating increases wisdom as might be suggested from some studies on compassion and empathy, or whether wiser people are likely to keep at meditation practice longer. From this study we do know that not all practices have the same relationship to wisdom. Two other bodily practices, Alexander Technique (see Jones, 1997) and Feldenkrais (see Lake, 1985), used for example by actors and musicians, did not have the same kind of statistical relationship with wisdom even though practiced over the same range of time. However, we did find that classical ballet practice did have the same statistical relationship with wisdom—more hours of ballet practice were statistically associated with greater wisdom ranging from 5 to 40,000 hours of practice. Again, wiser people may stick with ballet longer or more ballet practice may increase wisdom and this study does not let us assess which of these is correct. The association between wisdom and meditation is not surprising, given the above-described findings and historical associations between meditation and the development of wisdom in Buddhist and Taoist traditions (Bodhidharma, 1987). The association between wisdom and ballet experience is more surprising, for while ballet requires great physical and mental self-regulation to excel to high levels of expertise, as a practice, it is not typically associated with wisdom or wise reasoning. However, it is plausible to conjecture, and then test, that practice may develop perseverance and self-regulation. Moreover, although we cannot assess this currently, the demands of ballet and meditation may either be greater than the other two practices or may increase over time presenting greater challenges to be met. Meditation is generally associated with characteristics that have also been identified as essential components of wisdom, such as regulation of attention, self-control, and interpersonal understanding (Mascaro et al., 2013; Meeks & Jeste, 2009; Tang et al., 2007). Wisdom incorporates several interrelated characteristics that seem linked to meditation. For example, greater wisdom is associated with increased prosocial behavior, based around both self-reflection and compassion (Ardelt, 2003; Brugman, 2006). Furthermore, the openness, curiosity, and acceptance of experience found in meditation is similar to several components of wisdom including tolerance and value relativism, the development of pragmatic knowledge of life, and the ability to effectively deal with uncertainty and ambiguity (Brugman, 2005; Baltes, Smith, & Staudinger, 1991). Though the practice comes in many forms, meditation often involves the cultivation of characteristics belonging to a state of mindful-awareness. These characteristics break down into self-regulation of attention and an investigative awareness characterized by openness, curiosity, and acceptance of experience (Bishop et al., 2004). This state of open awareness is thought to lead eventually to acceptance of experiences that may otherwise

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cause stress, thereby allowing meditation practitioners to navigate life with lower anxiety and increased cognitive capacity in the present moment. In a study of focused breathing meditation, for example, trained participants viewed both neutral and negative pictures significantly less negatively and were more willing to view optional negative pictures than were control participants (Arch & Craske, 2006), suggesting lowered stress responses to negative stimuli. Research into mental training associated with meditation has been linked to lowered anxiety (Chen et al., 2012), and lowered anxiety can in turn free up valuable cognitive resources like working memory (a short-term memory system involved in cognitive control). When working memory resources are disrupted by anxiety, performance can suffer (Beilock & Carr, 2005), but interventions that reduce worrying and decrease anxiety have been shown to boost cognitive performance (Ramirez & Beilock, 2011). Meditation practice may play a similar intervening role, in that lowering anxiety frees up mental resources, creating a reflective mental space that promotes wise decision-making. The ability to deal successfully with hardship correlates with an increase in psychological health for elders identified as wise and may be a prerequisite for the development of wisdom (Ardelt, 1998), and by improving psychological health, it is possible that practicing meditation helps people deal with hardship in a more successful and wise manner. Meditation practice in general, and mindfulness practice in particular, is associated with improvements in psychological well-being as evidenced by improvements across a variety of psychiatric disorders, such as depression, anxiety, and addiction (Hofmann, Sawyer, Witt, & Oh, 2010). Regular meditation practice then may provide psychologically healthy individuals with resources to handle a challenge rather than viewing it as a threat. It is also true that many people are attracted to begin meditation as a means to deal with hardship, which suggests the possibility of a selfselection bias toward meditation favoring those who develop wisdom. Future research utilizing interventions among meditation naïve individuals is needed to further understand whether meditation experience leads directly to the development of wisdom and over what time frame. Clearly there are a number of reasons why meditation could be an important experience for aiding the development of practical wisdom, especially if practiced regularly. However, other experiences may work to develop practical wisdom. For example, ballet practice likely does not provide the same richness of experience as meditation and yet it has similar kinds of effects in relationship to wisdom. One aspect of meditation that is not part of ballet practice is the language that is repeated during meditation when there is a message. We investigated the role of this kind of language as part of meditation practice (Williams, Poljacik, Decety, & Nusbaum, 2018) using the language from loving-kindness meditation. In the language used in this kind of meditation, attention is focused on thoughts of compassion and love for self and others but in our study no mention was made of

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meditation at all. Training in loving-kindness meditation has previously been shown to increase compassion (Condon et al., 2013; Leiberg et al., 2011). The question in our study was to understand whether the language used had an effect on measures of empathy, independent of the effects of the actual meditation. The language of loving-kindness meditation was spoken to one group, and for comparison, a second group listened to safety and health language that was not focused on compassion and love for self and others. To assess the effects of language we used a task of rating the pain (as depicted in images) for oneself and for others used in prior research (e.g., Decety, Skelly, & Kiehl, 2013). Typically, people rate the pain for oneself higher than for others and this is the behavior shown by the control (health and safety language exposure) group. However, as was found in previous meditation research, exposure to the language of loving-kindness meditation without any meditation produced higher pain ratings for others than for self, evidence of increased empathy. This shows that compassion language can increase, at least momentarily, empathy for others. It is possible that the meditation training and practice strengthens this or consolidates it to make it more enduring or has other effects. It is also possible that simply a practice of listening to the language every day without meditation might have more enduring effects.

Language Use as Experience These results raise an interesting and important question. To what extent can using or understanding language serve as an experience that can affect wisdom? To what extent can language have an impact on one’s life choices? In 1976, Barbara Jordan, a Congresswoman from Texas gave the commencement address at Brandeis University. Listening to her speak about the importance of public service and the importance of using talent and ability in service of one’s country was an impressive experience. Her delivery was clear and by no means dramatic and yet, the force of her speech was riveting. It was sufficient to turn a graduating senior’s mind from graduate school in psychology to consideration of a career in government service. A student with the long-held intent of becoming a researcher and with no interest in politics, government, or public service might seem to be an immovable object. And yet, in that moment, Jordan’s speech had sufficient impact to make government service seem like the only path one would want to take or should ever consider. Although her points were clearly argued, the impact of Jordan’s speech was not purely cognitive. John F. Kennedy’s “Ask not what your country can do for you . . .” and Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I have a dream . . .” affected listeners deeply but not only on the strengths of a good argument. And while all these speeches were delivered beautifully and from the heart, it is not the performance of these speeches alone that can move listeners to act on behalf of others. Performance alone cannot

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give substance to an empty message. These speeches do demonstrate the power of language as experience. Language is at the heart of the power of sermons, and can reach across time and space to change minds, feelings, and behavior, and so it follows that understanding language may affect components of wisdom such as increasing epistemic humility, reflection, perseverance, the willingness to engage intellectual struggle, or engage the moral virtues. One aspect of psychological processing that is important for practical wisdom is emotional self-regulation (e.g., Meeks & Jeste, 2009; Baltes & Smith, 1990). Being overly swayed by one’s emotional responses makes it difficult to achieve balance (Sternberg, 2013) in decision-making which is critical, and overrides attempts to take the perspective of others (Tiberius, 2008). However, it turns out that language can be an important tool in this kind of emotional self-regulation. For example, the difference between a problem in terms of one’s self or someone else (Grossmann & Kross, 2014) improves wise reasoning (critical for practical wisdom) and does so by reducing physiological reactivity measured by heart-rate variability (Grossmann, Sahdra, & Ciarocci, 2016). When thinking about a problem in terms of someone else, rather than one’s self, people are able to make wiser judgments and this appears to be related to reduced physiological reactivity, suggesting that the shift in perspective through language increases emotional self-regulation. This means that through language, problems can be framed to distance oneself from the potential emotional impact of a problem. On the one hand, this suggests the use of language as a potential “tool” for practical wisdom. If this strategy of reframing a problem is understood well, any problem could be thought of through this lens and then decision-making could become a little wiser. However, it is possible that enough experience with this reframing process and this may become internalized and make it more habitual. In this way, the local experience of self-distancing can improve practical wisdom for a particular problem and, over time, this practice may develop into a personal approach for making wiser decisions. Language has impact on judgment and decision-making. While the selfdistancing approach of reframing a problem (Grossmann & Kross, 2014) reduces the affective influences to balance better other considerations in wise reasoning, there are other ways of achieving the same effect though language. Research comparing decision-making in one’s native language compared to a foreign language demonstrates clearly that decisions made in a foreign language affect the choices people make (Hayakawa, Costa, Foucart, & Keysar, 2016). Moral decisions made in a foreign language appear to be more utilitarian (Costa et al., 2014). People are more willing to sacrifice one person to save many in moral decision-making. Moreover, it appears that this change in moral reasoning happens not because people become more deontological but because the negative emotional impact

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of an imagined action is reduced using a foreign language (Hayakawa, Tannenbaum, Costa, Corey, & Keysar, 2017a). Using a foreign language during reasoning allows people to take more strategic risks (Hayakawa, Lau, Holtzmann, Costa, & Keysar, 2017b), which makes sense if the negative affective impact of risks is reduced using a foreign language. This is important because it suggests that people can better balance risks and benefits when thinking about a problem in a foreign language. Language can change the way we experience a problem, the way we think about other people, and the way we understand a situation. The way we use language can connect us to or distance us from the potential impact of choices, perhaps give us other perspectives, illuminate insights through metaphor, and move others to act. Thus even beyond the information we can learn from a narrative or a speech we can be moved or motivated, excited or calmed, and see the world differently. Moreover, the regular use of language patterns—a practice that is used in some wisdom traditions—changes brain structures consistent with increased memory capacity (Hartzell et al., 2016). Language use is therefore an experience that can shape other experiences as well as confer new perspectives and even possibly new abilities for wiser decision-making.

Conclusion While wisdom has been a topic of discussion and debate among philosophers for thousands of years, wisdom research did not begin in earnest until the second half of the 20th century, led by researchers interested in its association with successful aging (Clayton, 1975; Clayton & Birren, 1980; Baltes & Smith, 1990). Such research has gained momentum over the past two decades, as a consensus has grown toward a unified definition of wisdom, or at least wisdom as it exists within individuals. Based on a recent study of wisdom experts (Jeste et al., 2010), there is now some agreement over what constitutes the characteristics of wisdom. In a development that promotes the unification of wisdom as a construct in the psychological literature, these characteristics largely fall into three categories that align with the cognitive, reflective, and affective dimensions of wisdom developed by Ardelt (2003) for the three-dimensional wisdom model. A rich knowledge of life, skills in social cognition, tolerance of ambiguity, and acceptance of uncertainty, for example, map onto a cognitive dimension; a sense of justice and fairness, self-insight, and tolerance of differences among others belong to a reflective dimension; and characteristics that compose the affective dimension include empathy and social cooperation. In terms of relating wisdom to neurobiology, five of the characteristics described by wisdom experts also appear in a review of the neurobiological underpinnings of wisdom (Meeks & Jeste, 2009). Wisdom characteristics, notably self-transcendent prosocial attitudes and behaviors, social decision-making, and pragmatic knowledge of life,

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emotional homeostasis, and self and other reflection, are facilitated by the coordinated effort of higher-order processing systems in the prefrontal and temporal cortices, the anterior cingulate cortex, and the ability of these regions to regulate otherwise automatic processing in deeper brain regions such as the amygdala and ventral striatum that are associated with fear, reward, and punishment. As noted by Tiberius (2008) it is possible that one may cultivate wisdom by practicing self- and other reflection, but it is unclear at this time, at least from the perspective of psychological science, whether such practices lead to changes in wisdom, and complimentarily, long-term changes in the neural substrates of wisdom characteristics, and more empirical research is needed. As an advance in wisdom research along these lines, we have shown that one form of structured practice, meditation, which tends to focus on self and other reflection, is associated with increased wisdom. However, future research is needed to better understand this relationship, and through what mechanism—such as by increased practice reflecting on oneself and others—meditation may aid in increasing wisdom. Prior to the wisdom research of the past forty years, wisdom was largely ignored by science, and it continues to be little spoken of outside of these research paradigms, perhaps because of the somewhat mysterious and fuzzy nature of wisdom as a topic. By understanding the underpinnings of wisdom, both psychologically as well as neurobiologically, it may be possible to develop interventions or classroom curricula that cultivate wise reasoning. As a nation that seeks to cultivate entrepreneurship and innovation, intelligence and creativity are prized characteristics. However, as has been described in this chapter, practical wisdom goes beyond these in service of human flourishing through the relationship of wisdom to the moral virtues. In this way, practical wisdom necessarily transcends the self through prosocial reflection, perspective taking, and analytic consideration in problem solving. Systematic research into the kinds of experiences that can increase wise reasoning in anyone can lead to just this kind of self-transcendent approach to problem solving that can benefit society as a whole.

Acknowledgments Preparation of this chapter was supported by the John Templeton Foundation and The University of Chicago Center for Practical Wisdom. Thanks to Patrick Williams for discussions and contributions that aided preparation of this chapter.

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12 “I Am What Survives Me” Generativity and the Self Dan P. McAdams

In the big picture of human evolution, it is difficult to find a more urgently life-affirming psychological force than generativity. In their efforts to promote the survival and well-being of future generations, generative adults unwittingly and indirectly serve the ultimate master of evolutionary fitness, passing on copies of their genes to the next generation and maximizing the possibility that those carriers of the copies will themselves flourish, spreading life from one generation to the next. A generative life, therefore, is a good life, if for no other reason than its commitment to the proliferation of human life. Moreover, if human virtue can be said to promote the good life, and if the good life depends on there being a continuation of life itself from one human generation to the next, then it may be argued, as I will argue here, that generativity is an essential human virtue, albeit an ambivalent one. Generativity is an adult’s concern for and commitment to promoting the survival and well-being of future human generations, as manifest in parenting, teaching, mentoring, leadership, service to human communities, involvement in vital human institutions, and a range of (typically adult) activities aimed at leaving a positive legacy of the self for future generations (Erikson, 1963; McAdams, 2013). In what follows, I will first describe philosophical and psychological accounts of generativity, beginning with Plato’s Symposium. Building on past theory, I will examine more closely the human experience of generativity, describing its many (and sometimes conflicting) phenomenological features. Next, I will detail contemporary research findings on the nature of generativity and its associations with a range of psychological and social correlates and outcomes. I will describe studies showing that highly generative adults in the United States tend to construe their own lives as narratives of personal redemption. Finally, I will take up the issue of generativity’s potential status as a human virtue, which turns out to be complicated by generativity’s paradoxical relation to the self.

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“Birth in Beauty”: Plato’s Account of Generativity In Plato’s Symposium, Socrates sits down with a group of fellow Athenians to discuss the nature of love, at a dinner party hosted by Agathon. Whereas the guests in turn make speeches in fulsome praise of love, Socrates invokes lessons he once learned from the priestess Diotima to take the contrarian position that love in and of itself is “neither fair nor beautiful” (Jowett, 1956, p. 43). Rather, it is the object of the lover’s desire that is held to be beautiful and to be good. The lover desires the object because of the object’s beauty, or because of those beautiful features within the object. The possession of good and beautiful things makes men (and women) happy, Socrates maintains: “The happy are made happy by the acquisition of good things” (p. 46). In desiring the good and beautiful features of the object, moreover, the lover aims to possess the object lastingly, to partake of and enjoy the object’s goodness and beauty forever, or at minimum for a very long time. As such, love hints at a human quest for immortality, though in an indirect fashion. It is not so much that people seek immortality for the direct sake of eternal existence; rather, people want to continue to possess good things in the long run, and one cannot indeed possess them unless one continues to live (Wakefield, 1998). In all of its forms, then, human love aims at the everlasting possession of the good. In the paradigmatic case of heterosexual erotic love, moreover, the connection to immortality seems to find a further extension and intensification, as indicated in this rich and renowned passage from the Symposium, conveyed through the voice of the priestess, Diotima: Then if this be the nature of love, can you tell me further what is the manner of the pursuit? What are they doing who show all this eagerness and heat which is called love, and what is the object which they have in view? . . . Well, I will teach you—the object which they have in view is birth in beauty, whether of body or of soul . . . There is a certain age at which human nature is desirous of procreation— procreation which must be in beauty and not in deformity; and this procreation is a union of man and woman, and is a divine thing; for conception and generation are an immortal principle in the mortal creature . . . Beauty, then, is the destiny or goddess of parturition who presides at birth, and therefore, when approaching beauty, the conceiving power is propitious, and diffusive, and benign, and begets and bears fruit; at the sight of ugliness she frowns and contracts and has a sense of pain, and turns away, and shrivels up, and not without a pang refrains from conception. And this is the reason why, when the hour of conception arrives, and the teeming nature is full, there is such a flutter and ecstasy about beauty, whose approach is the alleviation of the pain of travail. For love, Socrates, is not, as you

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imagine, the love of the beautiful only . . . It is the love of generation and birth in beauty. . . . Because to the mortal creature generation is a sort of eternity and immortality, and if, as has been already admitted, love is of the everlasting possession of the good, all men will necessarily desire immortality together with good—wherefore love is of immortality. (Jowett, 1956, pp. 47–48, italics added) Wakefield (1998) interprets this passage as articulating a deep connection between erotic love and generativity: “In summary, erotic love is a special form of desire that aims to possess beauty as a means of generating products with which one is ‘pregnant’ that will live on after one is gone” (p. 148). These “products” include the fruit of human procreation—that is, the human children who are conceived, born, and nurtured. But they also include the creative output of pregnant souls. “There certainly are men who are more creative in their souls than in their bodies,” Socrates acknowledged (Jowett, 1956, p. 50). Poets give birth to poetry, and their poems may outlive the poets themselves. Artists create art. Other generative adults concern themselves with “the ordering of states and families” within a societal context that promotes the virtues of “temperance and justice” (p. 50). “And he who in youth has the seed of these [virtues] implanted in him and is himself inspired, when he comes to maturity, desires to beget and to generate. He wanders about seeking beauty that he may beget offspring” (p. 50). To be generative, then, is to give birth to a beautiful (e.g., healthy, wellformed, useful, elegant, good) product. The adult gets to generativity through love. The aim of love is to possess the beauty of the beloved, in the hope and expectation that it (the love of the desired object, who itself is beautiful) will inspire one to bring forth something good and beautiful out of oneself. In the case of erotic love between male and female, generativity may be expressed through procreation, as the product of sexual union is literally (and ideally) born in beauty. More generally, love may inspire the generation of other kinds of beautiful products, including works of art and ideas. In Plato’s view, channeled through Socrates and Diotima, all people are potentially pregnant with biological or mental offspring, awaiting the inspiration for their birthings that ideally comes through a loving relationship with other human beings. Like love itself, the products of generativity help to assuage the human desire for immortality, Plato argued. It is expected that one’s children will live on after one’s death, and it is hoped that they, too, will generate offspring that are good and beautiful and (eventually) generative themselves. Of course, generativity does not end with conception. Parents must work hard and sacrifice a great deal to maximize the chances that their children will survive and flourish—that was recognized in Plato’s time as clearly as it is today. Most adults, furthermore, hope to cultivate

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a good reputation among their peers, Plato observed, and they strongly hope that reputation will endure after they die. Thus, children are valued not only for the good and beautiful persons they may be, or become, but also for their role in keeping their parents’ good memory alive after the parents have died. Beyond the family, moreover, adults may attain an enduring reputation through such heroic efforts as victory in war or sacrifice for others, industrious activities like making crafts and manufacturing implements, and contributions of the mind, such as art, philosophy, and teaching. An especially important form of generativity, Plato suggested, is active involvement in societal institutions and social reform (Wakefield, 1998). From Solon to Martin Luther King, Jr., social reformers who promote the worthy aims of, say, justice and temperance, or who work more generally for the social good, may earn an exceptionally longlasting and positive reputation. For Plato, then, love’s generative power takes the lover beyond the self in at least three ways. First, love directs one’s attention outward, to focus on the object of one’s love and that object’s attendant beauty and goodness. Second, love motivates a person to engage in generative acts that themselves extend beyond the proximal and parochial concerns of the self. In the broadest sense, these acts may aim at reproducing and improving society and culture. The self-transcendent quality of generativity holds true even though these generative acts also function to expand the self’s purview and vigorously extend the self into the world. Finally, the products or outcomes of one’s generative efforts may themselves establish goods that go beyond the self. Indeed, when one’s generative efforts result in the creation of offspring who themselves eventually become generative, too, love turns out to pay long-term dividends, the proliferation of goods, ideally, for generations to come.

The Psychology of Generativity Flash forward nearly 2,500 years—to the seminal writings of the psychoanalytic theorist Erik H. Erikson (1963, 1969). Influenced by Sigmund Freud, cultural anthropology, and certain strains in American academic psychology, Erikson famously argued that psychosocial development unfolds across eight normative stages, running from infancy through old age. As presented in Table 12.1, each of Erikson’s eight stages poses a central dilemma or challenge whose particular resolution in any given life is shaped by the quality of the social/cultural environment in interaction with the developing person’s emerging strengths and proclivities. During the first stage of development, for example, the infant confronts the psychosocial challenge of trust vs. mistrust, as an initial bond of attachment forms between the infant and a small set of salient people (especially mothers) in the infant’s social world. It is as if the infant is asking a

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Table 12.1 Erikson’s Eight Stages of Life Age

Psychosocial Dilemma

Central Question

Infancy Toddlerhood

Trust vs. Mistrust Autonomy vs. Shame and Doubt Initiative vs. Guilt Industry vs. Inferiority Identity vs. Role Confusion Intimacy vs. Isolation Generativity vs. Stagnation Ego Integrity vs. Despair

How can I be secure? How can I be independent?

Middle childhood Late childhood Adolescence/ young adulthood Young adult Middle adulthood Old age

How can I be powerful? How can I be good? Who am I? How do I fit into adult world? How can I love? Whom do I love? How can I fashion a “gift”? How can I accept a “gift” (of life)?

question during the first year of life: How can I be secure? The question results in a range of individual answers, as it were, for some infants emerge from the first year securely attached with a surfeit of trusting experiences, while others may fall into a pattern of insecure attachment and the resultant psychosocial legacy of general mistrust (Bowlby, 1969). By the end of the first year, all infants come to know, in a deep and unconscious sense, what trust and what mistrust feel like. Generativity vs. stagnation marks the seventh stage of development in Erikson’s scheme. The central psychosocial challenge during the long period of midlife is to invest oneself in activities aimed at benefiting future generations. The paradigmatic case is generating and nurturing offspring, much in the manner of Plato’s birth in beauty. Indeed, Erikson sets generativity up, as it were, through the immediately preceding stage—intimacy vs. isolation, through which one comes (ideally) to pledge love and fidelity to another person. Therefore, once two people commit themselves to full intimacy with one another, they are ideally ready to bring children into the world and give themselves over to providing for those children, according to the norms established by culture. Through processes that are deeply tied to both human nature and cultural learning, generative adults focus their efforts on care. Generative adults take care of others, and they take care of things. They are supremely cognizant of what and whom they care for. Like Plato moreover, Erikson asserted that adults may be generative in many ways that go beyond the direct care they provide for future generations, especially through creative and productive activities and through leadership, mentoring, teaching, and various forms of civic engagement. In each of these cases, the generative adult indirectly aims to promote the well-being of future generations by contributing something worthwhile for the long

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run and/or working to maintain or improve those social practices, institutions, and arrangements that will outlive the self and, thereby, provide the contexts within which future generations may flourish. Ideally, the generative adult comes to apprehend the self as extending into future generations, well beyond one’s death. Generativity, therefore, comes to feel like the fashioning of a unique, self-generated “gift,” to be offered to future generations, a lasting legacy of the self (Newton & Jones, 2016). As Erikson (1968, p. 141) put it, the generative adult comes to understand that “I am what survives me.” As with every stage in Erikson’s scheme, the oppositional construct in the corresponding dilemma poses daunting challenges in human development. For generativity, the opposing force is typically stagnation, though Erikson (1963) also identified self-preoccupation as an equally menacing antagonist. The adult experiences stagnation in the face of repeated failures to generate, frustrated by the inability to create a legacy of the self, overwhelmed by a feeling that one is psychosocially stuck or blocked, unable to make, create, produce. In stagnation, one finds oneself unable to care for anything because one cannot generate or discover anything to invest care in. In self-preoccupation, generativity is blocked by an obsessive focus on caring for the self. For some people in some circumstances, the self is so fragile or threatened that it becomes imperative to focus one’s full attention on self-care. In other instances, the adult may choose the self over others as the object of care, in a kind of narcissistic and selfinfantilizing manner. The self-preoccupied adult may come to consider himself or herself to be like a needy child, requiring constant care and attention lest the self come to feel neglected. In the decades following Erikson’s original formulations, a number of psychological theorists and researchers have sought to elaborate and refine the idea of generativity (e.g., Kotre, 1984; McAdams, 1985; Vaillant & Milofsky, 1980). In Figure 12.1, I present the latest instantiation of an integrative model of generativity, first proposed in McAdams and de St. Aubin (1992), which aims to synthesize these different views and capture the multifaceted nature of the concept. The model conceives of generativity as a configuration of seven psychosocial features—desire, demand, concern, belief, commitment, action, and narration—all of which center on the individual and societal goal of providing for future generations. Following the seven elements of Figure 12.1, generativity springs from two fundamental motivational sources: (1) inner desire and (2) cultural demand. As intimated in the Symposium and emphasized in the writings of Kotre (1984), a desire for symbolic immortality combines forces with a softer urge to nurture or care for the next generation, the latter of which Erikson (1964, p. 130) depicted as an abiding “need to be needed.” If generativity is pushed from within by strong desires (for immortality, to care for others), it is also pulled from without by the

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Inner Desire: 1. (a) Symbolic immortality (b) Need to be needed. 5. Belief “in the species.”

Concern 3. for the next generation.

7.

Commitment to generative goals. 4.

6. Acts: Generating, maintaining, letting go.

Narration: Telling the story of one’s generative gift.

Cultural Demand: 2. Norms, expectations, roles, timetables.

Figure 12.1 A Model of Generativity

demands of society—norms and expectations regarding when and how adults should assume some responsibility for promoting future generations (Rossi, 2001). Inner desire and cultural demand may crescendo in the middle-adult years, prompting men and women to manifest a (3) conscious concern for the next generation. Ideally, concern leads to (4) commitment: the adult who wants to make a positive contribution to the next generation makes plans and sets goals in order to do so. However, there are many negative or distracting forces that may dissuade the adult from making generative commitments, or formulating generative goals. Erikson singled out cynicism as one especially mendacious culprit. Why, for example, should I make an effort to promote future generations if I believe that the world is going to hell in a handbasket? To combat cynicism and reinforce the morale that may be required to make good on generative aspirations, the generative adult benefits greatly from what Erikson (1963, p. 267) described as a (5) “belief in the species,” by which he meant a prevailing faith in the goodness and worthwhileness of the human enterprise, from one generation to the next. Recalling Plato, a belief in the species may sometimes translate into an implicit but compelling love for humankind,

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which, like the presence of the beautiful love object in Diotima’s erotic scenario, may inspire the adult to transmute concern for the next generation into serious generative commitment, which ideally results in (6) generative acts. Generative acts, or behaviors, come in at least three forms: generating, maintaining, and letting go. First, generative action may involve generating, or giving birth to, people, things, and outcomes—making, creating, formulating, or discovering that which may be seen as “good” in some sense. Second, generative action may involve maintaining and passing on good things—preserving, conserving, fostering, cultivating, nurturing that which is deemed worthy of such behavior—as in raising children, preserving good traditions, protecting the environment, or enacting rituals (in the school, home, church, or within the confines of some other culturally valued institution) that link generations and assure continuity over time. Third, generative action may involve the seemingly selfless offering up of that which has been created or maintained—letting go of the good products of generative efforts, granting them some degree of autonomy, even setting them free in the hope or realization that their growth and continued goodness depend on the generative adult’s willingness to step aside or relinquish control. Finally, adults make (7) narrative sense out of the inner desires, cultural demands, generative concerns, beliefs, commitments, and behaviors that, taken together, comprise their unique legacies of the self (McAdams, 1985). The story or script they create about their own generative efforts becomes incorporated within their broader, self-defining life story, or narrative identity (McAdams & McLean, 2013). In some cases, the personal story of generativity may even become a vehicle for promoting more generativity. The younger generation may look to the story as an inspiration for their own lives, something to be emulated down the road when they reach that point in psychosocial development—likely in their midlife years—wherein generativity comes to command their full attention.

The Experience of Generativity: What It Feels Like In Gandhi’s Truth, Erikson (1969) undertook a full psychological biography of Mahatma Gandhi with the aim of illuminating the dynamics of generativity. As a religious and political leader, Gandhi was, in many ways, a paragon of generativity. Erikson charted Gandhi’s gradual evolution from a painfully shy young barrister stationed in South Africa to a middle-aged dynamo committed to bringing self-rule to India. He identified a turning point moment as Gandhi’s leaving South Africa, at age 46, and returning to his beloved homeland: From the moment in January of 1915 when Gandhi set foot on a pier reserved for important arrivals in Bombay, he behaved like a man

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who knew the nature and extent of India’s calamity and that of his own fundamental mission. A mature man of middle age has not only made up his mind as to what, in the various compartments of his life, he does and does not care for, he is also firm in his vision of what he will and can take care of. He takes as his baseline what he irreducibly is and reaches out for what only he can, and therefore, must do. (Erikson, 1969, p. 255, italics in original) Erikson’s vivid passage conveys the grand spirit of public generativity as expressed in the most celebrated lives. At age 46, Gandhi is a man on a “fundamental mission”—a mission of “care.” He knows what he cares for and what he must take care of. For the next thirty-three years, up to his death by an assassin’s bullet in 1948, Gandhi would organize peaceful protests, political marches and demonstrations, massive boycotts, hunger strikes, and other political operations of ahisma (Gandhi’s doctrine of militant non-violence) to effect political and social change in India. As much as any recent figure, Gandhi achieved the kind of lasting influence that Plato discerned in the pregnant souls of great artists and statesmen, a kind of symbolic immortality. While Gandhi experienced many failures and disappointments as a parent for his own children, his generative efforts on the broader stage aimed to instill and promulgate values and to change social conditions for millions of people. In 1999, Gandhi finished second behind Albert Einstein in Time magazine’s choice for the greatest man of the 20th century. On a more modest scale, many people who will never appear in a national magazine reveal the commitment to care that lies at the heart of generativity. In Studs Terkel’s (1972) Working, a firefighter named Tom Patrick describes his perspective on generativity: The fuckin’ world’s so fucked up; the country’s fucked up. But the firemen, you actually see them produce. You see them put out a fire. You see them come out with babies in their hands. You see them give mouth-to-mouth when a guy’s dying. You can’t get around that shit. That’s real. To me, that’s what I want to be. . . . I worked in a bank. You know, it’s just paper. It’s not real. Nine to five and it’s shit. You’re looking at the numbers. But I can look back and say, “I helped put out a fire. I helped save somebody.” It shows something I did on this earth. (Terkel, 1972, p. xxx) Patrick may lack the “belief in the species” that Erikson (and Figure 12.1) deemed to be useful for supporting generative commitment. In his eyes, the world may indeed be “fucked up” but not completely, because there are firefighters out there, like Patrick himself, who are “real,” who “produce,” who struggle to resuscitate dying victims—generative men and

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women whose efforts to put out fires and save lives show “something I did on this earth.” Patrick’s testimony speaks to the sense in which generative adults feel that they are leaving a mark, making a difference, creating a positive legacy, maintaining good things and passing them down from one generation to the next. Whereas the accounts of Gandhi and Tom Patrick emphasize heroic action, other experiences of generativity may feel more passive. They may involve stepping back or letting go—in the service of promoting the survival or well-being of future generations. In the novel Exist West, Mohsin Hamid (2017) tells the story of Saeed and Nadia, young lovers who aim to escape a war-torn city. They implore Saeed’s middle-aged father to join them on a perilous journey of emigration. It is the only chance the three of them have, they say, to enjoy a safe and better future. But in an act of supreme generativity, Saeed’s father refuses to go: But Saeed’s father was thinking also of the future, even though he did not say this to Saeed, for he feared that if he said this to his son that his son might not go, and he knew above all else that his son must go, and what he did not say is that he had come to the point in a parent’s life when, if a flood arrives, one knows one must let go of one’s child, contrary to all the instincts one had when one was younger, because holding on can no longer offer the child protection, it can only pull the child down, and threaten them with drowning, for the child is now stronger than the parent, and the circumstances are such that the utmost of strength is required, and the arc of a child’s life only appears for a while to match the arc of a parent’s, in reality one sits atop the other, a hill atop a hill, a curve atop a curve, and Saeed’s father’s arc now needed to curve lower, while his son’s still curved higher, for with an old man hampering them these two young people were simply less likely to survive. (Hamid, 2017, p. 96) In the realm of generativity, frustrations and failures may be just as common as success. And there is always danger. The most primal expression of generativity—giving birth—may hold more peril than anything else a generative adult ever does. Up to the advent of modern medicine, death in childbirth was a tragically common fate for women the world over. And parents, even today in modern societies, cannot avoid the fear that something bad will happen to their children—sickness, injury, failure, or more unspeakable outcomes. The prospect of danger erupts dramatically in one of the oldest and most famous stories of generativity in Western religious traditions—the account of Abraham and Isaac. The Old Testament God promises a fruitful legacy for Sarah and Abraham, but it is not until they are very old that a son finally arrives. Isaac’s nearly miraculous birth fulfills God’s covenant, assuring Abraham and Sarah

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that their descendants will proliferate in future generations—symbolic immortality through their care of a beloved son. But then God seems to go back on the promise, insists (for inexplicable reasons) that Abraham slaughter Isaac. In fear and trembling, Abraham is about to obey the command, until, at the very last second, an Angel of the Lord intervenes. Fear, frustration, and failure in generativity may arise in less dramatic ways through the common experience of intergenerational mismatch. Adults may believe that they have gifts to offer the next generation, such as cultural resources, technical skills, words of wisdom, and so on. But the younger generation—the potential recipients of these gifts—may not be interested or may simply not need the offerings of their elders. With rapid technological and cultural change, midlife men and women may sometimes find that there are few takers in the next generation for what they wish to give. In these instances, what Erikson (1963) repeatedly depicted as a fortuitous coordination of timetables in human development— through which the midlife adult’s need to be needed is readily gratified when a younger generation comes along just in time to be in need—seems to break down. Adults who want to make a mark on the next generation come to learn that they are more-or-less irrelevant in a brave new world that seems to have passed them by. Generativity can turn into stagnation when the best of generative efforts fail to achieve their intended effects. Concerted political activism may fail to yield a positive result. A mentoring relationship may turn sour. Creative work may be rejected by one’s peers. Sometimes the very products that one has generated turn out to disappoint. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!” cried King Lear. Frustrations in generativity helped drive him to madness. Feeling unappreciated is part of the job description, many midlife Americans might say, for parenting teen-aged children. The sentiment is a common lament in the life stories of many midlife parents, even those who nonetheless feel that they are enjoying a modicum of generativity (McAdams, 2006/2013). More troubling are accounts of serious regret, and even rejection. When it comes to children and other products of one’s generative efforts, things may go horribly wrong. How do the parents of school shooters and serial sex offenders feel about their generative gifts? In other instances, an adult may feel that the birth of a particular child—say, a child with severe disabilities—may have dramatically altered life for the worse. While many parents find deep generative meaning in raising children with daunting special needs, some do not. In an article in The Atlantic about the virtual “second lives” that some Americans live online, Jamison (2017) spotlights the case of Bridgette McNeal, an Atlanta mother of four, who has created a lithe 20-something avatar online that she describes as the “perfect me—if I’d never eaten sugar or had children” (p. 76). Bridgette also keeps a blog

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devoted to her daily life as a parent, with special attention to the travails of raising a severely autistic child. Recounting an afternoon spent with her kids at a nature center, Bridgette describes looking at a bald eagle: Some asshole shot this bald eagle with an arrow. He [the eagle] lost most of one wing because of it and can’t fly. He’s kept safe here at this retreat we visited a few days ago. Sometimes I think [my] husband and I feel a little bit like him. Trapped. Nothing really wrong, we’ve got food and shelter and what we need. But we are trapped for the rest of our lives by autism. We’ll never be free. (Jamison, 2017, p. 77) Bridgette McNeal’s case raises interesting, and troubling, issues regarding the psychology and the ethics of generativity. First, her account illustrates how difficult generativity can sometimes be. Bridgette wants to provide consistent care and nurturance for her disabled child, but she is honest enough to admit that sometimes she feels trapped and in despair. Her child deserves the best care she can provide, but sometimes Bridgette fails to provide it, or at least resents her need to do so. Do her resentments and failings keep her from being as supremely generative as she might be? Probably, yes. But her burden is immense, which raises a second point about generativity and its relation to the good life. As Aristotle recognized, a good life does not depend on virtue alone but also requires external goods. One can devote the lion’s share of one’s energy and resources into promoting the well-being of future generations, but if the world is set up in such a way as to foil those efforts, the result is not likely to be good or happy. Extreme poverty, mental illness, discrimination, horrible luck— there are countless external factors that can undermine the best efforts of generativity. Thrown into an unpredictable and capricious world, adults do what they can to give birth in beauty and to promote the well-being of future generations. Some enjoy considerable success for their efforts, and others do not. Moreover, some surely try harder than do others.

Individual Differences in Generativity: Empirical Findings The past two decades have witnessed a strong upsurge of scientific research on the concept of generativity, mostly in the fields of personality and life span developmental psychology, and in social gerontology. Catalyzing this effort has been the development and validation of a number of quantitative measures to assess individual differences in generativity. These methods have focused mainly on four of the seven features shown in the model in Figure 12.1: generative concern, generative goals, generative acts, and generative themes in life narration. The measure that has received the most attention is the Loyola Generativity Scale (LGS: McAdams & de St. Aubin, 1992), a 20-item self-report questionnaire

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that assesses individual differences in the extent to which adults feel a concern for the next generation and believe that they are engaged in endeavors aimed at meeting that concern. Major reviews of recent generativity research can be found in de St. Aubin (2013); McAdams (2013); Newton (2016); and Pratt, Lawford, Matsuba, and Villar (in press). Table 12.2 lists some of the most consequential, and largely wellreplicated, findings in the empirical literature, speaking mainly to the question of how adults who tend to score relatively high on measures of generativity differ from their counterparts who tend to score lower. What Table 12.2 Correlates of Generativity Empirical studies show that adults who score high on measures of generativity tend to • exhibit authoritative parenting styles with their children, insisting that children adhere to moral and instrumental standards while showing warmth and love. • pass on pro-social values to their children and emphasize trust in their relationships with children. • be deeply involved in their children’s schooling, as evidenced in setting aside time for homework, attending parent-teacher meetings, and having extensive knowledge about what happens at school. • raise children who grow up to show high levels of positive personality traits, such as conscientiousness and agreeableness. • enjoy broader networks of friendships and social support. • report higher levels of marital satisfaction. • provide care and support for family members, for coworkers at work, and in the community. • attend religious services and/or be involved in a religious or spiritual tradition. • show higher levels of moral development. • be more involved in the political process, as evidenced in voting, writing letters to Congress, and political activism. • score higher on behavioral and cognitive indices of wisdom. • exhibit strength and effectiveness as leaders (among late-midlife men). • show higher levels of post-traumatic growth (among cancer survivors). • exhibit many signs of successful aging, including physical health, satisfaction with family roles (e.g., grandparenting), greater purpose in life, and greater satisfaction with retirement. • enjoy higher levels of subjective mental health, adaptive coping, and psychological maturity. • show low levels of trait neuroticism and high levels of traits related to warmth, altruism, positive emotions, assertive activity, achievement striving, dutifulness, and openness. • show strong motivational tendencies toward both agency (power) and communion (love). They endeavor to integrate agency and communion by engaging in assertive (even self-promoting) activity in order to help others or promote a social goal. • construct life stories (narrative identities) showcasing the five cardinal themes of the redemptive self: early advantage, sensitivity to suffering of others, moral steadfastness, redemption sequences, and pro-social vision for the future.

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emerges from this mainly correlational research literature is a portrait of the highly generative adult as actively involved in a wide range of social activities, from parenting to leadership to involvement in religious and political endeavors, aimed at exerting a positive and enduring impact in families, schools, neighborhoods, professional settings, and those institutions charged with promoting prosocial ends to benefit current and future generations. Highly generative parents exhibit more effective parenting strategies, show higher levels of involvement in their children’s schooling, and explicitly transmit values of care and compassion to their children; their children tend to grow up to show higher levels of prosocial personality traits, such as conscientiousness and altruism. Highly generative adults themselves show these same positive dispositional traits, along with heightened sensitivity to moral and ethical issues, higher levels of wisdom, greater purpose in life, better mental health, happier marriages, greater resilience in the wake of suffering, and greater satisfaction in family and work roles. In general, these findings hold true even after accounting for demographic differences, such as income and education. Motivated by strong agentic desires to expand and assert the self on the one hand, and strong communal desires to care for people and work for the common good on the other, highly generative adults seem to do good by others, and thereby to do well for the self (Frimer, Walker, Dunlop, Lee, & Riches, 2011). The cascade of empirical findings suggests that generativity has positive effects on the self, on others, and on the generative adult’s world. If, as Aristotle suggested in the Nicomachean Ethics, living is akin to playing a musical instrument, virtuosity is exhibited when the human life is well-played—and generative adults seem to play life very well. Just as the pianist needs to develop the skills necessary to her craft in order to play excellently, which requires significant practice and habituation, so the person who wants to live well needs the virtues, which requires training and habituation in a similar way. Playing well—living well— means achieving a certain excellence (arête) in the realm of social relations, resulting in experiencing the higher forms of happiness (and life meaning) captured in the concept of eudaimonia. Consistent with the general Aristotelian expectation, empirical results reveal strong connections between generativity and self-reported happiness, including aspects of happiness traditionally tied to eudaimonia (e.g., Keyes & Ryff, 1998). In addition (as shown in Table 12.2), generativity tends to be associated with the kinds of behaviors that Aristotle and other virtue theorists have traditionally described as the fruits of human virtue—such as helping others and showing compassion, passing on wisdom to the next generation and exhibiting higher levels of wisdom overall, leadership in groups, community volunteerism, political and religious involvement, and deep friendships. All other things being equal, a generative life would appear to qualify as a good life.

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A good life—that is, one that bears the virtuous fruits of generativity— may require a good story. A provocative line of qualitative and quantitative research has examined the stories highly generative American adults fashion to make sense of their lives (McAdams, 2006/2013; McAdams & Guo, 2015). The theoretical premise of these studies in narrative is that most adults, generative or not, construct internalized and evolving stories of the self in order to make meaning in their lives (Bruner, 1990; McAdams & McLean, 2013). Given the significant challenges and dangers of taking on a generative life, one might suspect that a highly generative man or woman at midlife would need an especially compelling or effective life story to sustain his or her commitment to generativity. Given that generative adults are deeply invested in passing on valued cultural practices from one generation to the next, these same life stories might also capture important historical and cultural themes that prevail in a given society—for Americans, themes regarding how to live a good life in America (Hammack, 2008; McAdams, 2006/2013). The research shows that highly generative American adults at midlife, compared to less generative American adults at midlife, tend to construe their lives as heroic narratives of redemption, reprising distinctively American cultural discourses regarding upward social mobility, religious atonement, and personal liberation. I call the idealized manifestation of these narratives the redemptive self. In its full form, the redemptive self comprises five themes: (1) Early Advantage—a sense that one was blessed or special as a child; (2) Suffering of Others—a sensitivity early on in life to the pain experienced by others and/or to the injustices in the world; (3) Moral Steadfastness—the articulation of a personal ideology that steadfastly guides one’s behavior; (4) Redemption Sequences—repeated experiences wherein setbacks and failures in life eventually give way to positive meanings; and (5) Prosocial Vision for the Future—imagining the future as a time for achieving prosocial goals and having a positive impact on the world. The redemptive self represents a kind of life story that provides strong psychological and literary support for a generative life. The juxtaposition of the first two themes sets up a moral challenge for the protagonist: I am blessed, but others suffer. I am the gifted protagonist who journeys forth into a dangerous world. Therefore, it may be my duty, my manifest personal destiny to make a lasting and positive mark on the world in gratitude for the early blessings I have received. Moreover, generativity is hard work, fraught with the prospects of frustration and failure. But the overall narrative arc of the redemptive self shows repeatedly that suffering can be overcome, bad things typically give way to good outcomes. Believing that one’s life conforms to this kind of redemptive narrative may help the generative adult weather the disappointments and defeats that inevitably follow when one embarks upon a life in generativity. Research has also examined the dynamics and the developmental course of generativity. A number of studies suggest that generativity

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increases in magnitude and salience as people move from early adulthood (e.g., the twenties and early thirties) into the middle-adult years, supporting Erikson’s claim that generativity is mainly a midlife issue in human development. For example, generative goals and generative acts tend to peak in midlife (McAdams, de St. Aubin, & Logan, 1993). At the same time, many young adults show strong generative concern and express a desire to have a positive impact on the world, often through volunteer activities and engagement in such causes as environmentalism (Pratt et al., in press). There are virtually no longitudinal data tracing individual differences in generativity back to factors apparent in infancy and childhood. But retrospective accounts suggest that positive experiences in the first two decades of life with teachers and mentors and in socializing institutions such as schools, clubs, religious organizations, and the military may be associated with higher levels of generativity at midlife (Jones & McAdams, 2013; Rossi, 2001). Over the life course, the dynamics of generativity are shaped by a wide range of factors, from physiological changes to the apprehension of death. For example, recent studies suggest that becoming a father is accompanied by significant decreases in the hormone testosterone among human males (Gettler, McDade, Feranil, & Kuzawa, 2011). Researchers theorize that the decline in testosterone promotes nurturant behavior and paves the way for the man’s generative involvement in caregiving. Social psychological studies have shown that when men are subtly reminded of their own mortality (through laboratory manipulations that introduce cues associated with death), they express a stronger desire to have children, compared to men who do not experience the mortality salience condition (Wisman & Goldenberg, 2005). Relatedly, research suggests that the desire to leave a positive mark on the world becomes increasingly urgent as life’s finitude becomes salient (Weiss, 2014). Diotima’s ancient suspicion that the desire for immortality is tied up with generativity appears to be vindicated by contemporary laboratory findings.

Generativity’s Status as a Virtue An international team of researchers recently asked 525 young adults (age 18–28 years) living in four countries (the United Kingdom, Iran, Russia, and China) to provide written descriptions of the one “older” person in their lives (somebody whom they personally knew) that they each admired most (Robinson et al., 2016). After reading through all the accounts to get a sense of the kind of personal qualities the participants described, the researchers analyzed the extent to which the descriptions emphasized five different virtues (justice, wisdom, religion, empathy, and generativity) and five different skills (intellect, drive, resilience, autonomy, and success). Across all four countries, the average age of the most-admired person nominated was approximately 45 years, and the one personal quality

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most often identified was generativity. The young adults described their most admired older person—typically a person in midlife—as being especially “supportive, caring, giving, generous, kind, and self-sacrificing” (Robinson et al., 2016, p. 85). While the researchers in Robinson et al. (2016) showed no qualms about identifying generativity as a virtue, the term generativity rarely shows up on canonical virtue lists compiled by psychologists, philosophers, and theologians. Generativity does not appear to resemble any of the four cardinal virtues from antiquity—prudence, courage, temperance, and justice. One might expect a generative person to display qualities that stem from these four (to show the strength and endurance associated with courage, for example, and the restraint and self-control associated with temperance), but these eminently worthy characteristics seem somewhat removed from the essence of generativity. In contemporary psychology, Peterson and Seligman (2004) drew upon a range of intellectual and cultural traditions, as well as theories and research findings in psychological science, to articulate a highly influential framework that organizes twenty-four character strengths within six broad core virtues. The six core virtue domains and their twentyfour subsidiary character strengths are these: (1) Wisdom and Knowledge (creativity, curiosity, open-mindedness, love of learning, perspective); (2) Courage (bravery, persistence, integrity, vitality); (3) Humanity (love, kindness, social intelligence); (4) Justice (citizenship, fairness, leadership); (5) Temperance (forgiveness, humility, prudence, self-regulation); and (6) Transcendence (appreciation of beauty and excellence, gratitude, hope, humor, spirituality). Pieces of generativity appear to be scattered across at least three of the six core virtues in Peterson and Seligman’s (2004) scheme. Under the Humanity core virtue, the strengths of love and kindness would appear to be most relevant to generativity. Indeed, the core virtue of Humanity entails “interpersonal strengths that involve tending and befriending others” (Peterson & Seligman, 2004, p. 29). Under the Justice core virtue domain, the strengths of citizenship and leadership would seem to connect naturally to generativity, too, as “civic strengths that underlie healthy community life” (p. 30). Generativity would also seem to pull from the Courage core virtue domain, captured best in the character strength of persistence. Reflecting a central theme in the redemptive life stories constructed by highly generative American adults at midlife (McAdams & Guo, 2015), Courage is about “emotional strengths that involve the exercise of will to accomplish goals in the face of opposition” (Peterson & Seligman, 2004, p. 30). Coming from the standpoint of philosophical ethics, Browning (2004) argued that intimations of generativity as a discrete virtue may be discerned in “a long line of teleologically oriented philosophers extending from Plato and Aristotle to Thomas Aquinas and that includes various

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contemporary pragmatists as well as many current neo-Aristotelians” (p. 249). According to Browning, Aristotle believed that the natural human impulse to give birth to children and to raise them may be fruitfully extended beyond the circle of immediate offspring to energize a citizen’s commitment to the social good. Aquinas picked up the same line of argument but transferred it to the ideal relationship between God and humankind. Aquinas invoked the three theological virtues—faith, hope, and charity—derived from I Corinthians 13, with “charity” typically translated as “love.” God’s love for human beings is like a parent’s love for his or her children. In that God loves all of humankind, so too might individual Christians expand their radius of care beyond immediate kin to encompass a broader swath of other human beings. Therefore, the individual human being’s “preferential impulse for those near and dear should be analogically extended to all humans on the belief that they are children of God, made in God’s image, manifestations of God’s goodness, and therefore to be loved as one should love the goodness of God” (Browning, 2004, p. 249). As such, Browning (2004) seems to be following Erikson (1963) in distilling out from generativity a single virtue of “care.” At minimum, generativity seems to include within its essence a supremely virtuous element. Let me identify that element as caring for the next generation, and thereby investing oneself in promoting future good(s) for humankind. These goods are manifest in the realms of family, society, culture, the human species, and perhaps even the world’s ecosystem as a whole. This virtuous element at the core of generativity manifests as an integrated and orienting constellation of concerns, desires, beliefs, narration, and actions set in a particular cultural context, as suggested in Figure 12.1. This constellation of care is habituated over time such that it serves as a stable wellspring for human experience, a deep and powerful source for living well, with human virtuosity, in Aristotle’s original sense. Nonetheless, there are contrarian elements or features of generativity that may seem to work against the case for virtue. When it comes to generativity, care is only half of the game—and mainly the second half (Kotre, 1984; McAdams & de St. Aubin, 1992). From a motivational standpoint, the caring and communal component of generativity typically rises to the fore after that which is to be cared for is created. In the creation story of Genesis, Jahweh fashions humankind in his own image, as a self-generated extension of the self. The creative act is supremely agentic, even when, as Diotima contended, the act is inspired by the love of another. Generativity is a powerful assertion of selfhood. The sense of agentic self-expression is motivationally prepotent in generativity, captured partly in Diotima’s reference to a desire for immortality. In some instances, furthermore, the communal and caring features of generativity may serve the master of self-perpetuation. Generative adults may bestow love and care upon the next generation in order to burnish a long-term

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legacy; children become a means by which one attains a sense of symbolic immortality. The same could be said for many generative offerings, from daily acts of simple kindness as a way of building a positive reputation, to artistic and scientific achievement, to giving money so as to endow a building or an organization in one’s name. Indeed, the non-parental forms of generativity, what Plato described as the offspring of a pregnant soul, may prove to be more compelling than raising children, in the longterm aim of leaving a long-term legacy. Plato captures the sentiment in this passage from the Symposium: Think only of the ambition of men, and you will wonder at the senselessness of their ways, unless you consider how they are stirred by the love of an immortality of fame. They are ready to run all risks greater far than they would have run for their children, and to spend money and undergo any sort of toil, and even to die, for the sake of leaving behind them a name which will be eternal. . . . Nay, I am persuaded that all men do all things, and the better they are the more they do them, in hope of the glorious fame of immortal virtue; for they desire the immortal. (Jowett, 1956, pp. 49–50) Whereas Plato approvingly suggests that “better” men do more to extend their long-term influence than do lesser men, the modern ear may detect more than a hint of narcissism in this passage. The agentic features of generativity—the desire to create, build, have a lasting impact upon, give birth to—can sometimes sound like narcissism. Indeed, like generativity, narcissism aims to promote the self in a forcefully agentic manner (Campbell, 1999). Some research studies even show a modest positive association between measures of generativity and narcissism (Newton, Herr, Pollack, & McAdams, 2014). At the same time, excessive narcissism can completely undermine generativity, as when the self-preoccupied individual finds it impossible to focus on anything or anybody beyond the self. A defining feature of narcissism, moreover, is the grandiose expression and expansion of the self without recognition of and to the detriment of others. By contrast, generativity harnesses the power of personal agency for the aim of promoting the well-being of future generations. At its paradoxical motivational core, generativity blends the kind of personal agency that might be dedicated to narcissism with an abiding concern for future generations. Ideally, the dual motivations—agentic self-promotion for the long run and communal concern for the next generation—work together in generativity, agency in the service of communion and focused on future generations (Frimer et al., 2011). If generativity is a virtue, then, it is a complex and ambivalent one. Generativity seems to maximize two tendencies that typically work at cross-purposes in many human lives—self-promotion and care for others.

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There is always the danger of narcissism, which may happen when the first source of generative motivation either overwhelms or completely coopts the second. Having said that, it is difficult to imagine that a human life, at least one that extends well into middle age, can be seen as a good life in the absence of generativity. The long list of positive correlates of generativity, referred to earlier in this chapter and documented in scores of psychological research studies (see especially Table 12.2), bear out the claim that generativity is generally a force for good in human lives. Moreover, the very continuation of human life from one generation to the next depends on generativity—indeed, that would appear to be generativity’s very purpose for being. In the grand evolutionary scheme of things, generativity makes for the perpetuation of the species. Without the virtue of (or within) generativity, one could argue, all other human virtues are rendered moot.

Conclusion Generativity is an adult’s concern for and commitment to promoting the well-being of future generations. The prototypical manifestation of generativity is giving birth to and raising children. But expressions of generativity range widely in accord with what a given human culture considers to be the worthy and virtuous acts that contribute to the enhancement and continuity of that culture. As such, common expressions of generativity include teaching, mentoring, leadership, volunteerism, political and religious engagement, and other behaviors that aim to leave a positive legacy of the self for future generations. At its motivational core, generativity brings together two inner forces that can work against each other as readily as they work together: the agentic desire to generate, create, produce, or give birth to something or someone that represents a potentially lasting legacy of the self; and the communal desire to nurture, care for, maintain, cultivate, or even give oneself up for that which has been generated, to assure that one’s gift to or for future generations manages to survive and flourish. The philosophical roots of generativity may be discerned in Socrates’ account of Diotima’s “birth in beauty,” presented vividly in Plato’s Symposium. Although Plato never used a word that translated directly into “generativity,” his dialog on love makes an explicit connection between generativity and the human drive for (symbolic) immortality. In the middle of the 20th century, Erik Erikson developed an influential stage model of psychosocial development that situated generativity (vs. stagnation) as the central challenge of midlife. The midlife man or woman comes to understand that, in a fundamental sense, “I am what survives me.” Building on Erikson and other recent theorists, a contemporary integrative model depicts generativity as an arrangement of desire, demand, concern, commitment, belief, action, and narration,

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coordinated and aimed at creating, nurturing, enhancing, and/or contributing in a positive manner to the benefit of future generations. In life and literature, accounts of success in generativity often emphasize positive efforts to create or maintain people or products that serve as legacies of the self, or to let go of them and grant them a life-affirming autonomy. Accounts of failure in generativity, by contrast, illustrate agonizing experiences of stagnation or self-preoccupation, and they often point to the dangers inherent in generative striving, which range from ingratitude to irrelevance to death. In psychological science, the research literature paints an empirical portrait of highly generative adults as more-or-less virtuous midlife men and women whose actions and attitudes usually redound to positive effects, in their own lives and in the lives of others. Compared to their less generative counterparts, highly generative adults appear to live especially virtuous lives, at least in the sense described by Aristotle as embodying virtuosity or excellence in living well, making positive contributions to the lives of others, especially those from younger generations, and thereby increasing their own happiness and enhancing meaning in life. One especially powerful way through which generative American adults exhibit excellence and virtue is in the construction of highly redemptive life stories, stories that promote growth and resilience and sometimes inspire others to live and do the same. Erikson argued that the human inclination to “care” lies at the heart of generativity. But generativity encompasses more than care, especially with respect to its agentic self-promoting features. Indeed, generativity may drink from the same motivational wellspring that nourishes narcissism. And yet narcissism is one of generativity’s great enemies. Generativity asks the midlife adult to empower the self so as to make a lasting contribution, but it also asks the adult to give up the self in order to nurture and care for future generations. The paradoxical relation between generativity and self, therefore, makes for a mixed message and a complicated sense of life virtuosity. With all this in mind, let me offer the proposition that generativity should be viewed as an essential human virtue, for it promotes the good life in the here-and-now and functions in the long run to support the continuance of human life from one generation to the next. Nonetheless, I view it to be a complex and oddly ambivalent virtue.

References Bowlby, J. (1969). Attachment. New York, NY: Basic Books. Browning, D. (2004). An ethical analysis of Erikson’s concept of generativity. In E. de St. Aubin, D. P. McAdams & T.-C. Kim (Eds.), The generative society: Caring for future generations (pp. 241–255). Washington, DC: APA Books. Bruner, J. (1990). Acts of meaning. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Campbell, W. K. (1999). Narcissism and romantic attraction. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 77, 1254–1270.

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de St. Aubin, E. (2013). Generativity and the meaning of life. In J. A. Hicks & C. Routledge (Eds.), The experience of meaning in life (pp. 241–255). New York, NY: Springer. Erikson, E. H. (1963). Childhood and society (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Norton. Erikson, E. H. (1964). Insight and responsibility. New York, NY: Norton. Erikson, E. H. (1968). Identity: Youth and crisis. New York, NY: Norton. Erikson, E. H. (1969). Gandhi’s truth: On the origins of militant nonviolence. New York, NY: Norton. Frimer, J. A., Walker, L. J., Dunlop, W. L., Lee, B. H., & Riches, A. (2011). The integration of agency and communion in moral personality: Evidence of enlightened self-interest. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 101, 149–163. Gettler, L. T., McDade, T. W., Feranil, A. B., & Kuzawa, C. W. (2011). Longitudinal evidence that fatherhood decreases testosterone in adult males. PNAS, 108, 16194–16199. Hamid, M. (2017). Exit west. New York, NY: Riverhead Books. Hammack, P. L. (2008). Narrative and the cultural psychology of identity. Personality and Social Psychology Review, 12, 222–247. Jamison, L. (2017). Pioneers of a forgotten future. The Atlantic (December), 72–85. Jones, B. K., & McAdams, D. P. (2013). Becoming generative: Socializing influences recalled in life stories in late midlife. Journal of Adult Development, 20, 158–172. Jowett, B. (Trans.). (1956). Plato’s Symposium. Indianapolis, IN: Bobbs-Merrill. Keyes, C. L. M., & Ryff, C. D. (1998). Generativity in adult lives: Social structural contours and the quality of life consequences. In D. P. McAdams & E. de St. Aubin (Eds.), Generativity and adult development: How and why we care for the next generation (pp. 227–264). Washington, DC: APA Books. Kotre, J. (1984). Outliving the self: Generativity and the interpretation of lives. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. McAdams, D. P. (1985). Power, intimacy, and the life story: Personological inquiries into identity. Homewood, IL: Dorsey Press. McAdams, D. P. (2006/2013). The redemptive self: Stories Americans live by (revised and expanded ed.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. McAdams, D. P. (2013). The positive psychology of adult generativity: Caring for the next generation and constructing a redemptive life. In J. Sinnott (Ed.), Positive psychology (pp. 191–205). New York, NY: Springer. McAdams, D. P., & de St. Aubin, E. (1992). A theory of generativity and its assessment through self-report, behavioral acts, and narrative themes in autobiography. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 62, 1003–1015. McAdams, D. P., de St. Aubin, E., & Logan, R. L. (1993). Generativity among young, midlife, and older adults. Psychology and Aging, 8, 221–230. McAdams, D. P., & Guo, J. (2015). Narrating the generative life. Psychological Science, 26, 475–483. McAdams, D. P., & McLean, K. C. (2013). Narrative identity. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 22, 233–238. Newton, N. J. (2016). Generativity. In S. K. Whitbourne (Ed.), The encyclopedia of adulthood and aging. New York, NY: Wiley-Blackwell. Newton, N. J., Herr, J. M., Pollack, J. L., & McAdams, D. P. (2014). Selfless or selfish? Generativity and narcissism as components of legacy. Journal of Adult Development, 21, 59–68.

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Newton, N. J., & Jones, B. K. (2016). Passing on: Personal attributes associated with midlife expressions of intended legacies. Developmental Psychology, 52, 341–353. Peterson, C., & Seligman, M. E. P. (2004). Character strengths and virtues: A handbook and classification. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Pratt, M. W., Lawford, H. L., Matsuba, M. K., & Villar, F. (in press). The lifespan development of generativity. In L. Jensen (Ed.). Oxford handbook of moral development. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Robinson, O. C., Dunn, A., Nartova-Bochaver, S., Bochaver, K., Asadi, S., Khosravi, Z., Jafarik, S. M., Zhang, X., & Yang, Y. (2016). Figures of admiration in emerging adulthood: A four-country study. Emerging Adulthood, 4, 82–91. Rossi, A. (2001). Caring and doing for others. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Terkel, S. (1972). Working. New York, NY: Pantheon Books. Vaillant, G. E., & Milofsky, E. (1980). The natural history of male psychological health: IX. Empirical evidence for Erikson’s model of the life cycle. American Journal of Psychiatry, 137, 1349–1359. Wakefield, J. C. (1998). Immortality and the externalization of the self: Plato’s unrecognized theory of generativity. In D. P. McAdams & E. de St. Aubin (Eds.), Generativity and adult development: How and why we care for the next generation (pp. 133–174). Washington, DC: APA Books. Weiss, D. (2014). What will remain when we are gone? Finitude and generation identity in the second half of life. Psychology and Aging, 29, 554–562. Wisman, A., & Goldenberg, J. L. (2005). From the grave to the cradle: Evidence that morality salience engenders a desire for offspring. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 89, 46–61.

13 Reacting to Transcendence The Psychology of Moral Praise Rajen A. Anderson, David A. Pizarro, and Katherine D. Kinzler

In 1988, Nicholas Winton, an 80-year-old British citizen, was invited to attend a filming of the BBC television show That’s Life. The host of the show, Esther Ranzen, showed the audience a scrapbook compiled in 1939 by Winton that contained a list of children for whom he had arranged safe passage from Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia, and whom he had placed in homes throughout Great Britain. After asking Winton to stand, Ranzen addressed the studio audience and asked if anyone in attendance owed their lives to Winton. She then told Winton to turn around and look behind him. As he did, he was greeted by over two dozen audience members who had stood to their feet, eager to thank him for having saved their lives all those years ago. It turns out that Winton had organized transport of nearly 700 children in Czechoslovakia who were at risk of being captured by the Nazis. Yet for over fifty years his actions had remained largely unnoticed and unacknowledged—the children themselves had never known who had been responsible for their rescue. After the airing of the show, Winton finally received recognition for his actions: he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II for his humanitarian efforts, and he received the highest medal of honor from Czechoslovakia. He was even referred to by the press as the “British Schindler.” One cannot help but think that Winton deserved to receive such accolades for his actions. He exhibited true self-transcendence—elevating the needs of others above his own. One might ask the question of how an individual like Winton could come to be motivated to act in such morally positive ways—or why anyone might be motivated to act altruistically at all. The question of when and how people choose to engage in virtuous, altruistic, or self-transcendent acts is central to our understanding of human morality (Fehr & Fischbacher, 2003; Kawall, 2009; Hursthouse, 1999). Yet, a notable aspect of the story above is not just about Winston’s acts, but also about the response of others to his actions, including how long it took for him to be recognized for his actions by others. Despite the explosion of interest in the psychology of morality over the last few decades, the question of how individuals evaluate other people’s morally transcendent actions has received surprisingly little attention.

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Most research on people’s moral evaluation of others focuses on the “negative” side of morality—when and why individuals determine that someone else deserves blame for their morally harmful actions. This orientation toward the negative can be seen in the philosophical literature on moral responsibility (on which much of the psychological work on responsibility has been built). To the extent that the “positive” side of moral evaluation has been discussed—questions surrounding when people bestow moral praise for other people’s morally transcendent acts— moral praise has often been assumed to be simply the flipside of blame. That is, perhaps people’s psychological processes for determining others’ moral responsibility (either positive or negative) are symmetrical and related. Yet, there is accumulating evidence, which we review here, that judgments of moral praise are made very differently than judgments of moral blame. While both blame and praise require a judgment of responsibility or deservingness, it appears as if individuals may follow a different set of rules when judging responsibility for good actions than they do for bad actions. The focus of our chapter is to explore the human response to other individuals’ morally transcendent acts. We propose that our psychological response to morally good acts is not simply a mirror image of our response to morally bad acts, and as such, the psychology behind people’s responses to morally transcendent acts is worthy of independent study. In what follows we review this recent literature on judgments of moral praise, arguing that they reflect a unique form of moral judgment, that they play a central role in human morality, and that they serve as a tool to foster and reinforce moral behavior and self-transcendence in others.

The Psychology of Blame A central component of many theories of blame is attention to the mental state of the person being blamed, specifically whether an individual had the knowledge and motivation to act immorally. In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle (4th century B.C.E./1998) argued that it is sometimes appropriate to praise or blame an agent on the basis of that agent’s actions and/or character traits. Furthermore, only certain kinds of agents qualify as moral agents, namely agents who possess the mental and physical capacity for decisions, and are thus subject to ascriptions of moral responsibility. For Aristotle, a moral decision is a particular kind of desire resulting from deliberation (Eshleman, 2016). Additionally, a moral agent is a viable candidate for praise or blame if and only if the action or character trait meets two conditions (Kraut, 2016). First, the agent must have control over performing the action or possessing the trait—if the cause is external, the agent is not responsible. Second, the agent must be aware of what she is doing or bringing about—if the agent is ignorant of her actions, the agent is not responsible.

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The psychological research on moral responsibility, as previously mentioned, has largely focused on judgments of blame. These accounts of blame often describe the ascription of blame as proceeding in a step-like fashion, with observers judging a series of criteria in order to determine whether an action or agent is blameworthy (e.g., Malle, Guglielmo, & Monroe, 2014; Shaver, 1985; Weiner, 1995). The first step involves judging whether an event or outcome represents the violation of a moral rule. Next, the observer of the violation must determine whether a particular target is causally responsible for the moral violation.1 If the target did not have causal control over the act, blame is diminished (Cushman, 2008; Shultz, Wright, & Schleifer, 1986). In addition to causal control, the observer must determine that the actor who caused the outcome also had agentic control, and that she is eligible for moral evaluation (i.e., the actor’s role or identity is such that she can understand and remember moral rules, and appropriately modify her behavior; Alicke, 1990; Guglielmo, Monroe, & Malle, 2009). Once agent causality is established, the intentionality of the agent is then taken into consideration. A judgment that an act was committed intentionally includes a consideration of the actor’s desire, belief, intention, skill, and awareness (Malle & Knobe, 1997). If a rule-violating behavior is judged as causal and intentional, individuals then consider the reasons for the agent’s behavior, as those reasons serve to highlight the underlying motivation for a behavior and its meaning (Binder, 2000; Stueber, 2009). By understanding the reasons for an agent’s behavior and whether such reasons mitigate or aggravate assigned blame, perceivers can then determine how much blame is appropriate (Howe, 1991; Reeder, Kumar, Hesson-McInnis, & Trafimow, 2002; Shaver, 1985). While the judgments involved in the attribution of blame seem fairly complex, children as young as 5 years of age have been shown to use such judgments of causality and intentionality to inform their judgments of wrongdoing and punishment (Darley, Klosson, & Zanna, 1978; Shultz et al., 1986), and children as young as 4 have been shown to use an agent’s reasons in determining whether her behavior is good or bad (Baird & Astington, 2004). Even if an agent’s behavior is judged to have been unintentional, observers may still find the agent in question blameworthy by considering an assortment of counterfactual information regarding the act (questions of what should and could have happened). These counterfactuals can be distinct from the considerations regarding what originally led to the event (Mandel & Lehman, 1996). Observers judge whether the agent had an obligation (due to the norms, roles, and situational context) to have prevented a negative moral event from having occurred (Malle et al., 2014). For example, people who occupy a role of authority in a situation (and who are perceived to have obligations and duties tied to their role) are perceived as more blameworthy for the same event than those with fewer obligations (Gibson & Schroeder, 2003; Hamilton, 1986). If an agent

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did have an obligation to prevent the negative event, observers consider the agent’s ability to prevent the negative event: if the agent should have acted differently, could she have acted differently? Again, while fairly complex, it appears as if these judgments appear early in life: children as young as 4 years of age demonstrate a tendency to use a target’s cognitive capacity to foresee the consequences of an action to determine responsibility (Nelson-Le Gall, 1985; Yuill & Perner, 1988). Likewise, there is extensive work suggesting that observers blame a target more if she has the physical capability to change her behavior than if she lacks that capability (for a review, see Weiner, 1995). Even victims of severe crimes engage in self-blame when they feel that they could have prevented the outcome (Janoff-Bulman, 1979; Miller, Handley, Markman, & Miller, 2010). Thus, even when an action is judged as unintentional, agents can still receive blame if they are perceived as having had the ability to act differently. In sum, ascriptions of blame require that an observer make judgments of causality, agency, and intentionality, while taking into account the situational context and the perceived obligations of the agent. The psychology of blame is reflected in many legal systems, which place an emphasis on the intentionality of an agent, and often use intentionality to categorize legal violations with the same consequences (e.g., murder vs. manslaughter, Perkins, 1939). However, the process of determining an agent’s intentions and motivations for an immoral action can be fairly difficult, given that we lack direct access to each other’s minds. As such, there is a growing body of research demonstrating that, when determining blameworthiness, observers rely on a number of cues that might serve as a signal regarding an agent’s underlying intentions and motivations. For example, the affective displays an agent makes when making a decision can serve as input into judgments about an agent’s intentions and moral character (Ames & Johar, 2009; Higgins, 1998). If an agent is smiling while performing an immoral act, observers may make take this as information that an act was intentional and committed with bad motives. Conversely, observers infer that an agent was repudiating her own action if she displays negative affect at her own transgression (Goffman, 1959; Gold & Weiner, 2000). Interestingly, this tendency to use affective information when making inferences about an agent’s beliefs, desires, and motivation also appears relatively early in life (e.g., Wellman, Phillips, & Rodriguez, 2000). Nevertheless, there are limits to the use of affective cues: Ames and Johar (2009) found that the use of affective display cues tends to diminish with repeated behaviors. If an agent grimaces and looks upset at harming someone once, observers will tend to give her the benefit of the doubt. However negative affective displays lose this mitigating power if an agent repeatedly performs the same negative action—the repeated behavior becomes a more powerful cue than the emotional signal to determining the agent’s intentionality.

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Another behavioral cue that serves to inform an agent’s underlying motivation is the speed with which a decision is made. For instance, Critcher, Inbar, and Pizarro (2013) found that moral decisions made quickly are perceived to be made with greater certainty than moral decisions made slowly and hesitantly (since slow judgments are perceived as reflecting conflicting or ambiguous motives). These cues, in turn, inform the amount of blame an individual receives for having committed an immoral act. In short, when assigning blame observers do not solely rely on the action and its consequences to inform their judgment, but use a variety of behavioral cues that serve as information regarding an agent’s intentions, motivation, and character (Uhlmann, Pizarro, & Diermeir, 2015). The Underlying Similarities Between Blame and Praise The psychology underlying attributions of praise seems to have much in common with that of blame, as they are both fundamentally judgments of responsibility for an action that has moral import. For instance, intentionality seems to matter in judgments of praise in a similar manner as it does for judgments of blame—much like we want to avoid blaming others for accidents, we likely want to avoid praising others for their selfless behavior when they did not intend to act that way. In fact, the properties of blame laid out by Malle and colleagues (2014) seem to characterize praise as well: praise is both cognitive and social in nature, it is a form of social regulation used to foster positive moral behavior through reinforcement, it relies on social cognition to understand another’s mental states, and it requires warrant to avoid the undue praising of an actor. One fundamental similarity between the two judgments comes from the fact that they often seem to operate in the service of character evaluation—answering the question of who is a good person and who is a bad person (Uhlmann et al., 2015). These evaluations of character are themselves central to moral judgment, as they serve an important role in social interactions—knowing who is trustworthy, good, and kind, and who is untrustworthy, nasty, and mean, is a critical feature of navigating our social environment. Accordingly, the same features of a decision can be indicative of an agent’s character—good or bad. For instance, people attend to the affective displays made during the action when judging the praiseworthiness of an act and, like blame, the informative value of those displays decreases with repeated positive actions by the agent (Ames & Johar, 2009). Research also suggests that observers change their interpretation of an agent’s helpful behavior based on the agent’s degree of willingness to help and her apparent reasons for helping: if an agent offers help begrudgingly (Krull, Seger, & Silvera, 2008), or helps solely based on a cost-benefit analysis (Ames, Flynn, & Weber, 2004), the individual receives less praise. Likewise, “warm-glow” feelings experienced by an

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agent after behaving prosocially serve as positive signals of that agent’s character (Barasch, Levine, Berman, & Small, 2014). Like affective displays, decision speed similarly serves as a cue for determining praise much like it does for determining blame: an agent who makes the decision to act prosocially is judged to have more positive intentions and a better moral character than an agent who slowly deliberates before performing the same prosocial action (Critcher et al., 2013). Similarly, people believe that spontaneous (presumably quickly occurring) thoughts provide more self-insight and reveal more about one’s true desires than deliberative (presumably slowly occurring) thoughts (Morewedge, Giblin, & Norton, 2014). In economic games, people judge another’s quick decisiveness and lack of calculation as signaling trustworthiness (Evans & van de Calseyde, 2017; Hoffman, Yoeli, & Nowak, 2015) and such uncalculated decision-making is a reliable signal of trustworthiness in future situations (Jordan, Hoffman, Nowak, & Rand, 2016), suggesting that the speed of the decision-making process itself is used as a reliable marker by perceivers of the agent’s intentions and desires and that such desires can inform judgments of both praise and blame. Together, the work on affective displays (e.g., Ames & Johar, 2009; Gold & Weiner, 2000; Higgins, 1998) and decision speed (e.g., Critcher et al., 2013; Morewedge et al., 2014) suggest that people use similar behavioral cues to inform a moral agent’s intentions and character for both judgments of praise and those of blame.

When Praise and Blame Differ While there are many similarities in the underlying processes that give rise to judgments of both blame and praise, an interesting literature has emerged pointing to some very fundamental differences between the two, suggesting that judgments of praise are a unique form of moral evaluation. This research has shown that judgments of praise differ from those of blame in at least two ways: individuals are differentially sensitive to the severity of negative (blameworthy) acts and positive (praiseworthy) acts (e.g., Klein, 2015; Klein & Epley, 2014; Siegel, Crockett, & Dolan, 2017) and individuals differentially ascribe intentionality for negative and positive acts (e.g., Critcher & Dunning, 2011; Knobe, 2003a, 2003b; Pizarro, Uhlmann, & Salovey, 2003). For instance, Klein and Epley (2014) found that when evaluating behaviors that ranged from completely selfish to completely selfless in zero-sum economic interactions, people judged selfish behaviors more negatively than equitable behaviors, but they did not show the same judgments for selfless behaviors—selfless behaviors were judged no more positively than equitable behaviors and provided no additional reputational benefits to the actor. Klein and Epley (2014) argued that individuals fail to adequately

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consider severity when evaluating a single positive behavior in isolation because selfless behaviors are less common than selfish or equitable behaviors, and as such, individuals have less experience with them (Dawkins, 1976; Trivers, 1971). In this context, experience is important, since sensitivity to objective value partially depends on familiarity with the stimulus: the more familiar the stimulus, the more sensitive the evaluative gradations (Ariely & Loewenstein, 2000; Hsee & Zhang, 2010; Morewedge, Kassam, Hsee, & Caruso, 2009). A similar effect of insensitivity to degrees of positivity vs. negativity in moral actions comes from work on promises—while there are penalties for breaking a promise, there are minimal rewards for exceeding promises (Gneezy & Epley, 2014). While economic distributions (Klein & Epley, 2014) and promisekeeping (Gneezy & Epley, 2014) hardly encapsulate all the behavioral possibilities within the moral domain, the work on those behaviors does offer converging evidence that moral actions are regarded with less scrutiny and gradation than immoral actions. Different sorts of positive, supererogatory behaviors (i.e., behaviors that go “above-and-beyond” one’s duty) are just not as easily comparable to each other as negative, normviolating behaviors (Klein, 2015). This relative insensitivity to degrees of morally positive actions compared to those of morally negative actions are likely reflected in judgments of praise, which should likewise be less sensitive to severity than judgments of blame (as the detection of a morally relevant behavior is necessarily the first step in making either a praise or blame judgment). In line with this, research has shown that whereas agents can receive blame simply for the negative outcomes of the actions they caused (e.g., Martin & Cushman, 2016; Miller, Hannikainen, & Cushman, 2014), they are less likely to receive praise simply because they are causally responsible for positive outcomes. Another indication of this asymmetric sensitivity, both testimonial and experimental evidence suggest that extremely positive behaviors can actually be judged negatively. People on the extreme end of moral behavior— people who go to great, perhaps excessive, lengths in their prosocial actions—are often judged as odd, weird, or strange (MacFarquhar, 2015). While their actions are praiseworthy, we often think of these people as outside the realm of “normal.” This is consistent with work showing that people sometimes engage in “do-gooder derogation” (Minson & Monin, 2012; Monin, Sawyer, & Marquez, 2008). Observing others who stand up for their moral principles when you did not (referred to as “moral rebels”) can give rise to a motivation to socially reject and express dislike toward those who acted morally (Monin et al., 2008). Despite performing praiseworthy deeds, self-transcendent people can in some cases engender criticism by reminding people of their own moral shortcomings. Thus, while extreme immorality leads to more blame, extreme morality does not necessarily lead to more praise and can paradoxically lead back to negative evaluations.

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A second difference between blame and praise comes from research on judgments of intentionality: there is an asymmetry in the way individuals ascribe intentionality to praiseworthy and blameworthy actions. Because positive acts are perceived as more motivationally ambiguous (because of their social desirability) than negative acts, negative acts are seen as more diagnostic of an agent’s character than positive acts (Reeder & Brewer, 1979; Skowronski & Carlston, 1987). Individuals appear to use information about intentionality and motivation differently for judgments of praise than they do for judgments of blame. For instance, Pizarro et al. (2003) found that when given scenarios describing an agent who committed an immoral act (such as punching someone in the face), individuals reduced blame if the action was impulsive (compared to deliberate). In contrast, impulsive positive actions (such as giving a homeless person all the money in one’s wallet) did not receive a reduction in praise as compared to the same action performed deliberately. This asymmetry in judgments of blame and praise for impulsive acts, they argued, was due to the fact that individuals assume that others possess positive metadesires (Frankfurt, 1973)—that when performing a negative action impulsively (having a first-order desire to harm someone), an agent would be acting against his higher-order desires (to not harm people). Conversely, when performing a positive action impulsively (having a first-order desire to help someone), an agent would embrace this action with their higher-order desires (they want to have the impulse to help others). It was this assumption of positive metadesires that gave rise to reducing blame for impulsive negative acts but not reducing praise for impulsive positive acts (Pizarro et al., 2003). Observers use impulsivity and deliberateness as cues for an agent’s “true” intentions for immoral behavior, but assume that impulsivity offers no such insight for moral behavior. Here we come to perhaps the most important distinction between praise and blame: in general, people want to receive praise and avoid blame, and observers know this. Observers of behavior tend to assume that others will be guided by self-interest (Miller, 1999). Therefore, observers are quick to assume that others who act in a praiseworthy manner are doing so out of self-interest to appear moral. Positive behaviors therefore give rise to the multiple potential attributions for an agent’s prosocial behavior: an agent could be acting prosocially out of self-interest in order to reap the reputational rewards of being praised, trusted, and regarded as praiseworthy, or she could be acting out of a genuine desire to help another person. Evidence for this comes from Critcher and Dunning (2011) who found that observers overestimate the amount of self-interest in (ostensibly) selfless actions but are well-calibrated in their judgments of self-interest in selfish actions. Instead of ascribing an agent’s motives for her moral behavior to purely moral motivations, observers tend to display attributional

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cynicism and see such behavior as at least partially motivated by selfinterest. However, observers do not tend to assume such dual motivation for more selfish behavior—they simply assume the behavior is motivated by self-interest. The discrepancy between the assumed motivations for moral vs. immoral behavior suggests that praise is a potentially more tentatively made and more reserved judgment than blame. Behaviors that can have multiple plausible motivations tend to be seen as low in informational value (Uhlmann et al., 2015; Snyder, Kleck, Strenta, & Mentzer, 1979). This can lead to individuals giving less praise to an agent for a positive action when the agent receives some personal benefit2 from the action than if the agent did not perform the moral behavior at all (Newman & Cain, 2014). Similarly, when an individual brags about a publicly performed prosocial behavior, individuals assume selfish motivations on the part of the agent and assign less praise (Berman, Levine, Barasch, & Small, 2015). The final example of an asymmetry between positive and negative moral actions comes from the so-called Knobe effect, or “side-effect” effect (Knobe, 2003a, 2003b), which refers to the finding that people judge seemingly unintended but harmful side-effects of a behavior as more intentional than seemingly unintended but helpful side-effects of the same behavior (Knobe, 2004; McCann, 2005). This effect has been demonstrated in both adults and children as young as 4 years of age (Leslie, Knobe, & Cohen, 2006). These findings suggest that not only does the perceived intentionality of a behavior inform judgments of its morality (e.g., Ames & Fiske, 2015; Cushman, 2008; Malle et al., 2014; Shaver, 1985; Weiner, 1995) but the judged morality of a behavior informs perceptions of its intentionality (see also Alicke, 1992). This gives rise to an asymmetry in praise and blame judgments such that perceivers will more readily blame an agent for harmful side-effects but less readily praise an agent for helpful side-effects (Knobe, 2003b). While the strength of the Knobe effect has been shown to be influenced by cultural norms about duties (Clark, Bauman, Kamble, & Knowles, 2017), and the explanation for the effect has been questioned (e.g., Guglielmo & Malle, 2010), the findings are clear in suggesting that observers are using different rules for positive and negative actions when judging intentionality and making attributions of blame and praise.

The Function of Praise and Fostering Self-Transcendence With Praise A broader perspective on the difference between praise and blame can be found when considering the connection between praise and selftranscendence. Praise can be a response to the moral virtues of someone else, holding that target as causally and intentionally responsible for

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putting aside selfish impulses to help another person. In the psychological literature, morality is often defined as a cultural system to facilitate cooperation and dampen selfishness (e.g., Haidt, 2008; Haidt & Kesebir, 2010; Rai & Fiske, 2011). Praise can serve to acknowledge and reinforce self-transcendent, virtuous behavior by rewarding agents for their good deeds. Additionally, praise may go one step further, by encouraging self-transcendent acts among others. Witnessing another’s praiseworthy behavior can lead to feelings of awe and moral elevation, which can promote subsequent praiseworthy acts in the witnesses (Algoe & Haidt, 2009; Aquino, McFerran, & Laven, 2011; Haidt, 2003; Keltner & Haidt, 2003; Shiota, Keltner, & Mossman, 2007). Praise functions as a means of moral and social regulation. While blame works to reduce unwanted behavior, praise functions to communicate what the desirable behaviors are in a society to individuals by signaling to moral agents what is approved by others. Interestingly, people generally believe that within every individual is a “true self” that motivates that individual to act morally and virtuous and perform praiseworthy deeds (Newman, Freitas, & Knobe, 2015). In this way, praise may work to bring out what people believe is a person’s true underlying character, given that perceivers think that agents have moral metadesires, having a desire to want to act morally (Pizarro et al., 2003). Praise can therefore work to simultaneously highlight the positive aspects of praiseworthy individuals and to encourage positive actions and norms on the part of others. One exciting area of current research asks how praise may operate to foster self-transcendence across development. To start, recent research consistently supports the notion that children as young as 2 years old behave prosocially (e.g., Olson & Spelke, 2008; Schmidt & Sommerville, 2012; Svetlova, Nichols, & Brownell, 2010; Vaish, Carpenter, & Tomasello, 2009; Warneken & Tomasello, 2006). Additionally, children become interested in fostering and maintaining their self-evaluations and external reputations as being prosocial actors. As evidence of this, when children are put in a situation where they act prosocially—or when others see them as being prosocial—they are inclined to continue those actions in the future (e.g., Chernyak & Kushnir, 2013; McGrath & Power, 1990; Rapp, Engelmann, Herrmann, & Tomasello, 2017). This is particularly true when children make prosocial choices of their own initial volition. Praise may then work to reinforce freely chosen, early-emerging prosocial acts, and the relationship between moral praise and the development of self-transcendence is an exciting area of current and future research. Classic insights from research on development suggest that praise can have differential impacts when directed at an individual’s process or behaviors rather than at their selves. And sometimes, praise can backfire. For instance, achievement praise directed at the “person”—rather than at their process or the action that they did, can sometimes lead children to feel insecure about their actions. If a

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child is consistently praised for “being smart”—and then that child fails—this experience of failure can be threatening to a child’s selfconcept. Praise that focuses on a child’s effort or process can be more buttressing in the face of failure. For instance, children given processcentered feedback after succeeding at a task (e.g., “You did a good job drawing” rather than “You are a good drawer”) were more likely to try again and persist after failure than those children given praise directed at themselves (e.g., Cimpian, Arce, Markman, & Dweck, 2007; Kamins & Dweck, 1999). One explanation for this difference in persistence after failure is that person-centered feedback implies a quality about the individual directly, with failure reflecting directly on her stable qualities as a person. In contrast, process-centered feedback implies something instead about the effort made, with effort more easily changed than stable personal traits. There may be long-term developmental benefits for children who consistently receive praise for their process and effort: children’s motivational framework about persisting in the face of failure is predicted by whether they received more effortbased praise from their parents when they were toddlers, suggesting that parents can foster persistence with praise for effort (Gunderson et al., 2013). Additionally, recent research suggests that giving children person-centered praise about being “smart” can even risk promoting unethical behavior. When children are praised for being “smart”—and think they have a reputation to maintain—they are more likely to cheat to avoid failure (Zhao, Heyman, Chen, & Lee, 2017). Recent research on “moral” praise suggests a potentially different relationship between praise and subsequent transcendent behavior. Specifically, moral praise directed at the person may work to instill a sense of personal moral reputation that children are motivated to maintain. Moral praise directed at the person (e.g., “being a helper”) rather than at the action (e.g., “helping”) appears most effective in promoting prosociality and self-transcendent actions (Bryan, Master, & Walton, 2014). Furthermore, informing children that they have a positive moral reputation reduces the likelihood that they will act dishonestly and cheat (Fu, Heyman, Qian, Guo, & Lee, 2016), and children act more prosocially when their group’s moral reputation is at stake (Engelmann, Herrmann, & Tomasello, 2018). Praise’s role in developing self-transcendence may be to highlight and draw attention to a person’s qualities as a moral agent with a moral identity and reputation worth maintaining.

Conclusion To conclude, we have reviewed evidence situating moral praise as a unique judgment of moral responsibility, both similar to and distinct from its counterpart, blame, and its connection to self-transcendence. Praise can function to foster and develop self-transcendence across the life span.

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Notes 1 To be sure, there are certain moral events, such as purity violations like committing incest and consumption of prohibited foods (Young & Tsoi, 2013) or when someone benefits from another’s misfortune (Inbar, Pizarro, & Cushman, 2012), for which the mental states and causality of the agent matter less than other cases. In addition, there are also cases of “moral luck” where accidental outcomes can influence moral judgments. For example, consider two drunk drivers: one veers off the road and hits a tree, while the other veers off the road and hits a pedestrian. In both cases, neither driver intended to crash, but people tend to judge the latter more harshly than the former (Bartels, Bauman, Cushman, Pizarro, & McGraw, 2016; Cushman, 2008; Cushman, Dreber, Wang, & Costa, 2009; Hall, 1947). The influence of moral luck into judgments of blame and punishment suggests that such judgments are influenced by both perceptions of an agent’s intentions and also the agent’s causal responsibility (see also Buckholtz et al., 2008). 2 Perceivers do not always assign less praise to an agent when the agent benefits from her moral behavior. Specifically, perceivers see emotional benefits and positive feelings as allowable benefits that do not diminish praise and if anything can enhance praise (Barasch, Levine, Berman, & Small, 2014).

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Contributors

Rajen A. Anderson is a graduate student in Social and Personality Psychology in the Department of Psychology at Cornell University. His primary interest is in the processes of moral judgment, particularly as it relates to issues of person perception, character evaluation, and attributions of praise and blame. Additionally, he also tests the role of development in moral judgments, examining the processes that both adults and children use in judging right and wrong. He has received graduate student awards from Cornell University, Wake Forest University, and the Society for Personality and Social Psychology. Owen Flanagan is the James B. Duke Professor of Philosophy and Professor of Neurobiology at Duke University. He also holds an appointment in Psychology andis a Faculty Fellow in Cognitive Neuroscience. He has also had visiting positions at Berkeley, Brandeis, Princeton, Harvard, and La Trobe in Australia, as well as several fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities. In 1993–1994, Flanagan was President of the Society for Philosophy and Psychology. In 1998, he was recipient of the Romanell National Phi Beta Kappa award, given annually to one American philosopher for distinguished contributions to philosophy and the public understanding of philosophy. He has lectured on every continent except Antarctica. Besides writing many articles, reviews, and contributions to colloquia, Flanagan has written and edited numerous books, including, most recently, The Boddhisatva’s Brain: Buddhism Naturalized (The MIT Press, 2011). Kevin L. Flannery, SJ, is from Cleveland, Ohio, and entered the Society of Jesus in 1977. He holds both an M.A. and a D.Phil. in Philosophy from the University of Oxford. In 1992, he began teaching at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome, serving as Dean of the Philosophy Faculty from 1999 until September of 2005; he continues now as Ordinary Professor of the History of Ancient Philosophy. In the academic year 2006–2007, he was the Mary Ann Remick Senior Visiting Fellow at the Notre Dame Center for Ethics and Culture; he is now a Permanent Research Fellow at the same Center. He has served as President of the

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American Catholic Philosophical Association (2015–2016). His publications include Ways into the Logic of Alexander of Aphrodisias (Brill, 1995), Acts amid Precepts: The Aristotelian Logical Structure of Thomas Aquinas’s Moral Theory (Catholic University of America Press/T. & T. Clark, 2001), Christian and Moral Action (Institute for the Psychological Sciences Press, distributed by Catholic University of America Press, 2012), and Action and Character According to Aristotle: The Logic of the Moral Life (Catholic University of America Press, 2013). Jennifer A. Frey is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of South Carolina. She received her B.A. from Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana, in 2000, and her Ph.D. at the University of Pittsburgh in 2012. In 2013, she was Collegiate Assistant Professor and Harper Schmidt Fellow at The University of Chicago. Frey’s research interests lie at the intersection of virtue ethics and action theory. She has publications in The Journal of the History of Philosophy, The Journal of Analytic Philosophy, and in several edited volumes. She is the recipient of several grants, including a major research project awarded by the John Templeton Foundation, titled Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning in Life. She is currently at work on a book titled Action, Virtue, and Human Good. Katherine D. Kinzler is Associate Professor in the Department of Psychology at Cornell University. Prior to joining the faculty at Cornell, she was the Neubauer Family Assistant Professor and then Associate Professor at The University of Chicago Department of Psychology. She completed her Ph.D. in Psychology at Harvard University, and her B.A. in Cognitive Science at Yale University, and she was a Fulbright Scholar at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris. Her research focuses on the development of social cognition, and she has published over forty peer-reviewed articles on children’s understanding of the social world. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Chicago Tribune, and NPR, among others. Her research is funded by the National Institutes of Health and the John Templeton Foundation. She was honored as a Rising Star by the Association for Psychological Science, and as a Young Scientist by the World Economics Forum. Angela Knobel is Associate Professor of Philosophy at the Catholic University of America. Her main areas of research are Thomas Aquinas’s virtue theory, ethics, and bioethics. Her papers have appeared or are forthcoming in such journals as The Thomist, The Journal of Medicine and Philosophy, The Journal of Moral Theology, The American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly, Nova et Vetera, International Philosophical Quarterly, Christian Bioethics, Studies in Christian Ethics, and Théologie Morale Fondamentale. She is a Project Director for the

Contributors

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Beacons Project and a Faculty Fellow of Catholic University of America’s Institute for Human Ecology. Kristján Kristjánsson (University of St. Andrews, Ph.D.) is Deputy Director in the Jubilee Centre for Character and Virtues and Professor of Character Education and Virtue Ethics at the University of Birmingham. His interests lie in research on character and virtues at the intersections among moral philosophy, moral psychology, and moral education. He has published six books on those issues, the latest one being Aristotelian Character Education, which was published by Routledge in 2015 and won the SES Prize for the best education book of 2015 in the UK. His previous books include Virtues and Vices in Positive Psychology (Cambridge, 2013). In addition to leading a number of the Jubilee Centre’s flagship projects, he oversees all research activities in the Centre. As a member of various international organizations, Kristjánsson collaborates with colleagues in Asia, Europe, and the US on issues that relate to the cultivation of virtuous character in general, and virtuous emotions in particular. Kristjánsson has recently taken over as Editor of the Journal of Moral Education. Matthew MacKenzie is Associate Professor of Philosophy at Colorado State University. He earned his Ph.D. in Comparative Philosophy from the University of Hawaii in 2004. He specializes in Buddhist philosophy, classical Indian philosophy, and the philosophy of mind. His primary research is at the intersection of Buddhist philosophy and contemporary philosophy of mind, with a special focus on consciousness, self-consciousness, embodiment, and the self. His articles have appeared in Philosophy East and West, Phenomenology and the Cognitive Sciences, Asian Philosophy, and Journal of Consciousness Studies, among other journals. He has contributed chapters to volumes including The Oxford Handbook of Virtue, The Bloomsbury Handbook of Indian Epistemology and Metaphysics, and Self, No Self? Perspectives from Analytical, Phenomenological, and Indian Traditions. Dan P. McAdams is Professor in the Psychology Department at Northwestern University. He works in clinical psychology and personality psychology, and has published on narrative psychology, the development of a life-story model of human identity, generativity and adult development, as well as themes of power, intimacy, and redemption in human lives. He has also published on modernity and the self, autobiographical memory, and psychological biography, including George W. Bush and the Redemptive Dream: A Psychological Portrait (Oxford, 2010). Howard C. Nusbaum is Professor of Psychology at The University of Chicago and a steering committee member of the Neuroscience Institute. He is an internationally recognized expert in cognitive psychology, speech

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science, and cognitive neuroscience. His research explores the cognitive and neural mechanisms that mediate spoken language use, as well as language learning and the role of attention in speech perception. He is also interested in how we understand the meaning of music, and how cognitive and social-emotional processes interact in decision-making and wisdom research. He is currently Division Director for the Behavioral and Cognitive Sciences Division in the Social, Behavioral and Economic Sciences (SBE) Directorate for the National Science Foundation. Nusbaum is an Associate Editor of PLoS One and Brain and Language. David A. Pizarro is Associate Professor of Psychology at Cornell University. His research interests are the psychology of moral judgment, the effects of emotion on judgment, and the overlap between these two. He has published over fifty peer-reviewed articles on topics such as the influence of unconscious biases on moral judgments, the way people arrive at judgments about moral responsibility, and the link between an increased tendency to experience disgust and political orientation. Professor Pizarro is currently the Chief Science Officer of BE works, a company whose goal is to transform society and the economy through scientific thinking. Tahera Qutbuddin (Harvard University, Ph.D., 1999) is Professor of Arabic Literature at The University of Chicago. She has also taught at Yale University and the University of Utah. After attending school in India, she studied Arabic language and literature in Cairo (Ain Shams University, B.A., 1988, and Tamhidi Magister, 1990). Her scholarship focuses on intersections of the literary, the religious, and the political in classical Arabic poetry and prose. She is the author of Al-Muʾayyad al-Shirazi and Fatimid Daʿwa Poetry: A Case of Commitment in Classical Arabic Literature (Brill, 2005). She is also the editor and translator of A Treasury of Virtues: Sayings, Sermons, and Teachings of Ali Compiled by al-Qadi al-Qudaʿi, with the One Hundred Proverbs Attributed to al-Jahiz (NYU Press, 2013); and Light in the Heavens: Sayings of the Prophet Muhammad (NYU Press, 2016). Her latest book, Arabic Oration: Art and Function, for which she was awarded a fellowship by the Carnegie Corporation of New York and the American Council of Learned Societies, is forthcoming with Brill’s Handbook of Oriental Studies series. She has published articles on the Qurʾan, Muhammad, the sermons of Ali ibn Abi Talib, Fatimid and Tayyibi literature, Arabic in India, and Islamic preaching. She is an Editorial Board member of the NYU Press translation series Library of Arabic Literature, and the Brill series Shii Islam: Texts and Studies. David Shatz is the Ronald P. Stanton University Professor of Philosophy, Ethics, and Religious Thought at Yeshiva University and Editor of The Torah u-Madda Journal, a journal devoted to the interaction

Contributors

295

between Judaism and general culture. After graduating as valedictorian of his class at Yeshiva University, Shatz was ordained at the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and then earned his Ph.D. with distinction in general philosophy at Columbia University. Shatz has edited, co-edited, or authored fifteen books and has published over eighty articles and reviews, dealing with both general and Jewish philosophy. His publications in general philosophy focus on the theory of knowledge, free will, ethics, and the philosophy of religion, while his writings in Jewish philosophy focus on Jewish ethics, Maimonides, religion and science, religious diversity, and 20th-century rabbinic figures. He is also editor of the series MeOtzar HoRav, which has brought into print many of the previously unpublished manuscripts of the Talmudist philosopher Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik. In recognition of his achievements as a scholar and teacher, Shatz was awarded the Presidential Medallion at Yeshiva University. As part of its Library of Contemporary Jewish Philosophers, Brill published a book on his life and work titled David Shatz: Torah, Philosophy, and Culture. Currently, he is one of the scholars in the project Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life, co-sponsored by The University of Chicago and the John Templeton Foundation. Nancy E. Snow is Professor of Philosophy and Director of the Institute for the Study of Human Flourishing at the University of Oklahoma. She is the author of Virtue as Social Intelligence: An Empirically Grounded Theory (Routledge, 2009) and over thirty papers on virtue and ethics more broadly. She has also edited or co-edited six volumes: In the Company of Others: Perspectives on Community, Family, and Culture (Rowman & Littlefield, 1996), Legal Philosophy: Multiple Perspectives (Mayfield, 1999), Stem Cell Research: New Frontiers in Science and Ethics (Notre Dame, 2004), Cultivating Virtue: Perspectives from Philosophy, Theology, and Psychology (Oxford, 2014), The Philosophy and Psychology of Character and Happiness (Routledge, 2014), and Developing the Virtues: Integrating Perspectives (Oxford, 2016). She is currently revising a monograph on hope, writing one on virtue ethics and virtue epistemology, and co-authoring a book on virtue measurement. She is the editor of The Oxford Handbook of Virtue (Oxford, 2018). With Darcia Narvaez, she currently directs the Self, Motivation, and Virtue project, funded by the Templeton Religion Trust, and is the series co-editor of “The Virtues,” a fifteen-book series featuring interdisciplinary volumes on virtues or clusters of virtues. Candace Vogler is the David B. and Clara E. Stern Professor of Philosophy at The University of Chicago, the author of John Stuart Mill’s Deliberative Landscape: An Essay in Moral Psychology (Routledge, 2001; reissued 2016) and Reasonably Vicious (Harvard, 2002), and

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Contributors

the author of essays in ethics, social and political philosophy, philosophy and literature, cinema, psychoanalysis, gender studies, sexuality studies, and other areas. Her research interests are in practical philosophy (particularly the strand of work in moral philosophy indebted to Elizabeth Anscombe), practical reason, Kant’s ethics, Thomas Aquinas, Marx, and neo-Aristotelian naturalism. She is the co-PI on a major research project awarded by the John Templeton Foundation, titled Virtue, Happiness, and the Meaning of Life.

Index

Adams, Robert 86, 92 Akiva (rabbi) 114–115, 121 Ali ibn Abi Talib: on brotherhood and pluralism 143–144; conceptions of an ideal life 144–146; “Description of the Truly Pious” 135–143; “Four Pillars of Faith” 125, 128–135, 143, 147; on happiness and virtue 146–147; life of 126–127 altruism 27, 163, 231, 235; as a compulsory act 110, 112; correlated to generativity 263–264; understood by Aquinas 79; as a virtue 79 Anderson, Rajen A. 11, 274, 291 Anscombe, Elizabeth 69, 81, 82, 296 Aquinas, Thomas 5–8, 41–42; Aristotelian views expressed by 173–177, 184–187; on being 63–66; on the common good 154– 155; on the four cardinal virtues 85–86, 91–92; on friendship 76–78; on happiness 86; on the moral life 173–187; on ordinate self-love 78; on sin 62–79; on supernatural good 178–181, 184–186; on virtue 90–95, 163–164, 174–178, 181–184 Aristotelian ethics, limitations of 62 Aristotle 125, 229, 231, 267; definition of virtue 162–163, 227; on living a ‘good’ life 262, 154; Metaphysics 154, 164–169; on moral perfection 173; Nicomachean Ethics 154–164, 227, 264, 275; on practical wisdom 227, 231; on prudence 161; on repentance 108–110; skepticism regarding Platonic conversion 21–23, 30

awe 32; as distinct from wonder 31–32; as a form of epiphany 31, 33 Bhagavad Gītā 204, 209, 221 Bible (Holy) 96; commands of 111, 118; prohibitions set by 104, 106, 113; teachings of 99 Binet, A. see Stanford-Binet Intelligence Test Blame: psychology of 275–279; in relationship to praise 279–282; see also Praise Blasi, A. 19–20 Buddhism 9; compassion of 9; on happiness 198; as a philosophical system 203, 205–208; in relationship to self-transcendence 198; in relationship to yoga (see Yoga); on wisdom 231 (see also Wisdom) Cicero 84, 148 concentration camps see Holocaust Confucianism 9; The Book of Rites 194–195; concepts of heaven 198; concepts of virtue 191; Four Sprouts 9, 192–194; views of the ‘good life’ 190–200 Confucius 194, 201; philosophy of (see Confucianism) conversion (religious) 17–18, 28–29; see also “Damascus events” culpa see moral wrongdoing Curry, Stephen 65–67 Damascus, road to 4, 15–17 “Damascus events” 17, 26 “Damascus experiences” 16–17, 20–24, 26, 29, 34, 38

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Index

De Koninck, Charles 167–169 devil see Satan Diotima (priestess) 252–253, 258, 266–270; see also Plato, Symposium Disenchantment of the world see Taylor, Charles Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, “Dream of a ridiculous man” 16, 26 Eagleton, Terry 87 Einstein, Albert 95 Elijah (prophet) 107 Erikson, Erik 10, 44, 254–257; Eight Stages of Life 254–268, 255; Gandhi’s Truth 258–262 eudaimonia 12, 23, 144, 264; see also happiness Evans, Jules 31 Ezekiel (prophet), wickedness of Sodom 110 Fackenheim, Emil L. 5, 39, 42–43, 53; on the evil of the Holocaust 55–59, 60, 61; on the Voice of Auschwitz 56–58 Finnis, John 160–164 Flanagan, Owen 15, 190 Four Cardinal Virtues see Aquinas, Thomas “Four Sprouts” see Confucianism Frankl, Viktor 45; experiences during the Holocaust 40–43, 55–59, 60, 71; on the meaning of life 52–53 Frey, Jennifer A. 5–6, 9, 62, 97–99 Gandhi (mahatma) 34, 259, 260 generativity 10, 71; as defined by Erik Erikson (see Erikson, Erik); in Plato 10, 252–254; psychology of 10, 254–262; as a virtue 11, 98, 266–270 God: actions of 111; commanded by 116; as Creator 167; as dispenser of justice 95; as ‘the Enemy’ 169; faith in 181; knowledge of 181; laws of 96, 112; love of 95, 143, 268; as source of goodness 139; will of 166, 196 Greyson, B. 27 Griffin, Emilie 28–29 Hamid, Mohsin 260 happiness: according to Buddhism (see Buddhism); as connected to God

146; as the highest aspiration 86; as one of the seven basic emotions 197; in relationship to virtue 71–72; as a universal good 69–70 Harris, Sam 31 Havel, Václav 31 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 87 Holocaust (World War II) 39, 55; concentration camps, impacts on hope 54–59; see also Frankl, Victor; Fackenheim, Emil L. Holy, command to be 113, 139 hope, in relationship to selftranscendence 39, 71; according to “agency theories” 41–43; according to “receptivity theories” 43–44; as a fundamental 45–54; as a moral virtue 177, 179, 181, 267–268; power of 57–59, 142–143; in the sermons of Ali 142–143 imitatio Dei 99, 111–113, 121; see also God intelligence: definitions of 225; in relationship to wisdom 227 Islam: divisions between Shia and Sunni 146; on piety and virtue 125; in the teaching of Ali (see Ali ibn Abi Talib) Jahweh 268; see also God James, William 18; on varieties of religious experience 26–28 Jesus (son of God) 54, 131, 132 Jonas, Mark, on Plato’s views of moral conversion 8, 21, 34 Judaism: Halakhah (legal system of) 96–97; perceptions of God 57; virtue ethics of 97–104, 114–117 Kant, Immanuel 87, 96; moral reasoning of 19, 21; on virtue 100–105, 119, 121, 122, 123, 202, 296 Kemp, Ryan, skepticism regarding radical self-transformation 24–25 Kent, Bonnie 186–187 “Knobe Effect” 282 Knobel, Angela 23, 173 Kohlberg, Lawrence 4, 15, 16; theory of moral development 19–22 Kulisiewicz, Aleksander 54

Index Lewinska, Pelagia 56–57, 60 Lichtenstein, Aharon (rabbi) 112–113 love 27, 31, 56, 97, 112; disinterested 79; of God 7; nature of 252–254; salvation through 60; of self 75–78; see also self-love MacIntyre, Alasdair 77, 80, 82, 186, 187 MacLaughlin, Alfredo 28–29 Maimonides, Moses 95–97, 99–112, 295; on “hukkim” and “mishpatim” 119; Joseph Stern, views on 149; on “refrainings” 120; on sin 121 Marcel, Gabriel 5, 39, 42–55 Maslow, Abraham 12, 20, 71; on “peak experiences” 27 Meaning in human life: philosophical approaches to 86–91 Mencius 9, 193; Mengzi (The) 192–195 Metz, Thaddeus 2, 12; approaches to the meaning of life 89–92 Mohism 193, 200, 202 moral conversion 15; cultural clichés regarding 17–19; Damascus, road to (see awe); epiphanic versions of 31, 33, 35; as experienced by Paul the Apostle (see Saint Paul) moral inertia 28 morality: as a negative 275; psychology of 11, 274; in relationship to wisdom 229–231 moral praise 274 moral self-improvement 86 moral virtues 229–230, 274 moral wrongdoing 65, 67 Moses (prophet) 104, 111–112, 126, 131–132 Muhammad (prophet) 125–127, 131–132; reverence for 145; teachings of 134–135 Nahmanides, Moses: on cruelty to animals 105; dispute with Maimonides 104–107, 113; on war 106 Neo-Aristotelianism: failure to account for the urge to transcendence 15; on virtue 85 Nietzsche, Friedrich 83, 87 Pakaluk, Michael 84 Patañjali (author of Yoga Sutras) 204; see also Yoga

299

Paul, L.A., on radical self-change 25 Paul the Apostle see Saint Paul Peter the Apostle see Saint Peter phronesis 29, 31, 35, 227, 229 Pieper, Josef 5, 39, 42–55, 59, 183 piety, virtues of 143, 145 Plato 10, 21, 28, 30, 31, 34, 116, 171; Symposium 251–259, 269–270 Platonic virtues 193, 198 Praise: as a means of moral regulation 282–284 Qur’an, teachings of 125, 145 religious conversion see “Damascus events” Saint Paul 4, 16, 26; as Saul of Tarsis 16, 26 Saint Peter 71, 73, 81 Sartre, Jean-Paul 215 Satan, as the expression of excessive self-love 75 Saul of Tarsis see Saint Paul Sawyer, Thomas 35 Schiller, Friedrich 100 Schneider, Kirk 29, 33–34 self-love: as cupiditas 76–77 self-transcendence: according to Dao 197–198; commitment of Buddhism to 212; in Confucian tradition 197–201; definitions of 2–4; fostered by praise 282–284; as a good 1; as an intentional act 41; in Jewish thought 95–117; in relationship to happiness 1; skepticism of 15–25; in the yogic tradition 212–214 Seligman, Martin 64, 71, 87, 267 sin: causes of 72–74; as faulty action 66; as peccatum 65; see also Satan Socrates 229; in Plato’s Symposium 252–253, 270; understanding of wisdom 231 ‘Socrates Question’ 201 Socratic dialog, use of 21 Stanford-Binet Intelligence Test 225–226 St. Paul 4, 16, 36 Swann, William, theory of selfverification 24, 37

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Talmud 96, 111; debates over 103– 105, 118, 119; sayings of 98, 113 “Talmud Torah” 99 Taylor, Charles 30–31 Terkel, Studs 259 Thomist (The) 169, 292 Torah 97, 105, 106; commands of 112–114; study of 99, 119 Ulysses (mythological figure) 25 Velleman, J. David 75 Ventis, W. L. 17 Virtue, as an expression of ordinate self-love 78; according to Aquinas (see Aquinas, Thomas); according to Aristotle (see Aristotle); in Jewish thought 114–116; in practice 142; in relationship to egoism 78–79; in relationship to piety 125, 139 Vogler, Candace 97–99 Voice of Auschwitz see Fackenheim, Emil L.

Winton, Nicholas 274 Wisdom: development of 236–243; impacts of language upon 243–245; neurobiology of 234–235; practical (see phronesis); psychological models for 231, 235–236; research on 231–234, 245–246 Xun, Lu, “An Incident,” 16–17 Xunzi 194, 201–202 Yoga (Pātañjala): distinctions between prakrti and purusa 204; “egological theory” of 213; “Four Immeasurables” of 208–211; inside Hindu tradition 219; as a philosophical tradition 203–206; on the primacy of ethical self-cultivation 209, 216; as related to Buddhist philosophy 207–218, 220 Zbaraschuk, Michael 87