Ethics in a Democracy
Podcast #6: Universal Moral Law
Episode #6 (26:40)
I discussed the difference between moral law and other forms of law in Podcast # 5 where I also posed the challenge of finding a way of thinking about moral law that avoids both absolutism and relativism. Absolutists — such as orthodox theologians — and relativists — like the Sophists Gorgias and Protagoras — are quite effective at refuting each other, but neither alternative is suitable for those of us who are mere human beings looking for a good way to live our lives. My overall goal in this series of podcasts is to show that there is a way of thinking about the fundamental moral principles that can guide the lives of all people. Plato’s dialectical philosophy offers an excellent way of achieving that goal. For Plato, philosophers are not people who possess absolute truth and seek to impart it to others. That is the way of absolutists. Nor do philosophers claim that there is no truth beyond what they can invent and persuade others to accept. That is the way of relativists.
Philosophers are lovers of wisdom. In the ancient Greek language, philia means love, and sophia means wisdom, so philosophia refers to those who love wisdom, not those who possess it. This point of view is expressed beautifully in Plato’s Symposium. Although it may seem to be a digression, I think it is worth drawing upon some of Plato’s use of myth and symbol, literary devices he often employs to advance his philosophical inquiry. Not all ideas can be stated simply in literal language. Indirection is helpful when the topic is complex and requires subtle distinctions. The Symposium is one of Plato’s most poetic works, but the subjects being considered have profound philosophical implications. The stated topic is “love,” and each of several characters gives a speech about the nature of love and its role in human life. When Socrates takes his turn, instead of careful logical analysis and critical questioning, he tells a story that is framed in terms of Greek mythology. One name given to love is Eros, but instead of simply repeating a story from Homer or some other poet, Plato creates a character named Diotima, who is described as the person who taught Socrates about love. Socrates is surprised when she tells him that Eros is neither an eternal god nor a mortal creature — neither absolute nor relative.
Socrates: Then what is Eros? Is he mortal?
Diotima: Definitely not.
Socrates: Then what is he?
Diotima: As I said before, he is neither mortal nor immortal but is intermediate between them.
Socrates: What would you call him?
Diotima: He is a great spirit, Socrates, and like every spirit is intermediate between the divine and the mortal.
Socrates: What power does a spirit have?
Diotima: It is the power to interpret and convey to the gods prayers and sacrifices from human beings and to bring to human beings rewards and commands from the gods. Being in the middle, this power spans the division between the human and the divine, binding both sides into a unified whole. Through that path the arts of the priest and the prophet — their sacrifices, charms and prophecies — find their way. The divine does not have direct contact with humanity. It is through this spiritual power that all communication and communion takes place between gods and human beings, whether they are awake or asleep. Those who practice these arts have spiritual wisdom, distinguishing them from those who practice ordinary mechanical arts and crafts. These spirits are many and diverse — one of them is Eros (Plato’s Symposium, published by Agora Publications, Inc., 2003, Greek page 203).
Diotima sounds quite sure of herself, but what seems to be a factual account is actually a poetic way of opening a place for human beings and human consciousness that avoids both absolutism and relativism. Plato is no doubt quite serious about this project, because he devotes a major portion of the Republic to developing a similar model of being and knowing. In Book 6 he uses a mathematical analogy (the image of a divided line) and in Book 7 he uses a literary device — the famous allegory of the cave. In both of these dialogues the picture is much the same, showing that there must be a middle way between being and non-being and between knowledge and ignorance.
Socrates: Who was his father, Diotima? And who was his mother?
Diotima: That’s a rather long story, but I will tell it to you anyway. On the day Aphrodite was born, the gods had a party, including Poros, whose name means “plenty” — he is the son of Metis; her name means “cunning.” When the banquet was over, Penia, whose name means “poverty,” came begging at the door. Poros had drunk more than his share of nectar — wine did not yet exist — so he went into the garden of Zeus and fell into a deep sleep. Because of her great need, Penia decided to get a child from Poros, so she lay with him and became pregnant with Eros. From the very beginning Eros followed and served Aphrodite, not only because he was conceived on her birthday but also because Aphrodite is beautiful, and by nature he loves beauty.
Because he is the child of Poros and Penia, Eros possesses some qualities of each. Like his mother, he is always poor and not at all tender and beautiful, as some people say. On the contrary, he is rough, plain, barefoot, and homeless. He sleeps on the ground out in the open, on the street, or in some doorway. Like his mother, he is always in need. But he also resembles his father, always thinking up ways to obtain what is beautiful and good. He is a mighty hunter, bold, vigorous, clever, and always scheming to get what is beautiful and good. He pursues wisdom throughout his life. Never lacking resources, he is terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer, and sophist.
Neither mortal nor immortal, he can be alive and flourishing at one moment and then dying in the next. But he always revives because he shares his father’s nature. Whatever flows in also flows out, so Eros is never destitute and never rich [204] and always stands halfway between knowledge and ignorance. Here is the situation concerning wisdom: no god is a lover of wisdom, because all gods are already wise. Nor does anyone else who is wise seek after wisdom. Ignorant people also do not seek wisdom, because the difficulty with being ignorant is that those who lack wisdom and beauty and goodness are satisfied with their condition; they feel no such desire.
Socrates: But Diotima, if they are neither wise nor ignorant, who are the lovers of wisdom?
Diotima: Socrates, by now even a child could answer that question. They are the ones who, like Eros, are between the two. Wisdom is something beautiful, and because love desires the beautiful, love is a lover of wisdom and lies between wisdom and ignorance. This is also a quality Eros derives from his parents, his father being wealthy and wise and his mother being poor and lacking wisdom. That, dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit we call Eros. I understand the mistake you made in thinking about love. Based on what you said before, I think you confused loving and being loved. That made you think that Eros, the lover, is entirely beautiful. What is truly beautiful, graceful, perfect, and happy is worthy of being loved, but as I have explained, the lover has another nature.
Socrates: Beautiful stranger, I’m sure you are right, but then of what use is Eros to human beings? (Plato’s Symposium, published by Agora Publications, Inc., 2003, Greek pages 203-204).
Of what use is Eros to human beings? Because of Eros we care about and seek what is beautiful, good, and true. We can benefit by thinking about our condition as similar to that of Eros — we are neither full nor empty but somewhere in between. Because of our limited perspective, human beings lack absolute truth and can never acquire it. However, we are not entirely ignorant. Several of Plato’s dialogues refute skepticism. Saying that we know there is no knowledge is a contradiction. Thinking of knowledge and reality as a goal, an ideal worth seeking, is to describe our condition in the same way Diotima describes the nature of Eros. We love but do not possess those ideals.
Directly to the point of this podcast, this way of thinking helps us understand the concept of universal moral law. If the moral law is a goal, what Aristotle calls a final cause, it does not actually exist anywhere. Consider an analogy. Let us say that my ideal weight is 177 pounds. That is not my actual weight, nor is it likely ever to be. But it is a reasonable goal for someone of my age, height, and level of physical activity. It helps me immensely to have such a target, regardless of whether I ever achieve it. The closer I approach it, the better. Unlike my ideal weight, the moral law is universal, not limited to any particular way of being in the world. Once we clarify it, the moral law serves as a guide, showing the way for all who seek to choose what is right or good or just. Like the North Star, it is accessible to all people who travel in the dark on a clear night. In order to clarify the meaning of moral law, let’s return to Plato’s Crito.
The Laws that are personified in the discussion at the end of that dialogue at first seem simply to be the laws of Athens. They argue that Socrates has made an agreement with them — what many (including Glaucon in Plato’s Republic) call a “social contract.” Is that where Plato is leading us? If it is, then we cannot avoid relativism, because social contracts are human inventions that are likely to change when the participants change. The arguments given by the Laws in that conversation seem to indicate that Socrates should obey the Athenian law, even if it is unjust. But is it not morally wrong to obey an unjust law? Henry David Thoreau, Mohandas Gandhi, and Martin Luther King all agree that it would be wrong. Is Plato on the other side of that issue? Was he the conservative thinker some people think he was? Simply taking what the Laws say literally in the Crito as Plato’s position leads to that conclusion. Greek theater often featured three separate plays performed together as a trilogy. According to some historians of Greek philosophy, Plato began his professional life as a writer of drama, and the Euthyphro, Apology, and Crito form a natural trilogy. If we look at this trilogy as a whole, we find Plato taking a more complex view of this issue. In Plato’s Apology Socrates tells the jury that this is not the first time he has come into conflict with the laws of Athens.
Socrates: . . . I’ll tell you about my own life to show that I do not yield to injustice from fear of death. This is a commonplace story, but it’s true. The only office I ever held in the state was that of senator. My tribe, Antiochis, held the presidency at the trial of the generals who failed to gather up the bodies of the men who were killed in the battle of Arginusae. You proposed to try them all together, which was illegal, as you later realized. At that time I was the only member of the executive committee who opposed the illegality, and I voted against it. When the orators threatened to impeach and arrest me and have me taken away, you urged them on with your shouts. I decided that I would run the risk of prison and death, with law and justice on my side, rather than take part in your injustice. This happened in the days of democracy. When the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power, they summoned me and four others to the rotunda and ordered us to bring Leon of Salamis for execution. This is an example of the kind of commands they frequently gave to implicate as many people as possible in their crimes. I showed, not only in words but through action, that I feared not death but injustice and unholiness. Their power did not frighten me into doing what was wrong. When we came out of the rotunda, the other four went to Salamis to get Leon, but I went home. I would probably have been killed if the Thirty had not lost power. Many of you were witnesses to this event (Plato’s Apology, published by Agora Publications, Inc., 2005, Greek pages 32-33).
Let us assume that Plato had this dialogue performed at the Academy, along with the Euthyphro and the Crito. With people such as Aristotle in the audience, anyone who claimed that Socrates favored following the laws of Athens even if they were unjust would have to explain this passage. On two previous occasions Socrates refused to obey what he believed to be unjust laws. Then why does Socrates insist on following an unjust sentence in his own case?
The answer to that question can be found in another passage from the Crito.
Socrates: Is it true that a person should never intentionally do wrong, or does it depend on the context? We said in the past that it is always wrong, but perhaps we were wrong about that. Should we throw out our previous beliefs, the ones we held just a few days ago? Have we, at our age, been talking seriously throughout our lives, only to discover that now we are no better than children? Or are we to conclude, in spite of the opinion of the majority, and in spite of the consequences, whatever they may be, that the truth of what we said before remains: Injustice is always wrong and disgraceful for the person who acts unjustly. Do you agree?
Crito: Yes.
Socrates: Then it is always wrong?
Crito: Correct.
Socrates: If we are harmed, we should not harm in return, whatever most people think. Is it ever right to harm anyone?
Crito: No.
Socrates: In other words, we should never do what is unjust?
Crito: Definitely not.
Socrates: What about returning evil for evil, which is the view of the majority; is that just or not?
Crito: It is unjust.
Socrates: To do evil to someone is the same as wronging that person?
Crito: True.
Socrates: Then we ought not retaliate or exchange evil for evil, no matter what harm we have suffered. Do you really mean what you are saying, Crito? This is not a popular opinion, and it never will be. The people who believe this and those who do not, have no common ground. They are at odds and can only despise each other when they see how far apart they are. Do you agree with me and accept my first claim, that retaliation, repaying evil with evil, is never right? Should we take that as the basis of our argument? Make sure you agree, Crito. This has been my opinion for a long time, but if you have another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If you accept this view, as you did before, then I will take the next step.
Crito: You may go on; I haven’t changed my mind (Plato’s Crito, Greek page 49).
This distinction between doing an injustice and suffering injustice appears elsewhere in Plato’s dialogues. Socrates and Polus give it considerable attention in Plato’s Gorgias, and the outcome of the discussion is the same. It is never right to do what is unjust, and if one must choose between doing and suffering injustice, it is better to suffer injustice than do what is unjust.
This distinction is directly relevant to the question of why Socrates chooses to remain in Athens and die rather than go into exile. In both of the examples from his own life that Socrates cites in the Apology, he refused to obey unjust laws and commands. He did not actively break the law; he passively resisted even though he might have been killed for refusing to do what the Athenian officials ordered him to do. Thoreau, Gandhi, and King would surely approve of that tactic on Socrates’ part. The situation in the Crito differs from both of the examples presented in the Apology. In order to avoid the sentence imposed by the Athenian assembly, Socrates would have to do what is unjust — actively break the law by escaping from prison and leaving the country. Not only would he be violating this particular legal command, he would be undermining the principle of rule by law. By choosing to stay and suffer injustice, Socrates remains faithful to the way of life he has followed for more than 70 years. Socrates is caught in a dilemma. His own preference would be for the Athenians to release him and allow him to continue his conversations in the Agora. And, as he tells the jury at his trial, they might also provide free meals for him at the public table (as was done for athletes who were victorious in the Olympic games). But the Athenians did not grant his request. They condemned him to death, leaving him with two undesirable alternatives. So, he chose to suffer injustice rather than doing what is unjust.
This line of reasoning has a major implication for the question of the nature of moral law. Contrary to what at first seems to be the case, it is obvious that the Laws with whom Socrates converses in the Crito are not simply the laws of Athens. Law in this context has a deeper meaning. The final plea by the Laws in the Crito provides an important distinction that directly relates to this issue.
Socrates, listen to us who brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first. That way you may be justified before the rulers of the other world. Neither you nor anyone related to you will be more happy, more holy, or more just in this life, or any other, if you do as Crito says. Now you depart in innocence, one who suffers rather than does evil; a victim not of laws but of people. But if you escape, returning evil for evil, wrong for wrong, breaking the contracts and agreements that you have made with us, harming those whom you ought least to harm—yourself, your friends, your country, and us—we will be angry with you while you live, and our brothers, the laws in the other world, will receive you as an enemy. They will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito (Plato’s Crito, Greek page 54).
The Laws explicitly distinguish (1) between suffering and doing evil and (2) being a victim of people and being a victim of laws. The Laws transcend human decisions, pointing beyond the relativism that is inevitable if law is only an invention of human beings.
In other words, if we look at the overall dialectical development of the idea of law as it emerges through the entire trilogy, it gradually becomes clear that moral law is a goal we are seeking rather than an absolute command or edict presented at the outset. It lies between relativism and absolutism. What shall we call it? I propose calling it “universal moral law.” The problem with the term “universal” is that it has been woefully misused over the centuries. The major difficulty is that people often mistake it as a law or a command that is imposed on individuals and groups from the outside, whereas we should think of it as an idea we impose on ourselves. This is the sense in which both Plato and Immanuel Kant appeal to universality in an ethical sense.
The Greek Enlightenment that emerged and flourished in Athens while Socrates and Plato were alive was a necessary condition for the first flowering of democracy. Unfortunately, it was incomplete and lasted only a short time. But the seeds from that flower have germinated and flowered again, most remarkably in 18th century during the time of Kant. In my next podcast I will discuss the idea of universal moral law, beginning with the Greek version and then moving to Kant’s development of it.
Podcast #6: Universal Moral Law
Episode #6 (26:40)
I discussed the difference between moral law and other forms of law in Podcast # 5 where I also posed the challenge of finding a way of thinking about moral law that avoids both absolutism and relativism. Absolutists — such as orthodox theologians — and relativists — like the Sophists Gorgias and Protagoras — are quite effective at refuting each other, but neither alternative is suitable for those of us who are mere human beings looking for a good way to live our lives. My overall goal in this series of podcasts is to show that there is a way of thinking about the fundamental moral principles that can guide the lives of all people. Plato’s dialectical philosophy offers an excellent way of achieving that goal. For Plato, philosophers are not people who possess absolute truth and seek to impart it to others. That is the way of absolutists. Nor do philosophers claim that there is no truth beyond what they can invent and persuade others to accept. That is the way of relativists.
Philosophers are lovers of wisdom. In the ancient Greek language, philia means love, and sophia means wisdom, so philosophia refers to those who love wisdom, not those who possess it. This point of view is expressed beautifully in Plato’s Symposium. Although it may seem to be a digression, I think it is worth drawing upon some of Plato’s use of myth and symbol, literary devices he often employs to advance his philosophical inquiry. Not all ideas can be stated simply in literal language. Indirection is helpful when the topic is complex and requires subtle distinctions. The Symposium is one of Plato’s most poetic works, but the subjects being considered have profound philosophical implications. The stated topic is “love,” and each of several characters gives a speech about the nature of love and its role in human life. When Socrates takes his turn, instead of careful logical analysis and critical questioning, he tells a story that is framed in terms of Greek mythology. One name given to love is Eros, but instead of simply repeating a story from Homer or some other poet, Plato creates a character named Diotima, who is described as the person who taught Socrates about love. Socrates is surprised when she tells him that Eros is neither an eternal god nor a mortal creature — neither absolute nor relative.
Socrates: Then what is Eros? Is he mortal?
Diotima: Definitely not.
Socrates: Then what is he?
Diotima: As I said before, he is neither mortal nor immortal but is intermediate between them.
Socrates: What would you call him?
Diotima: He is a great spirit, Socrates, and like every spirit is intermediate between the divine and the mortal.
Socrates: What power does a spirit have?
Diotima: It is the power to interpret and convey to the gods prayers and sacrifices from human beings and to bring to human beings rewards and commands from the gods. Being in the middle, this power spans the division between the human and the divine, binding both sides into a unified whole. Through that path the arts of the priest and the prophet — their sacrifices, charms and prophecies — find their way. The divine does not have direct contact with humanity. It is through this spiritual power that all communication and communion takes place between gods and human beings, whether they are awake or asleep. Those who practice these arts have spiritual wisdom, distinguishing them from those who practice ordinary mechanical arts and crafts. These spirits are many and diverse — one of them is Eros (Plato’s Symposium, published by Agora Publications, Inc., 2003, Greek page 203).
Diotima sounds quite sure of herself, but what seems to be a factual account is actually a poetic way of opening a place for human beings and human consciousness that avoids both absolutism and relativism. Plato is no doubt quite serious about this project, because he devotes a major portion of the Republic to developing a similar model of being and knowing. In Book 6 he uses a mathematical analogy (the image of a divided line) and in Book 7 he uses a literary device — the famous allegory of the cave. In both of these dialogues the picture is much the same, showing that there must be a middle way between being and non-being and between knowledge and ignorance.
Socrates: Who was his father, Diotima? And who was his mother?
Diotima: That’s a rather long story, but I will tell it to you anyway. On the day Aphrodite was born, the gods had a party, including Poros, whose name means “plenty” — he is the son of Metis; her name means “cunning.” When the banquet was over, Penia, whose name means “poverty,” came begging at the door. Poros had drunk more than his share of nectar — wine did not yet exist — so he went into the garden of Zeus and fell into a deep sleep. Because of her great need, Penia decided to get a child from Poros, so she lay with him and became pregnant with Eros. From the very beginning Eros followed and served Aphrodite, not only because he was conceived on her birthday but also because Aphrodite is beautiful, and by nature he loves beauty.
Because he is the child of Poros and Penia, Eros possesses some qualities of each. Like his mother, he is always poor and not at all tender and beautiful, as some people say. On the contrary, he is rough, plain, barefoot, and homeless. He sleeps on the ground out in the open, on the street, or in some doorway. Like his mother, he is always in need. But he also resembles his father, always thinking up ways to obtain what is beautiful and good. He is a mighty hunter, bold, vigorous, clever, and always scheming to get what is beautiful and good. He pursues wisdom throughout his life. Never lacking resources, he is terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer, and sophist.
Neither mortal nor immortal, he can be alive and flourishing at one moment and then dying in the next. But he always revives because he shares his father’s nature. Whatever flows in also flows out, so Eros is never destitute and never rich [204] and always stands halfway between knowledge and ignorance. Here is the situation concerning wisdom: no god is a lover of wisdom, because all gods are already wise. Nor does anyone else who is wise seek after wisdom. Ignorant people also do not seek wisdom, because the difficulty with being ignorant is that those who lack wisdom and beauty and goodness are satisfied with their condition; they feel no such desire.
Socrates: But Diotima, if they are neither wise nor ignorant, who are the lovers of wisdom?
Diotima: Socrates, by now even a child could answer that question. They are the ones who, like Eros, are between the two. Wisdom is something beautiful, and because love desires the beautiful, love is a lover of wisdom and lies between wisdom and ignorance. This is also a quality Eros derives from his parents, his father being wealthy and wise and his mother being poor and lacking wisdom. That, dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit we call Eros. I understand the mistake you made in thinking about love. Based on what you said before, I think you confused loving and being loved. That made you think that Eros, the lover, is entirely beautiful. What is truly beautiful, graceful, perfect, and happy is worthy of being loved, but as I have explained, the lover has another nature.
Socrates: Beautiful stranger, I’m sure you are right, but then of what use is Eros to human beings? (Plato’s Symposium, published by Agora Publications, Inc., 2003, Greek pages 203-204).
Of what use is Eros to human beings? Because of Eros we care about and seek what is beautiful, good, and true. We can benefit by thinking about our condition as similar to that of Eros — we are neither full nor empty but somewhere in between. Because of our limited perspective, human beings lack absolute truth and can never acquire it. However, we are not entirely ignorant. Several of Plato’s dialogues refute skepticism. Saying that we know there is no knowledge is a contradiction. Thinking of knowledge and reality as a goal, an ideal worth seeking, is to describe our condition in the same way Diotima describes the nature of Eros. We love but do not possess those ideals.
Directly to the point of this podcast, this way of thinking helps us understand the concept of universal moral law. If the moral law is a goal, what Aristotle calls a final cause, it does not actually exist anywhere. Consider an analogy. Let us say that my ideal weight is 177 pounds. That is not my actual weight, nor is it likely ever to be. But it is a reasonable goal for someone of my age, height, and level of physical activity. It helps me immensely to have such a target, regardless of whether I ever achieve it. The closer I approach it, the better. Unlike my ideal weight, the moral law is universal, not limited to any particular way of being in the world. Once we clarify it, the moral law serves as a guide, showing the way for all who seek to choose what is right or good or just. Like the North Star, it is accessible to all people who travel in the dark on a clear night. In order to clarify the meaning of moral law, let’s return to Plato’s Crito.
The Laws that are personified in the discussion at the end of that dialogue at first seem simply to be the laws of Athens. They argue that Socrates has made an agreement with them — what many (including Glaucon in Plato’s Republic) call a “social contract.” Is that where Plato is leading us? If it is, then we cannot avoid relativism, because social contracts are human inventions that are likely to change when the participants change. The arguments given by the Laws in that conversation seem to indicate that Socrates should obey the Athenian law, even if it is unjust. But is it not morally wrong to obey an unjust law? Henry David Thoreau, Mohandas Gandhi, and Martin Luther King all agree that it would be wrong. Is Plato on the other side of that issue? Was he the conservative thinker some people think he was? Simply taking what the Laws say literally in the Crito as Plato’s position leads to that conclusion. Greek theater often featured three separate plays performed together as a trilogy. According to some historians of Greek philosophy, Plato began his professional life as a writer of drama, and the Euthyphro, Apology, and Crito form a natural trilogy. If we look at this trilogy as a whole, we find Plato taking a more complex view of this issue. In Plato’s Apology Socrates tells the jury that this is not the first time he has come into conflict with the laws of Athens.
Socrates: . . . I’ll tell you about my own life to show that I do not yield to injustice from fear of death. This is a commonplace story, but it’s true. The only office I ever held in the state was that of senator. My tribe, Antiochis, held the presidency at the trial of the generals who failed to gather up the bodies of the men who were killed in the battle of Arginusae. You proposed to try them all together, which was illegal, as you later realized. At that time I was the only member of the executive committee who opposed the illegality, and I voted against it. When the orators threatened to impeach and arrest me and have me taken away, you urged them on with your shouts. I decided that I would run the risk of prison and death, with law and justice on my side, rather than take part in your injustice. This happened in the days of democracy. When the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power, they summoned me and four others to the rotunda and ordered us to bring Leon of Salamis for execution. This is an example of the kind of commands they frequently gave to implicate as many people as possible in their crimes. I showed, not only in words but through action, that I feared not death but injustice and unholiness. Their power did not frighten me into doing what was wrong. When we came out of the rotunda, the other four went to Salamis to get Leon, but I went home. I would probably have been killed if the Thirty had not lost power. Many of you were witnesses to this event (Plato’s Apology, published by Agora Publications, Inc., 2005, Greek pages 32-33).
Let us assume that Plato had this dialogue performed at the Academy, along with the Euthyphro and the Crito. With people such as Aristotle in the audience, anyone who claimed that Socrates favored following the laws of Athens even if they were unjust would have to explain this passage. On two previous occasions Socrates refused to obey what he believed to be unjust laws. Then why does Socrates insist on following an unjust sentence in his own case?
The answer to that question can be found in another passage from the Crito.
Socrates: Is it true that a person should never intentionally do wrong, or does it depend on the context? We said in the past that it is always wrong, but perhaps we were wrong about that. Should we throw out our previous beliefs, the ones we held just a few days ago? Have we, at our age, been talking seriously throughout our lives, only to discover that now we are no better than children? Or are we to conclude, in spite of the opinion of the majority, and in spite of the consequences, whatever they may be, that the truth of what we said before remains: Injustice is always wrong and disgraceful for the person who acts unjustly. Do you agree?
Crito: Yes.
Socrates: Then it is always wrong?
Crito: Correct.
Socrates: If we are harmed, we should not harm in return, whatever most people think. Is it ever right to harm anyone?
Crito: No.
Socrates: In other words, we should never do what is unjust?
Crito: Definitely not.
Socrates: What about returning evil for evil, which is the view of the majority; is that just or not?
Crito: It is unjust.
Socrates: To do evil to someone is the same as wronging that person?
Crito: True.
Socrates: Then we ought not retaliate or exchange evil for evil, no matter what harm we have suffered. Do you really mean what you are saying, Crito? This is not a popular opinion, and it never will be. The people who believe this and those who do not, have no common ground. They are at odds and can only despise each other when they see how far apart they are. Do you agree with me and accept my first claim, that retaliation, repaying evil with evil, is never right? Should we take that as the basis of our argument? Make sure you agree, Crito. This has been my opinion for a long time, but if you have another opinion, let me hear what you have to say. If you accept this view, as you did before, then I will take the next step.
Crito: You may go on; I haven’t changed my mind (Plato’s Crito, Greek page 49).
This distinction between doing an injustice and suffering injustice appears elsewhere in Plato’s dialogues. Socrates and Polus give it considerable attention in Plato’s Gorgias, and the outcome of the discussion is the same. It is never right to do what is unjust, and if one must choose between doing and suffering injustice, it is better to suffer injustice than do what is unjust.
This distinction is directly relevant to the question of why Socrates chooses to remain in Athens and die rather than go into exile. In both of the examples from his own life that Socrates cites in the Apology, he refused to obey unjust laws and commands. He did not actively break the law; he passively resisted even though he might have been killed for refusing to do what the Athenian officials ordered him to do. Thoreau, Gandhi, and King would surely approve of that tactic on Socrates’ part. The situation in the Crito differs from both of the examples presented in the Apology. In order to avoid the sentence imposed by the Athenian assembly, Socrates would have to do what is unjust — actively break the law by escaping from prison and leaving the country. Not only would he be violating this particular legal command, he would be undermining the principle of rule by law. By choosing to stay and suffer injustice, Socrates remains faithful to the way of life he has followed for more than 70 years. Socrates is caught in a dilemma. His own preference would be for the Athenians to release him and allow him to continue his conversations in the Agora. And, as he tells the jury at his trial, they might also provide free meals for him at the public table (as was done for athletes who were victorious in the Olympic games). But the Athenians did not grant his request. They condemned him to death, leaving him with two undesirable alternatives. So, he chose to suffer injustice rather than doing what is unjust.
This line of reasoning has a major implication for the question of the nature of moral law. Contrary to what at first seems to be the case, it is obvious that the Laws with whom Socrates converses in the Crito are not simply the laws of Athens. Law in this context has a deeper meaning. The final plea by the Laws in the Crito provides an important distinction that directly relates to this issue.
Socrates, listen to us who brought you up. Think not of life and children first, and of justice afterwards, but of justice first. That way you may be justified before the rulers of the other world. Neither you nor anyone related to you will be more happy, more holy, or more just in this life, or any other, if you do as Crito says. Now you depart in innocence, one who suffers rather than does evil; a victim not of laws but of people. But if you escape, returning evil for evil, wrong for wrong, breaking the contracts and agreements that you have made with us, harming those whom you ought least to harm—yourself, your friends, your country, and us—we will be angry with you while you live, and our brothers, the laws in the other world, will receive you as an enemy. They will know that you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, to us and not to Crito (Plato’s Crito, Greek page 54).
The Laws explicitly distinguish (1) between suffering and doing evil and (2) being a victim of people and being a victim of laws. The Laws transcend human decisions, pointing beyond the relativism that is inevitable if law is only an invention of human beings.
In other words, if we look at the overall dialectical development of the idea of law as it emerges through the entire trilogy, it gradually becomes clear that moral law is a goal we are seeking rather than an absolute command or edict presented at the outset. It lies between relativism and absolutism. What shall we call it? I propose calling it “universal moral law.” The problem with the term “universal” is that it has been woefully misused over the centuries. The major difficulty is that people often mistake it as a law or a command that is imposed on individuals and groups from the outside, whereas we should think of it as an idea we impose on ourselves. This is the sense in which both Plato and Immanuel Kant appeal to universality in an ethical sense.
The Greek Enlightenment that emerged and flourished in Athens while Socrates and Plato were alive was a necessary condition for the first flowering of democracy. Unfortunately, it was incomplete and lasted only a short time. But the seeds from that flower have germinated and flowered again, most remarkably in 18th century during the time of Kant. In my next podcast I will discuss the idea of universal moral law, beginning with the Greek version and then moving to Kant’s development of it.
