Legitimate and illegitimate authority

It is tempting to think that legitimate and illegitimate authorities are both types of a single thing. One might not want to call that single thing “authority”. After all, one doesn’t want to say that real and fake money are both types of money. But it sure seems like there is something X that legitimate and illegitimate authorities have in common with each other, and with nothing else. One imagines that a dictator and a lawfully elected president are in some way both doing the same kind of thing, “ruling” or whatever.

But this now seems to me to be mistaken. Or at least I can’t think what X could be. The only candidate I can think of is the trivial disjunctive property of being a legitimate authority or an illegitimate authority.

To a first approximation, one might think that the legitimate and illegitimate authorities both engage in the speech act of commanding. One might here try to object that “commanding” has the same problem as “authority” does: that it is not clear that legitimate and illegitimate commands have anything in common. This criticism seems to me to be mistaken: the two may not have any normative commonality, but they seem to be the same speech act.

However, imagine that Alice is the legitimate elected ruler of Elbonia, but Bob has put Alice in solitary confinement and set himself up as a dictator. Alice is not crazy: when she is in solitary confinement she isn’t commanding anyone as there is no one for her to command. Alice is a legitimate authority and Bob is an illegitimate authority, yet they do not have commanding, or ruling, or running the country in common. (Similarly, even without imprisonment, we could suppose Alice is a small government conservative who ran on a platform of not issuing any orders except in an emergency, and no emergency came up and she kept her promise.)

One might think that they have some kind of dispositional property in common. Alice surely would command if she were to get out of prison, after all. Well, maybe, but we need to specify the conditions quite carefully. Suppose she got out of prison but thought that no one would follow her commands, because she was still surrounded by Bob’s flunkies. Then she might not bother to command. It makes one look bad if one issues commands and they are ignored. Perhaps, though, we can say: Alice would issue commands if she thought they were needed and likely to be obeyed. But that can’t be the disposition that defines a legitimate or illegitimate authority. For many quite ordinary people in the country presumably have the exact same disposition: they too would issue commands if they thought they were needed and likely to be obeyed! But we don’t want to say that these people are either legitimate or illegitimate authorities.

We might argue that Alice isn’t a legitimate authority while imprisoned, because she is incapacited, and incapacitation removes legitimate authority. One reason to be dubious of this answer is that on a plausible account of incapacitation, insanity is a form of incapacitation. But an insane illegitimate dictator is still an illegitimate authority, and so incapacitation does not remove the disjunctive property legimate or illegitimate authority, but at most it removes legitimacy. Thus, Alice might still be an authority, but not an illegitimate one. Another reason is this: we could imagine that in order to discourage people from incapacitating the legitimate ruler, the laws insist that one remains in charge if one’s incapacitation is due to an act of rebellion. Moreover, we might suppose that Bob hasn’t actually incapacitated Alice. He lets her walk around and give orders freely, but his minions kill anybody who obeys, so Alice doesn’t bother to issue any orders, because either they will be disobeyed or the obeyers will be killed.

Perhaps we might try to find a disposition in the citizenry, however. Maybe what makes Alice and Bob be the same kind of thing is that the citizens have a disposition to obey them. One worry about this is this: Suppose the citizens after electing Alice become unruly, and lose the disposition to obey. It seems that Alice could still be the legitimate authority. I suppose someone could think, however, that some principles of democracy would imply that if there is no social disposition to obey someone, they are no longer an authority, legitimate or not. I am dubious. But there is another objection to finding a common disposition in the citizenry. The citizenry’s disposition to obey Bob could easily be conditional on them being unable to escape the harsh treatment he imposes on the disobedient and on him actually issuing orders. So the proposal now is something like this: z is a legitimate authority or an illegitimate authority if the citizenry would be disposed to obey z if z were to issue orders backed up credible threats of harsh treatment. But it could easily be that a perfectly ordinary person z satisfies this definition: people would obey z if z were to issue orders backed up by credible threats!

Let’s try one more thing. What fake and real money have in common is that they are both objects made to appear to be real money. Could we say that both Alice and Bob claim have this in common: They both claim to (“pretend to”, in the old sense of “pretend” that does not imply “falsely” as it does now) be the legitimate authority? Again, that may not be true. Alice is in solitary confinement. She has no one to make such claims to. Again, we can try to find some dispositional formulation, such as that she would claim it if she thought it beneficial to do so. But again many quite ordinary people would claim to be the legitimate authority if they thought it beneficial to do so. Moreover, Bob can be an illegitimate authority without any pretence to legitimacy! He need not claim, for instance, that people have a duty to obey him, backing up his orders by threat rather than by claimed authority. (It is common in our time that dictators pretend to a legitimacy that they do not have. But this is not a necessary condition for being an illegitimate authority.) Finally, if Carl is a crazy guy who claims to have been elected and no one, not even Carl’s friends and family, pays any attention to his raving, it does not seem that Carl is an illegitimate authority.

None of this denies the thesis that there is a similarity between illegitimate authority and legitimate authority. But it does not seem possible to turn that similarity into a non-disjunctive property that both of these share. Though maybe I am just insufficiently clever.

Autonomy and God

We have much in the way of autonomy rights against other people. Do we have autonomy rights against ourselves? I think so. There are ways of constraining our future selves that are contrary to our dignity.

Here is a thesis I find plausible:

1. We have no autonomy rights against God.

Of course, and importantly, God has reasons for action based on the value of our autonomy. But I think it’s still true that these reasons are not going to be conclusive in the way that they would be if we had autonomy rights. (They might be conclusive in some other way, say if God promised us autonomy in some area. I take it that a right to have a promise fulfilled is not an autonomy right, perhaps pace Kant.)

Claim (1) seems to be a thesis about God’s authority. It paints a picture of God as an authoritarian being with infinite normative power, and the picture is not so attractive to modern sensibilities.

But I think there is a different way of thinking and feeling about (1). We can, instead, think of (1) as consequence of the ways that

2. God is infinitely close to me—closer than I am to myself.

There are many ways in which I am “not that close to myself”. I am ignorant of much that goes on in me, even in my mind. I don’t love myself as much as I should. My future is murky and my past is fading. And, above all, I don’t have being in myself, but being by participation in another, God. God is closer to me than I am to myself. And a consequence of this closeness is that I have even less in the way of autonomy rights against God than I do against myself.

Related to (1) is an interesting hypothesis. Everyone agrees:

3. God has infinite power.

It intuitively sounds plausible that:

4. God has infinite normative power.

I am not sure what exactly (4) means, or how it is true. But doesn’t it sound right?

Divine hiddenness and divine command ethics

Once upon a time, there was an isolated village in the mountains. It had a large electronic billboard. Every so often, unsigned demands appeared on the billboard. Most of these demands seemed reasonable, and the villagers find themselves with an ingrained feeling that they should do what the billboard says, and typically they do so, often deferring to the billboard even when the reasonableness of its demands is less clear. There were two main theories about the billboard. Some villagers said that thousands of miles away there was an authoritative and benevolent monarch who had cameras and microphones hidden around the village, and who issued commands via the billboard. Others said that there was no monarch, but centuries ago, as a science fair project, a clever teenager wrote a machine learning program that offered good advice for the village—a program that wasn’t sophisticated enough to count as really intelligent, but nonetheless its deliverances were quite helpful—and hooked it up to the billboard, and eventually the origins of the system were largely forgotten. The evidence is such that neither group of villagers is irrational in holding to their theory.

Suppose that the monarch theory was in fact the correct one.

Question: Did the monarch’s demands constitute valid commands for the villagers who accepted the software theory?

Response: No. Anonymous demands are not valid commands even when they are issued by a genuine authority. A valid command needs to make it evident whom it comes from. When the authority chooses not to make a subordinate be aware of the demand as an authoritative command, the demand is not an authoritative command.

Objection: Given the widely ingrained feeling that the billboard should be obeyed, even the villagers who accepted the software theory had a duty to obey the billboard. That was just part of the governing structure of the village: to obey the billboard.

Response: Perhaps. But even so, the duty to obey the billboard (at least over the villagers who accept the software theory) wasn’t grounded in the monarch’s authority, but in either the authority of the individual’s conscience or the law-giving force of village custom.

Question: Did the monarch’s demands constitute valid commands for the villagers who accepted the monarch theory?

Response: I am not sure. I think a case can be made in either direction.

The argument from vocation

1. I have a calling.

2. If I have a calling, someone with authority over me calls me to a particular form of life.

3. No human being with authority over me calls me to a particular form of life.

4. So, an authoritative non-human being exists.

Different people vary as to whether they think they have a calling or vocation in the sense relevant to the argument. Note, however, that for the argument to work, it is enough for there to be someone in whose case (1)–(3) are true.

I think the most problematic premise in the argument is (2). There is an alternate account of calling, on which one’s duty to take on a particular form of life, when one has such a duty, is determined by one’s pattern of strengths and weaknesses as combined with opportunities available to one and the needs of others. But it seems intuitively unlikely that such circumstantial facts are sufficient to determine a particular form of life, except in the case of persons in emergency situations or with limited opportunities.

Do we need Anarchist Islands?

Suppose that the right account of state authority requires the consent of the governed. A standard view is that this consent is presumed in virtue of the resident’s choice not to leave the territory of the state. This would have worked when world population was lower, and there were places where one could live close to the “state of nature”, with all the freedoms and costs entailed by that. But nowadays if someone is living in a democratic state, there really is no way to get significantly more freedoms: one can move to a different democratic state, which only provides an alternative with respect to relatively minor matters of detail, or one can move to an undemocratic state, where one only has fewer freedom.

I told a version the above story to two of my kids, and one of them suggested that in order to ensure the legitimacy of governments we need “Anarchist Islands”. (There was also the suggestion of settlements on Mars. But because Mars is so inhospitable, I think it is not possible to live in the “state of nature” there.)

I think it would be really interesting if it turned out that for a while we had legitimate goverments, but once unpopulated land disappeared, the legitimacy went with it, and now in order to ensure legitimacy, we need to sacrifice a significant amount of resources, leaving aside land to open the possibility of choosing not to live under a government.

All that said, I don’t agree with views on which the consent of the governed is essential.

Punishment, criticism and authority

It is always unjust to punish without the right kind of authority over those that one punishes.

Sometimes that authority may be given to us by them (as in the case of a University’s authority over adult students, or maybe even in the case of mutual authority in friendship) and sometimes it may come from some other relationship (as in the case of the state’s authority over us). But in any case, such authority is sparse. The number of entities and persons that have this sort of authority over us is several orders of magnitude smaller than the number of people in society.

This means that typically when we learn that someone is behaving badly, we do not have the authority to punish them. I wonder what this does or does not entail.

Clearly, it does not mean that we are not permitted to criticize them. Criticism as such is not punishment, but the offering of evaluative information. We do not need any authority to state a truth to a random person (though there may be constraints of manners, confidentiality, etc.), including an evaluative truth. But what if that truth is foreseen to hurt? If it is merely foreseen but not intended to hurt, this is still not punishment (it’s more like a Double Effect case). But what if it is also intended to hurt?

Well, not every imposition of pain is a punishment. Nor does every imposition of pain require authority. Suppose I see that you are asleep a hundred meters from me, and I see a deadly snake, for whose bite there is no cure, approaching you. I pull out an air rifle and shoot you in the leg, intending to cause you pain that wakes you up and allows you to escape the snake. Likewise, it could be permissible to offer intentionally hurtful criticism in order to change someone’s behavior without any need for authority (though it may not be often advisable).

But there is a difference between imposing a hurt and doing so punitively. In the air rifle case, the imposition of pain is not punitive. But in the case of criticism, it is psychologically very easy to veer from imposing the criticism for the sake of reformation to a retributive intention. And to impose pain retributively—even in part, and even by truthful words—without proper authority is a violation of justice.

There are two interesting corollaries of the above considerations.

First, we get an apparently new argument against purely reformatory views of punishment. For it seems that the imposition of pain through accurate criticism in order to reform someone’s behavior would count as punishment on a purely reformatory view, and hence would have to require proper authority (unless we deny the thesis I started with, that punishment without authority is unjust).

Second, we get an interesting asymmetry between punishment and reward that I never noticed before. There is nothing unjust about rewarding someone whom we have no authority over when they have done a good thing (though in particular cases it could violate manners, be paternalistic, etc.) In particular, there need be nothing wrong with what one might call retributive praise even in the absence of authority: praise intended to give a pleasure to the person praised as a reward for their good deeds. But for punishment, things are different. This is no surprise, because in general harsh treatment is harder to justify than pleasant treatment.

Divine authority over us

Imagine a custody battle between Alice and Bob over their child Carl. Suppose the court finds that Alice loves Carl much more than Bob does, that Alice is much wiser than Bob, and that Alice knows Carl and his needs much better than Bob does. Moreover, it is discovered that Bob has knowingly unjustifiedly harmed Carl, while Alice has never done that. In the light of these, it is obvious that Alice is a more fitting candidate to have authority over Carl than Bob is.

But now, suppose x is some individual. Then God loves x much more than I love x, God is much wiser than I, God knows x and his needs much better than I do. Moreover, suppose that I have knowingly unjustifiedly harmed x, while God has never done that. In light of these, it should be plausible that God is a more fitting candidate to have authority over x than I am.

Suppose, however, that I am x. The above is still true. God loves me much more than I love myself; God is much wiser than I; God knows me and my needs much better than I do. And I have on a number of occasions knowingly unjustifiedly harmed myself—indeed, in typical cases when I sin, that’s what has happened—while God has never knowingly unjustifiedly harmed me. So, it seems that God is a more fitting candidate to have authority over me than I am.

I am not endorsing a general principle that if someone loves me more than I love myself, etc., then they are more fit to have authority over me. For the someone might be someone that has little intuitive standing to have authority over me—a complete stranger who inexplicably enormously cares about me might not have much authority over me. But it is prima facie plausible that God has significant authority over me, for the same sorts of reasons that my parents had authority over me when I was a child. And the above considerations suggest that God’s authority over me is likely to be greater than my own authority over myself.

If it is correct that God, if he existed, would have greater authority over me than I have over myself, then that would have significant repercussions for the problem of evil. For a part of the problem involves the question of whether it is permissible for God to allow a person to suffer horrendously even for the sake of greater (or incommensurable but proportionate) goods to them or (especially) another. But it would be permissible for me to allow myself to suffer horrendously for the sake of greater (or incommensurable but proportionate) goods for me or another. If God has greater authority over me than I have over myself, then it would likewise be permissible for God.

This does not of course solve the problem of evil. There is still the question whether allowing the sufferings people undergo has the right connection with greater (or incommensurable but proportionate) goods, and much of the literature on the problem of evil has focused on that. But it does help significantly with the deontic component of the question. (Though even with respect to the deontic aspects, there is still the question of divine intentions—it would I think be wrong even for God to intend an evil for the sake of a good. So care is still needed in theodicy to ensure that the theodicy doesn’t make God out to be intending evils for the sake of goods.)

Musings on authority

I have a lot of authority to impose hardships on myself. I can impose hardships on myself in two main ways. I can do something that either is or causes a hardship or risk of hardship to myself. Or I can commit myself to doing something that is or causes me a hardship or risk of hardship (I can commit myself by making a promise or by otherwise putting myself in a position where there is no morally permissible way to avoid the hardship). I have a wide moral latitude to decide which burdens to bear for the sake of which goods, though not an unlimited latitude. The decisions between goods are morally limited by the virtue of prudence. It would be wrong to undertake a 90% risk of death for the sake of a muffin. But it's morally up to me, or at least would be if I had no dependents, whether to undertake a 40% risk of death for the sake of writing a masterpiece. I do have the authority to impose some hardships on my children and my students, but that authority is much more limited: I do not have the authority to impose a 40% risk of death for the sake of writing a masterpiece. My authority to impose hardships on myself is much greater than my authority to impose hardships on others.

One explanation of the difference in the degree of our authority over ourselves and our authority over others is that people's authority over others derives from people's authority over themselves: we give authority over us to others. That is what the contractarian thinks, but it is implausible for familiar reasons (e.g., there aren't enough voluntarily accepted contracts to make contractarianism work). I prefer one of these two stories:

1. Both authority (of the hardship-imposing kind) over self and authority over others derives from God's authority over us.
2. Of necessity, some relationships are authority-conferring, and different kinds of relationships are necessarily authority-conferring to different degrees. For instance, identity in a mature person confers great authority of x with respect to x. Parenthood by a mature person of an immature person confers much authority but less than identity of a mature person does.

What about God's authority? On view (1), we would expect God to have more authority to impose hardships than anybody else has, including more authority to impose hardships on us than we have with respect to our own selves. What about on view (2)? That's less clear. We would intuitively expect that the God-creature relationship be more authority-conferring than the parent-child one. But how does it compare to identity? It would be religiously uncomfortable to say that someone has more authority over me than God does, even if I am that someone. Can we give a philosophical explanation for this religious intuition? Maybe, but I'm not yet up to it. I think a part of the story is that all our goods are goods by participation in God, that our telos is a telos-by-participation in God as the ultimate final cause of all.

Suppose we could argue that God has more hardship-imposing authority over ourselves than we have over ourselves. Then I think we would have a powerful tool for theodicy. A crucial question in theodicy is whether it is permissible for God to allow hardship H to me for the sake of good G (for myself or another). We would then have a defeasible sufficient condition for this permissibility: if it would not be immorally imprudent for me to allow H to myself for the sake of G, then it would be permissible for God to allow H to me for the sake of G. This is a much stronger criterion than one that is occasionally used in the literature, namely that if I would rationally allow H to myself for the sake of G, then God can permissibly allow it, too.

Command ethics

I think one of the most powerful objections to divine command theory is MacIntyre’s question as to which divine attributes make it be the case that the obligatory is what God commands. It’s not God’s creating us: for imagine a naturalistic universe where a crazy scientist creates people—surely the crazy scientist’s commands do not constitute obligations. It’s not God’s being omnipotent—that just seems irrelevant. Omniscience also doesn’t seem to help. Etc.

Here’s a theory that just occurred to me which avoids this problem:

• the obligatory is what is validly commanded by someone.

This is a command theory instead of a divine command theory. The difficulty with this theory is giving an account of a valid command that does not proceed by saying that a valid command is one that it is obligatory to obey. Perhaps, though, one could suppose that there is a fundamental property of non-derivative authority (actually, a relational property: non-derivative authority over x with respect to R) that some persons have. For instance, God has this property in a very broad and non-derivative way, but God might not be the only one (maybe parents have it with respect to children, and governments with respect to people). This theory solves the MacIntyre problem with divine command theory. And while there is a cost to having a primitive account of non-derivative authority, there is some reason to think that even if we grounded obligations in something other than commands, we might still have to take non-derivative authority to be primitive.

Of course, without God the command theory is just implausible: clearly there are ordinary obligations we have that do not come from the commands of other ordinary persons.

I certainly don’t endorse the theory. But it’s worth thinking about, and in particular it’s worth thinking whether it’s not superior to divine command theory.

A hypothesis about authority and duties of care

Parents have the authority to command their children and parents have a special duty to care for children. Officers have special duties of care for those under their command. The state likewise has special duties of care for those under its jurisdiction. Special duties of care do not imply authority: adult siblings have special duties of care to one another but do not have jurisdiction over one another. But we can hypothesize that authority implies special duties of care.

Why would that be so? One possibility is that authority always arises out of special duties of care: in some cases, in order to properly care for y one must have authority over y. That fits neatly with the parent-child case, but doesn't fit with the military case, where the authority seems explanatory of the duties of care, or at least not posterior to it. But in the military case we might say this: in paradigmatic cases (putting to one side the case of mercenaries), the officer's authority derives from the state's authority. And the state's authority may well arise out of special duties of care for its citizens, whom the state can thus induct, voluntarily or not, into the military.

This more general pattern can fit cases which don't fit the simple version of the authority-care hypothesis. For instance, perhaps, a judge has commanding authority over a convicted prisoner but does not have special duties of care for the prisoner. But the judge's authority derives from the state's authority, which is explained by the state's special duties towards its citizens. So the more refined hypothesis is something like this: The authority to command is connected with special duties of care, but the special duties of care need not be had by the one who has the authority to command--the authority to command may have been deputized from another who had both the authority and the special duties.

But what about this case: Sometimes a state will imprison those who are not under its care but who have harmed its citizens. One example is prisoners of war. Another is the case of seizing a criminal from another country, as in the case of Manuel Noriega. I could wimpily say that the hypothesis is just a general rule with exceptions. But perhaps what I should instead say is that the case of prisoners of war and criminals seized from abroad is not a case of authority to command and hence no exception to the hypothesis. While an imprisoned citizen does violate duties of obedience to the state in escaping, the prisoner of war or criminal seized from abroad do not violate any such duties of obedience in escaping. There may be a limited commanding authority, however, derived from duties of care. Thus, an officer in charge of a prisoner of war camp might have commanding authority in respect of keeping order at food lines. And in even other cases there may be moral reasons to obey not because of authority but in order to maintain order, which is good in itself.

So let's suppose the hypothesis is correct. We now come to two of the most interesting cases: God and self. If the hypothesis is true, then God's absolute commanding authority over us derives from God's duty to love us. That's surprising, but may be right. The case of self is even more interesting. While we may not, strictly speaking, have commanding authority over ourselves (though "promises to self" might be an example), the authority we have over ourselves goes beyond most cases of commanding authority. Does that authority, too, derive from duties to care for ourselves? I like that idea, but many will not like the idea of duties to care for ourselves.

From suicide to slavery

I've been thinking about an argument with this logical form:

1. If suicide is permissible, then slavery is permissible.
2. Slavery is not permissible.
3. So, suicide is not permissible.

Of course, the most controversial premise is (1), though I could also imagine a defender of suicide denying (2) in the case of voluntary enslavement. One reason to accept (1) is something like this:

4. If suicide is permissible, then we have ultimate authority over our own lives.
5. If we have ultimate authority over our own lives, then it is permissible and valid for us to sell ourselves into slavery.
6. If it is permissible and valid for us to sell ourselves into slavery, then slavery is permissible.
7. So, if suicide is permissible, then slavery is permissible.

By "valid", I mean that the sale would actually work: that authority over our lives would be transferred to another. The notion of "ultimate authority" is rather foggy and I think (4) and (5) can be questioned. But I still think it's an argument worth developing, as all three premises (4)-(6) have some plausibility.

Another line of thought in favor of (1) is:

8. If suicide is permissible, it is permissible and valid to deputize another to unconditionally kill one.
9. If it is permissible and valid to deputize another to unconditionally kill one, it is permissible and valid to deputize another to kill one at will.
10. If it is permissible and valid to deputize another to kill one at will, then it is permissible and valid to sell oneself into slavery.
11. If it is permissible and valid to sell oneself into slavery, then slavery is permissible.

Here, valid deputization is a deputization that actually succeeds in giving the other the requisite authority. The thought behind (10) is that if one give life-and-death authority over oneself to another, one can a fortiori give the other kinds of authority that define the master-slave relationship.

Two kinds of authority

A president exercises authority with respect to a group that includes herself. She is included in two ways. First, the common good that her authority promotes is a good of a group that includes herself. Second, her legal enactments bind her just as much as they bind other citizens.

Not all authority is like this. A Dean of Students, for instance, exercises authority over students and for the sake of their good, and typically is not a student herself.

Sometimes authority of the second sort derives from authority of the first sort. The Dean of Students has an authority deriving from the consent of the students, and the students have an authority of the first sort over themselves. The general has an authority of the second sort (I think), deriving from that of the president.

An interesting hypothesis is that the second sort of authority always derives from the first. There are two nice test cases: parental and divine authority.

Parental authority is of the second sort. Is it derivative? If not, then the hypothesis is false. Maybe parental authority derives from the authority of one or both parents over the whole family, which would be of the first type? Or from God's authority?

God's authority is surely non-derivative and yet seems to be of the second type, yielding a counterexample. But maybe God's authority is of the second type: God is trying to put together a kingdom of ends that he is head of.

Or maybe the first sort of authority derives from the second? That could make for a neat story, with divine authority on top.

Or maybe there is no interesting derivation relationship.

Commands and requests

One way to help out a sceptic about something is by arguing that what she is sceptical about is way more widespread than she thinks. Of course, that's a risky strategy, since instead of her scepticism disappearing, she might just widen its scope. Here's one example of this risky strategy.

Authority sceptics are sceptical that another person's commands can generate obligations for us, except in certain unproblematic ways (a command from someone trustworthy might provide epistemic reason to think that the commanded action is independently obligatory; when one has reason to believe that others will follow the command, there might be reasons to coordinate one's activity with theirs; etc.). There is something seemingly magical about generating obligations for another just by commanding.

But isn't it equally magical that we can generate non-obligating reasons for another just by requesting, or obligating reasons for self just by promising? Yet it seems quite absurd to be a request or promise sceptic.

Conscience, authority and moral intuition

A former student of mine wrote to me with a query on about how institutional Church authority could co-exist with the authority of individual conscience. She argued that ultimately my conscience will decide whether the authority is to be trusted, and quoted Anscombe as saying that one cannot help but be one's own pilot.

This made me think a bit more about conscience and authority. I had recently been reading about the Charles Bonnet and Musical Ear syndromes. In these, visual or hearing loss, respectively, apparently causes the brain to confabulate visual or auditory data, respectively, to fill in the sensorily deprived blanks. In Charles Bonnet Syndrome, the sufferers see things like colored patterns, faces, cartoons, etc. In Musical Ear Syndrome, they are apt to hear music. The significant thing about both syndromes is that the sufferers are quite sane and fully realize that the incorrect sensory data they are receiving is mere hallucination (that the hallucinations are limited to a single faculty must help there). They may, however, be distressed due to worries that they are insane, particularly if they are misdiagnosed by a psychiatrist, as in a case I recall hearing of.

A reasonable sufferer from one of these two syndromes will accept the testimony of reliable others that what she visually or auditorily perceives isn't there. In so doing, she is genuinely being her own pilot. Indeed, if she were to uncritically accept the visual or auditory data, she wouldn't be being her own responsible pilot: she would be replacing considered judgment with the flow of experience. Likewise, my colorblind son defers to the color judgments of others; an object may look light green to him, but when others testify that it is light pink, he accepts their judgment, and in so doing exercises his epistemic autonomy.

I think something similar can and does happen in moral matters. We have moral intuitions. These moral intuitions can be more or less reliable. But of course raw moral intuitions do not have a final say. Even apart from authority, moral intuitions need to be harmonized. And it may turn out that the best moral theory fitting the bulk of one's moral intuitions can go against some of one's moral intuitions, and then a judgment must be made.

Moreover, there is nothing contrary to being one's own pilot in making a reasonable judgment that a family of one's moral intuitions, or even all of one's moral intuitions, are less reliable than the testimony of an individual or institution one has reason to trust. That is just much an exercise of one's epistemic autonomy as it would be to accept the moral intuitions over that testimony.

I think that sometimes we confuse conscience with moral intuitions. The deliverance of conscience is an all-things-considered judgment of what is morally to be done. It may take moral intuitions into account, but it may also take other relevant data into account as well. The deliverance of moral intuition is not, as such, the deliverance of conscience, though of course in the absence of evidence against the moral intuition, conscience is apt to reasonably accept the content of the moral intuition as true.

It is quite possible for one to reasonably come to the conclusion that one's moral intuitions are less reliable than the teaching of an authority. In such a case, when there is a conflict between one's moral intuition and a teaching of the authority, one's considered moral judgment will at least typically go with the teaching. (I say "at least typically" to leave open the possibility that, say, a particularly strong moral intuition might be judged more likely to be accurate than a teaching that the authority gives quite low weight to.) In so doing, one may very well be a responsible pilot of one's self, if the reasons for accepting the authority as reliable were very good ones.

And one is not going against conscience then. On the contrary, in such a case, it would go against conscience to follow the moral intuitions, because one's considered judgment is that the authority is more reliable than the intuitions.

Our moral intuitions while being a genuine source of moral knowledge are often distorted by the desire to find excuses for our own faults or, more excusably, those of friends. Moral intuitions should not be glorified with the name "conscience". Like a Charles Bonnet Syndrome patient, one can be reasonable in judging that one ought to submit to the judgment of another, and then the other's judgment is the deliverance of one's conscience.

At the same time, I should note that normally our moral intuitions will play a significant role in figuring out that a putative authority should be listened to. When the putative authority's teachings harmonize particularly with those moral intuitions that we take to be more reliable, that will count in favor of the claim to authority, and when they disagree, that will count against the claim to authority. Here I think there is a useful rule of thumb: moral intuitions that something is permissible are less to be trusted than moral intuitions that something is impermissible. An action is impermissible provided there is a conclusive moral reason not to do it. An action is permissible provided that there is no conclusive moral reason not to do it. Generally, perceptions of absence are less to be trusted than perceptions of presence. Moreover, the space of reasons is large, and to judge that none of the infinitely many considerations in that space gives conclusive reason not to do A is fraught witih difficulty. (Of course, judgments about permissibility are very often right, but perhaps only because of the base rate: most actions people perform are right.)

Gutting on Church authority

Gary Gutting has an interesting opinion piece where he argues that the Bishops don't have the right to define the teachings of the Catholic Church for the purposes of American political discussion, because most American Catholics disagree with them on matters like contraception.

Imagine the Tall Persons' Club, where by well-established and generations-old tradition, the executive council is made up of the three tallest members, and the president is the tallest member. I voluntarily join the Tall Persons' Club, because I love many of its traditionally established activities, such as the annual cleaning of the giraffe enclosure in the local zoo, the discounted tickets to basketball games and the spectacular fireworks on Robert Pershing Wadlow's birthday.

However, I believe that the governing structure is an unfortunate one, because I think (a) height does not correlate with intelligence, (b) a focus on absolute rather than group-relative height is unfair to some ethnic groups, and (c) we should also do more for ostrich conservation than the present leadership does. Moreover, many members are with me on this. But nonetheless, by voluntarily joining the club, I have given its three tallest members a certain right to speak on my behalf on club-related matters. This is particularly true if there are other clubs that engage in similar activities but have a governing structure closer to what I like.

There are a number of important disanalogies, of course. For instance, one might believe that membership in the Catholic Church is necessary for eternal salvation. If one believes that, then one will have a very serious reason to be a member of the Church no matter how much one disagrees with the Magisterium, and the voluntariness that was essential to my story about the Tall Persons' Club is decreased. However, I don't know of any Catholics who disagree with the Magisterium on contraception who think that membership in the Catholic Church is necessary for salvation.

Another disanalogy is that many people become members of the Catholic Church not by their own choice, but by infant baptism (which, as I think Augustine notes, emphasizes that salvation is not by works). However, given a pluralistic society like ours, they are at least typically remaining in the Church voluntarily.

What counts as "the opinion of a group" is a really tough question. But it certainly isn't determined by looking at what the majority believe. For instance, it is false to say that it is the opinion of the Music Department that the earth goes around the sun, though no doubt that is the opinion of the majority of the members of the Music Department. It is not the opinion of the Music Department because the Music Department has not come to this view by the established methods for forming a corporate view of a matter proper to the Music Department. So majority opinion is not a sufficient condition for group opinion. Nor is it a necessary condition for something to be the opinion of a group that the majority believe it, even in the case of an institution whose traditional governance is by simple majority vote. A group can come up with a joint compromise proposition, approved by a majority vote, where in fact no one individual in the group endorses the proposition in its entirety (whether it is ever morally licit to vote in favor of a group resolution to endorse a proposition one takes to be false is a different question).

(Also, the following rather interesting thing can happen in a group. There may be two groups with the same or almost the same membership but with different governance structures, and opinions, preferences and decisions will then be differently attributable to the two groups. For instance, there may be the Music Department as an academic department and the Music Department as a social group. Perhaps the Music Department as a social group likes a particular brand of beer, but that preference is not of the Music Department as an academic group unless they vote for it in a Department meeting. It could be that there is the Tall Persons' Club as such and the Tall Persons' Club as a majority-governed group of individuals. We should then say that ostrich protection is a goal of the second group but not of the first.)

Furthermore, those of us who at least in principle like the idea of constitutional democracies (or monarchies, for that matter--I am Canadian, after all) should not say that the authority of a group derives from synchronic endorsement by the members. For it is a crucial feature (and very important for protecting minorities) of a constitutional system that it persists in authority even when at a particular time the majority fail to respect that authority (in this way, it is like marriage; one also thinks of Ulysses tied to the mast). The military oath in the United States is, importantly, an oath to protect the Constitution, not the present preferences and choices of the American people.

But I am out of my depth in the social/political philosophy stuff.

Some bad arguments from authority

Argument 1:
Only a minority of scientists believe that the speed of light is 299792458 m/s.
So, probably, the speed of light is not 299792458 m/s.

Argument 2:
If you asked most mathematicians about their credence that the 20th digit of pi is 4, they'd say it's 1/10.
So, probably, the 20th digit of pi is not 4.

Argument 3:
Only a minority of mathematicians believe Bayes' Theorem.
So, probably, Bayes' Theorem is false.

:-)

Self-love and self-seeking

The following are excerpts from my book manuscript on love, which I am now revising. Comments (whether substantive or stylistic) are welcome. The setting for the puzzle below is Paul's observation in 1 Cor. 13 that love does not seek its own:

There is, however, a special puzzle in the case of love of oneself. The command in Leviticus (19:18) to love one’s neighbor as oneself is a seminal text, including for the Christian Scriptures which quote it frequently (Mt. 5:43, 19:19, 22:39, Mk. 12:31-33, Lk. 10:27, Rom. 13:9, Gal. 5:14, James 2:8). But how can love of oneself not be self-seeking? One answer could be that Paul is giving us a general quality of love: love focuses us on the beloved. In the special case where the beloved is oneself, this calls for a focus on self, but that is not the result of a general quality of love, but of the particularity of the beloved in this form of love. But there may be a deeper way to understand how a love of oneself can be non-self-seeking, and we will come to that in Section 2.9.

...

2.9. Love of oneself and self-seeking

We saw that we need to distinguish the reasons for loving someone from the reasons for having a particular form of love for someone. The reasons for loving need not vary from beloved to beloved. My son, my wife, my sister, my father, my friend and my enemy is each a human being created in the image and likeness of God, and this calls out for a response of love. So I can love each of my neighbors for the very same reason. But the different forms that the love should take are each justified by different reasons. I love my son with a paternal love that includes a certain kind of authority because he is my son and because he is young. I love my friend with a friendly love perhaps because of our shared history of companionship.

This offers us a speculative way to see how Paul’s observation (1 Cor. 13:15) that agapê does not seek its own might apply to self-love. Aristotle in Nicomachean Ethics IX.4 observes that good people have the same kinds of reasons for loving themselves as they do for loving others: namely, they can love themselves for their character. At same time, Aristotle seems to think that thoroughly corrupt individuals have no reason to love themselves, and indeed do not. Aristotle was wrong in thinking that there was no reason to love the thoroughly corrupt—they, too, are people—but the idea that virtuous persons love themselves for the same reason that they love others is compelling.

This then offers a way in which well-ordered love of oneself is not self-seeking. When Francis virtuously loves himself, i.e., Francis, he does not love Francis because Francis is himself, but he loves Francis because Francis is a human being in the image and likeness of God. Or, at least, he does not primarily love Francis for being himself, but primarily loves him for the attributes that Francis shares with all other humans. Virtuous people love their neighbors as themselves. Conversely, they love themselves as they love their neighbors, namely for the same kind of reason. And in this sense the love is not self-seeking, since although the beloved is oneself, the beloved is loved primarily for reasons for which one loves one’s neighbor rather than for being oneself.

At the same time, love for oneself has a different form from love for another, just as love for one’s friend and love for one’s father have different forms. Perhaps the most important is that one’s relationship with oneself involves a kind of authority that one’s relationship with one’s friend or parent do not have: I can require sacrifices of myself that I have no right to require of a friend or parent. Another is that correlative with this authority over oneself there is a special responsibility for one’s moral development, going beyond that which one has for a friend or parent’s, and more akin to, though perhaps going further than, one’s responsibility for one’s children’s moral development.

Epistemically otiose appeals to authority

Suppose I am an art graduate student.  After careful study, a certain well-known painting of uncertain provenance looks very much to me like it is by Rembrandt.  Kowalska is the world expert on Rembrandt.  I have never heard what Kowalska thinks about this painting.  But I reason thus: "This painting is almost certainly by Rembrandt.  Kowalska is very reliable at identifying Rembrandt paintings and has no doubt thought about this one.  Therefore, very likely, Kowalska thinks that the painting is by Rembrandt."  I then tell people: "I have evidence that Kowalska thinks this painting is by Rembrandt."

What I say is true--the evidence for thinking that the painting is by Rembrandt combined with the evidence of Kowalska's reliability is evidence that Kowalska thinks the painting is by Rembrandt.  But there is a perversity in what I say.  (Interestingly, this perversity is a reversal of this one.)  By implicature, I am offering Kowalska's Rembrandt authority as significant evidence for the attribution of the pointing, while in fact all the evidence rests on my own authority.  Kowalska's authority on matters of Rembrandt is epistemically otiose.

This kind of rhetorical move occurs in religious and moral discourse to various degrees.  In its most egregious form, one reasons, consciously or not: "It is true that p.  Jesus knows the truth at least about matters of this sort.  Therefore, if the subject came up, Jesus would say that p."  And so one says: "Jesus would say that p."  (I am grateful to my wife for mentioning this phenomenon to me.)  Here it seems one is implicating that Jesus' theological or moral authority supports one's own view, but in fact all the evidential support for the view comes from one's initial reasons for believing that p.  One's reason for thinking that Jesus would say that p is that one thinks that it is true that p and one therefore thinks that Jesus would say it.

At the same time, there are contexts where this rhetorical move is legitimate, namely when the question is not primarily epistemic but motivational--when the point is not to convince someone that it is true that p, but to motivate her to act accordingly.  In this case, the imaginative exercise of visualizing Jesus saying that p may be helpful.  But when the question is primarily epistemic, there is a danger that one is cloaking one's own epistemic authority with that of Jesus.

Still, sometimes it is epistemically legitimate to appeal to what Jesus would say.  This is when one has grounds for believing that Jesus would say that p that go over and beyond one's other reasons for believing that it is true that p.  We can know about Jesus' character from Scripture and cautiously extrapolate what he would say about an issue.  (Likewise, we might know that Kowalska judged paintings relevantly like this one to be by Rembrandt, and this gives us additional confidence that she thinks this one is Rembrandt's.)  But we need to be very cautious with such counterfactual authority.  For one of the things that we learn from the New Testament is that what Jesus would say on an issue is likely to surprise people on both sides of the issue.  In particular, even if it is true that p and Jesus knows that p, Jesus might very well not answer in the affirmative if asked whether it is true that p.  He might, instead, question the motivations of the questioner or point to a deeper issue.

Here is a particularly unfortunate form of this epistemically otiose appeal to authority.  One accepts sola scriptura and one thinks that it is an important Christian doctrine that p.  So one concludes that Scripture somewhere says that p.  With time one might even forget that one's main reason for thinking that Scripture says that p was that one oneself thought that p, and then one can sincerely but vaguely (or perhaps precisely if  eisegesis has occurred) cite Scripture as an authority that p.  This is, I think, a danger for adherents of sola scriptura.  (Whether this danger is much of a reason not to accept sola scriptura, I don't know.)

But religious authority is not the only area for this.  This also happens with science.  One accepts the proposition that p for some reason, good or bad.  That proposition is within the purview of science, or so one thinks.  So, one concludes that one day science will show that p or that science will make disagreement with the claim that p ridiculous, and one says this.  Here, the appeal to a future scientific authority is epistemically otiose and has only rhetorical force, though one may well be implicating that it has more than rhetorical force.

Here is another interesting issue in the neighborhood.  Suppose I know some philosophical, theological or scientific theory T to be true, and I know that God believes all truths.  Then I should be able to know that God believes T (barring some special circumstances that make for a counterexample to closure).  But it sounds presumptuous to say: "I know that God himself believes T."  I think the above considerations suggest why such a statement is inappropriate.  It is inappropriate because in standard contexts to say that one knows what an expert believes implicates that one believes it in part because of the expert's opinion--one is covering oneself with the expert's mantle of authority.  Still, inappropriateness is not the same as presumptuousness, and so the above still isn't a very good explanation of why "I know that God himself believes T" sounds bad.  Maybe a part of the explanation of the apparent presumptuousness is that by saying that one knows what God believes one is suggesting that one is one of God's intimates?  (Still, surely no theist would balk at: "God believes that 2+2=4.")

Hierarchy and unity

Vatican II gives a very hierarchical account of unity in the Church:

This collegial union is apparent also in the mutual relations of the individual bishops with particular churches and with the universal Church. The Roman Pontiff, as the successor of Peter, is the perpetual and visible principle and foundation [principium et fundamentum] of unity of both the bishops and of the faithful. The individual bishops, however, are the visible principle and foundation of unity in their particular churches, fashioned after the model of the universal Church, in and from which churches comes into being the one and only Catholic Church. For this reason the individual bishops represent each his own church, but all of them together and with the Pope represent the entire Church in the bond of peace, love and unity.(Lumen Gentium 23)

The unity of each local Church is grounded in the one local bishop, and the unity of the bishops is grounded in the one pope. Unity at each level comes not from mutual agreement, but from a subordination to a single individual who serves as the principle (principium; recall the archai of Greek thought) of unity. This principle of unity has authority, as the preceding section of the text tells us. In the case of the bishops, this is an authority dependent on union with the pope. (The Council is speaking synchronically. One might also add a diachronic element whereby the popes are unified by Christ, whose vicars they are.)

A hierarchical model of unity is perhaps not fashionable, but it neatly avoids circularity problems. Suppose, for instance, we talk of the unity of a non-hierarchical group in terms of the mutual agreement of the members on some goals. But for this to be a genuine unity, the agreement of the members cannot simply be coincidental. Many people have discovered for themselves that cutting across a corner can save walking time (a consequence of Pythagoras' theorem and the inequality a²+b²<(a+b)² for positive a and b), but their agreement is merely coincidental and they do not form a genuine unified group. For mutual agreement to constitute people into a genuine group, people must agree in pursuing the group's goals at least in part because they are the goals of the group. But that, obviously, presents a vicious regress: for the group must already eist for people to pursue its goals.

The problem is alleviated in the case of a hierarchical unity. A simple case is where one person offers to be an authority, and others agree to be under her authority. They are united not by their mutual agreement, but by all subordinating themselves to the authority of the founder. A somewhat more complex case is where several people come together and agree to select a leader by some procedure. In that case, they are still united, but now by a potential subordination rather than an actual one. This is like the case of the Church after a pope has died and another has yet to be elected. And of course one may have more complex hierarchies, with multiple persons owed obedience, either collectively or in different respects.

This, I think, helps shed some light on Paul's need to add a call for a special asymmetrical submission in the family—"Wives, be subject to your husbands, as to the Lord" (Eph. 5:22)—right after his call for symmetrical submission among Christians: "Be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ" (Eph. 5:21). Symmetrical submission is insufficient for genuine group unity. And while, of course, everyone in a family is subject to Christ, that subjection does not suffice to unite the family as a family, since subjection to Christ equally unites two members of one Christian family as it does members of different Christian families. The need for asymmetrical authority is not just there for the sake of practical coordination, but helps unite the family as one.

In these kinds of cases, it is not that those under authority are there for the benefit of the one in authority. That is the pagan model of authority that Jesus condemns in Matthew 20:25. Rather, the principle of unity fulfills a need for unity among those who are unified, serves by unifying.

There is a variety of patterns here. In some cases, the individual in authority is replaceable. In others, there is no such replaceability. In most of the cases I can think of there is in some important respect an equality between the one in authority and those falling under the authority—this is true even in the case of Christ's lordship over the Church, since Christ did indeed become one of us. But in all cases there is an asymmetry.

Here is an interesting case. The "standard view" among orthodox Catholic bioethicists (and I think among most pro-life bioethicists in general) is that:

1. Humans begin to live significantly before their brains come into existence.
2. Humans no longer live when their brains have ceased all function (though their souls continue to exist).

There is an apparent tension between these two claims. Claim (2) suggests that brains are central to our identity as living animals. Claim (1) suggests otherwise. But there is a way of seeing the rest of the human body as hierarchically subject to the brain that allows one to defend both (1) and (2). For there is a crucial difference between the state of the embryonic body prior to the brain's formation and the state of the adult body after the brain's destruction. In the embryonic case, there is a developmental striving for the production of a brain to be subject to. This is like a group that has come together to select a leader, and they are already unified by their disposition to be subject to the leader once selected. In the case of an adult all of whose brain function has ceased, even if there is heartbeat and respiration (say, because the news that the brain has ceased to function hasn't reached the rest of the body, or because of electrical stimulation), there is no striving towards the production of a brain to be subject to. This is like a bunch of people whose leader has died and where there is neither disposition nor obligation to select another: the social group has effectively been dissolved.

Relativity theory, promises and promulgation of laws

In one earlier post, I suggested the principle the basic laws of morality, just like those of physics, should be reference frame invariant. In that post, I offered some examples of the application of this theory, albeit ones that were not of much interest. In a later post, I have offered an application of the principle to the abortion debate, but the principle did not really decide any issue, but simply deepened the discussion. But now I have what is to me a much more interesting pair of applications.

I promise you never to sit on your late wife's favorite bench which happens to be on my front lawn. I thus create an obligation for myself (an amazing power, isn't it, the power to create obligations?). A while later you release me from the promise. Your release destroys the obligation (so a part of my power of promising was a power to give you the power to make the obligation cease to obtain).

But when did these things happen? When did the obligation not to sit on the chair come into existence? When I promised I wouldn't, or only when the promise reached you? And when did the obligation cease? When you said you release me, or only when the release reached me? Of course, if we're speaking face to face, the question is only of theoretical interest—but, still, it is a genuine interest, I think. But what if you live four light-years away, and we speak by radio? Then, did I become bound when I made the promise, or only four years later, when you heard the promise? And did I become released when you uttered the words releasing me from the promise, or only four years later? In such a case, the question is not just of theoretical interest.

It turns out that there is a very natural way to decide this question when we apply invariance, assuming that making promises and releasing from them is a matter of basic laws of morality. Suppose that we said that the obligation comes to exist when you hear my promise. But then the law would not be invariant. For five minutes after I have sent my words to you over the radio, it will be true in some but not all reference frames that you have already received the message. So, it will depend on reference frame whether I may sit on the bench then or not. Invariance will be violated. (Note that it will not help much to say that what is relevant is my reference frame. For extended substances do not in general define a unique reference frame. Besides, if my reference frame matters so much then, absurd, I'll be able to affect when the obligation applies simply by running really fast in some direction or other.)

If, on the other hand, I say that the promise is binding on me as soon as I have made it, then this rule is invariant. For the rule, basically, says that the obligation obtains when I am in the forward light-cone of the promise-making, and this is a reference-frame invariant relationship.

One might think that just as I am bound as soon as I sent the promise, so too am I released as soon as you sent the release. But here things are quite the opposite. For if I were released as soon as you sent the release, invariance would be violated—for, we would have to ask, in which reference frame is the "as soon as" measured. But invariance will obtain if I specify that my obligation ceases as soon as the release gets to me.

So we have a pretty good argument, based on invariance, for when promises come to bind and when we are released from them. The obligations, as it were, exist at the site of the promiser, and hence come to exist when the promiser speaks, and cease to exist when the promisee's release arrives at the promiser. Of course, further questions can be asked—when is the exact moment of sending, for instance. But those questions, I think, do not concern the basic practice of promise making/keeping itself—maybe answers to those questions can be left to custom or the prudent legislator.

Here is a different application. When a legislature passes a law, when does the law become morally binding on me? (I don't care about the question when it becomes legally binding, since only moral normativity matters in the end.) When the law is passed? Or when the law is promulgated? Or when the promulgation arrives? Intuitively, it would seem unfair if I were bound as soon as the law were passed, since I would have no way of knowing about the law as soon as it were passed, and surely the law is to be a guide to my rational deliberation. I think Aquinas makes something like this argument. But it would be nice to have an argument without so much that is controversial. Well, that's easy. The rule that the law is binding morally on me when promulgated violates invariance (imagine that the law is one of the Galactic Empire, and there is no faster than light travel, so it can take years and years to reach me), since we would have to ask: "In which reference frame?" The same problem obtains for the question: "When the law is promulgated?" (e.g., when the legislature radios it out to the subjects). But "When the promulgation arrives to me" is invariant, since it is a question of my being bound.

Now there is a problem with this answer. Generally, it is taken that ignorance of the law is no excuse. So, it seems, I can be bound by laws that were never communicated to me. Three answers are available. The first is that the "ignorance" saying only applies to legal binding—morally, ignorance of positive law is a perfectly fine excuse. The second is to modify my initial formulation: I am bound at the first time at which it was reasonably possible for me to have found out about the legislation had I set my mind to it. This, too, is invariant. The third is to combine the first two answers. Certain basic laws, such as laws proclaiming the constitution of a new nation, only become morally binding when the subjects hear of them. As part of the proclamations of these laws, the subjects hear how and where they can find out about additional laws. But then further laws becoming binding when one can reasonably find out about them. This, too, is invariant.

In any case, the answer "When the legislator makes the law" is not a good one. So we have an argument for Aquinas' thesis that promulgation is essential to the bindingness of a law. Secret treaties do not bind those ignorant of them, at least not morally.

I think it's pretty cool that one can get such fairly specific answers to difficult normative questions simply out of relativity theory. I think one could probably also get similar answers if one had a causal theory of time (whether it was relativistic or not). And that is not a coincidence because I think the relativistic theory of time is, basically, a causal theory of time.