Dr. Steven Jensen: “Why G. E. Moore Could Have Used A Few Lessons in Thomistic Psychology”

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by Dr. Steven Jensen
Tenured Professor of Philosophy, Director Center for Thomistic Studies; Bishop Nold Chair in Graduate Philosophy, University of St. Thomas 
2023 Thomistic Summer Conference
June 16, 2023

 

At the dawn of the 20th century, GE Moore shook the philosophical world with his claim that the good is a nonnatural attribute. From our perch over a century later, it is difficult to imagine how revolutionary his claim appeared. It overturned the foundations of all previous ethics. Nor can we imagine how obvious, once stated, it seemed to the minds of his contemporaries. How could it be both revolutionary and obvious? It was much like the young boy pointing out that the emperor was stark naked, and that his new clothes were nothing at all. It was as if all previous ages were under a beguiling charm. GE Moore, by stating the obvious and releasing us from this charm, was ushering in the dawn of a new philosophical age.

Before long, however, many philosophers began to view the new age as nothing other than a philosophical fad. Moore’s unusual brand of ethical realism was quickly replaced by ethical relativism, which dominated the middle decades of the 20^th century. When the fog of relativism began to lift, however, the ideas of GE Moore were found still standing in the sunlight. Indeed, those who today wish to affirm inherent values typically resort to some version of Moore’s nonnatural attributes.

And as if to confirm Moore’s stature as a prescient philosopher, the latest brand of relativism – error theory – insists that he correctly divined the meaning of value. He erred not in his essential grasp of the meaning of value; he erred only by supposing that values are real. It is, on this view, as if GE Moore correctly expressed the nature of a unicorn. Philosophers had been under the misapprehension that unicorns are five horned animals. Along comes GE Moore, who states the obvious: a unicorn is an animal with one horn. Unfortunately, Moore also maintained the delusion, common in his age, that unicorns really exist.

What gives? Why does Moore’s thought have such staying power? Because, I think, it does state the obvious. Rather, it states what is obvious, on the supposition of a particular view of nature. If nature really is what we suppose it to be, then the good, if it is anything at all, must be something of a nonnatural attribute, an attribute that we perceive immediately, not after the manner of sensible observation and scientific argumentation, but after the manner of some special intuition.

The advent of the modern era introduced a new vision of nature, replacing the Aristotelian vision, which had already been discarded by scholastic thinkers such as Occam. According to this new vision, nature is not teleological; it is not moving beyond itself to achieve some goal. Rather, nature is static. It can be moved and pushed about, but it has no inherent impulse of its own.

Given this static conception of nature, the good must either be nonexistent or it must be some special attribute, distinct from anything we find in nature. Most modern thinkers were unwilling to advocate the first option, but neither did they expressly state the second option. While utilizing various odd notions of the good, they supposed that it can be identified by way of something found in nature. David Hume, of course, insisted that ethics can have nothing to do with nature, but then David Hume was really an advocate of the first option (that the good does not exist), despite his protests to the contrary.

GE Moore, notwithstanding his hypnotically soporific prose, shone a refreshing light upon the ethical scene. He stated the obvious: the good, if it is anything at all, must be non-natural. Of course, he did not reveal that this conclusion depends upon a certain view of nature. By this time, the static view of nature was unquestioned. Neither GE Moore nor his contemporaries could fathom any alternative.

Even many Thomists are influenced by this vision of nature. The teleological conception of nature, to which they adhere at least verbally, plays an insignificant role in their overall thought. Perhaps they are too embarrassed by teleology, so they do not allow it to shape their philosophical musings, at least not openly. Or perhaps their minds, having been thoroughly molded by the zeitgeist, do not really comprehend the nature of teleology.

Handicapped by his vision of nature, Moore was doomed to wander astray in his attempt to identify the good. He needed a few good lessons in Thomistic psychology. He needed an understanding of human capacities, rooted in the human soul. Only by grasping these basics of human nature could he arrive at an accurate understanding of the human good. Only by perceiving the teleological impulse embedded within the very powers of the soul could he subsequently recognize the nature of the true human good.

As we walk through the steps linking the soul to the human good we must begin at the beginning. We must begin with the question that proved so elusive to 20^th century philosophy: what exactly is the nature of the good? GE Moore claimed both that the good is non-natural and that the good is an attribute. He blundered on both accounts, but the primary misstep was the second, for it gave rise to the first. Once we suppose that the good is an attribute, it will inevitably seem rather odd, an oddity captured by Moore through the label “non-natural.” Of course, the good often is an attribute. The attribute of being sharp, for instance, is good for a knife. Nevertheless, the good is not essentially an attribute.

Moore’s crucial misstep might be compared to an attempt to define an opening move in chess. Previous attempts, we might imagine, defined the opening move as pawn e2 to e4, or as pawn d2 to d3, or as knight b1 to c3. Moore points out that all of these definitions are inadequate, since they identify only particular instances of opening moves. Moore then claims that the opening move cannot be defined, for the notion of “opening” refers to a nonnatural attribute. We understand it when we see it, but we cannot define it.

In this fanciful scenario, Moore errs by supposing that the notion of “opening” is some kind of attribute. In fact, it is a comparative term. It refers to the move that begins the game, or the move that precedes all others.

In Moore’s attempt to identify the good, he makes a similar error. He supposes that the good is some kind of attribute. Since it is not an ordinary variety of attribute, such as being yellow or being heavy, he concludes the good must be a nonnatural attribute. In fact, Moore went astray from the beginning, by supposing that the good is some kind of attribute, whether natural or otherwise.

The good is something like the opening move of chess. It is a relational term. Ultimately, it refers to a certain kind of completion. It is best to begin with simple examples. A good pen writes well, a good knife cuts well, a good eye sees well, and a good doctor heals well. These examples suggest that the good is intimately linked with a certain class of things, what might be called functional things. A pen has the function of writing, a knife has the function of cutting, an eye has the function of seeing, and a doctor has the function of healing.

Other things have no function. We do not suppose that a pebble has a function or that a triangle has a function. Without a function, these things are neither good nor bad. We do not speak of good or bad pebbles, nor of good or bad triangles. We could say that a flat pebble is good for skipping on the water, but then we have given the pebble the function of skipping. Similarly, we might say that a drawing of a triangle is good, but a drawing has a function (as well as the artist who makes the drawing). The drawing has the function of representing something, in this case, a triangle. A triangle just by itself has no function. We can speak, then, of good and bad drawings, but we cannot speak of good and bad triangles.

Not only are functional things good or bad in relation to their function; in addition, they are complete or incomplete in relation to their function. A knife that lacks a handle is incomplete, because it needs a handle in order to complete its function. Similarly, a pen that lacks ink is incomplete in relation to its function of writing. In contrast, a knife that lacks ink is in no way incomplete, since ink is unrelated to the function of cutting. We might conclude that the good and completion are one and the same thing.

This conclusion would be hasty, for even nonfunctional things are complete although they are not good. In fact, nonfunctional things are always complete. A triangle with only two sides is not an incomplete triangle; it is no triangle at all. A triangle is complete by having all that makes it to be what it is. This completion, however, does not make it to be good, for triangles are neither good nor bad. We can conclude that the good is not just any completion; it is the completion of something with a function. In Aquinas’s more precise expression, the good is the completion of a final cause. It is the completion of something moving to an endpoint. A knife is moving to the endpoint of cutting and a doctor is moving to the endpoint of healing. These movements are complete when they attain the endpoint. Through this completion, the subject is also good.

For Aquinas, the notion of a final cause is linked correlatively to the notion of an inclination. An inclination is a movement to an endpoint, and an endpoint is the terminus or object of an inclination. An arrow, says Aquinas, is inclined toward the target, and the target is the final cause of the inclination found in the arrow.

This example suggests that Aquinas uses the term “inclination” quite broadly. It includes even the movement of an arrow to a target, which is a violent movement imposed upon the arrow by the archer. This inclination is completely consistent with the static notion of nature mentioned above; it lacks an Aristotelian teleology, which implies an inherent movement towards an endpoint.

For Aquinas, however, not every inclination fits into the static universe. He divides inclinations into those that are extrinsic, which are violent, and those that are inherent, which are nonviolent. These inherent inclinations require a teleological nature, a nature with an impulse to move beyond itself. Aquinas proceeds to make further divisions of inclinations. He divides inherent inclinations into those found in nonconscious nature, such as a tree, and those found in conscious creatures, such as animals. Finally, he further divides conscious inclinations into those of the emotions and those of the will.

The good as completion can correspond to any of these inclinations, even the violent inclination of the arrow. The good of the arrow, we might say, is to hit the target. Similarly, we might say that it is good for a tree to put out roots and to grow. In this way, the tree is made complete. We also say it is good to fulfill our various conscience desires, both those of the will and those of the emotions. The example of the knife indicates that we consider a function to be a kind of movement to an endpoint. Through its function, the knife is directed to the activity of cutting. In every case, then, the good is the completion of something moving to an endpoint.

The good of GE Moore, on the other hand, has nothing to do with an endpoint. It is an attribute that attaches to things even as the color red attaches to a rose, except that the attribute of being good is non-natural, whatever exactly that means. Evidently, it means that it is a bit unusual. In fact, the sharpness of the knife has no unusual property of goodness attached to it. Rather, the sharpness helps to complete the function of the knife, and as such it is good. Similarly, the knowledge that good doctors possess does not have some unusual property of goodness. Rather, it completes the functional role of a doctor.

For Moore, with his static universe devoid of all teleology, this vision of the good is unavailable. He is not concerned with mere conventional goods, such as the good of the knife or the good of the role of a doctor, for which he might find some movement to an endpoint. Rather, he seems to be looking for the human good, although he would not put it that way. If the human good is the completion of some movement to an endpoint, then human beings must be moving to an endpoint. But in Moore’s static world, human beings have no such telos. Perhaps they have the movements of conscious desires, such as the emotions and the will. These movements, however, seem to provide, at most, only subjective goods, depending upon the particular desires of any given person.

At this point, GE Moore might benefit from a few lessons in Thomistic psychology. Aquinas observes that each of our powers has an inclination to an endpoint; alternately, the power is itself an inclination to an endpoint. He says, for instance,

To desire with a natural desire pertains to any potency, for any potency of the soul is a certain nature and is naturally inclined into something.¹

What Aquinas means is perhaps most evident in the power of the intellect. Our minds have a propensity to grasp the truth, to understand the world around us. This propensity does not depend upon some choice or desire that we have. Rather, by its very nature the intellect is moving out to grasp the truth. Understanding the world is simply the telos of the intellect. In short, the intellect has an inclination toward the truth.

This inclination is not a violent inclination, the way that an arrow is pushed from outside by the archer. Rather, it arises from the nature of the intellect itself. Neither is this inclination a conscious desire of the emotions or of the will. It is a propensity of the intellect itself. We might be disposed to call it a conscious desire, because it is realized through conscious acts of understanding. More precisely, however, we should classify it as a nonconscious desire. It is a tendency of the intellect itself, which does not presuppose any prior awareness of the good. In contrast, the conscious inclinations of the will and of the emotions both arise from a prior awareness of the good, for which reason they are called conscious.

Of course, we also desire to know the truth through a conscious inclination of the will. This conscious desire, however, is distinct from the nonconscious inclination of the intellect itself. Our minds are inclined to the truth by themselves, apart from any choice or push that might come from the will. The impulse toward the truth arises from the very nature of the intellect. When the intellect is presented with an object, it moves toward understanding without requiring any choice of the will.

The inclination of the intellect, then, is an inclination of nonconscious nature, like the movement of the tree to grow. It is a tendency toward a conscious act, but it itself does not arise from a conscious awareness of the good, as do the acts of the emotions and will. Likewise, the power to maintain bodily integrity, which might be called the nutritive power, is an inclination of nonconscious nature. When food is provided, the body transforms it into the needed material and energy. We may make a choice to eat, which then provides the food, but we make no choice to digest and assimilate the food. In a similar manner, the power to reproduce is a nonconscious inclination, as is most evident in plants. For human beings, confusion might arise because we choose to engage in sexual intercourse. This choice is indeed a choice to engage the power of reproduction, but this power itself moves out toward new life, apart from any choice. Indeed, it often moves out to new life in opposition to the choice of those engaging in intercourse.

Aquinas insists that each of the powers of the soul has such a nonconscious inclination to some endpoint. It follows that each has some good. For each, the inclination is made complete through its good. The intellect, for instance, is made complete through its act of understanding. Consequently, we may say that the good of the intellect is to know the truth. We may even conclude that the intellect is naturally inclined to know the truth concerning the first cause, as Aquinas states:

Therefore, if the human intellect knows the essence of some created effect but knows of God only that he exists, then the completion of that intellect does not yet attain simply to the first cause, but there remains in it a natural desire to seek this cause.²

Just as the power of the intellect is completed through its activity, so also the good of the nutritive power is found in the completion of its impulse; it is found in the act of digesting and assimilating food. A similar conclusion applies to the other powers.

This picture of human goods is confirmed by Aquinas’s discussion of the natural inclination of the will itself.

With the will we desire not only those things that pertain properly to the power of the will; we also desire those things that pertain to individual powers and to the whole human being. It follows that human beings naturally will not only the object of the will but also other things that are fitting to the other powers, for example, knowledge of the truth, which is fitting to the intellect, to be and to live, and other things of this sort, which refer to one's natural existence. All of these fall under the object of the will as certain particular goods.³

According to Aquinas, then, we do not need some special property of goodness that attaches itself to knowledge, health, friendship, and so on. Rather, we need movements to an endpoint; we need inclinations that can be made complete. These movements or inclinations are realized in our various powers. From the completion of these various powers, then, we have diverse human goods.

 

This (as of yet) incomplete picture of the human good still leaves an important question unanswered. It has explained the nature of the good, but it has not revealed how we come to know these diverse goods. For GE Moore, it seems, we know the good by way of some special capacity to perceive nonnatural properties. A similar doctrine may be found in some who claim their inspiration in Aquinas. According to so-called new natural law advocates, we know the human good not by knowing human nature. Rather, the power of practical reason immediately apprehends our human goods.

Aquinas’s own view differs from that of both GE Moore and the new natural law advocates. Our knowledge of the good depends, according to Aquinas, upon our knowledge of our human nature as realized in the nonconscious inclinations found in our various powers. Given the above analysis of the good, this conclusion is no surprise. Since the good is the completion of some inclination or movement to an endpoint, it follows that we can understand a good only by understanding its correlative inclination. We understand the good of a knife, for instance, only by first understanding the function of a knife. This dependence is evident in the following conversation between Tony and Suzie.

Tony: What makes for a good hygrometer?

Suzie: I have no idea.

Tony: But why not?

Suzie: I don’t even know what a hygrometer is.

Tony: Oh, you don’t? It is something that measures the humidity in the air.

Suzie: Then a good hygrometer will measure humidity well.

When Suzie does not know the function of a hygrometer, then neither does she know what makes it good; once she knows the function, she immediately grasps at least a rudimentary understanding of its good. No one can understand any good whatsoever without knowing some movement to an endpoint. The very notion of the good includes this movement. Without the knowledge of the movement, the good cannot possibly be grasped. With the knowledge of the movement, we spontaneously grasp the good.

It is no wonder, then, that Aquinas links our knowledge of the good with natural inclinations. He says,

The good has the notion of an end while evil has the notion of its contrary, for which reason all those things to which man has a natural inclination reason naturally grasps as goods.⁴

The interpretation of this passage has been confounded, in part, because of its focus upon nature. Aquinas speaks both of natural inclinations and of a natural grasp. If we leave out the word “natural,” and if we further omit the particular reference to human beings and to the human good, so that he might be speaking even concerning the good of a hygrometer, then we are left with the following statement: since the good has the notion of an end, reason grasps as good all those things toward which there is an inclination.

This statement, with no worries about what might count as natural, follows from the very idea of the good. When we perceive a movement to an endpoint, we also perceive that the movement is made complete by that endpoint. Consequently, we perceive this endpoint as good. Our knowledge of the good, then, essentially follows upon and includes our knowledge of inclinations.

Adding the two references to what is natural, and adding the focus upon the human good, has bewildered many a would-be Thomist. Aquinas’s reference to what is naturally grasped, for instance, has misdirected the whole new natural law account. This reference is easily linked to Aquinas’s earlier reference, in the same article, to practical knowledge that is known per se or through itself. What is grasped through itself is not known by way of argumentation. Rather, it is immediately known through an understanding of the terms involved. The immediacy, together with the lack of argumentation, has left new natural law advocates with the impression that this practical knowledge can have no dependence upon theoretical knowledge concerning the way the world is. They conclude that all basic practical knowledge is known by a special capacity of practical reason.

As we have seen, however, Suzie’s knowledge of the good of hygrometers depends upon the prior knowledge concerning the nature of hygrometers. Indeed, this dependence is indispensable. Without a knowledge of the function of a hygrometer, Suzie can have no knowledge of its good. This dependence, however, does not imply argumentation. Suzie does not reason syllogistically from the nature of a hygrometer to the nature of its good. Rather, by perceiving the nature of the hygrometer, as something moving toward the humidity in the air, she also perceives the good of the hygrometer.

No more does our knowledge of the human good exclude dependence on knowledge of human nature. Indeed, in order to know the human good we must know the end to which human nature is moving.

Knowledge of this end, or rather, of these ends, is confounded by the other reference to what is natural, for Aquinas specifically mentions natural inclinations to an end. Based on the English word “inclination,” we will likely think of the conscious inclinations, found in either the emotions or the will. Furthermore, the word “natural” might lead us to think of what is inborn. We might imagine, then, that Aquinas is speaking of inborn emotional dispositions. With a better understanding of Aquinas, we might think that he is speaking of natural inclinations of the will.

Neither of these interpretations, however, can be correct, or at least not entirely correct, primarily because these conscious inclinations presuppose an awareness of what is good. Before we can desire anything in the emotions or in the will, we must first perceive it as good. Before Anna desires pizza, she must first perceive that pizza is in some way good. Before Anna’s conscious desire ever arises, then, reason must first perceive some other inclination, by which it then knows a good that elicits these conscious inclinations.

This point can be reached by considering a particular good, such as the good of knowing the truth. This good of the intellect includes within its very notion the inclination of the intellect itself. Consider the result when we apply this passage from the summa to the good of truth. We end up with the following reasoning: “the good of truth has the notion of an end; consequently, reason naturally grasps the truth as good insofar as it grasps the natural inclination of the intellect to the truth.”

But consider another alternative. Suppose we substitute the inclination toward the truth found within the intellect with the corresponding natural inclination of the will toward the truth. Then we would get the following reasoning: “the good of truth has the notion of an end; consequently, reason naturally grasps the truth as good insofar as it grasps the natural inclination of the will to the truth.” According to this line of reasoning, the good of truth, which is a good of the intellect, is known through an inclination separate from the intellect.

The upshot is a misunderstanding of the good of truth. When correctly understood, this good (like any other good) includes a movement to an endpoint. The correct understanding, however, requires the correct movement. By using the movement found in the inclination of the will, we misperceive the good. We suppose that this good is a completion of the will. In fact, it is a completion of the intellect, which moves by itself toward the truth.

Both of these misunderstandings of what Aquinas means by “natural” tend toward a conception of the good more in line with GE Moore than with Aquinas. The first misunderstanding supposes that natural knowledge cannot depend upon any prior knowledge, including prior knowledge of our inclinations. Once these inclinations are excluded from our understanding of the good, however, we are left with a good disconnected from final causality. Even those who accept teleology, thereby rejecting Moore’s static universe, are forced to accept its implications for our perception of the good. As a result, the good seems to be some kind of unusual attribute.

The second misunderstanding supposes that Aquinas refers to the natural inclinations of the will (or possibly the emotions), thereby rejecting the nonconscious inclinations of our other powers. Once these inclinations are excluded from our understanding of the good, we are left with a good disconnected from the subject it completes. The good of truth does not complete the inclination of the intellect; if anything, it completes the subject of the will. This unusual understanding of the good of truth is not entirely disconnected from teleology, but it is disconnected from the needed teleology. Once again, then, someone might be led to perceive the good as a kind of unusual attribute.

This same confusion arises from one further feature of this passage. Aquinas is referring to the human good; he is not referring to the good of beetles or the good of trees. Aquinas, however, does not explicitly state this narrow focus. Consequently, someone might be led to suppose that he is speaking of the notion of goodness universally considered.

This misunderstanding is aided by a misunderstanding of the object of the will. Aquinas says that the will naturally desires the good in general. What does he mean by this phrase? He might be referring to the good universally considered, that is, the good of anything whatsoever, including the good of beetles, the good of trees, and the good of human beings. In that case, the will is naturally moved to the good of beetles and the good of trees. On the other hand, Aquinas might be referring to the human good, universally considered. More precisely, he might be referring to the good of this particular human being, universally considered. On this reading, Dan’s will is naturally inclined to his own good, universally considered. Dan is not thereby forced into egoism, since his own good will include the divine good and the good of other human beings.

The supposition that Aquinas is speaking of goodness universally considered tends toward Moore’s conception of the good, which is disconnected from teleology. There is, in fact, no such thing as goodness in general. There is only the good of beetles, the good of trees, and the good of human beings. What completes a beetle depends upon its particular movement to an endpoint. This good is different from the good of a tree, which arises from the inclination of the tree. Aquinas expresses the matter in the following way:

When it is said that the good is that which all things desire, it should not be understood as if every good is desired by everything; rather, whatever is desired has the ratio of the good.⁵

If there were any such thing as goodness in general, it could not be tied to any movement, for there is no general movement to an endpoint. Goodness in general, then, looks to be something like Moore’s unusual attribute, which dwells within a static universe.

We may conclude, from the above discussion, that GE Moore could have benefited from some lessons in Thomistic psychology. By coming to understand our diverse powers, and by recognizing that these powers are moving to an endpoint, he could have come to a correct understanding of the human good. Without this Thomistic understanding of the human soul and its powers, human beings become static. Just as a triangle has no movement to an endpoint, and therefore has no good, so also human beings, on this conception, have no movement to an endpoint. Moore is left looking for goodness itself, or perhaps the good of the universe. Anyone who would speak of the good of a triangle must have a very unusual conception of the good. It must be a kind of non-natural attribute that is somehow attached to the triangle. Of course, Moore is not speaking of the good of triangles, but nevertheless his good is attached to static realities. Consequently, it can only be a very unusual attribute.

 

One more aspect of Thomistic psychology is needed to complete our understanding of the human good. Up to this point, we have discovered only various goods of human beings. We have not discovered the ultimate and true good of human beings. We have discovered the good of truth, the good of reproducing, the good of nutrition, and so on, but we have not discovered the overall human good. You might protest that the good of truth is indeed the overall human good; according to Aquinas, knowledge of the truth, especially about God, is the ultimate end of human beings. Certainly, it is. And we have certainly explained this good as the completion of the natural movement of the human intellect. We have not, however, explained how this one movement completes the whole human being. Discovering the good of truth is not the same as discovering that this good is the chief human good.

The difficulty may be perceived by considering the following scenario. An alien comes across an automobile and notes that it has various capacities. It has the capacity to move about, the capacity to honk, the capacity to warm the air, the capacity to provide protection from environmental factors such as rain, and so on. From these observations, the alien recognizes that moving about is a good of the car, honking is a good of the car, warming is a good of the car, protection is a good of the car, and so on.

Now it happens that the capacity to move about is the chief capacity of the car, which unites all of the others. Honking is good for a car, for instance, insofar as it makes for better transportation. The same may be said for warming the air and for providing protection. The defining function of the car is to provide transportation. The other capacities are either necessary for this function or enhance this function.

The alien has discovered the chief function of the car, which is to provide transportation. He has not discovered, however, that it is the chief function. Moving about is one capacity among others, as far as the alien is concerned. Consequently, he knows that moving about is a good of the car, but he does not know that it is the good of the car. He does not know that it is the chief and defining good of the car.

Similarly, someone might discover that human beings have the power to understand the world, the power to imagine, the power to grow, the power to reproduce, the power to desire, and so on. From these observations, he recognizes various human goods. It is good to understand the truth, good to reproduce, good to imagine, and so on. It happens that one of these powers – the power to understand – unifies all the others. It is the overall function of human beings. Having discovered this capacity, together with the good that completes it, however, is not the same as discovering the unifying nature of this capacity. Discovering the function of the intellect is not the same as discovering the function of the whole human being, even though the intellect happens to provide the function of the human being.

Our analysis so far, then, has provided only a hodgepodge collection of human goods. It has not provided a unified account of the overall human good. This further account requires a grasp not just of the various powers of the human being; it requires a grasp of the function of the whole human being.

To grasp this human function, we might avail ourselves of the following Aristotelian argument: the function of the thing is that which it alone does; human beings alone understand the truth; therefore, the function of the human being is to understand the truth. Unfortunately, this argument is inadequate. It presupposes that there is some single human function, unifying all human capacities, and then it provides a sign of what that function is. The uniqueness of the capacity is nothing other than a sign. Being unique does not make a capacity to be the function of the thing.

At this stage in our reasoning, however, we need more than a sign. The alien investigating the automobile might suppose that it is nothing other than a hodgepodge collection of things. As such, it has no unifying function. If he happens to believe that the whole car has a function, then he might utilize Aristotle’s argument. He might look for what is unique as a sign helping him to identify the function. But the alien does not know that the car has a single function.

Similarly, the discovery of our various human capacities does not indicate that we ourselves have a single function. Discovering the uniqueness of the intellect does not indicate our function, unless we presuppose that we have a function.

A similar criticism might be made of the following Thomistic argument: the function of the human being will reside in the highest human capacity and the highest operation of that capacity; the intellect is the highest human capacity and understanding the truth about God is the highest operation of that capacity; therefore, understanding the truth about God is the unifying function of human beings.

This argument has an added difficulty. How exactly do we determine what is higher and lower in capacities? We cannot define what it means to be higher in terms of the overall human function, for we have not yet discovered that there is some overall human function. Identifying some operations as immaterial might work, but identifying these immaterial operations is far from straightforward; in addition, the principle that what is immaterial is better than what is material must be justified.

At any rate, our query at the moment does not concern how a philosopher might provide argumentation for the human function. Rather, we are wondering how ordinary people, perhaps even fairly young children, might come to recognize the nature of their overall good. We should not expect them to use philosophical conclusions that were reached, historically, only with the figure of Plato.

In what time remains, I wish to suggest some general avenues by which individuals might come to grasp the priority of reason. First, most people will recognize that certain goods or operations are inherently subordinate to others. They will recognize, for instance, that their continued existence is good, in part, for continued operation. Likewise, they will recognize the subordination of the emotions to reason. As we have already noted, the emotions naturally follow the knowing powers, since we can desire only what we have first of all perceived as good. Someone untutored in philosophy can perceive that reason (perhaps vaguely defined) provides the best guide for the emotions, since it weighs and judges between various goods and various options. Without reason, the emotions become a blind impulse.

Other powers and their goods will also be readily recognized as subordinate. The power of nutrition is clearly subordinate to the good of continuing to live. The power of reproduction is also clearly subordinate to the good of the offspring, although this good itself might be as yet vaguely perceived. The external senses, as well, may be perceived as subordinate, at least somewhat, to internal thought (whether internal senses or reason), if only because internal thinking includes but goes beyond what is provided by the external senses.

I think it unlikely, however, that philosophically rustic individuals will distinguish, within internal thinking, between reason and the internal senses, at least at the level of powers. Nevertheless, they might recognize a priority to those operations that reach judgments concerning the truth. These are more helpful for practical guidance, and they reach a more definitive endpoint.

Rather than sort out these details, I am interested in pursuing another question. All of these arguments suggest ways in which an individual might perceive that some goods are subordinate to others, but they do not answer an important question: do human beings have a function? Aristotle’s argument in this regard is at best suggestive. How, he wonders, can we recognize a function for the various parts of a human being without recognizing a function for the whole human being?

Let us explore another approach. The functions of artifacts, we readily recognize, directs the artifacts to some good beyond themselves. The function of writing, for instance, directs the pen to the activity and good of the author. Similarly, the function of healing directs a doctor outside himself to the health of the patient.

We also recognize that the parts of a greater whole have a function directing themselves to the whole itself. The function of the wheels, within a car, is not directed simply to the wheels; it is directed to the movement of the car. The function of a cellist, within an orchestra, directs her to the good of the whole orchestra. When we come to recognize a whole with multiple parts, then, we also come to recognize that the parts must have some function by which they are directed to the whole. When we are dealing with an ordered whole rather than a substantial whole, the need for a function directing the parts to the whole is even more evident. The parts belong to the whole only by way of the function.

When discussing the first moral act of an unbaptized youth, Aquinas states that the youth recognizes that he is directed to God. What he recognizes, I wish to suggest, is that he has a function directing him beyond himself to the divine good. Furthermore, he comes to this recognition by perceiving that he is a part. He has come to the awareness that he does not cause himself; that he must be caused. His good, then, belongs to this cause. His good, in effect, is a partial realization of the good of the cause, whatever precisely that cause might be. As a part, he recognizes that his function – whatever precisely it might be – is to realize this partial good of the whole.

Aquinas is speaking of an unbaptized youth, but the same sort of awareness must come, at some point, to the baptized youth, although with the help of grace. In other words, at some point, each youth must recognize that he or she is a part; as a part, she recognizes that she is directed to the whole. In other words, she recognizes that she has some function, even if she has yet to discover the precise manner in which she is directed to the whole.

What I am suggesting is that our first perception of our human function is a perception of ourselves as parts, parts that have a function for the greater whole. Even before we perceive the precise nature of this function, we perceive that we are moving beyond ourselves. We are moving towards another. We are moving toward the divine.

 

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