I've been back and forth in a discussion of the suggestion that tolerance is a virtue. A speaker to our community said "Tolerance is not a virtue" -- by which I understood him to mean, and readily affirmed with him, that the cultural mentality that suggests simple co-existence with those with whom one differs in belief is the essence of peace, thereby excusing moral relativism, is not manifesting the essence of virtue. Well, another member of our community approached the speaker afterwards and said, "But tolerance is a virtue!" She explained that she had shared the speaker’s understanding until she read your article from First Things, "The Illusion of Moral Neutrality," and came to understand tolerance as a virtue. And thus the debate began!
I respect both her and the speaker, but I am fairly convinced that one cannot actually substantiate tolerance as a moral virtue in the scheme St. Thomas sets forth in the analysis of the virtues in the Secunda Secundae of the Summa Theologiae. But I might be wrong. The first difficulty I found in the discussion was in identifying the object of the supposed virtue of tolerance. The second difficulty I have is in identifying to which of the four cardinal virtues tolerance would rightly be allied; you have suggested a connection with prudence, but prudence is a general virtue, and so will come into play in all virtues. A third difficulty is that the things that are put forward as appropriate acts of tolerance are already parts of several other virtues, such as charity. Finally, I am concerned that you seem to suggest that untruth can be tolerated by weighing the level of evil against the evil that might result – but surely untruth is a greater evil. I wonder whether the error of proportionalism may be involved.
As fellow Thomists, I presume we are both lovers of truth! I have found the whole debate with my friend to be quite ... fun! So I hope you may also find it stimulating, and not a nuisance. God bless you.
My article “The Illusion of Moral Neutrality” was published in 1993, when I was very much a novice in the study of Thomas Aquinas (if indeed I will ever be more than a novice). I have written about toleration since then too, but I have never precisely identified the place of toleration in St. Thomas’s scheme of virtues, and it is long past time that I do so. To say that it is virtuous to tolerate those things which ought to be tolerated is one thing; to decide whether tolerance is a distinct virtue with matter of its own is another; and it is still another to determine to what place, or even to what places, the proper practice of tolerance should be assigned in St. Thomas’s scheme. You raise another important issue too, concerning truth. So I very much appreciate the stimulus of your thoughtful letter – I should say letters, because for purposes of this post I am condensing a series of exchanges which took place over a number of days. Besides, all this comes at a good time, because my new Commentary on Thomas Aquinas’s Virtue Ethics will be published by Cambridge this spring.
We must distinguish the question of whether indiscriminately tolerating is virtuous from the question of whether properly tolerating is virtuous. I happen to know your speaker, and respect him highly. When he says toleration is not a virtue, I take him to be thinking of indiscriminate toleration, and if we take the term in this sense, he is surely right. Just as you propose, the relativistic outlook which undergirds that understanding of toleration is entirely mistaken. When I suggest that toleration is a virtue, however, I am thinking of what I have called “true” or “proper” toleration, the disposition by which we tolerate just what ought to be tolerated for the sake of the good. Like other moral virtues, proper toleration is a mean between extremes – in this case, tolerating what should not be tolerated, and failing to tolerate what should be.
I first wrote about proper toleration in order to criticize the liberal, neutralist theory according to which the basis of toleration is suspending moral judgment. The neutralist view is utterly incoherent; if we really did suspend moral judgment, then we would have no way to know whether anything at all that is offensive, wrong, or mistaken should be tolerated, and if so, what. Neutralism is also a fraud, because in the name of nonjudgment, it always imposes a particular moral judgment, sparing itself the need to defend it by denying that it is a moral judgment. Thus, for example, a judge who insists that we suspend judgment between the view that marriage requires a man and woman, and the view that it does not, is in fact enforcing the view that it does not.
In place of the liberal, neutralist theory, I have defended the classical theory, according to which the basis of tolerance is not suspending moral judgment, but exercising better moral judgment. I call this theory “classical” because it was proposed by diverse early Christian writers, although in recent times the Church has reaffirmed it, especially in Dignitatis Humane. Lactantius, who is speaking of religious toleration, is a good example:
There is no occasion for violence and injury, for religion cannot be imposed by force; the matter must be carried on by words rather than by blows, that the will may be affected. Let [the pagan persecutors] unsheath the weapon of their intellect; if their system is true, let it be asserted. We are prepared to hear, if they teach; while they are silent, we certainly pay no credit to them, as we do not yield to them even in their rage. Let them imitate us in setting forth the system of the whole matter: for we do not entice, as they say; but we teach, we prove, we show. And thus no one is detained by us against his will, for he is unserviceable to God who is destitute of faith and devotedness; and yet no one departs from us, since the truth itself detains him. . . . Why then do [the persecutors] rage, so that while they wish to lessen their folly, they increase it? Torture and piety are widely different; nor is it possible for truth to be united with violence, or justice with cruelty.
He also responds to the arguments of the persecutors themselves:
But, they say, the public rites of religion must be defended. Oh with what an honorable inclination the wretched men go astray! For they are aware that there is nothing among men more excellent than religion, and that this ought to be defended with the whole of our power; but as they are deceived in the matter of religion itself, so also are they in the manner of its defense. For religion is to be defended, not by putting to death, but by dying; not by cruelty, but by patient endurance; not by guilt, but by good faith: for the former belong to evils, but the latter to goods; and it is necessary for that which is good to have place in religion, and not that which is evil. For if you wish to defend religion by bloodshed, and by tortures, and by guilt, it will no longer be defended, but will be polluted and profaned. For nothing is so much a matter of free-will as religion; in which, if the mind of the worshipper is disinclined to it, religion is at once taken away, and ceases to exist. The right method therefore is, that you defend religion by patient endurance or by death; in which the preservation of the faith is both pleasing to God Himself, and adds authority to religion.
Obviously, Lactantius does not suspend judgment concerning whether there is a God or what sort of worship is pleasing to him. It is just because he does make such judgments that he concludes that true religion cannot be defended by cruelty, but only by patient endurance. Notice too that this point responds to your concern that nothing could be more important than the knowledge of the truth (especially the truth about God). About this you are entirely correct. The problem is that some means of resisting falsehood (especially violence) may injure the knowledge of the truth more than help it. Thus, proper toleration follows from love of truth, not indifference to it.
Now there is a difference between saying that proper toleration is virtuous, and saying that it is a distinct virtue with its own specific matter. It might be argued that the act of properly tolerating may occur in the context of more than one virtue, so that proper toleration is not a single virtue but a sort of “portmanteau.” I take it that this is your view, and it may be true. However, it seems to me that proper toleration does have its own specific matter: Enduring rather than suppressing evil – bearing with human frailty -- just in those cases in which suppressing the evil would either cause greater evils, or do away with greater goods. So, even though proper toleration may have some relation to a number of virtues – such as meekness, which moderates anger, and charity, which moderates hatred -- we should inquire whether the matter just identified belongs to just one of the virtues already listed in the unsurpassed analysis of St. Thomas Aquinas.
And I think that it does. In my opinion, the closest fit seems to be the virtue of patience, which is one of the “potential parts” of the cardinal virtue of fortitude, that is, one of the secondary virtues associated with fortitude. Just insofar as prudence executes and directs the action of toleration, the act of toleration is secondarily an act of prudence, but as you point out, toleration is not unique in this respect.
My reason for locating proper toleration within patience is that the distinctive act of patience is to endure those evils which must be endured. In one of your letters you responded that that in most contexts, when speaking of patience, St. Thomas is thinking of enduring, tolerating, or bearing with evils to oneself. This is correct. But in various contexts, including the context of legislation, he also speaks of enduring, tolerating, or bearing with evils to the common good, whether natural or spiritual. I do not think it is too much of a stretch to say that when I put up with, say, insults to the truth, just in those cases in which suppression of the insult would incur even greater damage to the general knowledge of the truth, I am exercising a kind of patience.
Then why speak of toleration at all – why not just speak of patience? Because enduring evils to the individual good and enduring evils to the common good are different exercises of patience, and a person who is good at one sort of endurance – say, enduring an illness -- may not be good at the other sort – say, enduring those who insult the faith. We are dealing, so to speak, with different subdivisions of the virtue of patience. Proper toleration is just one of them.
Identifying proper toleration as a subdivision of patience, which is in turn a potential part of fortitude, also helps us to say what human power is perfected – brought to its full development -- by proper toleration. Fortitude in general tends to perfect the power which St. Thomas calls “irascible.” So, in a particular way, does patience, and so, in an even more particular way, so does proper toleration. The irascible power is the one that aims at “arduous” goods, good that are difficult to attain. This is the power in which such passions as hope, fear, and anger are seated.
Will the virtue of proper toleration please stand up? Among the candidates for proper toleration, I don’t think the alternatives to patience are compelling. For example, although the virtue of charity has a connection with proper toleration, not every exercise of proper toleration is connected with charity, just because not every exercise of proper toleration involves supernatural goods. So just as we distinguish lower and higher forms of fortitude in general and of patience – the lower form acquired by human effort, the higher infused by divine grace -- we should also distinguish lower and higher forms of proper toleration. The higher form is related to the supernatural virtue of charity, but the latter is not.
Finally, to say that in some cases goods must be weighed against evils is not in any way to embrace the error which theologians call proportionalism (and which philosophers call consequentialism). The distinctive mark of proportionalism is to deny that there is any such thing as intrinsic evil. Thus, for a proportionalist, any act whatsoever might be justified for the sake of a greater good. This we deny, because we must never do what is intrinsically evil for the sake of good. But there is a difference between tolerating an evil when the alternatives are worse, and committing an evil. I will drive my automobile to work, even though doing so involves a certain risk of unintended accident. But I will not deliberately ram other drivers, or even drive carelessly, just to get to work faster.
I have enjoyed this correspondence – the fun of it is barely suggested by these brief excerpts -- and I thank you for your blessing. God bless you too.
What did Macbeth say say when he saw Birnam Wood advancing on Dunsinane?
“Cheese it! The copse!”
People of my age often say "Kids are so much smarter these days than we were. They know so many things that we didn’t."
They do know more “things,” just because they have the new media. But that sort of knowledge is all breadth, with no depth.
Imagine trying to see one thing closely with lights strobing and flashbulbs popping in every square inch of the visual field.
Imagine trying to hear one thing clearly with a brass band, a symphony orchestra, a gong, an industrial metal crusher, a pack of barking dogs, and half dozen dueling drum soloists all making sound at one time.
Imagine trying to take a clean breath in a mudslide.
God help them, it’s like that for them all the time.
Young people in the mudslide are slower at reading, and they lose interest more quickly when they do put their hands to a book. They are less well equipped to evaluate their own opinions, and more likely to conform to the attitudes of their immediate social group. They display less ability to follow a logical argument, and they are less inclined to think that arguments matter in the first place.
They do have an enormous intellectual capacity – unformed, of course, as in every generation. The great thing is to form it, not to shatter it.
Modern thinkers suppose that only a mind, mysteriously shut into itself yet somehow conscious of an “outside” world that it can never reach, can be truly said to have an interior life. Because of this prejudice, we view all things other than minds as mere mechanisms, assemblies of moving parts, fully accessible to inspection, if only we have the right instruments. (Physicalists view even minds that way, but that is another story.) This way of thinking may lead us to suppose that when Thomas Aquinas speaks of an irrational creature’s inward active principle, at most he means that in order to see some of its movements, we have to open up the inspection panels and expose the clockwork. Or -- if we realize that he does mean something more -- we may consider him confused, as though he were attributing mental properties to non-mental things.
But St. Thomas does not share our prejudices. For him, inwardness or interiority is not a psychological but an ontological fact. He is not in any doubt about the possibility of metaphysics, of a science of what is. Yet he holds that all things, or at any rate all substances, have, so to speak, an inward life known only to God, which metaphysics can acknowledge but cannot reach. The problem is not that we cannot define essences, but that even when we define them correctly, we do not penetrate to that intimate level at which God knows them; “our manner of knowing is so weak that no philosopher could perfectly investigate the nature of even one little fly.” This is what Leo Elders has in mind when he writes, “Aquinas’ metaphysics is a metaphysics of interiority in this sense that in their most intimate depth things are touched by God and flow forth from his causal action. They strive to attain God in whatever they do and pursue ... This Divine causality and cooperation ... works from the inside and depth of things and their actions .... Those who fail to discover this metaphysical dimension of reality and their own being, remain at the surface of things.”
The difference between the inner life of a rational and an irrational creature, then, is not that only rational creatures have inward lives, but that rational creatures have the dignity of knowing that they and other things have inward lives. Irrational creatures have inward lives, but lack knowledge of them; they are opaque to themselves.
The idea of interiority is more often associated with the later Scholastic thinker, Duns Scotus, because of his theory of haecceities or individual essences, popularized by the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins through his term “inscape.” But Scotus went too far. One does not need individual essences to make sense of individuals; worse yet, the hypothesis of individual essences makes it difficult to see how different individuals could have a shared essence, a common nature – it makes it seem that individuals are all that exist, and such things as humanity are but constructs of the mind. By contrast, although St. Thomas recognizes that each individual is distinct, he thinks we owe the particular texture of our inwardness precisely to the kinds of beings we are. That tiny fly, which the philosopher has such difficulty understanding, has a different inner life than a man, just because it is a fly, and he is a man.
I don’t think much of David Hume’s philosophy, but he was an astute observer of government. If he was right in his famous 1742 essay “That Politics May Be Reduced to a Science,” then the prospects of applying the sort of science he had in mind to our own country should be rather dimmer now than formerly.
Hume’s argument was that in the bad old days, the study of politics could never be scientific, because too much depended on the whims and quirks of those who held unchecked power. It isn’t that one cannot form any generalizations about chaotic processes, but they are chancy. Consider the difference between the sciences of chemistry and weather. It is easy to guess that iron will rust, but no one knows for sure whether it will rain on a given future day. Old-style politics was more like weather.
However, now that we have learned to construct systems of checks and balances, he thought political events would be more routine, more subject to inertia -- therefore more susceptible to scientific generalization.
The reason I say the prospects of the sort of political science that Hume favored are growing dimmer is that although the system of checks has not collapsed, our executives are becoming more autocratic. Obama and Trump are conspicuous examples, but the trend has been a long time in the making.
Hume’s analysis does need to be updated. The sort of checks he had in mind were checks among social orders represented in the legislature. A roughly stable balance among the Lords, the Commons, and the Crown kept things from becoming too volatile. However, he left out of account a number of other things that enter into the mix. Consider the rise of willful courts and enormous, sclerotic bureaucracies. Consider the change in the practice of patronage, in which instead of bribing just individuals and small groups for political support, parties seek to bribe entire social classes at once.
Yet he was right that insofar as rule devolves to individual strong men – especially strong men of unstable character -- generalizations about what may happen become very difficult.
I had not learned until recently that George Orwell, the author of several dystopian stories, had also reviewed C.S. Lewis’s supernatural thriller, That Hideous Strength. Though he conceded that the novel was worth reading (and it is), he finished by complaining that supernatural elements “weaken” a story because “in effect they decide the issue in advance.” One has the impression that he may have written the review just to have an opportunity to say so. “When one is told that God and the Devil are in conflict,” he goes on, “one always knows which side is going to win. The whole drama of the struggle against evil lies in the fact that one does not have supernatural aid.” Although Orwell also suggests that supernatural agencies are implausible, his main complaint isn’t that he doesn’t believe in them, but that they take the steam out of the story. Including God, he thinks, is like building in a spoiler alert.
One may call this attitude methodological naturalism. Orwell doesn’t ask that we disbelieve in God, but he thinks we should write as though we do.
Methodological naturalism in literature is much like methodological naturalism in science. According to Orwell, believing in God squeezes out suspense, because the same party prevails in every struggle; God always wins. According to materialists, believing in Him squeezes out scientific wonder, because everything has the same ultimate cause; God does everything.
Both complaints are naïve.
As to stories, it is enough to point out that God created free and rational beings, not puppets or divine beasts. Though He cannot be overcome by evil, human beings can be. Though He offers aid, they may not accept it. The drama of the story is not that we do not know what will happen to God, but that we do not know what will happen to men and women. To find out, we have to keep reading.
And as to science, notice that God works through secondary causes. Although He is the origin of the whole causal order, that order is nonetheless real. Knowing that water is His idea does not tell us why it boils; knowing that gravity is of His doing does not tell us the geometrical properties of the space-time manifold. To find out, we have to investigate.
So rather than depriving stories of their drama, God’s reality increases it: For what could be more thrilling than the fate of souls? And His reality increases the wonder of scientific inquiry, for now we can ask not only how things happen -- but why!
My book The Revenge of Conscience: Politics and the Fall of Man is now available electronically, as a Kindle. Among other things, that makes it much cheaper. Here is the link.