BACCALAUREATE 2004
Baccalaureate Address by Jaroslav
Pelikan, Sterling Professor Emeritus of History at Yale;
Visiting
Scholar at Annenberg School for Communication,
May 16, 2004. This is the second of two he gave that
day; click here for the first
one.
Morals
Without Laws are Unstable
Madam President,
colleagues, fellow members of the Class of 2004. At the
first of these baccalaureate
ceremonies I took as my text the motto of the University
of Pennsylvania, which appears in Latin on the diplomas
being awarded tomorrow: "Leges sine moribus vanae, Laws
without morals are useless." I do not take back a single
word of that when I propose in this second baccalaureate
to invert that into my own Latin formulation, "Mores
sine legibus vagi, Morals without laws are unstable." For
as I did say, the truth of the University's motto is a
dialectical truth. P.S. so are most others.
In spite of the image of
the moral hero who does not need laws and rules but lives
openly
and spontaneously, all of us know that most of the time
for most people the moral life is in fact quite unheroic,
even routine. Siegfried, the bumptious young hero of Wagner's Ring,
whom we saw and heard again last month at the Met, may
have opened each morning with "Zu neuen Taten! Upward
and onward to new deeds!" regardless of how those
turned out to be. But on most mornings the stuff of the
moral
life must be very old deeds, the little courtesies and
small tasks that keep our lives, our marriages, our communities,
yes and our universities from unraveling; and these are
the business of law. Just how important those are, will
become immediately evident when someone neglects to observe
them, the only reason the heroic morality can be free to
improvise is that law is still there keeping the hearth.
The hero's disdain for rules and laws can
in fact easily become a cover for the altogether immoral
distortion of freedom into what Immanuel Kant called "the
radical evil that corrupts all maxims." For when we are
honest with ourselves and about ourselves, we all know
just how clever and devious we are capable of being when
we manipulate others for our own aggrandizement while meanwhile
construing our actions, though not theirs, as a generous
concern for their welfare, you will thank me some
day. If you have never acted this way or don't admit that
you have, then you have the benefit of great literature
to provide you with cautionary tales. For me as a scholar
and an intellectual, the two characters from literature
who have served as such cautionary tales--from the only
modern books that I have read every year since my teens--are
Goethe's Doktor Faust and Dostoevesky's Ivan
Karamazov. Faust is the highpriest of German Wissenschaft, who
has worked his way through all four faculties of the medieval
university and still is thirsting for knowledge and wisdom.
But by the time Goethe has probed the depths of Fausts's
devious heart, we see that behind the thirst for knowledge
is a lust for power that is prepared to bargain away his
soul to gain dominance. And Ivan Karamazov is the clever
debater, quick to use his rhetorical skills to mock the
conventions of the Orthodox church. But by the time the
root causes of his father's murder have been fully exposed,
and above all when in the Legend of the Grand Inquisitor,
Ivan takes us into the barren nihilistic moonscape that
he inhabits, we recognize the full effects of that mockery,
in what must be the most chilling credo, or "non-credo" in
all literature Ivan's words: "If there is no God, anything
is permitted!".
For it is the function of the leges in
relation to the mores to provide and to define the
minimum without which civil society cannot function. We
all look back with admiration and respect to the moral
achievement of Mahatma Gandhi, who used the tactics of
nonviolence as a weapon against oppression and who brought
down the British Empire. But the question is by no means
irrelevant: Just how would that nonviolence have worked
in a country ruled by Joseph Stalin or Adolph Hitler? For
in a profound sense it was the British system of leges and
the British sense of fair play, that permitted the Gandhian
morality to work. Moral heros come and go, and thank God
they do often arrive on the scene just when they are needed.
But we have no guarantee that they will, and in many times
of crisis they have not. Meanwhile we need to build our
plans and hopes on laws--laws as wise as serious men and
women can make them. Laws as flexible as the circumstances
of human society require and the exigencies of human history
permit, but as stable as good legislation and constant
enforcement can devise. The repeated tendency of some brands
of Christian morality and other liberal sentimentalities
to shun laws as "useless, vanae"--has just as repeatedly
needed the correction of the Jewish devotion to Torah to
rescue it from moral chaos.
For the alternative
to chaos is order. When people ask me after all these
years of historical study--I
set out to win this hood at the University of Chicago 60
years ago this summer in 1944--whether I have ever discovered
any lessons of history, I usually take a deep breath and
change the subject. But one such generalization I do permit
myself: when people are confronted by what they perceive,
correctly or incorrectly, to be a choice between order
and freedom, they will more often than not choose order;
for if you have order without freedom you always have a
chance to regain freedom, and if you have freedom without
order all you have is chaos. The endemic distrust of institutions
that underlies the privileging of morals over leges
rests on the assumption--from Rousseau--that although the
natural human condition is to be free and to express that
freedom in an unfettered moral life, the chains of structure
and tradition have replaced the original freedom: if we
can only break the chains, we will find authenticity, President
Rodin quoted Nitezsche. My favorite quotation from Nietzsche, "Advice
to a young revolutionary, be careful you are not crushed
by a falling statue." Because what replaces the tyranny
of tradition is what Lord Acton once called the tyranny
of the air we breathe." Structure and tradition are
not the natural enemies of moral spontaneity, but the natural
framework within which that spontaneity can be free to
breathe.
Doubly is
this true when the issue is moral continuity and its
transmission from one generation to
the next. As your parents and grandparents gather over
this grand weekend to celebrate your achievements and to
take a measure of justifiable pride in them, and as you
use this as an opportunity to thank them again for the
love and the sacrifice that have made it all possible,
do please thank them, too not only for the tuition payments
but for the inspiration and moral example they have been.
Through the recent research of psychologists, including
my sometime Yale colleague in psychology Professor Judith
Rodin, what ever happened to her? We are better informed
than we have ever been before about the mysterious relation
between nature and nurture, and in Judy's case it is nurture
also in the literal sense, though much of the mystery remains.
Within the mystery of nurture, we also understand as least
something about the distinction between what is taught
and what is caught: laws, are taught, in school, in church,
and synagogue, and above all in the home; morals have to
be caught in all those same places, and they are caught
best in an atmosphere where the laws are being taught.
As one colleague
and Plato scholar put it after a lifetime of teaching
undergraduates "there is one
thing a professor can be absolutely certain of:
almost every student entering the university believes,
or says he believes, that truth is relative." In
such a relativistic atmosphere, it does little good to
say that "laws without morals are useless," because both
laws and morals have melted into the universal solvent.
This Republic was founded, eleven score and eight years
ago in this very city, not by those who had come to the
conclusion that nothing is absolutely certain except that
nothing is absolutely certain, but by those who felt able
to ground their Declaration in the declaration: "We hold
these truths to be self-evident." Of course they knew,
as thoughtful people have always known, that there are
wide divergences between cultures in how they define both
laws and morals, but they strove to find a law beyond and
beneath the laws and the morality. Whether you should drive
a car on the left side of the road or the right side of
the road can be a matter of life and death, as some of
us have discovered in the United Kingdom; but no one would
claim that the American system or the British system is
determined by natural law, it is a question of cultural
difference. What is determined by natural law as a self-evident
truth, is that in a particular place everyone should drive
on the same side (except, or course in Italy!).
Through much
of the history of the relation between law and morality,
therefore, it has not been a
play on words, but profound metaphysical insight, that
the word "natural law" means both this law behind
laws and the structure of the universe, the law of gravity
for
example. The ultimate function of the laws by which our
individual and collective lives are regulated is to relate
us to an order of reality beyond ourselves, what the Greeks
called the "music of the spheres." And I come
to believe that whenever I listen to the Bach B-Minor Mass or
the "Ave verum corpus" of Mozart or the final
string quartets of Beethoven or when you hear in a moment
the Brahms played
on brass. The ultimate purpose of law therefore is not
merely to make us to behave ourselves, but to give us an
occasional glimpse of the world as Kosmos,
a world of sublime beauty, dynamic balance and ultimate
dynamic
order.
The realm of music is also a source for my
favorite way of talking about mores and leges.
The string quartet, is defined by strict laws and I don't
care how creative you are as a composer you have to stick
to those laws. Beethoven did and look what happened. And
even Stravinsky had to. Or to revert once more time to
Richard Wagner, whose music intoxicates me even as his
ideology disgusts me: Die Meistersinger, the most
accessible of all his operas, is the story of the young
Walther who has learned to sing from the birds and who,
to win the hand of his beloved Eva, has to compose a song
that meets all of the stuffy old rules of all of the old
master singers. And when he finally does so in the glorious
Morgenlicht, he then says "and I want to be saved without
a Master's degree!" To which Hans Sachs replies, "Do
not, I say, despise the masters, but honor their art," for
it is in the art defined by their leges that you
will find the spontaneity you seek."
Yes the University
should not change it's
motto, "leges sine moribus vanae" and therefore--not
nevertheless, but therefore--morals without laws are unstable."
What therefore God has joined together, let
not man put asunder.