Tuesday, February 22, 2011

On Cassian on Lying

When people try to find some other tradition in Catholic tradition on the subject of lies, the two names usually appealed to are St. John Cassian and St. John Chrysostom. Looking at Cassian is interesting, and provides important lessons about the pitfalls of reading the Fathers too naively.

Cassian's Conferences are a compendium, in dialogue form, of the wisdom of the Desert Fathers on how we train our souls and perfect our hearts. It is one of the great monastic classics, and with his Institutes is very influential for moral theology (to name just the most widely known example, the first rudiments of what would eventually become the famous list of the Seven Deadly Sins begins with Cassian). The discussion of lying occurs in the seventeenth Conference, and occurs because of a matter of some dramatic interest. The monks involved in the dialogue had promised the Elders at their monastery that they when they toured the desert of Skete (where the most famous ascetic hermits and monks were), gathering spiritual knowledge, that they would do so quickly and return to their monastery at once. When they did so, however, they realized that this promise was a heavy burden: by staying with the Desert Fathers, the monks could grow in their spiritual and moral life, and, indeed, there was too much spiritual wisdom among the Desert Fathers to make their tour any more than a grazing of its surface; but they were bound by their promise to return to the monastery as quickly as possible.

In light of this, Cassian (as one of the characters in the dialogue) suggests that they consult the Desert Father with whom they are staying, Abbas Joseph, and treat his decision on the matter as if it came from God himself. And so they agreed. When they meet again for prayers, Joseph notices that they are all a bit downcast and asks the reason. They tell him, and he agrees that keeping one's oaths and promises is very important, and that a monk ought therefore never to promise anything hastily. But as they have already promised, it does pose a dilemma. Joseph's solution is that they should break the promise, because
the will in choosing should incline to that side which involves a loss that is more tolerable, or can be more easily made up for by the remedy of making amends. If then you think that you will get more good for your spirit by staying here than what accrued to you from your life in that monastery, and that the terms of your promise cannot be fulfilled without the loss of great good, it is better for you to undergo the loss from a falsehood and an unfulfilled promise (as it is done once for all, and need not any longer be repeated or be the cause of other sins) than for you to incur that loss, through which you say that your state of life would become colder, and which would affect you with a daily and unceasing injury.

He then goes on to discuss why some promises should be broken, and answers some of the monks' worries. Then we come to the key text for our purposes: Germanus, the monk who has primarily been presenting their worries to Joseph, says that they are worried that breaking their promises could serve as a bad model for other younger monks, in whom it might encourage lying. Joseph suggests that whether it is so or not will be more determined by the state of the souls of the younger monks rather than from their action, but he also goes on to argue that some lying is salutary.

It is important to be very careful here. It is clear from the examples and arguments used by Joseph that at least three things are included under the term 'lying' that later tradition distinguishes: promise-breaking, saying something false in order to mislead, and 'hiding' (i.e., presenting a different face to the world than one has in private, as when a monk hides the fact that he is fasting). Indeed, one of the reasons Augustine plays such a big role in later moral theology about lying is that he is one of the first to recognize that the term was used so ambiguously and to begin roughing out a scheme for distinguishing these different uses; and most of the history of the moral theology of lying has been a series of refinements on Augustine's basic refinements. It becomes generally recognized in the moral theology that follows Augustine that some promises should be broken and some 'hiding' is permissible, and that these aren't even necessarily lies at all; so we need to be careful in how we compare what Cassian says to what Augustine or someone in the Augustinian tradition like Aquinas says -- the two are separated by the fact that Cassian is using a very loose colloquial term from common conversation about morality and Augustine, worried about some of the confusions and sloppiness of this sort of colloquial term, has put in some work to make it more precise.

One thing that we must get out of the way, however, is eliminate any suggestion that Joseph argues that any kind of lie is simply OK considered as a lie. His argument is very different: it is that a lie is like hellebore, which will poison a healthy person but in extreme cases can be used as a medicine to cure him. Joseph insists quite clearly that only in cases of utmost necessity should one even consider a lie like Rahab's: only because on the spur of the moment there was no other obvious way to save the spies was Rahab's lie something that should have been done, and it is only because of that that we should not condemn the action. He also talks about a lie (at least sometimes) involving a stain and about its interfering with one's own spiritual perfection. Indeed, the sort of necessity involved can only be necessity arising where there is love of neighbor and no complete danger of our own salvation; as he will say later, everything should be done for "the preservation of love, for which all things else should be disregarded." Given a forced choice between lying (to our spiritual detriment) and failing to love our neighbor, there is no real contest: we are to love our neighbor in the best way we can, as long as in doing so we aren't putting our very salvation in danger. But it's important to keep in mind, throughout, that while some of the things Cassian calls 'lying' are actually lies, what he means by 'lying' is just the various ways in which we can knowingly mislead people. (Actually, it's even broader than what we would usually mean by this, since it includes among other things breaking promises you really intended to keep when you made them.) And pretty much everyone in the tradition of the Church is agreed that there are ways in which we knowingly mislead people that are not to be condemned in any way.

When you peel away all these things that Cassian calls 'lying' that the Augustinian tradition does not, and just focus on the things that everyone agrees are lies, then the two traditions don't actually seem very far apart. Joseph repeatedly talks about lying in terms that make it sound like its a venial sin; some of the things he says suggests that he might think that there can be special dispensations (as Scotus allows), and possibly he thinks there have been (apparently unlike Scotus). What we really find with Cassian is moral theology in a transitional state: his precise view is unclear because he has no precise view (it doesn't entirely help that this is a dialogue and thus that the answers are built dialectically and dynamically). This is not to say his view is not well-developed: with Cassian we find moral theology beginning to take into account a massive amount of moral examples and advice that have to do with lying and begin to make sense of it all at once rather than in a piecemeal way. He lacks, however, Augustine's somewhat closer analysis of the different ways in which we might knowingly mislead someone, and because of this he makes no distinction between breaking a promise you shouldn't have made, saying something false for a good reason, and not being completely open about everything. Given how broadly he is taking the term, his basic position is actually something everyone agrees with: there are times when it is necessary as a matter of charity to try to mislead someone, knowing that they will likely be misled. He does apply this at times to lies in the narrow sense but does not do so in such a way as to suggest that the lie is therefore not defective; he does say that sometimes such lies are blameless, when charity is on the line, but does not clarify the sense in which this is so. And thus it is not possible to put Cassian in clear opposition to Augustine on the issue of lying; he says things that can be taken as either consistent or inconsistent with Augustine depending on how one takes his claims to map onto precisions he does not make. It is even possible to read him as, with perhaps a minor exception or two, taking a much stronger stand against deception generally than many in the Augustinian tradition do.

Regardless, it's clear from Cassian's discussion that any kind of deception is dangerous business, and never to be undertaken lightly.

Links of Note

* The Philosophers' Carnival is up at "Enigmania".

* The Girls on Film take famous guy scenes from movies and recreate them with women.

* William Tighe on Eric Lionel Mascall

* Keith Burgess-Jackson takes note of what Bentham really thought was "nonsense on stilts".

* Johann Sebastian Bach moving the hearts of Japan.

* Christopher A. Decaen, Aristotle's Aether and Contemporary Science (ht)

* What Early Greek Philosophy Was Not Like... at "Kenodoxia"

* A summary of Hume on representationalism (i.e., the discussion of constancy in T 1.4.2) at "Beyond Necessity"

* Arsen Darnay reminds us of the origin of the word 'eavesdropping'.

Stacking Categorical Propositions

An advantage of the stack method of representing logical propositions is that it allows for the easy tracking of distribution, and shows quite clearly its relation to universality.

Suppose we take a standard A (universal affirmative) proposition: Every beagle is Snoopy-like. We can represent this, stackwise, in the following way:

Snoopy-like
Beagle

That is, Snoopy-like is here the term under which Beagle falls, with no allowance for exceptions. We can then represent the I (particular affirmative) proposition Some beagle is Snoopy-like as:

Snoopy-like
*Beagle

Snoopy-like is still the term under which Beagle falls, but the asterisk lets us know that we are allowing exceptions to this relationship (not guaranteeing any, of course, just allowing them). We continue on with the E (universal negative) proposition, No beagle is Snoopy-like:

~Snoopy-like
Beagle

(I use the tilde instead of the minus here because I think it stands out better.) This lets us know that the term under which Beagle falls is non-Snoopy-like, and no allowance is made for exceptions. And to conclude the cycle, the O (particular negative) proposition, Some beagle is not Snoopy-like:

~Snoopy-like
*Beagle

Just like E, of course, but this time allowing exceptions.

Now the old way of handling syllogisms, which once was common in logic textbooks is by way of distribution. It fell out of favor for quite a while as an unclear concept, but has slowly been making a comeback as people have begun to think that there was something to the idea after all. In Sommers-style term functor logic, for instance, distributed terms are associated with minus signs and undistributed terms with plus signs, and it is precisely this that makes the whole thing work. The standard way of assigning distribution to the four families of categorical proposition is as follows:

Subject Term Predicate Term
A Distributed Undistributed
E Distributed Distributed
I Undistributed Undistributed
O Undistributed Distributed

That is, subject terms are distributed when quantity is universal and predicate terms are distributed when quality is negative. (Asebinop was the mnemonic suggested sometimes in the nineteenth century: A subject, E both, I neither, O predicate; which, I confess, has never seemed to me a particularly memorably mnemonic.)

Keeping this in mind we can see that our rules for stacking guarantee that distribution is respected. Terms at the top of a stack are undistributed unless they have ~ (because they are predicate terms) and terms at the bottom of a stack are distributed unless they have * (because they are subject terms). So far, so simple. But it's worth keeping in mind that the basic idea of stacking is to show relations of universality: those terms are more universal or encompassing, at least in principle, that are on top or to the left (although this latter is not perfectly straightforward), while ~ so to speak makes a top term more encompassing and * so to speak makes a bottom term less. Distribution is what it is because of the three properties that determine how expansive or restrictive a term is in its relation to another term: position in the stack (i.e., status as subject or predicate), ~ (i.e., status as negative or positive), * (i.e., status as exception-allowing or non-exception-allowing).

Properly speaking, of course, a term is distributed, or used distributively, when it applies to everything for which a term has 'personal supposition'; so this all makes quite a bit of sense, although full discussion would require getting into details of supposition theory. But supposition theory itself is a detailed theory of what we might call the capacity of a term to stand for something, and terms are included in or fall under other terms to the extent that what they stand for is part of what the other term stands for.

Thinking of our stacks in terms of the universality relations among terms, we can also see why something like subalternation makes sense. If I have a proposition like this:

Snoopy-like
Beagle

I am saying that Beagle falls under or is included within Snoopy-like, no exceptions; if I add a * to the bottom of the stack:

Snoopy-like
*Beagle

all I am doing is saying that Beagle falls under or is included within Snoopy-like, and I am not committed to there being no exceptions: the * just indicates that the term might, for all I'm claiming, cover less than it does when unrestricted. This is a weaker claim, and by the dictum de omni (what applies without qualification to a term still applies to the term under qualification) the one follows from another.

The other oppositions, of course, work much the same way: contrariety and subcontrariety add or subtract a ~, and contradiction adds or subtracts ~ and also *. One potential disadvantage is that conversion is less perspicuous.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Stylishly Flawed

Pearls Before Swine

The Peacock

Do not as very many do, my brother, pay too much attention to the virtue you may possess and thus neglect passing judgment on the vices you have disregarded. But imitate the example of the peacock which naturally acts quite differently. It has its ugly feet, like those of a chicken, always in view, but displays the spectacular beauty of its tail behind it. In its feet it sees something gross that it may despise, but ignores its tail that might cause it to be admired. Before its eyes is that which causes it humiliation, but on the back it carries that for which it can strut before all other birds. You too should hide that which is virtuous within you, but never fail to view and judge what might be sinful and in need of correction.

Peter Damian, Letter 95. Today is the feast day of San Pietro Damiani, Doctor of the Church. He was a stern theologian, but whenever I think of him I can't help thinking that he has a name like a party. I dare you to say, "San Pietro Damiani" and not think that it sounds like lots of fun.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Scotus on Lying

Since I previously said a little about Aquinas on lying, I thought I would add a little bit about Scotus on lying.

All the scholastics see the Ten Commandments as serving a sort of dual function: they identify or express essential elements of natural law but do so in a form specifically to be implemented in the covenant with Israel. The prohibition against false witness is, of course, one of the Ten Commandments, and was seen as expressing a natural-law prohibition against lying. All the scholastics are essentially agreed on this: lying is always wrong. They are also essentially agreed on most of the reasons for this: the authority of Scripture, the authority of Augustine, and the authority of reason (in the form of arguments that were universally considered at least probable, e.g., the fact that encouraging lying is bad for society) concurred on the point: that's a scholastic Triple Crown. There were some differences, however, and this was due to a key split in scholastic views on one important concept in natural law theory: dispensation. This is a very tricky issue, so what I say about it here will be brief and crude.

The best known account of dispensation of natural law today is Aquinas's. 'Natural law' covers two kinds of precepts: general precepts and precepts for particular situations. In precepts for particular situations the appropriate authority -- and especially God -- can grant a dispensation. For instance, usually you have to pay back loans, but God could in principle overrule that. The general precepts are exceptionless: nobody, not even God can actually dispense from them (because that would involve a contradiction). And Aquinas is very clear that all the precepts indicated by the Ten Commandments are general precepts.

There is another view, which in part due to Bonaventure, became associated with the Franciscans. On this view, only the precepts of the first table (which have to do with rendering what is due to God) are indispensable general precepts. The precepts associated with the second table (which have to do with rendering what is due to our neighbor) are dispensable by God. Scotus notes that the second-table commandments do not concern themselves with good as such, which the first-table commandments do, but good under various qualifications relevant to human beings. This means that in principle God could remove a condition implicit in the precept so that in principle they could be broken without compromising one's pursuit of the last end. The 'in principle' is important: Scotus goes on to argue tht while these dispensable precepts have no strictly necessary connection to the indispensable precepts, they have a very profound harmony with them, and so any such dispensation would necessarily be quite rare and for extraordinary purposes.

Thus when Aquinas says that lying is always wrong, he means there are absolutely no possible exceptions. When Scotus says that lying is always wrong, however, he wants to allow the possibility of a dispensation from God for extraordinary purposes. Any Scotists reading this can correct me, but as far as I know there's no evidence to think that Scotus holds that God has ever dispensed from the precept against lying -- there would have to be clear reason to think that God actually revealed such a dispensation. Dispensation from the precept against lying looks to me like a pure hypothetical for Scotus. But even if not, it is, again, rare, for extraordinary purposes, and would require clear signs from God. The only real difference between Aquinas and Scotus on this point is that Aquinas holds tht it is never possible to lie without doing something wrong, while Scotus would allow that it might be possible to do everything one does in a lie and yet not do something wrong if God had reason to set it up things in that case in a way that he generally (for good reason) does not. Either of these views can reasonably be held by a Catholic; but Scotus's view provides about as much leeway as can seriously be granted on the subject.

[Incidentally, on what it is about lying in itself that makes it wrong, the Wadding editors suggest that Scotus rejects Aquinas's view and accepts a different view. But, having read all the relevant passages in grad school while trying to pull together a paper on dispensation in natural law theory, and having re-read Scotus on lying, I don't see much similarity between Aquinas's actual view and the one Scotus rejects, and while the emphases are different, with, e.g., Aquinas putting more emphasis on the object in building his argument, every major element of the view Aquinas reaches seems to me to be in the view Scotus reaches and vice versa. Because their vocabulary is not exactly the same one could read them as putting forward essentially different views, but this doesn't seem obviously required by any argument made, and I think this is one of those areas where the differences between the Common Doctor and the Subtle Doctor have been exaggerated. At least, any assumption that they are opposed needs to be closely examined. But this is a side issue.]

The Strangest Whim

A Ballade Of Suicide
G. K. Chesterton


The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours—on the wall —
Are drawing a long breath to shout ‘Hurray!’
The strangest whim has seized me . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself today.

Tomorrow is the time I get my pay —
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall —
I see a little cloud all pink and grey —
Perhaps the Rector’s mother will not call —
I fancy that I heard from Mr Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way —
I never read the works of Juvenal —
I think I will not hang myself today.

The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational —
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small —
I think I will not hang myself today.

Envoi
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even today your royal head may fall —
I think I will not hang myself today.

It's a very Chestertonian conceit: there are always reasons not to kill yourself, and every single one of them is a reason to live -- and not just to live, but live it with zeal.