Virtue ethics is an ancient ethical system with deep roots in the wisdom of the ancient Greeks, with sages of theirs such as Socrates and Aristotle (especially) being among its prominent teachers. Since the 20th century, with the so-called “aretaic turn” in ethical philosophy, virtue ethics has risen as a respectable and serious option along with deontological and utilitarian ethical systems, and I’d go so far as to say that it and deontology are the only viable systems around.1 Being my own ethical system, I’ve found it far more holistic and moving than mere deontology, for the rule-based framework of deontology runs into an obvious issue: motive. While it may be good to fundraise for a homeless shelter, fulfilling one’s ethical duty to care for others, if one does so purely for personal gain, such as boosting their reputation (a common occurrence in the theatrical world of politics), many people will rightfully feel that this action wasn’t truly good or charitable. Is this a mistaken judgment? No, it’s completely correct, and that’s why virtue ethics emphasizes both agency and motive,2 for even if one demonstrates virtuous behavior a virtuous motive is just as integral to make one genuinely possess virtues, in the aforementioned scenario those being generosity/altruism and kindness (perhaps magnificence as well).3 The situational, personal, and holistic nature of virtue ethics, then, makes it far more attractive to me than any other system. It is, indeed, the most biblical as well. Christians aren’t called to follow abstract rules but concrete behaviors:
Jesus said to him, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. The second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the law and the prophets depend on these two commandments” (Matt. 22:36-40).
Likewise, Paul provides a list of virtues, not rules, for Christians to cultivate in their koinonia (Gal. 5:22-23).4 Aristotelian ethics were a huge influence throughout medieval Christianity and considered immensely compatible with the framework of Christian theology (Aquinas, for example, was a monumental proponent of neo-Aristotelian ethics). These two systems are near-perfect fits.5
While some might argue there is a vacuous distinction between “rules” and “right behaviors,” insomuch that it could be argued that virtue ethics collapses into deontological ethics, I think this is the ethical counterpart to the theological controversy of faith and works, and might benefit from a similar resolution. I do intend to write more on this, as well as virtue ethics in general, in the near-future. Suffice to say, such an objection is correct only insofar as one’s virtue-ethical framework doesn’t make room for anything deontic.
Following this primer on Christian virtue ethics, what I want to discuss now is how exactly to frame virtue ethics Christianly. As I discussed in an earlier article, truth should both correspond and cohere with reality, describing real and significant aspects of existence as well as fitting into a holistic framework. While it might be quite enough to point out the presence and emphasis on virtues in the New Testament,6 this is basically a demonstration that virtue ethics corresponds with Christian theology, but it must be shown (or made) to cohere. How might this be accomplished?
As I’ve made it clear in some of my articles to date7 the Christian faith is fundamentally cruciform. We are shaped, led, wizened, and saved by the Cross. We must operate with a cruciform lens, by which we appraise all things by how illuminated they are by the divine light, how touched by the blood of Christ they are. If we can’t see something as being nailed to or willing to be nailed to the Cross, it can’t be considered Christian. We must make it fit the Cross rather than make the Cross fit anything lesser than it; this is the sentiment that lies behind the “baptizing” of worldly philosophy.
Accordingly, the issue of virtue ethics must be approached similarly. We must baptize it and have it cohere with the cruciform framework of Christianity. As it stands, virtue ethics isn’t. Well, granted, that might apply to neo-Aristotelian ethics but not necessarily Christian syntheses of that system, which might’ve taken the Cross into consideration. I’ll have to keep an eye out for this as I continue my studies, although I can be optimistic. Whatever the case, generic virtue ethics is not cruciform because Aristotle didn’t have the Cross, living in the times of ignorance, so we must nail our human wisdom to that tree and redeem it (1 Cor. 1:18-20). How may we go about bringing Aristotle down the Via Dolorosa?
As cruciform theology informs us, the Cross is the supreme revelation of God, an axial moment in redemptive history, which makes His true nature excellently known (1 Cor. 1:18-2:16), and the Son has the power and glory to be “the exact representation of His being, sustaining all things by His powerful word” (Heb. 1:3, cf. vv. 1-4). The Cross isn’t just the biblical, theological, or soteriological heart of the Christian faith but also, I submit, the ethical heart. Again, if the wisdom of God is essentially cruciform then the wisdom of God as applied to proper human behavior must be cruciform as well.8 This very sentiment is upheld in Scripture, not only in its clear formulation of cruciformity, but in how it collocates the crucified Christ to our actions. Most eminently, “If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow Me” (Lk. 9:23; cf. 14:27). Here, as well in the synoptic verses, Christ uses the word ἀκολουθέω (akoloutheó), from which we derive the word “acolyte.” As is captured by this word, akoloutheó bears a stronger meaning than just “follow,” but also “accompany” or “assist,” which implies that Christ wishes for His disciples to embody His cruciformity as well. Consider Paul in Galatians 2:20, who remarks that “I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.” This shouldn’t be unfamiliar rhetoric to the studious or attentive Christian, as the cruciform nature of discipleship is quite apparent, made well-known not just by the verses I’ve mentioned so far but also Paul’s extended discussion in Romans 6 (cf. 8), where he says, “We were buried therefore with Him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life” (v. 4). Accordingly, “If the Spirit of Him Who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He Who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit Who dwells in you” (8:11). We must become crucified so, like Christ, we may be raised renewed by the Spirit and live a transformed/transformative life, so that we too may be vindicated and glorified by God on the Last Day (for the ultimate renewal and transformation of all things).
The Cross, the cruciform life in Christ, then, is the true telos of the human being, for on the Cross. The Cross is, in other words, the Christian’s eudaimonia. Aristotle defines eudaimonia as “living well” (or “happiness”), the supreme and most proper orientation one can have in his life, the fulfillment and discipline of one’s truest purpose.9 In the Cross, in all its wickedness but at the same times its merciful repudiation of mankind’s iniquities, we find true happiness, true eudaimona, the happiness that being nailed to the Cross, joined with Christ, and permitted to hear at the Last of Days, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord” (Matt. 25:23). It’s not toward a vague notion of “happiness” (or “living well”), then, that Christians seek after, a vagueness that plagues many virtue ethicists (like Aristotle himself), but a concrete one, the cross-beamed tree of Christ’s humiliation, through which came His vindication and our glorification.
Christians, then, are impelled in their lives to orient themselves toward the Cross, the telos of our existence, that which the blood shed thereon helps us enter into communion with God. We are to crucify all our lives, be washed in Christ’s redeeming blood, and be sanctified by His Holy Spirit, producing and harvesting the fruits of that Spirit, “For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit” (Rom. 14:17).
For an interesting and simple critique of classical utilitarianism see Aditya Prathap, “The Utilitarian Contradiction.” I also recommend classic deconstructions from the virtue-ethical school, such as Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue (esp. pp. 51-79, and passim) and Michael Stocker’s “The Schizophrenia of Modern Ethical Theories.”
Karen Stohr, “Virtuous Motivation,” in The Oxford Handbook of Virtue, ed. Nancy Snow, 453-469.
To summarize a bit of what Karen Stohr argues: “Virtuous motivation includes both an appreciation of the action’s choiceworthiness and also an affective stance appropriate to the action in question” (ibid., 460). Someone who offers to sponsor a homeless shelter should both delight in the humanitarian elements of what he has done, while also respecting the aretaic nature of his actions. Otherwise, one risks performing virtue for virtue’s sake (moralizing) or performing virtue for publicity’s sake (grandstanding). This answers an old problem in ethics concerning pleasure derived from performing selfless acts. If one is pleased in doing so, are they actually being selfish instead of selfless? (This was famously presented on a popular level via the sitcom Friends.) Here’s how I’d answer, and I assume some virtue ethicists: only if the performance of a selfless dead is only for pleasure. I believe there’s a reason why Scripture commands secrecy and discretion in our performance of charity and piety (Matt. 6:1-6), and this is the reason, to not be tempted to receive gratification of one’s ego in doing so. Surley, we’re not supposed to lie and act like we’re uncharitable, we can mention that we do charitable things, but to the best of our ability we shouldn’t seek to relish in our selflessness. If we derive pleasure from this, it need not be a concern, so long as it is done genuinely, just like the Father derives joy from begetting the Son and the Son derives joy from receiving His life from in Himself (the Father). These sentiments need not be bifurcated, but appropriately placed in concord.
Indeed, the ancient Greek word for virtue, ἀρέτη (areté), used by Aristotle, appears several times in the New Testament.
Obviously, all pagan philosophies need to be “baptized” to some extent, but Aristotle had an incredibly good head start.
As C. John Collins argues, Paul may very well have directly incorporated Aristotelian thinking into his writing, making it even clearer how connected Aristotelianism and Christianity are. This many theologians are coming to accept; see Daniel Harrington and James Keenan, Jesus and Virtue Ethics; Stanley Hauerwas and Charles Pinches, Christians among the Virtues; Paul Wadell, Happiness and the Christian Moral Life.
Particularly “Whose Eye Beholds Beauty?” and “The Resurrection of Christ and the Authority of Scripture,” and to a lesser extent in others.
To philosophize on this a bit, a Christian writer I follow, Treydon Lunot, has written on the perichoretic nature of knowledge, arguing that all human action is fundamentally an attempt to comprehend and harmonize with the energies of God in Creation. So, for example,
True teleology, then, is not separate from true ontology; both are two distinct yet mutually interior perspectives on the divine mind, only possible through the mind’s participation in the energies/logoi of God. And similarly, since we are only fully united with our purpose in the eschaton, teleology and ontology are interior to eschatology. And since our “purpose” is equal to our “good,” teleology, ontology, and eschatology are all interior to ethics. The same perichoretic structure applies to the totality of our knowledge because our knowledge is always a participation in the perichoretic God.
A bit complicated, yes, although in the full context of what Lunot has written on this I believe it can make more sense. Nevertheless, he makes it clear that all things are mutually interior and found in contemplation of God’s energies. He makes mention of ethics, appropriately so. If ethics are mutually interior to the other elements of God’s energies, and God’s energies derive from an essence that is essentially cruciform, in this way we can apply the cruciform principle to the practice of ethics.
Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1095a–1098a. Because of the focus on orientation and discipline in Aristotle’s conceptualization of eudaimonia this is why I believe “living well” may be a more appropriate translation than “happiness.” Happiness can be sought from all sorts of behaviors, particularly those that are acratic (like how a murderer can derive pleasure in his brutality), especially if it’s understood as (or conflated with) merely feeling good. “Living well,” on the other hand, combines two unmistakable terms: living, which emphasis the active component of eudaimonia, that it isn’t passively sought, rather, as Aristotle explains, “Moreover, to be happy takes a complete lifetime; for one swallow does not make spring, nor does one fine day; and similarly one day or a brief period of happiness does not make a man supremely blessed and happy” (Nic. Eth. 1098a17); well, which is understood as meaning “in a satisfactory manner” or “with good reason,” not merely “in a way that pleases you” or “prosperously,” which I believe places focus on the elements of discipline as well intention in eudaimonia, rather than it just being a self-aggrandizing, dispassionate feast.