Philosophical Good Faith (Or, Boo, Hiss, Moriarty!)

As I tend to do, I’d like to make an argument that I am not necessarily ready to stand by; rather, I’ll throw it out there, and see if it sticks. I’m going to argue that “good faith” is necessary to genuine philosophical dialogue; without “good faith”, genuine philosophical dialogue cannot occur, and there is a direct correlation between the degree of good faith in such a discussion and the value of that discussion itself.

First, I’ll help to define some terms. I choose the word “dialogue” rather than lecture to indicate the method of direct communication between multiple parties, with the intent of communication between the two of them. Let’s leave “philosophical” ambiguous, but state that the goal should be that the dialogue be productive for both individuals, without getting too into what is meant by that (as the meaning of “philosophical” is another post in and of itself). Genuine means that the intentions of the individuals participating are explicitly and directly communicated or understood; there is not a hidden meaning or purpose behind the discussion.

What, then, to make of “good faith”? I’ll introduce the concept as follows: “good faith” refers to the state in which an argument is presented. In order for a state to be considered one of “good faith”, it is necessary (although not necessarily sufficient) that the individual in said state maintain the following three properties: absolute earnestness, justified belief, and coherence between one’s argument, one’s method of communication, and one’s intention. Let’s see if I can expand on those a bit, and how examples hold up.

By “absolute earnestness,” I mean that an individual’s argument must be communicated with conviction, and be willing to affirm that conviction’s relation to the argument. If there are contingencies attached to the conviction, they must be communicated, or else “absolute earnestness” shall not be attained, and an individual shall not be acting in a state of good faith. As an example, assume that I am engaged in what I intend to be a genuine philosophical dialogue with Moriarty, and assume that he proposes, “Atoms do not exist”, to be a justified belief (he might offer rational arguments for this position), and his argument might be internally and externally coherent. However, if his argument is made simply to frustrate his fellow dialoguer, rather than promote investigation and/or edification, his argument is not made in good faith; his argument lacks absolute earnestness. If he were truly acting in good faith, he would work to help either himself or his colleague (or both) reach a productive or edifying philosophical end, rather than simply trying to win an argument. Moriarty, unfortunately, tends not to act in absolute earnestness; he brings in unusual and jarring argument for the sake of confusing or perplexing his fellow philosopher, and doesn’t really intend to serve a philosophical cause with his arguments. Boo, hiss, Moriarty!

By “justified belief”, I mean that one must argue from a standpoint of belief, and that belief cannot be purely arbitrary. First, assume I say, “Murder is necessarily good”; if one stated that and did not believe it, they should not assume it as a premise for an argument. However, imagine that one stated, “Suppose that murder were necessarily good”, “What if murder is necessarily good”, or, “Wouldn’t that entail murder being necessarily good?” Such claims are interrogative, not declarative; they are not stating beliefs, but rather using contra-positives to help explore another’s (hopefully justified) belief. Justification refers to a degree of sufficiency with respect to reasons that one has a belief. Just because Moriarty argues that “Corporations are evil, because they want profit” is justified does not mean that said belief is sufficient (boo, hiss, Moriarty!). What determines sufficiency for justification would be a topic of another post; for now, hopefully my point is clear enough. At any rate, assume that I am dialoguing with Moriarty about whether a true practitioner of Nietzsche’s philosophy would necessarily believe in the existence of God. If Moriarty argued that “Nietzsche proved that God is dead, so God necessarily once existed”, his belief (let’s assume that he actually believes it) would not be justified; even a most basic understanding of Nietzsche’s point with that statement would explicitly affirm that Moriarty missed the point. Moriarty would not have been acting in good faith, because he was citing a vital argument (which he believed to be representative of Nietzsche’s philosophical arguments on the subject) that he did not even have a basic understanding of. Thus, his belief was not justified; he was not acting in coherence with philosophical good faith.

Lastly, good faith requires “coherence between one’s argument, one’s method of communication, and one’s intention”. Since there’s a lot of interplay here, I’ll try to be brief. Suppose that one is trying to communicate a philosophical argument, but doing so at gunpoint. There would not be coherence between the individual’s argument (which was philosophical in nature) and one’s method of communication (which is violent, forceful, and antithetical to the consent and understanding of the gunpointee). One would be acting in good faith if they were arguing, “Give me your money”, and had someone at gunpoint; this element of good faith would be satisfied, even though it might be an immoral act. Similarly, if intends to have a philosophically productive/edifying conversation, and yet their argument or their method of communication were quarrelsome and belligerent, they would not be acting in good faith. Moriarty might try those sort of things, but to him we say, boo, hiss.

So, there you have it. I could go on longer, but it’s a long blog post, already. Zach’s argument for what good faith is. I did not have time to actually argue why it’s necessary, but hopefully the necessity should be implicit in the arguments. If not, it’ll make for a good follow-up post…

The Apostasy of Smerdyakov

Greetings,

Although my free–reading time has been severely limited due to the standard semester business, I’ve nevertheless found time to continue reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Aside from having the coolest name I’ve ever read (say it aloud a few times and bask in its greatness), Dostoevsky has a pretty interesting way of structuring his character development… I’m not convinced yet that the book deserves the accolades it has received, but it’s at least keeping me reading, which means I might be swayed, eventually.

In Book Three, Chapter VII (“The Controversy”), a character named Smerdyakov argues that, if one takes the Bible to be axiomatically true, it would not be a sin for an individual to renounce his faith if faced with torture or, perhaps, even death. Even though the character is largely trying to provoke others into anger with the argument, the argument itself is interesting, and I’d like to see how well you all think it works. I’m going to spell it out in as straightforward manner as possible. The edition I’m using the reference this is the 1976 Constance Garnett translation, revised and edited by Ralph E. Matlaw. I shall be referring to the tortured individual as “I” in this argument, because that is how Smerdyakov chose to argue.

1. The instant I say to a potential tormentor, “No, I’m not a Christian, and I curse my true God”, I am immediately cursed and “cut off” from the Holy Church (116)
2. However, one need not speak their apostasy; when I think it, before I had actually said it, I am already “cut off”—“accursed”. (116)
3. At the moment I become accursed, I become exactly like a heathen, and my christening is taken off me. (117)
4. If I’ve ceased becoming a Christian, I have told no lie to the enemy when they asked whether or not I was a Christian, as I had already lost my salvation before speaking. (117)
5. If I’m no longer a Christian, then I can’t renounce Christ, for I have nothing to renounce that belongs to me. (117)
6. It is said in Scripture that, if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and tell a mountain to move into the sea, it would instantly do so. (118)
7. If a torturer tells me to convert, and I tell a mountain to move and crush the tormentor, and it does not do so, my faith wasn’t even that of a mustard seed, and thus I wouldn’t have been able to get to heaven, anyways. (119)

The intended result? If an individual is told to either renounce their religion or be tortured, and they proclaim that they will not be tortured because of x [x could be any saving act, such as the moving of a mountain], x will happen if their faith is real. If their faith is not real, one thinks that they are not saved, and thus cannot renounce their faith, because they have nothing to renounce. Thus, it is not a sin to commit apostasy (to renounce one’s faith) under the threat of torture, because one has nothing to renounce.

Thoughts? Is his argument good, and does it prove what he thinks it proves? Is it simply a word game, or is there something there?

Humorous v. Serious Language: Can Opposites Attract?

For those of you who were able to attend Dr. Sands’ lecture last Thursday – “Lincoln’s Serious Use of Humor” – I bet you got as much joy out of it as I did. I would here like to qualify, however, what some may have mistakenly taken from his presentation and conclusions – or rather, more preferable to say, complement those arguments.

Political rhetoric is like no other. There exists in all of us some strangely excitable passions that can be played upon and provoked, shaking us awake from our state of dormancy and general malaise, and orators and politicians assuredly know all the best ways to do this. There is, of course, philosophical inquires to be made about how rhetoricians ought to persuade, and the responsibilities entailed by both speaker and audience member, and so on, but those are not the topics right now. Here I’d like to focus on the important Dynamic Duo of humorous and serious language, and their efficacy on the masses.

Comedy has an unquestionably universal prevalence in our society, and especially in politics. Remember back to the popularity of late night talk shows in the 2008 elections, what, with Tina Fey’s impersonations of Sarah Palin, the nightly infotainment of Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart, and all the other sensational political sources like tabloids and satirical cartoon caricatures. Just look at the ratio of comedies on television as opposed to intellectual shows (whatever those may actually be). Even the unabashedly bawdy two-thousand-year-old political jokes of Aristophanes still get chuckles. This obsession with all political things humorous may not be the very best way to inspire citizens towards betterment, and it certainly poses a severe problem to those earnestly wanting to reform society without a punch line. Do we really want our political leaders to be endlessly amusing, always eager to put a smile our face? Most would agree that we want people of the best sort, with genuine, upstanding moral characters, with eloquence and dignity, and with the citizens’ and the society’s best interests at heart. Not too many comedians are described in this way, for humor can tend to bring out the worst in people, yet the politician-comedian who delights the masses is able to win over the bemused crowd with ease.

You may argue that because humor is so effective a tool, why am I condemning it? It is natural, after all, to like things that make us happy, and humor does that! Let’s look at Lincoln for a response to this. He was a statesman incomparable, and cleverly weaved humor, irony, and satire in his life to the advantage of his political career, and his name is not denounced! Yet as president, when he gave speeches and effectively spoke to all the people of the nation and pervasively to us as well, the humor gave way to a more somber tone, often resembling beautiful, poetic prose rather than humorous or more pleasing language. And it is this, rather than his use of humor, that actually moved people the most and when it counted. Rather than a pursuit of persuading a crowd to vote for him, Lincoln was here calling for a cathartic change in the very souls of the American public, and knew that serious language was the correct way to go.

For those who take the time to listen to the less “exciting” speeches and texts of politics, and who study their arguments and meaning, they will be far more affected and on a much deeper level than by any other way of speech. Audiences can be swayed by satire, humorous exaggerations, or funny anecdotes, but it is far more likely that they will enjoy it, laugh a little, and then forget it. Dramas, after all, and tragedies are not nearly so pleasurable to endure at times as comedies, for the former often aim to show us what’s worst about ourselves, and what needs to change. Audiences more inclined to the comedies, however (and that could very well be argued to mean the majority of Americans today!), would also be far more prone to a paralyzed, lazy mind, and less likely to study the “boring” political arguments that deserve more than a casual glance. It must be held that an appeal to intellect, by politicians or others, calls the audience to think and live at an altogether higher level. Instead of having our orators vie with each other for the most laughs, leaders should want to inspire greatness and a betterment of the citizenry through appeals to the higher faculties of man. Dr. Sands’ (and Lincoln’s) aim was ultimately to praise humor and its effectiveness, but only when tempered by serious language as well. Humor does not get a free ride just because we like it, but it must be used rightly. The best use of language must be a good mixture of both humorous and serious language, so shoot for that mean.