Music as a Double-Edged Sword

Music is a double-edged sword that can create and destroy. On the one hand, it can create and preserve religious community. On the other, it can destroy or undermine the very community it creates. Music creates the religious community since it fosters a shared emotional life. Those who sing together, worship, learn, and grow together. They sing praises to God—the very crux of worship. They also explore basic religious concepts through a medium that drives those concepts from the head into the heart.

Not only does music bind the community together, it also binds the community to its past. Religious music, as all music, was composed by a specific individual at some point in the past. The particular composition is a projection of its composer's inner life. When religious believers sing, they unite with the inner life of the composer in a deeply personal way. Further, religious believers also unite with past congregations. After all, a religious community adopted the composer's composition as expressive of its own inner life. Thereafter, congregation after congregation, saint after saint, has relied on the song for spiritual meaning and continuity. In other words, when the saint sings, she sings a song that not only binds her to her current community, but to past believers. And so deep is that binding, that it brings believers, past and present, into deep emotional connection. To borrow a concept from Brigham Young, when the saint sings, she forms an unbroken chain, or choir, back into the distant past. Religious music is, in this sense, a true at-one-ment. An at-one-ment that binds a believer to a community, past and present. This is the awesome creative power of music: at-one-ment.

But music can also destroy religious communities, preventing individuals from being able to worship or grow in religiously significant ways. Individuals who adopt musical anthems diametrically opposed to religious life, quickly find that they can no longer worship in the same ways as their peers. For such individuals, not only does religious music lose its value, but it no longer possess the same emotional force. Further, when an individual adopts music opposed to religious life, he shapes and changes his heart in ways  not amenable to religious sensibilities. In short, depending on the type of music and the level of immersion, an individual can divide himself from his religious community.

And, in fact, such destructive music not only severs the individual from his contemporaneous community, it also severs him from a tradition. He no longer sings the songs that his ancestors sang. He no longer worships, learns, or matures through those songs. He divides himself from that life, to establish a new form of life. This is the awesome destructive power of music: separation.

Why does music simultaneously hold destructive and creative force? Plato, as in so many things, provides an answer. In The Republic, Plato introduces the concept of θυμός or Thumos. The word is difficult to translate, but it essentially means “spiritedness.” For Plato, Thumos, is one part of the tripartite psyche and frequently manifests itself as righteous indignation, as in political revolutions. It is that aspect of the psyche that is driven to correct perceived injustice and oppression. Thumos, then, is profoundly emotional while expressing an intellectual component. In my opinion, Thumos holds a unique relationship to art for this very reason. After all, artwork, music included, is at once uniquely emotional while expressing a strong intellectual component.

It is perhaps for this reason that Plato wanted to closely regulate music in his ideal polis. Plato, in fact, prescribes certain types of music for classes of citizens. He ascribed a “spirited” form of music for the guardian or military class, while ascribing a form of music amenable to peace or community for other citizens.

I don’t know the musical modes, I said, but leave us the mode that would fittingly imitate the utterances and the accents of a brave man who is engaged in warfare or in any enforced business, and who, when he has failed, either meeting wounds or death or having fallen into some other mishap, in all these conditions confronts fortune with steadfast endurance and repels her strokes.  And another for such a man engaged in works of peace, not enforced but voluntary, either trying to persuade somebody of something and imploring him - whether it be a god, through prayer, or a man, by teaching and admonition - or contrariwise yielding himself to another who is petitioning him or teaching him or trying to change his opinions, and in consequence faring according to his wish, and not bearing himself arrogantly, but in all this acting modestly and moderately and acquiescing in the outcome.  Leave us these two modes - the enforced and the voluntary - that will best imitate the utterances of men failing or succeeding, the temperate, the brave - leave us these.[1]

This regulated music would reinforce certain emotional and psychological traits desirable for those classes of citizens. Plato’s logic seems to assume that music arises from the deepest reaches of human emotion as a potent inner force projected outward onto the world. Since it has its natural home within the human psyche, when projected outward onto the world, it would easily penetrate deeply into the psyche of its hearers, shaping them for better or worse. As such, if music arose from an inner life of hatred, it would generate hatred within those who hear it. Likewise, if music arose from more noble emotions, it would ennoble.

If Plato’s arguments hold true, music bears a close connection to the psyche. As such, a religious community, just as a polis, must guard musical content lest it corrupts believers. And that is precisely what religious communities have done. In the High Middle Ages, Latin Christianity closely guarded the types of musical compositions and themes that were permissible for worship. Likewise, modern Mormonism closely controls the forms and themes of permissible musical compositions, canonizing certain music as the only acceptable music for worship. Such music ennobles. It educates and shapes the emotional lives of individuals, binding them together as a cohesive community. In this way, such music is akin to the music Plato spoke of as fostering peaceable community. In fact, religious music, as noted above, makes at-one-ment.

But music can also sever and degrade a community. In my mind, Beethoven's compositions stand as an apt example the destructive capacity of music. As noted above, in the High Middle Ages, ecclesiastical and political powers commissioned and controlled the highest expressions of music. Beethoven declared war on this tradition. Beethoven, more than any composer before, rejected institutionally prescribed musical forms, turning music into the sole expression of an individual. His music was not written for a community, but for himself. It was his dirge against a stifling form of community, dividing him from that community and tradition. Unlike religious believers, he could not merely adopt the music created by another. Instead, he needed to create a new form of music, which subsequent composers have adopted. Beethoven’s music is, in this sense, akin to the spirited music Plato ascribes to his military class. It is Thumos, in that it confronts a community with an individual's will, and, in so doing, divides that individual from his community. And, in fact, such music not only severs the individual from a contemporaneous community, it also severs him from a tradition.

If these arguments hold, they provide important guidance for Mormonism. First, Mormonism must continue to use music for creative purpose. Saints must be able to adopt such music as an expression of their own inner life, creating a space where the saints can bind themselves to one another and to their sacred past. Second, and relatedly, Mormonism cannot provide a narrow form of musical life. If the permissible forms of music—music through which an individual can worship, learn, and grow—are limited, individuals will venture outside the community to express their emotional life. When individuals so venture, they more often than not adopt a form of music that does not arise from the inner life of a saint. Such music will shape the heart and mind of the wondering saint, dividing him from his religious community. Thereafter, he will no longer be able to worship, learn, or grow with the saints. Such is the creative and destructive capacity of music, and those communities who ignore it do so to their own detriment.[2]

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[1] Republic  398d-399c.

[2] It is worth mentioning that even though I've discussed music in this post, the arguments made above apply more broadly to any form of artistic expression.

Utilitarianism and Altruism

     We revere selfless action. Jesus of Nazareth, Mother Teresa, and Francis of Assisi invoke awe precisely because they "died as to self" in the service of others. This awe reveals a core human value: altruism (other-centered action). Given this value, most people find forms of ethical life that reject altruism as unacceptable. This explains the common disdain of egoism as an ethical theory. This theory--in its strongest form--posits that one has a moral obligation to promote his own good, such that failing to do so is immoral.[1] If egoism were true, Mother Teresa lived a deeply immoral life, to the extent she lived altruistically.

      Like others, I find egoism to be problematic precisely because it fails to make room for true altruism. For the same reason, I find utilitarianism to be problematic. Utilitarianism treats an act as right or wrong depending on its consequences. Good consequences make an act right; bad ones make it wrong. Jeremy Bentham, an English philosopher, promoted a hedonic form of utilitarianism. According to Bentham, when an act brings about the greatest pleasure for the greatest number of people, it is right. But when an act results in pain without a net gain in pleasure, it is wrong. Famously, Bentham recommended employing a hedonic calculus in assessing competing actions. This calculus asks an agent to consider the intensity of pleasure that will result, its duration, etc.

     Bentham hoped that utilitarianism would provide an ethic capable of improving the lot of the common person. Legislators, judges, and executives act ethically, under the theory, not when they conform to abstract rules, but when their actions yield the right consequences, in terms of pleasure or pain. Framed in this manner, utilitarianism seems altruistic. It takes the stand-point of others as primary and demands our actions to ensure the well-being of others.

     But in so doing, utilitarianism leads to a paternalistic altruism--an altruism unworthy of the name. This paternalism is evident upon careful reflection. Imagine a legislature contemplates making church attendance mandatory. In arriving at this decision, it consults psychological and sociological research that reveals the benefits of religious observance. From this consultation, the legislature justifiably concludes that mandatory church services will maximize pleasure throughout its jurisdiction.

     But before enacting this law, the legislature opens its proposal to public comment. Citizens throughout the jurisdiction object. Many claim to be agnostics or atheists, strongly believing that church attendance will not contribute to their overall well-being. Despite these objections, the legislature moves forward and enacts its proposed legislation. Some time later, the accuracy of the legislature's research is borne out as citizens throughout the jurisdiction experience greater pleasure, happiness, and well-being from the legislation, a gain not offset by those disliking the legislation.[2]

     Though the legislature acted for the benefit of its citizens, it did so paternalistically. The legislature, after all, imposed what was best on its citizens without due regard to their desires. And while, in the end, the legislature's course of conduct proved to maximize pleasure, it did so at the expense of the others it aimed to benefit. This strikes me as drastically anti-altruistic.

     Altruism, at a minimum, must involve a respect for the inner desires and hopes of others. When an agent contemplates some act, it acts altruistically precisely when it incorporates the other's perspective and fashions its conduct accordingly. This, of course, has limitations. When the other's perspective, for example, commends immoral conduct, one does not act altruistically by humoring the improper act. But utilitarianism utterly fails to heed the other's perspective at all. It determines what is in the best interest of another and pursues that thing, often despite the other person's wishes.

     A utilitarian will likely bite the bullet in response to this argument. He will note that while utilitarianism does not take the inner desires of others seriously in all instances, it does foster  altruistic action because it seeks what's best for others. Whether this is a legitimate form of altruism partly depends, in the final analysis, on if the person receiving this paternal-charity experiences as altruistic. For my part, I would be willing to bet that the citizens of our thought experiment would not experience the legislature's action as altruistic, but as a paternalistic assault on their autonomy. And as the ethical theory seemingly stands in tension with legitimate altruism, it is suspect, in my judgment.[3]


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[1] In a weaker form, ethical egoism merely provides acting for one's own benefit is moral. It does not take the next step and claim that failing to act for one's own benefit is immoral.
[2] This thought experiment reveals a related problem systemic to utilitarianism--it fails to take individual rights seriously.
[3] Not all forms of utilitarianism are amenable to this analysis. I also note that being inconsistent with altruism does not automatically render an ethical theory false. It does, however, make it implausible.

   

The Wisdom of Hell

            The doctrine of hell has, I suspect, fallen into disrepute among many contemporary Christians. God—these Christians believe—cannot be simultaneously loving while condemning souls to eternal punishment. Further, it may be argued, belief in hell leads to self-loathing and toxic perfectionism, which prevents a Christian from experiencing God’s love. Better for all to abrogate or minimize the doctrine from Christian discourse. This will, it’s supposed, lead to a healthier relationship with self, others, and God.

            In this post, I wish to set aside the theological justification of this softer, contemporary view of hell. I also wish to set aside the question of whether hell actually exists. Instead, I want briefly to explore the existential consequences of belief in hell. Put differently, does belief in hell yield valuable outcomes in our lives? Provocatively, I argue that it does. In particular, I will contend that belief in hell makes life more meaningful. By logical extension, this means that life without a belief in hell lacks the full measure of meaning it otherwise could bear.

            To see this, I believe an analogy is in order. Imagine a general, faced with the prospect of fielding troops. If he fields the troops wisely, lives will be lost, but a victory gained. If he fields them unwisely, high casualties and defeat will result. Alternatively, then, he could shirk the battle altogether. But this too will impose costs. He will not gain the benefit of a victory and may jeopardize the overall war effort.

            Confronted with competing alternatives, each bearing momentous consequences, the general’s every decision is meaningful. Much is at stake. And it is precisely because much is at stake that the costs of his decisions are raised from the realm of the trivial to that of the meaningful. Consequences in practical action are, at least in part, the bearers of meaning. Remove those consequences and you eliminate or diminish the meaningfulness of practical action.

            It is, perhaps, for this reason that Ivan, in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, claims that “if God does not exist, then everything is permitted.” To be sure, Ivan was linking the non-existence of God (and by extension the non-existence of hell) with the elimination of ethical duties. But there is, in his statement, the caution that without God, social obligations become a farce, sapped of ultimate meaning. 

            Relatedly, Book of Mormon prophets warn against loosing a belief in hell. Nephi tells us that in the last days, many will say, 

[e]at, drink, and be merry; nevertheless, fear God—he will justify in committing a little sin; yea, lie a little, take the advantage of one because of his words, dig a pit for thy neighbor; there is no harm in this; and do all these things, for tomorrow we die; and if it so be that we are guilty, God will beat us with a few stripes, and at last we shall be saved in the kingdom of God.

(2 Nephi 28:8 (emphasis added)). 

Later in the book, Alma gives a flesh and blood representative of this teaching in the person of Nehor, who taught that “all mankind should be saved at the last day, and that [the people] need not fear nor tremble, but that they might lift up their heads and rejoice; for the Lord had created all men, and had also redeemed all men; and, in the end, all men should have eternal life.” (Alma 1:4). For Nehor, then, fear of hell should not sting the conscience nor restrain the body. 

Aside from the truth of this teaching, the existential consequences seem clear. Belief in hell raises the stakes. It imposes risk on the life one chooses to live. Choose wisely, like the general discussed above, and a victory will result. Choose unwisely and defeat will follow. So situated, confronted with the eternal consequences of our choices, our lives become more meaningful than they would otherwise be. For if no choice made any difference in the grand scheme of things, then no choice would ultimately be meaningful. Lie, cheat, and steal, for in the end, the outcome will be the same. Wisely, then, Lehi counsels that  “it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.” For without such opposition, “there would have been no purpose in the end of its creation." (2 Nephi 2:11, 12). And what better way to highlight that opposition than with a belief in punishment in the hereafter?

Some may resist my argument, noting that on the whole, belief in hell yields negative existential consequences. As noted above, it can be argued that the doctrine of hell leads to self-loathing and toxic perfectionism. This, I acknowledge, can occur. But I do not believe it to be the result of a belief in hell, but of an improper picture of God as eager to condemn souls to hell. The proper Christian belief views God as essentially loving, willing to forgive, and readily willing to impart grace to bring us to salvation, even where our efforts fall short. The fully meaningful Christian life, therefore, has both these components: a belief in hell and a belief in God who desires, more than anything else, to rescue us from hell on condition of our responding to His voice. Hell is, therefore, part of a greater whole in Christian doctrine. And without that part, meaningfulness in life is lost, too high a price, in my judgment.