Designed for Good: Recovering the Idea, Language, and Practice of Virtue

Designed for Good: Recovering the Idea, Language, and Practice of Virtue (ebook edition)

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First eBook edition — February 2017

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Introduction: What Is Virtue?

1. The Perfect Version of Ourselves

2. How Shall We Then Function?

3. The Idea of Virtue

4. The Language of Virtue

5. The Practice of Virtue: He Has Shown You What Is Good

6. Virtue beyond Habits

7. Why Be Moral?

This book is dedicated to Joe and Carolyn Brown, my parents. I have spent a lifetime watching them embody the very virtues this book aims to bring to light.

Acknowledgments

I would hesitate to claim a single thought in this book that was not implicitly or explicitly beholden to another source. A conversation. A book. A lecture. In that sense, it would be impossible to sufficiently acknowledge all of my debts.

Of course, some debts are more conspicuous than others. Specifically, I would like to thank my graduate school advisors, Dr. Eric Stoddart from St. Andrews University and Dr. Julie Clague and Gwilym Pryce from the University of Glasgow. If there is any rubbish in the book, I am most certainly to be credited—but I would like to think that if there is anything good in the book, their thumbprint can be found. Yet another thumbprint comes from Hannah Brown at Hendrickson Publishers. Given her skills as an editor in addition to her expertise in classical virtue ethics, I could not have been blessed with a more fortunate arrangement.

I am so thankful for working at an institution that fosters ideas and their dissemination. I owe a great debt to our Asbury lunch meetings, coffee conversations, book studies, and student gatherings. I also want to thank the folks at Anderson University’s Falls School of Business for their investment in me as a person and an academic.

I am wonderfully fortunate to have a spouse who is committed to thinking carefully about faithful living and virtue. My wife, Maria, has produced an array of thoughts whose depth, quality, and insight meet or exceed those to be found in some of my most cherished books. In addition to Maria, my children, Cambel, Ada, and Oliver, are a perpetual source of inspiration.

I want to thank Hubert, Nate, and Adriel for a (rather caffeinated!) meeting at Starbucks years back in which we discussed the popular Parable of the Sadhu case. This launched me into a deeper articulation of agent-based ethical inquiry.

I am also very thankful to Jason Mitchell—pastor, author, but above all, friend. Jason has long been a source of insight, and he provided helpful direction in shaping some of the contours of this book and its arguments.

I am so grateful to Les Stobbe, my agent, for the effort and expertise he has provided on my behalf.

Finally, I want to thank my parents, Joe and Carolyn, and my sisters, Jenn and Laura. I can never know the full extent of the blessing they have been to me.

Introduction: What Is Virtue?

Whatever the cross and the gospel are about, it is not a slap on the hand for kids refusing to heed the rules of the cookie jar. It is not mere advice to get you to clean up your life and morals. It is not mere ideas to inform you about what it takes to be nice. It is restoration and re-creation, a physician’s meditation; it is about human flourishing and discovering life.

—Stuart McAllister

One of the most critical battles in human history took place over two thousand years ago. But you have probably never heard of it. By today’s standards, it might seem rather tame—or worse, boring.

Why?

Well, to begin, the battle was not physical (no spears, swords, gladiator fights, etc.); it was philosophical. Furthermore, the conflict was not historical; it was literary. The parties involved were not military representatives, and the dispute had little to do with state or culture. No kings were crowned, no enemies vanquished, no kin avenged, and no damsels saved. Because this skirmish is stripped of these seductive storytelling characteristics, we might be justified in neglecting the details.

But we would be making a mistake.

In fact, this clash of beliefs may be one of the most important confrontations ever recorded. It was—and is—a battle over the nature of human purpose, significance, meaning, and fulfillment. It is about living well—what we tend to refer to as a good life. It speaks to flourishing—being blessed or happy. Understood in these terms, everything is at stake, for everyone.

The confrontation is set in Plato’s most famous work, The Republic. The book’s main character is Socrates, who served as Plato’s teacher in real life. After initiating a discussion about the meaning of justice, Socrates is challenged by a Greek teacher named Thrasymachus, who famously describes justice as nothing other than the advantage of the stronger.[1] According to him, being a good and decent person actually holds one back from having a better life. It is an impediment to real satisfaction and contentment. The virtue exhibited by the just, so goes the argument, is a barrier to climbing up the social ladder, accumulating wealth, and ultimately attaining happiness. To summarize, Thrasymachus believes that in order to live a happy life, assuming that happiness is attained through status or wealth, one is better off being unjust than just.

Thrasymachus is not alone. Chiming in on the argument is one of Socrates’s students, Glaucon. He affirms the belief that injustice is something of a necessary evil, for the life of the unjust man is, after all, far better than that of the just man, as they say.[2] To prove it, Glaucon provides an argument in the form of a thought experiment, a familiar story called the Ring of Gyges.

Here is a modern-day version of the story. Imagine that while on a solitary hike in the woods, you stumble upon an alluring gold ring lying on the ground. As you will soon learn, this is no ordinary ring. When you turn the ring half a rotation on your finger, those around you speak and act as if you were not there. But when you turn the ring back to its normal position, they recognize your presence. To your amazement, you have stumbled upon a ring that can make you disappear and reappear at will.

What would it mean if such power were granted to you? It would mean that you could do whatever you wanted without the threat of judgment, consequence, or retaliation. You might be tempted to steal desirable goods, fulfill all manner of lusts, or perhaps enact cruel revenge against your enemies.

So, knowing that you could take any action you desired without consequence, how would you live? What would you do? In what way would you harness the power of this ring?

Glaucon suggests that even a just and upright man would use the ring to fulfill every desire he possessed. Without fear of punishment, he would steal from, harm, or sexually violate those around him, acting as an equal to a god among humans.[3] Therefore, Glaucon, in line with Thrasymachus, summarizes: All men suppose injustice is far more to their private profit than justice.[4]

What are Thrasymachus and Glaucon ultimately saying? In essence, they are suggesting that the moral life is not necessarily the happy life. We can seek to be moral, just, upright, and virtuous—but this will likely exclude us from the opportunity to be happy and fulfilled. However, if we seek the things that make us happy, this inevitably means that we cannot be moral. As ethicist Thomas Jensen writes, the implication is that we have a hankering to free ourselves from morality, as if it were a burden preventing us from achieving happiness.[5]

Glaucon’s Ring of Gyges exercise is meant to suggest that if we possessed the power of the ring, then we would ultimately reveal our true desires and thus our true selves. In other words, putting on the ring and unleashing its power strips away all social, political, and economic constraints, liberating the ring-bearer to indulge his or her innermost appetites. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, it is when given a mask that a man reveals his true self.

After this challenge, the rest of The Republic is committed—through the mouth of Socrates—to proving that the just life is the best life one can lead. Contrary to Thrasymachus’s and Glaucon’s arguments that the unjust life is better, Socrates aims to convince them that a moral and virtuous lifestyle is not only the greatest expression of human excellence, but it is a life of happiness, meaning, and fulfillment; it is indeed a state worthy of pursuit.

These arguments presented thousands of years ago are actually quite relevant to how we conceive of morality today. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the Ring of Gyges story contains one of the most pressing and significant questions for our contemporary culture.

Hence, the purpose of this book.

The aim of this book is not to regurgitate Socrates’s counterargument in defense of justice. However, my goal is to make a similar case for virtue. That is, the virtuous life is the best life. The comprehension, vocabulary, and practice of virtue lead to the best version of ourselves we can aspire to. To be virtuous is to seek, and attain, the good.

The chapters to come will suggest that the ordered universe that we inhabit is not simply an arbitrary by-product of chance plus matter plus time, but a well-ordered design created by a deliberate designer. Furthermore, I will argue that disconnecting our human activity (how we function) from our intended design (our form) will inevitably lead to an incoherent existence. In contrast to this disconnect, when we recognize and participate in the idea, language, and practice of virtue, we draw closer to living the perfect life as Jesus described it in Matthew 5:48, in which we are doing what we were meant to do (function aligned with form).

Before getting under way with this argument, it is first important to attend to the very idea of virtue and what is meant by this particular term. A few quick notes are in order. The descriptions below are not exhaustive, nor are they meant to be. Moreover, some readers may quibble with how I describe virtue—the term is packed with nuance and has been subject to an array of different expressions over time. But this is not a book about the meaning of virtue—it is a book about why virtue is our most necessary pursuit. To assist the reader in the chapters to come, the section below aims to articulate what is meant when this term is used.

Finally, many trace the virtue ethics tradition back to Plato and Aristotle (and I will reference them accordingly). That said, the thrust of the book’s argument originates not from the classical philosophers, but from the Christian faith tradition. In some places, these two traditions may be consonant, but in other places they are not. Where they are not, my appeal rests upon the foundations of the faith tradition.

Arriving at Virtue

To best attend to the meaning of the word virtue, it is helpful to explore what it is and what it is not.

Not Ethics

First and foremost, virtue—as I describe it—is not the same thing as ethics. Though certainly related to virtue, ethics and ethical reflection primarily involve the determination of what is right and wrong. Although we often talk about acting ethically, ethics as a discipline seems almost entirely concerned with establishing our dos and don’ts for particular situations.

In this sense, ethics is an intellectual exercise. Unfortunately, ethical knowledge or even ethical sensitivity does not necessarily translate into ethical action. Take, for example, the work of philosopher Eric Schwitzgebel, who has undertaken considerable research into the ethical behavior of ethics professors. It seems reasonable to believe that the more someone knows and understands ethics and ethical reasoning, the more likely they will be to act ethically in a given situation. Not true, Schwitzgebel says. He offers a humorous picture of what this gap looks like:

An ethicist philosopher considers whether it’s morally permissible to eat the meat of factory-farmed mammals. She reads Peter Singer. She reads objections and replies to Singer. She concludes that it is in fact morally bad to eat meat. She presents the material in her applied ethics class. Maybe she even writes on the issue. However, instead of changing her behavior to match her new moral opinions, she retains her old behavior. She teaches Singer’s defense of vegetarianism, both outwardly and inwardly endorsing it, and then proceeds to the university cafeteria for a cheeseburger (perhaps feeling somewhat bad about doing so). To the student who sees her in the cafeteria, our philosopher says: Singer’s arguments are sound. It is morally wrong of me to eat this delicious cheeseburger. But my role as a philosopher is only to discuss philosophical issues, to present and evaluate philosophical views and arguments, not to live accordingly.[6]

The hypocrisy is clear—the professor didn’t practice what she preached. Yet some simply do not see a problem with this disconnect. Schwitzgebel cites, for example, New York Times ethics writer Randy Cohen. In the final post of his long-running column, Cohen writes, I wasn’t hired to personify virtue, to be a role model for the kids, but to write about virtue in a way readers might find engaging.[7] Or consider a rather puzzling exchange in an interview between philosopher Nigel Warburton and Marxist philosopher Gerry Cohen. After discussing Cohen’s book If You’re an Egalitarian, How Come You’re So Rich?, Warburton points out that Cohen is an egalitarian who is rich. How does he reconcile this? Cohen responds, I am not a morally exemplary person. That’s all. That’s the reconciliation.[8]

Here is the point: moral and ethical knowledge—while helpful, particularly as it relates to processing ethical situations—is different from moral and ethical performance. While a good nursing, accounting, or history class could conceivably produce a better nurse, accountant, or historian, we cannot claim that a good ethics class will make a student ethical. Deliberating over thorny ethical questions might be fodder for late-night dorm room discussions or dinner party conversations, but their application to our everyday life is another matter.

Virtue is altogether different. In fact, the difference can be found by looking at the word itself. The English word virtue derives from the Latin virtus, which can be translated as manliness; it can also mean strength or vigor. As David Gill notes, the term literally means something like power. That is, virtue is not simply knowledge about right action, but the capacity to act rightly. Gill writes, Virtues are thus not just ‘values’ (traits that I feel are worthwhile) but ‘powers’ (real capabilities of achieving something good).[9]

Furthermore, virtue is not simply knowing what is good, but desire for goodness. It connotes pursuit. It is striving to organize your life around the good, the right, and the true. Notice that virtue does not imply the abandonment of desire, but the cultivation of desire for what is truly desirable—that is, desiring well (more on this to come).

Thus, we may conclude that virtue is a strong disposition and a strong desire for good living (good thoughts, good language, and good actions). Given this, it is possible to have a robust sense of ethics, but to lack virtue.

Identity before Action

Often, we are tempted to think that virtue is a question of right or wrong action. This would be misleading. Virtue, and the larger virtue ethics tradition, has always been more concerned with who you are than with what you do. In other words, the analysis begins with the person doing the action (What kind of person should I be?) and then proceeds to the action (What should I do?), not the other way around.

Unfortunately, most ethical dilemmas are processed in a rigidly goal- or principle-based manner. There is nothing wrong with moral traditions that do this, but their primary concern relates to right action. For example, when students today are presented with an ethical question in a classroom setting, they are inevitably asked, What should X do in Y situation? In other words, what is the right activity? What is the optimal decision? What is the appropriate behavior for this situation? This implies that there is some magical ethics formula or decision-making matrix that allows the user to arrive at the morally appropriate answer. One is led to imagine something like a machine: you throw your ethical dilemma in the chute, churn the handle, and out comes the right solution.

Now, some may reasonably ask, What is wrong with that? First, such a mechanical approach to morality mistakes it for a science. This is wrong. Virtue is not a matter of testing falsifiable assertions; it is deliberating on, desiring, pursuing, and cultivating what it means to live well.

Second, and more importantly, virtue asks first about the good life, or what the nature and character of a person ought to be, and then determines the rightness or wrongness of specific actions based on that vision. This is not to dismiss the latter approach. Action-based ethical inquiry (i.e., inquiry about the right activity to do) is both important and necessary. However, this is different from an approach that focuses less on the isolated action, and more on the person performing the action. Virtue is about being over doing. That is to say, what kind of person should I be, and what right actions should I take as a function of who I am?

Jesus did not come simply to tell us what to do; he came to share and demonstrate who we should be, to confer an identity upon us, and to allow us think and act from this identity. As Skye Jethani writes, how we see will influence what we do in the world.[10] Unfortunately, many—if not most—do not regard virtue in this way. As philosopher Alasdair Macintyre has stated, modern philosophy has a tendency to think atomistically about human action.[11] That is, we tend to divorce our activity (what we do) from other important dimensions of our life such as our identity (who we are).

Virtue is not just about doing the right thing—it is about becoming the right kind of person. After accounting for what it means to live well, we can proceed to think carefully about the moral nature of our actions.

Wholeness vs. Right/Wrong

As the last section made clear, distilling ethics down to the study of isolated actions without considering the person doing the actions is problematic. In addition to this, we would be wrong to think that an action in itself can always be neatly parsed out as right or wrong. As counterintuitive as it seems, this is actually an unaccommodating and misleading framework for understanding virtue.

To better think about this, it is helpful to borrow some statistical parlance commonly used to describe different kinds of variables. Some variables are discrete, meaning that the data can be grouped into distinct, either/or categories, or multiple categories that are all mutually exclusive. For example, either someone is pregnant or they are not pregnant. You can be either one or the other, but you cannot be both. It is an either/or category. Or consider a student’s college rank: freshman, sophomore, junior, or senior. Here, there are several categories, but you cannot fall into two or more buckets (if you are a senior, then you aren’t a junior, sophomore, or freshman).

Discrete variables are often contrasted with continuous variables. These variables can assume any value within a particular range. For example, when we talk about North Carolina’s average temperature in July, our federal deficit, a firefighter’s weight, the number of customers entering Starbucks each day, or foul balls at Wrigley per year, we are talking about continuous variables. If a variable is continuous, its values can be understood to fall within a range. Furthermore, movements along this range can reflect positions that are better or worse. For example, if we asked how far along a project was relative to its completion date or whether someone who was sick is feeling better, the movement along the continuum reflects going from something undesirable to something desirable.

Here is why this matters: we often think (or like to think) of ethics and morality in discrete terms. Either an action is right or it is wrong. This may be appropriate for the field of theoretical ethics, but it is a poor paradigm for understanding what it means to be virtuous. Virtue is not simply about what we do, or our right and wrong actions (discrete); it is about attaining wholeness, being complete human beings. Moreover, note that this expression reflects attributes of being continuous. How? C. S. Lewis presents a helpful picture:

People often think of Christian morality as a kind of bargain in which God says, If you keep a lot of rules, I’ll reward you, and if you don’t I’ll do the other thing. I do not think that is the best way of looking at it. I would much rather say that every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something