Collective Entities do not really exist.

  The point in my book for which I have received the most criticism to date was my assertion that collective entities—groups-- have no real existence.   That is, they have no ontological status other than as descriptions, classifications, comparisons, outside of the realm of conversation.

  When I say this, people are quite surprised, since they assume that they do really exist.  Am I really saying that this particular group of people does not exist?  In the true sense yes, I am saying precisely that.  The individuals who make up the group exist, but not the group itself.  It is nothing more than a mathematical set, with the individuals being the members of that set. 

   Suppose you walk into this room and see a pile 10 pennies here on the desk in front of me.  Does that group exist?  No; it only exists as the individuals pennies.  Can you show me the group apart from showing me the individual pennies that comprise the group?  No, you cannot.  In fact, I may not even have intended to create a pile of 10 pennies: it might simply be a pile of 10 pennies that were left over when I was trying to retrieve the dimes and nickels in my pocket!  The point I make here is that it is the observers, through our perception and our intent, who create the groups most of the time.

  Furthermore, groups are artificial, in that they do not exist in nature; our perception alone creates them.  We create them by making distinctions among larger possible collections, and different observers may make different distinctions.  To take an example from ancient history, most Romans made few distinctions among the Gauls.  Gauls were the enemy of Rome, and all Gauls were, ultimately, enemies.  Julius Caesar, on the other hand—perhaps because he spoke some of their languages—knew that they were not a united people, and that he could use their rivalries to cement Roman power over them.  In fact, even the Gauls themselves did not think of themselves as one people, and argued over who was, in fact, a Gaul.  Did the term include the Belgae, for example, a half-Celtic, half German, collection of people?

We do this all the time; look at the tendency to assume monolithic blocs of voters that prove to be illusive come election day.  What is a “Hispanic?” Is it someone who has a Spanish sounding name, or whose speaks Spanish,  or whose parents spoke Spanish, or whose ancestors once came from Spain/Portugal, or what?  I have a relative in Guatemala by marriage who carries a Chinese surname, looks completely Asian, but who clearly thought of himself as Guatemalan; is he also Hispanic, or not?  Who decides?

This may all sound academic, but it has a social and legal relevance.  If the group does not really exist, but is just a subjective definition on the part of some people in a given society, that “entity” can have no rights, no responsibilities, since it no more exists than the invisible Pink Unicorn.  All social philosophy must begin and end with discrete individuals, except when we are using a verbal shortcut in casual conversation.  Pick any social group you choose, say, in this case, African-American Women.  Does this include women whose descendents left Africa at any time, or only as a result of the slave trade?  Does it include women who may appear dark skinned but have one parent who is Caucasian?    Can you show me the group without showing me the individuals?  The answer is no, you cannot.  We may speak of a mob rioting and destroying property, but that is not correct.  Only individuals think, only individuals act.  The members of a “group” might, and sometimes do, act together, but it is still a collection of individual actions.  The responsibility for an action still resides with the individual, not the “group.”    

Is the Stoic Life a Passive One?

   I have had people criticize the Stoic way of life by saying that it seems that is that it is essentially passive.  Many critics have thought that if we are taught not to desire any external objects that life will lose its challenge.  I must admit that there would seem to be an element of truth to this observation.  Without the desire for fame and glory, would Alexander the Great have conquered his empire?  Would any of the great explorers have accomplished anything had it not been for the desire for fame and wealth?  The great captains of industry, the most successful military commanders, and probably many of our best scientists are often motivated by goals that Stoics would dismiss as improper.  If the majority, or even the “best and brightest,” adopted the Stoic way of life, isn’t it likely that society would stagnate?  The Stoic life may be one of peace and tranquility, but is it the peace of inactivity and withdrawal?

   This is, of course, a totally inaccurate picture of the Stoic life.  Some of the misunderstanding comes from its similarities to early Buddhism.  Buddhism, however, teaches its followers to renounce all desire.  This is the only way to end the cycle of death and rebirth.  In its earliest forms, only those who became monks or nuns could expect to achieve enlightenment, because only they could renounce all forms of desire.  A family life is not compatible with the goal to completely eliminate all desire.  While there are religious rules for the layman in society, the best that most men or women can hope for is to be reborn as a monk or nun in the next life.

   Stoic teaching is quite different in several important ways.  There is nothing otherworldly about the Stoic ideal.  Stoic teachers paid little attention to the afterlife, focusing instead on happiness and duty in this life.  For us, happiness is to be found in the knowledge that we can always achieve our goals, because we have chosen goals that are within our control.  No one can prevent me from affirming a true statement, from denying a false one, or from following my moral purpose.  Results might be outside of my control, but efforts are not.   I do admit that, sometimes, Epictetus does come off as a little fatalistic; he advises people to avoid public office, saying it is not worth the trouble.  Of course, he lived in a time when the Empire was ruled by a despot.  Sure, sometimes a beneficent one, sometimes an evil one.  Every Emperor, though, was a tyrant, and the only way to get ahead in public life was to curry favor with the tyrant or with his toadies.

   We get a completely different picture when we read the works of men who lived in a free republic, however.  Cicero extolled the public servant who lived his principles.  In the world of Cicero or Cato, political life was still free, and the individual could make a difference, or, at least, could attempt to make a difference.

   How can this work in day to day life?  Well, I cannot guarantee that my family will be wealthy; that is beyond my control.  I can work hard and invest properly, but things can go wrong.  I can do my best be a responsible husband and father, to carry out those duties that come with those roles.  I am morally responsible for my actions, but not for the final results, because those are outside my control.  I am responsible for doing my best for my family, but not for how those efforts turn out.  I am wrong only if I fail to attempt to do what I should. 

   Look back at the story Epictetus relates of the woman who sent packages to her exiled friend.  Her friend never received them because the Emperor’s soldiers took them, but was the effort really wasted?  What did this woman really accomplish?  The most important thing is that she did the right thing in trying to help her friend.  Too many of us would take the easy way out and decide that we should not waste the money and effort.  However, we know that we would be simply rationalizing a moral failure.  If this woman ever had the opportunity to meet her friend later, she could state truthfully that she had done the right thing.  What could she say if she had decided that the effort was wasted?  “Oh, sorry, but I gave up on you?”  Even if they never met again, the woman could look herself in the mirror without any self-reproach.  In this case it is certainly true that concern about results would more likely lead to inaction than concern over actions.

   There is another way in which the Stoic emphasis on efforts helps us live an active rather than passive life.   Since it is actions, not results that matter, I have NO excuse for not acting, ever.  Not every decision we will make is a moral one, of course.  Do I want baked potatoes or mashed potatoes with dinner?  Do I want maple syrup or strawberry syrup with my pancakes?  Who cares?  So what? 

BUT…many decisions we make do have moral consequences, and these impel us to act.  It is not enough to say that I am but one person, what can I do?  You can do whatever is at hand at the time, can’t you?  

Why are We Here--any reason?

I thought that it might be a good idea to take some time to address some of the critiques of the Neo-Stoic ideal I discussed in my book, Meaning in a Hostile World.  The one I will address in this article says that my approach, like that of any naturalist philosophy, fails to account for our existence.

What do I mean?  In other words, it does not address the issue of why we are here—as distinct from how we got here—or even why the universe exists.  This is a natural criticism, one that should be expected, and one that we can blame, ironically, on one of the greatest philosophers of the western world—Aristotle.

How so?  He said that there were four categories of causes: the material cause, efficient cause, formal cause, and the ultimate or Final cause.  He concluded this from looking at common artifacts and realizing that each could be described in these categories.  Take a simple three legged stool: the material cause would be the wicker, the wood, and the nails or glue, the “stuff” it takes to make it.  The efficient cause would be the labor to cut and assemble the parts.  The formal cause would be the plant behind the stool, and the ultimate or Final Cause would be the reason for making it.  Did you make it to use yourself, or to sell to another?  Whatever the answer is, that would be the Final Cause in this case.

This works well, of course, with artifacts; they are made by people—and at least  chimps, I admit—for specific functions.  The problem is that this reasoning may not—and, of course, I think does not—apply to natural objects.  An igneous rock may have a material cause—the lava or magma from which it forms—and an efficient cause, the eruption and subsequent cooling, but does it have a formal cause and a final cause? Is it even an artifact at all, or is “artifact” a word that applies only to human made objects?  The burden of proof, of course, would be on those who insist that every object is, in fact, an artifact.

Because our own actions are usually purposeful, and that of animals is often, or at least seem to be, purposeful, primitive people often assumed that nature itself was purposeful.  Do the plants grow well because it rains, or does it rain SO THAT the plants will grow?  The latter was the assumption throughout much of human history.

Hence, we often attribute purposeful actions to nature, and can assume that everything has a cause in the sense of having a purpose.  But, there is no reason to make that assumption, is there?  We cannot explain why the universe is here, because the question is illegitimate.  Of course, there will always be people who ask the question, but children also ask “why” to everything, and insist that the question simply MUST have an answer.  Adults know better; some questions don’t have answers, at least easy ones, and we have to be willing to say so.

The Purpose of Philosophy

Over the centuries, the purpose of philosophy has changed, and I think the change has not been for the better.  The Hellenic and Roman cultures, philosophy was intended as a guide to life, to living a meaningful existence.  It was not, at least in intent, an academic exercise--although of course there were those frauds for whom the teaching of philosophy was just another way to make a living, as there will be in any age or culture.

In our world, philosophy is coming to mean analytic philosophy, but that is only a small part of its function.  Of course we have to analyze events, experiences and so forth, but we should do so with the intent of creating a meaningful whole, a coherent view of the world.  This does not mean that we should create fantasy worlds ala Plotinus or Porphyry, but it does mean that it should provide a reasonable guide to how to live.  It must address the significant events in peoples' lives, such as disappointment, the grief over the loss of a loved on, and so on.  If it does this it can attract the interest and devotion of the educated populace that wants a rational guide to life, and not surrender the field to superstition. 

Immortality as the Search for Meaning

Is the belief in, and the desire for, personal immortality ultimately the result of a desire for meaning in one's life?  I think so, and here are the reasons why I say that:

In the classical Hellenic and Roman cultures, the belief in some form of personal immortality, at least a meaningful one, was absent from the traditional culture.  In the Iliad, when Achilles sees the ghost of Paris, he says, Amazing, even after death something remains, but there is no heart of life in it.  Whatever immortality there was, to the Hellenes and Romans, a shadow existence not worthy of the the name.  Yet, by the end of the Roman Republic, the quest for some form of life after death was a central part of much religious practice.  What changed?

This is what I think changed everything: the death of the free city-state, and its replacement by the large bureaucratic empire.  Most Greek states had been swallowed up by the despotic Hellenistic kingdoms like that of the Ptolemies, the Seleucid Empire, Pontus, Pergamum, and so forth.  In the free city states, which were small, the individual counted; he could make his mark, he was known.  This was true in the Roman Republic as well.  Each citizen who owned property could state his views and vote for candidates for office and actually participate in the enactment of legislation.  He had some control, at least, over the laws that bound him and regulated his life.  (Contrary to popular belief, the Senate did not make laws.)  With the death of these free republics, meaningful citizen participation ended. The free citizen of a Republic had become the helpless subject of a despot.

It is about this time that we see the increase in the popularity of the mystery cults, in their focus on personal survival and meaning after death.  Is it surprising, when this life had reduced people to cogs in a bureaucratic machine?

Comments on Previous Blog

Martin Buber was known for his definition of relationship as falling into one of two categories, I and Thou and I and It.  The latter is the way we should look at material objects, inanimate tools: home, car, computer, and so forth.  Human relations, he felt, should always fall into the I and Thou category, which mirrors the relationship he felt we should have with God.  People are never things, and we should never treat people as things.

However, he was wrong, at least in this way:  In his book The Secular City, Harvey Cox argues that we should NOT want all human relationships to be of a deep interpersonal nature.  True, that does not mean that we treat another person as a tool for our happiness, but he felt the dichotomy was false.  For example, he writes about his relationship with his TV repairman.  Yes, he says, I should treat him like a fellow human being.  No, I do not want to have much contact with him, because, if I do, it means that my television is broken and seeing him will cost me money!  We have a mutually respectful business relationship, and there is no moral obligation to make it personal in any way.  He called this type of relationship I and You.

Now, my own categories of general and special relationship do not falls into this scheme, but Cox's analysis does show that there are many ways to look at the nature of social relationships, and that they need not fall into traditional paradigms to be valid.

The Foundation of RIght and Wrong

  In Stoic thought, we say that one of the choices we have that is within our control is our ability to act on our moral principles.  Although we are never guaranteed success--that is an external and, hence, a "thing indifferent"--our actions are totally within our control.  We can always choose to do the right thing in the given circumstances.  But...what makes something right or wrong?  In a purely naturalist philosophy, how do we determine what is ethical and what is not?

  Start from this observation: in our relationships with others, there are two basic types of relationships.  There are general relationships, those where we are simply aware of our shared humanity, where we have nothing more in common than the fact that we both exist.  There are also what I call "special relationships," where we have entered into a voluntary association, such as a friendship, a business, or a marriage.  These relationships will entail certain specific responsibilities, IF we wish to preserve them.   It is sort of an if-then situation; IF I wish to maintain this friendship, THEN I will have to treat this person in a friendly way.  If I do not do so, the friendship will be lost.  In general relationships, on the other hand, all I am obligated to do is to leave the other person alone, to avoid infringing on his or her space.

   There is another key observation we have to make.  Philosophical and religious systems can be classified as falling into one of two types, along a continuum with these two ideals representing the opposite poles of the continuum.  There are "perfectionist" moral systems, where we focus on improving our nature, so to speak, and "social" moral systems, where the goal is to define the rules that allow the society to function.  In the latter, it does not matter what you think, only how you act.  You could hate me, but as long as you do nothing harmful to me you have done no wrong, violated no laws.  

   Say that this other person, Joe, is riding a subway with me.  My only obligation to him is to avoid bothering him.  Our shared existence does not require anything further engagement.  I am not responsible for Joe's happiness. I have no obligation to support him, take care of him, or do any other thing of an affirmative nature.  Now, if he happens to be a friend, that would be a different matter, if I wish to "preserve the character of friend," to use Epictetus' phraseology. 

   This means that as naturalists we cannot affirm any form of Golden Rule or categorical imperative as least insofar as it might affirm positive duties to mankind as a whole.  Negative duties, yes, because a social order cannot exist without them.  Common sense tells us that a society that allowed anyone to simply take the property of another because he wanted it would not survive.  Negative obligations are all that we can affirm, at least in relationships to strangers.

   There is one other consideration for the Stoic, and that is this, and it is also along the "If, Then" model.  If I wish to emulate the Stoic ideal, there may well be certain forms of behavior that are conducive to such a life, and simply logic may compel me to act in certain ways.  But, these are not universal in their applicability.