A Thinking Reed

Category: Books

  • Toward a non-anthropocentric theology

    Jeremy asked if I’d recommend any books on moving away from an anthropocentric theology. This is a question at the intersection of some perennial ATR themes, so I thought I’d post the answer here. The following list makes no pretense to be either authoritative or exhaustive, but these are some books (in no particular order) that I’ve found helpful:

    Bill McKibben, The Comforting Whirlwind: God, Job, and the Scale of Creation

    H. Paul Santmire, Nature Reborn

    Andrew Linzey, Animal Theology

    Denis Edwards, Ecology at the Heart of Faith

    Jay McDaniel, Of God and Pelicans

    James M. Gustafson, An Examined Faith

    Ian Bradley, God Is Green

    Christopher Southgate, The Groaning of Creation

    Of course, a lot depends here on what we mean by “moving away from anthropocentrism.” But, at a minimum, I think it’s any theology which recognizes that the rest of creation does not exist solely for the sake of human beings and that God’s purposes encompass more than human salvation. The books above range from fairly orthodox to fairly heterodox, and I wouldn’t endorse everything in all of them, but all provide stimulating food for thought. The list doesn’t include any classic sources, which isn’t to deny that there are resources in the tradition for a less anthropocentric theology (Augustine, Anselm, Luther, Calvin, Wesley and others contain material that might be richly mined, it seems to me); neither does the list include much in the way of biblical studies, but that also seems like an important area for thought on this topic.

    p.s. Other recommendations are welcome!

  • Creaturely Theology

    Anyone out there familiar with the anthology Creaturely Theology: God, Humans, and Other Animals edited by Celia Dean-Drummond and David Clough? I’m intrigued, but can’t seem to find much information about it online, and the cost is a bit prohibitive for buying sight unseen.

  • WASM 6: Concluding thoughts

    (See previous posts: 1|2|3|4|5)

    So, what has Linzey accomplished here? What I think his argument does–at least–is shift the burden of proof. Most of us, if we’re being honest, believe that animals suffer and that their suffering matters morally, at least to some degree. Few non-sociopaths think that it’s a matter of sheer moral indifference to, say, run a puppy over with a lawnmower.

    However, even while we admit that animal suffering exists and that it matters morally, we tend to greatly discount it. They’re “just animals” after all. Those much-vaunted differences between us and them justify, even if unconsciously, our disregard for their suffering. This allows us to inflict suffering on them under what are, after all, pretty flimsy pretenses and not to feel too bad about it. What Linzey does, though, is offer reasons not to discount animal suffering, in fact to weigh it more heavily because of the differences we think are so important.

    I wonder, though, if the position Linzey has developed doesn’t still require balancing competing goods, even if the presumption is strongly against inflicting suffering on animals (or taking their lives). What sets this apart from utilitarianism at the end of the day?

    One answer is that, unlike utilitarianism, Linzey’s view doesn’t allow for aggregating goods to justify suffering: I can inflict suffering on another sentient to protect myself from immediate danger, but not to secure some small, less vital good for a larger number of other beings. This is similar to some rights-based views where rights can only be overridden when they clash with other rights. Linzey has shown that animals share with children many of the qualities that call forth greater moral solicitude. But I’m not sure he’s successfully rebutted the “speciesist” presumption that many readers will have. After all, one reason that children call for special moral concern–in addition to their weakness and innocence–is that they are members of the human species. Merely pointing out some of the similarities between animals and children isn’t sufficient to show that there aren’t other morally relevant differences that justify disparate treatment.

    It may be that making a conceptual shift toward respecting animals as ends-in-themselves really does require a thoroughly worked-out theory of rights like Tom Regan‘s (or like Linzey developed in his earlier work). This doesn’t imply that animals have all the same rights as human beings (the dread “moral equivalence”), but that they would have rights relevant to their own interests (not to be subjected to prolonged suffering, e.g.). Regan’s argument, for example, is that animals have rights because they are “subjects of a life,” beings with lives of their own and which, for that reason, shouldn’t be treated merely as means to our ends.

    One of the more valuable lessons from this book, though, is that it pushes us to reconsider the role of the “rational,” autonomous adult human being in our moral thinking. Linzey isn’t the first to do this, but the connections he draws between children and animals highlight themes of interdependence and vulnerability that too often get short shrift in Western moral thought. (Alasdair MacIntyre’s Dependent Rational Animals does something similar from a very different perspective.) The reasons animal suffering matters apply to more than just children: we are all, at some time or another, vulnerable and helpless. A moral theory–or a society–that doesn’t recognize this can hardly be considered adequate or just.

  • WASM 5: sed contra

    (See previous posts: 1|2|3|4)

    In addition to the critique of Peter Singer, Linzey’s final chapter in Why Animal Suffering Matters contains replies to six objections:

    1. The practices of hunting, fur farming, and sealing are relatively trivial and non-controversial compared to issues like animal testing. Linzey acknowledges that practices like animal testing and factory farming deserve as much critical scrutiny as those he has discussed. He points out, however, that hunting, fur farming, and sealing are institutionalized practices that routinize the infliction of animal suffering and therefore deserve sharp critique. Institutions tend to be self-perpetuating, and these ones reinforce the notion that animal suffering is no big deal. Even if the infliction of suffering could be justified occasionally by a utilitarian calculus, Linzey says, it would still be better to proscribe it institutionally, acknowledging that some hard cases may fall afoul of the general rule.

    2. The morality of killing as distinct from causing suffering should be considered. Linzey agrees, as I mentioned in yesterday’s post, that killing animals is a serious moral issue. He notes that if suffering were all that mattered, we could put an end to animal suffering by simply exterminating all animals! Obviously something is wrong with any position that leads to such a conclusion. Killing animals should never be “normal” or accepted; nevertheless, there are times when killing is acceptable (e.g., self-defense), as well as cases where the choice is between prolonged, unrelieved suffering and death. In such cases–where suffering has made life not worth living–death might be preferable. These circumstances are rare, however, and Linzey points out that “killing animals, like killing infants, should arouse a special kind of hesitation and reserve”:

    Who are we, after all, to end their lives and make judgments about their ‘best interests’? If it weren’t for the fact that our very power over these beings necessitates a fundamental responsibility for their welfare, it is surely an area in which we would hardly wish to engage at all. (p. 159)

    3. The arguments have not been based on the rights of animals. Linzey believes that animals have rights, as he’s argued in previous works. However, he’s less certain that any one language of morality (whether it be that of humanitarianism, welfare, justice, or compassion) can encompass all our moral experience. “Rights talk” is valuable in setting definite limits, connected to specific duties, that we may not trespass (at least not without very strong reasons). He notes that some Christians don’t like to speak of rights, but suggests that his concept of “theos-rights” (i.e., the right of God to have his creatures treated with respect) can be acceptable from a theological point of view. In any event, he insists, the “considerations at the heart of this book are complementary to a rights perspective” (p. 162). The duty not to inflict unnecessary suffering can be framed in a rights perspective.

    4. The suffering of animals hasn’t been quantified or subjected to a cost-benefit analysis. Linzey denies that such a quantification or analysis is possible or useful. Utilitarians, he says, devise calculations to trade off suffering against benefits to others. But his position denies that it’s permissible to inflict suffering on one subject for the benefit of another. Practically speaking, there is no limit to the justifications that can be cooked up for inflicting suffering on animals (and other humans, as in the various justifications offered for water-boarding and other forms of torture). “Unfashionable as it may be in a culture that rejects any kind of impermeable moral line, the thesis of this book is that the line should be drawn at the intentional infliction of suffering on innocent and vulnerable subjects” (p. 163).

    5. The argument is implicitly–sometimes explicitly–theological. Linzey pleads guilty to deploying theological arguments. What he calls “the “Christological heart” of the book is that “the crucified Christ is the most accurate picture of God the world has ever seen”:

    The cross does not validate suffering, but the reverse; it is God’s identification with innocent suffering. … Moreover, it is not only an identification with innocent suffering, but also a vindication. For if the cross does provide us with a true picture of what God is like, it follows that God is a redeeming presence in all creaturely experiences of suffering. All innocent suffering will be transformed. (p. 164)

    Even though the churches have often failed to grasp this implication of the gospel, those outside them often have: “the considerations set out in this book ought to commend themselves to those of no faith as well as those of faith, and even those who (often for good reason) are anti-faith. One doesn’t have to be religious to grasp the moral relevance of the considerations–such as consent, innocence, and vulnerability–which are at the core of this book” (p. 164).

    6. Science increasingly shows that the differences between humans and animals aren’t as significant as once thought. Much of Linzey’s argument has been based on the idea that differences between humans and animals (specifically the latter’s inability to provide consent, their innocence, and their vulnerability) should motivate more–not less–moral concern. He agrees that the usual differences between humans and animals (intelligence, susceptibility to suffering, e.g.) are overstated and that new findings may reveal fewer differences in kind than we think. However, he points out that his goal in writing the book was to meet people where they are by showing that merely accepting the case for animal sentience (surely established beyond a reasonable doubt) commits one to moral concern for their suffering and “should result in major changes to the way we treat animals” (p. 165).

    I have some concluding thoughts on the book, but in the interests of keeping posts short, I’ll save those for a separate one.

  • WASM 2: Engaging the powers

    Having established the moral significance of animal suffering, Linzey goes on in chapter 2 to ask why, if the importance of animal suffering is so clear, has it been so often ignored? After all, as Stephen R. L. Clark has pointed out, it’s hard to identify a more obvious moral truism than “Avoid being the cause of unnecessary suffering.”

    What is needed, Linzey says, is to confront “the powers that be,” the patterns of thought and language and the institutionalized practices that make animal suffering virtually invisible. Animals in our society are routinely mis-described (as “dumb brutes,” “beasts,” etc.) and mis-represented (as unthinking organisms that operate entirely by instinct, or that lack any sentience or inner awareness). Our attention is mis-directed, away from animal suffering (often with lofty-sounding pretensions to scientific skepticism), and, perhaps most fundamentally, animals are mis-perceived by us. That is, we see them as parts of a landscape, or as things–commodities that exist solely for human benefit. Actually seeing animals as “subjects of a life” (to use Tom Regan’s term), beings with their own lives and interests, can require a paradigm shift in the way we look at the world (or as Linzey says, a “Eureka!” or “Aha!” experience).

    Linzey points out that these obstacles to seeing the moral significance of animal suffering are institutionally reinforced: “where animal abuse differs from most others is that it is socially legitimised and institutionalised” (p. 57). Drawing on the social criticism of Noam Chomsky, particularly his analysis of the “propaganda system” in democratic societies, Linzey highlights some of the ways in which animal abuse is reinforced and what is required to expose it. This falls under the general heading of “cultivating and institutionalizing critical awareness.” Injustices persist in large part because critical voices are excluded from the debate. In liberal democracies this doesn’t happen through the outright suppression of speech, but from the assumptions and implicit premises embedded in the official and quasi-official organs of information.

    Linzey suggests that discovering and disseminating the truth about animal abuse requires cultivating the just the kind of critical awareness Chomsky recommends. This entails:

    (1) discovering the facts: most, if not all, the information we’re exposed to comes already value-laden or embedded in a particular narrative; disentangling the underlying facts allows us to take a critical stance toward the “official” narrative or interpretation of events.

    (2) retaining the focus on the ethical: moral issues are often smuggled off the public stage by focusing on such supposedly value-free terms as “cost,” “need,” “science,” etc. When moral considerations are allowed to intrude, Linzey says, it’s usually in the form of a particularly vulgar or popularized utilitarianism. Advocates of social change should not let the central moral issues recede from view.

    (3) recognizing the limitations of the media:     the way that controversial issues are presented in the media already presupposes a great deal of background agreement. Anyone who wants to present a genuinely radical alternative to the status quo is required to challenge a great many assumptions taken for granted. The media, particularly the broadcast media, aren’t well-suited to this kind of critical examination. Anyone promoting an unconventional point of view needs to understand this.

    (4) establishing alternative sources of information:     this speaks for itself. The Internet, of course, has made alternative sources of information available on a previously undreamed of scale. Though, there’s no substitute for patient study of more in-depth sources like actual books (you can’t get all your information from blogs and Twitter).

    (5) institutionalizing critical awareness:     just as the moral status quo is supported by its institutionalization, any revision to the status quo requires institutional support. Linzey mentions law-making, consumer choice, and education as institutional channels through which a more enlightened understanding of animal suffering can be expressed and reinforced.

    I think the discussion here is important. It’s often assumed that if people just “see” intellectually the case for better treatment of animals, changes in behavior will follow automatically. But there are powerful forces that militate against such change, from the assumption–shared by nearly everyone around us–that objectively cruel treatment of animals is normal and even “necessary” to the powerful economic interests that stand to lose from any large-scale shift in attitudes. People’s attitudes and behavior are shaped as much, if not more, by the sort of institutional factors Linzey (and Chomsky) identify as by rational argument. Cultivating and institutionalizing a critical awareness of those factors is a necessary condition for any significant change.

    One other thing I wish Linzey had touched on is the importance of alternative communities. This is implicit in some of the other points, but could probably benefit from separate treatment. Reality–or at least our understanding of it–is socially constructed and reinforced. We take our cues on how to behave from our social groups. It’s a rare fish who can swim against the stream her whole life. Thus, any sustainable social change is going to require ways of living together that reinforce values that differ from the mainstream values that are the object of critique.

    While I’m wary of some of the more extreme claims made on behalf of the church as a “counterculture” or a “polis” unto itself, I do think churches (along with other intentional communities, religious or not) can be places where people learn a different way of living, one based on values of gentleness, peace, and compassion, which should surely include changes in the way we treat our animal cousins.

  • WASM 1: The difference that difference makes

    In chapter 1 of Why Animal Suffering Matters, Linzey identifies several differences between humans and non-human animals that are typically offered as justifications for disregarding the interests of animals. In a neat twist, though, he aims to show that, properly understood, they call for a greater consideration of animal interests.

    Animals as natural slaves: Aristotle and St. Thomas contend that “brute” creatures are naturally made for the use of human beings. Linzey counters that Aristotle confuses a natural hierarchy with a moral one and St. Thomas’s account of power is insufficiently Christian. Christianity portrays a God who sacrificies himself for his creation – the “higher” for the “lower.” Being “higher” on the scale doesn’t give you unlimited rights over the “lower.”

    Animals as non-rational: The suffering of rational creatures is held to be more morally significant than that of non-rational ones. Humans experience existential dread, foreboding, and a sense of their own mortality, for example. But this can cut both ways: a human prisoner may be able to understand his plight and devise some comforts, but an imprisoned animal will be unable to understand what’s going on, heightening its terror and suffering.

    Animals as non-linguistic: Animals lack language–at least a language we can understand. But this implies that they lack the ability to represent their interests to us or to consent to things being done to them. This increases rather than decreases the burden of proceeding cautiously in our treatment of them.

    Animals as non-moral: Animals are not moral agents, at least not in the full-fledged sense that (most) humans are. But this means that they are morally innocent and cannot deserve to have suffering inflicted on them, much less benefit morally from any such pain, as humans might sometimes be thought to.

    Animals as soulless: Animals are frequently taken to lack an immortal soul that can survive death. But, if anything, this implies that it’s worse to treat them badly since they can’t receive recompense in the afterlife for their suffering. Linzey quotes C.S. Lewis’s essay on vivisection: “animals cannot deserve pain, nor profit morally by the discipline of pain, nor be recompensed by happiness in another life for suffering in this. Thus all the factors that render pain more tolerable or make it less than totally evil in the case of human beings will be lacking in the beasts. ‘Soullessness’ in so far as it is relevant to the question at all, is an argument against vivisection” (p. 27).

    Animals as devoid of the divine image: Human beings are said to be the only animals created in the image of God. But Linzey contends that recent OT scholarship shows that this shoud be understood in a “functionalist” sense: human beings are God’s representatives on earth, and their task is to treat creation with loving kindness. Even more, a “Christ-shaped” notion of lordship suggests service to creation, not mastery over it. Thus “dominion” means caring for the rest of creation, including animals.

    Linzey’s analysis yields a reconfigured list of differences that support, rather than undermine, solicitude for animals’ well-being:

    –Animals cannot give or withhold consent

    –Animals cannot represent or vocalize their own interests

    –Animals are morally innocent

    –Animals are vulnerable and relatively defenseless

    Linzey points out that these characterisitics are also shared by very young children, and our general sense is that these characteristics impose greater obligations to look out for children’s interests, not a license to exploit them. He notes that both animals and children are “exceptional cases” that don’t fit comfortably into traditional moral theories. Those theories tend to take rational, adult humans as the paradigm of moral concern and, consequently, are driven to more or less ad hoc measures to make room for children and animals. But the differences between “normal” adult humans on the one hand and children and animals on the other calls for a de-centering of our moral thinking:

    The practical upshot is that we cannot continue to privilege human suffering as if it stands alone as a unique source of moral concern. Some animal-friendly philosophers advance solicitude for animals on the basis that they are, inter alia, like us. But my thesis is that their very alterity in many respects should underpin their moral claim. The usefulness of animals, paradoxically, is that they help us to grapple with the moral relevance (as well as irrelevance) of difference. (p. 37)

    Linzey concludes the chapter with a reflection on a Good Friday sermon by John Henry Newman in which Newman compares the suffering of Christ on the cross to that of an innocent lamb. That suffering–the suffering of one who is completely innocent and vulnerable–ought to call forth our greatest reserves of sympathy and moral concern.

  • Coming attractions

    Last week I received my copy of Andrew Linzey’s new book, Why Animal Suffering Matters. I’ve only just started it, but it looks like Linzey develops in more detail an argument that he’s deployed in some of his other works: the differences between animals and humans, instead of justifying a lower moral status for animals, actually justifiy a radical revision in the way we treat them. This is because those characteristic differences (e.g., moral innocence, relativie helplessness) are such that they call for a response of mercy and compassion on our part. I expect to do some more in-depth blogging on this as time allows.

  • Book recommendation: James Garvey’s Ethics of Climate Change

    During my mini-vacation I read philosopher James Garvey’s book, The Ethics of Climate Change, which I highly recommend. It very lucidly lays out the moral issues and the kinds of responses they call for. I thought his discussion of what we know about the impact of climate change and how we should act in the face of different types and degrees of uncertainty to be particularly persuasive. Prof. Garvey, along with others, blogs here.

  • Cognitive ethology, the Left, faith, and dominion

    A long but worthwhile essay that to some extent recapitulates the argument made by John Gray in Straw Dogs. Gray’s contention was that the secular Left has largely jettisoned the metaphysics of Christianity but held on to its anthropocentric outlook and belief in a progressive history. Echoing Nietzsche, Gray argues that the scientific, secular outlook undermines, instead of underwriting, humanism.

    The author of this essay, Steve Best, maintains that the Left, even while taking pride in its progressive, enlightened, science-informed views, still has largely ignored the “animal question,” i.e., the fact that science increasingly reveals a continuity between human and non-human animals. Instead, progressives still largely hold on to the old, discredited humanism that posits an unbridgeable chasm between us and the rest of creation.

    As a Christian who’s also interested in moving beyond a strictly anthropocentric theology, I come at this from a slightly different angle. On the one hand, the Bible (not to mention simple observation) reveals that we have at least a de facto dominion over the rest of nature: what we do disproportionately affects the rest of the world whether we like it or not. On the other hand, historical Christianity has largely adopted an anthropocentrism that is at odds with the Bible, at least on some readings. For instance, in a brief but interesting book, German theologian Michael Welker argues that a close reading of the opening chapters of Genesis describes a human dominion that privileges human interests but also demands a care for the rest of creation:

    The mandate of dominion aims at nothing less than preserving creation while recognizing and giving pride of place to the interests of human beings. In all the recognizing and privileging of the interests of human beings, the central issue is the preservation of creation in its complex structures of interdependence. The expansion of the human race upon the earth is inseparable from the preservation of the community of solidarity with animals in particular, and inseparable from the caretaking preservation of the community of solidarity with all creatures in general. God judges human beings worthy of this preservation of creation. They are to exercise dominion over creatures by protecting them. Human beings acquire their power and their worth precisely in the process of caretaking. The mandate of dominion according to Genesis 1 means nothing more and nothing less. (Creation and Reality, p. 73, emphasis added)

    Traditionally–and perhaps understandably given humanity’s limited ability to affect the non-human world in the past–Christianity has adopted the view that the rest of the world exists for our sake. There have been debates about whether this is an authentically biblical view or one imported from elsewhere (e.g., classical philosophy). Either way, I believe Christianity has the resources to adapt to new understandings of our place in creation without jettisoning the biblical tradition and the essential tenets of Christian theology.

  • Toward a homophilic Christianity

    This sounds like an intriguing series of books.