Thanksgiving Day Kierkegaard

Thanksgiving Day Post:

The following is an excerpt from my paper “Love and a Significant World: Seeing the invisible with love in the works of Saint Augustine and Søren Kierkegaard.”

Language and pre-linguistic meanings

Like Augustine, Kierkegaard seems to believe in pre-linguistic meanings, but, much more than Augustine, he emphasizes their extra-linguistic manifestations in the practice of everyday life.

In an 1842 upbuilding discourse, Kierkegaard repeats, in his usual hypnotic fashion, a passage from James. “Every good and every perfect gift is from above and comes down from the Father of lights, in Whom there is no change or shadow of variation.” [1]

For Kierkegaard, it is impossible to understand the true meaning of this sentence merely in its propositional form (S is P). In fact, he says that doubt (functioning rather like the serpent in the Garden of Eden) first imposes a propositional structure upon the sentence, and, in the process, drains it of all practical meaning.

Doubt is sly and guileful … it is unassuming and crafty … it does not deny that these words are beautiful, that they are comforting; if it did that, the heart would rebel against it; it merely says that the words are difficult, almost enigmatic. It wants to help the troubled mind to understand the apostolic saying that every good and every perfect gift is from God. ‘What does this mean? What else but that everything that comes from God is a good and a perfect gift, and that everything that is a good and perfect gift is from God.’ This explanation certainly is simple and natural, and yet doubt has craftily concealed itself in it. Consequently, it goes on: ‘Therefore, if a person is to be able to find peace in these words in his lifetime, he must be able to decide either what it is that comes from God or what may legitimately and truly be called a good and a perfect gift. But how is this possible? [2]

Notice that doubt has already, “craftily concealed itself,” in the very first question: “what does this mean?” The deception is not in the suggestion that the apostle’s words have meaning, but that their meaning can be captured in a form manipulatable by abstract thought. With doubt’s premise, logic leads straight to the conclusion that no human being can really know what the words mean, because no one can know when and where they apply. Of course, from heaven, it may be perfectly easy to see that certain things in the world are gifts, but here on earth, it is only possible to see things as things. Given our blindness, it would be pointless to ask about the appropriate response to seeing the gift. We are left with an unsettling paradox that, although doubt has produced an objective meaning for the sentence, “every good and every perfect gift …” it does so by sacrificing even the possibility of practical consequence. If the highest apprehension of the truth is objective, then doubt’s work is done, because the objective meaning has been given and the limitations of our knowledge have been well-defined. If objectivity cannot, even in principle, find a meaning in this verse with practical consequences, then nothing lower than objectivity can either.

The language of the response

Kierkegaard suggests another approach, which involves rethinking the meaning, not in the language of propositions but in the language of a lived response. [3]

This means not beginning with the quest for objectivity, which seeks to grasp the meaning in full, prior to determining its validity, and prior to acting according to that determination. Instead of grasping the meaning, we are able simply to interpret the meaning. This requires a prior commitment on two levels. First, we must recognize that the words in Ja 1:17, “are by one of the Lord’s apostles, and if we ourselves have not deeply perceived their meaning, we nevertheless dare to trust that they are not casual and idle words, a flowery expression of a flimsy thought, but that they are faithful and unfailing, tried and tested, as was the life of the apostle who wrote them.” [4]

To understand their meaning, we must first of all believe that they have a meaning. This is not surprising. It seems true even for the simplest propositions, such as “this is a dog.” What makes the words of Ja 1:17 different, however, is that they are apostle’s words, which means that they are themselves gifts from above, and that they are spoken to real (not to abstract) human beings. Thus, the presupposition is not simply that they mean something but that they mean something existentially relevant. This brings us to a second and deeper level of commitment, in recognizing that understanding their meaning may not be safe. We must “dare to trust;” we must “risk the venture.” [5]

We must alter our very own subjectivities. To be more specific, we must be thankful.

When you had doubts about what came from God or about what was a good and perfect gift, did you risk the venture? And when the light spark of joy beckoned you, did you thank God for it? And when you were so strong that you felt you needed no help, did you thank God? And when your allotted portion was little [liden], did you thank God? And when your allotted portion was sufferings [Lidelser], did you thank God? And when you yourself had to deny your wish, did you thank God? And when people wronged you and insulted you, did you thank God? We are not saying that their wrong thereby ceased to be wrong — what would be the use of such pernicious and foolish talk! It is up to you to decide whether it was wrong; but have you taken the wrong and insult to God and by your thanksgiving received it from his hand as a good and a perfect gift? Did you do that? Well, then you have worthily interpreted the apostolic words to the honor of God and your own salvation. [6]

This involves conceiving the entire cosmos as a gift from the one being most worthy of praise and devotion. By this, I do not mean only conceiving the totality of the cosmos as a gift, but also each of its constituent parts in all their imperfections. We give thanks to the Creator even given the reality of evil, and not only when that evil is in a distant time and place but also (and especially) when it presents itself directly to us. It is important to recognize that no imperative to relate to the world this way can be derived from the world as it is. If we think the world purely immanently, on the presumption that it can relate to nothing other than the immanent, this kind of unqualified thanksgiving will seem irrational. At times, it will seem like an act of self-hatred or of cold-hearted misanthropy. It is for a person easy to be thankful for things he deems to be good, but who could be thankful for things he sees as harmful? Only by giving thanks to God can one see the cosmos as a gift, and thereby to find oneself within an ontologically different world, a world which exists only in the light of God. This is why Kierkegaard says that, by thanksgiving, “you have worthily interpreted …” rather than saying that you have fulfilled a duty to something already understood. The meaning is never already understood, because the interpretation involves a continuous act. Because the language in which the verse can be understood is nothing less than a life, to stop giving thanks is not like forgetting a meaning. It is to stop understanding altogether. [7]

[1] See Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses Kierkegaard’s Writings 5. Trans Howard V Hong and Edna H Hong. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990, 31-48.

[2] EUD, 41. See also Works of Love. Kierkegaard’s Writings 16. Trans Howard V Hong and Edna H Hong. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995, 384.

[3] It may seem strange to refer to a lived response as a ‘language.’ My purpose in doing so is only to indicate that it Kierkegaard treats such a response (in this case thanksgiving) as the only proper vehicle for interpreting a certain meaning. This does not, of course, mean that it must have various other sorts of similarities to verbal communication. It may have some similarities, but it is worth remembering that it is capable of interpreting meaning precisely because a full response of the human soul is very different from ordinary verbal speech. When Climacus thinks through the operation of speech, he finds it frustrating more or less for the same reason I have indicated above.

Of what use is it to find out that there is an eternal philosophy that eternal philosophy that everyone should embrace if everyone did not learn how to go about doing it or if no one at all learned it … The words had not helped him make any advance. On the contrary, after careful consideration, they seemed to end precisely at the point of beginning before he had even heard them; for that is precisely what he wanted to investigate, how the single individual must relate to that thesis, and, consequently, how the single individual must embrace philosophy. (Judge for Yourself! Kierkegaard’s Writings 2. Trans Howard V Hong and Edna H Hong. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990, 148, emphasis mine)

Later on, he says that the word cancels the immediacy of reality by giving it expression. (JC, 167-8). I do not believe that Kierkegaard thinks thanksgiving constitutes an unmediated form of expression any more than does speech. It is only that it can mediately express meanings that speech cannot.

[4] EUD, 32 emphasis mine.

[5] Ibid, 43.

[6] Ibid, 43. The thanksgiving offered generally and at all times is intimately related to the Eucharistic thanksgiving Luke 22:19. “Taking bread, he gave thanks” (Mt 26:26; Mk 14:22; Lk 22:19). For a development of this thought, see Jean Luc Marion’s God Without Being, 149-152.

[7] See EUD, 173.

Art communicating truth

I saw a philosophy lecture this afternoon on “Photography, Film, and the Phenomenology of the Human Person,” delivered by Georgetown University’s Professor John Brough.

One of the claims he made in the lecture was that art communicates truth, but it is still imprecise to call it a language. That seems plausible enough to me. But I started to wonder just exactly how it is that art communicates truth to the viewer. (I use the term “viewer” loosely, since not all art is visual but off-hand, I can’t think of a better word to use).

I wondered if I could come up with some typology of ways that art communicates truth to the viewer, and came up with the following four:

1. It communicates something about what it represents. A picture depicting a moment of glory or of pain or of love, for instance, tells us something about human beings. A picture of nature tells us something about nature. The virtue corresponding to this type is the artist’s insight. The artist has some insight about some aspect of reality and brings it to the fore by his art.

2. It communicates something about the artist himself. Here, I do not necessarily mean a self-portrait. A work of art will often express the artist by its specific style, for instance. The virtue corresponding to this type is the artist’s authenticity. His task is adequately to express himself.

3. It communicates something concerning the viewer himself, while he views or remembers the art. The virtue in this case is the artist’s ability to evoke a response in others. His task is to create a kind of mirror that causes me to reflect on myself.

4. The fourth type differs from the others, in that the truth it communicates is not grasped primarily while I still view or consider the art consciously. Rather, art may contribute to my educational formation over time. People who develop their taste in art may begin to see the world differently. They may become better equipped to grasp certain truths even apart from an artistic setting. It seems very unlikely to me that this type of communication would occur with a single work of art, although I suppose this is a possibility. More likely, this can only occur through a wide exposure to great art. The virtue corresponding to this type belongs to the viewer rather than to the artist, and it is called aesthetic judgment.

I think that covers all possible ways that art can communicate truth to the viewer. In any work of art, we only need to consider three things: the artwork itself, the artist, and the viewer. In my typology, the first type focuses on the artwork, the second on the artist, the third and fourth on the viewer.

That should cover it. Have I missed anything?

Voices of the eschaton

Another poem:

Voices of the eschaton

I.

Appearing small in crowds or whisked away

no name I know nor need I know to give

to each his own, from each alike receive;

but names they have and names I s’pose I may

use just as well as any other tool

to calculate the Just, constrain raw might;

nor need I name myself to claim my rights

except convention set the name as rûle;

and shou’d affection call me forth: ‘Enjoy,

enjoy, enjoy your precious, only life,’

’tis true that making friends or choosing wives

will benefit if we our names deploy.

Yet perfect names are more it can be shown

if one but once is called by name and known.

II.

Ah, what delight! I take your point, my friend,

but let’s not take a clever point too far.

A novel thought will make my heart to soar

’til earth and sky it seems turn end on end;

and I all giddy belt that, ‘starward bound

I’ll map the skies ’til each and all is known.

By stars, the rigid past be overthrown!’

And boasting thus, I deadly find the ground.

Let’s stay on earth and earthly live a life.

The names we share — I mean our perfect names —

cannot by rights be shared with all the same,

but only these: your friend, your kin, your wife.

Nor even they shou’d know the name that’s you.

A pseudo-name quite near your own will do.

III.

To speak a name in vain the Lord forbade,

and more than this, that none shall live who see —

who face-to-face feign eye the Trinity;

and all be vain, the wisest man has said.

Though vainest men upon the face confess

and scholarly dissect the finest points,

‘tut tut for tit’ and ‘tit for tat’ rejoins,

and from each word know ever less and less—

though vainly know they nought but fortune’s face,

they know not this at all, the eye unsate

by sight, which crookedness with joy berate.

By sight and speech is damned the human race.

If voice and vision vainly make despair,

is hope a dreadful, silent darkness bare?

IIII.

Who see the face see far beyond the seen;

who speak the name much more than spoken speak.

Absurdity! Is power ever meek?

Is glory mocked or filth proclaimed as clean?

And anyway, the seen is quite enough —

a burden borne (when borne) with eyes half-closed;

and spoken words when sharpened well are woes

like serpents’ teeth. I say, it’s quite enough.

I do not like to look for deeper truth.

With stakes so high and life so short as this,

let Truth be seized and nailed, upon my kiss.

I shed this tear for memories of youth;

For youth I’ve lost as age has taught me well:

To keep your life, just pay your debt to Hell.

V.

The tips of wings the stillest waters cleave.

The lips approach, almost, almost a kiss. —

What terrifies and consummates in bliss.

From elsewhere, here, my heart I now receive.

Tho’ ev’ry worldly power be increased,

and science master all her noble goals,

these cannot harm nor heal a human soul;

But all is changed by one small breath released.

Released from flesh for flesh a holy breath, —

a breath to bind or loose all from all deeds,

which all too oft’ appealed to fated need,

and compromised, concessions made to death,

not heeding heralds’ joyous shouting, ‘Lo!

Rejoice! Thy death were conquered long ago.’

August 10, 2009

Thoughts on Caritas in Veritate

What follows is a response to Pope Benedict XVI’s latest encyclical Caritas in Veritate. I have responded primarily to the theological anthropology put forward in the letter, rather than his advocacy of socialism or his hints at world government. I may have other thoughts at a later time. I have not provided a summary, nor do I follow the outline given by the encyclical itself. The Vatican has released its own summary here. The full text can be found here.

I ask that the following observations be taken as a kind of first reaction to the encyclical, aspiring to blog-post quality.

1. Anthropology as the field of religions

Christian theology has implications for the way we live our lives most especially through what it has to say about the human person. As such, it is useful from a Christian perspective to view the various religious and philosophical doctrines in the world on the playing field of anthropology. By anthropology, I mean here not the specific discipline of empirical anthropology, but the more general discourse about what sort of beings we humans are. Pope Benedict XVI locates Christian theology on just this field, and believes, as one would hope from a holy father, that Christianity has much to offer. “Amid the various competing anthropological visions put forward in today’s society, … Christianity has the particular characteristic of asserting and justifying the unconditional value of the human person and the meaning of growth” (¶ 18). The unconditional value of the person, often called ‘dignity,’ is best expressed in terms of the imago dei — that each person is created in the image and likeness of the holy Trinity. The meaning of growth in Christian theology is well expressed in terms of the dialectic between ethics and eschatology — addressing, respectively, how we ought to live and what we may hope for. I suggest it is through this lens that we ought to read the latest encyclical.

Among the doctrines Benedict names that are at odds with the Christian vision of humanity are utilitarianism, materialism, hedonism, and relativism. It is likely that the percentage of people who would subscribe to any one of these doctrines in a pure form is very small. But Benedict probably has in mind a kind of cultural phenomenon that either presupposes important aspects of these doctrines or else concedes to them, because they usefully offer an easy connection between empirical data and normative principles. One can run numbers to determine who is in material poverty, for instance, but not who is in spiritual poverty. Likewise with utilitarianism, which hopes to maximize happiness for people, and tends to make moral assessments by balancing pleasure against pain. The move from the objective facts (what will cause pleasure and what will cause pain) to the moral dimension (what is good and bad) is so simple in utilitarianism that it need not even be stated explicitly. As a consequence, all the difficult work involved in utilitarian moral reasoning can be presented objectively, and can take on a kind of authority for any people that admires and respects scientific research. The materialist and the utilitarian alike locate the essential elements of truth in the aspects of reality about which there can be little disagreement — the objective sphere. Benedict rightly recognizes an inherent risk in this fact. For if we disallow from our reasoning those aspects of reality that are much disputed, then we are de facto conceding to the materialistic or utilitarian normative principles.

2. Diagnosing cultural problems

Of course, Benedict does more than recognize this as a risk. He believes that it is our current situation — not that all or every organization falls victim to this kind of reasoning, but that enough of our institutions do so to warrant real concern. Here is one place where I believe Benedict has made a mistake. For it seems that he is being guided by the principle that “all social action involves a doctrine” (¶ 30)1 The quote Benedict cites is from Pope Paul VI’s Populorum Progressio, and contains an element of truth. Unfortunately, it is imprecise in a way that can lead to some mistaken conclusions. Because of the unique perspectives of every individual, social action almost never involves only one doctrine. Usually, and at its most effective, it involves many doctrines, some of which are at odds with each other. It would be better to say that “social action always includes certain doctrines while excluding others.” Different doctrines can have common goals. This may seem like a fine point, and surely Benedict could be excused for misspeaking. He was, after all, quoting someone else. The trouble is that the way Benedict interprets cultural phenomena seems to miss this distinction. The fact that a materialist or a utilitarian might be perfectly comfortable with a certain social action does not imply that the social action is itself materialistic or utilitarian.

Take, as an example, one of the movements Benedict has in mind as especially scandalous — the promotion of active euthanasia. Most of the arguments presented in favor of this movement appeal to our aesthetic judgments, our sense of honor and shame, and our commitment to the liberty and free choice of all persons. They emphasize — and no doubt Benedict would agree — that the process of dying can be beautiful in some cases. They find stories in which people seem to have their dignity violated by a dying process that they cannot control. To be sure, the advocates of this movement mean something very different from dignity proper. They mean that these people are powerless, in pain, and feel hopeless. Their reasoning goes well beyond simple materialism, or even utilitarianism, neither of which necessarily implies support for active euthanasia.

If I am correct that Benedict is misinterpreting the ideological underpinnings of certain social movements he would like to oppose or change, it will make his calls for change less effective. If I am to debate someone persuasively, the person I am debating had better be able to recognize himself in the description I give of him.

One distinction that may be helpful in this regard is one that Benedict makes in his discussion of “the technological mindset” on the relation between morality and science (or the permissible and the possible). “One aspect of the contemporary technological mindset is the tendency to consider the problems and emotions of the interior life from a purely psychological point of view, even to the point of neurological reductionism” (¶ 76). For the Christian, the two perspectives of psychological reductionism and neurological reductionism are two modes of the same error — namely, neglecting that aspect of the human person that can only be understood in its relationship to God. But from any non-theistic perspective, these two kinds of reductionism are radically opposed to one another. In fact, early modern philosophy was in large part driven by the need to reconcile the apparently disparate substances of mind and body. I suggest that more emphasis on the distinction between these two erronious kinds of reductionism would be helpful in moving the debate forward. Benedict and other social conservatives too often conflate them (and often throw in the word ‘relativism’ for good measure). This distinction would certainly help to avoid the conflation of utilitarianism and materialism, because the former roughly corresponds to the psychological reduction, while the latter corresponds to the material. But tending to this distinction would also help to shed light on important distinctions within each reduction.

3. The difficulty of assessing cultural motives

I would criticize much of Benedict’s analysis of our present situation in a similar way. The holy father is critical of rampant consumerism, for instance. But if consumerism is understood as a vice involving an attachment to material goods rather than simply the purchasing of material goods (which in itself cannot be a vice), then I think it is rather more difficult to identify than most culture critics would have us believe. The problem of interpretation arises, in fact, precisely because of a commitment to the Christian anthropology. If we were to accept either a psychological reductionism or a materialistic reductionism, then we might have reason to believe that some theory could relatively easily account for all human activity. A proponent of evolutionary naturalism, for instance, would view the consumption of material goods as an expression of some deeper tendency placed in us by the processes of natural selection. And this explanation would be given the privileged place as the ‘right’ or most foundational account of material consumption. A Marxist, of course, would have a different account, as would any number of other ideologies.

Christianity is in a peculiar place in this regard, though, and for three reasons. First, Christianity affirms the uniqueness of each individual, implying that social systems are going to be highly complex. Second, for Christianity, each individual is a relational being. Indeed he is only constituted first by his relation to God, but he is also fundamentally related to his fellow human beings. This fact multiplies the complexity of the system many times over. Finally, each individual is created in the image of an invisible God, which means that when we recognize a person as a subject, we have to include in our understanding the fact that his essence is, in principle, beyond the categories of our understanding. This applies even to our own self-reflection. None of this is to suggest that studying and critiquing culture cannot or ought not to be done. But I am suspicious of theories that ascribe to people implicit motives that they themselves would not advocate. The fact that virtually no one argues that happiness lies in the endless consumption of material goods suggests that this is not a correct assessment of the reason that people in wealthy countries purchase so many things. Indeed, even if we could conclude that a good number of people (say 5%) lean towards a materialistic ontology, I would be willing to bet that they would not be identifiable by their purchasing practises.

4. Christianity’s relational anthropology and speaking of culture

This criticism of the encyclical, however, is somewhat ironic. We can take this relational account of the human person directly from the fifth chapter. And, in fact, it may be here that we can find a solution to address my criticism. The emphases are mine.

Pope Paul VI noted that “the world is in trouble because of the lack of thinking.”2 He was making an observation, but also expressing a wish: a new trajectory of thinking is needed in order to arrive at a better understanding of the implications of our being one family; interaction among the peoples of the world calls us to embark upon this new trajectory, so that integration can signify solidarity3 rather than marginalization. Thinking of this kind requires a deeper critical evaluation of the category of relation. This is a task that cannot be undertaken by the social sciences alone, insofar as the contribution of disciplines such as metaphysics and theology is needed if man's transcendent dignity is to be properly understood.

As a spiritual being, the human creature is defined through interpersonal relations. The more authentically he or she lives these relations, the more his or her own personal identity matures. It is not by isolation that man establishes his worth, but by placing himself in relation with others and with God. Hence these relations take on fundamental importance. The same holds true for peoples as well. A metaphysical understanding of the relations between persons is therefore of great benefit for their development. In this regard, reason finds inspiration and direction in Christian revelation, according to which the human community does not absorb the individual, annihilating his autonomy, as happens in the various forms of totalitarianism, but rather values him all the more because the relation between individual and community is a relation between one totality and another.4 (¶ 53)

Benedict apparently finds sufficient unity in ‘the community’ to refer univocally both to community and individual as totalities. This sort of language leaves individualists like me scratching their heads. In what does such a unity consist? In what sense can the community as community value something? Surely, if community is a totality, then it cannot merely be in the sense that the individuals within the community individually value every individual. It must be that some constitutive principle of the community “values” the individuals within it. The constitutive principle cannot be the will of the community, as guided by the light of reason, because the community has no unified will. But whatever constitutes the unity of a dynamic community must include some appetitive aspect, the nearest anologue of the will in non-rational being. Thus, I take it that Benedict means that whatever guides or shapes the dynamics of a community must support rather than hinder the dignity of individual persons. To this extent, then, we need not be troubled that communities are not well defined entities.

What sorts of principles does Benedict recommend for the life affirming community? I have so far picked out four different principles Benedict offers, but there may be others.

First, it seems that communities must be stabilising forces in our lives, limiting the degree of uncertainty about how the world works to something manageable. When discussing the “current economic crisis,” Benedict says that, “uncertainty over working conditions caused by mobility and deregulation, when it becomes endemic, tends to create new forms of psychological instability, giving rise to difficulty in forging coherent life-plans” (¶ 25). The assessment of the cause of the current crisis, especially as expressed in such broad terms, may be controversial, but I don’t think that it will be controversial that uncertainty causes difficulty in forging a coherent life-plan.

Second, community must be guided by fraternity or solidarity. It is by this that Benedict criticizes a rights-only approach to world problems. “Reason, by itself, is capable of grasping the equality between men and of giving stability to their civic coexistence, but it cannot establish fraternity” (¶ 19). But insofar as we see that all are children of God, and hence beloved by the Beloved, the fraternal desire for our brother’s good comes naturally. I say, “insofar as we see,” with the awareness that, even at our best, this vision is imperfect.

Third, community must be guided by the principle of subsidiarity. This addresses an epistemic limitation that is shared by all finite creatures. We cannot know from any perspective but our own. Naturally, I know myself better than I know my closest family members, and I know them better than I know the resident of 344 Clinton St, Apt 3B. The closer a person is to me, the better I know his needs and desires, and how these fit into his overall the life-plans,

By my reckoning, but apparently not by Benedict’s, the knowledge problem addressed by the principle of subsidiarity finds its most perfect solution in a market economy. Market economies are capable of translating information about the needs and desires of billions of people into dollars and cents. It is a mistake made not only by the free market detractors but even by some of its advocates to think that free markets are fueled by selfish motives. They are not. They are fueled by self-interest, which includes many things that are not only not selfish, but even morally obligatory. The parent, for instance, who wishes to nourish and support his child, acts in self-interest whenever he does good for that child and against his self-interest whenever he causes the child harm. And while it is true that the market’s successful solution to the knowledge problem does not force me to feel any solidarity with my brother, it does require entrepeneurs to think in ways that are other-directed, since without a keen ear for the needs and desires of others, he will never be a successful businessman.

What Benedict does recognize, however, is that the market translates cruël and vicious motives as easily as it translates virtuous motives. He mentions the practice of sex tourism as an extreme example (¶ 61), but hints at others less extreme. Part of the remedy for the neutrality of the market’s calculus is better “formation,” which Benedict calls education, almost certainly while thinking of the Greek notion of paideia. In essence, the people involved in the system (everyone) have to have a measure of virtue and wisdom themselves if the system is going to promote human flourishing. What Judge Robert Bork once said of the US Constitution can be said of any system or institution: “it is impossible to design a [system] so perfect that no one has to be good.”5 Let this be a fourth principle for a life-affirming community, that “institutions by themselves are not enough [for] integral human development” (¶ 11).

Do these four principles (and their relation to what I called the appetitive aspect of a community’s constitution) help to address my concern about Benedict’s criticism of culture? I believe it helps, in that it provides a framework for assessing our culture, and whatever binds it together. To whatever extent the dynamics of a culture work against these four principles (and others), we should work towards changing it. I still have doubts about Benedict’s specific diagnosis of the illness as materialism, utilitarianism, hedonism, and relativism. But it may be possible for his argument without too much alteration to be strengthened by appealing to observable dynamics that run against life-affirming principles. For these dynamics, like social action, always include and exclude various ideologies.

A poem

Whene’re I find my love awaning

Whene’re I find my love awaning

by limits plac’d for noble cause,

affections caution quarantining

lest favor’d charms shou’d be my loss,

then one I ought not love appears

who outward shines a beauty strange,

that blinds my vision of my fears

and narrows focus’ broader range

of surface loves and surface hates

to single points’ infinity

and gathers my distended states

to delta function’s unity.

Who frees me from my captur’d mind

which for life’s sake so hides from life?

Cou’d my subconscious be so kind,

who oft’ elicits so much strife?

Or might the world create such love,

the world herself through general laws,

the sea below, the sky above?

I doubt that she cou’d be the cause

who knows not love nor love displays.

Tho’ in her way she is sublime,

she seems unlike the source of grace

which masters even savage time;

for earth herself to time shall fall

and stars and suns will death take hold.

This frightful time that ruins all

can make to lead the finest gold.

Perhaps companions through this land

have learnt the tricks and tools of fate

and wisely schemed and jointly planned

a homeland we ourselves create;

but they, like I, with self-love’s hate

despair this life each separately

and prudently let love abate;

so when they join communally

they find attending growing wealth

a shadow fear, a lurking thief

who darkens love with coward’s stealth

’til ev’ry gift be made a grief.

“Not I, not I,” each worldly thing

replies in turn as each I ask,

but praises all the all will sing

to Love Who love has set our task.

May 14, 2009