Problems of Metaphysics

Cosmological-Theological Problem

Causality and Teleology

It has been noted above (p. 165) that the denial of anthropomorphic theism and its characteristic explanation of the natural course of events based on intentions does not equate to a rejection of teleological worldviews. As we embark once again on this examination, we must first inquire: what characterizes the connection between elements as teleological? The very word suggests that their distribution or movement is perceived as directed toward a goal (a body?). We consider a result to be the goal of distribution or movement when will is directed toward it, and the arrival of this result is felt with a sense of satisfaction. It should also be added, first, that the causal connection between elements is not excluded here, but rather presupposed; every teleological connection is at the same time a causal one. Second, intent is not included in the notion of teleology; it is not necessary for the goal to exist previously in representation or for the movement to occur according to some preordained plan. One clever naturalist coined the term "Zielstrebigkeit" (goal-directedness) to express this notion of teleology without intent. The essence of teleological connections is clearly manifested in the phenomena of inner life, and this is where they find their proper place. Mental phenomena are causally related to one another; a certain perception or representation elicits another representation, its emergence being the cause of the subsequent one; any emotional excitation or desire determines attention and propels the flow of representations in a different direction. Yet, the very flow of representations is simultaneously determined in a teleological manner; associative processes lead to results that align with the will, forming sequences felt as meaningful and significant. Importantly, this goal does not exist prior in representation, at least not as something fully conceived and subsequently realized. The architect drafts a plan for a house; after the design is completed on paper, the masons and carpenters construct it from stone and wood according to the provided plan. However, the plan itself was not, in turn, created according to some prior ready-made blueprint; yet, the intellectual labor of the architect, as well as that of the builders, is undoubtedly teleologically conditioned. The orator delivers a speech; he is confronted with an attack, and he seeks to defend himself and counter his opponent: suddenly, thoughts and arguments flow into his mind; comparisons, rhetorical flourishes, proverbs, quotations, barbs aimed at the opponent, and pleasantries addressed to the audience seem to emerge spontaneously. Through the connection of associations, each preceding thought leads to the subsequent one, but among the thousands of possible associative connections, the one that is effective at any given moment is the one that leads toward the goal. Thus, the entire flow of speech is simultaneously conditioned both causally and teleologically; the direction is ultimately provided by the will, and the successful process is experienced with a vivid sense of satisfaction. Not every flow of representations is as goal-directed as this; there exist indeterminate, aimless associative movements; in dreams and madness, they come to dominate. Yet, in healthy spiritual life, the determination of the flow of representations by what is necessary for the goal is evident everywhere.

In every spiritual whole, we find the same coexistence of causal and teleological relationships among elements. In any argumentation or poetic work, each part is necessary for the whole, for the development of the idea; in its place, it is something necessary by assumption; at the same time, it is also something caused by associative connection. Causal conditioning and internal aesthetic, logical necessity go hand in hand. If we traverse the sequence from the beginning, we see how each element leads to the subsequent one. Conversely, if we trace it in reverse, from the end, we see how the outcome governs everything preceding it, right down to the very beginning: the subject of proof governs the entire flow of argumentation, the outcome of the drama acts upon the exposition. Thus, the last is simultaneously the first—the point from which the movement begins; the τέλος, to use Aristotle's terminology, is at the same time the οθεν η κίνησις; all that it draws toward it stretches in its direction. Movement in spiritual life occurs not through a push from behind but through a spontaneous striving toward the goal; the goal is not an external end, but the realized whole; the completed unity of a poetic work, proof, or speech is Aristotle's entelechy.

What holds true for individual spiritual creations also applies to the soul's life as a whole. A healthy human life forms a closed, meaningful unity; it is not a series of cases, nor a mechanical jumble of elements of consciousness, but a cohesive unity linked by internal necessity, akin to a multifaceted, intricate musical composition. Of course, we cannot construct each element as teleologically necessary, as we can do with a poetic work; here, chance intervenes. However, we cannot view the whole otherwise; every biographer perceives the life of their subject as a coherent whole linked by internal, comprehensible necessity; one's own recollection presents their past from this perspective. At any given moment, the living individual perceives their life as an unfolding in accordance with what lies ahead. Movement occurs not through pushing and shoving from behind but as if drawn toward the goal. The image of the man serves as a hidden motivating force in the boy's soul, governing his development. The idea of a life's work, which itself evolves only within life and with life, directs and energizes the man's activity. Goal-directedness characterizes all healthy life. The same is true for the life of a nation. It moves not by external pressure or a push but seems to be drawn by the idea of its perfect formation. It is not that a simple, clear, uniformly existing representation determines the latter; rather, the essence of the nation manifests itself in the lively interplay of the most diverse aspirations. Yet, the idea, as a moment of attraction, is present in all, as is the vision of the future formation of the nation. All groups, all parties see in the brightening morning mist of the future vaguely outlined, shimmering images of perfection, and these images irresistibly draw them forward.

Thus, in the spiritual-historical life, causality and teleology run parallel to each other: the spontaneous convergence of a multitude of elements into a sequence, in which each member is posited by an internal logical, aesthetic, and ethical necessity—that is the character of spiritual movement.

In this, I would remark in passing, lies the justification for opposition to deterministic theories. If the essence of causality were solely an external necessity that excluded internal necessity, then those who oppose its application to the construction of the spiritual world would indeed be right. However, they should then proceed further than they typically do: causality would be invalid not only concerning will but also regarding the entirety of psychic life. If we understand the notion of causality correctly, taking it, alongside Hume and Leibniz, to mean nothing other than regularity—i.e., the correct coherence of changes among many elements—then it is evident that in the spiritual realm, it is no less valid than in nature. Admittedly, it is harder to discern regularity or reduce it to elementary laws in the spiritual realm than in nature; nevertheless, it is still clear that it is not absent. In both domains, there are no isolated or unconstrained elements; each element stands in a specific relation to other elements—preceding, simultaneous, and subsequent. We can hardly reduce these relationships to quantitative formulas, but their existence manifests everywhere; it is tacitly assumed by all that under completely identical internal and external circumstances, the same would invariably occur; identical irritations would elicit, as a reaction, the same representation, identical emotional excitements, and volitional tendencies. However, freedom does not stand in contradiction to rightly understood causality: freedom is not lawlessness. In such a freedom of inner life that would equate to lawlessness and the disconnection of elements therein, ethics would indeed be of no concern. Conversely, the emergence of elements entirely foreign to each other, disconnected wills, which stand in no causal relation to preceding life and subsequent time, would constitute a disruption of will, even a complete destruction of psychic being. Were there no determination of the subsequent by the preceding, there would be, of course, no exercise, no experience, no enactment of principles and decisions, no education, and no social order. Without causality, there can be no teleology.

What then of the relationship between causality and teleology in the physical world? Do they run parallel here as well, or is there no discussion of teleology or internal necessity in nature at all?

This is indeed the prevailing view; it perceives an external necessity in nature but fails to recognize any internal one. Mechanical transmission of movement is considered the primary form of nature's activity, while it adamantly disregards any notion of teleological necessity; “teleophobia,” as F. Baer aptly terms it, is characteristic of this stance. I believe he is also correct in asserting that the foundation for this view does not lie in nature but in the fear of naturalists regarding false teleology. Teleophobia represents a reaction against the old teleology of intentions, which dismissed causal explanation and sought to replace it.

Let us first recall what we accepted in the previous section as the actual content of causal relationships in the physical world: interaction is nothing other than corresponding change; there is no mention whatsoever of influences and coercions. The universal interaction of all parts of the world is the expression of the fact that the world forms a single system with a unified movement, in which every motion of each part is included, as an element that stands in its place and aligns with the movements of all other parts. This cannot be emphasized enough: necessity exists in logical thinking, but not in nature; every natural regularity is a spontaneous coordination of all parts.

Moreover, this coordination is mutual; the antecedent determines the consequent; but it can equally be said that the consequent determines the antecedent. The heating of a room is the action of a heated stove; but it is equally correct to say that the absorption of heat by the surrounding environment is the cause of the stove's cooling. The push exerted by one body upon another is the cause of the latter's motion; but it is just as valid to say that the motion of the body receiving the push is the cause of the first body losing its motion or coming to a stop. Where we have a body not producing motion but ceasing it, we imagine the matter precisely thus. Therefore, one can generally assert: without a cause, there would be no action; but without action, there would be no cause.

The question now is as follows: does causal connection in the external world represent, as it does in the internal world, a teleological connection at the same time? Is there an internal teleological relationship among the members of the series? There is one point on which the entire world views the matter this way: life. Living phenomena form a connection of causes and actions; they are at every point conditioned by the naturally lawful interaction of all parts, yet they are at the same time "teleological"—in the sense that they are united into a whole, life, which we cannot help but regard as the goal to which all functions serve as means. Hunting, capturing prey, devouring it, and digesting it are causes of preserving life; yet at the same time, life is the goal, and these functions constitute means to that goal. And if functions are means, then so too are organs: if vision exists for the sake of life, then eyes exist for the sake of vision; thus they are formed during the period of gestation.

However, the fearful natural philosopher of the goal insists that only the first half of the proposition is true: an animal sees because it has eyes, but eyes do not exist so that it may see; it butts because it has horns, but horns do not exist so that it can defend itself and butt. This is an unwarranted anthropomorphism. Teleology is a distortion and corruption of the causal, i.e., the true view of nature; it turns things upside down. Thus, alongside the ancient Lucretius, our materially mechanical natural philosophers still judge.

But they should subsequently say the following: the bull does not butt in order to overcome its opponent, but because it butts, the other falls to the ground; the spider does not weave its web in order to catch flies, but because there exists a web, flies cling to it, and because there exist the spider's predatory organs, the fly gets caught in them, and since it has come to this, it is further conveyed inside and digested; at this point, there is no mention of goals, only of causal connections. And if this is true in relation to the spider, they should say, thinking the matter through to the end, then the same holds true in relation to man: he too weaves nets not in order to catch fish, but because his hands move this way, the yarn intertwines into a net, and because the net stretches in the water, it pulls out the fish.

Yet here, perhaps even the fearful physicist will find the matter too strange. He will say: no, in man there does indeed exist goal-directed activity; here we have desire and the conception of a goal as the beginning of a series, and therefore the causal series is here at the same time a series of purpose.

Very well, let us accept for the time being that this is so. But in that case, should not the same also apply to the spider? The materialistic philosopher insists in other cases so resolutely that man is a member of the animal series. Why change one's stance here? What is lacking in the spider for us to view its life activity differently? Desires and conceptions of goals? Well, hardly desires; then one would have to deny it altogether its inner life. Therefore, it lacks the conception, the foresight of the outcome. And so, then, its action lacks the character of goal-directed activity? It would have the latter only if it were to previously reflect and say to itself: life consists in the exchange of substances, it therefore requires the replenishment of expended substance through nourishment; flies serve as a means of nourishment, and webs as a means to catch flies? But it is clear that under such conditions, only a negligible part of human activity could be considered purposeful. The fisherman knows about the exchange of substances, about the necessity of replenishment and the suitability of one or another substance for this goal hardly any more than the spider does. What, therefore, should we conclude: that here too the purposefulness does not extend further; weaving nets and catching fish are purposeful activities; however, in the chewing, swallowing, and digesting, there can be no further talk of purpose; here we deal exclusively with causal series, and not with teleological ones? Only for the physiologist, who has a conception of the very process in chewing and digesting, does the matter become goal-directed activity? I think that such a division of human life processes into purposeful and idle, into those in which causality and purposefulness occur, and those in which only causality occurs, is exceedingly absurd.

Now, if it is true of man that his entire life must be understood as a teleological process, even in cases where the goal and intermediary actions do not fall within the realm of conception, the same will hold true for the animal kingdom. And if goal-directed will be those activities aimed at preserving one’s own life, then no less goal-directed will also be those directed at preserving the species, as an objective goal—such as building nests, laying eggs, incubating, and nourishing offspring, and all that pertains to this. Consequently, one cannot look at the development and formation of organs in any other light.

Indeed, one cannot deny one without also denying the other; it is impossible to view human activities as purposeful without allowing the same for animal activities; and it is again impossible to grant this for so-called animal or spontaneous activities without allowing it for plant processes, which not only serve as an essential assumption of the former but also cannot be entirely separated from them; indeed, these two forms of life processes everywhere transition into one another. And again, if one grants a teleological perspective for plant phenomena in the animal world, one cannot but grant it for the plant world as well: for these are all the same phenomena.

However, given that the matter has advanced this far, it will be difficult to halt at this point. Living beings did not simply drop into this world from some external realm; they are the legitimate offspring of it. They formed from the very elements that constitute the body of the earth; they emerged under the influence of the overarching cosmic telluric conditions. These fish could only have arisen in this sea, and this animal kingdom could only have developed on this earth and beneath this sun. The collective activity of all things was necessary to give rise to this living world. “This animal kingdom,” as von Baer observes, “cannot exist without the plant kingdom, and the latter, in turn, cannot exist unless the rocky foundation of the earth is transformed on its surface into more loamy soil, thanks to physical and chemical interactions; furthermore, it is assumed that this soil is moistened from time to time by rain, which can only fall if the water is first absorbed by the air, rises, and then, due to a change in temperature, is released once again; water, in turn, cannot rise unless the earth is illuminated and warmed by the sun: thus, for the most insignificant blade of grass, the entire planetary system with its order and movement, its natural laws, is indeed necessary.” As the poet, who is imbued like no other with the unity of nature—Goethe—declares:

Each speck of dust, even the barren stone,
Must act according to its own law
For the great whole of the universe.

Thus, once we accept teleology at one point, it extends across all nature. It would be an act of willfulness to insist that man is merely a part of the universal order of nature, that he does not form an exceptional domain, a state within a state; on the other hand, it would be equally inappropriate to protest against any contemplation of nature from the standpoint of purposiveness as an utterly inadmissible anthropomorphic understanding of nature. If nature acts anthropomorphically in one instance—which cannot be denied—then it is unclear why something similar should be so categorically excluded in other cases.

But, the fearful natural philosopher argues, outside the organic world, there is a principle absent without which there can be no discourse of any purpose—namely, the absence of inner life and will.

Here we find ourselves at the very source of resistance to the teleological perspective of nature: this materialistic interpretation of nature as a mere aggregation of dead atoms, moving according to mechanical laws. In this assumption, old teleology of intentions is in complete agreement with the mechanical theory; it too posits nature as a mass of lifeless, inert matter. However, it adds that it is precisely for this reason that nature could never have organized itself into the order in which we find it; thus, it is necessary to posit alongside nature a reason that has arranged this matter according to its intentions. Against this supposition, the theoretical conscience of the natural scientist revolts: we know nothing of such internal interference by some spirit, and it would explain nothing to us; it is merely a simple asylum of ignorance. Thus far, the natural scientist is correct. Yet now we see them proceed further, entirely denying purposive causes, even in the organic world. But here they again encounter the absurd consequences previously pointed out; and to this, teleology of intentions reattaches itself. Thus, they spin in a circle to infinity.

The only way out of this labyrinth, as far as I can see, lies in abandoning the assumption that nature consists of dead matter; we must take a stand on the developed ontological theory of parallelism mentioned earlier (p. 83 and following): to the extent that the physical world extends, so too does the inner world, the world of will. Then it can be said: in the physical world, strictly speaking, only physical causation prevails; in the accompanying inner world, purposiveness simultaneously reigns everywhere. The mechanical natural philosophy is correct: all natural phenomena, including the natural phenomena of life, can be explained purely physically—there is no interference from any rational cause. Yet Spinoza is also right: all physical phenomena are indications of accompanying inner phenomena, and between these latter, there exists a teleological connection.

In relation to this inner life, whose phenomena are the physical processes, we may attribute a teleological character to the latter as well. Let us take an example. A physicist explains to us the functioning of an organ; everything occurs quite mechanically: here are pipes constructed in this way and that, here is compressed air; this valve opens, air rushes into the pipe, and induces vibrations in this column of air. Then a physiologist approaches and demonstrates to us the organist in precisely the same manner: here we have the brain and nervous system arranged in this way; through the eye, these irritations originating from the notes and keyboard pass through here; acting as purely physical causes, they elicit a reaction: fingers press the keys in a certain sequence. This is the physical side of the matter. But there is also another side: the sensations of sight and hearing, the enjoyment of sounds and melodies. This series has an internal, teleological connection among its components. Indeed, this aspect is the essential side of the matter, while the process occurring in the organist's nervous system is merely its external manifestation. Thus, speaking in a condensed yet permissible language, we also designate as purposive activities those physical phenomena wherein internal life phenomena manifest, such as playing the organ and writing notes, weaving nets, and fishing. Therefore, we attribute purposiveness to organic life not because it is constructed externally by some thinking being, but because it is a phenomenon of inner life unfolding due to an inner necessity. The purposiveness evident in bodily life reflects the true purposiveness of inner life.

And this relationship—thus we would now continue, assuming the validity of our ontological perspective expounded above—is not incidental and singular, but absolutely universal; not only certain few phenomena in nature, such as the so-called voluntary movements of animals, but all phenomena of movement in general are accompanied by inner phenomena akin to those we experience within ourselves. Will—so we might, as we would think, say along with Schopenhauer—is that which manifests itself in all physical phenomena, in the life processes of animals and plants, as well as in the movements of inorganic bodies; not the will as ours, illuminated by the representation, but nonetheless will in the most general sense, encompassing both blind impulses and desires devoid of representation. If this is an acceptable notion, then all natural phenomena, inasmuch as they are manifestations of will, must also exhibit the characteristics of will—purposiveness. And since the volitional unities of a lower order are enveloped in a single higher and ultimate unity of will, nature must be viewed as a manifestation of one unified purposive system. The life of God would then serve as the site of all purposes; in it, each element of reality would be supplied with rational necessity, and its self-actualization, or entelechy, would be the foundation and aim of all things.

Indeed, one must hastily add, we cannot complete this contemplation; we are unable to conceive of the entirety of reality from its internal perspective. Our cognition is directed primarily towards its external aspect. This is why, in our science, causal understanding holds such a strong predominance. Teleological interpretation is scarcely more than a postulate or an uncertain possibility; we calculate the movements of planets, yet our ears do not perceive the harmonies of the spheres. The endeavor to comprehend the order of nature through its purpose leads us only to an awareness of our incapacity to penetrate the phenomenon and discern its meaning. Thus, natural science has acted rightly in confining itself to a purely causal contemplation. It errs only in placing the impossibility of teleological explanation within the object rather than the subject—by asserting that nature lacks purpose and meaning, rather than acknowledging that the purpose of nature transcends our knowledge.

K.von Baer, in the aforementioned articles, posits that the naturalist must address three questions: What or how? By what means? For what purpose or to what end? From my perspective, I do not reproach the naturalist, as such, for omitting the latter question, believing that by describing facts and elucidating their causal connections, he has fulfilled his task. However, as a human being, he inevitably poses the third question: For what purpose? In our own lives, we encounter the category of questions regarding purpose or end, and it is unavoidable that we impose this category upon the nature surrounding us. In fact, everyone introduces a teleological connection into the phenomena of life; no one remains content to regard all phenomena in animal life as equally real and equally significant components of a causal chain. Rather, everyone identifies certain members of that chain as distinct apexes around which all others group in a purpose-driven connection. An insect undergoes a series of developmental stages: it emerges as an egg, larva, pupa, and butterfly, only to begin this cycle anew from the egg. We assert that the butterfly represents the highest point in this development, with the other forms of existence constituting mere preliminary stages, necessary prerequisites for it. In precisely the same manner, had we the capacity to fully survey the development of the planetary or solar system, we would similarly distinguish in it a highest point, understood as a goal. Yet, of course, this cannot be proven. The stages of an insect's life are equally real; the butterfly is as much a condition for the emergence of the egg as the egg is a condition for the emergence of the butterfly. One who finds the egg or larva more beautiful and significant than the butterfly cannot be refuted. Even if someone were to assert that the pile of manure produced by an animal during its lifetime, and augmented at the end by its carcass, represents the goal intended by its life, that person too could not be disproven. A man who has become wealthy from the trade in guano might not find this perspective overly absurd; indeed, the belief that the trees of the primordial world grew to eventually furnish us with coal is a common viewpoint. But the same holds true for the life of a person or a people: whoever perceives sensory stimulation and other sensual pleasures as the highest essence of life cannot be disproven; and if someone were entirely incapable of discerning the value of various life activities, finding all equally important or insignificant, he could not be compelled to possess this ability through argumentation. Thus, we find ourselves, in the end, not dealing with objective knowledge, but rather with distinctions based on subjective feelings regarding certain elements over others. Whoever lacked the faculties of will and feeling, and therefore could not comprehend them, who was merely pure reason, would, of course, be incapable of arriving at a teleological contemplation or acquiring the capacity to understand it. For him, all would be equally important, or unimportant, or rather—truly neither important nor unimportant, but simply real. All properties ascribed to things, expressing relationships of value, would be entirely incomprehensible to him.

In a certain sense, the naturalist abstracts himself into this pure reason, and he must do so in order to remain faithful to his task: the pure depiction of causal relationships. He must not think that the perfection of the naturalist, as such, expressed in complete detachment from sympathies and antipathies, also constitutes the perfection of man, as such. For man, as such, the ability to perceive and understand differences in worth, the capacity to distinguish and feel the good from the bad, the beautiful from the ugly, the great from the small, holds essential significance. The loss of this ability would equate to the loss of personality itself. Pure abstraction—reason—does not constitute humanity.

The own form of representation of this second, aesthetic-teleological understanding of reality is embodied in art and poetry. Their true role consists in marking and amplifying certain traits, thereby revealing and making accessible the understanding of the meaning of natural existence or spiritual-historical development. The essence of both religion and science lies in the interpretation of the value of reality, and thus the former is closely intertwined with art and poetry, as anthropology demonstrates everywhere. Poetic-religious interpretation and scientific explanation form a dichotomy, yet one that does not exclude the other. The latter appeals to reason, aiming to subsume reality under general concepts and formulas, disregarding subjective differences in value. The former, on the other hand, appeals to the faculties of will and feeling, seeking to bring to consciousness the relationships of value, initially in human life, and subsequently in reality as a whole; it aims to reveal the purposes and ideals that serve as scales guiding judgments of value, as motives directing the will, and as the content that fulfills the soul with happiness. This distinction in task does not point to a hostile opposition, but rather to a peaceful mutual complementarity.

Here we encounter what A. Lange expresses in the concluding chapter of "The History of Materialism" regarding the permissible and inevitable idealization of reality. It is not about fabricating something for oneself and, as it were, slandering reality. The art of ignoring what is and perceiving what is not, however frequent this may occur—especially among politicians and legislators, both secular and ecclesiastical—cannot be regarded as one of humanity's perfections. Rather, for a person, since he possesses not only a head but also a heart, it is inevitable that he relates to reality by choosing and evaluating, and then in what he has chosen, he perceives the essential and truly real. Thus, we relate to the conception of a certain personality; our hearts suggest to us what it is in its true essence; thus, we relate to a people, and thus we relate to things in general. We idealize them, allowing love to select the traits by which we define their essence. This essence, or inner form, is for us, speaking with Aristotle, at once both the purpose and the driving cause of existence and activity; it moves us by evoking a yearning for itself (κινεί ως ερώμενον).