Crisis and Its Resolution

Politics and Ethics in 20th Century Philosophy

In the 20th century, there were attempts to revive political metaphysics, as seen in the case of Carl Schmitt (1888—1985). Schmitt attributed to Aurelius Augustine the words that he did not express in this form: plena securitas in hac vita non expectanda—one should not expect complete security in this life. In such a formulation, the words that continue the evangelical warning that the world and security do not await Christians acquire a sharp political significance. Now, the discourse shifted from the order of the Christian community to the security of the entire world: the epidemics, famines, diseases, and sorrows that may befall Christians could, at any moment, taint the whole world, with its fields and rivers.

We can recall an example from the history of art. In the Palazzo Pubblico (the palace of the city assembly) in Siena, on the frescoes by Ambrogio Lorenzetti (completed in 1339), we see Security, Securitas, an allegorical figure of a girl holding a gallows with a hanged man in her palm—for only when civil peace is established, and the instigators of unrest have been executed at the behest of their fellow citizens, can the city consider itself not in a shameful position. Then, the city can engage with other cities without embarrassment, venture into the fields, and send workers into the forests, unperturbed by either fate or divine wrath.

Such a perspective was outlined, for example, by Thomas Aquinas, who stated in his Commentaries on the Book of Job that "in this life, one should not expect the punishment of sinners and the reward of the righteous"—the righteous Job suffers right before our eyes. If a true righteous person is possible, it is only because he shames the world in which righteousness has become undesirable. For Aquinas, fate is the very postponement of divine judgment, whereas shame is the voice of God addressing humanity.

Carl Schmitt lived in an era when the primary concept of moral philosophy became not shame, but conscience. Therefore, for him, the Last Judgment is not postponed; rather, it is already underway, and security represents the commencement of the final judgment. It is simultaneously knowable and unknowable: high officials, in caring for security, know what they are doing, yet complete security cannot be achieved. For then, Schmitt argued, the distinction between friend and enemy would vanish, and consequently, politics itself would disappear. In politics, the moment of decision has yet to arrive; each individual still has to make the most significant decision of their life.

A student and a unique follower of Schmitt, Leo Strauss (1899—1973), noted the flaw in such reasoning about politics: officials begin to govern through fear, telling the public whom to heed and whose opinions to disregard, what to fear, and which fears are entirely illusory. Strauss dared to assert that the people, as a subject of political choice, can take risks, just as an individual can risk for the sake of future security. However, while Schmitt considered this risk a courageous act embedded in human nature, Strauss observed that it is merely a calculation—better to expose oneself to danger for a brief time in order to secure long-term safety.

As an illustration, Strauss cited the musings of a Roman general who lamented that if only the Greeks had all become Epicurean philosophers, seekers of pleasure, they would have capitulated to us immediately. This statement from the general implied a choice between two temptations: the temptation of convenience and the temptation of glory. Yet, Strauss no longer perceives this choice; he interprets the general’s position as a moral call to renounce temptations in order to initiate a fatal chain of dependence. Victory determines security, and from security comes comfort. Where for the ancient mind there was the opportunity to demonstrate oneself in glory and triumph, for the modern consciousness, there exists only calculation, in which glory and triumph become merely one of many political levers.

Certainly, classical culture recognized the weakness of will—one may desire to perform a heroic act but may lack the strength to do so. As Medea articulated in Ovid: "I see the better and approve it, but I follow the worse." Hence, calls to action, rhetoric, music, and rewards are necessary to encourage individuals. It is worth noting that we often misunderstand this ancient reasoning. For us, it signifies the triumph of will over reason: no matter how persuasively a person is argued with about the identity of truth and good, about the increase of good in the world through each person’s virtuous life, some passion proves stronger. As soon as it appears with a hint, a wink, the person is already following it. However, the ancient poet meant something different: the vision of the better is indeed tempting, and approval is already a sign of having succumbed to temptation; yet living an ordinary life, waging war, and asserting oneself can only be accomplished by descending into an even worse state, into "the worse," exposing oneself to greater risk for the sake of greater happiness. In Ovid, there is no opposition between weak good and influential evil, but merely an opposition between happy temptations and what we would call the routine of daily life—only in antiquity was there no concept of a neutral everyday environment, only that of "political life" or "the life of a private individual."

From our perspective, Medea, committing a crime, strives to forget that she has done evil—she finds herself in a situation of being abandoned by her husband, facing danger, and allows the fateful act of nature to occur, sparing neither the elderly nor children. However, from the ancient perspective, this is not the case. As a modern researcher of Stoicism, Risto Saarinen summarizes the Stoic position: "Medea knows that murder is evil, and she is factually aware of it. Nevertheless, she consented some time ago to the passion of anger as revenge. In such a situation, the grounds (reasons) for revenge continue to dictate her decision. The result of this prolonged consent is that later judgment and agreement with the assertion 'murder is evil' cannot give her control over her prior consent."

By understanding the Stoic assensus and assentio as "consent," as signing a peculiar contract amid the fog of affections, Saarinen deftly resolves the question of why Medea could not circumvent and overturn her passion even through the most rational reflection; although, in general, the heroines of ancient tragedies were quite prone to reasoning. Life can be imagined as a series of "consents," each opening its own perspective of actions, in which either the rational basis becomes the object of all references, all hints, and everything that the situation suggests; or if the situation is created by another's will, the will of nature, then nature reveals its murderous side. While asserting that reason is a universal object is very difficult and almost impossible for us, with our intellectual habits; Saarinen thus employs synecdoche, naming calculative revenge as one that follows "rational grounds for revenge." For the ancient mind, if the past is tainted, one must contemplate the ruling divine mind, rather than individual grounds for actions.

What is for Aurelius Augustine, just as for Francesco Petrarch and later moralists, lust—a contagious disease—does not contradict the idea that everything is governed by the divine mind. We tend to assume that if lust infects a person, it means they cannot recover their senses; they remain in a trance, inaction, captivated by the illusory charm of their own will. However, for Augustine, as a product of classical culture, it was quite different: by becoming infected with lust, a person exchanges the rational grounds for their actions for volitional decisions.

In this light, lust is not infatuation, as we commonly understand it, but a stubborn refusal to recognize the rational in every action. We have been conditioned to see morality as a volitional suspension of passions. But Augustine, correcting the Stoics, perceives in lust not a moral but a political meaning: the lustful person boycotts and blocks the circumstances around them that could inspire a rational decision. A virtuous person, according to Augustine, is capable, with a simple movement of good will, of restoring political order.

This is why, according to Augustine, one should not expect safety in the present life: not because everyone desires glory and no one particularly desires pleasure, and thus they attack one another. For that very general who lamented that the Greeks, his military adversaries, do not enjoy life, understood perfectly well that pleasure is not a reward for war nor a brief respite before a fatally required battle, but an inevitable temptation of the very order of things. Therefore, Schmitt thought somewhat modernly, believing that security could only be established when everyone has something to lose, because it is part of the order of things to enjoy things. For the ancient mind, things mean nothing without glory; glory can take many forms, not only martial. Thus, grand speeches were necessary in antiquity: to celebrate both war and peaceful life. In contrast, in modern times, glory becomes a private desire, and only a collective "postponement," a joint political action of civil society, can halt the glory-seekers.