Chapter Eight Interlude: Theories Against Theories:
Recent Developments

Introduction *

Impartiality and Particularity *

Particularity and Moral Motivation *

Particularity and Impartial Treatment *

Pluralism, Particularity, and Impartiality *

Moral Saints *

The Argument Against Saints *

Defending Morality and Moral Saints *

Saints and Narcissists *

Saints and Ethical Pluralism *

Moral Discourse *

The Neglect of Moral Perception *

The Embeddedness of Moral Beliefs in Narratives *

The Combative Nature of Argument *

A Pluralistic Account of Moral Discourse *

Reshaping Ethical Theory *

Bibliographical Essay *

Discussion Questions *

During the last two decades, our traditional understanding of ethical theory has come under attack on several fronts. Reflecting a growing awareness of the importance of personal relationships in the moral life, a number of philosophers have raised serious doubts about the demand for impartiality that lies at the heart of much of modern moral philosophy. Other philosophers have expressed serious reservations about the ideals of moral goodness implicit in mainstream moral theories. Finally, some philosophers—recognizing the importance of literature and other forms of discourse in the moral life—have voiced doubts about the emphasis on the role of arguments in ethics. These are trans-theoretical issues, that is, they arise as a problem in several of the moral theories we have considered, not just one.

There are several reasons for considering these issues at this juncture. First, they may speak to some of the reservations and objections that you, the reader, already have. They may thereby help to develop your own criticisms of ethical theory further. Second, these objections help to sharpen the theories themselves, for they must be refined in order to meet the objections. Far from undermining the value of the theories we have already studied, these objections make them more valuable. Third, these criticisms provide the background against which some of the recent developments in virtue ethics, in feminist ethics, and in multicultural ethics will be considered in the next three chapters. Finally, these objections point to the importance of a pluralistic approach to moral theories, for it is precisely such an approach which allows us to appreciate and respond to these objections more effectively.

Much of modern moral philosophy—whether in the tradition of utilitarianism, deontology, egoism, or rights theory—is essentially concerned with providing a set of rules to guide our interactions with strangers. The principal focus of its concern has been on the question of how we should act toward people considered simply as moral agents. Scant attention was paid to the question of whether we stood in any special relationship to other people, such as spouse, family member, lover, or close friend. This was entirely consistent with the impartiality usually associated with the moral point of view. Insofar as the moral point of view was necessarily impartial, it seemed to demand that we set aside particular relationships we have with other people and treat them impartially in regard to moral matters. To do anything less would be to show a kind of moral favoritism that would be unacceptable to most ethicists.

In the past two decades, philosophers have become increasingly interested in the ethics of personal relationships. In part, this interest in personal relationships seems to have been motivated by an increasing awareness of the extent to which our personal relationships are constitutive of our identity. Who I am as a person is deeply shaped by my relationships to the people who are closest to me, my family and close friends. As philosophers began to look more closely at the moral dimensions of personal relationships, they discovered that traditional moral theories did not fit, or apply to, the domain of personal relationships nearly as well as they fit the everyday world of impersonal relationships. Upon reflection, we can see that this is hardly surprising. If an automobile is designed to function well in hot and dry desert conditions, we would hardly expect it to function well in extremely cold and wet conditions without modification. A Hummer—the Jeep-like vehicle that American forces used in the Gulf war—is well designed for the desert, but it may be too poorly insulated to serve well in the Antarctic without substantial changes. Similarly, if ethics was principally designed to govern our interactions with strangers, it is hardly surprising if it is less illuminating when dealing with intimates.

When they attempt to apply traditional moral theories to the ethics of personal relationships, philosophers have found two distinct areas in which revisions may be necessary. The first of these relates to motivation, the second to our behavior. Let’s examine each of these in turn.

An Initial Example: Visiting a Sick Friend. Imagine that you were in the hospital, waiting after a long series of tests to find out whether you have cancer or not. It is summer, and many of your friends are away on vacation. There are few visitors, and your anxiety makes your loneliness even worse. Then one of your best friends comes to visit, and you feel really happy to see him. You tell him how much his visit means to you, and he replies like a perfect Kantian or rule utilitarian. "Of course I would come to visit you," he says. "I would do the same for anyone who was a good friend of mine." Imagine further that your friend then goes on, as a good Kantian, to say that it is the duty of any person to visit close friends in the hospital and that he is just doing his duty. Or imagine that he is a good act utilitarian and concludes that visiting you in the hospital would produce the greatest overall amount of good. Indeed, the friend might even be an ethical egoist who has concluded that visiting you in the hospital would best contribute to his overall self-interest.

How would you feel when you heard this? I know what my feelings would be. I would want to feel that my friend was visiting me because he or she cared about me, not because it was a duty to be performed toward anyone who was a good friend or because it produced the greatest overall utility. I would not like to feel that I was just the conclusion of a moral syllogism, but that I was genuinely cared about. Something seems to be lacking in my friend’s motivation if that friend is acting solely out of a concern for duty or overall utility rather than a concern for me. While such a motivation may be appropriate for a hospital chaplain and some other stranger charged with being concerned with other people’s welfare, it does not seem appropriate or sufficient for a friend. Between friends, we expect a directness of concern that makes duty irrelevant.

Moral Schizophrenia. A number of philosophers have addressed themselves to examples such as the one I have just given and attempted to isolate precisely what is wrong with the friend’s motivation in such a case. In a very influential article entitled "The Schizophrenia of Modern Moral Theories," Michael Stocker has argued that there is a deep split at the motivational heart of most modern moral theories, a split that he calls moral schizophrenia. This is a split between our moral motives and the reasons that are acceptable within a moral theory.

Stocker’s argument begins with an important premise. He assumes that there should be a "harmony of the spirit," a harmony between our reasons and our motives. We should be able, he contends, to value those things which motivate us most strongly and we should be motivated by those things we value most highly. Yet most ethical systems fail to permit, much less encourage, such harmony. Often what motivates us is a direct concern for friends, family, and others to whom we are close. Such direct feelings of friendship, love and concern are generally not valued in themselves by ethical theories. Rather, such theories give value to duty, to optimizing consequences, etc. Friendship, love, and direct caring for another person have only a secondary or instrumental value insofar as they contribute to duty, optimizing consequences, etc. What these theories value and permit as legitimate reasons is not what motivates us. We are alienated from our own selves, from our deepest personal motivations, because morality seems to demand that we respond to strictly moral reasons deriving from a theory, rather than from particular motives and feelings that have no specifically moral dimension to them. The result is a deep split between particularistic motives of attachment and universal reasons that are essentially impartial. Insofar as morality demands that we set aside our particularistic motives in favor of universal and impartial reasons, and insofar as these particularistic motives are central to who we are as persons, morality seems to demand that we set aside key elements of our personal identity. Morality seems to require that we substitute a theoretical, impersonal reason for our own more individual, more personal motives.

Motivational Pluralism. Several points need to be made in reply to this argument. First, an ethics which seeks a convergence of duty and desire, one which promotes an ideal of striving to desire the good, is preferable to an ethics which perpetuates this split and sees nothing problematic about it. As we shall see in Chapter Nine, this is precisely what Aristotle’s ethics of character—especially in his description of the temperate individual—attempts to achieve. The temperate person is the individual whose desires are rightly ordered toward the good. Continence, which presupposes a deep split between duty and inclination, is only acceptable when an individual cannot achieve temperance. Moral health, to return to the metaphor we introduced in the Chapter One, involves a healing of the split between duty and desire whenever possible.

Second, there are times when motives of particularity fail us. When this happens, it is good to have more impartial motives available as a motivational backup. Let’s return to our hospital example to make this more concrete. It is preferable to have friends come to visit you in the hospital because they are concerned about you, because they want to comfort you, rather than to have them come out of a sense of duty. Yet what if their concern for you does not lead to visiting you in the hospital? (For example, they may have developed a strong aversion to hospitals because of painful childhood experiences.) It may well be preferable that they visit you out of a sense of duty than not at all. Furthermore, it may well be preferable that they strive to reach a point where visiting friends in the hospital would be a natural and spontaneous way of expressing their caring—but until they reach that point, duty will have to serve as sufficient motivation. Duty need not be external. Indeed, a primary goal of moral education is to develop the appropriate moral motivations as internal motivations such that we desire the good.

Third, it is reasonable to distinguish between different motivational domains, that is, different spheres of existence in which different kinds of motives are appropriate. It is appropriate that I visit my friends in the hospital because of a direct caring about them as individuals. Here my motivation is personal and particularistic, and there is certainly nothing wrong with such a motivation in that kind of situation. It is also appropriate, if I am a hospital chaplain or occupy some similar role, that I visit people in the hospital who are complete strangers. Visiting such individuals is part of my role of chaplain, and my motivation is intimately bound up with my role. We can call this role-based motivation. Finally, I may visit strangers in the hospital out of a general sense that I should help people in need when I am able to do so. Here a more particularistic motivation is neither appropriate nor even possible. I am concerned with such individuals simply because they too are human beings. This is the universal domain in which traditional accounts of moral reasons are most appropriate. Thus we get a three-fold division of domains and their corresponding motivations.

Different types of motivation are appropriate to different types of situations. The impartial, universalistic motivation which traditional moral theories espouse is most appropriate in the domain of our interactions with strangers. Other, more specific motivations are dependent on specific roles. For example, as a teacher, I have a particular kind of concern for my students which is at least partially constituted by the role I have chosen. This role-based concern motivates me to act for the benefit of my students in ways that I would not act for people in general. Finally, my personal attachments motivate me to act for the sake of people I love and care about in ways that go beyond the ways in which I would act for either strangers or students. Different types of moral motivation are appropriate to different moral domains.

Recognizing motivations pluralism leaves an important issue still unresolved. Granting that it is appropriate to have different kinds of motivations in different spheres of life, is it appropriate or permissible to treat people differently on the basis of personal attachments? We now turn from the question of motives to the question of behavior.

Godwin’s Choice. In his Enquiry concerning Political Justice (1793), the English political philosopher William Godwin poses an interesting dilemma. Imagine a burning building in which two people are trapped: the Archbishop of Cambray and his chambermaid. You are able to rescue only one of them, not both. Imagine, furthermore, that the chambermaid is your mother. Imagine, finally, that you have good reason to believe that the Archbishop of Cambray will do many great things that will benefit a large number of people and that your mother will do much less to benefit humanity than will the Archbishop. Which of the two should you choose to save?

Godwin’s dilemma is an interesting one, because it brings into focus both important questions about the role of particularity in the moral life. The first question relates to motivation. Why should I save that person? (Godwin’s answer is clear: because the Archbishop would produce more benefit for humanity.) The second question is about behavior. Which one should I save? (Again, Godwin’s answer is clear: the Archbishop.) Let’s begin by considering the second question.

Special Considerations. When, if ever, are we entitled to give special consideration to friends, relatives, and others to whom we have especially close attachments? Several points need to be made in response to this question.

First, this is a matter in which cultural and ethical pluralism comes into play. We find cultural and moral traditions which value deep personal attachments highly, especially those of kinship, but we also find venerable cultural and moral traditions which place a high value on detachment and impartiality. We have seen examples of both in Chapter Three. On the one hand, the Navajo place a high value on relationships of attachment, and there are often significant differences between the way in which they treat strangers (especially non-Navajo) and the way in which they treat persons to whom they are related. On the other hand, Buddhists have long maintained a tradition of detachment and impartial compassion for the suffering of all. Indeed, for the Buddhist, moral and spiritual progress consists in part of overcoming attachments. For many of us, the Buddhist’s ability to respond in a caring fashion to everyone is an admirable trait. As we shall see at the beginning of the next chapter, this is not limited to Buddhists alone. The French Huguenot village of Le Chambon provides a startling example of an entire village’s ability to respond to the suffering of complete strangers.

Second, as we saw in Chapter Seven, there is a long tradition in Western moral and political philosophy which sees human rights as providing the limits on partiality. According to this tradition, we may show special consideration to those we care about as long as we do not violate the rights of others in the process. Indeed, when we reflect on Godwin’s example, we can see that it might be quite legitimate to save one’s mother rather than the Archbishop. Presumably they both have an equal right to be saved simply as human beings. Furthermore, my mother has, if anything, a stronger right than the Archbishop to be saved by me because I stand in a special relationship of responsibility to her that I do not have with the Archbishop.

Third, we should note that Godwin’s example in part because it mixes two different domains, the public and the private. The question would be much different if we had to choose between saving the Archbishop of Cambray or the Archbishop of Canterbury. Similarly, it would be quite different if we had to choose between saving our father or our mother. In either of those cases, both parties would have an equal right to be saved. What makes Godwin’s example interesting is that it mixes two worlds and forces us to decide which of those worlds is the more important. Here once again a pluralistic account of morality is relevant. Both worlds are important, and it is certainly reasonable to sometimes choose the personal world over the public world.

Fourth, some philosophers have suggested that personal relationships are incompatible with the impartiality traditionally associated with the moral point of view. Lynne McFall, for example, in her excellent article on "Integrity" argues that "impartiality is incompatible with friendship and love." Yet this is not necessarily the case. We may well be impartial within our personal relationships, just as we may be impartial within our public relationships. Parents may well try to treat their children equally, avoiding favoritism for one child over the others. Similarly, employers may treat their employees equally, not giving some unfair advantages or privileges over the others. The moral concerns which guide our personal relationships overlap those which guide our public relationships. The difficult issue is whether we must be impartial between personal relationships and public relationships. When employers hire their own children, may they extend special privileges to their children that they do not extend to other employees? Again, the rights perspective sheds light on the situation. It may be morally permissible—although not necessarily wise—to show special consideration to one’s children if doing so does not violate the rights of one’s other employees.

Finally, our analysis of Godwin’s example in terms of a conflict between two distinct moral domains, the personal and the public, helps shed light on a difficulty raised by Bernard Williams. In "Persons, Character, and Morality," Williams presents a case similar to Godwin’s, where a man must choose between saving his wife or a stranger. Presuming that the man saves his wife for some impartial moral reason, Williams wonders whether would not have "one reason too many." In other words, if the man justified saving his wife on rule utilitarian grounds—overall utility is maximizes if family members are concerned first and foremost with the welfare of their immediate family—then his wife might well find his motivation wanting. She might well want her husband to save her because he loved her. However, when we see the way in which examples such as these involve mixing two domains, the public and the private, then we can see the answer to Williams’ difficulty. The husband’s rule-utilitarian considerations are relevant in the public domain, whereas his love and concern for his wife are appropriate within the private realm.

If we adopt the pluralistic account of moral values sketched out in this book, there is a way of resolving the tension between particularity and impartiality. There is no single moral end or goal toward which we all strive, although certain moral values such as respect for persons and concern for consequences establish the limits within which we can choose our goals. Within these permissible limits, different lives may be characterized by quite different but—morally speaking—equally legitimate ends. These are expressions of our particularity, and they may vary from one individual to another. The moral life is characterized by both values of particularity and impartial values. Martin Benjamin, a philosopher at Michigan State University whose Splitting the Difference (1990) presents a compelling account of moral compromise, suggests a nautical metaphor to capture the back-and-forth movement between partial and impartial values. When we are sailing into the wind, we can never go straight ahead. We have to tack back and forth. So, too, in the moral life. Forward progress is made through tacking back and forth between the partial and the impartial viewpoints. Either one without the other would be impoverished. If we had only impersonal, impartial values, we would be moral automata suffering from the kind of alienation that contemporary critics have pointed to. If we had only particular, partial values, we would hardly be participating in the moral life. The tension between these two standpoints is what constitutes the moral life of the concrete individual. We shall examine this in more detail in Chapter Eleven when we discuss the ethics of diversity.

"I don’t know whether there are any moral saints," Susan Wolf—a philosopher at The Johns Hopkins University who specializes in ethics—tells us in opening sentences of her article "Moral Saints," but "if there are, I am glad that neither I nor those about whom I care most are among them." With these words, Wolf initiated a challenge, not just to a specific conception of morality, but to the place of morality within an individual’s life as a whole. "Moral ideals," she goes on to claim, "do not, and need not, make the best personal ideals." In fact, a moral saint may well be a bore!

What makes this a startling claim is that we have long assumed, not only that it is good to be good, but also that the better you are (morally speaking), the better person (in general) you are. Wolf is questioning this, saying that if we really acted out these moral theories, the actual results would not be very desirable. We would be cardboard figures, lacking in individuality and interest. And this, she claims, is not just a problem with some specific conception of morality, such as the Kantian or utilitarian, but a feature of morality as a whole. Morality, if taken seriously, leads to boring, uninteresting persons who lack a wide range of different interests and involvements, hopes and projects.

The general argument that leads to this kind of critique of saints is easily outlined. First, one needs to have a moral theory which has some dominant principle or value. I shall refer to this as a monistic morality, and shall call the claim that morality has some single, dominant value or principle the monism thesis. There is no shortage of these: divine command theories make God’s word that principle; ethical egoism makes acting for one’s own benefit the dominant principle; for Kant, the categorical imperative and its concomitant emphasis on duty form the primary value; utilitarians see maximizing utility as their principal value. Second, one needs a claim that moral concerns override non-moral concerns whenever the two conflict. I shall call this the overridingness thesis. Again, this is common to all the moral theories we have considered so far. God’s command to Abraham is probably the most dramatic, but the egoist, the Kantian, and the utilitarian all agree that moral concerns override non-moral concerns.

These two theses alone do not quite suffice to produce the kind of dull, boring, single-minded moral saint that Wolf criticizes. We could imagine a monistic morality which always overrides non-moral concerns when these conflict still leaving plenty of room for individuality if there were large portions of an individual’s life which were untouched by moral concerns. Thus what this argument needs is some way of establishing that, in virtually any given situation for any given individual, moral concerns will be relevant. I will refer to this as the relevance thesis. There are at least two ways of establishing this thesis. First, one might advance arguments to enlarge the moral ballpark, showing that it includes virtually everything. For example, if the moral ballpark is defined as including anything that affects suffering or well-being, then very little is excluded. What I order for breakfast tomorrow would become a moral concern, for I might have a shorter life if I had my first choice (French toast and thick-sliced bacon); this, in turn, might bring suffering to those who love me. Second, one might intensify what is within the moral ballpark in ways which draw everyone into the park. Think of the problem of world hunger. It is such an intense problem that we should all be concerned with it, and concerned with it until it is solved. Because of its intensity, it affects the smallest choices we make. Do I buy the latest novel by my favorite author in hard cover as soon as it comes out, or do I wait and check it out from the library when it is available and send the money I save to a famine relief organization like Oxfam? (The same choice, incidentally, would also be relevant to environmental concerns.) In fact, arguments of this type seem to have a lot of merit. There are a number of intense moral problems in our world, and it seems unlikely that they will disappear in the foreseeable future. World hunger is certainly one of these, but there are others as well. Racism, torture, child abuse, and environmental destruction are but a few of the more important ones. It is sad, but establishing the relevance thesis is not difficult.

Thus we see the premises of the moral saints arguments: morality is monistic; moral concerns are overriding; and moral concerns are virtually always relevant. Given these premises, we get the conclusion that morality leads to living a life that is dominated by a single (impersonal) principle to the exclusion of all personal interests, plans, hopes, and involvements. If one really follows the dictates of morality, then there is no room for these qualities of individuality. We now reach the next stage in the argument, which is to show that having these qualities of individuality (personal interests, plans, hopes, and involvements) is highly desirable. I will refer to this as the individuality thesis. Most of us would agree with this thesis, since we tend to value highly those things which comprise our individuality. If morality precludes individuality, and if individuality is highly desirable, then it seems that something is wrong with morality.

Several things need to be said about this argument. The first one is a point we have already made about some of the other arguments considered in this chapter as well: even if the argument ultimately does not turn out to be sound, we gain genuine insight into our own beliefs from trying to figure out what is wrong with it. I think that is particularly true about the moral saints argument. Even if it is unsound, we can learn a tremendous amount from it, for it forces us to rethink some of our basic convictions about moral goodness.

Second, the moral saints argument is in fact not particularly limited to morality. It points up a problem which may belong to any monistic, overriding belief system. Consider the person—let’s call that person the Capitalist Saint—who acts on the principle of trying to maximize profit in every situation. Virtually all the criticisms that Wolf levels against the moral saint could be seen as equally damaging to the capitalist saint. Individuality would be obliterated by the profit motive. Nothing would be undertaken if it did not contribute to profit, etc. Similarly with the Communist Saint, who follows communist principles in all situations—at least until August, 1991 when communism began to collapse. My point is that the moral saints argument may have little to do with morality as such; rather, it may be an argument against living one’s life solely on the basis of any monistic theory. But then the value of the moral saints argument is that it forces us to ask whether we can develop an account of morality that does not lead to a monistic theory. It is precisely this which ethical pluralism seeks to accomplish.

Third, while one way of replying to the moral saints argument is to attack the monistic character of theory, another avenue that is open is to reconsider the overriding thesis. Several philosophers, including Philippa Foot, have gone in this direction, arguing that there are circumstances in which non-moral concerns override moral ones. Concerns of courtesy may override moral demands for strict honesty and lead us to tell people in social situations that they look nice when they in fact do not.

Fourth, the relevance thesis is also open to challenge. One of the more interesting ways in which this has occurred recently has been in utilitarianism. As we saw, utilitarianism is usually seen as requiring that we perform the action that produces the most good, the greatest amount of utility. But some philosophers have introduced the notion of satisficing utilitarianism. Whereas optimizing refers to doing the best, satisficing refers to doing enough. Satisficing utilitarianism would require simply that we do enough, not the most, to satisfy our moral demands. While some have claimed that this just opens the door for moral mediocrity, such a criticism has force only if there is just one kind of moral value. Within a pluralistic context, satisficing utilitarianism may be supplemented by several other types of moral value.

Fifth, when we look at real saints, whether moral saints or religious saints, we see that they in fact are not always open to the objections based on the moral saints argument. In fact, they are clearly individuals with rich and varied interests who often experience a deep joy in everyday existence. If we look at the lives of people like Mahatma Gandhi, Albert Schweitzer, Mother Theresa, or Martin Luther King, Jr., we do not see cardboard figures. We see robust, complex individuals who are far more than the extension of some theory. This, in turn, suggests an important truth: the road to moral sainthood is not along the path of moral theory. We do not achieve moral excellence by slavishly following a theory, no matter how good the theory is. In the next chapter, which deals with the ethics of character, we will see that there is another, more promising path.

Three additional issues that relate to moral saints remain to be considered. First, genuine moral saints should be distinguished from what I shall call moral narcissists. Moral saints respond with goodness to the moral challenges which surround them, and the focus of their concern is with those who are suffering. Mother Theresa, for example, sees the suffering of the homeless in Calcutta, and she is moved by their suffering to do whatever she can to alleviate it. Her concern is with their suffering, not with herself.

Moral narcissists may often behave in ways that externally resemble the behavior of the moral saint, but the focus of their concern is quite different. Moral narcissists want to be thought of, and seen as, good people, and the point of their actions is not to alleviate the suffering of others but rather to be thought of, by others as well as by themselves, as good persons. The focus of their concern is themselves, and this is why we call them narcissists.

Incidentally, I suspect that there is a profound difference between the way we experience a moral saint and how we experience a moral narcissist. When we are in the presence of a moral saint, we tend to feel elevated. We feel some mixture of respect and admiration, which in some cases is strong enough to be called "awe." On the other hand, when we encounter a moral narcissist, we are much more likely to feel put down. The narcissist is primarily concerned with establishing their own moral superiority, and the corollary of their superiority is our inferiority. Whereas the moral saint’s goodness carries with it an invitation to join in his or her good deeds with a common goal, the moral narcissist can hardly issue such an invitation, for it would simply be competition.

Wolf’s arguments against moral saints may not fully support the conclusions that Wolf wants to draw, but they do provide strong support for our pluralistic approach to the moral life. Indeed, reflection on her arguments—and especially on the monism thesis—helps us to see the several senses in which pluralism has a place in the moral life.

Intra-theoretic Ethical pluralism. First, recall the way in which Wolf depicted the moral saint’s behavior as following from some single moral principle, whether Kantian or utilitarian. Yet our investigations have suggested that this is not an accurate picture of most moral theories. Most moral theories can be understood as presenting a plurality of moral values, despite the fact that there is no shortage of defenders of monistic interpretations of each theory. Utilitarianism, for example, contains a number of possible standards of value (pleasure, happiness, ideals, preferences). Even Kant offers several standards (acting for the sake of duty, universalizability, and respect). Although Kant believed these were only different ways of saying the same thing, contemporary Kantians such as Thomas Hill in his article "Kantian Pluralism" have suggested that there may be a plurality of moral standards within Kant’s ethics. Both utilitarianism and Kant offer examples of the first type of ethical pluralism, intra-theoretic ethical pluralism, that is, a pluralism of moral values within a single theory. If a theory is intra-theoretically pluralistic, then there is much less danger of the cardboard figure of moral perfection that Wolf discusses. If a theory contains several important moral values, then there is a wider variety of ways in which individuals may realize them and strike a balance among them.

Inter-theoretic Ethical pluralism. There is a second type of ethical pluralism, inter-theoretic pluralism, which underlies the approach of this book and which was discussed in detail in Chapter Two. It suggests that different moral theories and traditions shed light on the moral life and that we can learn from them all. None of them is absolutely and exclusively right, but they all held us to understand better how we can lead a morally good life. If inter-theoretic pluralism is true, then is even more diversity in the realm of moral perfection than would be the case if only intra-theoretic pluralism were true.

Robust Value Pluralism. There is a third area in which pluralism is important, namely, a pluralism in the balance between moral and nonmoral values. The overridingness thesis is most directly opposed to this kind of pluralism, for that thesis claims that moral concerns always take precedence over non-moral ones. The alleged boring quality of the moral saint follows not simply from the monism thesis, but also from the fact that (in Wolf’s presentation) moral concerns crowd out all other, non-moral values. Yet in a robustly pluralistic approach, we would recognize that non-moral values have an important place in our lives. The moral domain need not completely wipe out the non-moral realm.

Many philosophers believe that ethics—and philosophy in general—is concerned solely with the analysis of arguments. James Rachels, who is one of the more influential figures in contemporary ethics, states a position on the role of argument that is representative of the standard view.

Philosophy without argument would be a lifeless existence. What good would it be to produce a theory without reasons for thinking it correct? And of what interest is the rejection of a theory without good reasons for thinking it incorrect? A philosophical theory is exactly as good as the arguments that support it. (Italics added.)

Insofar as ethical reflection is simply equated with the process of moral argumentation—presenting arguments, considering objections, and offering replies—there is a danger that a number of important aspects of the moral life will be neglected. We will consider two principal area of neglect here:

* the neglect of moral perception;

* the neglect of the place of moral beliefs in the narrative of an individual’s life.

* the combative character of argument threatens to cloud the process of moral reflection.

The first problem with this exclusive emphasis on moral argument, and the concomitant concern with moral problems, is that it neglects the role of perception in the moral life. This can be a particularly unfortunate neglect, for often much of the important work in morally assessing a situation is done before argument arrives on the scene. Think of the startling discrepancy in our own history between our theoretical commitment to equality and the reality of inequality in our everyday lives. While expressing a clear constitutional commitment to equality, the United States permitted slavery for decades and legally-sanctioned segregation for over a century. In part, such discrepancies are maintained precisely through an inability or unwillingness to perceive inequality as inequality. Similarly, think of such problems as poverty, homelessness, sexual abuse of children, cruelty toward the aged, and the suffering of animals. These exist, at least in part, because we manage not to see them. We turn a blind eye toward the poor and homeless, perpetrators do not see their abuse as abuse but as love, the aged are blamed for being old, animal suffering is hidden away from us in farms and slaughter houses. The very recognition of a moral problem as a moral problem involves a change in perception. Think of the role that Dickens played in shaping our perceptions of the suffering of children which, prior to him, often was simply not seen. As we concentrate primarily on arguments about specific moral problems, we often neglect the cultivation of our moral perceptions.

Perception plays a crucial role, not only in the identification of moral issues, but also in their solution. Consider those cases in which you unthinkingly hurt someone else—for example, not bothering to keep in touch with a close friend who values your friendship. Imagine that you don’t mean to hurt your friend in any way, you just don’t really think about the effects of not writing. Here perception is important not only in identifying what has gone wrong, but also in rectifying the situation. In order to repair the relationship, you may well have to show your friend that you see what harm your failure to write has done to the relationship.

Insofar as we see moral philosophy mainly as a matter of argument, we are usually concerned with the way in which a particular moral belief is connected with a body of other beliefs (that is, a moral theory) or with the way in which a particular moral principle is applied to a specific moral problem. For example, would a belief in the priceless character of human life be compatible with a utilitarian moral theory? Or, to take an example of the second type of concern, would suicide ever be justified from a rule utilitarian perspective? The former concern is with the internal consistency of a moral theory, while the latter concern is directed primarily toward the applicability of a moral theory.

Both of these types of questions are important moral issues, but they are not the only important moral issues that should be considered in ethics. We must also consider the ways in which moral beliefs are related to the narrative structure of an individual’s life. In other words, we must articulate how particular moral beliefs fit in with who we are as persons, with our individual moral identity. Let’s consider three ways in which the embeddedness of moral beliefs in individuals’ lives manifests itself.

The Place of Moral Beliefs in an Individual’s Life. Often, our acceptance or rejection of a particular moral belief dependent on that belief fits in with our other convictions, commitments, and projects in life. In those instances in which the new belief does not disturb the existing configuration of our beliefs and commitments and goals, it is comparatively easy to accept. However, in those instances in which the new belief does not fit easily into the existing configuration, we may have to revise some of our existing beliefs and practices or else reject the new belief. In the most extreme cases, the new belief may demand an almost complete revision of our old beliefs. Such a revision is analogous to a conversion experience insofar as it involves deep adjustments in our basic commitments.

Consider two examples of beliefs which for many people would deeply upset the constellation of their present beliefs, commitments, and projects. First, for many of us a strong doctrine of non-violence would threaten to upset a number of our other beliefs and commitments about self-defense, retribution, defending basic values, etc. If we were to accept non-violence, we would have to significantly revise a number of our other beliefs and practices. Moral discourse must address itself not only to the theoretical justification of such a doctrine, but also to the question of its place in our lives. How would evil be punished in the world if we could never respond to transgressions with violence? How would we be able to defend those we love, including our children, from threatened violence if we cannot resist with force? Similar questions could be raised about a strong belief in animal rights. If we accept that animals have rights, what does that do to our other beliefs about eating meat, wearing leather, and keeping pets? What effect does this have on our view of the importance of human suffering? Is the suffering of human beings less important if we acknowledge the importance of the suffering of animals? These are not simply questions about the justification of a theory, but about how a belief fits into an individual’s life.

Moral discourse needs to address itself to issues such as these. Insofar as we see moral discourse as confined solely to moral argumentation, we will find it difficult to articulate the place of a new moral belief in the structure of an individual’s life. On the other hand, insofar as we recognize other forms of moral discourse—such as stories in novels and movies, biographies and autobiographies, and dialogues—as also valuable, we will have a much richer range of discourse for understanding the moral life. We shall discuss these other forms of moral discourse in more detail below.

The Relationship between Argument and Arguer. Moral beliefs not only need to be evaluated in relation to the larger body of beliefs that constitutes a moral theory but also need to be understood in relation to the structure of an individual’s life. Once we recognize this, we can understand the relevance in the moral life of some types of considerations that are usually seen as fallacious.

Consider the ad hominem fallacy. In the traditional model, an argument is considered on its own merits, quite independently of any concerns about the person who advanced the argument. Indeed, to raise questions about the argument’s author is to risk committing an ad hominem fallacy. Yet consider for a moment the difference in force that the same pro-choice argument would have if advanced by the president of the National Organization of Women, a fundamentalist Christian mother of four children (two of whom are adopted) or a Catholic priest. Similarly, think of the difference in force between arguments critical of an oppressed group (fill in whatever group you want: gays, blacks, etc.), depending on whether they are advanced by members of that group or staunch opponents of it. If arguments were completely independent of the persons who advance them it would be quite difficult to explain the different force the same argument has when it comes from different people. On the other hand, if we recognize that moral beliefs are embedded in the narrative structures of individual lives as well as being parts of a theory, then these types of considerations have a relevance. Such considerations speak to the question of how a particular belief fits into the structure of an individual’s life.

When we place this issue within the context of a pluralistic approach to moral value, this dual valence of moral beliefs becomes clearer. Some moral theorists (such as emotivists) maintained that moral values were purely subjective. Although they seriously misunderstood the nature of the subjective (and especially the emotive), and although they mistakenly claimed that moral values were only subjective, such theorists were partially correct. Moral value is partially subjective, and this is partially captured in the relationship between the argument and the arguer.

The Relation between Argument and Audience. Not only are moral values subjective, but they are also—as we saw in Chapter Two—intersubjective. Similarly, just as moral arguments may not be fully detachable from their authors, so too, may they not be fully detachable from their specific audiences. As long as we are addressing purely rational agents, there are no significant differences among audiences. However, once we acknowledge that we are talking to individual persons when we advance arguments, then there are significant differences among audiences—and this, too, opens up a place for rhetoric as the art of communicating with specific audiences. Once again, the issue turns on the way in which moral beliefs are related to individual lives as well as to larger theories. As long as one considers only the relation of a moral belief to a larger moral theory, it is unnecessary to consider possible differences in audiences. As soon as one admits that there is another dimension to the discussion of moral beliefs, namely, the way in which they relate to the larger fabric of an individual’s (or group’s or society’s) life, then the question of audience assumes an importance it had previously lacked.

The final area in which the discontent with argument manifests itself centers around the root metaphor which underlies much of our talk about argument: argument is war. This is essentially an adversarial metaphor which casts discourse as competition, attack, defense, etc. Think about the way in which this is reflected in our everyday speech. We attack opponents, trying to overcome them before they score a victory against us. If we are lucky, we can demolish their position, destroying their arguments, tearing apart their theory. We should fortify our positions to protect against counter-attacks.

What, if anything, is wrong with this? Certainly, proponents of this view of philosophizing maintain that it sharpens our philosophical beliefs, putting them to the test of critical examination, weeding out those which lack merit, sharpening up those which pass the test. And, undoubtedly, this is true—but it is not completely true, nor is it the complete truth. Two types of objections have been raised against this set of metaphors.

The first type of objection is largely practical. If we adopt this as our model of philosophizing, we run the danger that the best debater, not the best theory, will win. Furthermore, once we become engaged in the process of debate, we may become more interested in winning than in discovering the truth. It is all too easy for us to become more interesting in defending than in learning. When we do listen, it is in order to refute our opponents more effectively, not to learn from them. The practice of philosophizing as argument, in other words, does not necessarily lead to the truth.

The second type of objection centers around the view of the world which this metaphor fits into. The metaphor of argument as war is part of a larger picture of life as combative, competitive, a struggle for victory and dominance. Although this is still the "dominant" metaphor in our society, many—especially feminists—have found it morally repugnant. They contrast it sharply to a view of life as (at least potentially) cooperative and harmonious. In this alternative view of life, cooperation is valued over conflict. We are engaged in a shared search for the truth, not a contest to see who finds it first.

With a shift in root metaphors from war to cooperation, we also encounter a shift in forms of discourse. Whereas debate and argument were the paradigmatic forms of discourse in the traditional view, conversation and dialogue emerge as the primary models in this alternative view. There are no winners in a conversation—or, perhaps more accurately, there are no losers. It is an activity we engage in together, and we all benefit from one another’s insights. In the argument model, other people’s insights are threats to us; in the conversation model, those insights enrich us all. Moral conversation, whether this is a dialogue between two people or an internal dialogue, is an attempt to find the truth, not to vanquish the opponent.

The preceding considerations suggest that we must revise and expand our conception of moral discourse. Whereas moral discourse has often been confined to the analysis of arguments, we now see that a moral pluralistic account of moral discourse is in order. Let’s consider several possible forms that moral discourse may take.

Argument. As we have seen, argument is important in moral discourse—of that, there is little doubt. It is particular important in articulating the place of a particular moral belief in the larger whole of a moral theory. However, it is not the only important kind of moral talk nor, in certain circumstances, is it even the most important. Argument serves well to articulate the internal logical relationships within a theory, but we need other types of discourse to bring other dimensions of the moral life into clearer focus. Three deserve special mention here: literature, autobiography, and dialogue.

Literature. As we have already noted above, one of the most challenging tasks of the moral life is learning to see things more clearly. The more finely textured our moral perceptions are, the more well-grounded our moral judgments can be. It is here that literature plays a crucial role, for literature maps out the moral landscape in a detail beyond the reach of moral theory. In the process, it teaches us to see, sometimes differently, sometimes more clearly and finely. Moreover, it helps us to see, not only from our own perspective, but also from the perspective of other persons.

Autobiography. Moral reflection is often directed toward better discerning our own motives, at seeing the moral direction of our own lives more clearly, and at understanding the place of a moral belief within the larger structure of our life as a whole. When we are looking at other people’s lives, literature allows us to achieve these goals more fully than argumentative discourse. However, when we turn to consider our own lives, our goal is to understand how a particular event or action fits within the moral story of our own life. At this point, our reflection becomes primarily autobiographical.

There is a long tradition of moral autobiography in the West. Augustine’s Confessions is one of the earliest and most powerful examples of this tradition, and in it Augustine attempts to make sense of his life within an explicitly moral and religious framework. There are numerous examples of this same genre in the twentieth century. Albert Schweitzer’s Out of My Life and Thought, Gandhi’s Autobiography, Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Dorothy Day’s The Long Loneliness, Alice Kohler’s An Unknown Woman, and The Autobiography of Malcolm X are all examples of moral autobiographies, that is, attempts to write the story of one’s life in terms of the moral commitments at the heart of one’s identity. What all of these works have in common is that they seek to establish a moral sense to one’s life and to see particular events within the larger context of this moral sense.

Dialogue. Finally, we should note that moral discourse is often something that we undertake with other persons in a shared quest for moral understanding. Whereas argument may be the preferred form of discourse when we are trying to convince someone else of our point of view, dialogue is more appropriate when we are engaged in a common voyage of moral discovery. This is a venerable tradition in philosophy, stemming in the West directly from Plato’s early dialogues that suggests that philosophy is essentially a conversation. The dialogical approach to moral discourse emphasizes the way in which moral reflection is a shared, dynamic enterprise characterized by mutuality. Far from emphasizing immutable moral truths, this approach sees ethical discourse as an on-going interpersonal process of looking for moral solutions through dialogue.

The Value of Methodological Pluralism. A pluralistic approach to moral discourse thus recognizes not only that there are several different kinds of moral value, but also acknowledges that there are several different ways of talking about those kinds of values. Argument provides one such way, but a full account of moral discourse must recognize the legitimacy of literary, autobiographical, and dialogical discourse as well.

What implications do these criticisms have for our understanding of moral theory? They suggest that monistic theories of moral value are subject to strong objections, objections which are largely avoided when we turn to a more pluralistic account. An adequate moral theory must possess some characteristics that traditional versions of divine command theories, ethical egoism, Kantian deontology, rights theory, and utilitarianism lack. These include a greater degree of integration of the personal elements in the moral life, at least a partial healing of the split between moral reasons and moral motives, a view of moral perfection which is more robust and pluralistic than traditional theories yield, and an account of moral discourse that encompasses more than argument.

As we shall see in the next three chapters, these challenges to traditional moral theory pave the way, quite independently, for the development of Aristotelian virtue theory (Chapter Nine) and for recent developments in the areas of gender (Chapter Ten) and multiculturalism (Chapter Eleven).

1. Recall your rating of statement 41 in the Ethical Inventory: "We should always strive to do what is best, not just the moral minimum."

(a) What are the advantages of an ethical theory that stresses the moral minimum? What are its disadvantages?

(b) Has your rating of this item changed after reading this chapter? If so, in what way? If your rating has not changed, are your reasons for your rating any different now than they were when you first responded to this statement?

2. Recall your response to statement 42: "Morality applies to your friends in just the same way as it applies to strangers."

(a) When, if ever, are we justified in applying different moral standards to our dealings with our friends?

(b) Has your rating of this item changed after reading this chapter? If so, in what way? If your rating has not changed, are your reasons for your rating any different now than they were when you first responded to this statement?

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3. The movie Gandhi certainly gives us a vivid portrait of a saint. How does this picture of a moral saint compare to what Susan Wolf tells us about moral saints? Do Wolf’s criticisms of saints as dull, boring, and unwilling to offend other people apply to Gandhi? Why or why not?

4. Can a person be saintly in one way yet sinful in another? If so, what does that prove? Give at least one real-life example.

5. In your own experience, how what has been the most significant factor in bringing about moral change in yourself and the people you know? Can reading a book about ethics (or attending a class) make you a better person? If so, how? If not, what will?

6. Does everyone have a "fundamental project" in life? Can people have more than one fundamental project? Do some people just drift? How would you characterize the fundamental project(s) in your life?

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  7. Critics of the impartiality of moral theories have argued that it leads to moral alienation. At one point in the movie Gandhi, Gandhi tells his wife that she must either clean the toilets (a task in Indian society reserved exclusively for the Untouchables) or else leave. Was Gandhi right to take such a strong stand with her? Is this an example of moral alienation?

  8. Moral Change: A Narrative Account. Begin your own attempt at writing a moral biography. What were some of the ideas and events that had a profound moral impact on your sense of yourself? Describe an instance of moral change. What prompted the change? How did you change? In what other ways could you have responded to the event that promoted the change? Why did you change in the way in which you did and not in some other way? How did the change affect your other moral beliefs? Was the change a morally positive one? Why? Join an on-line discussion of the issue of moral change in the Discussion Forum of Ethics Updates at: http://ethics.sandiego.edu/scripts/webX.exe?14@@.ee6b2f5.