Atheism and Moral Realism

So-called moral realism is the doctrine that morality is mind-independent. In particular, it is independent of judgments, attitudes, legislative acts, or emotions. It is therefore incompatible with divine command theories or human approval theories: the good is not what God commands and not what humans approve of. Moore’s theory of the good is a realist theory: goodness is a simple unanalyzable property, and therefore not the complex property of being commanded by God or approved by humans. Goodness is conceived as objective in the way shape has been thought to be objective—things are good or square irrespective of how they are perceived or evaluated. Things are good (or bad) in themselves, not relative to the minds of observers or legislators. Minds are not necessary for moral properties to be instantiated.[1] A theist who accepts the divine command theory cannot therefore be a moral realist, any more than the most extreme moral relativist can be; indeed, he is a kind of relativist, with God being the thing to which moral truth is relative. Theistic morality is a kind of anti-realism about morality. Moral realism dispenses with God as the foundation of morality, so that theistic morality comes out as anti-realist. Divine command theory doesn’t make morality independent of God’s commands! Moral realism makes morality independent of God’s edicts, nature, and even existence. It is a morality suitable for atheists, but not for traditional theists. The two are not logically incompatible: you could be a theist and a moral realist—you simply reject the divine command theory. But that would not suit the traditional theist, because he places great stock in the idea that God is the metaphysical basis of morality; viewing morality as existing independently of God’s will is anathema (blasphemy). God and morality are supposed inseparable, but moral realism takes morality to be separate from God’s will and nature. In fact, there is a danger that God will be deemed redundant if he isn’t the foundation of right and wrong—for didn’t he create everything, including morality? If the authority of morality is split off from God, then God isn’t needed to get morality going. Not only is moral realism available to atheists; it is arguably not available to theists. Theists really need the divine command theory to be true, on pain of excluding God from a constitutive role in the formation of moral truth. It may be that only atheists can be moral realists in the sense defined.

Of course, atheists need not be moral realists—they could hold a variety of human-centered views of morality. For reasons I won’t go into, I find this position unsatisfactory, because no defensible view of moral truth can be constructed on such a basis. Essentially, a secular version of the Euthyphro argument applies to all such positions: moral propositions are not true because people accept them; they accept them because they are true. Human command theories are as defective as divine command theories—the good isn’t what the gods love, and it isn’t what the people love either. The point I am making here is that moral realism is an unattractive position for theists, given their general theology; and an atheistic morality had better choose moral realism over anti-realism on pain of losing morality altogether. We can’t preserve objectivity by going theist, and the atheist does better to endorse moral realism. Really, atheism and moral realism are the only acceptable positions to adopt if you want a good account of moral truth.  Atheism plus moral anti-realism produces an unacceptable morality (subjectivist, relativist, arbitrary), while theism plus moral realism is inconsistent, unless we deny that God plays a constitutive role in fixing morality. Atheism and moral realism are fully consistent with each other and don’t lead to moral collapse; but every other combination is ruled out–in particular, theism and moral realism. The only way to avoid moral collapse is to accept atheistic moral realism. Theistic moral realism is not an available position, because divine command theory is not a form of moral realism, and rejecting it leaves the theist in a perilous theological position. It is like trying to be a theist while rejecting the claim that God created the universe—that is a requirement on God not a theoretical option. Likewise, if God isn’t needed to explain morality, but just exists idly alongside it, then his rationale is undermined—he becomes a useless cog where morality is concerned. The only stable position is atheistic moral realism—it leads to no intolerable consequences. We get to keep morality in a robust form (by virtue of moral realism) while not courting the intellectual tensions inherent in theistic moral realism; in particular, we don’t have the problem of explaining how God (the God of the Bible) can coexist with a God-independent morality. The anti-realism inherent in divine command theories disqualifies them from forming the basis of morality (by the Euthyphro argument), but combining theism with abandoning that theory of morality is hard to sustain. The divine command theory is not a dispensable feature of theism in any recognizable sense of that term. We must be moral realists in order to preserve morality in a robust form, but only atheism allows for moral realism to be true. In sum: morality disproves theism. Given that morality exists as a set of objective mind-independent truths, God cannot exist (and be the basis of morality). He can’t be the basis because of the Euthyphro argument, but he can’t survive shedding his morally constitutive role—for then he loses his raison d’etre. God is either the basis of morality or he is nothing. Strangely enough, religion implies moral anti-realism. Religion thus refutes itself. For we have an axiological disproof of God’s existence. If morality is real, then God is not. The only way to keep God in the picture is to make him the basis of morality, but that invites the Socratic retort to Euthyphro. Atheism has no such problem; it is not refuted by the existence of objective morality (nor does it refute objective morality). Thus, atheistic moral realism is the indicated position.[2]

[1] We could put it by saying that it is not in the nature of moral properties to be linked necessarily to psychological facts; this is not internal to them. The opposite view is sometimes called moral projectivism (analogous to projectivism about color), and the divine command theory is a form of projectivism in this sense. Right and wrong are imposed on mind-independent facts from outside, not intrinsic to them. There is no difference in this respect between divine command theories and human command theories. (I should note that moral realism comes in a variety of forms, reductive and non-reductive, not just the Moorean form.)

[2] My sense is that atheistic moral realism is a commonly accepted position these days among enlightened thinkers. What I have done here is give an argument showing that it is the only possible position, because theistic moral realism is not an option. I have only sketched the arguments for moral realism, but that is a topic amply covered elsewhere. The novel point is that moral realism refutes theism. The theist cannot regard moral truth as autonomous and self-sustaining, which it must be if the Euthyphro argument is to be avoided.

God: A Dialogue

A: There’s this guy I read about: he’s like really big, much bigger than anyone else, and he’s incredibly knowledgeable, much more than any Jeopardy player you’ve ever seen, and he’s also extremely powerful, more than all the world leaders put together.

B: Really, is he a good guy?

A: Oh yes, super good. He’s like the best, better than all the rest.

B: Wow, I’d like to meet him.

A: Yeah, and he created the whole universe—only took him a week to do it. Did a good job too. He’s really a master builder.

B: That’s pretty impressive. Family man?

A: Er, that too—very successful son. Major philanthropist. Sweet-natured, yet tough. Also, quite handsome.

B: And the Big Guy, what does he feel about the rest of us? He must be a busy dude.

A: Oh, he loves us! He’s very generous like that. Always giving us stuff, door always open, a total mensch.

B: He sounds fantastic. Must be real popular. Where does he live?

A: Well, he doesn’t live anywhere, that’s the thing. He doesn’t own a house; sort of homeless, you might say.

B: Really? What does he do for a living?

A: He doesn’t do anything for a living—doesn’t need to. He’s unemployed, technically.

B: Jeez, unemployed but rich!

A: Not exactly, he hasn’t got any money—he doesn’t need money. He lives of the fat of the land, so to speak.

B: I wish I could do that. My job sucks.

A: Mine too, but c’est la vie, like they say.

B: Funny I’ve never heard of him before. When is his next appearance?

A: Actually, he doesn’t do appearances. In fact, he’s invisible.

B: Amazing—so smart and strong and nice and he’s invisible. You’d think he’d want to flaunt it.

A: He’s modest that way—doesn’t like to show off and whatnot. Keeps to himself. No press conferences, interviews, shit like that.

B: So, what does he do with this time? Does he have hobbies? Music lover?

A: Nobody really knows, bit of a mystery in fact. Since creating the universe, he has been on extended sabbatical, holed up somewhere. Apparently, he just sits and thinks, keeps an eye on things, occasionally puts the odd thing right. But he’s actually pretty laissez faire. Let’s you do you.

B: Interesting. So, he sits, does he?

A: Not in the literal sense. Reports are vague on this point. No body, you see. Nothing to sit with.

B: That’s fortunate, because too much sitting can play hell with your back–I know. Does he follow sports?

A: Oh, he’s a big fan of sports, all sports. Supports all the teams, picks no favorites. Particularly enjoys women’s gymnastics, I believe.

B: Who doesn’t, eh? Well, he sounds like a well-rounded type of fella, someone you could have a beer with, shoot the breeze.

A: I don’t think he drinks. Teetotaler and all. Drug-free. He has a healthy lifestyle.

B: I would too in his position—no job to go to and everything. Well, I gotta go, bus to catch, good talking to you.

A: Yeah, take care now. See you tomorrow. You’re a good listener.

B: I try. Oh, and what’s his name, this guy you read about?

A: He has no name, no birth certificate, no country of origin, no mom and dad, nothing.

B: Thought so. Have a good day!

Life Forms as Synthetic Wholes

It is a common idea that animal bodies (also plant bodies) are synthetic wholes consisting of separate organs. There are about a dozen of these in the mammalian body, depending on how you count. Each is different from the others but they work together to compose a functioning body. They each arose by natural selection in a more or less coordinated way and their successful cooperation ensures survival and reproduction. Thus, we get the idea of a harmonious but composite body, and hence a whole organism—a kind of natural synthesis of parts, disparate yet united. The organism is that synthetic unity—many things in one, a unified complex of separable components. It isn’t one of nature’s simples, homogeneous all through, as the atom was once thought to be. It can be analyzed into parts; it is a construction from simpler components, like a building or a motor car. As the OED says, a synthesis is a “combination of components to form a connected whole”, and an organism is precisely such a combination. But that isn’t the only kind of combination an organism is, the only kind of synthetic whole: it is also a combination of multiple genes and a single organism, of the organism’s body and parts of the environment (the extended phenotype), and of the present and past (inherited traits, remnants of earlier ancestors, obsolete adaptations). Genes combine with individual animals and plants, the organism’s body combines with the tools it uses to live (nests, dams, etc.), and the body and mind of the organism contain combinations of presently useful traits and records of past traits. This is all familiar enough from the popular writings of Richard Dawkins: the selfish gene, the extended phenotype, and the genetic book of the dead. I will say nothing to expand on or explain any of this, but simply take it for granted. For I have a different question: Does all this comprise a different sort of synthetic whole adding up to the complete organism? Is it also what animals are made of? Are they also synthetic wholes in that sense?

The question is not so straightforward. It is (we are assuming) perfectly true that animals are composed of the items mentioned. If we think in terms of biological books, we can say that an animal is a library consisting of the following volumes: the book of the genes, the book of the enveloping organism, the book of the organism’s bounded body, the book of its employed environment, the book of its current adaptations, and the book of its past ancestral history. These are all present in the animal’s nature. What is not so clear is whether this combination deserves to be called a synthetic whole—a synthesis in the full sense. Because it is not clear that we have genuine unification, where each component cooperates with the others. Do they all work harmoniously together, like a well-oiled machine? Or is the animal really a congeries (“disorderly collection”: OED)? Is it more of a heap or pile instead of an (as we say) organic unity? Or it is something in between? The animal is certainly not a mere heap of organs, strung haphazardly together; the organs are tightly connected, interwoven. There is no conflict between them—no friction, no disharmony. But the same is not true of the items I listed: here there is a sense of disharmony, division, conflict. In fact, the elements seem to pull in different directions. Granted, natural selection is the reason for all of them, singly and as a totality, but is the result what we might think of as a natural unity? First, are the genes of like mind with the animal that contains them? Notoriously not: the genes are invariably selfish, but the animal is not. The genes operate to secure their own survival, but the individual animal has its own survival plans. The genes would let you die—would indeed kill you—if it served their own purposes. They sometimes make the animal sacrifice itself for the good of the offspring that houses them (“kin selection”). Also, we can, as Dawkins remarks, rebel against our genes in making moral decisions. By no means do our interests and values coincide with the interests of our genes. There is conflict between the two books; they recommend different courses of action. The combination of genes and animal is conflicted, pointing in different directions; this is a congeries not an organic unity. The parts are not always in agreement with each other.

What about the book of the dead and the book of the living? To be sure, they often see eye to eye in that the present world of the animal overlaps with the past ancestral world described in its book of the dead. But equally there can be conflict, because that old world may no longer exist yet remnants of it persist in the animal’s genes, body, and mind. It still dreams of ancestral environments. This means there is “junk” still hanging around in the animal’s vaults, which may even lead to maladaptive behavior (a craving for sugar, aggressive tendencies no longer needed, appendicitis). The two books tell different stories, make different recommendations. The old book has been superseded but the animal keeps reading it. As a source of advice, it can be worse than useless. There is no synthesis of the two books, just authorial divergence—a mere congeries. What about the extended phenotype—is that all harmony and light? Well, the materials composing it are not the same: the external factor may not even be organic. Body and environment are slapped together, like chalk and cheese. Granted, the environment is useful to the animal, as our technology is useful to us, but it is not of the body, and may even be harmful to it. The physical environment goes its own way, irrespective of the welfare of the animal living in it. Dams may overflow beavers, and tunnels in the ground collapse on the creatures living in them. This is more of an uneasy treaty than a mutually beneficial arrangement. The physical environment isn’t family. It has its coefficient of resistance. Also, you can’t take it with you—the dam, the tunnel, the web, the nest. If you need to move, the extended phenotype will not move with you; it won’t cooperate in the relocation. Isn’t this more like a temporary alliance than a happy marriage? Heaven knows, it is horrendous to move house! This is an adaptation with a sting in the tail, not an ideal set-up. Animals might wish their phenotype had never been extended, given the hassle and stress involved. The extension takes work. Natural selection acts blindly with no concern about the animal’s comfort or convenience. So, this combination (living body, dead implement) is hardly the epitome of a longed-for synthesis; it is a yoking together of the local and the distant, with distinct disadvantages. An intelligent designer might well have thought better of the whole extended phenotype business (it seemed like a good idea at the time). The human extended phenotype (technology, industry) is fraught with hazard and may one day wipe us out. It may bite the hand that created it.

The entire modern picture of the animal reeks of the cobbled-together, the make-do, the okay-for-now. The human back is a notorious case in point: it isn’t a marvelous structural design proof against malfunction but rather a result of the adoption of the bipedal gait. It doesn’t synthesize the quadrupedal back and the bipedal back; it just jams the two together and hopes for the best. The human back is a danger zone not a sleek accommodation. The genes, for their part, combine with the individual animal to produce an entity that is a compromise between the two, not a smooth synthesis into something that serves both equally. In many ways we are at war with our own genes not on the same side as them (consider genetic disease and gene-induced senescence). Animals are, at best, a viable congeries not a splendid synthesis.[1] The God-given view of evolution might suggest the perfect synthesis picture, but once blind natural selection is let loose this agreeable image falls by the wayside. The animal can be analyzed, but it can’t really be synthesized, made whole. It bears all the marks of chance and contingency. It is not an organic unity. It is the sum of its parts, but that sum is not a nice round number. We might better think of it as a conjoined composite.[2]

[1] It is an interesting question which animals are the most unified and which the least. It seems as if the simpler the creature the more unified it tends to be—with bacteria at the most unified end and humans the least unified. This has the look of a biological law: unity is inversely proportional to complexity. We buy our complexity at the cost of increased disunity. We are startlingly advanced, but frightfully divided.

[2] Think of so-called Siamese twins—conjoined but not unified. The animal (as now conceived) is a kind of Siamese plurality: several different biological entities jostling together, glued but not of a piece. There is something of the parasitic about them; they live off each other (not symbiosis exactly). The genes parasitize the animal, the book of the dead takes up space with its more relevant counterpart, the extended phenotype grows a wooden leg. Disparate things make unholy alliances. It isn’t division of labor; it’s a motley crew. The animal exists as a conglomerate of rival factions, a kind of wild bunch. If the parts could talk, they would be arguing with each other.