Where Have You Been?
A friend asks where I’ve been. He says he misses me.
I reply that I have stepped back from political writing due to a crisis of faith. It seems I've been undergoing a slow but steady metamorphosis from pundit to philosopher, which means I no longer have faith in the ability of political argumentation to produce positive change.
“Intriguing,” Says another friend. “I would very much like to get to know this new Jubal.”
To this, I reply that the new Jubal is much the same as the Jubal you remember, although decidedly less harried. Moreover, he has an easier time sharing air with people who hold diametrically opposing views. Granted, his smug smirks are as charming and caustic as ever, though decidedly less frequent.
In truth, I think Jubal has realized that politics is merely an extension of the will - a collection of positions which recommend meaningful action, but that radiate from a particular sensibility about the way things are. After all, what constitutes *meaningful* action is largely up to the individual.
Purpose, God, morality, the universe, consciousness, human nature, the fabric of existence itself; our individual judgments on these issues provide the furnaces that warm our political opinions and illuminate our varying definitions of meaningful.
From these furnaces, we all craft a long chain of assumptions, one link at a time, each supposition joined to the last, until at last we can stretch to the gates of a political party. It is this act of philosophical chain-forging that the new and improved Jubal finds utterly fascinating.
The old Jubal labored under the mistaken impression that arguments over politics were strictly logical - that whether or not a person supported a piece of policy depended entirely on its demonstrable effects, and therefore arguments that most reasonably predicted outcomes would sway minds on all sides.
But, as anyone who has spent any time in serious political discussions can tell you, this is clearly not so. Emotion and faith intertwine the threads of politics continuously, like a woven rope, and no amount of rational calculating can unwind the former from the latter.
Why?
Because we like to believe that we are masters of our intellect; that we can set aside our preconceived notions and hurl our mind down the path of induction toward an accurate prediction of things to come, using nothing but the force of pure reason. Alas, philosophy is our throwing arm. Without a starting point, a ground, a foundation upon which we rest our perceptions, we have neither the mechanism to aim nor the energy to pitch.
It is our overarching views of existence and purpose that outline our target, and our moral conviction that gives strength to our arm. Since these assumptions are foundational, they are antecedents to action; and since politics is, in essence, recommended action, the most powerful factors in our political decisions are these philosophical antecedents themselves.
In short, our foundational philosophical assumptions regarding the world around us and our place in it determine our political views, not vice versa. Never vice versa. And therein lies the rub: differences in politics are ultimately differences in philosophy.
Political arguments are clumsy and stuttering – participants behave as though they grasp the subject under discussion, and they attempt in vain to lunge and parry with an arsenal of political pugilism, displaying the grace and poise of a sunburned walrus rolling down a mountain. I know, because I’ve been there – I’ve seen the mountain, and I’ve been the walrus.
The great irony is that political arguments have nothing whatsoever to do with politics. They have everything to do with philosophy – they are steeped in it, wet from it, and dripping with it – yet the players in a political argument would offer an indignant snort to anyone who suggested that they were engaged in a philosophical conversation. “Rubbish! We are talking politics, my good man. Leave philosophy to the college students.” Indeed.
And if arguing politics is arguing philosophy, but participants are unable or unwilling to perceive this connection, then no headway can be made, and no minds can be changed. With the true subject matter obfuscated, blindfolded arguers can only flail about red-faced, bumping into each other randomly, whilst insisting on the seriousness of the business at hand.
Those few political arguments that are “worthwhile” or “lead to mutual understanding” are merely discussions between people with accordant philosophies. The more common result of frank political talk is that one or both sides walk away nursing bruised feelings, muttering insults, or in search of a tall glass of gin.
This frustration is understandable. No one wants to believe that their friends are stupid, misguided, or evil – yet these are universal polemical pejoratives that describe the opposing camp. The misunderstanding that causes this frustration is clear: it is the assumption that political opinions are intellectually foundational. Nonsense, they are anything but. Political views are the radio antennae, supported by the philosophical skyscraper beneath.
What views of taxation are available to someone with no understanding of egalitarianism, duty, social justice, or individualism? What position on foreign wars can one take without struggling to weigh the value of human life, and as a result, the questions of human nature and objective evil? Need I even mention abortion?
And the decisions we make privately concerning these subjects are ultimately rooted in the most fundamental of all philosophies – faith in a creator, or faith in his absence – which speaks directly to our vital center of being.
Does this mean that arguing politics is a direct assault on the faith of the opposing side? Not necessarily. To challenge a recommended course of action is merely to challenge the assumptions behind that action.
While our great chains of philosophical assumption invariably end at a conviction of faith, we all maintain a great many more assumptions that are unsupported – perhaps unavoidably so. Political differences live among the unsupported philosophies that comprise our chains. We may assume that people are inherently good, or they are not; there is order in the universe, or there is not; it is moral to offer charity, or it is not.
Discussing these philosophical assumptions is more interesting than trading spittle over the latest incarnations of the health care bill, and less likely to end in fisticuffs. Since philosophical discussions rarely incorporate the charged lingo and dogma that saturate popular politics, minds remain open.
Then, perhaps, during the course of a good bout of philosophizing, a weak link is mended or replaced here or there, altering the composition of an entire chain. What effects might modifying a philosophical chain in such a way have on the political positions that swing from the far end?
Philosophy is often drawn as an exercise in navel-gazing by the oh-so-serious proponents of political podium-pounding, but philosophy remains a ubiquitous pursuit of the human mind. Even if you think philosophy useless, that is a form of philosophy, which means you are a philosopher; as are we all, by necessity. Without philosophy, there is no chain of existential assumptions informing our will or granting us the moral certainty to act.
Or, more bluntly: without philosophy, no meaningful action is possible.
It is for this reason I have retreated from the political arena to regroup my forces around new banners. Weary of breaking myself against the impenetrable drawbridges of the Great Political Parties, I wonder if sneaking in through the butler’s entrance might be a wiser move.
And so, of late, I tend to sidestep politics entirely and go straight for the throat. When a friend asks who I might vote for, I tell them I’m torn between the materialist and the idealist.
A smug smirk generally follows.
