The former Professor of philosophy at Birkbeck and founder of the New College for the Humanities, A.C. Grayling, recently wrote an article in the Guardian on the topic of Humanism. The article trod a well torn path that is becoming familiar in public discourse, taking up a position, alongside his New College chum Richard Dawkins, against religion: ‘(Religions) create division and conflict, they impose unliveable moralities of denial and limitation and they demand that we think of our ancestors did, thousands of years ago.’ I am not particularly interested in his arguments about religion; they are, as demonstrated in the example above, rather facile, glib generalities that a Professor of Philosophy shouldn’t find particularly remarkable or fascinating. It is Grayling’s Humanism that is intrigues and troubles me. It is a sign of intellectual malaise that such ideas hold such credence, and they need to be challenged. Humanism is not an inherently ‘Bad Idea’, but it becomes an intellectual crutch on which critical thought can rest easily; Humanism, specifically the version outlined by Grayling in his article, leads us up the garden path to be screw us just as religion has done before, albeit a little more gently and rationally.
Humanism, the article suggests, is a supplement for religion, something which can take its place in our apparently post-religious modern existence. ‘The cry raised by defenders of religion is: but what would you put in its place as a view of the world by which we can live? The answer is: something far better, deeper, kinder and warmer – and far more rational – namely, humanism’ Grayling’s point here seems so commonsensical that it is almost impossible to disagree with. He makes himself appear so reasonable that even the most ardent extremists will soon be taking out loans to pay their fees at the New College. The first problem that we might ask Grayling is obvious – why do we need something to take the place of religion at all? If we no longer need religion, why do we need anything? The content of ‘religion’ may have changed, but the implication of Grayling’s argument is that its formal aspects are indispensable. If its formal aspects are indeed indispensable, this suggests that there is something within the field of religion that we cannot do without (I’m not saying there is, but Grayling doesn’t seem to have countenanced this at all). This leads to a further problem – Grayling leads us to the brilliance of humanism precisely because he knows what religion is. One only needs to note the line I quoted at the beginning of this to see that Grayling feels he has the measure of religion. Yet more telling is the way he uses comparative adjectives before introducing dramatically unveiling humanism. It is ‘better, deeper, kinder and warmer.’ Grayling lets such words stand for themselves, as though it is self-evident that religion lacks these things. This is a clear example of the way Grayling’s rhetoric betrays the paucity of his thought. What do these words mean? They are certainly not meaningless, but it is not enough to assume that we know what Grayling is talking about.
Indeed, the use of these words not only demonstrates the lack of critical awareness in Grayling’s philosophy, but it is an expression of the very humanism he espouses. The comparative words he uses here are supposedly ‘human’ words. Grayling expects us to understand them precisely because to do so is to belong to the ‘human community.’ One should simply know what such things are, just as one simply ‘knows’ what it is to be a human. The problem with this is that Grayling sets himself up as an arbiter of what is human. Our ability to understand and recognise what he means is a marker of our own humanity. Grayling’s humanity is axiomatic, as is his use of words, as he seems to be capable of having easy access to their meanings.
According to Grayling, furthermore, humanism is adaptable in a way that religion is not. It is valuable and useful precisely because ‘it is not a doctrine or a set of rules; it is a starting point, its founding idea being that ethics must be based on the facts of human experience.’ Exactly what these ‘facts of human experience’ are is not clear. Presumably it is self-evident and can be easily discerned by using our reason. The idea that human experience can be expressed in facts, something that can be taxonomised, delineated and organised reduces it in a way that satisfies the proclivities of a modern empiricist. Human experience becomes something that is simply there, something that can be observed and rationalised: it can be understood, just as we understand the cell structure of a plant or sickle cell anaemia. For Grayling, such a reduction is fantastic, because it subsequently allows us a way of constructing ethical principles that ‘fit’ with the facts of human experience. Not only has he forgotten that you can’t move from an ‘is’ to an ‘ought’, but he has also failed to recognise that one of the facts of human experience is religious experience.
The brilliance of humanism, then, is that it ‘fits’ human life better. It is understanding and flexible in a way that the rigid rules and teachings of religion are not. The crucial point is that it is not focussed on any spiritual or supernatural dimension, but is instead tailor made for what Grayling refers to as ‘the human condition’:
The foundation of a humanist ethic is that it has to start from our best understanding of human nature and the human condition. The “human condition” is somewhat easier to describe than “human nature”, that complex thing which literature, psychology, philosophy and individual experience all struggle to understand. Whereas a study of history and a thoughtful reading of literature together offer abundant insights into the human condition, the sheer diversity in human nature makes the task of understanding it a work that could demand whole lifetimes as we seek to make sense of ourselves and others, especially the others we care about.
Although Grayling writes that it is easier to describe than human nature, it appears that it isn’t actually that easy to define. He never really faces the problem of ‘the human condition’ here, naming it only as some vague complex thing that seems to lie within the endeavours of art and philosophy. It is a lazy phrase that is an ideological backdrop to a form of thought that is incapable or of addressing an existence where ‘meaning’ is nothing more than a vague mirage through which we experience life rather than the thing that allows us to experience ‘life’ at all. It is a phrase that takes its power from its sincerity; it is a vague gesture at profundity that defaces human experience by believing it can speak on behalf of everyone. The ‘human condition’ is not unlike a Platonic Form, a perfected ‘Idea’ of human life to which all our lives are supposed to refer. It is almost religious, and while it may not be supernatural, it is certainly metaphysical. As a result, human experience and human life has a new authority. Yet in attempting to exalt human life, it in fact devalues it.
However, the most troubling aspect of Grayling’s argument comes later. Ideas such as the human condition and human nature may be problematic, and indeed not particularly useful either, yet it is this key assumption of humanism that highlights its dangers philosophically and politically:
An important assumption that humanism makes is that people are, or at least can be, self-creating and self-determining. But, in many cases, the burden of history and society makes self-creation impossible. This certainly happens when people are trapped in a religious tradition which tells them what to think and how to behave, and refuses to allow them freedom.
The assumption that people are ‘self-creating and self-determining’ has grave political implications. What does this mean for those who are living in poverty, for example? Such people clearly cannot be ‘self-creating’ or self-determining, but the implication is that their poverty is of their own making. This is not only true of the poor, but is equally true for anyone chained to their job, trying to provide for their family, trying to pay bills and mortgages. This assumption also has implications for the way that we understand and relate to one another. In the effort to place emphasis on self-determination, the importance of interactivity and interdependence in human society become secondary, always after the fact of human agency. Indeed, this is not to say that humanists, or Grayling himself, would deny the importance of society, but rather that this assumption that lies behind it suggests a specific way of looking at the world that places emphasis on individuals, rather than the systems and structures in which they operate and interact. Indeed, the importance of structure and ideology in human life looks as though it is going to be touched on when Grayling writes of how ‘the burden of history and society makes self-creation impossible.’ This could have been the greatest insight of the article but it is put aside and dismissed. It is telling that this burden is regarded by Grayling as religion itself; his point seems to be that humanistic freedom would be possible if only we could rid ourselves of this illusionistic veil of religion.
It is almost impossible to disagree with humanism. It is designed to be all encompassing, a celebration of humanity – if you are against humanism you are likely to be called a misanthrope, seen as lacking basic compassion and belief in the power of human freedom. Yet because its assumptions are based on human freedom and self-determination – self-determination is an integral part of what it means to be human for a humanist like Grayling – that part of humanity that does not have freedom (isn’t that everyone?) becomes marginalised. Humanist reason either does not have the capacity or else does not have the willingness to approach that which is situated outside of its gaze. Perhaps it is time to go back to the drawing board.
Cryptic Murmurs 