Thanks to mizm of the fine blog Left at the Altar for alerting me to this paper by Adam Shriver that makes a case for replacing factory farmed animals with animals genetically engineered to feel less pain. The author cites recent research that seems to show that it’s possible to eliminate, or at least reduce, animals’ capacity for suffering and goes on to argue that, on consequentialist grounds, this could provide a certain technological fix to the moral problem of factory farming.

I have two problems with this piece, a somewhat superficial one and a deeper one. First, even if it is possible to reduce or eliminate the unpleasant sensations associated with pain, there’s still the issue of how factory farming frustrates animals’ natural tendencies toward certain behaviors. A pig wants to get up and move around, and a hen wants to stretch her wings. This is true even if they aren’t in pain per se. Not to mention the various social and other behaviors that are proper to these creatures but which the confined conditions of factory farming prevent them from engaging in. Even if we could genetically engineer away pain, is it possible to engineer away the frustration, boredom, and fear that these animals undoubtedly also experience?

Suppose it is possible, though–is it desirable? This brings me to my more fundamental objection. Even if such a thing was technically feasible, would it be right to engineer animals with such radically different natures that they no longer even wanted to express the patterns of behavior proper to their kind? Granted, we can’t necessarily see natural kinds in quite the same ways that our pre-Darwinian ancestors might have, but isn’t there something monstrous about the prospect of fashioning such unnatural beings? Is our gluttony for flesh so insatiable that there’s no length we won’t go to in order to satisfy it?

In fairness to Shriver, he seems to be an animal advocate, and his argument is motivated in part by a deep pessimism that moral argument will persuade large numbers of people to boycott the products of factory farms. Replacing existing farm animals with ones incapable of suffering is, for him, a second-best option. I’m not sure I share his pessimism, but even if I did, there are some things that we shouldn’t do even if they seem to promise the best available utilitarian outcome. The kind of engineering he envisions would, it seems to me, be the ultimate reduction of animals to commodity status–it would be an explicit affirmation that they are entirely material to be manipulated for our use, rather than creatures with an independent dignity and worth. The result might well turn out to be a case of winning the battle only to lose the war: a society with such a wholly instrumentalist view of non-human life is not likely to learn to restrain itself from running roughshod over creation whenever it feels like it. Is that the kind of society we want? And is it one that can last?

Freddie at the group blog the League of Ordinary Gentleman probes the philosophical underpinnings of vegetarians/vegans and contends that they are insufficiently developed.

I think he’s wrong in suggesting that vegetarians haven’t devled deeply into these issues: there’s quite a vast philosophical literature on the subject that has sprung up in the last 30 years, and there are accounts of why animals matter morally that are as good as any other philosophical theory in ethics. (Which doesn’t mean they’re problem free, of course.) But more to the point, I don’t think you need a fully developed philosophical view to find vegetarianism compelling.

Almost everyone admits, in practice if not theory, that animals can suffer. And nearly everyone admits that it’s a moral truism that you shouldn’t cause unnecessary suffering. From those two simple, commonsense premises, it follows pretty quickly that you shouldn’t cause animals unnecessary suffering.

Throw in a few basic factual premises about the conditions under which animals are raised for food, and I think you arrive in short order at the minimal conclusion that our current system for raising animals for food (and probably most other feasible systems) is morally objectionable to say the least.

None of this requires you to make any major conceptual shifts in your worldview, such as accepting a particular theory of value or animal “rights” or whatnot, merely to draw a conclusion from premises that you (probably) already accept. It’s true that there are some people who claim to believe that animals don’t suffer, or that their suffering doesn’t matter. But the widespread revulsion at, say, the antics of Michael Vick indicate that this is a minority position.

In this sense, vegetarianism is like a lot of other reform movements: it doesn’t offer new values so much as try to make explicit the implications of values that people already accept. Why would you treat a pig in ways you would never dream of treating your dog or cat? The obstacles to reform are probably more institutional, psychological, social, and practical impediments than logical ones.

I’m, of course, all for investigating the question of whether animals have a right to life (as opposed to a right not to be made to suffer), but as far as the practical question goes, this makes almost no difference. Assuming there are idyllic farms where animals are allowed to roam freely and express their particular natures, do not have their tails docked or beaks clipped, are not castrated without anesthesia, and are killed suddenly and painlessly, these farms represent a tiny (if not nonexistent) percentage of meat production in industrial nations. For all practical purposes, avoiding the products of factory farms means being a near or total vegetarian.

Apparently some right-wing Catholics have interpreted the fact that the words “global warming” or “climate change” do not appear in Benedict XVI’s recent encyclical to mean that the pope is a global warming skeptic of some sort. Neil Ormerod, a Catholic theologian in Australia, attempts to set the record straight.

I meant to flag this interesting article from the New Republic last week: “The Usefulness of Cranks: Nature as a standpoint for social criticism.” It’s about, among other things, the tensions between forms of environmentalism that value nature for its own sake and the progressivist and humanist assumptions of liberalism. Mainstream environmentalism (as represented by various activist and pressure groups, policy wonks, etc.) can have a very technocratic, managerial flavor, but this doesn’t necessarily sit easily next to the nature mysticism and eco-centrism of some of the most profound environmental thinkers. An essay worth reading and pondering.

Following on the heels of his Why Animal Suffering Matters, Andrew Linzey’s Creatures of the Same God addresses many of the same issues, but from a more explicitly theological point of view. In fact, Creatures is a collection of mostly previously published essays, expanding on and refining ideas first developed in Linzey’s other books, especially Animal Theology and Animal Gospel.

The persistent theme of the book is religion’s–particularly Christianity’s–potential for being at the forefront of the movement for animal protection. Linzey is a cold-eyed realist when it comes to Christianity’s track record on the treatment of animals, but he’s just as firm in his insistence that the triune God loves each and every creature she has made and that human beings are called to be the “servant species,” caring for the well-being of all creation, particularly our fellow sentients.

In the first three chapters, Linzey summarizes the theological case for animal rights. In “Religion and Sensitivity to Animal Suffering” he contends that religion provides spiritual vision and hope necessary for long-haul causes that often seem hopeless. “Theology as if Animals Mattered” highlights some of the challenges traditional theology faces if we take animals seriously as fellow creatures. And “Animal Rights and Animal Theology” traces some of the history of Christian concern for animals, which is surprisingly robust given the disregard the mainstream theological tradition has shown for the interests of animals.

The next two chapters take a somewhat more polemical turn. In “The Conflict Between Ecotheology and Animal Theology” Linzey shows that the two movements aren’t necessarily in sync, particularly when it comes to their view of “nature.” Ecotheologians err, Linzey says, when they treat the natural world as “sacred” or as an unambiguous source of moral norms. Ecotheologians see little need for the redemption of nature. Animal theologians, with their concern for the suffering of particular individual creatures, are more willing to say that nature doesn’t reflect God’s ultimate will for creation. Thus nature, along with humanity, stands in need of redemption.

In “Responding to the Debate about Animal Theology” Linzey engages with several critical readings of his work. Some of the points that stand out here are his frank confession that the Bible is not uniformly “pro-animal” (just as it isn’t uniformly “pro-woman”) and therefore a critical reading is necessary in order to draw out principles for expanding the circle of moral concern. This concern is rooted in the paradigm of Jesus’ self-giving love for others. He also defends his radicalization of Karl Barth’s doctrine of the Incarnation, arguing, in a lovely turn of phrase, that “the incarnation is God’s love affair with all flesh” (p. 51). In fact, he contends, this is a recovery of the patristic doctrine of the Incarnation and an affirmation of the “Cosmic Christ” in whom all things have their being and life.

Two interesting essays in the second half of the book mine ancient Christian history for a pro-animal perspective. “Jesus and Animals” draws on certain non-canonical works to show that, at the very least, certain early Christians believed that the coming of Jesus had implications for relations with non-human animals. Some of these writings show Jesus healing animals, creating living sparrows out of clay, and restoring the edenic, non-violent, non-competitive relationship between humans and animals. Linzey suggests that some of these stories may have elements that can be traced back to the historical Jesus, and certainly depict a valuable strain of early Christian belief and spirituality that has gotten lost over the ages.

“Vegetarianism in Early Chinese Christianity” draws on the “Jesus Sutras,” ancient manuscripts that indicate the existence of an early Chinese form of Christianity, dating back well before the arrival of Catholic missionaries. Possibly influenced by Taoism or Buddhism, these writings seem to depict a non-violent, vegetarian Christianity that flourished for some time before being wiped out. To Linzey, this suggests a path not taken, though one we might find our way back to.

Finally, “On Being an Animal Liturgist” is a slightly more biographical piece, detailing the responses to the publication of Linzey’s Animal Rites, a book of prayers and liturgies for animals. Animals have been largely excluded from the worship of the Christian church; even ecologically sensitive worship tends to focus on the Earth or the environment in general. But animals–particularly companion animals–are very significant parts of many people’s lives. Though roundly mocked in official church quarters, Linzey stoutly defends this endeavor as both meeting a real pastoral need and striking a blow against the starkly anthropocentric focus of so much Christian worship.

The book concludes with an agenda for a pro-animal Christianity. This includes animal-friendly biblical scholarship, theology, ministry, and rites. Linzey makes the somewhat surprising claim that animals are not just one issue among others that theology might engage with, but a test of any adequate theology. This is because theology ought to be truly theocentric:

Ludwig Feuerbach famously argued that Christianity is nothing other than the self-aggrandizement, even the deification of the human species. To avoid this charge, theology needs to show how it can provide what it promises–namely a truly Godward (rather than a simply anthropocentric) view of the world. Its obsession with human beings to the exclusion of all else betokens a deeply unbalanced doctrine of God the Creator. Animal theology can help save Christians from the idolarty of self-worship. (p. 15)

I don’t have much critical to say here, since I agree with most of what Linzey writes. I do think the relationship between animal theology and eco-theology merits more exploration. I agree that Linzey has put his finger on a weakness of at least some eco-theology, which takes too rosy a view of the natural world. And yet, I’m not entirely on board with Linzey’s apparent endorsement of a “cosmic fall” to explain the disorders or predation and suffering, signs of creation’s “groaning.”

I think a middle way is possible that affirms both the inherent goodness of the created order and its need for redemption. Denis Edwards, whom Linzey mentions favorably, is one such theologian who has tried to give an account of natural evil in an evolutionary context, but also strongly emphasizes our kinship with other animals. He avoids an excessive “holism” and the attendant moral egalitariansim that would give equal moral rights to all life-forms. Like Linzey, Edwards ascribes to human beings a special role, but one of experiencing kinship with other creatures and of caring for the earth. This is very close to Linzey’s notion of human beings as the servant species, and provides a way of thinking about our role in the world that would support both animal protection and sound ecological awareness and practices.

Stephen Walt and Matthew Yglesias both have smart posts on looking at climate change through a national security lens. Possibly one of the worst outcomes of our failure to address climate change (and other attendant issues like peak oil) would be to lock ourselves into a zero-sum, conflict-based position with the rest of the world. This is truly a kind of dystopian scenario, with rich and powerful nations crushing poor ones under their collective boot in order to maintain a stranglehold on scarce resources, treating refugees as threats rather than as human beings in need, and insulating ourselves in our own relative prosperity against the misery of the rest of the world.

I mean, more than we already do.

Given the ratio of noise to light in the current health care debate (“death panels”!), it’s become rare to see a sober look at what’s actually being proposed. Lynn offers some helpful links on making sense of the various health-care reform plans currently under consideration. The FCNL’s side-by-side comparison of the plans is particularly good, as they state their crteria for an acceptable plan and show how the various options measure up

UPDATE: Ha! Just realized I mixed my metaphors in the first line there.

Though the Episcopalians always get more press, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America’s biennial churchwide assembly later this month will consider recommendations related to the blessing of same-sex unions and the ordination of non-celibate gay and lesbian Christians.

The church appointed a “Sexuality Task Force” to study the issue and present recommendations, which it has done. (You can read the report and recommendations, as well as a proposed “social statement” on sexuality here; for the purposes of this post I’m focusing on the report and recommendations.)

What the Task Force came up with is a series of proposed steps for the church to take, each one to be considered only once the assembly has accepted the preceding one(s):

Step 1: Asks the assembly whether, in principle, it is committed to finding ways for congregations and synods–if they wish–to recognize, support, and hold publicly accountable “lifelong, monogamous, same-gender relationships.”

Step 2: Asks whether the assembly is committed, in principle, to findings ways for people in such relationships to serve as rostered leaders of the church.

Step 3: Asks whether, in the implementation of steps 1 and 2, the church is committed to finding ways for members to live together that respect and show love for those with whom they disagree.

Only if the church agrees to steps 1-3 can it then decide on step 4: to consider “structured flexibility” in allowing people in monogamous, same-gender relationships to be approved for the rosters of the ELCA. This means that individual congregations, bishops, and synods, in consultation with candidacy committees, seminary faculty, and others would be able to exercise what’s come to be called a “local option” in approving and calling non-celibate gay and lesbian candidates (within the context of the pre-existing process for discerning a call to ministry).

This recommendation is motivated by the lack of consensus in the church and the need to respect the “bound consciences” of those with whom we disagree. Given that consensus doesn’t exist, it’s better to recognize that reality than paper over it. But that also implies that Christians shouldn’t force others to act against their own conscience. Thus the rationale for the local option.

Arguments against change appeal to the lack of consensus in the ELCA, as well as in the Lutheran World Federation and the wider church. Essentially: “When it is not necessary to change, it is necessary not to change.” The worry here is that the ELCA will be striking out on its own and further separating itself from other Christian bodies. Appeal here is also made to the traditional interpretation of the seven biblical passages that seem to refer to homosexuality* and, in some cases, a variety of natural law reasoning for the normativity of heterosexuality.

The rub of the issue, as I see it, is whether a church can, in good conscience, tolerate the level of diversity in practice that a local option would logically entail. We should start out by noting that we already tolerate a great deal of moral diversity: on war and peace, on abortion, on economics and politics, etc. The ELCA as it currently exists strives to be a big tent on most issues (there are obviously some positions that are beyond the pale, e.g., violence or discrimination–at least they’re supposed to be). We know that our vocation in the world is to love others as we love ourselves, but we don’t always agree on what this means in concrete situations.

Second, moral issues are in a sense secondary or derivative of doctrinal ones. Neither the ecumenical creeds nor the Lutheran Confessions prescribe particular positions on current hot-button issues. And such positions can’t always be derived in a straightforward way from doctrinal truths. (Sometimes they can: for instance, the Incarnation implies that all human beings have an ineffacable dignity, which provides the ground for human rights.)

Third, we should acknowledge that not only is there a diversity of perspectives on “first-order” moral issues, but also on such “second-order” issues like how we reason about morality in the first place and how we interpret scripture. These deep methodological and hermeneutical issues may be even more intractable than the first-order questions themselves.

These considerations all point to a diversity of practice as a legitimate option for the church. Total agreement is neither possible at this point, nor, perhaps desirable. Allowing for diversity may be the only way for new insights to emerge. Gamaliel’s advice to the Sanhedrin in Acts seems relevant here.

It might be argued that taking any steps in the direction of affirming same-sex relationships will damage our relations with our ecumenical partners. Wouldn’t this be putting up one more barrier to reunion with Rome, for instance? My personal view is that we shouldn’t let Rome set the rules for ecumenical engagement. From a Lutheran perspective, there’s nothing preventing us from acknowledging now our unity and fellowship with Catholic Christians. As the Augusburg Confession states, it’s enough for the unity of the church to agree on the preaching of the gospel and the administration of the sacraments; agreement on “rites and ceremonies” is not a condition for church unity. In this instance, at least, it’s not Lutherans who are standing in the way of unity. Consequently, to concede that affirming same-sex relationships would obstruct unity is already to give the store away as far as what constitutes unity.

So, it seems to me that the recommendation of the task force, imperfect as it may be, is the best route forward. I like that it makes the affirmation of same-sex relationships foundational, before proceeding to consider specifically clergy-related matters. (Even if a rite for blessing is still a long way off.) It recognizes that we live in the midst of a diversity of opinion that isn’t going away and doesn’t pine for a “pure” church where everyone agrees on all moral issues of importance. Such a church would be a sect. The report gets it right in emphasizing that the ground of our unity is the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus and God’s gracious acceptance of us sinners for Christ’s sake. Whether we will allow that to be enough remains to be seen.
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*The report identifies these as Genesis 19:1–11; Judges 19:16–30; Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13; Romans 1:26–27;1 Corinthians 6:9–11; and 1 Timothy 1:9–10.

(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.

Economics as a religion:

When critics of free markets point to instances of severe poverty, market supporters promise that eventually, since a rising tide floats all boats, the poor will be lifted up, that what is now apparently problematic is ultimately for the “greater good” in a way we cannot discern. It is clear that this is a market theodicy, justifying the ways of the market to men. When neoliberal politicians warn against governments interfering in the market, lest the irrational and temporary will of the electorate interfere with the “spontaneous order” of markets, this now seems like a dire warning that we must not “play God” and attempt to control the mysteries of the market that in our finitude, our “bounded rationality”, we cannot properly fathom.

Link via.

Two links:

Michael Jackson’s Death Means Little to Me

McNamara’s Evil

As I’ve pointed out before, one condition of any war being “just” according to traditional criteria would require a rigorous accounting for all the innocent lives lost and an equal weighing of those lives against any purported good that the war accomplishes. (And that’s assuming that all those deaths are unintended side effects of legitimate military operations.) Can we honestly say that our national war policies meet that standard?

Catholic theologian Denis Edwards’ Ecology at the Heart of Faith provides a good model of engaging environmental issues using the classic Christian theological tradition.

In chapter 2 he discusses the controverted issue of the image of God and dominion over nature. He argues that the imago is best understood as the human capacity for interpersonal love and relationship: with God, each other, and the rest of creation.

[W]hat is specific to the human can be seen as the personal, the capacity to go out from oneself to the other in interpersonal love. Precisely this personal dimension of the human involves the human in relationship not only with that radical other who is God, and not only with other human beings, but with the others who are our fellow creatures. Precisely because human beings are made in the image of God, they are called like God to care for every sparrow that falls to the ground. (p. 16)

Edwards then goes on to consider the topic of human dominion over nature. Rejecting a sheerly exploitative understanding of dominion and an ecological egalitarianism that gives no special preference to human interests, Edwards opts for a view that emphasizes kinship with other creatures and care and cultivation of the earth. As he puts it, this combines the “Franciscan” focus on other creatures as our brothers and sisters with a “Benedictine” call to cultivate the earth in work, gardening, and building and to creative contemplation of the world in learning and study:

Theologically, I would propose that this kinship brings into play what I have identified as the image of God in the human, the personal. It involves humans as persons, personally connecting with other creatures, respecting and loving them in all their differences from ourselves. (pp. 23-4)

[...]

The language of cultivating and caring for creation can include the many ways in which human creativity is used for the good of the community of life on Earth. It includes not only farming with best land-care practice, but also cooking, gardening, building, painting, doing science, teaching, planning, taking political action and many other creative actions. (pp. 25-6)

Edwards here is trying to balance an appreciation and respect for the otherness of the non-human creation with a sense of the importance of human culture and our unique role on earth. “What is crucial is that cultivating and caring for creation are based on the conversion implied in the model of kinship, a conversion in which human beings come to see themselves as interrelated in a community of life with other creatures, a community in which each creature has its own unique value before God” (p. 26). He rejects the metaphor of stewardship, which has become popular in some Christian circles, because it “can run the risk of suggesting an inflated view of the human as a necessary intermediary between God and other creatures” (p. 25). The non-human world has its own relationship with God apart from us. Cultivation of and caring for creation, founded on a recognition of kinship, implies both a creativity and a self-limitation on the part of human beings.

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.

I didn’t think I had anything to say on the murder of Dr. George Tiller, but one issue that has come up repeatedly is whether pro-lifers are being hypocritical in condemning the murder. After all, the reasoning goes, didn’t Tiller’s murderer simply take the pro-life reasoning to its logical conclusion?

Here’s something I wrote all the way back in 2004, drawing a comparison between radical animal rights activists who use violence and pro-lifers who do the same:

One of the interesting things about adopting a moral stance that is out of the mainstream is that it potentially puts you in a state of radical opposition to nearly everyone around you. For someone who takes the strong animal rights position, there are grave and systematic injustices being perpetrated on animals throughout our society. And the vast majority of people you know probably couldn’t care less! This is troubling in itself and inevitably raises the question of what actions, if any, one should take to rectify those injustices.

Compare the case of anti-abortionists/pro-lifers. Many of them believe that there are literally millions of innocent human beings being murdered, routinely and legally. How does that color their views of those who approve of abortion? How do they view the society that permits such a horror? What is the appropriate response?

The vast majority of animal rightists and right-to-lifers have (rightly) eschewed violence as a means of change and have renounced those fringe elements who do resort to violence. But can we say that it’s always wrong to use violence against a grave injustice, even if it is legally sanctioned? Most of us would say that violent resistance would have been an appropriate response to, say, the policies of Nazi Germany. So, from the point of view of the animal rightist/pro-lifer, why wouldn’t violence be justified as a response to the slaughter of millions of animals/unborn children? Isn’t the protection of the innocent one of the few noble uses of violence?

Well, hard cases make bad law, as they say. I think a big part of the answer has to be that this ain’t Nazi Germany, bud! For anyone who perceives a serious injustice, there are legal and non-violent channels for expressing that protest. Violence, even in the service of a good cause, should always be a last resort. Private violence strikes as the very heart of the rule of law that makes civilized life possible, so it should be undertaken, if ever, only under the gravest of circumstances when all other options have been exhausted.

Secondly, even if violence could prevent an immediate act of injustice, it won’t result in any lasting justice unless the underlying conditions exist to support it. In the case of our hypothetical vigilantes, the protection of animals/fetuses will not be secured in the long run without a broad consensus that they should be protected. Otherwise, once the vigilante is caught or killed, society will continue to go on its merry way (if anything, the vigilante’s cause will only have been discredited).

So, I think animal rightists and pro-lifers are right to insist that persuasion must be the primary means they use to change the world. A commitment to peaceful methods of social change is, in all but the most extreme cases, both morally and pragmatically superior.

What this doesn’t address is whether certain kinds of radical rhetoric may encourage people–like George Tiller’s killer–to resort to violence. While each person is (other things being equal) surely responsible for their own actions, I don’t think those who use inflammatory rhetoric can be completely absolved from responsibility either. At the very least they need to make it clear–and not just when an incident occurs–that they oppose the use of violence to effect social change.

A good essay by theologian-historian Gary Dorrien at “The Immanent Frame”:

today Niebuhr is back in public discussion because he symbolizes, notably to Barack Obama, the possibility of a progressive realism that defends America’s interests more prudently and advances the cause of social justice. Niebuhr, like Obama, blends liberal internationalist and realist motifs, contending that multilateral cooperation is compatible with the power-seeking clash of nations. The case for a strong international community has a realistic basis, that the benefits of cooperation outweigh the costs and risks of not working together. All parties are better off when the most powerful nations agree not to do everything that is in their power and nations work together to create new forms of collective security.

Dorrien emphasizes that Niebuhr’s views changed over the course of his life:

The early Niebuhr played up the irrelevance of Jesus’ love of perfectionism to politics, stressing that Jesus never talked about the realistic limits or consequences of social ethical choices. The later Niebuhr realized that the love ethic kept him and many others in the struggle, whether or not they succeeded. That was its political relevance. Justice could not be defined abstractly; it was a relational term that depended on the motive force of love. The meaning of justice could be determined only in the interaction of love and situation, through the mediation of Niebuhr’s three principles of justice—freedom, equality, and order.

He also makes the important point that “realism” unleavened by moral idealism quickly becomes corrupt. Too often Niebuhr’s thought has been understood as divorcing the two.

Not sure I agree with all the conclusions, but this article from The Christian Century provides a lucid overview of potential conflicts between religious liberty and same-sex marriage, and how a reasonable balance might be struck. I do agree that treating people with religious objections to SSM as bigots pure and simple misses the mark; even though I think they’re wrong, many of these folks are moved by sincerely held religious beliefs, not animus against gay and lesbian people. The analogies to racial discrimination have some force, but I think they break down at this point, at least in many cases. Plus, there’s a limit to how much a free society can expect to extirpate attitudes the majority (if that) considers to be wrong.

On the other hand, I do worry about enshrining into law a protected zone for discrimination. Assuming, perhaps optimistically, that attitudes toward gay and lesbian people continue to shift as radically in the coming years as they have been, do we really want embedded in law the right to discriminate against gay couples, even under carefully circumscribed circumstances? I guess it all comes down to the particulars. I’d be interested in hearing what actual GLBT folks think about these kinds of religious liberty provisions–after all, it’s easier for me say they’re OK since they’re not going to directly affect my marriage.

I imagine this will be of interest to some readers: “Civil Eats,” a site dedicated to “critical thought about sustainable agriculture and food systems as part of building economically and socially just communities.”

This post, by Paul Shapiro on big ag’s counterattack against animal welfare measures is worth checking out.

William Greider recommends some changes to our economic system aimed at recovering some of the intangibles that get lost in the cash nexus. His argument dovetails with some of the “happiness research” that suggests a fairly fixed point of diminishing returns on income in terms of happiness. Bill McKibben makes use of a similar line of argument in his Deep Economy: even if we weren’t exhausting the planet’s resources and threatening our and other species’ future, our growth-oriented economy isn’t the best route to human flourishing.

Well, sort of. John H. at “Confessing Evangelical” has a very interesting post using 76 questions Ellul suggested we ask about any new technology.

So, where have we traveled so far? Singer has argued that 1) we have a moral obligation to help those who lack access to sufficient food, shelter, and medical care and 2) that we can do this by donating to aid agencies. Assuming we agree with him, how much should we give? Part 4 tries to tease out an answer in detail.

On its face, the book’s argument seems to imply a pretty demanding level of giving. After all, I could deprive myself of a lot of luxuries (and donate the money saved to aid agencies) before being in danger of not having enough to adequately meet my own needs and those of my family. Are we then obliged to sacrifice everything beyond what we need to live more or less comfortably for the sake of helping the very poorest people of the world? Singer admits that the logic of his argument seems to point in this direction, but he also knows that many (perhaps most) of us would balk at such an extreme conclusion and, human nature being what it is, maybe decide not to give anything at all. If such seemingly onerous sacrifices are called for, we might say, then there must be some flaw in Singer’s reasoning.

Singer presumably doesn’t think his own reasoning is flawed, but he offers a kind of compromise position as a public standard that he thinks most people can aspire to, but which can still make a huge difference. To this end, he proposes percentages that people in the top ten percent of the U.S. income distribution should give to aid. Those making more than about $105,000 a year should give 5% of their income away; those making over $148,000 should give 10%; more than $383,000, 15%; over $600,000, 20%; and over $1.9 million, 25%. To avoid dis-incentives to move to a higher bracket, this standard could be made more progressive – e.g., someone making $500,000 would give away 5% of the first $148,000; 10% of the next $235,000; and 15% of the remainder.

The amount of money this would raise–from affluent, or at least comfortable, people in the U.S. alone–is about $471 billion a year. For comparison’s sake, Jeffrey Sachs, author of The End of Poverty, estimates that it would cost $189 billion a year to meet the UN’s Millennium Development Goals. (Bracketing for the moment the question of how effective the MDGs themselves are.) Singer adds that there’s no reason to think that people in the bottom 90% of the income scale can’t also give something; if they gave just an average of 1% of their income, this would add about another $40 billion. While it’s obviously difficult to generalize about how much any of us can give, which will depend a lot on circumstances, when I did the math it was pretty clear that I could give according to Singer’s scheme without being seriously deprived.

As is often the case with Singer, there’s a tension between what consequentialist morality seems to require of us and what our own particular attachments–to our family, friends, compatriots, etc.–seem to demand. This isn’t to say that Singer opposes all particular attachments; he thinks there are good (consequentialist!) reasons for preferring that parents raise their own children rather than society trying to institute some kind of communal parenting arrangement. But many of us will balk at this rather cold-blooded argument. It just seems right, we say, that we should prefer our own children to the children of others.

But you don’t need to buy completely into Singer’s utilitarianism to feel the force of his argument. Even granted that we have special duties to our own kith and kin, isn’t there some point at which showering them with luxuries seems grotesque given the magnitude of human suffering in the world? Is it really OK to spend tens of thousands of dollars to send your kid to a fancy private school, or to buy him a new car for his 16th birthday, or send him on a European vacation when there are millions of children in the world who lack access to the basic necessities of life? Surely our particular duties to those we love don’t trump all claims that others might have on us.

The book ends with a consideration of how giving to others can be a way of finding meaning in one’s own life. He cites ancient wisdom and modern research to suggest that helping others is actually a source of deep satisfaction. It almost goes without saying that, from a Christian perspective, it’s well-attested that it is better to give than to receive.

Whatever else Singer has accomplished here, I think he has, at the very least, put the burden of proof on those who deny that we have obligations to do a lot more than we currently are to alleviate world poverty. The fact that this often barely registers as a blip on our political or personal radar screens is a scandal. There are groups doing good work that make a difference in people’s lives, even if it’s sometimes difficult to say how much difference they’re making. And the sacrifice required for most of us to make a significant difference would be comparatively small.