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W1581574144 abstract "Divine law theories of metaethics claim that moral rightness is grounded in God’s commands, wishes and so forth. Expressivist theories, by contrast, claim that to call something morally right is to express our own attitudes, not to report on God’s. Ostensibly, such views are incompatible. However, we shall argue that a rapprochement is possible and beneficial to both sides. Expressivists need to explain the difference between reporting and expressing an attitude, and to address the Frege-Geach problem. Divine law theorists need to get past the Euthyphro dilemma, and to avoid moral externalism. This paper shows how a combined theory helps us to achieve this. It is widely held that morality cannot be grounded in religious authority. Even if God exists, and even if divine commands are always right, this (it is often argued) does not establish the relevant kind of authority. The main problem was originally formulated by Plato in the Euthyphro, and it takes the form of a dilemma. If we are to equate the following: It morally ought to be the case that p God commands that p then we must ask whether (1) is true because of (2), or vice versa. If the former, then God’s authority is arbitrary, and therefore morally objectionable; but if the latter, then it becomes irrelevant since the moral situation has to obtain in advance and independently of it. Either way, it is immediately concluded, God cannot be the source of morality in any useful sense. Does this really end religious ethics? Many have felt that this is far too swift, and there are two important counter-strategies.1 Firstly, one may insist that it is only part of ethics, typically the theory of moral obligation, that is required to be grounded in divine commands. As long as some of ethics is allowed to be theologically ungrounded then the remainder will thereby be constrained, and this may answer the charge of arbitrariness. Secondly, one may insist that there is not enough gap in meaning between (1) and (2) for the dilemma to amount to anything in the first place. The first strategy has some plausibility. The claim that (specifically) moral obligation has little meaning outside its original religious context is endorsed by many, including theists such as G.E.M. Anscombe and P.T. Geach, as well as atheists such as Bernard Williams.2 Its drawback is that, unless the part of ethics that is grounded in religion is indispensable, then it is still open to us to reject religious ethics. Williams, for example, argues that the concept of moral obligation is something that we should be better off without, and there is nothing in this first strategy to stop him. The second strategy is more ambitious, and is the one with which we shall be concerned here. It has a certain naturalness in so far as most religious people find the ‘dilemma’ quite unreal, and we should hesitate before supposing that this can only be because they are philosophically insensitive. Furthermore, if correct, it really would prevent the problem from arising. After all, nobody imagines that Kantian ethics is embarrassed by the inability to decide whether something is wrong because the categorical imperative forbids it, or whether it forbids it because it is antecedently wrong, since there is not enough difference to begin with. Likewise, it is not embarrassed by the thought that torturing children really would become obligatory if the categorical imperative were to command it. The charge of arbitrariness will not stick. However, this strategy is philosophically very controversial if only because it is widely supposed, even by religious people, that the concept of God cannot play such a direct role in the actual meanings of ethical judgements. Moreover, God is normally understood to be a free agent in the way in which the categorical imperative, for example, is not, which perhaps spoils the above analogy.3 Nevertheless, this paper will argue that this option makes a good deal of sense. The way forward is to look at expressivist metaethics. Expressivists claim that moral sentences such as ‘It ought to be the case that p’ (briefly, ‘Op’) lack descriptive meaning and ordinary truth-conditions. They may look as though they report moral facts, but actually they express non-cognitive attitudes of various kinds (e.g., feelings, desires, and so forth). Sentences such as ‘A accepts that Op’ have truth-conditions, of course, but acceptance in this sense is not a genuine species of belief.4 Rather, accepting that Op is more akin to desiring or demanding that p. Emotivism and prescriptivism are species of expressivism (broadly construed), and more recent, sophisticated versions have been defended by Simon Blackburn5 and Allan Gibbard.6 Such views are controversial and have well known difficulties, notably the ‘Frege-Geach problem’ of explaining how non-truth-apt sentences such as ‘Op’ can form parts of complex formulae, such as ‘If Op then Oq,’ and thereby enter into logical relations (if such formulae lack truth-conditions, then we lose the standard way of explaining such matters).7 Nevertheless, expressivism seems to follow from three plausible premises: (a) that our moral opinions are essentially connected to motivation (moral internalism); (b) that (genuine) beliefs and affective/conative states (‘passions’) are ‘distinct existences,’ in Hume’s phrase; and (c) that if a sentence is genuinely descriptive and truth-apt, then its acceptance counts as a genuine belief.8 For this reason, it is a theory that deserves to be taken very seriously. True, our own view will cast some doubt on premise (b), but in an unusual way and one which is consistent with a good deal of the Humean outlook. However, expressivism’s most immediate implausibility is that it seems to make ethics highly subjective. In this respect, it appears to be at the opposite end of the spectrum from religious ethics. However, we shall see that its subjectivity can be contained, and that the resemblance between expressivism and divine law theories is uncanny. What does the objectivity of ethics consist in? The most obvious requirement for objectivity in any area is that we should be able to sustain a robust distinction between something’s actually being the case and someone’s merely thinking that it is. If ethics is grounded in nothing more than subjective attitudes of some kind, then it looks as if this requirement cannot be met. How can I be talking about anything objective if I am merely talking about my own feelings, it may be protested? Indeed, how can you and I even be talking about the same thing when we discuss ethics? The standard response, of course, is that moral judgements are to be understood as expressions of our attitudes, not reports that we have them. Yet this distinction is elusive and too often taken for granted. After all, how can I express my attitude without also reporting that I have it (and vice versa)? Frank Jackson and Philip Pettit have recently argued that no valid distinction can be drawn here.9 However, we shall explain the difference in terms of language games. In what we shall call the ‘reporting game,’ if A says ‘I have attitude ϕ’ and B says ‘That’s true’ (or ‘I agree’), then B means that A has attitude ϕ. By contrast, in what we shall call the ‘expressing game,’B would mean that he himself has attitude ϕ. Thus disagreements that arise when playing the expressing game reflect clashes of attitude, rather than factual disagreements over whether someone actually has the attitude in question.10 This idea sounds rather odd, and it is open to an immediate objection, namely that meanings are being wilfully perverted. If A says ‘I have attitude ϕ,’ then, it may be protested, that can only mean that A has ϕ; to suppose that what is being said is that B has ϕ is just absurd. If this is doubted, then consider what happens if we attempt to play the expressing game with other kinds of self-ascriptions. For example, a dialogue of the form: “I’m wearing a red shirt”/“That’s not true, I’m wearing a blue shirt”/“Look, are you blind? My shirt is red!,” and so on, is simply insane; and we might wonder why the game will be any saner when played with attitude self-ascriptions. This is indeed an important point, but it does not undermine our language game analysis of the reporting/expressing distinction. Rather, it simply draws our attention to the fact that this distinction, however we wish to present it, can only be applied to some types of states and not others: for example, psychological attitudes rather than sartorial states. I can report to you what colour shirt I am wearing, but I cannot ‘express’ this state in any relevant way. (I can, perhaps, indicate that my shirt colour is the one that you, and everyone else, ought to have; but it is now not the colour itself, but my attitude towards it that is being expressed.) The absurdity of the sartorial expressing game is, indeed, a good way of making this point clear. However, although ridiculous, we nevertheless know exactly what the game requires us to do, which is the crucial point. It does not presuppose a prior grasp of what it is to ‘express’ something. Games of this type may still sound highly irregular even in principle, but they make perfectly good sense when applied to belief-states. In a dialogue of the form, “I believe that there is a tree in the quad”/“No, I must contradict you on this, I believe that there is not one there,” and so on, what has happened is that the prefix ‘I believe that’ has lost its original psychological meaning and has become merely ‘parenthetical’ in Urmson’s sense.11 It amounts to little more than diffident throat-clearing, and does not add to the meanings of the sentences it prefixes. In actuality, what we now have is a reporting game, but concerning the sentence, ‘There is a tree in the quad.’ More generally, the move from an expressing to a reporting game amounts to a shift in attention from ‘I believe that p’ to ‘p.’ In particular, to play the expressing game with moral beliefs (imagining, for the moment, that there are such things) is, in effect, to discuss moral facts using normal reporting rules—which is what we expect moral discourse to look like. The interesting question is: what happens if we suppose that moral so-called ‘beliefs’ are not genuine beliefs? On the Blackburn view, sentences such as ‘A accepts that Op’ are to be analysed as ‘A hoorays that p,’ where ‘hooraying’ is understood to be a (yet to be fully specified) non-cognitive attitude. Ostensibly, matters have not changed much, since ‘I accept that’ can be used parenthetically just as well as can ‘I believe that.’ The trouble is that there is no straightforward sentence which relates to ‘A hoorays that p’ as ‘There is a tree in the quad’ relates to ‘A believes/accepts that there is a tree in the quad,’ for hooraying is understood to be a unitary attitude in the sense that its doxastic and deontic components cannot be separated. Blackburn uses formulae such as ‘H!p’ (‘Hooray to p!’) here, but the whole point is that such formulae are not normal, descriptive sentences with truth-conditions, and the move from A hoorays that p to A accepts that H!p which is the first move in his ‘quasi-realist’ project, is therefore tendentious. It is, indeed, striking that Blackburn says very little about this first stage of this analysis, preferring to devote most of his attention to explaining the meanings of complex formulae, such as ‘H!p→H!q.’ The meaning of ‘H!p’ is somehow determined by the meaning of ‘A hoorays that p.’ The latter is a wholly descriptive sentence, and therefore not relevantly problematic; but the move from it to ‘H!p’ is.12 Now, our expressing game approach provides us with the missing piece of the analysis. To extract an independent, non-descriptive meaning of some kind for ‘H!p’ from sentences such as ‘A accepts that H!p,’ it is enough to play the expressing game with them. Here, the game cannot be reduced to a reporting game with a different subject matter, as happened with the tree-in-the-quad example. Rather, it is to be taken seriously in its own right. However, the upshot is that we start to talk rather like moral realists, even though we are not required to take on board the metaphysical baggage that comes with moral realism. In short, we are becoming ‘quasi-realists,’ in Blackburn’s sense. This account, although unusual, has considerable merits. Firstly, it does justice to Jackson’s and Pettit’s insistence that we cannot express attitudes without reporting them. In a way, we agree, since exactly the same sentences are involved, regardless of whether they are reported or expressed. Yet at the same time, we can see how a semantic difference can emerge; for although we start with the same sentences, we use them differently. We do not need to swallow Wittgenstein whole in order to agree that use shapes meaning. Moreover, our account allows for a wide variety of psychological states to be expressed, which other defences do not automatically do. For example, James Dreier criticizes Jackson and Pettit on the grounds that, on their view, ordinary imperatives (which are expressions of desire) would lack a distinct and characteristic sort of meaning.13 This is a fair point, but imperatives are a special case since they already play a well-entrenched role in our language. An expressivist requires a rich variety of affective and conative states to be expressed, and for their expressions to have meanings as distinct as these states themselves; and even though there are no currently recognized types of speech-act which fulfil this purpose. Our ethical thought demands and deserves such diversity. A more systematic theory for transforming reports into expressions is therefore needed, one which retains the many distinctions to be found within our attitudes. It just remains to be shown that such expressive language games can really work. It may seem clear that they cannot. Even if they are not always quite as demented as the sartorial game, it appears at first sight extraordinary that anyone should wish to enter into discourses of this kind—unless they are known to be reporting games in disguise. However, this is not obvious. If we recognize the need for something like moral discussion (to improve social cohesion, for example), and also recognize that, tragically or otherwise, there are no moral facts ‘out there’ which could guide our attitudes in the right direction, then we may have to invent morality by constructing and participating in a certain kind of attitudinal discourse. This would deliberately mimic ordinary factual discourse in order to add coherence and discipline to our attitudes in a way that is similar to the way in which scientific discourse adds coherence and discipline to our factual beliefs. Even if there are no moral facts, we surely still need moral discourse, and our expressing game is exactly that. Of course, it may be insisted that expressivism is a doomed outlook anyway, and simply because it is impossible to have moral discourse without moral beliefs and moral facts to anchor it. This is evidently what Jackson and Pettit think. However, if we allow expressivist moral discourse to be possible at all, we do not add any further problems by formulating it in our terms. And we have already seen that there are powerful arguments in favour of expressivism. The important difference between reporting and expressing games is that, in the former, the pronoun ‘I’ has a fixed reference, whereas in the expressing game, it flits from speaker to speaker rather like the transcendental ego. Let ‘I’ in the latter sense be written ‘î’ (and pronounced ‘i-hat’). The interesting question is how much difference in meaning there can be between ‘I hooray that p’ and ‘î hooray that p,’ and whether it is enough to simulate the difference between ‘I accept that Op’ and ‘Op.’ At first sight, there appears to be no real difference at all. However, it should be remembered that two sentences are synonymous only if the biconditional formed from them is a tautology, and I hooray that p↔î hooray that p is no such thing. For when you consider my utterance of (5), you are considering whether to hooray whatever I hooray. Logic does not demand that you do that, nor does it demand that I think otherwise. Thus neither of us can regard it as a tautology. Of course, I myself cannot assent to one of the equivalents without assenting to the other, but this merely reflects that I cannot assent to only one of ‘I accept that Op’ and ‘Op.’ Such discrimination is pragmatically self-defeating even though there is no logical implication in either direction. This, however, is a general point (it is G.E. Moore’s celebrated ‘paradox of infallibility’), and does not reflect a particular difficulty about expressive meaning. It applies regardless of whatever kind of sentence we might substitute for ‘Op.’ True, the word ‘believe’ in ‘I believe that p’ has, in a way, exactly the same meaning as it does in ‘î believe that p:’ we are certainly not dealing with an orthographic accident of some kind. Yet on the other hand, we still have a genuine difference between the psychological (reporting) and parenthetical (expressive) uses of the word, and this difference is, in a broad sense, semantic. What do come strangely close to being logical equivalences are the following: ‘î believe that p’≡‘p’ ‘î hooray that p’≡‘Op’ In both cases, accepting only one of each pair is more than just pragmatically self-defeating. We can thus start to see the relevance of religious ethics, since the expressive ‘î’ is developing an eerie resemblance to the name ‘God.’ So, am î God? To investigate this extraordinary question, we must see how closely the sentence-pairs in (6) and (7) really do come to being logical equivalences. At first sight, they do not come very close at all. However, we can only say that two sentences are logically non-equivalent if we can describe a logically possible situation where only one of them is true. This is easy enough when we use the ordinary pronoun ‘I.’ In the case of (6), I merely have to envisage a situation where my beliefs about p are different to what they currently are; in the case of (7), the situation to be envisaged is one where my attitude towards p differs from the one I have here and now. A hypothetical conversation between my real self and my counterfactual self would consist of disagreements of various kinds. But can we distinguish between the real î and a counterfactual î in the required way? The problem is that the expressive ‘î’ flits from context to context in a way that undermines the possibility of serious inter-contextual divergence. For example, if my counterfactual self says, ‘I believe that not-p,’ I would ordinarily agree with him, and say that he speaks truly—i.e., that he really does believe that not-p (unless I think that he is insincere, or has somehow misidentified his own beliefs). However, if he plays the expressing game, and says, ‘î believe that not-p,’ then I cannot agree with him in this way; for in considering that sentence, ‘î’ now refers to me here and now, and not how I would be in the counterfactual situation. I have thus not succeeded in envisaging a situation where the right-equivalent of (6) is true and the left-equivalent false. A similar argument undermines any attempt to envisage the latter true and former false. It really is beginning to look, therefore, as though I must treat (6) as a genuine logical equivalence; likewise (7). Yet there are clearly limits to how far this line of argument can go. We cannot even transform the equivalence in (6) into a single sentence: î believe that p. ↔p or equivalently: î have the property λx[x believes that p. ↔p] for this states that î am omniscient.14 Indeed, it could be strengthened into the claim that î am necessarily omniscient (certainly de dicto; possibly also de re). Yet there is no way in which any human speaker could rationally assent even to the unmodalized sentence, ‘I am omniscient’—and, crucially, this also applies when playing the expressing game. A similar argument with (7) would apparently guarantee î hooray that p. ↔ Op and hence î have the property λx [x hoorays that p. ↔ Op] This states that î am morally perfect, which is equally unacceptable, even if we can see that something not unlike it makes a certain sense (as can be seen if we substitute ‘H!p’ for ‘Op’). The strange behaviour of î-sentences suggests that they cannot be exactly equivalent to î-free sentences, as the above argument shows. This is not entirely surprising, of course, for the whole point about attitude-expressions is that they are not ordinary truth-apt sentences, and the Frege-Geach problem warns us that odd things are likely to happen when we attempt to embed them within larger contexts. Nevertheless, there is a near-equivalence that is sufficiently strong to command our attention. Moreover, it works slightly differently between (6) and (7), as we can see if we attempt to force a Euthyphro-style dilemma by asking whether, in each case, the left-hand side (LHS) is true because of the right-hand side (RHS), or vice versa. In each case, this gives us three possibilities: The LHS is true because of the RHS; The RHS is true because of the LHS; The LHS and RHS are too closely related for a contrast to emerge. In case (6), the obvious choice is (a). Only a projectivist Berkeley would opt for (b), and only in some cases and because of a particular problem (how to explain what constitutes physical existence in the absence of material substance). Option (c), likewise, is not a serious option, if only because (idealism aside) sentences such as ‘p’ have a clear meaning that can be explicated independently of what anybody thinks about them. Moreover, and crucially, such explication not only fails to require an understanding of parenthetical prefixes: it also fails to yield it. In case (7), however, (a) is not a serious option, and precisely because (according to expressivism) the RHS cannot be understood independently of our attitudes. Option (b) looks more plausible, since without attitudes there would be no obligations, on this view. However, (c) is even more plausible, since the whole point is that obligations are not so much created by attitudes as actually constituted by them. The obligatoriness of p simply has no attitude-free existence, which means that RHS cannot distance itself from the LHS sufficiently to give us a contrast. This is not entirely convincing, of course, for it still seems as though the LHS is very much the senior partner of the equivalence—if only because it is clearly the analysans, whereas the RHS is the analysandum. However, I suggest that we be satisfied, for the moment, with the answer, ‘somewhere between (b) and (c), but rather closer to (c).’ What is significant is that, as we noted in §1, this is exactly the answer that it is most plausible to give with ’God commands that p’≡‘Op’ and for interestingly similar reasons. Still, it may be protested that expressivist theories do not genuinely require any kind of religious support. However, even that is not entirely obvious. Blackburn’s version talks of ‘hooraying,’ but that is just a place-holder for more specific attitudes. At some stage, we shall need to go into more detail, and there may be difficulties here. A well known criticism of emotivism, for example, is that moral judgements do not consist of the expressions of just any kind of emotion. Only specific kinds are involved, and the suspicion is that we cannot identify which kinds without importing ideas which go well beyond the minimal framework with which emotivism presents us.15 We instinctively know (roughly) what sorts of attitudes are likely to be relevant, and these are the ones that we express and try to get others to share. However, our concept of (specifically) moral obligation has a religious origin, and the attitudes expressed in moral judgements are essentially those originally attributed to God. The suggestion that we can rid ourselves completely of religious concepts and yet still know which sorts of attitudes constitute moral judgements is not obviously right. Gibbard’s theory applies to all kinds of normative judgements, and he isolates the moral kind by appealing to a variety of distinctive notions, notably guilt.16 Although Gibbard’s theory is more carefully worked out than Blackburn’s at this point, and considerable effort is made to ensure a naturalistic formulation of all key concepts, we can see that religious ideas are still hovering in the background (if only as historical influences). Moreover, we still have the fundamental problem of explaining just why our moral expressing game should be expected to work at all— why it should be any less demented than its sartorial cousin, for example, or (if the latter is too obviously silly to be worth considering) games where other psychological states are expressed, such as gastronomical preferences. Why should attitudinal convergence be expected in the first place? If human beings are understood to be the creation of a morally perfect being whose attitudes are reflected in those of His creatures, then perhaps an answer can be given. Of course, it is not the only possible answer. Despite this, the suggestion that expressivists might find it worth their while to ‘get religion’ in order to help them with their distinction between reporting and expressing an attitude still sounds risible. However, we are not quite committed to saying that! The claim, rather, is that they can usefully examine how religious concepts are sometimes used here. This is not too controversial inasmuch as moral beliefs are sometimes analysed, for example, as beliefs about what a morally perfect being, or the Ideal Observer (IO), would want (never mind whether there are such beings). Since moral beliefs are thus understood to be beliefs about desires, we can see why they might resemble desires themselves sufficiently well to be able to motivate us in the way demanded by moral internalism.17 Of course, many problems remain, notably that of how such hypothetical desires (or our beliefs about them) can be guaranteed to influence our actual ones. The move from (7) to (11), and the question of how divine hoorays relate to human ones, is very much to the point in this respect. There is also the risk that the IO can only be morally relevant because the word ‘ideal’ is itself morally loaded: in which case sentences using ‘IO’ are already problematic. What is significant, however, is that theories of this kind cannot sensibly be rejected just because they import religious ideas, if only because the degree of religiosity required is fairly small—at least, at the outset. Moreover, the use of ‘î’ simply as a formal device to help anchor moral discourse has considerable merits as it stands, as we have seen. To see why a greater religious influence might be desirable, we need to approach the matter from the other direction. We firstly need to sharpen our conception of religious ethics. The term ‘divine command theory’ is normally used here; but, following Philip L. Quinn, we shall sometimes use the term ‘metaethical theological voluntarism’ (briefly, ‘voluntarism’) instead.18 The reason is that the term ‘command’ is very restrictive. Some voluntarists prefer to speak of what God wills, and there is a lively debate on which version is preferable.19 Although we shall not enter into this debate directly, it turns out to be important that we consider a wide range of alternatives. The prefix ‘metaethical’ is crucial since it indicates that the theory is a thesis about ethical concepts. By contrast, normative theological voluntarism claims that God’s attitudes have normative force, but does not assume that this automatically follows from the nature of ethics itself. What is fundamentally significant here is that both expressivism and voluntarism tend to be concerned with similar types of attitudes. Prescriptivists emphasize universal imperatives, and this is echoed by divine command theories. Likewise, expressivist theories that identify moral thoughts with certain types of desire are echoed in theories that emphasize God’s will as opposed to his edicts. By contrast, theories which emphasize affective rather than conative states, such as emotivism, have their analogue in theories which define the good in terms of the objects of God’s love. The difference in each case, of course, concerns just who has the attitudes in question, and it might be thought that the differences between God and Man are sufficiently great to ensure that any parallels are of minimal significance. Although we have already noted that the expressive î is liable to take on divine characteristics, and for reasons internal to expressivism itself, it may still be insisted that the expressivist’s God, like the transcendental ego or the Ideal Observer, can never be anything more than a logical fiction—and therefore very far removed from the God of Abraham, Moses, and Isaiah.20 Yet, not only does expressivism take on a religious tinge when formulated in certain kinds of way, there are, conversely, expressivist implications within voluntarism. The key point is this. Even if ethics is grounded in divine attitudes of some kind, we still have to explain what it is for a person A to have a given moral belief—that Op, for example. Evidently, she needs to believe that God has the appropriate attitude (call it ϕ) towards p, and this appears to be a straightforwardly cognitive state, one which reflects the fact that ‘God has attitude ϕ towards p’ is (or seems to be) a wholly descriptive, truth-apt sentence. Yet A is also supposed to be moved towards the bringing about that p if she is to avoid the pitfalls of a purely externalist theory of morality. Someone who says, “Well, I agree that God wants it to be the case that p; but, frankly, I myself am wholly" @default.
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W1581574144 title "Divine Hoorays: Some Parallels between Expressivism and Religious Ethics" @default.
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