Because God said so

In a recent discussion with some friends, the question of why murder was wrong came up (actually, it was why Aquinas would say murder was wrong, but the discussion equally applies to the more general discussion to be had here). The answer “because God said so” quickly came up and, being a natural law theorist in the tradition of Aquinas, it left me unsatisfied. During later reflection on this, it occurred to me that there are at least three different questions at play here. Each of these questions might be answered in part with “because God said so,” but how each is fully cashed out is very different from the others. The three questions are as follows:

  1. Why is it bad to murder?
  2. How do I know whether it’s bad to murder?
  3. Why should I not murder?

The first question is a meta-ethical question about what makes things good, bad, virtuous, vicious, and so on. The second is a question of ethical epistemology about how we come to know the truth of the notions grounded by our meta-ethical answers. And the third is a question of normative ethics about what I should and shouldn’t do given the answers to the first two.

The three questions are related but very different from one another. Let’s take each of these questions in turn, discuss them in more depth, and outline what “because God said so” might look like as an answer. Now, of course, the details of the answers will depend on the meta-ethical framework we’re working from. For the majority of this post I’ll be working from a Thomistic natural law perspective, which I’ve discussed a number of times on this blog (eg. herehere, and here). Towards the end of this post, I’ll consider how another theistic meta-ethic (divine command theory) would differ from what was said.

Why is murder bad?

The fundamental thing that determines whether something is good or bad is whether it contributes to the fulfillment of your nature, the realization of your natural ends. Initially, it’s obvious why this would account for certain things being good or bad for me, such as not hurting or unnecessarily damaging myself. On the other hand, it is less clear how this would extend to the good of others, as when we say it is bad for me to murder another person. There are a number of ways to “extend” the notion of my good to include the good of others. I’ve sketched one before, and we can very briefly sketch another — in my opinion better — one by combining some previous discussions.

The fulfillment of our natural ends — and therefore the realization of our good — is achieved by us through the measured and unified expression of our natural powers. The active frustration of these powers would, therefore, be to that extent bad for us. Our natural ability, as rational animals, for co-operating toward a common end enables us to acquire what we might call “common powers” which are expressed through the participation in common endeavors. Consider the following example: by myself, I have the power to sing within a certain vocal range, but only with someone else am I able to harmonize within my vocal range. Here harmonization is a common power. Now, just as my frustrating a power is bad for me, so my frustrating a common power is a common bad for us. (Recall the kind of commonness we have in mind here.) Now, living amongst others gives us certain common powers, albeit ones less easily describable than “harmonization”. Murder would involve the frustration of some (or even all) of these powers and therefore be something bad.

Of course, much more needs to be said before this is a full account. The point to take away is that, however we flesh out the details, the way good and bad are grounded is ultimately based on the kind of beings we are (our natures). At this point is there any place for an answer like “because God says so”? Yes and no. Insofar as God creates and sustains us with the natures we have, he is the author of what is good or bad for us. But, he cannot do the impossible, and so he cannot arbitrarily decide what is good or bad for us any more than he can make a married bachelor or a square circle. So long as he creates a living being, he cannot make it good for that being to die. So long as he creates a rational being, he cannot make it good for that being to murder. So when it comes to natural law the “because God says so” answer needs to be understood in an indirect and qualified way.

But wait, there’s more. In section 2.5 here I mentioned that Aquinas distinguishes between four different fundamental kinds of law, one of which is the natural law we’ve been discussing so far. There’s also eternal law, which we’ll leave to one side. Then there’s positive law, which is law given by a legislator, and which is divided into human law (positive law given by a human legislator) and divine law (positive law given by a divine legislator). Now, natural law is often very vague and general and its application in particular cases requires careful consideration by wise people. So, as John Goyette says, “human law is essential for living the good life because it makes the general precepts of the natural law more specific.”[1] The same goes for divine law, with the obvious difference being that God is the legislator as opposed to humans.

In a sense both forms of positive law are authoritative because they’re based on natural law,[2] but they do establish new legal duties on us: so long as I am under a legislator who has imposed just duties on me, it is good for me to fulfill those duties and bad for me to fail in those duties. Because this goodness arises from positive law, we’ll refer to it as positive goodness. This positive goodness differs from the natural goodness mentioned above in an important way: natural goodness applies to us as humans whereas positive goodness applies to us as citizens under the legislator. So whereas natural goodness is applicable insofar as we have our particular nature, positive goodness only applies once the legislator has imposed the duties on us. So, then, with respect to positive goodness “because God says so” has direct relevance.

In the remainder of this post, if we do not specify the kind of goodness (or badness) in view then what we say applies equally to both outlined here.

How do I know whether it’s bad to murder?

This question differs from the first in that while the first concerned itself with ontology (what makes something bad) this question concerns itself with epistemology (how I know something is bad). Because of this, the number of potential answers (and so the potential for “because God says so” answers) increases.

The answers to the first question also apply to this question in the sense that one of the ways I can come to know whether murder is bad is by grasping what in reality makes it bad, or in other words, I can come to understand the ontological grounds for its badness. Indeed, this way of knowing the badness is in a sense primary in that it does not derive its correctness from other, deeper, reasons.

But I can come to know things in other ways, beyond the primary sense of grasping their underlying ontology, because I can come to know from others who know. I can come to learn the badness of murder from my parents, my school teachers, mentors, church leaders, the broader culture I find myself in, or some combination of authorities like these. If God has revealed himself (as some religions think he has), then he also stands as an authority that we can learn from. If God is concerned for our well-being and infallible in his judgments (again, as some religions think he is), then he is the uniquely perfect authority. And so, in this sense, “because God says so” takes on a special significance.

At this point, we must be careful not to forget the distinction between ontology and epistemology. Unlike in the previous section, here God’s revelation does not constitute the badness of murder but only perfectly informs us of it. All things being equal, we are justified in believing what we’re taught by the relevant authorities, and so a fortiori we are justified in believing what we’re taught by the perfect authority.

So we come to know what is bad by grasping the underlying ontological truths or by being taught by others. In the first case, all the “because God said so” answers in some sense carry over to the epistemological answers. In the second case, we have new “because God said so” answers insofar as he is a perfect authority on our nature (for natural goodness), and his will (for positive goodness).

Why should I not murder?

The first question was ontological, and the second was epistemological. This question is normative: it asks why I should act in a certain way. And just as the epistemological question was in a sense broader than the ontological one, so the normative question is broader still. Indeed, here the answers become manifold.

In general, a hypothetical imperative is a statement of the following form:

  1. If I want to achieve X, then I should do Y.

In cases where these apply, there’s something in the notion of X that entails that the way to achieve it is by means of Y. And this is largely mind-independent in that I should do Y even if I don’t understand enough about X to see that I should do Y. Consider a toy example:

  1. If I want to draw a straight line, then I should use a ruler.

This is true just by virtue of what drawing a straight line involves and the possible tools for achieving it. And it remains true even if I don’t know about rulers, or have temporarily forgotten about them, or hadn’t thought to use one, or any number of other reasons.

Now just as there are many motivations (X’s) for action, so too there are many of these imperatives and therefore many answers to the normative question. We’ve explained before that the imperative involving natural goodness is particularly interesting, because of the structure of the human will (section 2.4 here, cf. this and this). Taking the answer about natural goodness from the first question, an argument might be framed as follows:

  1. If I want what is good for me, then I should act so as to fulfill my natural ends.
  2. I do want what is good for me.
  3. Therefore, I should act so as to fulfill my natural ends.
  4. If I should act so as to fulfill my natural ends, then I should not murder.
  5. Therefore, I should not murder.

What’s interesting about this is that (2) is always true, since whenever we desire something it’s precisely because we see some good in it, and as noted above this remains true even in cases where our relevant judgments about what is good are incorrect. As Edward Feser says, “The mugger who admits that robbery is evil nevertheless takes his victim’s wallet because he thinks it would be good to have money to pay for his drugs.”[3]

Can something similar be said for the positive goodness discussed in the first section? It seems so: God is the legislator over all creation in charge of its common good, and since I should seek my good I should also, therefore, listen to his commands. (Again we note the dependence of positive goodness on the notion of natural goodness.)

So the previous “because God said so” answers carry over to answer the current question indirectly. However, these do not exhaust the possible motivations we might have. In addition to these, we might be motivated by a desire to follow God’s will, which itself perhaps follows from a love for him. We could also be motivated by the avoidance of punishment or the acquisition of reward. Each of these has analogs in human affairs too, of course, but we’re primarily interested in “because God said so” answers.

A different meta-ethical framework

How would things have been different if we’d approached these questions from a divine command theory perspective? On divine command theory, anything we’d get from natural law gets ignored, leaving positive divine law as the only form of goodness. Given the importance that natural goodness played in the discussion, it’s not surprising that this move also accompanies shifts in the logical ordering of things. So the normative force of God’s commands are taken as primitive and “morality” gets lifted to this somewhat mysterious and unique notion (cf. sections 1 and 2.1 here). The consequence of all of this is that “because God said so” takes on a more direct relevance more often, and plays a unique role in the ontological answer. The picture becomes flattened and therefore simpler, but wrong.[4]

Conclusion

If we take anything away from this it’s that the answer “because God said so” can be valid for very different reasons depending on what we mean by it. Let’s try and list the options that arose from the above discussion. Why should I not murder? “Because God said so.” In what sense? Well…

  1. Because it frustrates your natural ends established by God’s creative act, which is bad for you, as I know through philosophical investigation.
  2. Because it is bad for you, as revealed by God.
  3. Because it goes contrary to God’s law, which is bad for you, as revealed by God.
  4. Because it is contrary to God’s will.
  5. Because God will punish you if you do.

I’ve tried to capture this diagrammatically in the following:

Solid arrows represent ontological priority. Broken arrows represent epistemological priority.
Solid arrows represent ontological priority. Broken arrows represent epistemological priority.

Notes

  1. John Goyette, On the Transcendence of the Common Good.
  2. Thomas Aquinas, ST I-II, Q. 90, Art. 4.
  3. Edward Feser, Classical Natural Law Theory, Property Rights, and Taxation.
  4. I take the fact that on divine command theory the term “good” is equivocal (as opposed to analogical), that authority and normative force need to be primitive or reduced to something consequentialist, and that “moral” picks out some special and mysterious class of facts. I consider all of these reasons to reject divine command theory as a viable alternative to Thomistic natural law theory.

The metaphysics of gender

I recently listened to this talk by John Finley titled The Metaphysics of Gender: A Thomistic Approach. Below are my notes of this. I skip the introductory remarks and follow the four-section division of the talk. Note that by “gender” here we do not mean the psychological or social construct introduced by modern feminists. Rather, by “gender” we mean the biological distinction between male and female. Some have come to refer to this as “sex” but in the introduction John notes that both terms have ambiguity and so he just picked one. By-and-large parentheses represent my own thoughts, but this is not always the case. And finally, the times for each of the sections are written next to each of their headings.

Aquinas’s position (8:56-20:30)

A man is a male human being and a woman is a female human being. Male and female are distinguished by their mode of generation: the male is that which can generate in another, while the female is that which can generate in itself. Whatever meanings man and woman could have, they need be connected to these meanings.

So, then, what is the connection between male or female on the one hand, and being human on the other? It does not affect that one has a human nature: one’s gender does not elevate or detract from one’s being a human being. Perhaps, it’s better to say that gender affects how one participates in human nature. “It might be better to say that men and women share human nature equally but differently, according to their respective generative abilities. In an analogous way, being blue-eyed and being brown-eyed pertain equally but differently to the human power of vision.” Nevertheless, gender must be a more significant personal attribute than eye-color, since it involves distinct organs, activities, and purposes. It is also more uniform than other less significant attributes, which appear more sporadically throughout the human population.

Thomas has two classifications of accidents: (1) a logical classification (in terms of genus, species, etc.) in The Disputed Questions on the Soul and (2) a metaphysical classification (as arising from form and matter) in On Being and Essence:

On the logical classification there are three sorts of accidents: proper accidents (eg. risibility in humans) result from the principles of the species and so characterise all members, inseparable accidents (eg. masculine and feminine) result from the principles of the individual through permanent causation and so characterise that member in a lasting fashion, and separable accidents (eg. sitting and walking) flow from the principles of the individual through temporary causation and so only characterise that member at particular times. The main focus here is the inseparable accidents, however it’s not clear what other examples of such accidents there are. Aquinas gives examples like eye color, bone structure, and natural temperament, but as noted above these seem less significant than gender. A question arises as to which principles of the individual (soul, or body, or both) bring these accidents about. This is addressed by his metaphysical classification in On Being and Essence.

Regarding the metaphysical classification, we note that the whole substance is the true subject of all accidents, but since humans are composed of two principles (form and matter) certain accidents flow more from form and others more from matter. Thomas describes four kinds of accident (two following from form primarily, and two following from matter primarily). First, of those following from form, rational activities — understanding and willing — occur entirely in the soul and have no share in matter (though there is a measure of dependence on the physical sense organs). “Other accidents following from form, like sensation, do have a share in matter since they properly reside in the composite substance. The soul, that is, originates powers of sensation but it can’t sense on its own.” “Moving downward, accidents following from matter will always have some relation to form since matter on its own is pure potency, uncharacterized by any feature.” So, in the third case, some accidents following from matter relate to a particular kind of form. For Aquinas, masculine and feminine are accidents that follow from matter but precisely in relation to an animal form. So when the animal dies, and the animal form is separated from the body, it is no longer gendered in a univocal way. Finally, “other accidents following from matter relate to a more general form, as one’s skin color occurs through matter’s relation to the form of some elemental mixture. The color thus remains even after the person has died.”

Combining the two accounts, Aquinas takes gender to be an inseparable accident following from one’s matter in direct relation to one’s substantial form as an animal. This helps us distinguish it from other inseparable accidents, as they would follow from one’s matter in direct relation to some form other than one’s animal substantial form. It seems that gender is the only example of this special class of inseparable accident we have, and so it is in this sense a metaphysically unique feature.

“Now, if being male or female relates necessarily to the form of an animal why does Thomas assigns gender’s origin to matter?” He gives two reasons:

First, for both Aristotle and Thomas, the male and female roles in generation are active and passive respectively. The male semen contains the formal principle of generation whereas the female seminal fluid contains the material principle, such that when the two come together a human is generated. Insofar as every act of generation is directed toward producing one’s likeness and since the male is more active is the generative act, the act naturally tends toward a male offspring, and a female results from an accidental alteration in the male semen. Since gender is determined by the manner in which the seminal matter has been affected, it is seen to follow from matter as opposed to form. Aquinas agrees that one’s reproductive power — as all powers — arise because of the soul, but the difference in gender is owed to a defect in the matter of the female (since the male, insofar as he is more active, has the more reproductive power more perfectly).

Second, for both Aristotle and Thomas since form is what makes matter to be a certain kind or species, a difference in form must result in a difference in species. Thus differences applying to individuals of the same species must be differences originating from matter.

Note that genders origination from matter does not mean that it has no bearing on the soul. “While the soul in its own right is not gendered, just as the soul on its own possesses no sensation, presumably the soul of a male can be derivatively considered a male soul and the same in the case of the female, since the soul’s identity is marked by it’s being the soul of a male or female body. One’s gender then, as following from the principles of the individual, characterizes the person as a whole.”

Brief evaluation of Thomas’s account (20:31-23:15)

Thomas’s logical classification of gender as an inseparable accident makes sense insofar as gender doesn’t apply to the species as a whole, but individual members. “Moreover, current biology’s understanding of genetic systems, chromosomal patterns, gonadal structures, and sexual organs affirms that the principles of the individual exercise permanent causation in their originating one gender or another.” In spite of this, the fact that gender seems to be in a class of its own — separate from other accidents — calls for further inquiry. And this inquiry would have to focus on Aquinas’s metaphysical account of gender arising from matter in relation to a specific form.

It’s not totally clear what it means for an accident to follow from the matter in relation to a specific form. If this is taken to mean simply that the accident flows from the principles of the individual as such, then it is well-taken since evidently, one gender is not a characteristic of the species. This would still leave open, however, which of the individual’s principles is at work here (soul, matter, or both). But Aquinas, in saying that the female gender arises from an accidental alteration of the semen, answers this second question. “That is, he holds not just that gender stems from the principles of the individual, but also that being male or female stems concretely from the side of one’s matter, rather than one’s substantial form or soul.”

Now, current biology, of course, has shown that the female reproductive abilities are not imperfect versions of the male ones. Man and woman, respectively, do not supply the active formal principle of generation and the passive material principle of generation. That a man’s production of semen and a woman’s ovulation each supply distinct elements of the offspring’s genetic material reveals that, in this capacity, the two are co-contributors to the offspring. Since man and woman do not relate generatively as perfect to imperfect it is not the case that any given act of generation seeks the male. As contemporary science shows, the male and female are equally intended at the biological level. So Thomas’s empirical reason for attributing gender to matter — the first reason I mentioned earlier — is no longer tenable.

This leaves us with the question of whether the second reason given still works. Is it true that gender must arise from the matter and not the form because the form cannot account for something that arises from the individual?

A revised account (23:16-36:42)

The aim here is to argue that the Thomistic principles suggest that gender flows more from substantial form than from matter, that is more from the soul than the body.

As both Aristotle and Aquinas saw, male and female are of a different category to black and white. The former are tied up with the essential teleos of the human being and contain the substance’s essence within their definitions, whereas the latter are not and do not. “The presence of an organ indicates a particular configuration of matter for the sake of one of the soul’s powers, which in turn flows from the essence of the soul. The soul itself arranges material structures as organs so that they might fittingly serve as means through which the soul’s various powers can operate effectively.” As Thomas says in The Disputed Questions on the Soul, “the soul constitutes diverse parts in the body even as it fits them for diverse operations.”

To unpack this we might say that like the vegetative powers the reproductive powers slowly manifest as the being matures, and as the soul actualizes and shapes the individual it constitutes these powers in particular organs within the body. Just like the sensory powers, if the soul were to leave the body so too would the generative powers. Unlike the sensory powers, however, not all humans share the same set of generative powers (instead we have something like a 50/50 split across the population).

The generative powers of man and woman should be considered, strictly speaking, co-generative, since they possess a two-fold formal object distinguished hierarchically. As “generative” they possess the same ultimate object, namely procreation of another human being. While as “co-” their proximate objects differ by way of offering distinct sexual organs and activities yet in relation with each other. The ultimate object of the co-generative powers points to the unity of nature shared by man and woman since another of the same species, whether male or female, is generated. The proximate object of the co-generative powers points to the distinction within human nature as found in either man or woman, albeit only at the level of the reproductive capacities.

Since the reproductive powers are two distinct co-generative — as opposed to one at varying levels of perfection — it seems clear that they must be accounted for by the substantial form of the individual. Of course, since the generative powers intrinsically depend on organs they would this should not be thought of as an attempt to separate the soul from the body, but rather to highlight the soul’s role in constituting the powers in the body. Thus we provisionally include gender in those accidents that stem from the soul and have a share in matter, as with the senses. In order to develop this account further, we address three objections.

The first objection is that modern biology seems to support Aquinas’s position that gender is better attributed to matter than soul. This is because modern biology teaches us that gender is intimately connected with various genetic networks, especially the chromosomal patterns XY or XX found in the zygote. But this does not so much entail that gender differentiation arises from matter primarily as show us more clearly how intimately related substantial form and matter relate to one another in the constitution of a human being. Any becoming of a substance requires appropriately disposed matter; after all, the being is generated by the actualization of potencies in the matter. But it is the resultant form (the actuality) that primarily characterizes the being the is generated.

The second objection comes from the second argument given by Aquinas above, that difference in form constitutes difference in species. Since men and women clearly share the same species, their difference must, therefore, arise from matter. Moreover, the notion of an individual brings forth — for Thomists at least — thoughts of matter insofar as it is the principle of individuation. But we must make a distinction between a universal form and a particular form. Aquinas grants that when a soul is commensurated to a particular body (that is, when they mutually limit one another so as to constitute an individual) in a sense it takes on additional characteristics, an obvious example being individuation even after separation from the body at death. It is inevitable that gender is of the form, since matter does not configure itself into particular organs (being indeterminate between any such configurations) it must be the soul that does so in and through matter “for the sake of the particular powers that work through those organs.”

The position I have argued affirms the notion that particular souls are essentially commensurated to particular bodies, but claims that within this commensuration gender begins at the level of the soul and is received into the corresponding matter accordingly designated by the genetic pattern.

As to the concern about this introducing a distinction between two species of human, we can say two things. Rather than being an additional power that future determines the essence of the individual, gender concerns the maintenance of the essence that the other powers constitute. “As oriented towards the species itself, [the generative powers] cannot in themselves constitute new species.” Second, as noted above gender is a co-generative power which differentiates it from the other powers given by the soul insofar as they are independent in some sense. They exclude each other in definition (“four-legged” excludes “winged”) or in fact (“scaled” excludes “feathered”). Gender’s nature, however, presupposes “one like itself” and so depends on and includes its contrary both in fact and in definition. Male is defined in terms of female and vice versa through the co-generative relation. The reproductive powers are not merely distinct as one sense is distinct from another, but as mutually dependent powers contributing to a single action (ie. generation). They are not to be understood as characterizing distinct species, then, but rather as integral parts of the same species considered at the reproductive level. (This is a consequence of us being social animals: humans are not wholly intelligible in terms of an individual, but require that that individual be understood in the context of some community. This reoccurs again at the higher level with powers that enable us to rationally cooperate, which are a consequence of us being political animals.)

The third objection takes issue with the description of co-generative powers. Why could we not accept that there is one generative power manifested in different ways, depending on the body to which the soul is united? This would entail that gender differentiation stems from matter as opposed to form. Note that this is much like Aquinas’s view insofar as he sees one power actualized to differing levels of perfection. Now in some sense, the objector is right, namely insofar as both generative powers have the same ultimate object. Because of this, they can be naturally grouped together, just as the various sensory powers can be naturally grouped together. But insofar as the generative powers have distinct proximate objects (their organs and activities), they can be distinguished. Interestingly, even in the woman, we see multiple generative powers in a single being: powers for generation, support, and nourishment of the offspring all of which are required for procreation (since the ultimate object of generative powers is a human and not merely a clump of flesh). Since there are really distinct generative powers, their distinction must arise from the substantial form and not the matter.

In order to affirm that a numerically single (that is, really identical) power to be differentiated only by matter, we would need to accept Aquinas’s account which, as we’ve seen, is falsified by modern biology. Otherwise, we’d need a “generic power” had by both male and female, which would need to be an abstract power or a power that includes both. But the first alternative is incoherent in Thomistic metaphysics (and even in much of modern metaphysics), and the second would involve an entire set of the person’s powers being denied and frustrated merely in virtue of them being an individual human. This “opposes Thomas’s thought and the majority of human experience.”

Being male or female, therefore, follows principally from one’s soul in relation to that soul’s correspondingly disposed matter.

Three ramifications (36:43-43:41)

The first concerns “gender’s status in relation to the person.” Gender is closely related to the person but is different from other such attributes. Other attributes (like free will, reason, soul, body, growth, and sensation) are understood when the human essence is abstracted from individuals and reproduction is like this. But it differs that when considered in itself the essence includes both male and female, but when it comes to exist there is a split into the co-generative powers. “The human essence in itself includes male and female; only a consideration of that essence as actually existent entails male or female.”

Turn, then, back to the metaphysical classification given above. We’ve seen that reproduction, like sensation, falls into the second category of those accidents which follow from form that have a share in matter. But given the differences between reproduction and sensation, there must be a real distinction within this category. The difference is between those accidents which flow from the nature itself, and those accidents which flow from the nature as it exists in this or that individual.

And in this sense, one’s gender is not as close to one’s fundamental humanity as are the other powers of the soul. Being man or woman — you might say — is more proper to the human individual than to the human individual. As Thomas would put it being gendered at all is proper to human nature, but being a man or a woman is proper to this instance of human nature, this soul and this matter.

All of the other accidents that flow primarily from the soul characterize the whole species, and so we call them the proper accidents (or properties), like sensation and risibility. But gender differs from the other individual accidents insofar as it characterizes one’s structure, abilities, and purpose. Insofar as the gender so characterises an individual we might say that it is “the primary attribute of the existing person”, not as something that constitutes the person (since this is given by the soul and matter), but as that which is most truly proper to individual person (so, in this sense, it’s like a property at the individual level).

The second concerns “gender’s status to the human essence or nature.” Man and woman are not distinct species of human nature, but nor are they merely individuals of human nature. It is good, therefore, to introduce some notions that can describe the genders with regards to their human nature. Man and woman are principles of the nature, they’re parts of it, they are ways of it existing or ways of a soul incarnating in a body, and they are relational as mutually fulfilling complements. “Thomas compares male and female to odd and even in the numerical realm.” But even this misses out the relational nature of humanity.

The third concerns “gender in its specifically human meaning as the intersection of eros and generation.” A slight modification of the Aristotelian definition of male and female is, “the male is what co-generates in another, the female is what co-generates in itself.” There’s nothing peculiar to humans here; we are gendered because we are animal. But human gender has richer meaning than non-human gender insofar as the procreative activity is integrally marked by rational choice.

By nature the generative act is a human act, and not just the act of a human. Thus, what is distinctively human in gender comes to light most manifestly in the “co-” dimension of the co-generative relationship to the extent that deliberation, choice, and love are integral moments within human sexual activity, which thus transcends merely instinctual limitations.

The distinctive human dimension of all this is one of the reasons that it is considered problematic if the human generative act occurs without proper mutual consent, since it “presents a co-generative act with the co- aspect as distinctively human. Since the entire act is co-generative, if one aspect lacks distinctively human structure, so does the whole.” That the co- aspect is human and therefore higher than mere biological generation, it elevates the generative aspect which is primarily animal. The biological tendency becomes subsumed into a conscious intention in love.

Further, as Thomas points out, generating another like oneself in the case of a human involves continued rational and affective dimensions beyond those of the sexual sphere, since the mature human only comes to be after an extensive period of support, nourishment, training, education, and love.

Beyond metaphysics (43:42-46:55)

Here we comment on some things beyond the metaphysical question but which depends on the metaphysical answer, namely issues in the psychological, social, and ethical realms. There are two putative objections that might be raised from modern concerns against the claim that gender stems from the soul. First is the issue of sex-reassignment surgery, second is the reality of intersex persons.

With regards to the first, if in fact sex-reassignment surgery actually changed one’s sex/gender then it would constitute a concern. However, even if such surgery can change the outward appearance of an organ it nonetheless leaves the patient sterile. So rather than say that one’s gender has changed it is more accurate to say that it has to some degree been lost (or blocked).

With regards to the second, just as with sensation defects and abnormalities are possible so too with gender. This arises from the fact that gender (like the senses) arises from the soul working in and through matter. “Aside from the assistance of medical technologies in such cases, it’s crucial to recall that one’s gender, though integral to the person, is neither the defining nor the most important aspect of the person.” To quote Thomas on the place of gender in human life:

Among animals there is a vital activity nobler than generation to which their life is principally directed. Therefore the masculine sex is not in continual union with the feminine in perfect animals, but only at the time of coition, so that we may consider that through coition male and female are made one. But [humans are] further ordered to a nobler vital activity, which is to understand. Therefore there had to be a greater reason for the distinction of these two forces in [them], so that the female should be produced separately from the male and yet they might be fleshly joined as one for the work of generation.

In commenting on this, John closes with:

The ultimate telos of a human being involving the flourishing of a life suffused with knowledge and love reminds us that relationality and fruitfulness occur in realms higher than the physical. If, with Aristophanes in the Symposium, one were tempted to picture the human being simply as a longing half, the passage just quoted offers a larger view. In his own way, Thomas calls to mind Socrates’ and Diotima’s assent to the beautiful.

Common goods

I had originally intended to tie up the thoughts begun in previous posts on natural and moral goodnesssubstantial activitiesbasic goods, and virtual existence, but it has since occurred to me that this would be too ambitious for a single blog post. So, I’ll attempt to approach the topic in installments as I find the time. Those previous discussions are important for the direction I want to go, since we will be using much of the terminology and conclusions there. As such I strongly recommend reading them if you haven’t done so, and perhaps even rereading them if you haven’t done so for a while. In this post we will be introducing the notion of common goods, which will be much of our focus hereon out.

In general something is good to the extent that it realises its end. This is what Aquinas meant when he said that the “good has the nature of an end” (ST Q94 A2 corp). We’re most familiar with ends as intended by rational beings, but these are just a small number of the ends we’re considering. Non-rational animals act for particular ends too, of course. Beyond this the development process of living things is directed toward the end of healthy adulthood. And we’ve seen every substance is in some sense directed toward its characteristic behaviours given by its nature. (Besides the posts linked above, I also discussed this in section 2.2 here.)

Since goods and ends are so linked, a common good is therefore the realisation of a common end. And since common ends belong to communities or societies, it follows that common goods are the goods of these communities. But what is a community? It turns out the answer isn’t a simple matter: there are alternatives and each putative answer gives a slightly different notion of what the commonness of common goods involves. For the remainder of this post we will be unpacking all of this, with the help of our foregoing discussions.

In our discussion on virtual existence we outlined the three ways parts relate to their wholes: (1) parts which are actually present in their aggregate, (2) parts considered in themselves which are virtually present in their substance, and (3) parts considered as parts which are actually present in their substance (in the sense that they derive their being from the substance itself, and this substance is actually present). In (1) the parts each maintain their individual ends, and the end of the aggregate is merely the sum of the ends of its parts. Substances, on the other hand, have ends intrinsic to themselves. In (2) the end of the substance “overrides” the ends the parts would otherwise have in isolation, and in (3) the parts have the same end as the substance because they share in its being and nature.

In our discussion on substantial and aggregate activities, we noted that there is an analogous sense in which activities can be understood as substances or aggregates. And everything we’ve said about wholes equally applies to activities. For instance, we can also speak of virtual existence in the context of substantial activities. We introduce the idea by applying our hylomorphic analysis of virtual existence to a concrete example. Imagine we’re considering an orchestra playing a piece of music, and imagine we zoom in on one of the violinist’s playing. Recall that an action can be analysed hylomorphically, with the matter being the movement and the form being the intention. And recall that the virtual existence of parts in themselves involves retaining the matter while “filling in” (through intellectual activity) a form the part would have in isolation from the whole. What do we get in the case of our imagined example? Well, the intention of the violinist considered as a part of the orchestra is to play with piece together with the rest of the orchestra members. An intention that we might fill in would be the violinist practicing the piece by themselves. In this way actions can exist virtually in the substantial activities they belong to.

Now, are communities to be understood as wholes, or activities, or some combination of the two? It doesn’t seem correct to identify the community with the activity because the parts of the activity are the individual actions whereas the parts of the community are the individuals themselves. At the same time it seems mistaken to completely divorce a community from its activity. The same group of humans could be an orchestra and a soccer team, for instance, but surely the orchestra is distinct from the soccer team? Put another when we consider the members of the orchestra we consider them as musicians, but when we consider the members of the soccer team we consider them as soccer players.

As such, it seems to me that we should consider communities in terms of both wholes and activities. Again, hylomorphism gives us a natural way of doing so: when considering a group of individuals it is their activity that determines what community they are. That is, the group is an otherwise indeterminate substratum and the activity is what determines them to being this or that community. That is, the group is the matter and the activity is the form of the community.

So communities represent a third category which is a hylomorphic combination of the first two. And just as there are three ways for parts to relate to their wholes, and three analogous ways for actions to relate to their activities, so there are three analogous ways for individuals to relate to their communities. How should we understand these in terms of the wholes and activities that make up the communities? With regards to matter (the whole), it seems intuitive that the underlying whole of a community will always be some kind of aggregate of individuals, each of which will be substances in their own right. With regards to form (the activity) we have three options: (1) an aggregate activity in which the individual actions actually exist, (2) a substantial activity in which the individual actions virtually exist, and (3) a substantial activity in which the individual actions actually exist. Each of these would translate to a different kind of community. In (1) the community is merely the aggregate of the individuals, and its end is the sum of the disparate ends of these individuals. In this case, the only things that can truly be called a substance are the individual substances. In (2) we see the reverse of this: the individuals are the parts of the community considered in themselves, and as such their individual ends will be “overridden” by the ends of the substantial community. (3) represents somewhat of a middle ground, and will be of much interest to us. Here the individuals are parts of the substantial community, but not in such a way that they have their ends overridden. This is because their actions are all directed toward the common end of the community.

At least two of these views already have names: (1) is called atomic individualism and (2) is called organic collectivism. Matthew O’Brien and Robert Koons introduce them as follows:

In attending to social nature, the ethically minded metaphysician must avoid both the Scylla of atomistic individualism and the Charybdis of organic collectivism. The attempt to navigate successfully the narrow strait between them has been a recurring theme in Western metaphysics, from the time of Plato to the present. The organic collectivist holds that the most fundamentally real things (the “substances”) are complete and sovereign human societies; on this view, typified by Jean Jacques Rousseau, for example, individual human beings are merely cells of the social organism, with a nature, an identity, and an existence wholly dependent on that of the whole. In contrast, the atomistic individualist, such as Ayn Rand, holds that individual human beings are the substances, with societies as mere aggregations or “heaps” (to use Aristotle’s expression)….

For organic, collectivist pictures of human life, the good of individual human beings carries no weight, since, strictly speaking, there is no such thing as an individual: the good of the society as a whole is everything. For atomic individualists, the ‘common good’ consists of nothing but the sum of measures of the individual welfare of participants.

Their article doesn’t work from the exactly same distinctions we’ve made, but it’s clear from the quoted passage that for the organic collectivist the community’s being a substance in some way “overrides” the individuals that are part of it. That is, the community is a substance at the expense of the individuals, which corresponds with what we’ve said of (2). I don’t know of a name for (3), so for the sake our discussion here we will refer to it as unitivism.

So we have outlined the three views of (1) atomic individualism, (2) organic collectivism, and (3) untivism. Each gives us a different picture of what makes a community, as well as a different understanding of the commonness of common goods. It is this that we must unpack to adequately answer the question at hand.

Let’s start with atomic individualism. On this view the community is merely the sum of its individuals, and therefore so is its end, and thus the common good is also understood as an aggregate of individual goods. A good is common, in this sense, by virtue of being predicated of the many individuals of in the community. So, for instance, health or wealth would be common goods since it is good for each individual to be healthy and sufficiently wealthy. And the health of the community, for instance, would be the aggregate of the health of the individuals. Common goods, in this sense, are contrasted with singular goods in that to be common to be predicated of many whereas to be singular is to be predicated of one. So, we speak of the health of the community as opposed to the health of this or that individual.

Next consider organic collectivism. On this view the community is a substance at the expense of the individuals. Since it is a substance it has its own end, and this is what the common good would be. Since the individuals exist only virtually in the community, this common good overrides their individual goods. An example comes from some socialist economic theories, where individuals are to give up their individual right to private property in order to be part of the political community. So we find that common goods, in this sense, are contrasted with individual goods. The common good, in our example, being the common property which is contrary to the private property of individuals, or what we might call “individual property”.

Finally there’s unitivism. The unitivist agrees with organic collectivist that the community is a kind of substance, but disagrees that this comes in such a way as to override the individuals. We achieve this by noting that the realisation of the common end toward which all the members work together is a good for each member, and it is on account of their shared intention toward this end that they are considered a substantial community in the first place. Moreover the unitivist agrees with the atomic individualist that the goods of the community are the goods of the individuals, but disagrees that these goods are merely shared by virtue of predication and aggregation. We achieve this by noting that the common end is numerically the same for all the individuals, and its realisation is a single good shared by the individuals of the community without thereby being diminished. Consider, for instance, that the piece played by the orchestra is one and the same piece played by each of the musicians, a victory in war is one and the same victory for the entire nation, and so on. To use some Thomistic jargon the common good is a universal cause not a universal predicate. The common good, in this sense, is contrasted with private goods in that to be common is to be shareable with thereby being diminished and to be private is either to be unshareable or always diminished when shared.

Perhaps we should spend some more time unpacking this distinction between common and private goods. First some examples. We mentioned the playing of the piece for the orchestra and the victory in war for the winning nation are both common goods. Other examples are manifold, so long as we can identify the aggregate wholes engaging in substantial activities for common ends: victory in a sports game is a common good for the winning team, financial success is a common good for many companies, the picking up of a car by two friends is a common good for them. A previously mentioned example of a private good was food, for “if there is a loaf of bread between me and someone else, the more the I eat the less there is for the other person to eat.” Two other examples of private goods would be the two goods listed as common by the atomic individualist: health and wealth. While many individuals have health (on account of which it is a common predicate), they do not all share in one and the same health. Wealth is more or less a generalisation of food, in that the more money I give you the less I have for myself. Of course, private property would also be a private good.

Second, we note that in most (if not all) communities there will be certain private goods the members need in order to participate in and enjoy the common goods of that community. This often involves some form of equipment and training, but can also include other things. We will have cause to speak about this in more in later posts. We note this here because it reminds us that while common goods and private goods are contraries conceptually, they needn’t be (and often aren’t) contraries in practice.

Third, what we mean by activity should be construed quite broadly so as to apply to every kind of community we might consider. Indeed, once we do this we begin to see hierarchies of communities form. For instance, a soccer team participates in a soccer game, which itself is part of a larger tournament, which is run by the local soccer league, which is part of the national soccer league. The soccer team’s activity is also more than this or that game, but rather includes all their games as well as their practicing, recruiting, purchasing of equipment, and so on. The hierarchy of communities entails that when communities are parts of bigger ones, they can have private goods themselves. For example, playing a soccer game is a common good for both teams, but victory is private to one of the teams. That same victory, however, is common to the members of the winning team. So whether a good should be characterised as common or private depends on the community and individuals in focus.

Fourth, an important qualification: while common goods can be shared without thereby being diminished it doesn’t follow that sharing always leaves them undiminished. For instance, orchestras are limited in their size because once they get too big they become unmanageable. The same goes for political communities and friendships and presumably any community. Furthermore, including bad musicians in an orchestra might also diminish the end insofar as those musicians get in the way of the orchestra performing well. But in these cases it is not the sharing per se that is diminishing the good, but rather the sharing with too many people or sharing with bad musicians. With private goods, no matter how you share you will always diminish your ends.

Now, all three accounts of common goods can and do occur in reality. Of the three, however, it seems that the unitivist’s notion is most relevant to the study of the good of humans in social or political contexts. That we seek to study human goods means we are not primarily interested in goods that by their very nature occur at the expense of the human individuals. And that we seek to study human goods in social and political contexts means we are not primarily interested in goods that are mere aggregations of individual goods.

That orders regulate

In Summa Theologica II-I Q87 A1 corp. Aquinas says the following:

Now it is evident that all things contained in an order, are, in a manner, one, in relation to the principle of that order. Consequently, whatever rises up against an order, is put down by that order or by the principle thereof. And because sin is an inordinate act, it is evident that whoever sins, commits an offense against an order: wherefore he is put down, in consequence, by that same order, which repression is punishment.

The idea is that when one is directed (or “ordered”) toward an end, one is also directed away from contrary ends. Thus insofar as a part moves contrary to the ends of the whole (or “rises up against the order”, an “inordinate act”), it will be counteracted (“put down”) because of the directedness of the whole towards its ends (“by that order or principle thereof”). This will apply to substantial activities which, as we’ll see in a later post, gives us the correct analysis of common goods and human communities in general.

What’s particularly interesting is that from this simple fact we can derive the three, otherwise intuitive, criteria for just punishment:

  1. Guilt: we should only punish those who go contrary to the good of a community, since the order of the whole will only counteract those parts which move contrary to it.
  2. Proportion: punishment should be proportioned to crimes, since the order of the whole need only to counteract enough to restore itself from the part’s deviation.
  3. Equity: punishments are alike to the extent that their crimes are alike, since the reason for the counteraction is the deviation itself and not some irrelevant factor.

On the homogeneity of measures

In Summa Theologica II-I Q96 A2 corp. Aquinas says “a measure should be homogeneous with that which it measures”. While I could gather roughly what he was saying from the context, I must admit that this phrase confused me a bit. But what he’s saying isn’t really that confusing or complicated when we consider common examples of measures.

For instance, a ruler can’t measure length unless it too has length, and a clock can’t measure duration unless it persists through some duration. So that’s the first sense in which a measure is homogeneous with that which it measures: it must share the relevant characteristics of that which it measures.

We can take this further. A 30-centimeter ruler is not well-suited to measuring kilometers or nanometers, but it is well-suited to measuring many everyday household objects and regular sized drawings. Similarly, a clock that measures in seconds is not well-suited to measuring nanoseconds or hours. This raises a second sense in which a measure is homogeneous with that which it measures: it must be of a well-suited “scale”.

It seems to me that in the article, Aquinas is primarily concerned with the second sense mentioned here. “Law”, he says, “is framed as a rule or measure of human acts.” That is, the law of a community encodes what behaviour is good, and so it is by the requirements of that law that we judge to what extent actions are good or bad. Now, just as the length of a ruler should be scaled to the lengths we seek to measure, so “laws imposed on men should also be in keeping with their condition.” It is on account of this that even though an ideal law might forbid all vices, practically this isn’t a good idea:

Now human law is framed for a number of human beings, the majority of whom are not perfect in virtue. Wherefore human laws do not forbid all vices, from which the virtuous abstain, but only the more grievous vices, from which it is possible for the majority to abstain; and chiefly those that are to the hurt of others, without the prohibition of which human society could not be maintained: thus human law prohibits murder, theft and such like.

Substantial and aggregate activities

In the Physics Aristotle gives his famous definition of a substance, which he refers to as a thing that “exists by nature” or as a “natural object”:

Some things exist by nature, others are due to other causes. Natural objects include animals and their parts, plants and simple bodies like earth, fire, air, and water; at any rate, we do say that these kinds of things exist naturally. The obvious difference between all these things and things which are not natural is that each of the natural ones contains within itself a source of change and of stability, in respect of either movement or increase and decrease of alteration. On the other hand, something like a bed or a cloak has no intrinsic impulse for change — at least, they do not under that particular description and to the extent that they are a result of human skill, but they do in so far as and to the extent that they are coincidentally made out of stone or earth or some combination of the two.

The nature of a thing, then, is a certain principle and cause of change and stability in the thing, and it is directly present in it — which is to say that it is present in its own right and not coincidentally. (Physics II.1 192b8-b23)

Edward Feser summarises this definition from Aristotle by saying,

The basic idea, then, is that a natural object is one whose characteristic behavior — the ways in which it manifests either stability or changes of various sorts — derives from something intrinsic to it. (Between Aristotle and William Paley: Aquinas’ Fifth Way)

Aristotle and the Scholastics would later argue that the only way to make sense of the fact that things always, or for the most part, behave in certain ways is if they are by nature directed towards such behaviour. That is, if they have an inherent tendency or directedness towards such activity as an end. (cf Physics II.8 198b34-199a7) This intrinsic directedness towards an end, then, is the nature of thing:

The point is that those things are natural which undergo continuous change, starting from an intrinsic source of change and concluding at a particular end… it is clear that a thing’s nature is a cause, and that it is the kind of cause I have been saying — namely, purpose. (Physics 199b15-18, 32-33)

It must be recalled that neither Aristotle nor the Scholastics who followed him thought of this directedness or “purpose” as necessarily involving intelligence or deliberation from the things so directed.

This is particularly clear in the case of non-human animals, whose products are not the result of skill, enquiry, or planning. Some people are puzzled by how spiders, ants, and so on make what they make — do they use intelligence, or what? … It is ridiculous for people to deny that there is purpose if they cannot see the agent of change doing any planning. After all, skill does not make plans. If ship-building were intrinsic to word, then wood would naturally produce the same results that ship-building does. If skill is purposive, then, so is nature. (Physics II.8 199b26-30)

Again, Feser explains:

In other words, that goal-directedness does not require conscious deliberation is evident from the fact that a skilled craftsman can largely carry out his work without even thinking about it—”on autopilot” as we might put it today, or without first “making plans,” as Aristotle puts it. But if this is possible for someone with such skill, there is in Aristotle’s view no reason not to think it also possible for natural objects. This is the force of the ship-building example: If there were something in the very nature of wood that “directed it” toward the end of becoming a ship, then what in the case of human craftsmanship results from deliberate design — a ship — would in that case result “naturally” instead, that is, without conscious deliberation at all. Indeed, “it looks as though things happen at the plant level too which serve some purpose” in just this way, even though plants do not deliberate — for instance, an oak derives from an acorn without the acorn planning this result — and there is also of course the example of “non-human animals, whose products are not the result of skill, enquiry, or planning.”

So substances are those things which have an intrinsic directedness towards an end. Because this directedness is tied up with a thing’s characteristic behaviours, and characteristic behaviours are tied up with a thing’s causal powers, we might equivalently say that substances are those things which have intrinsic causal powers. By intrinsic, here, we mean that the directedness or causal powers of the thing are not (1) imposed from some outside agent or (2) reducible to the sum of the its parts considered in themselves. Aggregates (or “heaps”), on the other hand, have only extrinsic directedness or causal powers.

Let’s consider some examples of each. On a molecular level, a water molecule is a substance, for it has causal powers which are not reducible to the powers of its parts. For instance, water boils at 100°C while hydrogen, considered in itself, boils at -252.9°C and oxygen, considered in itself, boils at -183°C. The same goes for other powers.

On a more macroscopic level, individual animals are substances. Considered in itself, an organ is merely a clump of flesh which decomposes if left to its own devices. However, when the organs co-exist in an animal they are each capable of their individual functions in the body (walking, grasping, thinking, sensing, pumping blood, and so on) and they are all capable of participating in the life of the animal, where life is:

… the natural capacity of an object for self-perfective immanent activity. Living things act for themselves in order to perfect themselves, where by perfection I mean that the entity acts so as to produce, conserve and repair its proper functioning as the kind of thing it is… (David Oderberg, Teleology: Inorganic and Organic)

Consider, for instance, how you develop from a baby in your mother’s womb to a fully-grown adult, or how body heals itself when damaged, or how you don’t just decompose (unless you’re sick in some way). None of your organs, considered in themselves as mere clumps of flesh, are capable of these things and so you are not merely the sum of your organs.

A pile of rocks would be an obvious example of an aggregate. Its power to hold something 2 meters above the ground is merely the sum of the individual rocks that make it up. Above Aristotle used an example of a bed, which is merely an aggregate of the materials (wood and metal) that make it up.

Some aggregates, because of their complexity, are less obviously aggregates. Examples of these are things like watches and computers. A watch’s power for time-telling is imposed on it by us, and its power for the circular motion of its hands is merely the sum of the powers of its parts such as the conduction of electricity and so on. Similarly for a computer or a calculator.

From wholes to activities

All this is by way of introduction for what I really want to talk about here. The space was not wasted, however, for what we have introduced will serve us well in what follows. Thus far we’ve been discussing the distinction between substantial and aggregate wholes. My aim here, however, is to make a parallel distinction between substantial and aggregate activities.

A substantial activity, then, is one which has intrinsic directedness towards an end. That is, its directedness is not (1) imposed from some outside agent or (2) reducible to the sum of the its parts considered in themselves. In order for us to understand this we need to be clear on how an activity has directedness, and the best way to achieve such clarity is by considering how substances engage in activities. For our purposes here, it will be sufficient to distinguish between three groups of substances: non-animals, non-rational animals, and rational animals.

By non-animals I mean inorganic substances (rocks, water, atoms, …) and non-animal organisms (that is, vegetation). What distinguishes animals from non-animals is that the former have some form of sentience (and, typically, an ability for self-movement). Since non-sentience involves not being able consciously move to an end it seems we have two options with regards to how activities involving non-animals have directedness: either their activities don’t have directedness, or the directedness of their activities derives from the directedness the substance has in virtue of its nature.

What distinguishes rational animals from non-rational animals is that the former have the ability to (1) abstract universal concepts from particulars (“Socrates is a human“), (2) combine these concepts into judgements or propositions (“All humans are mortal”), and (3) string these propositions into arguments for conclusions (“Therefore, Socrates is mortal”).[1] So within animals we distinguish between non-rational animals, which are only conscious of particular things via sensation, and rational animals, which are additionally conscious of the universal concepts that pervade all the particulars. By virtue of their consciousness animals are capable of directing their actions towards specific ends in addition to the ends set for them by their natures.

For instance, a cat is by nature directed towards certain characteristic activities such as walking on four legs and eating certain types of food, as well as developing such morphological features that make these possible. However, because this cat is hungry and conscious of that bird it directs and moves itself towards that bird in order to eat it. All the while, however, the cat is not conscious of universal concepts (as such) like “being hungry”, “birds” and so on. Much of its “reasoning” is driven by instinct and nature. But this does not invalidate the claim that it has a measure of self-direction which it derives from its consciousness of particular things. Rational animals, because they are also aware of universal concepts, are capable of directing themselves in accordance with a richer set of ends.

The Porphyrian tree for corporeal substances. Leaf nodes represent species and edges represent specific differences that divide each genus up.
The Porphyrian tree for corporeal substances. Leaf nodes represent species and edges represent specific differences that divide up each genus.

Whether an animal is rational or not, ultimately its intention is what determines the direction of a given activity. Consider, for instance, the movement of my hand into your shoulder. What I intend to achieve with the movement is what determines whether this action is me punching you or merely an accident (which would be the case if I was intending to get something else and misjudged our relative positions).

With these distinctions in hand we ask the following question: how are substantial and aggregate wholes related to substantial and aggregate activities? It seems obvious that substances are capable of substantial actions and aggregates are capable of aggregate activity. But does this exhaust the possible relations?

The possibility of substantial activity by aggregate wholes

There are only two other options we could consider. The first is substances performing aggregate activities, but in the interest of time we’ll leave this to one side.

The second option is that of an aggregate performing a substantial activity. Such an activity would require an aggregate of substances to direct their otherwise disparate activity toward a common end. Is this not what we find in various teams and associations throughout human society? A sports team works together to win the game, an orchestra works together to play their piece well, the various employess in a company work together for the sake of the company, the various military personnel work together to achieve victory in war, when two friends pick up a large object together, and so on.

At this point we must be careful, lest we fall into error and think some such activities substantial when in fact they are merely aggregate. Take the example of the members of an orchestra performing their piece. This is an example of substantial action because each intends to contributes to the same performance. It’s this shared intention (or something like it) that makes the activity substantial, and not just that the sound produced is a combination of the sounds of the various instruments. After all, even aggregates involve combinations of their parts. By contrast, consider the musicians behind stage before the performance starts, while they each tune their respective instrument. An observer standing backstage will hear the combination of all the various sounds they make as they do this. The making of this combined sound will be merely an aggregate activity. Why? Because there is no shared intention directing the musicians to a common end. Rather, in this case each musician intends merely to tune their own instrument independent of the others. So when we aggregate the various tuning activities we end up with an aggregate of ends and therefore an aggregate activity.

So aggregate wholes can indeed engage in substantial activities, and they do so when and only when the members of the aggregate intentionally work together toward some common end.

But we can take this further. You’ll notice that the examples I listed above all involved aggregates of rational animals. This was not accidental, for only aggregates of rational beings are capable of this kind of substantial activity we’re considering. We see why when we reflect on what’s involved in working together with others toward a common end.

First, working together involves recognising both you and another falling under the same category of “part” in some sense. It requires that we understand the roles we’re responsible for and how those roles contribute to the achievement of the end in sight. Often (if not always) this will require that we understand the rules which encode our responsibilities. All of this, and more, requires a capacity for being conscious of universal concepts like “part”, “whole”, “role”, “responsibility”, “rule”, “expectation”, and so on. Since only rational beings are conscious of universal concepts, it follows that only rational beings can work together toward a common end.

Second, working together toward a common end requires that we be conscious of the end as common. Briefly, common ends are ends that can be enjoyed by multiple members without thereby being diminished. They are opposed to private ends, which are always diminished when shared.[2] For instance, if there is a loaf of bread between me and someone else, the more the I eat the less there is for the other person to eat. Siblings will know that the time I spend playing on the computer is time my brother cannot play on the computer. Consider, however, the examples we mentioned earlier: winning a sports game, the musical piece, the good of a company, victory in war, the picking up of a car. All of these are shared amongst the members in the corresponding aggregate, but are not thereby diminished. The same victory in war, for instance, is equally had by everyone in the winning nation.

Now, from the examples given it seems clear that particular things (or combinations of particular things) considered as particular can only serve as private ends. By contraposition, it follows that in order to be conscious of an end as common requires that we be conscious of universal concepts. Therefore only rational beings can be conscious of, and direct themselves toward, common ends.

Notes

  1. The Scholastics called these the “acts of reason”, and labeled them (1) grasping, (2) composition and division, and (3) reasoning. Each of the acts of reason are dependent upon the earlier ones for their operation. Technically, (2) is richer than merely the ability to form propositions: it also enables rational beings to form universal concepts of things they haven’t experienced yet. For instance, once we have an concept of a horse and the concept of blackness we can consider the combination of these two concepts without having ever seen a black horse.
  2. Of course this is not the whole story, and common ends tend to be notoriously difficult to talk about (see, for instance, Marcus Berquist’s Common Good and Private Good). The particular qualification I want to add here is that while common ends can be shared without thereby being diminished it doesn’t follow that sharing always leaves it undiminished. For instance, orchestras are limited in their size because once they get too big they become unmanageable. The same goes for political communities and friendships and presumably any community. Furthermore, including bad musicians in an orchestra might also diminish the end insofar as those musicians get in the way of the orchestra performing well. But in these cases it is not the sharing per se that is diminishing the end, but rather the sharing with too many people or sharing with bad musicians. With private goods, no matter how you share you will always diminish your ends. Because this qualification doesn’t affect the overall thrust of my argument, I chose to just mention it here in the footnotes.