Good Cholesterol and Bad Ethics

Modern medical terminology includes something called HDL, known popularly as “good cholesterol.” It’s not hard to see how HDL earned its nickname. Since it benefits the human body, and since that’s what we like, we call HDL cholesterol “good.” In a sense, we have made an ethical judgment based solely on observation.

Consistently naturalistic thinkers have used this method to decide other ethical questions—to decide all ethical questions, in fact. Naturalistic or scientific ethics involves the claim that moral norms may be deduced wholly from human experience. (Naturalists usually have an aversion to theology or metaphysics.) Detached, objective, scientific consideration of the results that certain actions produce tells us that this action will help the human species, while this one will destroy it. Therefore the first is good and the second is bad.¹

But while naturalism may work well in advertising heart-healthy medication, it fails as an ethical system. For one thing, it is very difficult, perhaps impossible, to empirically establish which actions really do destroy the species. We can’t merely assume agreement on this point. Some naturalists might think that murder and intolerance are destructive, but others, like Stalin, might be inclined to believe that the murder of political dissenters will benefit the spread of their views and is therefore morally justified. Some might even think that an entire race—Jews, let’s say—should be purged from the human gene pool in order to increase the odds for the rest of us. In other words, just like Bentham’s calculations of “the greatest good of the greatest number,” the naturalist’s scientific observations must wrestle with confusing data in the present and myriad consequences down the road. The result is that all our ethical judgments are rendered hazy.

Second, we should note, with the old song, that “it takes two”—two premises, that is, to draw a conclusion. We might grant, for the sake of argument, that it’s possible to empirically establish that murder will lead to the extinction of the species. But for the conclusion “Murder is wrong” to follow, we need another premise: “The human species ought to survive.”

And this brings up the million-dollar question: how do we justify this major premise? Why is the survival of mankind good? Can this be proved by observation? That is, is survival merely a means to another end, or is it intrinsically good and worthwhile?

This question spears naturalistic ethics on the horns of a dilemma. If the desired end is only valuable in relation to yet another end, then we are on the way to an infinite regress. If, on the other hand, the naturalist can point to an intrinsic good (thus avoiding the infinite regress), he must rely on a metaphysical judgment—which undercuts his whole case.

In more concrete language, a machine gun can help defend against the Nazis, but it can also be used to kill Jews; a car can be used to bring wounded people to the hospital, but it can also be used to run them over. The mere fact that we can use a machine gun or car to do certain things tells us nothing about what we ought to do. Similarly, the naturalist can (possibly) tell us which actions will promote the survival of the human species and which will not, but he cannot tell us which course of action we should follow. Murder, rape, and bigotry may be inconvenient for mankind, but we can’t know that they are wrong. Observation cannot prove obligation. The naturalistic ethicist is, as C. S. Lewis put it, “trying to get a conclusion in the imperative mood out of premises in the indicative mood: and though he continue trying to all eternity he cannot succeed, for the thing is impossible.” ²

Mortimer Adler, in Ten Philosophical Mistakes, attempts to construct a similar ethic without recourse to the metaphysical. Realizing that “a prescriptive conclusion cannot be validly drawn from premises that are entirely descriptive,” ³ he adds that “it is possible to combine a prescriptive with a descriptive premise in order cogently to argue for the truth of a prescriptive conclusion” (p. 121).

Unlike the “cholesterol ethic” examined above, Adler’s main focus is on the individual. The “good” is related to what we truly need, not necessarily what is likely to promote the survival of the species:

Whatever we need is really good for us. There are no wrong needs. We never need anything to an excess that is really bad for us. The needs that are inherent in our nature are all right desires. We can say, therefore, that a prescriptive judgment has practical truth if it expresses a desire for a good that we need.…

[R]eal goods are the things all of us by nature need, whether or not we consciously desire them as the objects of our acquired wants. Sometimes, as in the case of our biological needs, such as hunger and thirst, our deprivation of the goods needed carries with it pains that drive us consciously to want the food and drink we need…[But] the need exists whether or not we are conscious of it and actually want what we need (pp. 124-125).

With this material laid down, Adler tells us his first principle of moral philosophy: “We ought to desire whatever is really good for us and nothing else” (p. 125, italics his). He had previously remarked (p. 121) that the prescriptive premise on which morality is to be built must be self-evident, since otherwise we would have to argue for it. Now he defends the self-evident nature of his premise by saying that “it is impossible for us to think that we ought to desire what is really bad for us, or ought not to desire what is really good for us. The very understanding of the ‘really good’ carries with it the prescriptive note that we ‘ought to desire’ it” (p. 126).

But that is just the problem. Because the “really good” carries with it a moral obligation, Adler begs the question by assuming that there is such a thing as the “really good.” The skeptical David Hume, against whom Adler has been arguing, may reply to Adler’s moral principle by denying that the fulfillment of our needs is “really good” at all. In fact, Adler’s premise is merely a different form of the naturalistic fallacy: the fulfillment of our needs is only good if these needs ought to be fulfilled. The question of what the ought is can’t be defined away.

Another problem with Adler’s theory is that it leaves us without a way to arbitrate between conflicting needs or between conflicting means of achieving the fulfillment of those needs. Suppose I am dying of thirst, and the only source of water within reach is guarded by a man who swears to defend it to the death. Suppose, further, that I have a gun in my hand. Now, if the need for drink is a real good, and I ought to seek this good (remember, it is impossible to think that we ought to desire what is really bad for us—such as thirst), am I not justified in killing this man in order to fulfill my need? Who is to say whether his need to live is greater than mine? Adler later dogmatically asserts that “all real goods are not equally good” (p. 127). True enough. But how does this mere assertion rescue Adler’s moral philosophy from subjectivism?

There is a sense, however, in which Adler’s theory is not wrong, only incomplete. The Christian agrees that we are never obligated to choose what is really bad for us, but he sets this statement against the backdrop of eternity. From a temporal perspective, many Christians have chosen the evils of hunger, thirst, shipwreck, torture, and even death rather than deny the faith. They have done this because their standard of right and wrong consists of the commands of God revealed in biblical revelation. Something is right or wrong as God says it is, and apostasy is wrong. The inconvenience or painfulness of avoiding apostasy does not change this fact. But the Christian also knows that this choice, though sometimes involving the rejection of earthly goods, embraces the eternal good of the soul—and that the consequences of apostasy are far worse.

Adler and the naturalists, of course, have barred themselves from using this unproved, “religious” premise. They have tried, through autonomous human reason, to formulate an ethical theory that will avoid relativism and nihilism while maintaining independence from biblical revelation. It hasn’t worked. Their philosophy is based on the rudiments of the world, and not of Christ; they have rejected the Word of Him in whom all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge are hid (Colossians 2:3). Hence it’s no surprise that they have constructed, instead of the towering fortress of reason, a philosophical house of cards.

¹This system of ethics is a subset of what’s called teleological ethics because it focuses on the effectiveness of certain actions in producing certain results. There are various forms of teleological ethics—e.g., Bentham’s utilitarianism, James’s pragmatism, Dewey’s instrumentalism—but this article will only deal with two.

²C. S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man (New York: Macmillan, 1955), pp. 43-44. The fallacy Lewis points out is usually termed the naturalistic fallacy.

³Mortimer J. Adler, Ten Philosophical Mistakes (New York: Macmillan, 1985), p. 118. It should be noted that Adler was not a materialist or a naturalist. Nevertheless, his reasoning is similar since he insists that moral arguments must rest on premises that are either self-evident or empirical.

Christopher Alexion is a homeschooled high school senior with interests in a Calvinistic view of apologetics, philosophy, and politics. He pursues these interests through writing, and several of his articles have appeared on the Internet. When not immersed in an essay or good book, however, he can often be found listening to secular music (from the Baroque era), working on projects around the house, and—though not often enough—playing baseball. He lives in New Castle, Delaware.