Charles Colson asserts there are three basic reasons Christians must be involved in politics and government.  In accordance with principles outlined in Romans 13, we are to submit and pray for political leaders. (I confess I prayed more frequently and fervently for George W. Bush than I did for Bill Clinton – I was wrong.)  We have civic duties to perform as citizens.  Second, as citizens of the Kingdom of God, we are to bring standards of righteousness and justice.  This is a component of our cultural commission.  Third, we have a responsibility to bring “transcendent moral values into the public debate.”  Whether it is stem cell research or legislation to address climate control, there are serious moral principles and implications at stake.  What man can do must be governed by what he ought do.  It is the “moral impulse” of the Emancipation Proclamation and Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address that animates and motivates the body politic.

Regardless of the outcome of this year’s historic presidential election, Christians need to recognize bedrock truths – the first of which is that God constitutes a majority of One.  “He it is who reduces rulers to nothing, Who makes the judges of the earth meaningless.  Scarcely have they been planted, Scarcely have they been sown, Scarcely has their stock taken root in the earth, But He merely blows on them, and they wither, And the storm carries them away like stubble” (Isaiah 40:23-24 NASB).

Such recognition should lead to worship and obedience in private spheres and public squares.  “Let all the earth fear the LORD; Let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of Him.  For He spoke, and it was done; He commanded, and it stood fast. The counsel of the LORD stands forever, The plans of His heart from generation to generation” (Psalm 33:8-9; 11 NASB).

 As we reflect upon and rejoice in the precious heritage of our nation, we need to stress not only our Declaration of Independence but more so our Declaration of Dependence.  Although we embrace the “inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” we treasure the words of Jesus, “if any one wishes to come after me, let him deny himself, pick up his cross and follow me. (Mark 8:34 NASB).  Thomas Jefferson’s words pale in contrast to the Word.

It is tragically ironic that a nation which espouses “life” as a fundamental right has degenerated into a culture of death.  The sanctity of life has been reduced to quality of life.  Consequently, the most dangerous place in the United States of America is in the womb of a mother.  Paradoxically, it is the One Who beckons us to pick up the cross, an instrument of death to self, Who proclaims Himself the way, the truth, and the life.  May we never confuse American civil religion with biblical Christianity. 

In the aftermath of September 11, 2001, our nation observed a Day of Mourning.  Leaders gathered in the National Cathedral to weep, to pray, and to seek comfort.  A hymn of dependence was sung, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.”  One politically-incorrect verse was omitted.

“Did we in our own strength confide, our striving would be losing;
Were not the right Man on our side, the Man of God’s own choosing:
Dost ask who that may be? Christ Jesus, it is He;
Lord Sabaoth, His Name, from age to age the same,
And He must win the battle” (Martin Luther).

Some two thousand years ago, the most powerful man in the world issued a decree, and the entire world – even a pregnant Jewish teenager – traveled miles to be counted in a census for taxation purposes.  I sometimes picture Caesar Augustus, arguably the most influential Roman Emperor, standing outside a cold, dung-filled stable, where an infant lay.  I pose the questions, “Where are you today, Caesar Augustus?  Do you still have regal robes?  What about the One in swaddling clothes?  Whose decrees will be final?”

In this season of political, economic, social, and moral uncertainty, may our confidence be placed firmly in the “Man for All Seasons” – His name is Jesus. 

What then is a Christian to make of conservatism? The danger, it would seem, is not in conserving, for anyone may have a vocation to care for precious things, but in conservative ideology, which sets forth a picture of these things at variance with the faith. The same is true of liberalism. From time to time Christians may find themselves in tactical alliance with conservatives, just as with liberals, over particular policies, precepts, and laws. But they cannot be in strategic alliance, because their reasons for these stands are different; they are living in a different vision. For our allies' sake as well as our own, it behooves us to remember the difference. We do not need another Social Gospel-just the Gospel.

In a previous essay, "The Problem With Liberalism" (FT, March), I described liberalism as a bundle of acute moral errors, with political consequences that grow more and more alarming as these errors are taken closer and closer to their logical conclusions. Conservatism may be described as another such bundle. The parallel is not perfect, for American culture is balanced at the top of a liberal ridge and is only now considering the descent. Because conservative moral errors have had less time to work among the powers and principalities, we cannot always discern their political consequences. But we can anticipate their fruits by their roots. The moral errors of conservatism are just as grave as those of its liberal opponents.

A minor difficulty in setting forth these errors is the ambiguity of the term "conservatism." Conservatives come in many different kinds, and their mistakes are equally heterogeneous. I should like to stress, therefore, that not every conservative commits every one of the errors that I describe in the following pages. But there is a common theme. Each kind of conservative opposes the contemporary government-driven variety of social reformism in the name of some cherished thing which he finds that it endangers. One speaks of virtue, another of wealth, another of the peace of his home and the quiet of his street-but although these pearls are of very different luster, none wishes his to be thrown before swine. So it is that conservatives are often able to make common cause, putting all their pearls in a single casket.

The first moral error of political conservatism is civil religionism. According to this notion America is a chosen nation, and its projects are a proper focus of religious aspiration; according to Christianity America is but one nation among many, no less loved by God, but no more.

Our civil religion seems to have developed in four stages. The first stage was the Massachusetts Bay colony. Although the Puritans accepted the orthodox view of the Church as the New Israel, they also viewed it as corrupt. The Church's role of City Upon a Hill had therefore passed to themselves-to the uncorrupted remnant of the faithful, fled to North American shores. Like the Israelites, they viewed themselves as having entered into a special covenant with God to be His people. The same blessings and curses, however, were appended to their covenant as to the one at Sinai; therefore, warned Governor John Winthrop, should the settlers embrace the present world and prosecute their carnal intentions, "the Lord will surely break out in wrath against us [and] be revenged of such a perjured people."

The second stage was the colonies just before the Revolution. Increasing unity among the settlers had given rise to a national sense of covenant with God, but the shared experience of English harassment aroused suspicion that the covenant had been breached. Isaiah's warnings to Israel were invoked by way of explanation: "How is the faithful city become an harlot! It was full of judgment; righteousness lodged in it; but now murderers." Preachers like Samuel Langdon declared that if only the people would turn from their sins, God would remit their punishment, purge the nation of wrongdoers, restore a righteous government-and deal with the English.

The third stage was in the early and middle republic. God was still understood as the underwriter of American aspirations, but as the content of these aspirations became more and more nationalistic it also became less and less Christian. It appeared that God cared at least as much about putting down the South and taking over the West as He did about making His people holy; patriotic songwriters like Samuel Francis Smith used expressions like "freedom's holy light," but they meant democracy, not freedom from sin.

The fourth stage was the late republic. By this time American culture had become not just indifferent to Christianity, but hostile to it. Conservatives still wanted to believe that the nation was specially favored by God, but the idea of seeking His will and suffering His chastening had been completely lost. President Eisenhower remarked that what the country needed was a religious foundation, but that he didn't care what it was. President Reagan applied the image of the City Upon a Hill not to the remnant of the Church in America, but to America as such-its mission not to bear witness to the gospel, but to spread the bits and pieces of its secular ideology.

The mistake in all these stages is confusing America with Zion. She is not the inheritor of the covenant, not the receiver of the promises, not the witness to the nations. It may well be that all nations have callings of sorts-specific purposes which God in His providence assigns them. But no nation can presume to take God under its wing. However we may love her, dote upon her, and regret her, the Lord our God can do without the United States.

The second moral error of political conservatism is instrumentalism. According to this notion faith should be used for the ends of the state; according to Christianity believers should certainly be good citizens, but faith is not a tool. To be sure, the pedigree of instrumentalism is not purely conservative; it has followers on the left as well as the right. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, for instance, wanted the state to invent a civil religion to his order and then make use of it. Its articles would be proposed "not exactly as religious dogmas" but as "sentiments of sociability without which it is impossible to be a good citizen or a faithful subject." Most instrumentalists, however, are not so fastidious. They are willing to make a tool of whatever religion comes to hand, whether civil, traditional, or revealed. Religious conservatives who pine for the days when jurists called America "a Christian country" and recognized Christianity as "the law of the land" are deeply in error if they think such statements expressed belief; what they expressed was instrumentalism. In those days the religion that came to hand was Christianity (or at least its counterfeit in civil religion), and the speakers were interested primarily in how it could be used. The eminent nineteenth-century jurist Thomas Cooley admitted as much. Supreme Court Justice David Brewer, controversial author of America a Christian Country, was only slightly less explicit.

Viewed from this perspective, the contrast between the jurisprudence of yesterday and today is not nearly as sharp as religious conservatives make it out to be. Although language describing Christianity as the law of the land has disappeared from our cases, judges and legislators are just as interested in the social utility of the faith as they were before-and just as indifferent to its truth. Consider for example the 1984 Supreme Court case Lynch v. Donelly, which concerned whether a Christmastime nativity display could be financed by a municipal government. Members of the Court likened erecting a creche to adopting "In God We Trust" as the national motto and opening judicial sessions with the invocation "God save the United States and this honorable Court." By the comparison, they meant three things.

These acts and declarations have nothing to do with religion. They do not "endorse" the faith, but merely "acknowledge" it, said Justice O'Connor. Indeed they have "lost through rote repetition any significant religious content," said Justice Brennan. Otherwise, they said, they would be establishments of religion, which are forbidden.

On the other hand, they are socially indispensable. They are "uniquely" suited to serve "wholly" secular purposes (Brennan) which could not reasonably be served in any other way (O'Connor). These purposes include "solemnizing public occasions" (Brennan and O'Connor), "expressing confidence in the future and encouraging the recognition of what is worthy of appreciation in society" (O'Connor), and "inspiring commitment to meet some national challenge in a manner that simply could not be fully served if government were limited to purely nonreligious phrases" (Brennan). The last of these purposes is especially interesting-in plain language, it means getting people to do something they would refuse to do otherwise.

In fact, they are a noble lie. Obviously, if the mottoes and creches and so forth had really lost all their religious content they would be completely useless for achieving any purposes whatsoever, secular or otherwise. Our rulers feel free to use them because they have lost religious meaning for them; they work, however, because they retain this meaning for the masses.

The third moral error of political conservatism is moralism. According to this notion God's grace needs the help of the state; Christianity merely asks the state to get out of the way. We might say that while instrumentalism wants to make faith a tool of politics, moralism wants to make politics a tool of faith; on this reading, what instrumentalism is to secular conservatives, moralism is to religious conservatives. Surprisingly, though, many religious conservatives seem unable to tell the difference. Whether someone says "We need prayer in schools to make the children holy" or "We need prayer in schools to make the country strong," it sounds to them the same.

Now I am not going to complain that moralism "imposes" a faith on people who do not share it. In the sense at issue, even secularists impose a faith on others-they merely impose a different faith. Every law reflects some moral idea, every moral idea reflects some fundamental commitment, and every fundamental commitment is religious-it proposes a god. Everything in the universe comes to a point. For moralism, therefore, the important distinction is not between religion and secularism, but between faiths that do and faiths that do not demand the civil enforcement of all their moral precepts.

To the question "Should the civil law enforce the precepts of the faith?" the biblical answer is, "Some yes, but some no; which ones do you mean?" The New Testament contains literally hundreds of precepts. However, Christianity is not a legislative religion. While the Bible recognizes the Torah as a divinely revealed code for the ruling of Israel before the coming of Messiah, it does not include a divinely revealed code for the ruling of the gentiles afterward. To be sure, the Bible limits the kinds of laws that Christians can accept from their governments, for "we must obey God rather than men" (Acts 5:29). However, it does not prescribe specific laws that they must demand from them.

It is not even true that all of God's commands limit the kinds of laws that Christians can accept. To see this, contrast two such precepts: (1) I am prohibited from deliberately shedding innocent blood; (2) I am prohibited from divorcing a faithful spouse. Both precepts are absolute in their application to me, but that is not the issue. If we are speaking of governmental enforcement, then we are speaking of their application to others. The former precept should require very little watering down in the public square, for even nonbelievers are expected to understand the wrong of murder. That is why I may be confident in condemning the legalization of abortion. But the latter precept requires a good deal of watering down in the public square, for before the coming of Christ not even believers were expected to understand the true nature of marriage. "Moses permitted you to divorce your wives because your hearts were hard," said Jesus, "but it was not this way from the beginning" (Matthew 19:8). No doubt the Pharisees to whom He was speaking were scandalized by the idea that their civil law did not reflect God's standards fully. They must have been even more offended by the suggestion that it was not intended to. Among religious conservatives this suggestion is still a scandal, but it does not come from liberals; it comes from the Master.

Christians, then, may certainly commend a law as good or condemn it as evil. They may declare it consistent or inconsistent with the faith. But not even a good law may be simply identified with the faith; Christians must not speak of a tax code, marriage ordinance, or welfare policy as Christian no matter how much, or even how rightly, they desire its enactment or preservation. That predicate has been preempted by the law of God. The civil law will be Christian-if it still exists at all- only when Christ himself has returned to rule: not when a coalition of religious conservatives has got itself elected.

The fourth moral error of political conservatism is Caesarism. According to this notion the laws of man are higher than the laws of God; according to Christianity the laws of God are higher than the laws of man. With this error we have come back to secular conservatives. The peculiar thing about American Caesarism is that the state never says that its laws are higher than the laws of God; it simply refuses to acknowledge any laws of God, in the name of equal liberty for all religious sects.

George Reynolds, a Mormon living in Utah Territory, was charged during the 1870s with the crime of bigamy. In his defense he argued that the law was an unconstitutional infringement of his free exercise of religion. Accepting his appeal, the Supreme Court disagreed. Although it said all sorts of interesting things about why free exercise of religion is good (and why polygamy is wrong-for instance because it leads to a patriarchal rather than republican principle of authority in government), the heart of the rebuttal was a simple distinction between opinions and actions. Appealing to Thomas Jefferson's idea of a "wall of separation between church and state," it held that what people believe is the business of the church, but that what they do is the business of the state. Therefore, the First Amendment does not mean that people may act as their religion requires, but only that they may think as their religion requires; free exercise of religion makes no difference whatsoever to the scope of state power over conduct.

Still favored by many conservatives, this doctrine has startling implications. It means, for instance, that in throwing Christians to the lions for refusing to worship Caesar, the Romans did nothing to infringe the free exercise of Christianity; after all, while being devoured, the martyrs were still at liberty to believe that Caesar was only a man.

A century later, in cases involving other religious groups, the Court conceded the point. Announcing its discovery that faith and conduct cannot be isolated in "logic-tight compartments," it now decreed that "only those interests of the highest order and those not otherwise served can overbalance legitimate claims to the free exercise of religion." But this was too much for judicial conservatives, and the experiment was ended in 1992. Writing for the Court in Employment Division v. Smith (II), Justice Scalia appealed to the notion that the issue in free exercise cases is not whether the state's motives are "compelling," but whether they are "neutral." A law that does not expressly single out a particular sect may burden any religious practice to any degree, so long as this burden is "merely the incidental effect" of the law and not its "object." In other words, repression is fine so long as it is absentminded. Pastoral care and counselling could not be forbidden as such but could be forbidden as an incidental effect of regulations for the licensing of mental health practitioners; the sacrament of baptism could not be forbidden as such but could be forbidden as an incidental effect of regulations for bathing in public places. To be sure, since the recent action of the Court, Congress has reinstated the compelling-interest doctrine, lauding its deed as a "Religious Freedom Restoration Act." But surely this is overstatement. After all, even under the compelling-interest doctrine, claims to the free exercise of religion can be swept aside whenever the state thinks its reasons are good enough. So much we would have had without a First Amendment.

As our own times have made clear, even releasing nerve gas in public places can be an exercise of religion. Perhaps the blame for our troubles lies with the Framers, for refusing to distinguish the kinds of religion whose exercise should be free from the kinds of religion whose exercise should not. But, foolishly thinking ignorance a friend of conscience, we have followed their lead. Afraid to judge among religions, we put them all beneath our feet; pursuing the will-o'-the- wisp of equal liberty, we tumble headlong into Caesarism.

The fifth moral error of political conservatism is traditionalism. According to this notion what has been done is what should be done; Christianity, however, though it cherishes the unchanging truths of faith, insists that any merely human custom may have to be repented. "That which hath been is that which shall be; and that which hath been done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun," writes Koheleth, "the Preacher" (Ecclesiastes 1:9). "Behold, I will do a new thing; now shall it spring forth; shall ye not know it?" answers God (Isaiah 43:19).

An illustration of the mischiefs of traditionalism may be found in the 1992 Supreme Court case Planned Parenthood v. Casey, which reaffirmed the supposed right to take the lives of one's unborn children. By inventing the right in the first place, the Court had shattered tradition; no such use of lethal violence by private individuals had ever been sanctioned in common law. But Roe v. Wade had stood for twenty years. As far as the Court is concerned, that makes it a new tradition-and as such, unassailable. Amazingly, the Court upheld Roe even while admitting that it might have been decided incorrectly. "We are satisfied," says the majority, "that the immediate question is not the soundness of Roe's resolution of the issue, but the precedential force that must be accorded the ruling."

Just how does an unsound precedent have force? The answer, says the Court, is that "for two decades of economic and social developments, people have organized their intimate relationships and made choices that define their views of themselves and their places in society in reliance on the availability of abortion in the event that contraception should fail. . . . An entire generation has come of age free to assume Roe's concept of liberty." To put the idea more simply, sex has been separated from responsibility for resulting children for so long that to change the rules on people now would be unfair. Therefore, never mind whether what was done was right; what matters is that it was done.

Moral errors gain their plausibility from the truths that they distort. It is certainly true that precedents, traditions, and customs should not be needlessly disturbed; the gain in goodness from a particular change must always be balanced against the harm of change as such. But this truth applies to the choice between a good law and a still better one, not to the choice between a good law and an evil one. The question to ask about moral evil is not whether we have got used to it, but whether it can be stopped.

The sixth moral error of political conservatism is neutralism. This may come as a surprise, because neutralism also comes in a liberal variety. Whereas the liberal sort of neutralist exclaims, "Let a thousand flowers bloom," the conservative sort cries merely, "Leave me alone." In essence, conservative neutralism is the notion that because everyone ought to mind his own business, moral and religious judgments should be avoided. By contrast, while agreeing that one ought to mind his own business-St. Paul warns three times against busybodies- Christianity holds that moral and religious judgments can never be avoided. They must be straight and true before people can even agree as to what their business is.

Not everyone reaches neutralism by the same route, but conservative thinker Michael Oakeshott follows a well-worn path in deriving it from traditionalism. Conservatives, he says, seek activities whose enjoyment springs "not from the success of the enterprise, but from the familiarity of the engagement." What makes this disposition intelligible in politics is "the observation of our current manner of living" together with the belief that laws are "instruments enabling people to pursue activities of their own choice with minimum frustration." But to say this is to reject the view that laws are "plans for imposing substantive activities"; therefore, he holds, conservatism has "nothing to do" with morals or religion.

Of course the conclusion does not follow, and if it were really true then conservatives could make no decisions at all. Rather than being indifferent to questions of good and evil, Oakeshott himself maintains the good of minimizing frustration, and rather than holding no opinion about religion, he holds the opinion that it is better to be ignorant of truth than to be pestered about it. For example he says that people of conservative disposition "might even be prepared to suffer a legally established ecclesiastical order," but "it would not be because they believed it to represent some unassailable religious truth, but merely because it restrained the indecent competition of sects and (as Hume said) moderated 'the plague of a too diligent clergy.'" The difficulty is plain: If not by his own moral and religious standards, then how does Oakeshott know that competition is indecent and diligence a plague? Why not condemn complacency and sloth instead?

Not even rules designed to tell what counts as pestering can work in a neutral way. Always we must add others to make them work-and what we add makes a difference to the outcome. Christianity recognizes this. For example, consider the principles of Subsidiarity and Sphere Sovereignty. Each targets the problem of knowing where the business of one party ends and the business of another begins. Subsidiarity, a precept of Catholic social thought, holds that greater and higher social institutions like the state exist just to help lesser and subordinate ones like the family. Therefore, to destroy the lesser institutions, absorb them, or take away their proper functions is "gravely wrong" and a "disturbance of right order." Sphere subsidiarity is more prominent in Protestant social thought. Ordering social institutions horizontally instead of vertically, it says that each has its own domain, its own authority, and its own ruling norm, for instance love in the case of the family and public justice in the case of the state. Therefore, each should be protected from interference by the others.

Both rules are meant to deal with meddling, but applying either one requires a vast amount of other knowledge, which one must get from somewhere else-just what the neutralist would like to think unnecessary. To test my college students I used to ask, "To which institution would a subsidiarist give the task of instructing children in sexual mores-state or family?" Almost all replied, "The state." Families need help, they argued, because they do a poor job in this area: They rarely teach children about contraception, sexual preferences, or the many other things which young moderns need to know. I was astonished. Couldn't my students tell the difference between helping the family and absorbing its functions? On reflection their answer was not astonishing at all. They shared neither Christian presuppositions about what sex is for nor Christian presuppositions about how a family works; why then should they have reached Christian conclusions in applying Christian social principles?

There is nothing exceptional about the principles of Subsidiarity and Sphere Sovereignty; no definition of meddling or intrusion can work in a neutral way. Particular moral and religious understandings are always presupposed, and changing them changes the way our definitions work. It follows that forbidding moral judgments will not keep busybodies out of other people's hair. Somehow they must learn the meanings of "other," "people's," and "hair."

The seventh moral error of political conservatism is mammonism. According to this notion wealth is the object of commonwealth, and its continual increase even better; according to Christianity wealth is a snare, and its continual increase even worse. Mammonism is what the Big Tent that some political analysts urge for the Republican Party is all about: ditch the social issues, but hold onto the capitals gains tax reduction. To keep your liberty you have to keep your money.

Christians, of course, are not the only ones to have criticized mammonism. Warnings against the love of wealth were a staple even of ancient pagan conservatism. The idea was that virtue makes republics prosper, but prosperity leads to love of wealth, love of wealth leads to loss of virtue, and loss of virtue makes republics fall. Thus if you want your republic to endure, you will do well to seek a site unfavorable to great prosperity-not too warm, not too fertile, not too close to the trading routes. That our secular conservatives disagree with their ancient counterparts will strike no one as a new idea. Odder is the ease with which modern Christians make their peace with mammonism.

An extreme example is found in the late-nineteenth-century Baptist preacher Russell Conwell, who maintained that to make money is the same thing as to preach the Christian gospel. However that may be, to preach his own gospel was certainly the same thing as to make money. So eager were people to hear his oft-repeated Acres of Diamonds speech that he is said to have earned, over a period of years, perhaps six million dollars from speakers' fees alone. Though peanuts by the standards of modern televangelists, at the time that was real money. An inventory of Conwell's more astonishing claims would include at least the following: (1) It is your Christian duty to get rich, and ownership of possessions makes you a better person; (2) The overwhelming majority of rich people are morally upright, and that is exactly why they are rich; (3) It is wrong to be poor, and God does not approve of poor people. That Jesus explicitly contradicts each of these claims (Matthew 6:19-21, Matthew 19:23-24, Luke 6:20) leaves Conwell cold.

A more temperate but still objectionable form of mammonism is found in Toward the Future, a "lay letter" published in 1984 by a committee of prominent Catholic conservatives. Jesus told the story of a master who entrusts his servants with the care of his money while he is traveling to a distant place to receive a kingship. Upon his return, he finds that one servant has buried his share while the other two have made investments. The timid servant he scolds and dismisses, but the bold ones he praises and rewards with yet greater responsibilities. Traditionally the Church has understood this parable to mean that just as a king in this world expects his agents to take risks, not burying his money but investing it to earn a return, so God expects his people to take risks, not burying their gifts but using them to build up the Kingdom of Heaven. By contrast, the lay letter understands it to mean simply that God expects his people to invest their money to earn a return. "Preserving capital is not enough," the authors teach; "it must be made to grow." The use of gifts for the sake of the Kingdom becomes the growth of wealth for the sake of wealth.

To be sure, the lay letter's defense of enterprise is not altogether wrong. Material things are not intrinsically evil, it is not a sin to engage in honest business, and, despite its dubious motivational underpinnings, the capitalist type of economy may well be superior to the alternatives. Indeed the cooperative sort of socialism seems to ignore the circumstance of the Fall, and the compulsory sort cannot even be established without the sin of theft. In a fallen world, much can also be said for the "invisible hand" of the market, by which independent individuals, even though selfish, bring about a social good which was no part of their intention. But even Adam Smith recognizes that the invisible hand does not work unless laborers and businessmen submit themselves to the restraints of justice, and that an interest in wealth alone will not induce them to do so. After all, if winning is all that matters, why keep the competition going at all? Why not use one's wealth to wring special privileges from the government and so become more wealthy still? Capitalism depends on a moral spirit which it cannot supply and may even weaken; it is, in the most exact of senses, a parasite on the faith. But a Christian parasite is not by that fact Christian.

The eighth moral error of political conservatism is meritism. According to this notion I should do unto others as they deserve. With the addition of mammonism, matters become even simpler, for then those who need help are by definition undeserving, while those in a position to help are by definition deserving. That meritism is not a Christian doctrine comes as a surprise to many people. Large numbers think the meritist motto "God helps those who help themselves" is a quotation from the Bible. What the New Testament actually teaches is that in what we need most, we are helpless; the grace of God is an undeserved gift. According to Christianity I should do unto others not as they deserve, but as they need.

Aristotle taught that vices tend to come in pairs, because one can miss a mark either by way of excess or by way of deficiency-by going too far or by failing to go far enough. That is certainly the case here, for the conservative mistake of meritism stands opposite to the liberal mistake of propitiationism-doing unto others as they want. In fact the commonest way to fall into either mistake is by sheer recoil from the other. The reason is easy to see: We tend to think of justice and mercy as antithetical, so that to practice either I must slight the other. By this line of reasoning the conservative emphasis on desert is a preference for justice, while the liberal emphasis on desire is a preference for mercy. By contrast, in the Christian account of things justice and mercy are corollaries that must be united. They are united in the Atonement because God neither waived the just penalty for our sins nor inflicted it on us, but took it upon Himself. This staggering gift also teaches what the unity of justice and mercy requires: sacrifice. If to us justice and mercy seem irreconcilable, the reason is probably that we are loath to pay the price of their reconciliation; we are afraid of sacrifice and shrink from the way of the Cross.

What does the contrast between meritism and charity look like in ordinary human relationships? Consider the governmental policy of paying women cash prizes for bearing children out of wedlock. Liberals want to continue the policy because they cannot tell need from desire. Meritists propose ending it because the subsidies are undeserved. Although a Christian may accept the cutoff, he cannot accept it for the reason given. All of us at all times need and receive many things that we do not deserve. The problem with the subsidies is that they are not what is needed. They so completely split behavior from its natural consequences that they infantilize their supposed beneficiaries; to infantilize them is to debase them, and no one needs to be debased.

Very well, says the meritist to the Christian, but we both support a cutoff. The rationales differ, but so what? That makes no difference in practice, does it? But it does. After achieving the cutoff, the meritist thinks his work is done, but the Christian thinks his work has only begun. He must now find another way to offer help; and he had better be prepared to pay the price. For a portrait of that price, don't think of a bureaucrat, think of Mother Teresa.

We have considered what Christians are to make of political conservatism. It might also be asked what political conservatives are to make of Christians. I am afraid that the more faithful we are to our identity in Christ, the less reliable they will find us even as occasional allies; and we must be honest with them. The Christian thinker Michael Novak wrote in his 1969 book A Theology for Radical Politics that because God is the source of all truth and good, whatever is true and good is Christian. At that time finding truth and goodness on the left, he therefore baptized the left. Like many Christians of the time, what he forgot was that in order to identify the true and the good, one must have a standard. "Every explanation of the meaning of human existence," said Reinhold Niebuhr, "must avail itself of some principle of explanation which cannot be explained. Every estimate of values involves some criterion of value which cannot be arrived at empirically." By the time he wrote Confessions of a Catholic, fourteen years later, Novak had arrived at the same insight. As he explained, his former self had erred in taking his principle of explanation and criterion of value from a worldly faction instead of the community of faith. The "reference group" of Christian activists like himself had somehow become "others on the left"; it should have been others in the Lord.

To repeat the error would be a shame, for the reference group of Christians can no more be others on the right than others on the left. Citizenship is an obligation of the faith, therefore the Christian will not abstain from the politics of the nation-state. But his primary mode of politics must always be witness. It is a good and necessary thing to change the welfare laws, but better yet to go out and feed the poor. It is a good and necessary thing to ban abortion, but better yet to sustain young women and their babies by taking them into the fellowship of faith. This is the way the kingdom of God is built.

It is not by the world that the world is moved-yet how it pulls. Ah, God, help us let go of the heights and the depths, the thrones and dominions, the powers and principalities; to be not conservatives, nor yet liberals, but simply Christians. "Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Lord of Hosts."

J. Budziszewski is Professor in the Departments of Government and Philosophy at the University of Texas at Austin. This article was published in First Things Magazine Copyright (c) 1996 First Things 62 (April 1996): 38-44. (The article is reprinted by permission of the author) Please see our Bibliography page for a list of the author’s books

Of course, both sides were tearing passages out of context and reading into them things that are not there. The City upon a Hill is the Body of Christ, not the United States of America. If the poor will always be with us, then we will always have to care for them. I am expected to look after the least of Christ’s brethren myself, not to have the government send them checks. The apostle who said that in Him there is no male or female also said that in the family their roles are different. And the apostle who said that God is love also claimed for God the authority to define that love.

Unfortunately, knowing these things does not answer the ideological question. Should Christians be political liberals? Or even, to put the query the other way around, Can they be?

In one way, both forms of the question are wrong-headed. According to the letter to the Philippians, our commonwealth is in Heaven, not on earth. In the same vein, the Great Commission shows that the mission of the Church to the world is to preach the gospel, not to underwrite any worldly regime or ideology. Therefore the primary identity of the Christian is in Christ—it cannot be in liberalism, any more than it can be in conservatism, communism, or communitarianism.

But to stop at this truth would be evasive. Although the faith does not mandate any worldly regime or generate any worldly ideology, it does stand in judgment upon worldly regimes and ideologies. Moreover, Scripture makes clear that so long as human institutions do not defy God’s commandments, we are to submit to them. Under a monarchy, submission might mean nothing more than obedience. In a republic, however, submission includes participation, so we have no alternative but to take positions on political questions. Willy-nilly, this involves us in responding to the worldly philosophies by which other people settle such questions.

The result? Even though I am not a duck, I will sometimes seem to quack like a duck. I cannot be a liberal and I cannot even be in strategic alliance with liberals, but I may from time to time find myself in tactical alliance with them—just as with conservatives—defending the cause of particular laws, precepts, or policies that they too approve, but for reasons of their own. To keep my head, I had better be clear about what those reasons are and how they differ from mine. So although we cannot ask whether Christians can or should be political liberals, we can and should ask what Christians are to think of liberalism.

At the threshold of the question we run into another problem. The term “political liberalism” can mean several things. In which sense are we using it here? Its principal meanings are threefold. Broadly, it means constitutional government with a representative legislature and generous liberties. In political economy, it means a competitive, self-regulating market with minimal government interference. Colloquially, it means the contemporary variety of government-driven social reformism. The first sense makes both Senator Kennedy and Speaker Gingrich liberals. The second makes the Speaker a liberal, but not the Senator. The third makes the Senator a liberal, but not the Speaker. For present purposes I use the term in the third.

My thesis is that, even as worldly philosophies go, political liberalism is deeply flawed. We may best describe it as a bundle of acute moral errors, with political consequences that grow more and more alarming as these errors are taken closer and closer to their logical conclusions. I am not speaking of such errors as celebrating sodomy and abortion—for these are merely symptoms—but of their causes. Nor am I speaking of all their causes—for this would require reading hearts—but of their intellectual causes. I am not even speaking of all their intellectual causes—for these are too numerous—but of the most obvious. No claim is here made that every political liberal commits all the moral errors all the time. Nor do I claim that all the moral errors are logically compatible, so they even could all be committed all the time. Certain moral errors support certain others, but others are at odds, so they must be committed selectively. One must not expect logical coherence in moral confusion.

The political implications of the faith are more negative than positive, so rejecting liberalism does not mean accepting conservatism. In the first place, under the influence of a liberal culture conservatives often fall for liberal moral errors too. In the second place, like every worldly ideology conservatism commits heresies of its own. But we can study conservatism another time.

The first moral error of political liberalism is propitiationism. According to this notion I should do unto others as they want; according to Christianity I should do unto others as they need. Numerous mental habits contribute to the propitiationist frame of mind. Most of my college students, for instance, think “need” and “want” are just synonyms. Many also construe the Jeffersonian right to pursue happiness as a right to be made happy by the government. Propitiationism corresponds to a style of politics in which innumerable factions, both organized and unorganized, compete to become government clientele, fighting not only for shares of the public purse (such as grants and loan guarantees) but also for governmental preferences (such as trade barriers and racial quotas) and for official marks of esteem (such as multiculturalist curricula and recognition of homosexual unions). Of course, in a representative system every government functionary, whether liberal or not, finds it difficult to resist group pressures. Propitiationism, however, reinforces the habit of giving in by making capitulation a moral duty.

Christians can slip into propitiationism by misunderstanding the Golden Rule. This happens when we read Do unto others as you would have them do unto you as though it implied Do unto others as they would have you do unto them-“I’d want others to honor my demands, so I should honor theirs.” The mistake lies in overlooking the fact that the “you” to whom the precept is addressed is a free subject of the kingdom of heaven, not a stranger. We are therefore speaking of what in Christ we would have others do unto us—to minister to our godly needs, not to our foolish or sinful wants. Unto others we should minister in the same way. It follows that keeping the Golden Rule may even mean saying “No” or suggesting a better way. Jesus instructs us to feed the poor, and so we should; but Paul says to the church at Thessalonica, “For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.”

To be sure, it is easier to see the need to say “No” to a greedy industrialist who wants the government to protect him from honest competition than to a teen mother who wants to marry the government instead of a man. Both want what is bad for them, yet he is likely to get much more of what he wants but doesn’t need than she is. The sloppy sort of compassionator is tempted to say, “If he gets what isn’t good for him, then it’s only fair that she should get what isn’t good for her.” But to give it to her might be to take her sole beatitude away. Find another way to help her. Blessed are those who cannot pay the entry fee to Hell.

The second moral error of political liberalism is expropriationism. According to this notion I may take from others to help the needy, giving nothing of my own; according to Christianity I should give of my own to help the needy, taking from no one. We might call expropriationism the Robin Hood fallacy. Today, the expropriationist is usually a propitiationist too, confusing the needy with some subset of the merely wanty. So we are speaking of a style of politics in which the groups in power decide for us which of their causes our wealth is to support, taking that wealth by force.

Many Christians seem to miss the point, thinking that expropriation is wrong just because the wrong groups are in power, choosing the wrong causes for subsidy. This is where the horror stories are offered, and horrible they are: of subsidies to promote abortion, subsidies to photograph crucifixes in jars of urine, subsidies for all sorts of wickedness and blasphemy. But expropriation would be wrong even if each of its causes were good. Consider the following progression.

1. On a dark street, a man draws a knife and demands my money for drugs.
2. Instead of demanding my money for drugs, he demands it for the Church.
3. Instead of being alone, he is with a bishop of the Church who acts as bagman.
4. Instead of drawing a knife, he produces a policeman who says I must do as he says.
5. Instead of meeting me on the street, he mails me his demand as an official agent of the government.

If the first is theft, it is difficult to see why the other four are not also theft. Expropriation is wrong not because its causes are wrong, but because it is a violation of the Eighth Commandment: Thou shalt not steal.

But how, one may ask, can government steal? We live in a republic; aren’t we therefore just taking from ourselves? No, not even in a republic are the rulers identical with the ruled, nor for that matter are the ruled identical with each other; if we were just taking from ourselves, there would be no need for the taking to be enforced. Then is it wrong for government to tax at all? No, government may certainly collect taxes for the support of its proper work; that work, however, is not the support of all good causes, but merely punishing wrongdoers and commending rightdoers. So Peter teaches in his first letter (2:13-14).

If government were to end its subsidy of good causes, wouldn’t these good causes suffer? Not necessarily; they might even thrive. Marvin Olasky has shown in The Tragedy of American Compassion that government subsidy itself can make good causes suffer, for in taking money by force one weakens both the means and the motive for people to give freely. Not only that, government usually distorts good causes in the act of taking them over. But what if the causes did depend on the proceeds of theft? Should we do evil, that good may come? When some people accused Paul of teaching this doctrine, he called the charge a slander. There is no such thing as a tame sin that will do only what we want it to, going quietly back into its bottle when we have finished with it. Sin is no more like that than God is. In politics, no less than in private life, it ramifies.

The third moral error of political liberalism is solipsism. According to this notion human beings make themselves, belong to themselves, and have value in and of themselves; according to Christianity they are made by God, belong to Him, and have value because they are loved by Him and made in His image. “Your eyes shall be opened,” said the serpent, “and ye shall be as gods.” Solipsism holds that we already are.

Political liberalism was not always solipsistic, but the change has hardly been noticed. John Locke in 1688 and Immanuel Kant in 1797 both held that we are not to use others merely as means to our ends. And yet though one can read in many books that they were saying the same thing, Locke gives as his reason that we are here to serve God’s ends, while Kant gives as his that each of us is an end himself. Locke therefore roots our dignity in God, while Kant makes us out to be gods ourselves. The two thinkers turn out to be as far apart as two thinkers can be.

Some might say the difference makes no difference; after all, Kant did reach the same conclusion as Locke, did he not? Say rather that he purported to. As we might have guessed from social conditions among the pagan deities, that is not the end of the story. Olympus was a world of irresistible forces and immovable objects. The gods deserved everything, but owed nothing. While expecting divine honors, they did whatever they could get away with. Solipsism produces the same result. Not everyone can have unconditional value, so beneath the high public language of equal concern and respect some become more equal than others. Because mothers are not to be means to their babies’ survival, their babies become means to their mothers’ control over their pregnancies. Because speakers are not to be means to their listeners’ purity, their listeners become means to the speakers’ pleasure in filth. Because patients are not to be means to the quiet of their doctors’ consciences, their doctors become means to their patients’ desire to die.

As surely as cider makes vinegar, solipsism made this evil. It would have done so even if it were true that being ends in ourselves keeps us from viewing others as means to ourselves. The mere idea of Not Using Others cannot produce a moral code, for only by the light of a moral code can we tell what counts as using others.

Christianity does not suffer from this vicious circle. Our faith takes its code from the one Who alone possesses unconditional value, yet Who sacrificed Himself that we may live, commanding that we love one another, not according to our own ideas, but as He has loved us.

The fourth moral error of political liberalism is absolutionism. According to this notion we cannot be blamed when we violate the moral law, either because we cannot help it, because we have no choice, or because it is our choice; according to Christianity we must be blamed, because we are morally responsible beings. Of course absolutionism cannot be practiced consistently, nor would it be so convenient to its practitioners if it could.

For example, a father may be absolved of child abuse because he was abused as a child himself; because of the abuse, however, the child may be absolved of murdering his father, and in this case the father is not absolved. A sodomist and a bully both may be absolved because of predisposing factors in their family or genes, but if the bully beats the sodomist, then the sodomist is absolved but not the bully. A woman may be absolved of leaving her husband because she feels trapped in the marriage, but a man is not absolved of leaving his wife for the same reason, because that would be sexist. A young man may be absolved of smashing a brick into a person’s head in the excitement of a riot, but not of doing so in the excitement of a gang war: unless the motive is political, in which case he is absolved if he is a Freedom Fighter, but not if he is a Terrorist. Finally, in a reversal of vicarious atonement, the critics of absolutionism are blamed for the sins of those whom they refuse to absolve.

Nowhere does Scripture say that to know all is to forgive all. Rather it says that on the Day of Wrath, everything secret will be known and everything in darkness will come to light. Nevertheless, Christians get pulled into absolutionism by all sorts of ropes. Ours is a God of mercy. Yes, but He is also a God of judgment. These two qualities are united by the atoning sacrifice of Christ, of which we cannot avail ourselves unless we repent. Christ has commanded us not to judge. Yes, but we are not commanded not to judge acts; we are only commanded not to judge souls. We know which acts are wrong because He has told us; we don’t know which souls will repent because He hasn’t. God loves everyone. Yes, and that is why He wants to save us from our sins. We are not saved by good deeds, but we are certainly saved for them. God does not overlook our wrongdoing; He forgives it when we turn in faith to Christ.

In the final analysis, absolutionism is cruel, not compassionate; harsh, not lenient; malicious, not magnanimous. It speaks of mercy, but shuts out God’s grace by teaching that we have no need for it. It speaks of forbearing from judgment, but its main use is to demonize class enemies. It speaks of love, but justifies evil. God forgive us for thinking there is nothing to forgive.

The fifth moral error of political liberalism is perfectionism. According to this notion human effort is adequate to cure human evil; according to Christianity our sin, like our guilt, can be erased only by the grace of God through faith in Christ. Perfectionists also think the cure can be completed in human time. Some even believe it can be arranged for whole societies at once. By contrast, the faith teaches that God must start over with each person, and that although guilt is erased immediately, the cure of sin is not complete until the next life.

Perfectionism is rich in consequences. The war to end all wars that ushered in a century of wars, the war on poverty that spent trillions of dollars but left poverty untouched, the war on unhappiness that enriched assorted gurus while rates of suicide soared, these are but its nuts and berries. According to the faith, its final fruit is unending darkness. Yet though emptied of Hope, perfectionism is full of hopes. “Man is at last becoming aware that he alone is responsible for the realization of the world of his dreams, that he has within himself the power for its achievement.” “Humans are responsible for what we are or will become. No deity will save us; we must save ourselves.” “Man sets himself only such problems as he is able to solve.” Statements like these were once considered extreme; the first and second are from the Humanist Manifestos, the third from Karl Marx. Yet today such sentiments are the boilerplate of liberal speechmaking. “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has imagined what we can build,” the current President has prophesied, misquoting Paul and Isaiah.

Christians bear some responsibility for the advent of perfectionism. For instance, today’s believer does not often hear that Love is a disposition of will toward good, Faith a disposition of reason toward revealed truth, and Hope a disposition of longing toward Heaven. Once he has followed nonbelievers in using the first word for an emotion and the second for something inimical to reason, there is nothing much to stop him from using the third for complacency about the course of this present, broken world.

Other slidepaths to perfectionism are just as well traveled. Some people even think Jesus was a perfectionist; did He not urge us to be perfect, as our Father in Heaven is perfect? But the Greek word translated “perfect,” teleioi, means merely “complete,” meaning that we are not to stop at half measures but grow up to full maturity. Thus John, who ought to have known what the Master meant, wrote in his first letter that if any man says he has no sin, he deceives himself, and the truth is not in him. Nor is perfectionism to be found in biblical prophecy. True, some Christians distort the prophecy of the millennium—the thousand-year reign of the martyrs with Christ—into the idea that worldly suffering will diminish and finally disappear through human social reform. But the text of the Revelation says nothing of such things.

One sometimes hears that perfectionism is a prerequisite for pity—as though one offers a cup of cold water to a thirsty child only because he foresees an ultimate victory in the War on Thirst. On the contrary, one takes pity for the love of souls, not for the love of abstractions; moreover, one takes it because these souls are suffering, not because he expects suffering to end. Perfectionism is more likely to annihilate pity than to heighten it. All for the sake of paradise, the tyrants of our generation stacked bodies higher than Nimrod stacked bricks; yet they came no nearer heaven than he did.

The sixth moral error of political liberalism is universalism. According to this notion the human race forms a harmony whose divisions are ultimately either unreal or unimportant; according to Christianity human harmony has been shattered by sin and cannot be fully healed by any means short of conversion.

The argument that human divisions are unreal is usually some form of pantheism. According to the Eastern way of putting it, all is in God—the obvious consequence of which is that God includes evil. For instance, the psychiatrist Carl Jung taught that Christians are mistaken in worshiping God as Trinity. Instead they ought to worship Him as “Quaternity,” the fourth Person of Godhood being Satan—a dog in the manger if ever there was one. For this some praise Jung as more “spiritual” than Freud. Most Westerners, though, prefer a formula that suppresses such unsettling conclusions: not “all is in God,” but “God is in all.” Thus George Fox taught that the “light of Christ” resides within each person already. By making such divisive steps as conversion unnecessary, this would seem to hold out hopes of bringing people together; actually it makes the origin and persistence of our divisions wholly mysterious.

The argument that human divisions are unimportant is usually some form of myopia. In one version, everyone is just like me—my class, my set, my outlook. We may all seem to want different things, but deep down we all really want the same thing and seek the same God. This is the stuff of beauty pageants and Robert Fulghum books. In another version, we are all different, but that is all right because it takes all sorts. Each ingredient adds its flavor to the salad. We are the world. This is the stuff of rock telethons and multicultural curricula.

Such delusions are almost cruelly easy to explode. Did the Nazis want the same as their victims? Did they seek the same God? Did it take both sorts to make a world? Our wants are different—wealth, redemption, power, death, revenge. Our Gods are different—Yahweh, Allah, Krishna, Kali, Volk. Even our sins are different—lewdness, envy, pride, resentment, sloth. God has placed in all hearts a longing for Himself, but not every way in which we try to satisfy this longing is a search for God. A diversity of gifts has been strewn among the children of men, but not every vice or twist of the children of men is a gift. In Christ there is no slave or free, no Greek or Jew; but there are slave and free, and there are Greek and Jew.

In our time, the universalist fallacy has even given rise to a new type of professional, the “facilitator,” whose bag of tricks for uncovering supposed latent unity is more and more familiar. Some of these, like active listening and decision by consensus, can be useful at times. Others, like unconditional inclusiveness, spell disaster if taken literally. What happens when they are imposed where a basis for unity is presumed that does not in fact exist? Various things; for instance the parties may stall, fly apart, or reach conspicuous agreement about points that are not at issue. At least these outcomes are straightforward. But just as often the technology of reconciliation becomes a technology of domination, more subtle than most, whose adepts simply bamboozle those who cannot talk the talk.

The seventh moral error of political liberalism is neutralism. According to this notion the virtue of tolerance requires suspending judgments about good and evil; according to Christianity it requires making judgments about good and evil. We can break neutralism into three components. According to the Quantitative Fallacy, the meaning of tolerance is tolerating; therefore, the more you tolerate, the more tolerant you are. According to the Skeptical Fallacy, the best foundation for tolerance is to avoid having strong convictions about good and evil; therefore, the more you doubt, the more tolerant you are. According to the Apologetic Fallacy, if you can’t help having strong convictions the next best foundation for tolerance is refusing to express or act upon them; therefore, the more pusillanimous you are, the more tolerant you are.

Closely examined, each fallacy explodes itself. If you really believe that the meaning of tolerance is tolerating, then you ought to tolerate even intolerance. If you really believe that the best foundation for tolerance is to avoid having any strong convictions at all about right and wrong, then you shouldn’t have a strong conviction that intolerance is wrong. If you really believe that when you do have strong convictions you should refuse to express or act upon them, then your tolerance should be a dead letter; it should be one of the things you are pusillanimous about.

But if consistent neutralism is self-refuting, then why is it so persistent? How is it possible for it to live on in our newspapers, on the television, in the schoolroom, and even in the pulpit? There are two main reasons for its vigor. The first reason is that it is never practiced consistently. Rather it is used selectively as a weapon for demoralizing Christians and other opponents. For the neutralist too has strong convictions; it’s just that his convictions aren’t the ones he says one shouldn’t act upon. Consistent neutralism would hold that if it is intolerant to express the conviction that unborn babies should not be torn from the womb, then it is also intolerant to express the conviction that they may be torn from the womb. By contrast, selective neutralism remembers itself only long enough to condemn the defenders of life.

The second reason for the vigor of neutralism is that it encourages the illusion that we can escape from moral responsibility for our beliefs and decisions. “I am innocent of this man’s blood; it is your responsibility”—in these words Pilate implied that one can authorize a wrong without taking sides. “I am neither for nor against abortion; I’m for choice”—this statement is based on the same view of responsibility as Pilate’s. Indeed in trying to evade our choices we set ourselves not only against the laws of conscience but also against the laws of logic, for between two meaningful propositions X and not-X there is no middle ground; if one is true, the other is false. Even the pagans knew that.

What then is the truth about tolerance? The meaning of this virtue is not tolerating per se, but tolerating what ought to be tolerated. Practicing it means putting up with just those bad things that, for the sake of some greater good, we ought to put up with. We aren’t practicing the virtue when we fail to put up with bad things that we ought to put up with, such as the expression of false opinions in debate; nor are we practicing it when we do put up with bad things that we ought not to put up with, such as rape. But making such distinctions requires knowing the truth about goods, bads, and greater goods. There is nothing neutral about that. It requires that we avoid not strong convictions, but false convictions; it requires not refusing to act, but acting. As Abraham Kuyper, J. B. Phillips, and C. S. Lewis have said in nearly identical words, “There is no neutral ground in the universe. Every square inch is claimed by God and counterclaimed by Satan.”

The eighth moral error of political liberalism is collectivism. According to this notion the state is more important to the child than the family; according to Christianity the family is more important to the child than the state. To be sure, collectivists do not usually put their point so bluntly. A good example of hypocrisy and circumlocution is found in a court case from 1980.

In that year, the Supreme Court of the state of Washington ruled that lower courts had been right in granting fifteen-year-old Sheila Sumey’s request to be taken from the Sumey home and placed in another that was more to her liking. The Sumeys were not unfit, and Sheila had not been mistreated; these points were not even at issue. Under the 1977 statute, all Sheila had to do was say that she was in “conflict” with her parents, and go on saying it after state-imposed counseling had run its course. Her “conflict” was that she disagreed with her parents’ rules that she stay away from drugs and dealers, abstain from sex and alcohol, and be home every night at a reasonable hour. Mr. and Mrs. Sumey called the statute unconstitutional. The court, however, defended it as a “means for providing social services to the family and nurturing the parent-child bond.” The intrusion on parental rights was “minor,” it declared, because Sheila would have to petition every six months if she wanted to stay away from her parents for the rest of her minority. Although “the family structure is a fundamental institution” and “parental prerogatives are entitled to considerable legal deference,” these prerogatives must yield to “fundamental rights of the child or important interests of the State.”

Before collectivism, our family law was based on a philosophy that ran something like this. Growing up takes time, and until the process reaches its end children are not fully capable of deciding what is best for them. Moreover, the family is a more fundamental institution than the state, based on a closer harmony of interests among its members. From these premises we may conclude that in normal families, during the period while children are growing up, their parents may be trusted to act in their best interests. It follows that the state should not intervene except on evidence that the parents are acting abusively. In other words it should confine itself to the restraint of wickedness rather than trying to absorb the functions of the family.

The regnant political class is increasingly unhappy with this approach to growing up. Implicit in the position of the Washington court is the thought that of the two human institutions, family and state, the state is the more fundamental, and that normal families are characterized by conflict rather than harmony of interests between parents and children. From these premises the court concludes that parents should not be trusted to act in their children’s best interests, and that therefore the state may intervene even when there is no evidence that parents are acting abusively.

Collectivism hides in a forest of reassuring bromides. “It takes a whole village to raise a child,” the secular intone; “Every child is my child,” the pious drowsily respond. Of all these deceptions the language of “children’s rights” is the most brilliant—and also the most daring, for in no imaginable world would children be competent to exercise their “rights” themselves. The primary decision maker in the life of a child must always be, and always is, someone else: if not parents, then the state. So, although most rights limit the reach of the government, so-called children’s rights increase it. They do nothing to empower children; they only empower mandarins.

I am reminded of an election-year scuffle between a father, who was also a candidate, and a social service functionary. “No government bureaucrat could love my children as I do,” the father said. “That’s not true,” protested the functionary, “I love them just as much.” “What are their names?” asked the father.

People do wrong, and I have to do something. People are unhappy, and I have to do something. People are foolish, and I have to do something. I will absolve them. I will give them things. I will take their children. At last we come to the ninth and most mysterious moral error of political liberalism: the fallacy of desperate gestures. Though it mixes with all the others, it is different from each of them, different even from perfectionism, with which it is often confused. The perfectionist acts, at least in the beginning, from a desire to relieve someone else’s pain. The desperationist acts to relieve his own: the pain of pity, the pain of impotence, the pain of indignation. He is like a man who beats on a foggy television screen with a pipe wrench, not because the wrench will fix the picture but because it is handy and feels good to use.

Not long ago I sat up late listening to two friends debate. The first maintained that federal antipoverty policies were an engine of misery, which had bought off the poor with checks and coupons while undermining their families and fossilizing them in permanent dependence on the government. For a while the second denied the charge, but his denials were half-hearted and at last he conceded it. Whether the state is really doing more harm than good is not my present point; perhaps he should have held his ground. But the interesting thing is what happened next.

Having admitted that the federal antipoverty policies were doing harm, he defended them anyway. “What do you propose doing instead?” he demanded. “Nothing?” My other friend replied that he meant no such thing, and spoke of what people could do individually and through the churches. Friend one was contemptuous. “Government is unique,” he said. “You cannot convince me that mere charity can take its place.” “I don’t want it to,” said friend two. “We’ve already agreed that government hurts instead of helping. Besides, I’m not trying to end poverty. I don’t know how. I’m just trying to help where I can reach.” Friend one was unmoved. “We have to do something,” he said, and so he went on repeating.

The two friends were at cross-purposes. The rule of the first was “Do no harm, and help where possible”; of the second, “Better to harm magnificently in the name of help, than to help but a little.” Not that he would have put it that way. He was medicating his pity with symbols, and the power of the drug depends on self-deception.

Here lies the power of political liberalism: Its moral errors are fortified with opiates. We may think that reality will break through the dream by itself, but reality is not self-interpreting; the causes by which errors are eventually dissipated and replaced by other errors are hidden in God’s Providence. All we can do is keep up the critique which is in the gospel, and in the meantime go on being Christians: our eyes lifted up not to the spectacular idol of political salvation, but to the Cross. Let those who will call this doing nothing; we know better.

J. Budziszewski is Professor in the Departments of Government and Philosophy at the University of Texas at Austin. This article was published in First Things Magazine Copyright (c) 1996 First Things 62 (April 1996): 38-44. (The article is reprinted by permission of the author) Please see our Bibliography page for a list of the author’s books

Appeals to religious authority have their place. That place is plainly not, however, in philosophical debates, including philosophical debates about public policy.

Do such appeals have a legitimate place in political advocacy? I think they do, but at the same time, I have some sympathy with Professor John Rawls's proposition that such appeals are legitimate only where they are offered to buttress and motivate people to act on positions that are defensible without such appeals. Like Rawls, I believe that public policy should be based on "public reasons." And while I believe that Rawls's own particular conception of what qualifies as a "public reason" is unreasonably narrow--its narrowness in effect stacking the deck in favor of legal abortion, "same-sex marriage," and other positions held by liberals in contemporary debates over morally charged issues of public policy--the idea that public policy ought to be based on public reasons strikes me as, well, reasonable.

(For a fuller development of my critique of Rawls's position, see Robert P. George, "Public Reason and Political Conflict: Abortion and Homosexuality," Yale Law Journal, Vol. 106 (1997), pp. 2475-2504. This article also develops much of the scientific material, which I will discuss subsequently herein.)

It is not, however, unproblematic. Anyone who believes that God has revealed that the public policy of a certain polity must be settled in a certain way has, so far as he can tell, an absolute, indefeasible reason for supporting that way of settling public policy irrespective of whether there are any grounds apart from revelation for the policy. My scruples, or Rawls's, would--and should--simply cut no ice for a person in this position. And if I happen to be the person in that position, or if Rawls happens to be that person, then I, or he, would be irrational in declining to lay aside our scruples. I suppose that when push comes to shove, those of us who hold these scruples believe that it just isn't the case that God sometimes reveals that public policy ought to be settled in a certain way irrespective of whether there are any grounds apart from revelation for settling policy in this way. Such people either don't believe in God, or (and this is my view) don't believe that God operates this way (at least we don't believe that He operates this way anymore). It seems to me, then, that our differences with those who don't hold these scruples implicate in this way certain theological judgments.

People who do not hold these scruples may believe either that God (at least sometimes) has no reason for the public policies He commands or (at least sometimes) has no reason He chooses to make available to human understanding. As they see it, God's reasons, if He has any, are (at least sometimes) opaque to us. "Ours is not to question why, ours is but to do or die."

But of course, this understanding of how God operates is one possible theological understanding among others. Many, perhaps most, serious religious believers in our society have a different understanding. To be sure, they believe--we believe--that God is a God of justice, who cares what the public policy of our society is on morally significant questions--e.g., abortion, euthanasia, and marriage and sexuality, not to mention capital punishment, civil and human rights, military policy, economic justice, etc. And a great many believers, though not all, believe, as I do, that God wills that the unborn, handicapped, and frail elderly be protected by law, and that the institution of marriage as a permanent and exclusive union of one man and one woman be preserved against what we believe are the corrupting influences of sexual immorality.

But we also believe not only that there are reasons (apart from revelation) for these policy positions, but also that these reasons are (or, at least, are among) God's reasons for willing what He wills. Indeed, it is our view that often the identification of these reasons by philosophical inquiry and analysis, supplemented sometimes by knowledge derived from the natural and/or social sciences, is critical to an accurate understanding of the content of revelation in, say, the Bible or Jewish or Christian tradition.

Perhaps the best example is in the area of marriage and sexual morality. Philosophical inquiry is indispensable to the project of fully understanding the meaning and implications of the proposition revealed in chapter two of Genesis and in the Gospels that marriage is a "one-flesh union" of a man and a woman. (See Germain Grisez, The Way of the Lord Jesus: Volume Two: Living a Christian Life (Quincy, Ill.: Franciscan Press, 1992), ch. 9.)

Another example is that of abortion, where both philosophical analysis and knowledge obtainable only by scientific inquiry were essential to settling, and continue to be essential to understanding, the precise content of the authoritative teaching of the magisterium of the Catholic Church declaring direct abortion to be intrinsically immoral and a violation of human rights. (See John Connery, S.J., Abortion: The Development of the Roman Catholic Perspective (Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1997).)

In short, many religious people--most informed Catholics and many Protestants and observant Jews--understand reason not only as a truth-attaining power, but as a power by and through which God directs us as individuals and communities in the way of just and upright living. In his formal account of natural law as a participation in what he called the "eternal law," Aquinas says that although God directs brute animals to their proper ends by instinct, God directs man--made in God's image and likeness and thus possessing reason and freedom--to his proper ends by practical reason through which men grasp the intelligible point of certain possible actions for the sake of ends (goods, values, purposes) which, qua intelligible, provide reasons for choice and action. (See St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 91, a. 2.)

Where these reasons have their intelligibility not, or not merely, by virtue of their utility in enabling us to realize our other valuable or desirable ends, but also by virtue of their intrinsic value and choice-worthiness, they constitute the referents of the most fundamental principles of practical reason and precepts of natural law. (For a fuller explanation, see Robert P. George, "Recent Criticism of Natural Law Theory," University of Chicago Law Review, Vol. 55 (1988), pp.1371-1429.) Aquinas gives an expressly non-exhaustive list of examples: human life itself, marriage and the transmission of life to new human beings, and knowledge, particularly of religious truth. (See St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I-II, q. 94., a. 2. For an effort by contemporary natural law thinkers to provide a more complete account, see Joseph M. Boyle, Jr., Germain Grisez, and John Finnis, "Practical Principles, Moral Truth, and Ultimate Ends," American Journal of Jurisprudence, Vol. 32 (1987), pp. 99-151.) The integral directiveness of these principles, when specified, constitutes the body of moral norms available to guide human choosing reasonably, viz., in conformity with a good will--a will toward integral human fulfillment. (For a fuller explanation, see Robert P. George, "Natural Law Ethics" in Philip L. Quinn and Charles Taliaferro, eds., A Companion to Philosophy of Religion (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997), pp. 460-465.)

In his contributions to the February 1996 issue of First Things magazine--contributions in which what he has to say (particularly in his critique of liberalism) is far more often right than wrong--Professor Stanley Fish of Duke University cites the dispute over abortion as an example of a case in which "incompatible first assumptions--articles of opposing faiths" make the resolution of the dispute (other than by sheer political power) impossible. Here is how Professor Fish presented the pro-life and pro-choice positions and the shape of the dispute between their respective defenders:

A pro-life advocate sees abortion as a sin against God who infuses life at the moment of conception; a pro-choice advocate sees abortion as a decision to be made in accordance with the best scientific opinion as to when the beginning of life, as we know it, occurs. No conversation between them can ever get started because each of them starts from a different place and they could never agree as to what they were conversing about. A pro-lifer starts from a belief in the direct agency of a personal God and this belief, this religious conviction, is not incidental to his position; it is his position, and determines its features in all their detail. The "content of a belief" is a function of its source, and the critiques of one will always be the critique of the other.

It is certainly true that the overwhelming majority of pro-life Americans are religious believers and that a great many pro-choice Americans are either unbelievers or less observant or less traditional in their beliefs and practice than their fellow citizens. Indeed, although most Americans believe in God, polling data consistently show that Protestants, Catholics, and Jews who do not regularly attend church or synagogue are less likely than their more observant coreligionists to oppose abortion. (See James Davison Hunter, Before the Shooting Begins: Searching for Democracy in America's Culture War (New York: Free Press, 1994), pp. 104-105.) And religion is plainly salient politically when it comes to the issue of abortion. The more secularized a community, the more likely that community is to elect pro-choice politicians to legislative and executive offices.

Still, I don't think that Professor Fish's presentation of the pro-life and pro-choice positions, or of the shape of the dispute over abortion, is accurate. True, inasmuch as most pro-life advocates are traditional religious believers who, as such, see gravely unjust or otherwise immoral acts as sins--and understand sins precisely as offenses against God--"a pro-life advocate sees abortion as a sin against God." But most pro-life advocates see abortion as a sin against God precisely because it is the unjust taking of innocent human life. That is their reason for opposing abortion; and that is God's reason, as they see it, for opposing abortion and requiring that human communities protect their unborn members against it. And, they believe, as I do, that this reason can be identified and acted on even independently of God's revealing it. Indeed, they typically believe, as I do, that the precise content of what God reveals on the subject ("in thy mother's womb I formed thee") cannot be known without the application of human intelligence, by way of philosophical and scientific inquiry, to the question.

Professor Fish is mistaken, then, in contrasting the pro-life advocate with the pro-choice advocate by depicting (only) the latter as viewing abortion as "a decision to be made in accordance with the best scientific opinion as to when the beginning of life . . . occurs." First of all, supporters of the pro-choice position are increasingly willing to sanction the practice of abortion even where they concede that it constitutes the taking of innocent human life. Pro-choice writers from Naomi Wolfe ("Our Bodies, Our Souls," The New Republic (1995), reprinted with commentaries by pro-life writers in The Human Life Review (Winter, 1996)) to Judith Jarvis Thomson ("A Defense of Abortion," in Marshall Cohen (ed.), The Rights and Wrongs of Abortion (Princeton University Press, 1974)) have advanced theories of abortion as "justifiable homicide." But, more to the point, people on the pro-life side insist that the central issue in the debate is the question "as to when the beginning of life occurs." And they insist with equal vigor that this question is not a "religious" or even "metaphysical" one: it is rather, as Professor Fish says, "scientific."

In response to this insistence, it is pro-choice advocates who typically want to transform the question into a "metaphysical" or "religious" one. It was Justice Harry Blackmun who claimed in his opinion for the Court legalizing abortion in Roe v. Wade (1973) that "at this point in man's knowledge" the scientific evidence was inconclusive and therefore could not determine the outcome of the case. And twenty years later, the influential pro-choice writer Ronald Dworkin went on record claiming that the question of abortion is inherently "religious." (See Ronald Dworkin, Life's Dominion (Alfred A. Knopf, 1993).) It is pro-choice advocates, such as Dworkin, who want to distinguish between when a human being comes into existence "in the biological sense" and when a human being comes into existence "in the moral sense." It is they who want to distinguish a class of human beings "with rights" from pre-(or post-) conscious human beings who "don't have rights." And the reason for this, I submit, is that, short of defending abortion as "justifiable homicide," the pro-choice position collapses if the issue is to be settled purely on the basis of scientific inquiry into the question of when a new member of homo sapiens sapiens comes into existence as a self-integrating organism whose unity, distinctiveness, and identity remain intact as it develops without substantial change from the point of its beginning through the various stages of its development and into adulthood. (I explain this point more fully below. Also see Patrick Lee, Abortion and Unborn Human Life (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, I995) and Dianne Nutwell Irving, "Scientific and Philosophical Expertise: An Evaluation of the Arguments on 'Personhood'," Linacre Quarterly, Vol. 60 (1993), pp. 18-46.)

All this was, I believe, made wonderfully clear at a debate at last year's meeting of the American Political Science Association between Jeffrey Reiman of American University, defending the pro-choice position, and John Finnis of Oxford and Notre Dame, defending the pro-life view. That debate was remarkable for the skill, intellectual honesty, and candor of the interlocutors. What is most relevant to our deliberations, however, is the fact that it truly was a debate. Reiman and Finnis did not talk past each other. They did not proceed from "incompatible first assumptions." They did manage to agree as to what they were talking about--and it was not about whether or when life was infused by God. It was precisely about the rational (i.e., scientific and philosophical) grounds, if any, available for distinguishing a class of human beings "in the moral sense" (with rights) from a class of human beings "in the (merely) biological sense" (without rights). Finnis did not claim any special revelation to the effect that no such grounds existed. Nor did Reiman claim that Finnis's arguments against his view appealed implicitly (and illicitly) to some such putative revelation. Although Finnis is a Christian and, as such, believes that the new human life that begins at conception is in each and every case created by God in His image and likeness, his argument never invoked, much less did it "start from a belief in the direct agency of a personal God." It proceeded, rather, by way of post-by-point philosophical challenge to Reiman's philosophical arguments. Finnis marshaled the scientific facts of embryogenesis and intrauterine human development and defied Reiman to identify grounds, compatible with those facts, for denying a right to life to human beings in the embryonic and fetal stages of development. (Finnis's paper, "Abortion, Natural Law, and Public Reason," and Roman's paper, "Abortion, Natural Law, and Liberal Discourse," have been published in Robert P. George and Christopher Wolfe (eds.), Natural Law and Public Reason (Georgetown University Press, 2000).)

Interestingly, Reiman began his remarks with a statement that would seem to support what Professor Fish said in First Things. While allowing that debates over abortion were useful in clarifying people's thinking about the issue, Reiman remarked that they "never actually cause people to change their minds." It is true, I suppose, that people who are deeply committed emotionally to one side or the other are unlikely to have a road-to-Damascus type conversion after listening to a formal philosophical debate. Still, any open-minded person who sincerely wishes to settle his mind on the question of abortion--and there continue to be many such people, I believe--would find debates such as the one between Reiman and Finnis to be extremely helpful toward that end. Anyone willing to consider the reasons for and against abortion and its legal prohibition or permission would benefit from reading or hearing the accounts of these reasons proposed by capable and honest thinkers on both sides. Of course, when it comes to an issue like abortion, people can have powerful motives for clinging to a particular position even if they are presented with conclusive reasons for changing their minds. But that doesn't mean that such reasons do not exist. And the reason the pro-life position is superior to the pro-choice position is precisely because the scientific evidence, considered honestly and dispassionately, supports that position.*

A human being is conceived when a human sperm containing twenty-three chromosomes fuses with a human egg also containing twenty-three chromosomes (albeit of a different kind) producing a single-cell human zygote containing, in the normal case, forty-six chromosomes that are mixed differently from the forty-six chromosomes as found in the mother or father. Unlike the gametes (that is, the sperm and egg), the zygote is generically unique and distinct from its parents. Biologically, it is a separate organism. It produces, as the gametes do not, specifically human enzymes and proteins. It possesses, as they do not, the active capacity or potency to develop itself into a human embryo, fetus, infant, child, adolescent, and adult.

Assuming that it is not conceived in vitro, the zygote is, of course, in a state of dependence on its mother. But independence should not be confused with distinctness. From the beginning, the newly conceived human being, not its mother, directs its integral organic functioning. It takes in nourishment and converts it to energy. Given an hospitable environment, it will, as Dianne Nutwell Irving says, "develop continuously without any biological interruptions, or gaps, throughout the embryonic, fetal, neo-natal, childhood, and adulthood stages--until the death of the organism."

Some claim to find the logical implication of these facts--i.e., that life begins at conception--to be "virtually unintelligible." A leading exponent of that point of view in the legal academy is Jed Rubenfeld of Yale Law School, author of an influential article entitled "On the Legal Status of the Proposition that 'Life Begins at Conception,' " 43 Stanford Law Review 599 (1991). Rubenfeld argues that, like the zygote, every cell in the human body is "genetically complete"; yet nobody supposes that every human cell is a distinct human being with a right to life. However, Rubenfeld misses the point that there comes into being at conception, not a mere clump of human cells but a distinct, unified, self-integrating organism, which develops itself, truly himself or herself, in accord with its own genetic "blueprint." The significance of genetic completeness for the status of newly conceived human beings is that no outside generic material is required to enable the zygote to mature into an embryo, the embryo into a fetus, the fetus into an infant, the infant into a child, the child into an adolescent, the adolescent into an adult. What the zygote needs to function as a distinct self-integrating human organism, a human being, it already possesses.

At no point in embryogenesis, therefore, does the distinct organism that came into being when it was conceived undergo what is technically called "substantial change" (or a change of natures). It is human and will remain human. This is the point of Justice Bryon White's remark in his dissenting opinion in Thornburgh v. American College of Obstetricians & Gynecologists, 476 U.S. 747 (1986), that "there is no non-arbitrary line separating a fetus from a child." Rubenfeld attacks White's point, which he calls "[t]he argument based on the gradualness of gestation," by pointing out that, "[n]o non-arbitrary line separates the hues of green and red. Shall we conclude that green is red?"

White's point, however, was not that fetal development is "gradual," but that it is continuous and is the (continuous) development of a single lasting (fully human) being. The human zygote that actively develops itself is, as I have pointed out, a genetically complete organism directing its own integral organic functioning. As it matures, in utero and ex utero, it does not "become" a human being, for it is a human being already, albeit an immature human being, just as a newborn infant is an immature human being who will undergo quite dramatic growth and development over time.**

These considerations undermine the familiar argument, recited by Rubenfeld, that "the potential" of an unfertilized ovum to develop into a whole human being does not make it into "a person." The fact is, though, that an ovum is not a whole human being. It is, rather, a part of another human being (the woman whose ovum it is) with merely the potential to give rise to, in interaction with a part of yet another human being (a man's sperm cell), a new and whole human being. Unlike the zygote, it lacks both genetic distinctness and completeness, as well as the active capacity to develop itself into an adult member of the human species. It is living human cellular material, but left to itself, it will never become a human being, however hospitable its environment may be. It will "die" as a human ovum, just as countless skin cells "die" daily as nothing more than skin cells. If successfully fertilized by a human sperm, which, like the ovum (but dramatically unlike the zygote), lacks the active potential to develop into an adult member of the human species, then substantial change (that is, a change of natures) will occur. There will no longer be merely an egg, which was part of the mother, sharing her genetic composition, and a sperm, which was part of the father, sharing his genetic composition; instead, there will be a genetically complete, distinct, unified, self-integrating human organism whose nature differs from that of the gametes--not mere human material but a human being.

These considerations also make clear that it is incorrect to argue (as some pro-choice advocates have argued) that, just as "I" was never a week-old sperm or ovum, "I" was likewise never a week-old embryo. It truly makes no sense to say that "I" was once a sperm (or an unfertilized egg) that matured into an adult. Conception was the occasion of substantial change (that is, change from one complete individual entity to another) that brought into being a distinct self-integrating organism with a specifically human nature. By contrast, it makes every bit as much sense to say that I was once a week-old embryo as to say that I was once a week-old infant or a ten-year-old child. It was the new organism created at conception that, without itself undergoing any change of substance, matured into a week-old embryo, a fetus, an infant, a child, an adolescent, and, finally, an adult.

But Rubenfeld has another argument: "Cloning processes give to non-zygotic cells the potential for development into distinct, self-integrating human beings; thus to recognize the zygote as a human being is to recognize all human cells as human beings, which is absurd."

It is true that a distinct, self-integrating human organism which came into being by a process of cloning would be, like a human organism that comes into being as a mono-zygotic twin, a human being. That being, no less than human beings conceived by the union of sperm and egg, would possess a human nature and the active potential to mature as a human being. However, even assuming the possibility of cloning human beings from non-zygotic human cells, the non-zygotic cell must be activated by a process which effects substantial change and not mere development or maturation. Left to itself apart from an activation process capable of effecting a change of substance or natures, the cell will mature and die as a human cell, not as a human being.

The scientific evidence establishes the fact that each of us was, from conception, a human being. Science, not religion, vindicates this crucial premise of the pro-life claim. From it, there is no avoiding the conclusion that deliberate feticide is a form of homicide. The only real questions remaining are moral and political, not scientific. Although I will not go into the matter here, I do not see how abortion can ever be considered a matter of "justified homicide." (The efforts of Judith Jarvis Thomson and other philosophers to defend abortion as "justified homicide" are very ably criticized by Patrick Lee in Abortion and Unborn Human Life.) It is important to recognize, however, as traditional moralists always have recognized, that not all procedures which foreseeably result in fetal death are, properly speaking, abortions. Although any procedure whose precise objective is the destruction of fetal life is certainly an abortion, and cannot be justified, some procedures result in fetal death as an unintended, albeit foreseen and accepted, side effect. Where procedures of the latter sort are done for very grave reasons, they may be justifiable. (See John Finnis, "Abortion and Health Care Ethics II," in Raanan Gillon and Ann Lloyd (eds.), Principles of Health Care Ethics, 1994, pp. 547-557.) For example, traditional morality recognizes that a surgical operation to remove a life-threateningly cancerous uterus, even in a woman whose pregnancy is not far enough along to enable the child to be removed from her womb and sustained by a life support system, is ordinarily morally permissible. (See Germain Grisez, The Way of the Lord Jesus: Vol. II: Living a Christian Life, p. 502.) Of course, there are in this area of moral reflection, as in others, "borderline" cases that are difficult to classify and evaluate. Mercifully, modern medical technology has made such cases exceptionally rare in real life. Only in the most extraordinary circumstances today do women and their families and physicians find it necessary to consider a procedure which will result in fetal death as the only way of preserving maternal life. In any event, the political debate about abortion is not, in reality, about cases of this sort; it is about "elective" or "social indication" abortions, viz., the deliberate destruction of unborn human life for non-therapeutic reasons.

A final point: In my own experience, conversion from the pro-choice to the pro-life cause is often (though certainly not always) a partial cause of religious conversion rather than an effect. Frequently, people who are not religious, or who are only weakly so, begin to have doubts about the moral defensibility of deliberate feticide. Although most of their friends are pro-choice, they find that potion increasingly difficult to defend or live with. They perceive practical inconsistencies in their, and their friends', attitudes toward the unborn depending on whether the child is "wanted" or not. Perhaps they find themselves arrested by sonographic (or other even more sophisticated) images of the child's life in the womb. So the doubts begin creeping in. For the first time, they are really prepared to listen to the pro-life argument (often despite their negative attitude toward people--or "the kind of people"--who are pro-life); and somehow, it sounds more compelling than it did before. Gradually, as they become firmly pro-life, they find themselves questioning the whole philosophy of life--in a word, the secularism--associated with their former view. They begin to understand the reasons that led them out of the pro-choice and into the pro-life camp as God's reasons, too.

Notes

* The following nine paragraphs are reprinted with minor revisions, from my Yale Law Journal article "Public Reason and Political Conflict: Abortion and Homosexuality."

** Once one recognizes that the scientific evidence establishes that the fetus, no less than the newborn, is a human being, one must logically treat the two the same in assessing the question of their rights and our duties towards them. And so Peter Singer, a leading advocate of abortion and a recent appointee to a distinguished professorial chair of bio-ethics in my own university, argues that infanticide is sometimes morally justifiable and ought, up to a certain point, to be legally permissible. While Singer's views have caused outrage and made his appointment at Princeton controversial, the truth is that he is merely following the logic of a pro-choice position in light of an honest assessment of the scientific facts. He recognizes that "birth" is an arbitrary dividing line when it comes to the humanity and rights of human beings in the early stages of their development. Hence, if abortion is morally justifiable, so is infanticide. Of course, I believe that Singer is tragically wrong in supposing that abortion and infanticide are morally justifiable; but he is right in claiming that either both of these practices are justifiable, or neither can be justified.

Robert P. George is McCormick Professor of Jurisprudence and Director of the James Madison Program in American Ideals and Institutions at Princeton University. He is a member of the President's Council on Bioethics and previously served on the United States Commission on Civil Rights. His article is reprinted with his permission.  Please see our Bibliography page for a list of the author’s books.

Lynn Garrott

History Department

Evangelical Christian School

Memphis, TN

            What comes to mind when you think of the year 1776?  Do you think of the founding of the United States with the signing of the Declaration of Independence?  If so, do the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of fourth of July celebrations take center stage in your mind’s eye:  picnics on tablecloths spread on the ground; flags of all sizes waving proudly along city streets; bands playing Sousa marches and other patriotic songs, culminating in our musical prayer, “God Bless America”; then, as night falls, the sights and sounds of fireworks exploding across a free sky before fading into an almost reverential silence?  Quiet contemplation might settle over us as we mentally replay the events of the day, but according to David McCullough, our meditation would be better spent reflecting on the true story of 1776 - a story that gives even greater cause for contemplation and celebration.

 The celebrated Declaration, while long in debate and preparation, took only two weeks to draft. Independence, however, was much more difficult to attain; it took eight long years, replete with bloodshed and deprivations of every kind, to become reality. In 1776, David McCullough systematically jars the American mind to the reality of that pivotal year, the darkest ever faced by the United States and the year that very nearly reduced the Declaration to an incriminating and embarrassing sheet of worthless paper.   McCullough the historian moves chronologically through the struggles of 1776; McCullough the biographer focuses on George Washington and his closest advisors to relate the strength of character required to persevere through 1776.

In the spring and summer of 1775, the American colonists and British regulars fought at Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill.  The ragtag Continental army was

holding the world-class British forces under siege in Boston.  A composed, yet irate, King George III spoke to Parliament in October 1775, revealing plans for forcing the impertinent, rebelling colonists to submit to the Crown.   With a strong military history, a well-trained and well-equipped army, and the largest navy in the world, England seemed assured of victory.  The American militias, though temporarily enjoying a measure of success, seemed doomed to ultimate failure.

 The Second Continental Congress, meeting in Philadelphia, appointed Virginian George Washington commander-in-chief of the army.  When the tall, stately Washington

rode into the militia camps around Boston, he was distressed by the filth and lack of discipline he observed.  The condition of the army was so poor that Washington despaired of having taken the position as its leader.  Illness was epidemic in the camp, and drunkenness was common.  An inventory of supplies showed a severe shortage of gunpowder, with approximately nine rounds of ammunition per soldier. Washington was so stunned by the information that he was said not to have spoken for half an hour after hearing it.

However, one of Washington’s strengths was dealing with matters as they were and not as he wished them to be. He said, “Perseverance and spirit have done wonders in all ages.” He set about the business of turning an ever-changing array of independent individuals into an army formidable enough to drive Great Britain from the colonies.

After the Declaration of Independence was published and the American rebellion became a full-scale revolution, he understood the increased importance of his appointed task.  Washington stated, “The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage and conduct of this army.”

As David McCullough unfolds the days and events that follow, George Washington, Nathanael Greene, Henry Knox, John Glover, and other Patriot officers and regular soldiers become increasingly human.  The value of the character of each individual multiplies exponentially as conditions become increasingly desperate, and discouragement persists unabated.  Men of lesser fortitude might have surrendered the dream of independence, and few would have judged them for it. These men, leaders and followers, lived the words of Thomas Paine in his 1776 The American Crisis, “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Though they were tried, they persevered.

Though 1776 is non-fiction, it reads much like a work of historical fiction.  How did David McCullough manage to fashion words of a factual nature into a narrative that allows the reader to share in the hardships, fears, joys, and sorrows of the characters?  While much of the success of the book can be attributed to the honed talent of Mr. McCullough, acknowledgement of the hard work that went into research cannot be omitted.  According to the bibliography, the material for 1776 came in large part from primary sources, including letters of George Washington, Nathanael Greene, Henry Knox, and Joseph Reed; diaries and memoirs of individual soldiers; and newspaper articles of the time.  The author organized, summarized, and quoted from the primary sources, layering them artistically as though he were painting a word picture.  He traveled the paths the men followed, visited their homes where possible, read the books and plays with which they were familiar, and studied the paintings of the period. The extensive bibliography includes three books of the history of the Revolution written in the 18^th century.  David McCullough immersed himself in the lives, events, literature, and surroundings of 1776.  The people of the Revolution became real to him; thus he makes them real to his readers.

As I teach my students the history of America, I use information learned from 1776 and read excerpts from the book to them.  McCullough’s descriptions of the crossing of the Delaware and the Battle of Trenton are so realistic that I find myself reading faster and faster as the Patriots finally reach and attack the unprepared Hessians.  The crucial timing of the Patriot victory, won by underfed, often shoeless soldiers in blizzard conditions, cannot be overstated. Planned and executed by a desperate George Washington in the closing days of 1776, it was a miraculous turning point in the war.    Because the surprise battle was won, the war continued. Because it continued, it was ultimately won. Sometimes I wish my students and I could study the battle coatless and barefoot on a cold, windy day!  I think our appreciation of the liberty we possess and those who won it for us would increase dramatically.

The United States Constitution

The Bill of Rights

The Federalist Papers

In Defense of the Constitution, George W. Carey

Constitutionalism: Ancient and Modern, Charles Howard MacIlwain

The American Democrat, James Fenimore Cooper

In Defense of Freedom, Frank S. Meyer

Discourses Concerning Government, Algernon Sidney

The Ethics of Redistribution, Bertrand de Jouvenel

Socialism, Ludwig von Mises

The Road to Serfdom, Friedrich Hayek

The Constitution of Liberty, Friedrich Hayek

The Vision of the Anointed, Thomas Sowell

Books by J. Budziszewski:

Evangelicals in the Public Square

The Revenge of Conscious: Politics and the Fall of Man

What We Can’t Not Know: A Guide

Written on the Heart: The Case for Natural Law

Books by Robert P. George:

In Defense of Natural Law, Making Men Moral: Civil Liberties and Public Morality

The Clash of Orthodoxies: Law, Religion and Morality in Crisis

History Dept. Chair

Evangelical Christian School
Memphis, TN

     As the United States ventures further into the twenty-first century, many Americans are concluding that our culture is at a crossroads.  One area in which this can readily be seen is in the scope of American government and politics.  This year our history department began reading a book that explores this very issue.  Noted historian John Lukacs, usually acknowledged for his expertise on Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler, tackles the issue of the changing shape of our political philosophy in his 2005 work, Democracy and Populism: Fear and Hatred. It is written in a manner that can be difficult to comprehend at times, but the greater points the author makes are noteworthy.  Lukacs’ historical acumen makes his argument very compelling.

     Lukacs views Alexis de Tocqueville as being particularly visionary.  In his work, Democracy in America, Tocqueville looks upon America glowingly.  The possibilities for America were great.

Americans tend to like the praise heaped upon us, but often Toqueville’s second volume is ignored as he offers warnings of a democratic system left unchecked. This is the crux of Lukacs’ argument.

He grapples over ideas such as the value of universal suffrage. His point is that granting suffrage to all has allowed our system to become more of a direct democracy rather than a representative one, as our founding fathers intended.  Whether one agrees with this presumption or not, it does provide great fodder for debate.

     From this premise of majority rule comes the philosophy of populism.  The author indicates that this is what the United States has become.  In other words, what the people want the people get.  If so, how do we know what we want?  We are directed by those who hold positions of power.  Sentiment has replaced opinion.  Propaganda and entertainment have replaced knowledge.  Politicians use the tactics of Madison Avenue to sell their agendas to the people, knowing that if the majority of the people accept their ideas, they will be successful in fulfilling their agendas.

      Lukacs proposed that our leaders have used the element of fear to bring about the control they seek. This is best evidenced in the fear of communism rife during the Cold War.  In hindsight, Soviet capabilities during this time were somewhat overestimated, but the government continued to play up those possibilities in an effort to foment support.  Lukacs follows this line of thought by saying that fear has turned into hatred.  In his view, this hatred is not necessarily directed at another nation, but more so at other Americans.  For instance, conservatives hate liberals.  It is a form of misdirected nationalism that cements support for the conservatives in power.  Liberals are cast as unpatriotic if they oppose a war, or some other conservative cause.  Whether one agrees with the author’s line of thinking or not, it should at least give us cause for reflection.  What have we become?

     The need to reflect on our national attitude is especially true for those holding a Christian worldview.  The Christian needs to be discerning about the information that is being disseminated.  What is the agenda of those who are giving the information?  Often the facts are distorted in an effort to gather support from a group that is vital for their re-election.  If anything, Democracy and Populism should be viewed as a call to think rather than to simply respond like lemmings and continue to follow the mantra of the day.

Going against this tide is the subject of this essay which is on the radical antithesis that, in principle, ought to exist between the Christian and the non-Christian regarding their views of reality and, science, in particular.  The essay does not claim an antithesis regarding the skill in which science is practiced between the Christian and non-Christian – I know many skilled on both sides.  The thesis of the essay is that, in so far as each side is consistent with their fundamental beliefs, there will be an undeniable and unavoidable antithesis.  And the fact that there doesn’t appear to be an antithesis is not itself proof that one doesn’t exist, but that one or both sides are not being consistent with their most fundamental beliefs – their worldviews.  This short essay will not be congruent with what most of us have been taught since grade school and will also not find acceptance in current scientific pedagogy.  Unfortunately, it is also true, that it will not find acceptance in much of modern apologetics and grates very hard against the modern evangelical sentiment of focusing on commonality and building bridges.

In this essay, I’d like to examine in only cursory detail a description of the Christian worldview and how it necessarily brings about an antithesis with all other worldviews.  I will then examine how science is only intelligible from the Christian perspective and how this makes the strongest and most consistent apologetic.  In the summary, I’ll attempt to point toward how to engage the unbeliever and how our ultimate commitment is not to evangelism per se, but to honoring God through our apologetics and our evangelism.  Thus, our apologetic cannot deny the message we are attempting to communicate.

The Christian worldview has at its heart three doctrines – doctrine of God, doctrine of man, and a doctrine of creation.  This is not the whole of the Christian worldview, but those doctrines that have the most to do with the subject of this essay.  The Christian world and life view is that network of beliefs which connects what we believe about God, with what we believe about man, with how can man have knowledge of God and his environment.  Right away this is a very significant statement that is true for all worldviews – one’s epistemology (theory of knowledge) necessarily involves one’s metaphysics (what is the nature of reality: God, man, and the world).  A certain epistemology necessarily involves a certain metaphysics and vice versa.  The answer to the one question: “How can man know?”, necessarily answers the other: “What can man know?”.  Because one’s epistemology and metaphysics are intimately connected, the Christian cannot borrow non-Christian epistemologies without compromising Christian metaphysics.  In other words, we must establish a Christian way of knowing that is self-consciously consistent with the Christian view of God and man.

Space simply will not allow even a terse description of the Christian doctrine of God and doctrine of man.  So, I’m simply going to highlight a few key points.  The first point is that of the Creator-creature distinction.  In Christian theology, God is the Creator and man is the creature.  As creator, God spoke all things into existence by the power of His Word.  All the wonderful unity and diversity that we observe in the natural realm (the celestial bodies and their motions, the seasons, peoples, fauna and flora) were put in place by the creative fiats of God.  God in His absolute sovereign control over nature created just as He wanted.  What a wonderful God we serve, whose beauty and majesty we get a glimpse of through the wonders of creation!  As creator, God is unique and separate from His creation – he transcends His creation.  God’s incommunicable attributes are illustrative: God is infinite, immutable, and self-existent.  God is infinite in His knowledge, power, and presence.  A word of caution here: we must not think of God’s infinity as just a linear extrapolation of man’s finitude.  Holding as we do to God’s transcendence, God’s being is not subject to the constraints of man.  In other words, there is a qualitative difference in God’s being as compared to man, a difference of kind and not of degree.  Figure one illustrates the qualitative Creator-creature distinction and a quantitative differentiation between God and man.  In addition to being transcendent over creation, God deigns to be immanent in creation.  In Exodus 3, God reveals Himself as the transcendent “I AM” and the immanent “the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob”.  God is not only over and above, but He is also reflected in creation.  God’s communicable attributes are illustrative: God is love, jealous, holy, righteous, wise, good, and faithful; this list is not exhaustive.  Man may truly shares in these attributes, but on a creaturely scale.  In addition to the attributes of God, of extreme import to the subject of this essay is the doctrine of the Trinity and the doctrine of Christ because, just like the attributes of God, these doctrines are absolute critical for a Christian epistemology.  In the doctrine of the Trinity, we have God’s self-disclosure as God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.  There is one God in three persons, each person possessing the fullness of God.  Here we have at the core of Christianity a unique reality that God is both unity and diversity.  In addition, the second person of the Trinity, Jesus Christ, became incarnate being fully God and fully man.  Thus, in the one person, indwells two natures.  Jesus is the mediator between God and man as our great brother in the flesh.

I’ve had to be brief.  There is much, much more to be said.  However, all along the way I hope it has been noted that I cannot help but talk about man when discussing God and the opposite will be true below.  A Christian doctrine of God implies a Christian doctrine of man and vice versa, just like a Christian metaphysics will imply a Christian epistemology.

Man, too, is a part of God’s creation – in fact, the highest part, for we alone were created in God’s image.  We are creatures, however, and not the Creator.  This distinction was abundantly clear to the righteous consciousness of Adam in paradise when God gave the multiple positive commands that were exhaustive in scope (exercise dominion, be fruitful and multiply, subdue the earth, and exercise dominion) and the single negative command that was narrow in scope (do not eat of the one tree, the tree of knowledge of good and evil).  Thus, even in paradise, Adam was to exercise faith in God and be self consciously aware of the distinction between him and God when passing that tree that was “in the midst of the garden”; in fact, it was this very distinction that Satan attacked in order to deceive man.  So, in the garden, Adam was to use all his powers (physical, emotional, and intellectual) to learn, develop, and use the hidden potentiality in which he was surrounded.  Adam had no prior experience and there were no books or universities, thus, education was a divinely ordained need.  Notice that God didn’t tell Adam how to develop the potentiality, just to do it.  Adam, therefore, was to learn and experiment, trusting that God put him in a world that could be known.  In addition, God walked in the garden and God knew all about Adam’s environment because He was the creator.  Thus, Adam had God as an absolute authority concerning his surroundings.  So, even in the garden prior to sin, we see the absolute necessity of God’s revelation for man’s knowledge; this necessity is not pragmatic, but metaphysical.  Alas, Adam listened to the serpent!  Adam was deceived into believing a simple quantitative differentiation of metaphysical being instead of the Creator-creature distinction.  When Adam accepted an alternative explanation of reality – one in which he was to act as judge between God and Satan’s interpretations of reality – he denied God’s exclusive interpretation and, therefore, denied God’s being.  Adam may have thought he was simply being neutral – judging between God and Satan’s interpretation, but in reality it was negation.  Neutrality is negation.  Adam attempted to answer an epistemological question (how to know if the tree of the knowledge of good and evil would indeed bring about the wrath of God) apart from the metaphysical Creator-creature distinction that he knew was true.  Perhaps, this is sounding a little familiar?  We, too, share in Adam’s sin.  Adam, as our representative, plunged all of his descendants into the abyss of sin, suffering, and death.  The Bible teaches that we are dead in sin and trespasses; not sick, but dead.  This deadness has affected our whole being, including our intellect.  Now, it is a matter of course to question God’s absolute interpretation of reality and to set ourselves up as judge.  We don’t even think twice about it.  This is not the end of the story, for God, in his great forbearance and mercy, has sent a redeemer of mankind, the Lord Jesus Christ.  Christ came as the second Adam, to do what Adam didn’t by His perfect obedience to the law of God.  Christ lived and died for all His people.  He suffered upon the cross taking our sin and guilt upon Himself and was crucified undergoing God’s just wrath upon our sin.  Christ is risen!  He conquered sin and death and we are healed.  Man can be redeemed and this redemption affects everywhere deadened by sin, i.e., the whole of man.  Thus, the redeemed intellect, through the work of sanctification, goes back to the garden in an attempt to see things as they truly are, as given and controlled by God, making the Creator-creature distinction basic to our thought.  In summary, the Christian doctrine of man involves three parts: creation, fall, and redemption.  In the following, we need to bring the Christian view of life to bear upon science.

The non-Christian also has a comprehensive view of reality and must be challenged to be consistent with this view.  All the varying strands of non-Christian belief (both theistic and antitheistic) will have in common their rejection of the Creator-creature distinction, the Trinity, the deity of Christ, and the creation, fall of man in Adam, and redemption of mankind in Christ, so in this sense they may all be dealt with at one time without drawing a straw man.  All non-Christian systems of belief are not neutral toward the claims of Christianity; they are anti-Christian.  This statement shouldn’t be shocking or seen as an over-reaction; Christian belief is also against the claims of Islam, Hinduism, Atheism, etc.  This is simply dealing with varying thought systems as they are.  Not making the Creator-creature distinction the foundation, the non-Christian worldview will hold in some measure to the autonomy of man.  The god of theistic non-Christian belief may have more experience than man, but he certainly need not be appealed to as the exhaustive source of knowledge.  Man and god find themselves in a common environment to be explained.  In addition, there is no foundational metaphysical unity and diversity in all the forms of non-Christian thought.  Man, being as he is autonomous, is also, therefore, not dead in sins.  Man may be in sin, but all non-Christian beliefs regarding man, will have him in some measure being able to recover by an act of his will.  Of course, antitheistic thought will have man as autonomous and not sinful.  For, if man were dead in sins in the whole of his being (will, intellect, emotions), it would be the height of foolishness to make man’s thoughts the epistemological center.  In addition, there is no gospel where the non-Christian god enters man’s humanity to save mankind from their fall into sin and misery.  Thus, the Christian categories of creation, fall, and redemption as are rejected.  In non-Christian thought we see not only a radically differing view of God, but also of man – these two always go together.

So, what does all this have to do with science?  We’ve seen there is an antithesis concerning the Christian and non-Christian view of God and man, so does this antithesis affect their views of science.  The question is: Is science, in itself, intelligible on the Christian or on the non-Christian basis?  It cannot be intelligible on both, since Christianity claims an absolute God.  On the Christian basis, we have, as previously discussed, an eternal and temporal distinction – the Creator-creature distinction, but God is also immanent in creation.  We’ve seen that God, as Creator, controls all of creation and, as such, is the absolute authority for knowledge.  In addition, God’s knowledge is qualitatively different from man’s knowledge.  Man, as derivative, must experiment, draw implications, make correlations, and seek to relate one observation to others.  God knows because He controls as all things and these reflect His being – His knowledge is self-referential.  We’ve seen that in God there is an eternal unity and diversity as given in the doctrine of the Trinity.  So, when we come to the study of science, what do we find but the study of man into the mysteries of fundamental unities and diversities.  In my own field of chemistry, the whole of the field is concerned with understanding the unity and diversity present in matter.  Consider the periodic table.  Take anything about the table – one element or all elements, it doesn’t matter.  When considering all elements together, scientists find that there is a periodicity to the elements.  Certain elements have very similar properties and can be grouped according to these properties, i.e., unity of properties within a group and diversity of properties of the various groups.  In addition, within these groups we find unities and diversities: unities in properties, number of valance electrons, core charge, etc.; diversities in size, total numbers of protons and electrons, electronegativities, etc.  Take, instead, one element and we find unity in the number of protons and electrons and diversity in the number of neutrons.  In one case, the element is stable; in another case, unstable.  These are but a few examples from chemistry; the whole of creation reflects this theme.  We live in a universe – a place of both a fundamental unity and diversity.  It is the task of science to explore and explain these unities and diversities.

In addition to what is observed, we can also ask, what must be true of the universe for science to even be possible?  Take for example, when performing the same experiment if we continually observed only diversity (say dropping a weight – one time the weight falls, the next it levitates, the next moves horizontally, and so on).  In this case, science would not be possible.  Implicit in performing scientific experimentation, is the assumption that when performing the same experiment the outcome will be the same if the conditions are the same for all times in the future.  This assumption is called the uniformity of nature.  It is a metaphysical assumption about nature and cannot be proven by the use of scientific experimentation, because experimentation itself is predicated upon a uniform natural realm.  So, in order for science to be possible, one must assume that the future will continue to be like the past.  Just like the observations of fundamental unities and diversities, the uniformity of nature is also only intelligible within the Christian worldview because it alone makes the Creator-creature distinction basic.  God as sovereign over creation, directs nature according to His counsel and providence.  Of course, He can – and has – interrupt the normal course of nature for His acts of special providence seen in miracles.

I hope this essay has helped to see that Christian theology that has no point of contact with experience.  In principle, there is an antithesis between the Christian and non-Christian.  The non-Christian’s claim is that Christianity may be true, but must first stand up to the non-Christian tests of history, science, and philosophy as the non-Christian understands these subjects.  Much (most) of Christian apologetics is consumed with accomplishing these tasks.  The Christian apologist should not posit a neutral natural realm that may either prove or disprove his position.  This apologetic methodology is to unknowingly deny Christian theology at the outset and to move along the lines that the only difference between Christians and non-Christians is an abstract faith.  An apologetic that embraces a neutral natural realm in order to “prove” the Christian position is self-frustrating and will at best, prove a probable Christian view and an improbable non-Christian view.  Implicit in this apologetic methodology is that nature operates wholly outside the counsel of God.  It says that nature may (or may not!) reveal God.  God is not necessary to know nature.  The epistemological question can be answered in the absence of the metaphysical question.  Instead, Christianity must be offered as the lone light that makes knowledge possible, not as one of the sources of light.  This does not mean that Christians are the only ones that know anything about the world.  God is good to keep us humble!  It does, however, mean that if the Christian and the non-Christian were to be self-consciously consistent with their starting points, then it is the Christian world and life view that is alone able to make experience intelligible (science, ethics, philosophy, beauty, economics, etc.).

Thus, there is – and should be – an antithesis in science.  The antithesis is between the Christian and the non-Christian understandings of reality.  It is the rare apologists who challenges the wisdom of this world and shows it to be foolishness; that shows to the non-Christian that they cannot even begin to set out upon their task of destroying Christianity without first accepting it.  It is the strength the presuppositional apologetic^* that doesn’t ignore these foundational issues.  In today’s world, where antitheistic thought has become much more brazened, the church needs an apologetic that is self-consciously consistent with Christian theology and one that leaves the non-Christian with no where to hide, but to run to the Lord Jesus for salvation in his soul, his science, his philosophy, his art – in his life.

Introduction

The concept of personhood remains the central and enduring focus of any intelligent discussion of bioethical norms. Whether the perspective is secular or religious, couched in theological discourse or philosophical verbiage, any theory that wishes to show how man should behave must begin with what man is. Indeed, personhood “pops up” in the most unexpected places. Physicist John Polkinghorne claims that a grand, unified “Theory of Everything” must include and reconcile quantum mechanics, general relativity theory, and amazingly, the personhood of human beings:

Let us come straight to the point. A central question is the significance to be assigned to personhood in forming a credible and adequate account of reality. By a person I mean at least this: a self-conscious being, able to use the future tense in anticipation, hope and dread; able to perceive meaning and to assign value; able to respond to beauty and to the call of moral duty; able to love other persons, even to the point of self-sacrifice (Polkinghorne, 2000, p. 11) .

Thus, personhood is the “ground zero” of bioethical reflection. I have chosen the past thirty years as the basis of the following discussion, since during this period many changes have occurred in how personhood is viewed by society. To be more precise, the debate has been driven so much by the Supreme Court’s landmark Roe v. Wade decision in 1973, that we could readily talk about personhood “pre-Roe” and “post-Roe.”

This change in understanding has also been brought about by changes in the discipline itself. Bioethics began as an impulse of theological discourse, in an attempt to curb and control potential societal abuses of modern technology. In the mid-1960s, most bioethicists were religious thinkers and theologians. Currently, however, many members of hospital ethics committees are physicians and lawyers, and secular philosophers teach university bioethics courses.

This subtle shift has profound implications. The foundations were originally deontological in nature, the “should” of bioethics, whereas now the basis of most decisions is utilitarian, with an emphasis on outcomes. According to (Meilaender, 1995) , the entire discipline has lost its “soul.” Nowhere is this shift more evident than in the ongoing controversy over personhood.

This paper will review the concept of personhood and its relevance to bioethics. I begin with a historical overview of the traditional understanding of personhood in secular and religious thought. I will then examine some modern challenges to personhood, and the recent shift towards utilitarian thinking. Finally, I will argue that personhood must remain the central focus of bioethical discourse, especially in view of technological advances that may make conservative utilitarian arguments moot.

Personhood In Historical Context

Theological beliefs attach great value to human life. Certainly the Judeo-Christian outlook has dominated Western culture, and has influenced secular trends as well. Brannigan and Boss give this concise summary:

        Roman Catholics, Muslims, and Orthodox Jews believe that human life is sacred because it is a special creation of God. Only humans are ensouled; therefore all and only human life has moral value. There is no distinction between biological humanhood and personhood. We, as humans, have moral value simply because we have a human genotype, no matter what our age or stage of development (Brannigan & Boss, 2001, p. 189) .

Theologically, in the words of Wennberg, “personhood can be equated with the imago dei . . .” He adds, “the terms human person and image of God are virtually synonymous” (Wennberg, 1985, p. 36) .

The normative Christian view has been that personhood begins at conception. For example, Tertullian held that God created the soul at the moment of conception, arguing against the infusion of a soul at a later time (Gorman, 1982) . Jerome and Augustine spoke harshly of any “acts destroying the fetus after conception” (Noonan, 1970, p. 15) . This was in striking contrast to the alternative views of pagan society: “Christians discarded all pagan definitions of the fetus as merely part of the mother’s body. To Christians, the fetus was an independent living being” (Gorman, 1982, p. 77) .

The Judeo-Christian tradition of the value of life had great influence over Western culture for centuries, only coming into serious conflict with other societal values at the time of the Enlightenment. Clearly, the most egregious example of a rejection of the conservative view occurred with the eugenics movement of the early twentieth century, culminating in the horrible excesses of the Holocaust. However, another crisis that led to the need to define humanity more precisely was the rise of modern medical techniques for abortion. A conflict of values between the traditional view of persons and the permissive liberalism of abortion led directly to the legal battleground of Roe. Richard Neuhaus has demonstrated the centrality of the abortion issue:

        Even if some of the great questions that occupy bioethics might theoretically be isolated from the question of abortion, they seldom can be in cultural and political fact. Whether by inherent logic or by historical accident, the abortion debate has become the magnet to which all the other life-and-death debates are attached. We can try to pull them back from that debate, but they are inexorably drawn back to it . . . In ways even more relentless and entangled than at present, arguments about what we insist are “other” questions will be emerging from and returning to the question of abortion (Neuhaus, 1992, p. 222) .

In the early years of the modern bioethics movement (1965-1980), the lines were sharply drawn on both sides of the abortion question, with the debate centered on the personhood of the fetus versus the rights of pregnant women. Respected writers such as John T. Noonan, Harold O.J. Brown, Francis Schaeffer, and C. Everett Koop went beyond the traditional theological understanding, and added biological and philosophical reasons that the unborn child is a human person from conception. Yet there is no doubt that the conservative view had begun to erode in this era. Many have blamed the decline of the Judeo-Christian worldview and the rise of secular humanism as key factors in the modern denial of personhood (Schaeffer & Koop, 1979, pp. 20-21) .

However, even the U.S. Supreme Court acknowledged the centrality of personhood. In the 1973 decision, Judge Blackmun stated: “If this suggestion of personhood is established, the appellant’s case, of course, collapses, for the fetus’ right to life is then guaranteed specifically by the [Fourteenth] Amendment.” However, the Court declined to rule on that basis: “We need not resolve the difficult question of when life begins. When those trained in the respective disciplines of medicine, philosophy, and theology are unable to arrive at any consensus, the judiciary, at this point in the development of man’s knowledge, is not in a position to speculate as to the answer” (Roe, 1973) . The Court went on to make autonomy, defined as a woman’s right to privacy, the central issue. This was held as a higher (or at least more clearly visible) principle, over the human life of the fetus.

One reason that Roe denied personhood to the fetus was its lack of independent viability; i.e., if the fetus was still dependent on the mother for life, it was not yet a person worthy of protection. Nonetheless, in the years since Roe v. Wade (and as reaffirmed in the 1992 Casey decision), even this view of personhood has not been determinative. From a legal perspective, there has always been an exception clause that operates after the point of viability, for “pregnancies endangering a woman's life or health” (Casey, 1992) . Because of broad definitions of such exceptions, abortion has essentially been legal up to any moment before physical birth.

Indeed, many pro-choice scholars have regarded personhood as irrelevant. Some have gone so far as to assert that the Roe decision needlessly alienated the religious and politically conservative community, in denying personhood to the fetus. Lawrence Tribe, a liberal constitutional scholar, has written: “The Court could instead have said: Even if the fetus is a person, our Constitution forbids compelling a woman to carry it for nine months and become a mother” (Tribe, 1990, p. 135) .

Judith Thompson presented a compelling argument along these lines in 1971. Though her “unconscious violinist” illustration preceded Roe v. Wade, there is no evidence that it influenced the Court, since the Court refused to concede personhood to the fetus. Thompson’s argument, briefly stated, goes like this: Imagine that you awake one morning to find that you have been kidnapped and had your circulatory system attached to a famous violinist. The Society of Music Lovers, in an attempt to save the violinist from a fatal kidney ailment, is using your healthy body to cleanse his bloodstream. After nine months, he will have recovered, and can be safely disconnected from you. To say that you are legally and morally obligated to accede to this situation is clearly outrageous (Thompson, 1971) . Thompson extends this analogy to pregnancy, and thus argues persuasively that even personhood does not trump a woman’s right to autonomy.

Francis Beckwith presents a cogent refutation of the violinist argument by showing that the two circumstances (violinist and pregnancy) are in no way morally equivalent. For example, he points out that pregnancy is not always a voluntary moral obligation, as in the case where couples conceive in spite of contraceptive efforts. Such a couple is still morally responsible to protect such unplanned children. Beckwith then contrasts the unnatural and artificial situation of the violinist with the natural state of the unborn:

It is evident that Thompson’s violinist illustration undermines that deep natural bond between mother and child by making it seem no different from two strangers artificially hooked-up to each other so that one can ‘steal’ the service of the other’s kidneys. Rarely has something so human, so natural, so beautiful, and so wonderfully demanding of our human creativity and love been reduced to such a brutal caricature (Beckwith, 1995, p. 193) .

Beckwith goes on to state that abortion is not merely the withholding of treatment, as with the violinist, but is an active form of killing. Indeed, Thompson’s case seems particularly weak at this point, since few have disputed that abortion is the active destruction of life. Legal scholar J. Budziszewski has said it well: “Whether a particular act of killing counts as murder is, of course, an ethical question, but whether it kills is a biological question. To kill is to take life, and the unborn child is alive” (Budziszewski, 1997, p. 230) .

Is the living entity that is killed in abortion a person? Peter Kreeft perhaps best illustrates the centrality of this question in his allegorical dialog, The Unaborted Socrates. In a conversation between the philosopher and an abortionist named Dr. Herrod, the question of personhood is the key:

Socrates: Now, rationally, what does killing mean?
Herrod: I suppose it means forcibly putting a live organism to death.
Socrates: And is abortion’s object a live organism?
Herrod: Of course.
Socrates: And is the [termination] of the process its death?
Herrod: Yes.
Socrates: Is the death forcible?