ABSTRACT

Catholic Libertarianism?

Garrett McMillan

Director: Timothy W. Burns, Ph. D.

What are the similarities and difference between Catholic political thought and Libertarian political thought? What are the chief principles of libertarianism, and is it a self-sufficient political philosophy? What are the chief principles of Catholic political thought, and does it have anything to learn from libertarianism? To what extent, and in what ways, can the political thought of these two traditions be considered compatible, and to what extent and in what ways do they conflict with each other? This thesis will first examine the origins of libertarian thought, the concept of natural rights, and the goal of economic prosperity among the liberal political philosophers of the 17th century, alongside more contemporary libertarian thinkers. It will then examine an interpretation of the political thought of St. Augustine and St Thomas Aquinas, alongside a comparison of the doctrine of natural rights and the doctrine of natural law. Finally, this paper will examine two justifications of liberalism by contemporary Catholic authors, the first through a thorough analysis of the social encyclicals, and the second through a joint examination of Catholic principles and economic analysis.

APPROVED BY DIRECTOR OF HONORS THESIS

______

Dr. Timothy W. Burns, Department of Political Science

APPROVED BY THE HONORS PROGRAM:

______

Dr. Elizabeth Corey, Director

ii

DATE: ______

CATHOLIC LIBERTARIANISM?

A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of

Baylor University

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the

Honors Program

By

Garrett McMillan

Waco, Texas

May, 2016

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction ...... iii

Chapter 1: The Origins and Principles of Libertarian Thought . . 1

Chapter 2: Pre-modern Catholic Political Thought . . . . 54

Chapter 3: A Contemporary Interpretation of the Social Encyclicals . 99

Chapter 4: A Contemporary Attempt to Reconcile “The Church and The Market” 143

Conclusion ...... 199

Bibliography ...... 202

iii

INTRODUCTION

Libertarianism’s chief political principles are the securing of natural rights, economic prosperity, and social peace, and libertarianism lowers the political goals of the state compared to pre-modern Catholic political thought. These principles ought to be viewed with caution, but not rejected. Indeed, while arguments on behalf of a seamless development from the natural law doctrine into a natural rights doctrine are unconvincing, due to the historically differing goals of their proponents, it will be demonstrated that natural rights can be infused with morality and justified based on moral principles, which would bring natural rights to be more in line with natural law.

Liberalism in general, and libertarianism in particular, should be cast “in the role of a handmaid,” in order to save them from various dangers and errors they lack the judgment to deal with without a correct understanding of the human person. Likewise, the Church would benefit from adopting liberal principles, and should embrace, natural rights and the desire for economic prosperity while molding them in more moral directions.

Additionally, I argue that the social encyclicals demonstrate the acceptance by the popes of the core tenets of capitalism, along with many aspects of liberalism, while rejecting “ideological capitalism.” Yet, while the principles of Catholic Social Teaching are well defended by the popes, much of their analysis is prone to historical and economic error. The popes themselves acknowledge that the existence of the discipline of economics leaves many questions of public policy open to judgment. Unfortunately they, along with other Catholic thinkers, often misdiagnosed economic problems, thereby iv recommending counter-productive solutions. With regard to such matters, I argue that libertarian thought has a strong historical, economic, and moral case on behalf of its proposed solutions to the economic problems of our day.

1

CHAPTER ONE

The Origins and Principles of Libertarian Thought

Our first task is to examine what prominent classically liberal and libertarian thinkers themselves have to say about libertarianism. Before beginning such a discussion, however, a brief overview of elementary libertarian distinctions and concepts is called for. The first such distinction concerns the scope of the libertarian project, and separates

“thick” libertarianism from “thin” libertarianism. These adjectives signify the extent to which libertarianism is not only a political program but also a cultural program. Thin libertarianism is simply a support for the political program of libertarianism. Thick libertarianism is libertarianism that also has outside social and cultural commitments, usually leftist or liberal.1

The second elementary divide to be understood among libertarians is the divide in how libertarians should support their political positions. The consequentialists support generally libertarian policies because their effects align with the goals sought by the consequentialists, namely, social peace and economic prosperity. The deontologists, by contrast, support libertarianism based on principled moral grounds, as defined by the non- aggression principle (a moral axiom that states that it is always wrong to initiate violence,

1 Charles Johnson, “Libertarianism Through Thick and Thin | Charles Johnson,” July 1, 2008, http://fee.org/articles/libertarianism‐through‐thick‐and‐ thin/. 2

also known as the use of force, against another person) and based on the concept of

natural rights.23

There can be fierce criticism among these different factions. Consequentialist libertarians criticize deontological Libertarians for a willingness to ignore the effects that

their principles have when put into practice, whereas deontological libertarians criticize consequentialist libertarians for using their ends to justify their means. It is important to keep such differences in mind moving forward. And yet, however important these differences are, they are often overridden by what many refer to as “the happy coincidence.”4 This happy coincidence is that libertarian means are the best way to

achieve libertarian ends, thus eliminating any contradiction between them.

The final elementary concept that must be understood before moving into a

discussion of the works of the liberal thinkers themselves is the concept of negative vs.

positive rights. If you have a negative right to do something, no one has a right to stop

you from doing that thing. You do not have an obligation to do that thing, but neither do

you have a warrant for someone to give you that thing. Negative rights impose a duty on

others to refrain from doing something, or to not interfere with your exercise of a certain

liberty. These rights do not conflict with one another. Positive rights, by contrast, either

impose an active duty on others to provide something for you, or impose on you an

2 Aaron Ross Powell, “Libertarianism and Virtue,” Libertarianism.org, accessed March 31, 2016, http://social.libertarianism.org/blog/libertarianism‐ virtue.

3 For the purposes of the NAP, the threat of violence can also be classified under certain circumstances as violence.

4 Matt Zwolinski, “Bleeding Heart Libertarianism,” Bleeding Heart Libertarians, March 3, 2011, http://bleedingheartlibertarians.com/2011/03/bleeding‐heart‐libertarianism/. 3

obligation to provide something for others. These rights can conflict, as, for example, in cases of scarcity. As Aeon Skoble explains, if 100 people are arrested, and there are only

10 public defenders available, not all of the defendants can have their positive right to an attorney fulfilled. Positive rights can also involve the violation of negative rights, if they

impose a duty without a contractual agreement.5

Having established these basic concepts, in the remainder of this chapter we will

examine both the liberal origins of libertarianism and its foundational principles,

including its moral grounding in natural rights and its goals of economic prosperity and

social peace. The subjects of foreign policy and social policy will remain, for the most

part, outside of the scope of this thesis, as will the divide between libertarianism and

anarcho-capitalism.

Hobbes

The concept of natural rights, in the modern sense, is arguably derived from the writing

of Thomas Hobbes. Writing during the English Civil War, a period of immense religious

and political violence, Hobbes was concerned with developing a political theory with the

power to end such strife and establish peace and firm rule in the England of his day. He

was not interested in orienting men towards a “greatest good.”6 Instead, he concerned

himself with establishing workable political relations in service of those with

irreconcilable disagreements that, Hobbes argued, are sometimes called “heresy,” but are

5 Aeon Skoble, “Positive Rights vs. Negative Rights,” Libertarianism.org, accessed March 31, 2016, http://social.libertarianism.org/media/around‐ web/positive‐rights‐vs‐negative‐rights.

6 Thomas Hobbes and E. M. Curley, Leviathan: With Selected Variants from the Latin Edition of 1668 (Indianapolis: Hackett Pub. Co, 1994), 57. 4

actually simply private opinions misliked.7 Instead of happiness as the final end of all

men, self-preservation, peace, and a contented life are the ends towards which political

life should be oriented.8 These beneficial inclinations towards peace are contrasted with

less beneficial inclinations—especially vainglory—towards war. For Hobbes, happiness,

what he calls felicity, “is a continual progress of the desire, from one object to another.”

The search for this felicity leads to diverse “voluntary actions and inclinations of all men,” which differ due to the different passions and knowledge of different men.9 It is thus a more individualized happiness than that which the political life used to be oriented towards.

Understanding why individuals with different desires act the way they do requires

first understanding the state in which these individuals find themselves. In order to

understand this state, Hobbes argues, one must understand the state of nature, or what he calls “the Natural Condition of Mankind.” In nature, men are relatively equal. Despite differences in strength or intelligence, “the weakest has strength enough to kill the strongest.”10 From this “equality of ability” logically follows an “equality of hope in the

attaining of our ends.” This egalitarian starting point stands in marked contrast to the

grim physical state of the world. In a world of equal beings and scarce goods (used in the

7 Ibid., 61.

8 Ibid., 106.

9 Ibid., 57.

10 Ibid., 74. 5

economic sense of the term), “if any two men desire the same thing… they become enemies… and endeavor to destroy or subdue one another.”11

At this point in his construction, Hobbes is not sitting in judgment of the actions of these men. He is simply stating the facts. His next observation logically follows this ongoing struggle. The best way to “win” such a struggle is through a pre-emptive strike,

or “anticipation” as Hobbes calls it. Such action is necessary for the security of individual

men, and consists in using “force of wiles to master the persons of all men he can.” This,

Hobbes says, “is no more than his own conservation requireth, and is generally allowed.”

How did such a situation come about, though? In Hobbes’s understanding, the two types

of men in the world require this. Those who act out of fear would “be glad to be at ease

within modest bounds.” However, there also exist “some that [take] pleasure in

contemplating their own power in the acts of conquest, which they pursue farther than

their security requires.”12 Thus, if the justified good men acting out of fear did not attempt

to increase their power to the same extent that the unjustified men acting out of vainglory

did, then they would perish.

From this state of affairs, Hobbes reasons, “such augmentation of dominion over

men being necessary to a man’s conservation, it ought to be allowed to him.”13 Since man cannot help but seek to preserve his own life, and justice does not ask the impossible, man’s necessary claim to attempt to increase his power becomes a just claim. In this way

Hobbes bridges the gap between what is and what should be, and establishes what he

11 Ibid., 75.

12 Ibid.

13 Ibid. 6

ends up calling “the Right of Nature.” This Right, “is the liberty each man hath to use his

own power, as he will himself, for the preservation of his own nature… his own life, and

consequently of doing anything which, in his own judgment and reason, he shall conceive

to be the aptest means thereunto.” This “Liberty,” which Hobbes defines as “the absence

of external impediments,” is the first instantiation of a natural right.14 Importantly, this

right is a “right to everything, even to another’s body.”15 In the state of nature, there are

no limits placed on this right in consideration of the rights of others.

The consequences of such a right are quite severe. Indeed, from this Right of

Nature, and from the passions, Hobbes infers a state of nature that can be summed up in

the classic Hobbesian phrase “a war as is of every man against every man.” In such a

state, “there is no place for industry… continual fear and danger of violent death, and the

life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”16 And it is from this state that

Hobbes hopes to save man, by bringing about peace.

How does such peace arise? In contrast to the passion of vainglory that brings

about war, “the passions that incline men to peace are fear of death, desire of such things

as are necessary to commodious living, and a hope by their industry to obtain them.”17

Such passions can be satisfied by following what Hobbes calls the “Laws of Nature.”

These laws are general rules that can be discovered through reason. They are consistent

14 Ibid., 79.

15 Ibid., 80.

16 Maciej Zięba, Papal Economics: The Catholic Church on Democratic Capitalism, from Rerum Novarum to Caritas in Veritate, Culture of Enterprise Series (Wilmington, Delaware: ISI Books, 2013), 76.

17 Ibid., 78. 7

with the natural right to all things in that acting upon that right leads to destruction, the

very opposite of what each man is compelled to desire. By natural law “man is forbidden

to do that which is destructive of his life or taketh away the means of preserving the

same, and to omit that by which he thinketh it may be best preserved.”18 The first law of

nature is therefore that man is obligated to seek peace, while still using all means

necessary to defend himself. The second law is that a man must be “willing, when others

are so too… to lay down this right to all things, and be contented with so much liberty

against other men, as he would allow other men against himself.”19 Such laws direct men

towards the mutual acknowledgment of liberties or rights that Hobbes calls a contract.20

In this way, Hobbes establishes both the concept of rights (plural), derived from the initial natural right, and the idea of the social contract.

What are the implications of the Hobbesian derivation of natural rights for

Catholic and libertarian thought? The first and most obvious observation that can be made is that Hobbes’s Leviathan is a systematic attack on the Aristotelian conception of

the state, as well as the corresponding Aristotelian conception of man that it is based on.

Indeed, Hobbes’s conception of natural rights gives rise to the crucial notion that what the law does not forbid it allows, which contrasts with the Aristotelian idea that what the

law does not command it forbids. Hobbes’s rights are things that are possessed; they are

claims that individuals can make. This differs from the older, Aristotelian notion of

justice whereby a right possesses a person and makes claims upon him (duties). It thus

18 Ibid., 79.

19 Hobbes and Curley, Leviathan, 80.

20 Ibid., 82. 8

brings into being a conception of society as serving the desires of individuals, rather than

one in which the individual is called on to serve the common good. This will be

examined in greater detail in subsequent chapters, but it seems that, to the extent that

Catholic political thought is wedded to Aristotle and libertarian thought is to Hobbes,

they are most certainly incompatible.

Part of the reason for this difference is the different starting points of Hobbes and

Aristotle. While Aristotle begins with a conception of man’s ultimate end, the good life,

Hobbes begins instead with a sumum malum, from which we must be protected. These starting points seem to indicate a lowering of political aspirations. While previously the goal of politics was to enable man to reach the highest good, Hobbes argues that it should instead be crafted to achieve the more limited goal of ensuring we do not suffer the worst evil (violent death). Indeed, one of Hobbes’s chief goals is the achievement of social peace, which he argues can be more easily achieved by removing the higher goals— especially in their religious incarnations—from political life. Libertarianism maintains the same limited goals, but does not justify them with arguments for social peace.

Perhaps the most important point of note in our examination though is the way in which Hobbes derives his idea of natural rights. According to Hobbes, rights are derived from the original, selfish but justified claim that individuals have, which they surrender to a Sovereign and in exchange for which they eventually receive back certain “rights” that they “would allow other men against [themselves].” This original selfish but justified claim is, in effect, a positive right that individuals have to the goods, services, and even lives of their fellow men. The conflict of these claims eventually leads to a social contract whereupon men mutually agree to rights. But Hobbes does not specify what these rights 9 might be. Indeed, they are secured by the will of the sovereign, and so rely on the

Sovereign’s will and judgment in order to be secured. Thus, it is not “nature” that ultimately determines what these rights are, but the Sovereign. While the rights do all exist in the state of nature, under the form of the unlimited right to all things, they are the leftovers of that original right, rather than principled pre-political rights. Indeed,

Hobbes’s rights are not necessarily confined to negative duties on others to forbear from interfering in the exercise of your negative rights. Since they depend on the agreement of others, they are not synonymous with the pre-political, natural, negative rights of libertarianism. Indeed, if nature does not decide which rights men end up with, in what sense can their rights be considered truly natural?

Locke

Hobbes’s ideas were quite unpopular in England, and it took John Locke and his Second

Treatise on Government to popularize them. In this treatise, Locke begins by inquiring into the State of Nature and the State of War. Similar to Hobbes, in the State of Nature equality should be assumed among men. The only exception, for Locke, would be if an express declaration by God would have it not so.21 In contrast to Hobbes though, Locke’s

State of Nature is not necessarily synonymous with the State of War. Indeed, supposedly they “are as far distant, as a State of Peace, Good Will, Mutual Assistance, and

Preservation, and a State of Enmity, Malice, Violence, and Mutual Destruction are one from another.”22 The apparent distinction between them is encapsulated when Locke describes how “want of a common Judge with Authority, puts all Men in a State of

21 John Locke, The Second Treatise of Government, n.d., §4.

22 Ibid., §19. 10

Nature: Force without Right, upon a Man’s Person, makes a State of War, both where there is, and is not, a common Judge.”23 This distinction, however, becomes questionable

later on in Locke’s argument.

For Locke, in nature there is a “State of Liberty,” as well as a “Law of Nature.”

This Law, which is synonymous with Reason, “teaches all mankind… that being all equal

and independent, no one aught to harm another in his Life, Health, Liberty, or

Possessions.” In addition, man is “bound to preserve himself” and, when it’s not against

self-preservation, one ought to, “preserve the rest of Mankind.”24 This is to be accomplished by executing the Law of Nature, the execution of this law being a right that every man has in the State of Nature.25 Indeed, Locke says this Law is written “in the

Hearts of all Mankind,” dubiously citing the example of Cain to make his point.26 Under what constraints is this to be carried out? “Reparation and restraint… are the only reasons, why one Man may lawfully do harm to another.” This punishment must be both proportional to the crime, and is used in order to deter, as well as to foster repentance.27

Locke realizes that there would be problems with this state of each man executing the Law of Nature. Among the problems he lists are that the accused, or their friends, will be judges in their own cases; there is a propensity in the State of Nature to give in to passion and seek revenge. This conflict between people in the State of Nature can lead to

23 Ibid.,

24 Ibid., §6.

25 Ibid., §7.

26 Ibid., §11.

27 Ibid., §8. 11 the State of War, in which men whose rights have been usurped have a right to destroy what threatens them with destruction.28 To avoid the State of War, men enter Society, in which, “there is an Authority, a Power on Earth, from which relief can be had by appeal.”

Such a Society allows controversies to be decided without recourse to war.29 Thus, solution to the confusion and disorder of the State of Nature/State of War, which now seem synonymous, is government.30

After Locke has established the need for Society and Government, he contends for a right to private property. By this, Locke means an individual’s right to appropriate goods for private use. In order to establish this right, Locke appeals to both reason and revelation. And although both appear at first to support his ultimate argument, his references to God are more or less a rhetorical strategy to support his argument from reason. For while he appeals to both reason and revelation in the beginning of his argument, his appeals help him to distinguish reason and revelation, which enables him to drop revelation as his argument progresses.

Locke begins his fifth chapter, Of Property, with a statement inclusive of both reason and revelation. He writes, “Whether we consider natural Reason… or Revelation, which gives us an account of those Grants God made of the World to Adam, and to Noah, and his Sons, ’tis very clear, that God… has given the Earth to the Children of Men, given it to Mankind in common.”31 Locke argues that the earth begins as a common gift

28 Ibid., §16.

29 Ibid., §21.

30 Ibid., §13.

31 Ibid., §25. 12

according to both reason and revelation. Locke further states that the Earth “is given to

Men for the Support and Comfort of their being.”32 Such a purpose is inherently rational,

but by acknowledging that it “is given,” Locke continues to give a nod towards

revelation. Locke further argues that, in order for man to achieve this purpose, “God

Commanded, and his Wants forced him to labour.” God’s command encompasses

revelation, and man’s “wants” encompass right reason. With the necessity of labor

established, Locke writes, “God, by commanding to subdue, gave Authority so far to

appropriate.”33 This theological justification for private property, however, begins to blur and lead into Locke’s strictly rational justification for the institution, which takes on a central importance throughout the rest of his argument.

Natural Reason, Locke writes, “tells us, that Men, being born, have a right to their

Preservation, and consequently to Meat and Drink, and such other things, as Nature affords for their Subsistence”34 To be sure, Locke states that Natural Reason is the faculty

that God has given Men in order “to make use of it to the best advantage.” But by best

advantage, Locke means the furthering and achievement of support and comfort of Men as they, and not God, determine. The problem, however, is that “no body has originally a private Dominion, exclusive to the rest of Mankind… yet… there must of necessity be a means to appropriate them some way or other before they can be of any use, or at all beneficial to any particular Man.” 35 In other words, Man needs private property in order

32 Ibid., §26.

33 Ibid., §35.

34 Ibid., §25.

35 Ibid., §26. 13

to enjoy the fruits of the earth, but the earth is initially given in common to all. How does

this transition from common ownership to private property occur? Locke uses several key

steps to explain this. By these, he is able to make a case in support of a right to private

property.

The first step Locke takes in solving this conundrum is by maintaining “every

Man has a Property in his own Person. This no Body has any Right to but himself.”

Ownership of the self is not communal, but inherently exclusive. Thus, it follows that

“The Labour of his Body, and the Work of his Hands… are properly his.” Both seemingly straightforward propositions, the crucial part follows when Locke demonstrates how these principles enable Man to take property out of the State of Nature, common with the whole world, and appropriate it for his own uses. He writes,

“Whatsoever then he removes out of the State that Nature hath provided, and left it in, he hath mixed his Labour with, and joined to it something that is his own, and thereby makes it his Property.” Thus, it is through (necessary) work and labor, which man mixes with land in order to survive, that man is able to claim private property and exclude “the

common right of other Men.”36

After establishing this basic proposition, he next addresses some possible objections to his argument. The first objection he posits is the issue of consent, writing,

“will any one say he had no right to Acorns of Apples he thus appropriated, because he had not the consent of all Mankind to make them his?” In dealing with this question,

Locke argues that it is practically impossible to achieve the consent of all Mankind. The consequences of this impracticability are that, “[i]f such a consent was necessary, Man

36 Ibid., §27. 14

had starved, notwithstanding the Plenty God had given him.”37 Thus, with an appeal to

necessary, factual practice, Locke dismisses this objection to his account of the origin of

private property.

Despite this, Locke recognizes that another possible objection can be raised in

reply to his proposed mechanism for the acquisition of private property: the objection of

material inequality. What is to stop people from simply mixing a small quantity of their

labor with the largest amount of land possible? Locke responds to this first by denying

that his theory supports such an outcome. He writes, “the same Law of Nature, that does

by this means give us Property, does also bound that Property too.” What exactly are

these bounds? The first is “as much as any one can make use of to any advantage of life

before it spoils; so much he may be his labour fix a Property in. Whatever is beyond this,

is more than his share, and belongs to others.”38 The second is that “enough and as good

[should be] left in common for other.”39 With these natural, reasonable limits, Locke

theoretically ensures that no man is entitled to more than he can enjoy.

However, Locke makes two additional claims to counter the objection of

inequality. His first claim exalts the value of labor, which he does by citing the example

of America. “Thus in the beginning all the World was America.”40 Elaborating, he writes,

“several Nations of the Americans are… rich in Land, and poor in all the Comforts of

Life; whom Nature having furnished as liberally as any other people, with the materials

37 Ibid., §28.

38 Ibid., §31.

39 Ibid., §17.

40 Ibid., §49. 15

of plenty… yet for want of improving it by labour, have not one hundredth part of the

Conveniences we enjoy.” Because of this, “a King of a large and fruitful Territory there

feeds, lodges, and is clad worse than a day Labourer in England.”41 This disparity is due

to the value of labor over the value of land, which Locke initially claims is nine times as

valuable as land, a claim he revises when he writes, “what in them [products] is purely

owing to Nature, and what to labour, we shall find, that in most of them 99/100 are

wholly to be put on the account of labour.”42 This he again revises to 999/1000, revealing

his true opinion that nature, in reality, only provides worthless materials.43 By exalting

the value of labor over that of land, Locke implicitly critiques the landed aristocracy of

England as not being beneficial to the common good since labor, not land is what allows

man to transform the land and move from a situation of poverty to one of abundance.

This idea leads into his second argument for allowing the accumulation of private

wealth. Labor increases the common stock of mankind, which means it is for the benefit

of all. The land he has isn’t taken from any other man, because by working it, he

transforms what was worthless into abundance. Demonstrating this, Locke writes, “nor

was this appropriation of any parcel of Land, by improving it, any prejudice to any other

Man… For he that leaves as much as another can make use of, does as good as take nothing at all.”44 Not only does one’s appropriation of land not harm another, but also

possession of wealth in general does not. While Locke previously granted that men can

41 Ibid., §41.

42 Ibid., §40.

43 Ibid., §43.

44 Ibid., §33. 16

own only what they can make use of, he recognizes that spoilage at some point ceased to be a limit on wealth. That point was when money was invented. “Men have agreed to disproportionate and unequal possession of the Earth… having by a tacit and voluntary consent found out a way, how a man may fairly possess more land than he himself can use the product of, by receiving in exchange for the overplus, Gold and Silver, which

may be hoarded up without injury to any one, these metals not spoiling or decaying in the

hands of the possessor.”45 In this way, both the initial acquisition, and the further almost

unlimited acquisition (except by the now meaningless restriction of “enough and as good

left in common for others”) of wealth are given support by Locke. Love of money, far from being, as St. Paul calls it, the root of all evil, is the means invented by man to

overcome the terrible state of penury in which nature had left him. Contrary to Locke’s

initial claim that a beneficent God had provided a bountiful world, the picture that now

emerges is of a harsh nature from which man must escape through his own efforts, above

all through the unlimited acquisition of money.

From here we now turn to Locke’s conception of government, which is very

different from previous conceptions of government. This difference comes out in his

discussion of the family, and its relation to political society. He brings up the example of

children to illustrate the difference in governance between families and states. While a

state should be constituted of free and equal adults entering into political society,

“children, I confess are not born in this full state of Equality, though they are born to it.

Their Parents have a sort of Rule and Jurisdiction over them when they come into the

45 Ibid., §50. 17

World, and for some time after, but ’tis but a temporary one.”46 What state then are

children born into? Locke answers that it is one of mutual obligation; parents have a duty

and an obligation to take care of children, while children are obligated to respond by

honoring and obeying their parents.47 This obligation, however, ceases proportionally to the onset of “Age and Reason as they grow up,” and eventually leaves those who had

been children with the freedom to make their own decisions and choices independent of their parents.48 Locke calls this cessation of the rule of parents the “State of Maturity,”

where the former child has become capable of knowing and understanding the “Law of

Nature.”49 This state is ultimately reached when children “are able to provide for

themselves.”50 The problem, Locke suggests, is that, when it comes to political society,

the pattern of the family is still being adopted. Indeed, he writes, “the natural Fathers of

Families, by an insensible change, became the politick Monarchs of them too.”51

Absolute monarchies claim their rights because they view political society as analogous to the family. But this is not how it should be viewed, according to Locke.

Locke argues that a patriarchal family structure has given rise to the notion of the

State as a parent, with both directing those under their rule towards certain goods. This, however, is something Locke hopes to overcome, and so he reconstitutes the family

46 Ibid., §55.

47 Ibid., §58, §67–68.

48 Ibid., §55.

49 Ibid., §59.

50 Ibid., §78.

51 Ibid., §76. 18

based on contractual principles. The implication of this is that the state can now also be

so constituted. An example of this reconstitution can be seen in his discussion of marriage, where he writes, “Conjugal Society is made by voluntary Compact between

Man and Woman.”52 This “compact” is not the uniting of two persons into one, but allows for separation. Indeed, Locke writes, “the Wife has, in many cases, a Liberty to separate from him; where natural Right, or their Contract allows it.”53

This contractual way of thinking about marriage, the family, and the state serves

Locke’s condition of equality. But if this condition is so necessary, it must first be answered why men need to exit the state of nature and form a political community at all.

Locke puts it this way: “If Man in the State of Nature be so free… absolute Lord of his own Person and Possessions, equal to the greatest and subject to no Body, why will he part with his Freedom? Why will he give up this Empire, and subject himself to the

Dominion and Controul of any other Power?” The answer lies in the insecurity of man’s estate, of his private property, whose protection is the chief end of government.54 As

discussed, this insecurity is due to the likelihood of man entering a State of War when he

is in the State of Nature. So what then should be the basis of political community? Locke

argues for consent as the only legitimate basis. Indeed, he goes so far as to say, “no one

can be put out of [his] Estate, and subjected to the Political Power of another, without his own Consent.”55 And this consent must be expressly given, not simply implicit.56 Once

52 Ibid., §78.

53 Ibid., §82.

54 Ibid., §123–124.

55 Ibid., §95. 19

one grants this consent, though, a sovereign political body is formed, which acts “by the

will and determination of the majority.”57 Such determination is binding, and serves as a

new obligation.58 In effect, a new government, or sovereign authority has been created.

One problem remains though, according to Locke. This problem is something that

Hobbes had overlooked. Once a Leviathan is set up, “what Fence is there in such a State, against the Violence and Oppression of this Absolute Ruler?” Setting up a government without restraining it would be “as if when Men quitting the State of Nature entered into

Society, they agreed that all of them but one, should be under the restraint of Laws, but that he should still retain all the Liberty of the State of Nature, increased with Power, and made licentious by Impunity.”59 Men are not so foolish, Locke says, as to agree to this,

and they establish governments to enlarge freedom and not to infringe upon it. Indeed,

“the end of Law is not to abolish or restrain, but to preserve and enlarge Freedom…

where there is no Law, there is no Freedom.”60

What, then, are the implications of the Lockean revision of Hobbes for Catholic

and libertarian thought? First, Locke’s differentiation of the state of nature from the state

of war, at least in theoretical terms, appears to be a more moral account of natural rights.

For while Hobbes argues that a natural right to all “ought to be allowed,” and only later

restricts this right to account for the rights of others, Locke accounts for the rights of

56 Ibid., §121–122.

57 Ibid., §95.

58 Ibid., §97.

59 Ibid., §93.

60 Ibid., §57. 20 others in the State of Nature. Indeed, Locke’s natural rights apparently exist before the social contract in the State of Nature, and are directed towards various goods, such as self-preservation, subsistence, and the comfort of men. This makes them principles pre- political rights, in contrast with the “leftover” rights from Hobbes. This distinction is important, even though Locke’s State of Nature seems to inherently erode into the State of War.

Second, Locke’s deceptive treatment of revelation should place his theory in a questionable light. Indeed, while Locke gives us a reasoned account of the origin of private property, he does so in a way that denies the truth of the revealed bounty of God.

And yet, as we will see in our examination of the thought of Thomas Aquinas, such a contradiction between reason and Revelation is impossible, and can only result from our misunderstanding of one or the other. We will need to keep this in mind as we move forward, and take note when the Lockean account of the origin of private property is included in the social encyclicals.

Third, again with regard to private property, it should be noted that, while its acquisition faces the limit of the Lockean proviso (leaving enough and as good in common for others), this limit eventually collapses with the invention of money, allowing the unlimited acquisition of wealth. This right is certainly a part of libertarian thought, and indeed is assumed by many non-libertarian modern political thinkers as well.

Finally, it should be noted that Locke contributes the idea of government by consent, and the idea that we must bind the Sovereign to protect ourselves from him

(constitutionalism). These ideas, as will be seen in our analysis of Ludwig von Mises, are often incidentally, but not essentially, part of the libertarian political tradition. 21

Rothbard

In addition to examining the origins of liberalism, and therefore libertarianism, within the

classic texts of modernity, it is also important to consider how contemporary libertarian

political thinkers view and interpret their tradition, looking back on it with present-day eyes. Murray Rothbard is one such important figure to consider. As Hans Herman Hoppe writes in his introduction to Rothbard’s The Ethics of Liberty, Rothbard was “without a doubt the single most important and respected moral authority within the entire libertarian movement.” Indeed, his “libertarianism provides to this day the intellectual benchmark in reference to which everyone and everything else in libertarianism is defined and positioned.”61

Before one is able to understand Rothbard’s political conclusions, one must first

understand his method. Like the previous authors, he attempts to formulate a theory of

natural rights. Specifically, he asserts in his preface, “[t]he key to the theory of liberty is

the establishment of the rights of private property, for each individual’s justified sphere

of free action can only be set forth if his rights of property are analyzed and

established.”62

What may be surprising, however, is his attempt to use the idea of natural law to

arrive natural rights. This attempt is different from that of Hobbes, for while Hobbes also asserts that his political philosophy is grounded in reason, reason for Hobbes is directed by the passions. Rothbard corrects this view, criticizing much of modern philosophic

thought in the process. He states, “[i]n natural-law philosophy, then, reason is not bound,

61 Murray N. Rothbard, The Ethics of Liberty (New York: New York University Press, 1998), xxix.

62 Ibid., xlviii. 22

as it is in modern post-Humean philosophy, to be a mere slave to the passions.”63 In contrast to such post-Humean philosophy, Rothbard adopts the position of those such as

Thomas Aquinas that reason is independent of the passions. In adopting this position,

Rothbard finds himself attempting to defend the natural law from the hostility of two different camps, “one group sensing in this position an antagonism toward religion; and the other group suspecting that God and mysticism are being slipped in by the back door.”64 The alliance between these camps is noted by Professor George P. Grant, whose

insight is excerpted from The Canadian Journal of Economics and Political Science:

“The interesting fact historically is that these two anti-rationalist traditions—that of the

liberal skeptic and the Protestant revelationist—should originally have come from two…

opposite views of man,” overly optimistic and overly pessimistic respectively.65

By contrast, Rothbard favors, and quotes at length from, Jesuit Spanish

Scholastics, modern Thomist philosophers, and Hugo Grotius, as examples of those who

hold the (he argues correct) opinion that the natural law does not depend on God’s will.66

So man’s nature cannot be dismissed “a priori.” Indeed, it seems that, since other beings

(objects, animals, and plants) have a nature, it would be reasonable to expect man to have

one as well, and that this nature should be open to rational observation.67 Sensing a need

for further proof, Rothbard appeals to the sciences of biology and psychology to support

63 Ibid., 7.

64 Ibid., 3–4.

65 Ibid., 16.

66 Ibid., 4–5.

67 Ibid., 9–10. 23

his argument that man has a nature.68 He even claims that Hume himself, the

“philosopher supposed by modern philosophers to have effectively demolished the theory

of natural law” contradicts himself, and brings the natural law back in with his theory of

justice and social philosophy.69

But, alleges the hypothetical critic of natural law, if there is a natural law, “who is

to establish the alleged truths about man?” Anticipating such a criticism, Rothbard

explains, “[t]he answer is not who but what: man’s reason. Man’s reason is objective… it

can be employed by all men to yield truths about the world.” If man’s nature is objective, then why do people disagree on what it is? Rothbard puts such differences down to the

fallibility of man, and maintains that such differences do not mean that the very question

of man’s nature is illegitimate. With respect to this, he writes, “difference of opinion is no

excuse for discarding all sides to a dispute; the responsible person is the one who uses his

reason to examine the various contentions and make up his own mind.”70

So what exactly is man’s nature according to the, as he admits, fallible Rothbard?

Well, he doesn’t exactly answer his own question. Instead, he answers the related

question of how the natural law relates to the nature of things (whether they be objects,

plants, animals, or man). “The natural law ethic decrees that for all living things,

“goodness” is the fulfillment of what is best for that type of creature; “goodness” is

therefore relative to the nature of the creature concerned.”71 This means that the natural

68 Ibid., 13.

69 Ibid., 14–15.

70 Ibid., 10.

71 Ibid., 11. 24

law “elucidates what is best for man—what ends fulfill, his nature… natural law provides

man with a ‘science of happiness,’ with the paths which will lead to his real happiness.”72

After establishing that a natural law ethic is fundamental to man’s happiness,

Rothbard makes arguments as to how knowledge of this natural law should be used for political purposes. The first is that natural law can and should be used to criticize the status quo of the state and society. He makes this argument by categorizing three societal principles by which laws can be fashioned by the state; “by following the traditional custom of the tribe or community; by obeying the arbitrary, ad hoc will of those who rule the State apparatus; or by the use of man’s reason in discovering the natural law—in short, by slavish conformity to custom, by arbitrary whim, or by the use of man’s reason.” In short, Rothbard is saying that, insofar as the state’s laws conform to the natural law, they are governed by reason. Insofar as they do not, they are arbitrary or mere customs. When the three choices are put that way, this leaves room for the natural law to be, “in essence, a profoundly ‘radical’ ethic, for it holds the existing status quo, which might grossly violate natural law, up to the unsparing and unyielding light of reason.”73 This makes the natural law a profoundly liberal ethic, according to Rothbard.

Indeed, he cites Samuel Huntington, a conservative political scientist, who recognized

that ideals could become “a standard by which to criticize the institutions.” Thus, “any

theory of natural law as a set of transcendent and universal moral principles is inherently

non-conservative… Opposition to natural law [is]… a distinguishing characteristic of

72 Ibid., 12.

73 Ibid., 17. 25 conservatism.”74 Thus, Rothbard establishes himself as a liberal, despite modern day political conventions. Indeed, in 19th century Europe conservatives were very much opposed to the idea of natural law, whereas nowadays many conservatives would agree with it, against their progressive counterparts.

As just one example of the radical nature of the natural law/natural rights argument, Rothbard argued, with respect to slavery in the United States, “at the very least, elementary libertarian justice required not only the immediate freeing of the slaves, but also the immediate turning over to the slaves, again without compensation to the masters, of the plantations lands on which they had worked and sweated.”75 Since “all legitimate property-right derives from every man’s property in his own person, as well as the ‘homesteading’ principle of unowned property rightly belonging to the first possession,” the plantation system falls under one of Rothbard’s “two types of ethically invalid land titles: ‘feudalism,’ in which there is continuing aggression by titleholders of land against peasants engaged in transforming the soil.”76 Thus, instead of compensating former slave-owners, or even limited reparations to formers slaves, the only just solution is to return to land to its rightful and true owners: the (former) slaves.

Rothbard’s second argument considering the use of the natural law is that it should shed light on individual relationships. He identifies Lord Acton as a Catholic libertarian who understood the full implications of the revolutionary concept of natural

74 Ibid., 20.

75 Ibid., 75.

76 Ibid., 60, 69. The other type of ethically invalid land title is “land‐ engrossing, where arbitrary claims to virgin land are used to keep first‐transformers our of that land” 26

law. For Acton, the critical flaw of “the ancient Greek… conception of natural law

political philosophy was to identify politics and morals, and then to place the supreme

social moral agent in the State.”77 In Rothbard’s mind, Aristotle was correct in his

definition of man as a “social animal” (here Rothbard interprets/conflates Aristotle’s

claim of man being a political animal with being a social animal), whose nature is

directed towards social cooperation. What was incorrect was “the virtual identification of

‘society’ and ‘the state.’”78 Thus, the natural law has implications for individuals in

society, and not necessarily for the state, which Rothbard does not regard as having

agency.

Having established natural law as a tool for criticism, and having proceeded to

criticize its incorrect use in the past on behalf of the state rather than on behalf of the

individual, Rothbard then proceeds to detail his conception of how natural law should be used; in service of the idea of natural rights. Since the natural law is “‘science of

happiness’” and calls for “what is best for man,” for the fulfillment of his nature, and for a “[path] which will lead to his real happiness,” man must possess rights that “are those

‘which, by fair deduction from the present physical, moral, social, religious

characteristics of man, he must be invested with… in order to fulfill the ends to which his

nature calls him.”79

Indeed, a “myriad of post-Locke and post-Leveller natural-rights theorists made

clear their view that these rights stem from the nature of man and of the world around

77 Ibid., 18.

78 Ibid., 21.

79 Ibid., 12, 23. 27

him.” For example, “nineteenth-century German-American theorist Francis Lieber…

wrote, ‘[t]he law of nature or natural law… is the law, the body of rights, which we

deduce from the essential nature of man.’” In other words, natural law leads to natural

rights, and the two are practically synonymous. To cite but one more example, “Theodore

Woolsey, one of the last of the systematic natural rights theorists in nineteenth-century

America [wrote:] natural rights are those ‘which, by fair deduction from the present

physical, moral, social, religious characteristics of man, he must be invested with… in

order to fulfill the ends to which his nature calls him.’”80 In other words, natural rights are

a necessary precondition to man’s fulfillment of the natural law.

Ernest L. Fortin, as we shall see, will take issue with such a leap, but having made

it, Rothbard continues his treatise, and adopts as his definition of a “Right” the definition

of Professor James A. Sadowsk, S.J; “When we say that one has the right to do certain

things we mean this and only this, that it would be immoral for another, alone or in

combination, to stop him from doing this by the use of physical force of the threat

thereof.”81 To do so would be a violation of justice, which is Rothbard’s central concern.

Rothbard’s last point before launching into the details of his political theory

(which will not be covered in depth in this thesis) is to identify who in history brought about the reversal of the identification of the moral agent from being the state to being the individual. He argues that this transition was brought about by “the Levellers and particularly John Locke in seventeenth-century England who transformed classical natural law into a theory grounded on methodological and hence political individualism.”

80 Ibid., 23.

81 Ibid., 24. 28

Locke established “the individual as the unit of action,” thus leading him to a “conception

of natural law in politics as establishing the natural rights of each individual.”82 It is “this

tradition of natural-rights libertarianism” which is the basis upon which Rothbard builds

his entire ethics of liberty and ensuing anarchist/libertarian political thought.

What are the implications of Rothbard’s derivation of natural rights from natural

law for Catholic and libertarian thought? In abstract terms, Rothbard gives solid and

defensible support for his argument for natural rights as derived from natural law.

Historically, his support for his argument is markedly weaker, and relies on questionable

interpretations of Locke as well as the Natural Law by a variety of (usually protestant)

thinkers. Still, his case is a decidedly moral one, and his rigorous application of the

implications of his theory of natural rights has much to say for it—provided his initial

argument for natural rights is accepted. Still, it is noteworthy that Rothbard makes the

attempt to justify the concept. Other contemporary libertarian thinkers simply assert the

idea, as Robert Nozick does at the idea at the beginning of his work Anarchy, State, and

Utopia.83

Finally, a discussion on libertarian and Catholic political thought concerning

Rothbard would not be complete without at least a cursory examination of a chapter

entitled Children and Rights. Rothbard opens this chapter with an acknowledgment of

“the difficult case of children.” He writes that, “it is clear that a newborn babe is in no

82 Ibid., 21.

83 Robert Nozick, Anarchy, State, and Utopia (New York: Basic Books, 1974), xix. Interestingly, Nozick eventually abandoned libertarianism. See Rothbard’s critique of Nozick in “Robert Nozick and the Immaculate Conception of the State” in The Ethics of Liberty 29

natural sense an existing self-owner, but rather a potential self-owner.”84 This poses a

problem for Rothbard, which he expresses as follows: “when, or in what way, does a

growing child acquire his natural right to liberty and self-ownership?”85

Rothbard first examines the problems of self-ownership in the case of abortion.

He derives his support for abortion rights from “everyman’s absolute right to self-

ownership.” Indeed “every woman has the… absolute dominion over her body and

everything within it. This includes the fetus.” For Rothbard, the simple fiat of the mother deciding “that she does not want the fetus there any longer” makes “the fetus [become] a parasitic “invader” of her person.” This fiat is sufficient because of “the inalienability of the will,” according to which men may not, even voluntarily, forfeit their will, or the right to change their will. The implication with regard to abortion is that the mother “cannot legitimately be enslaved into carrying and having a baby against her will.” In other words, there can be no legal obligation to carry the baby to term. Thus, Rothbard argues that “abortion should be looked upon [according to the law], not as ‘murder’ of a living

person, but as the expulsion of an unwanted invader from the mother’s body.’” In a

footnote, Rothbard notes, “what we are trying to establish here is not the morality of

abortion… but its legality.”86

This separation of morality from legality continues in Rothbard’s examination of

the rights of children after birth. Rothbard argues that “a parent does not have the right to

aggress against his children, but also that the parent should not have a legal obligation to

84 Rothbard, The Ethics of Liberty, 97.

85 Ibid., 96.

86 Ibid., 98. 30

feed, clothe, or educate his children.” Rothbard is at pains to explain why no such

obligation exists, arguing that this would create a positive right on behalf of the child,

which would violate the negative rights of the parents. Indeed, he argues, “in the free

society, no man may be saddled with the legal obligation to do anything for another,

since that would invade the former’s rights; the only legal obligation one man has to

another is to respect the other man’s rights.”87

What are the silver linings of such a seemingly barbaric state of affairs? The first

is that the parents’ trusteeship and guardianship can be ended by the child’s “absolute

right to run away.” Indeed, for Rothbard “the child has his full rights of self-ownership

when he demonstrates that he has them in nature,” and can assert his self-ownership

whenever he so chooses. The second, perhaps counter-intuitive silver lining is that

parents may transfer this limited “ownership to someone else. [They] may give the child

out for adoption, or [they] may sell the rights to the child in a voluntary contract. In short,

we must face the fact that the purely free society will have a flourishing free market in

children.”88 Such will “allow for an allocation of babies and children away from parents who dislike or do not care for their children, and toward foster parents who deeply desire such children.” Indeed, Rothbard argues that part of the problem of the current system is that we already have a child-market, but “the government enforces a maximum price control of zero… The demand for babies and children is usually far greater than the supply, and hence we see daily tragedies of adults denied the joys of adopting children…

87 Ibid., 100–101.

88 Ibid., 103. 31

along with a large number of surplus and unwanted babies neglected or maltreated by

their parents.”89

Rothbard’s system is certainly radical, and in many ways it is difficult to imagine its effects, given that “the present state of juvenile law in the United States… is in many

ways the reverse of our desired libertarian model.”90 Indeed, anyone who flippantly

dismisses Rothbard’s argument may be dismissed in a similar manner. Such a dismissal

does not take seriously the possibility of a dramatically reduced abortion rate and child

abuse rate from the operation of the market in these areas.

Nevertheless, there are many difficulties with Rothbard’s position. The first is

that, despite the similarities between the case of abortion and the case of child neglect,

Rothbard holds abortion as the simple non-performance of a non-enforceable moral duty, as distinct from murder, whereas he regards the murder of a child as aggression, as distinct from the starvation of that child. But both of these distinctions are unfounded.

The first, that abortion is not aggression, cannot be true if the fetus is a person, which, as it possesses a distinct genetic code and human soul, most certainly is the case from a scientific and Catholic perspective. Indeed, Rothbard seems to be disconcerted by this fact himself, writing, “that the conservative [i.e., orthodox] Catholic position has generally been dismissed too brusquely. This position holds that the fetus is a living person, and hence that abortion is an act of murder and must therefore be outlawed as in the case of any murder.” However, he then immediately contradicts this recognition, misconstruing the Catholic view as holding that the fetus is only a “potential person” and

89 Ibid., 104.

90 Ibid., 105. 32

“cannot be aggressed against because it is a potential adult.”91 Indeed, if the Catholic view that abortion is murder (and therefore aggression) is true, then consistency entails

that either it should be outlawed, or aggression against (murder of) a child should be

allowed. And indeed, his second distinction is a piece of sophistry designed to resolve

this inconsistency. For what can the starvation of a child be regarded other than

aggression and murder by another means: the neglection of duty?

For Rothbard, though, no such duty may exist. Indeed, he is at pains to disprove

the idea that parents incur an obligation on behalf of their children, writing: “if creation

engenders an obligation to maintain the child, why should it stop when the child becomes

an adult?”92 To which the reply should be: “because of the nature of child-rearing and of children compared with the nature of adults.” Indeed, Rothbard does not at all consider whether the nature of children is such as to be able to discern good parents from bad parents, nor whether it makes sense to require children to demonstrate their self- ownership to escape from abusive parents as if they were philosophers. Rothbard is able to reach his conclusions only by divorcing his initial wedding of natural law to natural rights. Ironically, we must repeat Etienne Gilson’s admonition to Rothbard that “‘the natural law always buries its undertakers,’” for in his analysis of children and their rights he has divorced his doctrine of natural rights from its supposed moral foundation.93

Rothbard dismisses the idea that there is anything special about the family from the point of view of natural law. But, if there were, then it might dictate a more moral account of

91 Ibid., 97.

92 Ibid., 102.

93 Ibid., 15. 33

the natural rights of children than Rothbard gives. Indeed, what if Rothbard’s distinction between potential persons (children) and actual persons, based on a demonstration of self-ownership in running away were illegitimate? Is there no point where the natural law would allow that those who abuse their children should lose their trusteeship of them by the fact of their abuse, and that there is a positive right vested in either an individual or the community to remove the child, by force if necessary? If negative natural rights are positive duties to refrain from interference, is there no point at which one’s duty to refrain from interference would change to a positive duty to interfere? Indeed, it would seem that if such a duty were every present it would at least be present in circumstances of life or death, such as the starvation of a child.

While hard cases might make bad law, reducing a principle to its extremes is often a good test of whether a principle is completely sufficient. Indeed, Rothbard’s entire work is an attempt to do just this, by taking his principles to the extreme, and explaining why they are still the best principles. But what of the case of a psychopathic, serial-killing couple who derive pleasure (utility) from raising children to just below the point of “self-ownership” (where the child would be able to demonstrate his personhood by running away), and then killing them through neglect? Indeed, this couple who

“deeply desire such children” would not only be able to exercise their “rights” on their own children, but would be able to acquire many more children on the “free market of children,” and could not only murder them, but raise them for the sole purpose of sexual abuse, or for perverse forms of religious indoctrination. No amount of money would suffice as a substitute good for these acts, and thus there would be no way to stop this couple except persuasion, or by intervening against their “negative rights.” And while 34

persuasion certainly would be ideal, if it should fail, even in the short run, the above state

of affairs would be an intolerable one. The notion that it is in any sense natural or moral

is absurd. And yet, if the above situation must be remedied, then the notion of duty and a

right to interference enter back into the equation. Indeed, none but a morally cowardly

and twisted individual would deny the positive right to interference in such a situation.

Yet since Rothbard has staked his system on the absence of such duties (to interfere, as opposed to duties to refrain from interference), his system cannot be a sufficient political answer to the problems of man. Such a collapse conclusively shows the limits of libertarian political theory alone, and the difficulties it encounters without a proper conception of the human person, the actual ends of man, and the natural law.

Mises

Like deontological libertarians such as Murray Rothbard, Ludwig von Mises maintained that liberalism has fixed principles. Mises begins his discussion of these principles in his

Liberalism by maintaining that they are “directed entirely towards the conduct of men in this world,” since “what is highest and deepest in man cannot be touched by any outward regulation.” Liberalism, for Mises, “has nothing else in view than the advancement of their outward, material welfare and does not concern itself directly with their inner, spiritual and metaphysical needs. It does not promise men happiness and contentment, but only the most abundant possible satisfaction of all those desires that can be satisfied by the things of the outer world.”94 Mises briefly discusses the possibility that one could

be against such a goal, but dismisses it with the line, “once one rejects the principle of the

94 Ludwig Von Mises, Liberalism: The Classical Tradition (Important Books, 2012), 4. 35

ascetic conduct of life, one cannot reproach liberalism for aiming at outer well-being.”

Indeed, after setting up this questionable dichotomy, he says of those who do accept the principle of the ascetic conduct of life that we must “only ask them to let us go our way undisturbed, just as we do not hinder them from getting to heaven in their own fashion.”95

The idea though of political asceticism, especially considering gains in life expectancy and lower infant mortality rates achieved by liberalism, is absurd to Mises.96

Mises elaborates on liberalism’s aims, and remarks that “liberalism has always

had in view the good of the whole, not that of any special group.” Liberalism has this in

common with socialism, but it takes a different form. Indeed, “liberalism is distinguished

from socialism, which likewise professes to strive for the good of all, not by the goal at

which it aims, but by the means that it chooses to attain that goal.”97 The socialist means

are opposed to liberalism, and can be attributed only to irrational resentment and envy.98

This emphasis on means by von Mises demonstrates how we cannot simply examine the writings of Hobbes and Locke in order to identify the essence of libertarianism/liberalism. Indeed, Mises says that studying the writings of its great founders does not suffice, because “liberalism is not a completed doctrine or a fixed dogma. On the contrary: it is the application of the teachings of science to the social life of man.” Just as “economics, sociology, and philosophy have not stood still since the days of David Hume, Adam Smith, David Ricardo, Jeremy Bentham, and Wilhelm

95 Ibid., 5.

96 Ibid., 1–2.

97 Ibid., 8.

98 Ibid., 13. 36

Humboldt, so the doctrine of liberalism is different today from what it was in their day,

even though its fundamental principles have remained unchanged.”99 Thus, liberalism has

fixed ends, and as we learn more about how we can best achieve those ends, our methods

may or may not change.

For von Mises, “human society is an association of persons for cooperative action.” This cooperation has the advantage of the division of labor, which increases the productivity of society’s members. This principle, Mises says, is the very foundation of human civilization. Indeed, “it is by virtue of the division of labor that man is distinguished from the animals… lord of the earth and creator of the marvels of technology.”100 This labor requires various factors of production. In light of this, “the

program of liberalism… if condensed into a single word, would have to read: property,

that is, private ownership of the means of production.” “Side by side with the word

‘property…’ one may quite appropriately place the words ‘freedom’ and ‘peace.’”101

Freedom “is able to create more wealth for everyone than slave labor once provided for

the masters.”102 War is bad because it “only destroys; it cannot create.” The liberal “is

convinced that victorious war is an evil even for the victor, that peace is always better

than war.” Those who want war simply need to learn where their “true interests lie.”103

These true interests, again, are identified as material wealth, which is made possible by

99 Ibid., 3.

100 Ibid., 18.

101 Ibid., 19.

102 Ibid., 23.

103 Ibid., 24. 37

“the progressive intensification of the division of labor” which “is possible only in a

society in which there is an assurance of lasting peace.”104

While does not accept the doctrine of the equality of man, writing, “nothing,

however, is as ill-founded as the assertion of the alleged equality of all members of the

human race. Men are altogether unequal” he echoes Hobbes’s point that, even if men

were not equal, their equality must be granted. Indeed, Mises writes, “there are two

distinct reasons why all men should receive equal treatment under the law.” The first is

that men are more productive when they are treated equally, and the second is that it

leads to social peace.” These might seem like different reasons but they are the same. In

Mises’s words “class privileges must disappear so that the conflict over them may

cease.”105 A cessation of conflict leads to more division of labor, and ultimately more wealth.

Mises connects liberalism to morality by saying, “everything that serves to preserve the social order is moral; everything that is detrimental to it is immoral.”106

Thus, luxury, or what might even be considered greed, should not be condemned outright, because it serves a function of foreshadowing what is to come for the lower classes eventually.107

Mises also briefly critiques anarchy as based upon a “misunderstand[ing of] the

real nature of man. It would be practicable only in a world of angels and saints.” The

104 Ibid., 25.

105 Ibid., 27–28.

106 Ibid., 34.

107 Ibid., 31–33. 38

reason is that there is a need for force: “one must be in a position to compel the person

who will not respect the lives, health, personal freedom, or private property of others to acquiesce in the rules of life in society.”108 However, Mises defends his argument by reiterating that, according to liberalism, “the task of the state consists solely and exclusively in guaranteeing the protection of life, health, liberty, and private property against violent attacks. Everything that goes beyond that is an evil.”109

Having dismissed anarchy, Mises moves on to a brief discussion of democracy.

He argues that democracy is a good thing, but not because it allows “us” to be in

government and to rule ourselves. Indeed, Mises writes, “it is not at all shameful for a

man to allow himself to be ruled by others… the principle of the division of labor does

not stop short even of the functions of government.”110 Instead, democracy is to be valued

for its contribution to peace. “Democracy is that form of political constitution which makes possible the adaptation of the government to the wishes of the governed without

violent struggles.”111

Mises briefly discusses those opposed to the idea of democracy, in favor of the

rule of “the best man.” The problem that Mises identifies though is that it is not easy to

see who the best man is. Thus, antidemocratic claims based on “best man” arguments are

simply appeals to something Mises calls “the doctrine of force.112 As he elaborates,

108 Ibid., 37.

109 Ibid., 37, 52.

110 Ibid., 40.

111 Ibid., 42.

112 Ibid., 43. 39

the democrat too is of the opinion that the best man ought to rule. But he

believes that the fitness of a man or of a group of men to govern is better

demonstrated if they succeed in convincing their fellow citizens of their

qualifications for that position, so that they are voluntarily entrusted with

the conduct of public affairs, than if they resort to force to compel others

to acknowledge their claims.113

Those who fail at this have “no reason to complain.”114 Ultimately, government always

depends on the consent of the governed, because “it is impossible, in the long run, to

subject men against their will to a regime that they reject… Men cannot be made happy

against their will.” Thus, the liberal, or “whoever wants to see the world governed

according to his ideas must strive for dominion over men’s minds.”115 If one fails at such

a task and resorts to brute force, this is simply “a confession of the inability to make use of the better weapons of the intellect.”116

After this discussion, Mises reiterates the absolutist nature of his Liberalism, for

“as soon as we surrender the principle that the state should not interfere in any questions

touching on the individual’s mode of life, we end by regulating and restricting the latter

113 Ibid., 45.

114 Ibid.

115 Ibid., 46.

116 Ibid., 51. 40

down to the smallest detail.”117 Such restrictions are readily accepted due to a “spirit of

servility,” which can be countered only by self-education that enables subjects to become citizens.118

It is Mises’s remarks on religion that are of the most interest to us, though.

Previewing his remarks, he makes the bold claim that “all mankind’s progress has been

achieved as a result of the initiative of a small minority that began to deviate from the

ideas and customs of the majority until their example finally moved the others to accept

the innovation themselves.”119 Such a statement is particularly noteworthy, coming before

his discussion on the role of the Church with regard to political power, allowing the

reader to infer that he views religion as something that can “progress,” with majorities and minorities not having any relationship to truth.

Already having differentiated the worldly liberalism from otherworldly religion,

Mises says, “liberalism and religion could both exist side by side without their spheres touching. That they should have reached the point of collision was not the fault of liberalism… it encountered the church as a political power claiming the right to regulate according to its judgment… the affairs of this world. It was at this point that the battle lines had to be drawn.”120 Thus, he blames the Church for intolerance, and he offers

117 Ibid., 54.

118 Ibid., 55.

119 Ibid., 54.

120 Ibid., 55. 41

liberalism as a tolerant solution that allows religion to remain, provided that it can be put

back into its “proper bounds whenever they venture intolerantly beyond them.”121

Because Mises does not consider the possibility of truth among various religious claims, but is after his goal of social peace, he says that Liberalism “must be intolerant of every kind of intolerance”122 Such is “a matter of principle, not from opportunism,” in

contrast to various unnamed “churches and sects” that Mises writes of. He finds it hard to

understand how any religious person could be opposed to such tolerance.123

What are the implications of Mises’s account of the all-encompassing liberal

principle of economic productivity for Catholic and libertarian thought? It certainly is

interesting that Mises justifies his support of everything from democracy, to peace, to

free markets from the principle of economic productivity. Indeed, these other goods are

decidedly derivative of this initial goal, although Mises ends up supporting the classically

liberal limited state in order to achieve his goal. For a Catholic to be able to support the

political program of Mises from Mises’s arguments would depend first upon whether

Mises’s political program is the best to achieve Mises’s goal of economic prosperity. This

question will be examined more closely in Chapter 4’s examination of the market order.

The second requirement for a Catholic to support the political program of Mises solely on

the basis of his arguments would depend on his acceptance of Mises’s argument that the temporal and spiritual order have nothing to do with one another, and are located in entirely separate spheres with no influence or interplay between the two. Indeed, Mises

121 Ibid., 56.

122 Ibid., 55.

123 Ibid., 56. 42

argues that the state can do nothing on behalf of spiritual goods, leaving us only with the

option to improve the temporal order or not. Thus, a sort of Christian humanism would

argue that it is certainly better for us to be able to satisfy our wants and needs than to be

unable to do so. Even those who wanted to deny themselves would be better off, as their

denial would be much more meaningful, and many more would be able to willingly

participate in such a denial. Such a rigid separation of the spiritual from the temporal is

highly questionable though, as shall be seen in an examination of the work of

Montesquieu.

Montesquieu

Thomas L. Pangle, in his The Theological Basis of Liberal Modernity in Montesquieu’s

Spirit of the Laws, can perhaps help us to discern how much truth there is to Mises’s

claim that religion and politics have little to do with each other except to occupy their

own separate spheres. Both Mises and Montesquieu agree that the Church has had a

misplaced role in political and social affairs, and laud secularization. Indeed, Pangle

makes this clear in his introduction when he describes Montesquieu as contending that

“social life and therefore religious experience can be—and is being, before our eyes—

profoundly changed, secularized in fact, in accordance with and partly under the

guidance of the new political science.”124 Where they disagree is on whether or not the

secularization of liberal republican civilization is antireligious. And from the first page of

his work, Pangle claims that, for Montesquieu, “the principled basis for our liberal

124 Thomas L. Pangle, The Theological Basis of Liberal Modernity in Montesquieu’s “Spirit of the Laws” (Chicago, US: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 6. 43

republican civilization” is antitheological.125 As already seen through our analysis of

Hobbes and Locke, man is no longer an Aristotelian political animal “seeking specific

fulfillment attained through civic community and lawful hierarchy,” but an animal ruled by the passions seeking to thwart anarchy by the creation of a political artifice.126

Pangle argues that there is a key difference though between Montesquieu and his modern predecessors (Hobbes and Locke) in that Montesquieu posits that the various governments created shape men by giving them various types of social environments.

Thus government “molds or remolds the ways that individuals within that culture experience their basic needs, as well as the way in which they attempt to satisfy them.”127

This establishes a link between political regimes and organized religions, which arise

primarily due to the weak hold of natural religion on the heart of man.128 Indeed, this link

is significant given Montesquieu’s similar treatment of religion and custom, where he

notes that these “acquired, but nonetheless deeply ingrained, national habits, customs,

and beliefs endow each people with its own, peculiar and complex, ‘general spirit…’

which becomes something like a second nature.”129

So how do these religions/customs arise within individual nations? Pangle quotes

Montesquieu as saying that “‘when a religion is born and forms itself within a State, it

ordinarily follows the plan of government where it was established: because the men who

125 Ibid., 1.

126 Ibid., 11–12.

127 Ibid., 24.

128 Ibid., 20.

129 Ibid., 25. 44

receive it, and those who make it received, scarcely have any other ideas of regulation

except those of the State in which they were born.”130 Thus, government molds religion,

which takes after the shape of the government, that is, a monarchy will give rise to

monarchical religion, while a republic will give rise to a variety of gods. Montesquieu

gives numerous examples of this, but for our purposes it is important to examine his

insights into the rise of Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. Discussing the Hebrew people,

Montesquieu describes them, according to Pangle, “as a rather wild and free nomadic

people” who eventually settled down into “an egalitarian agricultural society.” After

being conquered by the despotisms of Assyria and Babylon, though, “the subjugated

nation managed to survive as a people by following their priesthood in embracing an

imaginative religion of extreme devotion to a deity who demanded ‘a heroism of

servitude,’ and promised in return a consoling ultimate vindication.”131 In rather the

reverse, Islam arose and spreads as a despotic response of revenge out of the formerly

subjugated people of Arabia, “attract[ing] to it the very people it conquers, by offering them a share, as subordinates, in a dominating despotic spirit.”132 Christianity, arising as it did within the despotic Roman Empire, eventually “became the official religious arm of the despotism—and the Church took on the typical role of religion in despotism: supporting, but simultaneously limiting, the sway of the emperors.”133

130 Ibid., 47.

131 Ibid., 43.

132 Ibid., 45.

133 Ibid., 48. 45

So how do these different religions relate to liberalism? Montesquieu hints at

what will become a more important teaching later in his work when he describes

Christianity’s otherworldliness, exemplified in its commandments of charity and its

prohibitions against interest, “work[ing] to cripple commerce and the commercial spirit in

Europe as well as in Asia.”134 For the moment though, Pangle notes that, to Montesquieu,

“the Christian Church exemplifies or mirrors the spirit of oriental despotism,” as

evidenced by Montesquieu’s comparison of the papacy to the vizier system of incapable

rulers sharing power with powerful deputies.135 According to Pangle, Montesquieu also argues that, because of the despotic and arbitrary nature of the will of the biblical God, religion has the greatest influence in despotic states because “‘it is a fear added to the fear,’” that is, a fear of God added onto the fear of the state.136 And while Montesquieu

views such despotism negatively, at the same time he believes that despotism can be

mitigated by religion because “religious laws—especially when they are written down in

sacred scriptures—can provide the sole clear legal restriction, compatible with the

principle of the regime, on the human despot’s otherwise unlimited authority.”137

Ultimately, though, Montesquieu attempts to show the relationship of religion and freedom, and discusses how societies can move towards freedom. Pangle quotes

Montesquieu as saying, “‘Liberty itself has appeared intolerable to those peoples who were not accustomed to enjoying it.’” Indeed, Montesquieu compares such varying

134 Ibid., 48–49.

135 Ibid., 31–32.

136 Ibid., 34.

137 Ibid., 35. 46

tolerances of liberty to how people adapt to various climates. Montesquieu holds that

“‘there are two sorts of tyranny: one real, which consists in the violence of the

government; and one of opinion, which makes itself felt when those who govern set up

things that shock the manner of thinking of a nation.’”138 Thus, Montesquieu would disagree with Rothbard’s identification of slavishness to custom as always opposed to liberty, and natural law as always in favor of liberty. Real liberty can sometimes appear as tyranny to the opinions of some people who are not accustomed to it. However, the goals of Montesquieu overlap to a certain extent with those of Rothbard. Indeed,

Montesquieu upholds “certain universal principles of rational or ‘natural,’ human rights and laws, defining basic constituents of personal and familial liberty or security.” But

Montesquieu’s purpose is different from Rothbard’s. While Rothbard theorizes about the ideal political system, Montesquieu is attempting to spell out a theory of how to get to such a system. This, then, is the task of his political philosophy: “to elaborate a scientific, historical explanation of why the laws and customs have become what they are in the diverse nations; and then to investigate how progressive change can be effected in ways that are least likely to backfire.”139

Comparing the character of republics and monarchies, Montesquieu identifies

republics with mediocrity in virtue, and conformity in spiritual and emotional matters.140

He argues, according to Pangle, that when people and leaders “are given political

freedom and security and dignity, and are thus removed far from the debasing terror that

138 Ibid., 25.

139 Ibid., 26.

140 Ibid., 54. 47

belongs… to despotism, the clergy may as a consequence lack almost all independent

influence, and… the consequence may be that practically no one who is respected or

heeded will claim to have undergone any religious experiences or inclinations that lead

away from, or that do not obviously reinforce, the worldly civic concerns.” This is quite a

claim. Indeed, Pangle says that Montesquieu’s great insight into classical republicanism

is that “religion and religious experience can become… entirely in accord with or

subordinate to prudent secular human legislation.”141

The principle of monarchy, by contrast, is honor, the opposite of the principle of

despotism.142 Interestingly, Montesquieu says that Christianity contradicts this principle,

with its demand for pious abnegation, and humble transcendence of ambition.143 Thus,

Monarchy and Christianity appear to be opposed.

Montesquieu connects the role of religion in England’s government with that “of religion in the Roman constitution.” Just as Roman religion had a civil role, so now does

English religion, namely, by its total absence from the constitution.144 Pangle quotes

Montesquieu saying, “‘other nations have made their commercial interest give way to

their political interests; this one has always made its political interests give way to its

commercial interest.’”145 Such commercialism was able to occur because it was triggered

by “a brutal act of secular sovereignty, verging on the tyrannical, that gutted the

141 Ibid., 57.

142 Ibid., 58.

143 Ibid., 59, 67.

144 Ibid., 85.

145 Ibid. 48 established… Christian religion.” The new atmosphere afterwards left England with both an “exemplary and unique religiosity” and “unique liberty and commercialism.”146

Further demonstrating the appropriateness of a comparison to von Mises (indeed, it is likely that von Mises was influenced both by Montesquieu and by living in a regime influenced by his writings), Montesquieu shows that there is a natural antipathy between commerce and war, leading supporters of the former to oppose the latter. Such similarities are also visible in Montesquieu’s treatment of luxury goods, which Pangle notes are present because of “desires aroused by vanity,” but Montesquieu holds to be good for such commerce.147

Articulating, in a sense, the classically liberal end of government, Montesquieu discusses the importance of classical liberal laws from the perspective of the government itself: since government relies on the revenue earned from taxing commerce, it strives to

“protect that commerce, and hence the property associated with it.”148 Under this paradigm, freedom of travel, competition, and enforcement of contracts all become priorities for commercial (and liberal) governments to uphold.

What does such commerce have to do with religion? The answer comes in

Pangle’s discussion of this question: which “human passions attract and tie men to, and, conversely, what passions repel and detach them from, the various religion of the world?”

The answer he arrives at is that the passions to which commerce gives rise serve as an

146 Ibid., 86.

147 Ibid., 100.

148 Ibid. 49

antidote to “destructive religious prejudices, and… ferocious, barbarian, or despotic

religious morals.”149

Indeed, this antidote is so potent that Montesquieu contrasts it favorably to religious persecution. According to Pangle’s account, Montesquieu believed that “any attempt to change religious beliefs through the coercive intimidation of penal law is apt to fail.” This is because, although law can inspire fear, religion can also inspire fear, since it has its own laws.150 Indeed, its threats are stronger, and concern more permanent things.

Thus, fear cannot be the way to destroy religion. Complacency and comfort are far better

methods. In Montesquieu’s own words:

Religion has such enormous threats, it has such enormous promises, that

when they are present to our spirit, no matter what the magistrate can do to

compel us to quit religion, it seems as though nothing is left when it is

taken away from us, and that nothing has been taken away when that is

left.

So it is not by filling the soul with this great object, it is not in bringing the

soul closer to the moment when religion ought to be of greater importance

that one succeeds in detaching the soul from it: a more sure way to attack

a religion is by favor, by the commodities of life, by the hope of wealth;

not by what reminds one of religion, but by what makes one forget it; not

by what brings indignation, but by what makes men lukewarm, when the

149 Ibid., 101.

150 Ibid., 102. 50

other passions act on our souls, and those which religion inspires fall

silent.151

In the context of Montesquieu’s discussion of commerce, what this means is that men cease to care about the things of God once they cease to worry about the things of man or, as Montesquieu puts it, “the commodities of life.”152 They no longer need God, no

longer feel his presence through blessings, or feel his wrath through punishments.

As one who has already clearly shown himself to be on the side of commerce,

Montesquieu here shows himself to be at his most anti-religious. But Montesquieu was

not completely against Christianity. Indeed, he had positive things to say about the

religion as well, specifically its “softness.” Montesquieu believed that Christianity

seemed to imply the illegitimacy of slavery, one of the worst forms of despotism.

Additionally, Christianity’s mandating of monogamy prevented princes from simply

keeping harems, which would separate them from the people and increase their

inhumanity. Indeed, Montesquieu seemed to think that Christianity, more so than other

religions, could serve to reform its despots. It was not a completely irredeemable oriental

religion. In fact, he goes so far as to remark that “‘the Christian religion, which seems to

have no aim except the felicity of the other life, also makes for our happiness in this

one.”’153

151 Pangle, The Theological Basis of Liberal Modernity in Montesquieu’s “Spirit of the Laws.” See Spirit of the Laws 25.12.

152 Pangle, The Theological Basis of Liberal Modernity in Montesquieu’s “Spirit of the Laws,” 102–103.

153 Ibid., 103. 51

But Montesquieu did not view positively all the practices of Christianity current in his time . Indeed, he felt that “zeal for spiritual perfection, with a view to the life to come, and the sacrificial devotion to monasticism, celibacy, and strict rules of charity” were contrary to the true spirit of Christianity. Indeed, the commandments and laws that

Christ gave were, he claims, actually just pieces of “advice” for those moved by his

message. He viewed religion as giving humankind morality, regardless of whether it was

true in any sense of the word or not.154 Pangle rightly points out that, in contrast to

Montesquieu, orthodox religion (Christianity, Judaism, Islam, etc.) is much more

concerned about truth than any sort of utilitarian considerations about what religion does for morality. Indeed, Montesquieu betrays a certain hostility towards religions that claim the title of truth when he writes that “‘it is almost only intolerant religions that have a great zeal for establishing themselves elsewhere;’ ‘a religion that can tolerate the others hardly thinks of its own propagation.’”155 Religions claiming they possess truth and that

this truth must be spread cannot, or usually are not, tolerant.

In his concluding reflections, Pangle questions how the human spirit has, or even

could, become “satisfied by the security, prosperity, engrossing activity, and mutual ‘self-

esteem’ brought about through liberal constitutionalism and ‘commerce.’ He is skeptical

as to whether “earth-bound” and “self-regarding economic needs” have completely

replaced any desire for “self-transcending righteousness.” He hints at the idea that the

154 Ibid., 106.

155 Ibid., 107. 52 latter desire has simply been suppressed. This suppression, according to Pangle, has come at a “spiritual price,” one that he says might even be called “alienation.”156

Pangle also questions Montesquieu’s sole identification of evil with despotisms, or at least Montesquieu’s description of despotisms. He asks whether such a portrayal can account for the evils of postmodern religious thinkers such as Sayyid Qutb, or the horrific evils of atheistic moralists such as Lenin and Robespierre.157 He seemingly does not think so. According to Pangle, Montesquieu does not recognize the possibility of atheistic or secular despotisms.

What are the implications of Montesquieu’s account of liberalism for Catholic and libertarian thought? On one level, Montesquieu’s argument that the true principles of

Christianity support the abolition of slavery is good news to both Catholics and libertarians alike. Indeed, it is also worth noting Montesquieu’s claim that religion can help limit government in various ways. Despite this, Montesquieu also argues that the despotism of the God of the Bible means that religion has the greatest influence in despotic states. What can account for such opposed views?

This discrepancy seems to lie in Montesquieu’s version of “true Christianity” as contrasted with the corrupted version, especially that of the Catholic Church, whose “zeal for spiritual perfection, with a view to the life to come, and the sacrificial devotion to monasticism, celibacy, and strict rules of charity” were contrary to the true spirit of

Christianity.158 Indeed, his argument that only intolerant religions are evangelistic would

156 Ibid., 131.

157 Ibid., 131–132.

158 Ibid., 106. 53

seem to place all Christians who accept the Great Commission in the intolerant category, a category that Montesquieu would like to limit. Thus, orthodox Christians who do not

wish to secularize society in order to make way for the new political order should be

deeply concerned about Montesquieu’s political program, if they accept his argument.

And, indeed, his argument cuts directly against that of Mises. Governments

fundamentally mold their citizens, which means that a liberal state could direct the

character of a people to be non-religious and secular. How they do this is even more troubling, since it is through commerce, which Mises and his fellow libertarians desire to

increase. Commerce, according to Montesquieu, is worse than persecution for

Christianity, for it makes Christians ”lukewarm,” as they forget their Christianity in the

pursuit of commodious living. Indeed, any limits on the state, according to Montesquieu,

must necessarily combat the influence of religion, since the spirit of despotism is often

religion’s greatest ally.

54

CHAPTER TWO

Pre-modern Catholic Political Thought

St. Augustine

We now turn our examination to premodern Catholic political thought, in particular that

of St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, and the Catholic attempt to bridge natural law and

natural rights. In pursuit of this purpose, we turn to a collection of Ernest L. Fortin’s

essays compiled by J. Brian Benestad entitled Classical Christianity and the Political

Order: Reflections on the Theological-Political Problem. Fortin’s first essay discusses

“The Political Thought of St. Augustine,” who Fortin calls “the first author to deal more

or less comprehensively with the subject of civil society in the light of the new situation

created by the emergence of revealed religion and its encounter with philosophy in the

Greco-Roman world.” Thus, Augustine was responsible for a “new tradition of political

thought characterized by its attempt to fuse or reconcile elements derived from two

originally independent… sources, the Bible and classical philosophy.”159 How Augustine

accomplishes this is of particular interest given this thesis’s similar examination of the

independent Catholic and libertarian political traditions. Augustine, while attempting to

reconcile the two (classical philosophy and the Bible), did not regard them with equal

authority. In fact, he does not treat political principles as discernable by reason and

experience apart from revelation, and takes his highest principles from the latter as

159 Ernest L. Fortin, Classical Christianity and the Political Order: Reflections on the Theologico‐Political Problem, ed. J. Brian Benestad, Ernest Fortin: Collected Essays, v. 2 (Lanham, Md: Rowman & Littlefield Pub, 1996), 1. 55

opposed to the former.160 Thus, classical philosophy is made use of, but ultimately

subordinated to Christianity.

Fortin is quick to qualify this point though. He contrasts Christianity with Islam and Judaism, which he says “reject[ed] philosophy as… [alien] or merely tolerate[d] it” and says that Christianity, by contrast, “sought early to enlist its support, making room

for philosophy within the walls of Christendom, where it continued to thrive with varying

degrees of ecclesiastical approval and supervision.” This difference in treatment will be

elaborated on at a later point, but it arises from the fact that, at its core, Christianity is a

faith, whereas Judaism and Islam have law as their foundation, be it Torah or Shari’a.

Christianity’s recognition of reason and philosophy indicates its recognition of “a

capacity to know which precedes faith.” And while this capacity “has since been

superseded by faith as the supreme norm and guide of life… it has not been nullified or rendered superfluous by it.” Indeed, such a faculty separates us from animals, is enjoined by God, is valid in its own right, and can serve “as an aid to faith.” Drawing on a Biblical support for this view, Augustine cites the example of the “gold and silver surreptitiously taken and claimed as a rightful possession by the Israelites at the time of the departure from Egypt;” such items were Egyptian in origin, but useful for the Israelites, and indeed commanded into their possession.161

Philosophy is not only useful, though, but is intimately tied to revelation. Indeed,

for Augustine “the spheres of the spiritual and of the temporal constantly intersect and

impinge on each other” (2). Since its truths are accessible to all, “philosophy provides a

160 Ibid.

161 Ibid., 2. 56

common ground on which believers and nonbelievers can meet” (2). It is only through

philosophy that Christianity can be made understandable to outsiders. In addition,

philosophy helps to combat objections to Christianity and, through answering these

objections, “stimulate[s] greater efforts on behalf of the faith and help[s] ward off the

complacency engendered by the tranquil possession of a God-given truth.”162

So is philosophy an unqualified good that should be employed without

reservations since it serves the interests of truth? No. As Fortin tells it, “not only error but

truth itself can be harmful, inasmuch as men are not all equally well-disposed toward it or

sufficiently prepared to receive it.” Thus, philosophy can actually “prove a positive

hindrance” to faith.163 Such was the case with many of the heresies of early Christianity,

which “could be traced back to the well-intentioned but misguided recourse to

philosophic doctrines on the part of heterodox writers.”164 Philosophy, therefore, was

neither condemned nor mandatory for Christians. Instead, it was viewed as beneficial

with the caveat that it was not immune to error if used without the guiding hand of

Revelation.

Having established this foundation, Fortin turns to “[t]he core of Augustine’s

political doctrine,” which he argues “to be his teaching concerning virtue.” Augustine

agrees with Aristotle that man is naturally “a social animal,” who needed to “associat[e] with his fellow men” and form “with them a political community” in order to attain perfection in virtue, in particular, “[t]he virtue that… orders all citizens to the end or

162 Ibid., 2–3.

163 Ibid., 3.

164 Ibid., 4. 57

common good of the city,” justice. This virtue Augustine describes as “the cornerstone of

civil society.” Importantly, the first requirement for justice among men is “peace, the

intrinsic common good of society and the precondition of all the other benefits that society procures.” Equally important it seems is a civil society that Augustine, following

Cicero, describes as composed of men “associated by a common acknowledgement or

right and by a community of interests.”165

How does this account relate to other accounts of political societies? Fortin

contrasts Augustine’s vision of a political society with modern ones, such as

Machiavelli’s. According to Fortin, Machiavelli sought to lower “the goals and standards

of human activity.” His goal was a more realistic political order than that of the classical

political philosophers, with their “stubborn refusal to take into account the all too

deplorably human character of man’s behavior.” Augustine similarly critiques these

classical writers, but from the opposite point of view. Classical political philosophy for

Augustine does not make demands upon politics as stringent as Augustine would prefer,

“because it did not know and hence could not apply the proper remedy to man’s

congenital weakness.”166 Thus, while moderns critique classical thinkers for a lack of

realism, Augustine critiques them for a lack of idealism. Augustine’s ideal political order has high moral goals. Fortin argues that Augustine preferred a “moral order… expressly

rooted in a natural order established by speculative reason.” Such an order could be

achieved by a “complete subordination of the lower to the higher both within man and

outside him. It exists when the body is ruled by the soul, when the lower appetites are

165 Ibid., 5–6.

166 Ibid., 7. 58

ruled by reason, and when reason itself is ruled by God.” This hierarchy requires virtuous

subjects who “obey wise rulers whose minds are in turn subject to the divine law”167

Such an idealistic state of affairs, unfortunately, has one problem: sin. Indeed, the harmony that the above subordinations would bring about has been thwarted by man’s

“overweening desire to assert his dominion over his fellow” man (7). Thus, Fortin

continues, “the present economy is marked by the anarchy of man’s lower appetites and

an invincible tendency to place one’s selfish interests above the common good of society.

It is a state of permanent revolt, which has its source in man’s initial revolt against God.”

The result of this revolt has been the end of the freedom man had to pursue “the good,” to

be replaced by “oppression and coercion.” Indeed, Fortin names “private property,

slavery, and government itself” as displaying sinful coercion that can be explained by

“man’s present inability to live according to the dictates of reason”168

But can these institutions be redeemed and viewed as good? Not in and of themselves, it seems. Indeed, “the very existence of these institutions is a consequence and a permanent reminder of man’s fallen condition.”169 They can be “desirable only as a

means of inhibiting man’s proneness to evil.” Fortin gives private property as an example

to illustrate this point, arguing that, according to Augustine, “the private ownership of

temporal goods both gratifies and curbs man’s innate and unquenchable greed.”

However, such an institution only “removes the external conditions and… the possibility

of unlimited acquisition; but it does not cure the inner desire for it.” Civil society,

167 Ibid.

168 Ibid.

169 Ibid., 7–8. 59

similarly, serves the purpose of checking man’s “insatiable lust to dominate.” Fortin

describes Augustine’s understanding of government as maintaining that “all rule is inseparable from coercion and is despotic to that degree.”170 In other words, being

governed can no longer be voluntary, but must be achieved through coercion. Law itself

is, and must be, coercive.

So what is needed in society given such a bleak picture of human nature and its

consequences? For Augustine, the most important institution, the one given “the task of

securing the good life,” is the Church. Indeed, “the scope of civil society is drastically

limited in comparison with that assigned to it by classical philosophy.” The best civil

society can do is to keep the peace while the Church goes about exercising “its teaching

and saving ministry.” This lack of a large role for civil society can be seen in Augustine’s

distinction between God’s “eternal law, which is the supreme norm of justice, and

temporal or human law, which adapts the common principles of eternal law to the changing needs of particular societies.”171 The former is unequivocally superior to the

latter, since “a law that is not just is not a law.”172

Fortin goes on to give an example of different temporal laws of particular

societies adapting to the constant eternal law. He posits two cities as an example, one

with just and virtuous citizens dedicated to the common good, and the other with corrupt

and wicked men. In the first, justice would not simply allow, but would require

170 Ibid., 8.

171 Ibid.

172 Ibid., 9. 60

democracy, whereas in the second, restricting decision-making to those who possess

justice would be the most just temporal regime.173

In addition, it must be kept in mind that not only do societies possess temporal

laws that differ from one another, but these laws are also meant for the imperfect. While

the virtuous “strive of their own accord toward eternal goods” and so attempt to follow

the eternal law on their own, the morally inferior who do good only “when compelled to

do so by a human law” require such temporal laws. These laws have little power over the

virtuous, who are not “slaves of earthly goods.” Indeed, instead of focusing on virtue,

these laws often focus on permitting “lesser evils for the unique purpose of averting

greater and more flagrant ones.” For example, going back to the example of private

property, Fortin explains that strict justice would allow only “the man who uses wealth

rightly” to possess wealth. However, “in the interest of peace and as a concession to

human weakness… the temporal sanctions the private ownership of material goods,

regardless of the use that is made of them by the owner.”174

Further underlying the ineffectiveness of the temporal law, and “despite its

restricted goals,” Augustine recognizes, according to Fortin, that it “often fails to achieve

the end for which it was instituted.” Superficially this is because of enforcement

problems, but more substantial is the fact that “the temporal law only prescribes and forbids external acts. It does not extend to the hidden motives of these acts, and it is even

173 Ibid.

174 Ibid. 61

less concerned with purely internal acts.” Thus, the law “cannot be said to instill

virtue.”175 This is a crucial insight on the part of Augustine.

In order to discern how Augustine applied his political thought to the political

order of his day, Fortin turns to his thoughts on the Roman Empire. Here Augustine parts

ways with Cicero, who lauded the glories of the republic in order to expose the vices of

imperial Rome. Such vices, according to Augustine, are evident both in Rome’s internal

affairs and in her external relations. Indeed, the presence of one is correlated with the

presence of the other: “because there is no internal justice in the city, there is no external

justice either; for a city that is not at peace with itself cannot be at peace with its

neighbors.”176 The depths to which an unjust polity, such as Rome, could sink are

exemplified in Augustine’s memorable lines from his City of God, in which he writes,

“[w]ithout justice, what are kingdoms but great robber bands? What are robber bands but

small kingdoms?... Plunder is divided in accordance with an agreed-upon law… this evil

increases…. [T]o the extent that it takes over territory, establishes headquarters, occupies

cities, and subdues peoples, it publically assumes the title of kingdom!... not because

greed had been removed, but because impunity has been added”177

Also important to note in the recounting of Augustine’s theological and political thoughts on the Roman Empire are his thoughts on the role of God’s sovereignty over the empire. Indeed, he grants that Rome’s power came about as a reward from God. He writes, “to the degree to which the Romans renounced pleasure and the gratification of

175 Ibid., 10.

176 Ibid., 13.

177 Michael W. Tkacz and Douglas Kries, trans; Augustine: Political Writings (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1994), pp. 30-31 62

their lowest appetites, they were entitled to some reward. God granted this reward when

he allowed Rome to assert her supremacy over all other nations.” Despite such a

concession, it is significant that, “in opposition to a long-standing and at the time still

powerful tradition of Christian apologetics, Augustine is apparently unwilling to concede

that the Roman empire was assigned a special role in the economy of salvation… by

bringing the whole world into one fellowship of government and laws… [thus preparing]

the way for Christianity.”178

Instead of granting to a specific kingdom of this world a “special role in the

economy of salvation,” Augustine begins to distinguish the kingdoms of this world from

the Kingdom of God, which leads to “his most distinctive contribution to the problem of

civil society, the doctrine of the two cities.” These cities, “to which all men of all times

belong” are “the city of God” and “the earthly city.”179 They “extend beyond the borders

of individual cities and neither one is to be identified with any particular city or

kingdom.” Thus, it is not a person’s “race or nation,” but a person’s end, which he

“pursues and to which he ultimately subordinates all of his actions,” that determines a

person’s membership in either city.180

So how are these two cities to be differentiated? The earthly city is made up of men whose actions and desires “are not ordered to God as to their supreme end.” It “is characterized by its affectation of total independence and self-sufficiency, and presents

itself as the very antithesis of the life of obedience (‘the mother and guardian of the

178 Fortin, Classical Christianity and the Political Order, 14.

179 Ibid., 18.

180 Ibid., 19. 63

virtues’) and of reverent submission to God.” It is a city in rebellion. The city of God, by

contrast, “is none other than the community of the followers of Christ and the

worshippers of the true God. It is made up entirely of godly men and its whole life may

be described as one of pious acquiescence in the word of God. In it and in it alone is true

justice to be found.” Although the perfect state of the city of God can be achieved only in

the afterlife, it “already exists here on earth” to the extent that men live “truly virtuous

lives” “by adhering to Christ.”181

It is important to note that, for Augustine, the City of God is not synonymous with

the Church. Although the city of God has a relationship with the Church, “not everyone

who is officially a member of the visible Church belongs to it… [while] many persons

who do not profess the Christian faith are, without their knowing it, members of the same

holy city.” These people are those “dedicated to the pursuit of truth and virtue.”182 Further complicating discerning the differences between these two cities is the difficulty of knowing who is a member of which city. This is because of the “secret intention of the heart, which remains obscure to everyone, including the agent himself.” Thus, “the two cities are for all practical purposes inextricably mixed, like the wheat and tares of the parable.”183

Indeed, not only are these cities mixed in the physical cities of the world, but they

are not necessarily separated in civil society into “public” and “private” spheres. As

Fortin explains, the purpose of the city of God “is not to replace civil society, but to

181 Ibid.

182 Ibid.

183 Ibid., 20. And see Matthew 13: 24‐30 64

supplement it by providing, over and above the benefits conferred by it, the means of

achieving a goal that is higher than any to which civil society can lead.” Civil society

may even go so far as to be used as an instrument “to promote the good of the soul.” In such an instance, the political order that Augustine promotes follows and, in fact, fulfills the classical tradition. By contrast, when a city “reserves for a higher authority an essential part of man’s life, it represents a departure from the classical tradition.”184

Implicit in this schema is the division between civil and ecclesiastical powers of a city. In

the ideal case, the civil authority would support virtue. Absent the ideal case though, one

should concern oneself with the city of God, which is the province of the ecclesiastical

powers.

Such questions bring to mind the potential clash of authority of the ecclesiastical

powers and the civil authority. Augustine draws a clear distinction between the two, and

an important problem that emerges with such a distinction is “the possibility of a conflict between them.”185 Such conflict will be minimized when there is a convergence of

“Christian wisdom and political power.” Nevertheless, the historical incident of the

Donatist controversy of Augustine’s time shows the extent to which such conflict may still occur. Augustine at first advocated “persuasion as the proper means of securing the return of the dissenters to the Catholic fold and was firmly opposed to any intervention on the part of the temporal authority in a matter that could be regarded at first as purely ecclesiastical.” However, nationalist sentiments, in addition to incidents of terrorism, ended up threatening “not only… the religious unity but… [also] the social stability of

184 Ibid.

185 Ibid. 65

the North African provinces.” Thus, “reluctantly, and only after having exhausted all

other resources, Augustine agreed to turn the matter over to the local civil authorities.”

Fortin is of the opinion that such a decision was “dictated in large measure by the

political nature of the case rather than by theological arguments.”186 However, although

“Augustine asserted his conviction that no one should be constrained to accept the faith

against his own will,” “his action established a precedent… [and] was later invoked as a

general principle to justify the Church’s reprisals against heretics and apostates.”187 Thus,

Fortin lays upon Augustine or rather his interpreters part of the “blame for the religious persecution of the Middle Ages, which… [can] be looked upon as a prime example of the inhumanity fostered by the undue exaltation of moral standards.”188

The final important note we should make of Augustine’s political philosophy is of

an objection to “Augustine’s solution to the problem of civil society.”189 Considering the

troubles befalling the Roman Empire of Augustine’s time, Augustine felt compelled to

answer those who claimed that Christianity somehow was their cause, since it “enlist[ed] men in the service of a ‘higher and more noble country.’” Does Christianity divide the city, and weaken “the unconditional claim that the city makes on the allegiance of its citizens?” And, an even more serious possibility, has Christianity’s division of the City of

Man from the City of God pitted the two cities against each other? On first glance, it might appear that “the love of one’s enemies and the forgiveness of offenses” could tend

186 Ibid., 21.

187 Ibid., 21–22.

188 Ibid., 22.

189 Ibid. 66

to “undermine the military strength of the city and to rob it of its most powerful means of

defense against external foes.”190

Augustine counters such objections by arguing “that Christianity does not destroy

patriotism but reinforces it by making of it a religious duty.” He points to St Paul’s Letter

to the Romans, chapter 13, which Augustine interprets as saying “to resist… laws is to defy God’s own ordinance, inasmuch as civil society is intended by God himself as a

remedy for evil and is used by him as an instrument of mercy in the midst of a sinful

world.” How is this position integrated into Augustine’s vision of Christianity?

Ultimately, “Christianity is to be understood above all as a faith rather than as a divinely

revealed law governing all of one’s actions and opinions and called upon to replace the

human laws under which men live.” Thus, “it is compatible with any political regime,”

and “can accommodate itself without difficulty to the most diverse customs and

practices.”191

This established, Augustine goes even further, arguing that Christianity actually

serves to benefit a regime, through its fostering of virtue and by making higher moral

demands than its pagan counterparts. But what of the objection that Christianity is

incompatible with waging war? Augustine counters, “what Christianity reproves is not

war but the evils of war, such as the love of violence, revengeful cruelty, fierce and

implacable hatreds, wild resistance, and the lust for power.” He concludes, “just wars are

190 Ibid., 23.

191 Ibid., 24. 67

therefore permissible, but they must be undertaken only out of necessity and for the sake

of peace.”192

The final important facet of Augustine’s thoughts on war is his view of the

individual. He places the decision to wage war “with the monarch or ruler, to whom is

entrusted the welfare of the community as a whole. As for the simple soldier, his duty is

to obey orders. He himself is not answerable for the crimes that may be committed in

cases where it is not clear whether the orders are just or unjust.” But in whosever hands

the decision resides, ultimately, “whether men like it or not, war is inevitable. The wicked

wage war on the just because they want to, and the just wage war on the wicked because

they have to.” This fact of life means that, “in either case, independent cities and small kingdoms eventually give way to large kingdoms established through the conquest of the weaker by the stronger. The best that can be hoped for in practice is that the just cause

will triumph over the unjust one.”193

What key insights are important to take away from the political thought of St.

Augustine? The first is that Augustine recognizes the usefulness of classical philosophy

and, by extension, reason. And although Augustine ultimately subordinates it to faith, his

inclusion of reason serves to give Christians common ground with unbelievers. Still,

Augustine’s argument that society will be better off when virtuous Christians have political power should serve as a caution for those promoting political philosophies, such as libertarianism, as a solution to the problems of a nation. This argument would seem to imply that either the virtue of the rulers is more important than the governing philosophy

192 Ibid., 24–25.

193 Ibid., 25. 68

of the state, or that the virtuous will be better able to realize the best governing

philosophy of the state. Thus, either libertarianism is irrelevant (or even contrary,

depending on the wisdom of the ruler) to political goods, or virtuous Christians should be

better positioned to recognize the political benefits of libertarianism.

The second important insight is Augustine’s argument that the first requirement of

justice is peace, which is “the precondition of all the other benefits that society procures.”

Thus, peace is given a priority over other political goods. This is significant because

Hobbes identifies peace as the only political good, and the sole reason we exit the State of

War and submit to a Sovereign, and his elevation of peace is followed by von Mises. This

naturally raises the question of whether there are certain circumstances when peace is the only good that can be pursued, if pursuit of other goods could come only at the expense

of peace. If this were the case, it would seem highly favorable to the limited political

goals and visions of Hobbes and libertarianism.

A related point is Augustine’s recognition that law itself cannot instill virtue or

overcome man’s sinful nature, and his subsequent reduction of the scope of civil society.

This reduction can be accomplished, in part, because of Augustine’s differentiation of

ecclesiastical authority from civil authority. His reservation of the regulation of certain

aspects of man’s life to the former establishes the principle that some aspects of man’s

life should be immune from the influence of the state. Indeed, in such cases it is the

responsibility of the Church, not the state, to save souls.

The final point of interest is Augustine’s argument that certain institutions in

society, such as private property, can and should be allowed to men because of their

weakness. While such a defense of private property is much less strident that the 69

libertarian defense, it does establish the principle that lesser evils may, at times, be

allowed for the sake of preventing greater evils. Thus, for example, it might be

permissible to allow low wages, the existence of Protestantism, or the unlimited

accumulation of wealth, if attempts to eliminate these evils through law would cause

greater harm than their toleration. Interestingly, Augustine does not believe that democracy is such a “lesser evil.” Like von Mises, Augustine argues that democracy is a derivative good. But unlike von Mises, whose concern for economic productivity causes him to promote democracy as the best means towards that end, Augustine’s overriding concern is for justice, upon which hinges his acceptance or rejection of democracy.

Indeed, while Mises uses remarkably Augustinian logic, arguing that the evils of a democratic regime that restricts economic productivity must be allowed to prevent the evils of a non-democratic regime attempting to impose increased economic productivity,

Augustine’s greater concern for justice forces him to argue that the evils of not allowing citizens to participate in government must be allowed to prevent the unjust from controlling the government.

St. Thomas Aquinas

Next to the writings of St. Augustine, perhaps only those of St. Thomas Aquinas have had as much influence among Catholic theologians. Fortin refers to Aquinas as “the most illustrious of all Christian Aristotelians,” and says his “political philosophy is best understood as a modification of Aristotle’s political philosophy in the light of Christian revelation or more precisely… with an earlier tradition of Western political thought represented by the Church Fathers and their medieval followers and compounded for the most part of elements taken from the Bible, Platonic-Stoic philosophy, and Roman 70

law.”194 Fortin compares Thomas to “Islamic and Jewish philosopher of the Middle

Ages… who were faced with a similar problem of harmonizing Greek philosophy and revealed religion.” In this comparison, Fortin notes a greater reliance on Aristotle’s

Politics by Christian authors during the Middle Ages, while Islamic and Jewish authors relied more heavily on Plato’s Republic and Laws. As Fortin puts it, “it is not unreasonable to suppose that [this] was at least partially the result of a deliberate choice dictated by the circumstances of the political life in these difference religious communities.”195

Why would such a difference be present? Again, Fortin stresses that one reason

for this difference was because of the different statuses of philosophy in these differing

religious communities. Fortin cites the example of Alfarabi, whose “works were

motivated by the concern to introduce philosophy into a society from which it was absent

or to restore it once it had become obscured or destroyed.”196 Indeed, his works required

“a public defense of philosophy or its justification before the tribunal of commonly accepted opinion and religious belief.” In contrast to what Fortin calls such

“antiphilosophic bias,” Aquinas “could simply assume philosophy without becoming publicly involved in any argument for or against it.” Indeed, “not only was philosophy already accredited in the West and officially sanctioned by canon law but a knowledge of it was required of all students of theology.” Further illustrating this difference is the comparison of the churchmen of Christian societies to the comparable classes in Islamic

194 Ibid., 151.

195 Ibid., 152.

196 Ibid. 71

and Jewish communities: those of Christian societies “were also schoolmen,” unlike their

counterparts. An example of this presumption of philosophy occurs in Aquinas’s Summa

Theologiae, which “does not ask whether the study of philosophy is permissible and

desirable but whether besides the philosophic disciplines another science, namely sacred

doctrine, is necessary.”197

Fortin argues that the second reason for this difference was the different nature of

Christianity as compared with those of Judaism and Islam. He argues, “the most

distinctive feature of Islam and Judaism is that they both present themselves first and

foremost as divinely revealed laws, or as all-inclusive social orders, regulating every segment of men’s private and public lives and precluding from the outset any sphere of activity in which reason could operate independently of the divine law.” This is in contrast to Christianity, which “first comes to sight as a faith or as a sacred doctrine, demanding adherence to a set of fundamental beliefs but otherwise leaving its followers at liberty to organize their social and political lives in accordance with norms and principles that are not specifically religious.”198

This difference similarly reveals itself in the highest sciences of each faith.

Whereas “the highest science in Islam and Judaism was jurisprudence… upon which

devolved the all-important task of interpreting, applying, and adapting the prescriptions

of the divine law… The highest science in Christianity was theology.” Thus, only in

Christian societies were there “two distinct powers and two distinct codes of law, one

ecclesiastical or canonical and the other civil: each with its own sphere of competence

197 Ibid., 153. See Summa Theologicae, I.I.1

198 Ibid., 154. 72 and each relatively free in principle from interference on the part of the other.” The job of the ecclesiastical law was to direct “men to their supernatural end,” while the civil law was meant to direct “them to their earthly or temporal end.”199

Such differing dispositions with regard to the fundamental principles of these religions helped contribute to increased value placed upon philosophy within the

Christian tradition. Fortin argues that “the majority of Muslim philosophers… while outwardly proclaiming the supremacy of the law, regarded philosophy as the perfect science and the sole judge of the truth of Revelation.” Indeed, the Averroist doctrine of

“the two truths” meant that philosophic truth could differ from religious truth, which ultimately had the effect of diminishing the importance of philosophy in Islam. Aquinas, by contrast, “purports to do full justice to the claims of reason as well as those of

Revelation.” While he views each “as a complete and independent science,” he believes

“any discrepancy between the Bible and the teachings of the philosophers is traceable to the imperfection of the human mind which has either misinterpreted the datum of

Revelation or erred in its quest for natural truth.” Stated differently, for Thomas “there is a distinction but there can be no fundamental disagreement” between reason and revelation. From these observations, Fortin makes the inference that, as in theology, so too in political philosophy: “far from destroying nature, divine grace presupposes it and perfects it by elevating it to an end that is higher than any to which it could aspire by its own means.”200 Thus, while the political philosophy of Aquinas will be derivable by means of natural law, it will be enriched and enhanced by the Christian faith.

199 Ibid.

200 Ibid., 155. 73

Having laid his foundation for the political thought of Thomas, Fortin turns to

Aquinas’s view of the city and its role in politics. Aquinas argued that, “more than all

other animals, man is a political and social being. Civil society is natural to him, not as

something given by nature, but as something to which he is inclined by nature and which

is necessary for the perfection of his rational nature.”201 Thus, without the city man would

not be able to achieve his full potential. Indeed, “the man who leads a solitary life away

from the company of his fellow men either falls short of human perfection like a beast or

has already exceeded that perfection and achieved a state of godlike self-sufficiency.” His

esteem for the city is so high that Aquinas views the city as “the truly self-sufficient human association, the only one capable of securing the conditions of virtue and

satisfying all of man’s earthly needs and aspirations.”202

But what, exactly, is the city for Thomas? For one thing, “the city is more than the

sum of its parts and its overall end is more than the sum of the particular interests of its

members.” Such a conception is important, because “just as the whole is more important

than the part and prior to it as that to which the part is ordered and without which it could

not exist, so the city is prior to the individual in the order of final causality and its good is

higher in dignity and ‘more divine’ than that of each man taken by himself.” What are the

implications of this? “[S]ince the individual part is often animated by passions and

desires that do not coincide with those of other parts, it is essential that in a city there be a

201 Ibid., 156.

202 Ibid., 157. 74

single authority whose proper task is to look after the good of the whole and to maintain

order and unity among its various components.”203

How should this city be organized? According to Aquinas, “since men differ from one another… with respect to their capacity for knowledge and virtue, and since by

nature the inferior is subordinated to the superior, it stands to reason that the best man

should rule over the others and that ruling offices should be distributed according to

virtue.” Following this line of reasoning, Aquinas argued that the “unconditional rule of a

single wise man for the sake of virtue” was the ideal regime, but that absolute monarchy

was also the regime “fraught with the greatest dangers.” Indeed, a tyranny resulting from

corruption of an absolute monarch would be the “worst of all rules.”204

Because of this, and because the most virtuous are not easily identified by the

masses, “in all or virtually all cases, the demands of wisdom and excellence must be

combined with those of consent… the best regime is the so-called mixed regime or the

regime which blends in harmonious fashion the best features of monarchy, aristocracy, and polity.” With such a regime should come the rule of law as a practical matter of stability. For not only are wise men in short supply, but rule by decree is subject to abuses.205

While Thomas follows Aristotle in much of this, one notable difference between

the two is Aquinas’s division of ethics, economics, and politics into “three separate and

specifically distinct sciences,” as contrasted with the view that they form three parts of a

203 Ibid., 157–158.

204 Ibid., 159.

205 Ibid., 159–160. 75

single science. This has the effect of giving “ethics and economics an autonomy that they do not possess in the Aristotelian arrangement.”206 And while Thomas’s continued

identification of economics with the art of household management remains a limited and partially normative definition, this independence is nevertheless an important step towards viewing economics as a separate science.207

Similarly, while Thomas sees Ethics and Politics as distinct sciences, he does not

view the political apart from the ethical. For Thomas, “political authority differs from

slavery in that it constitutes the rule of free men over free men and has as its object the

good of all the citizens, who as free men exist for their own sakes.” Here, Fortin

describes a Thomist view of persons as ends in themselves. In contrast to this view, “the

slave… exists for the sake of another and hence is not ruled for his own good but for the

good of the master.”208 Thus, Thomas says the nature of rule is different depending on

whether the rule is in the interest of the common good or a private good. Indeed, on a political level it seems that a regime concerned with the common good deserves to be

called a political authority, but a regime that disregards the common good is comparable to rule of a slave master, a despotism.

Perhaps the most important aspect of the political thought of Thomas Aquinas is his doctrine of the natural law. Professors Pangle and Burns provide a necessary examination of this law in their work, The Key Texts of Political Philosophy: An

Introduction, specifically their section on “St. Thomas Aquinas’s Treatise on Law.” In

206 Ibid., 161.

207 Ibid., 157.

208 Ibid., 158. 76

taking up the question, in what sense is the natural law natural, they answer, first, that the

“natural law is natural in the sense that it is known naturally. But it is also natural

inasmuch as its provisions are aimed at fulfilling human nature, at guiding us toward that

happiness that is our deepest natural need.”209 Thus, the natural law is teleological in

nature, and directs us towards certain ends. In addition, according to Aquinas, the natural

law must be applied “through human law, or the positive laws they make for

themselves.”210 Indeed, not only is the natural law applied through human law, but it is

the legal minimum for law. The law cannot be selectively enforced against crimes such as

murder but not against those such as adultery. As Professors Pangle and Burns explain,

“[n]atural law can therefore be… added to or supplemented, but human laws must never

subtract from natural law, or legislate anything contrary to natural law. That is, human

laws must not violate or fall below a basic minimum flooring of prohibitions that the

natural law supplies.”211

So what exactly is the natural law? Thomas arrives at the natural law through an

examination of three different “inclinations” of men as political animals, “that is, three

basic levels of directness to, longing and yearning for, motion toward, the good or what

we need for fulfillment.”212 The first is the inclination of self-preservation, “not merely as

individuals but as political animals, as members of our community.”213 Indeed, this

209 Thomas L. Pangle and Timothy Burns, The Key Texts of Political Philosophy: An Introduction (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 162.

210 Ibid., 161. See also ST I-II, Q 91, art. 3, and ST I-II, Q 95

211 Ibid., 166. See also ST I-II, Q 94, art. 5

212 Ibid., 162. See also ST I-II Q 94, art. 2, with ST I-II, Q 90, art. 2

77

qualification is important, and separates Aquinas from Hobbes on this point, although a

certain similarity remains. The second is the inclination towards reproduction, from

which “we get higher basic laws such as: honor your parents; marry a spouse and remain

faithful; care for and educate your children; never commit incest; never commit

adultery.” Finally, “at the highest level, we are inclined by nature to develop our rational

faculties – to become self-governing, through moral and civic virtue, and to employ the

intellect to acquire knowledge for its own sake, to develop theoretical or contemplative

virtue, above all through inquiry into the first cause of the universe or divinity.” From

this follows imperatives, including “to participate in a free and just civic government; to

defend our country… to respect and to protect private property and never to steal; to seek

knowledge for its own sake – especially knowledge of God or of the divine as the source

of the universe.”214

Thomas, according to Professors Pangle and Burns, argues that “[h]uman law should aim above all at the inculcation of virtue and the suppression of vice… Morals can

and must be legislated, and that is the main task of human laws; government needs to use

force and fear to make people virtuous.” Why is this the case? “The primary reason is

that most human beings need a good deal of discipline in order to learn how to control their passions and to bring them under the command of their reason. In order to become doers of noble deeds, humans need habituation, encouragement, shame and honor, models and inspiration, and the salutary fear of punishment.”215 Thus, according to

213 Ibid., 163.

214 Ibid.

78

Aquinas’s reasoning, “[t]o get people to practice virtue, to exercise at virtue, you need to

be able to coerce them. The need for coercion in moral education is the reason why

morality must be legislated” Indeed, inculcating virtue cannot be entrusted to the market,

because “‘A private person cannot lead another to virtue efficaciously, for he can only

advise, and if his advice be not taken, it has no coercive power, such as the law should

have in order to prove an efficacious inducement to virtue, as the Philosopher [Aristotle]

says.’”216

After such an explanation of Aquinas’s doctrine of natural law, many takeaways become apparent to the student of the political thought of St. Thomas Aquinas. The first is the obvious difference between the natural law of Thomas Aquinas and that of Murray

Rothbard. While Rothbard’s natural law is subjective, and grants that different people

might have different ends, Aquinas’s natural law is objective. Thus, while Rothbard’s

natural law can lead to natural rights, Aquinas’s natural law is incompatible with natural

rights. Indeed, the identification of the primary purpose of law as to inculcate virtue and

to oppose vice is clearly incompatible with libertarianism. It is interesting to note that

Aquinas parts with Augustine though on the law’s efficacy in accomplishing such a task.

Indeed, Augustine was much more pessimistic about the ability of the law to prescribe

virtue, and does not ascribe such a role for the state in such matters.

The second key observation is the increased importance Aquinas gives to reason

deriving, in part, from Christianity’s nature as a faith rather than a law. Instead of simply

arguing that reason is useful, but remains subservient to revelation, as Augustine does,

215 Ibid., 163–164. See also ST I-II, Q 100, art. 9; cf. art. 2, and ST I-II, Q 95, art. 1 and art. 2

216 Ibid., 164. See also ST I-II, Q 90, art. 3, reply obj. 2 79

Thomas holds that there can be no fundamental contradiction between reason and revelation. All appearances of contradiction are simply symptoms of our limited understanding. This exalts reason without diminishing revelation, and avoids the extremes of a preference for one over the other. Such a preference can lead to cognitive dissonance217, and Aquinas’s approach ultimately maintains the unity of truth. This is important to keep in mind in any examination of religious and secular thought, of which this thesis is an example. Indeed, Aquinas’s final solution of placing philosophy “in the role of a handmaid,” can be viewed as analogous to the position that natural rights should be placed, in order to save both liberalism and the political tradition of Christianity. A related observation is to note the increased autonomy that Thomas gives to economics, although he still connects it with the household. Full autonomy for the discipline of economics, and full justice to the claims of reason and revelation with respect to such issues, will be examined more fully in Chapter 4.

Finally, it should be noted that Thomas’s treatment of people as ends in and of themselves aligns well with classically liberal thinker Michael Oakeshott definition of civil association, where men are treated as ends and not as means to an end not of their own choosing (On Human Conduct). Where Thomas and Oackeshott would probably differ would be with regard to their belief in teleology. Without a belief in natural ends for man, Oakeshott would have to regard much of Thomas’s political goals as enterprise association, or using men as means to an end rather than treating them as ends in and of themselves.

217 as does the doctrine of the “two truths” 80

Natural Law vs. Natural Rights

From here we turn to the development of the idea of the Natural Law within the Christian tradition. This law, which “supplies only the most general standards of human behavior or the unshakeable foundation on which man’s knowledge of the moral order rests…

[and] represents the first but by no means the sufficient rule of reason among men” is discussed in depth by Fortin over the course of several chapters.218 Most famously proposed by Thomas Aquinas, the Natural Law was a relatively late development, due to the lack on the part of the Church Fathers of “any clear-cut distinction between the natural order and the supernatural order or between the natural law properly so called and the divinely revealed law.” The eventual rise of such a distinction within Christianity (as opposed to Judaism or Islam) Fortin attributes to the “uniquely apolitical character of the

Christian faith as it is presented… in sacred scripture.”219

In introducing his article Natural Law and Social Justice, Fortin identifies certain questions that he will examine. His first, is

Why, in the past fifty years or so, Catholic philosophers and theologians,

who for ever so long had been practically the only ones to offer any kind

of organized resistance to the spread of modernity, should have come to

the conclusion that the best case to be made for their own lost or

218 Fortin, Classical Christianity and the Political Order, 167.

219 Ibid., 226. 81

threatened heritage is the one that proclaims its identity with a set of goals

and ideals that had hitherto been regarded as basically antithetical to it?220

The antithetical goals and ideals to which Fortin refers includes above all the idea of

natural rights. Fortin argues that the modern rights theory “was originally intended as a

substitute for, rather than a development of, the old natural law theory,” and that this

rights theory is based on “an altogether different conception of human nature, [rather

than] simply a perfected version of it.” Thus, he asks whether the theories are

complementary or whether they “point to different ends.” Indeed, importantly for

determining whether a genuine development of Catholic doctrine has occurred is his

question of whether “[there is] anything in modern Roman Catholic thought itself that

could conceivably have led to or facilitated this unexpected turn of events.”221

While the natural law “made its formal entry into Christian theology with William of Auxerre, ca. 1220,” its classic expression finds its place within the work of Thomas

Aquinas, who reformed the previous Augustinian doctrine. Fortin argues that the development of a natural law doctrine was needed “to curb the libertarian or antinomian tendencies to which New Testament agapism continued to give rise.” According to

Fortin, a “remarkable convergence of… various factors explains why medieval

Christendom is the only society in which the natural law ever played anything like a

determinative role.” These factors included the rationality of the natural law, its

universality, the standard of morality and justice it provided, as well as the sphere it

220 Ibid., 225

221 Ibid., 225. 82

marked out for temporal rulers to exercise their authority free from “the direct control of

the Church.”222

The rise of the doctrine of the natural law did not go unopposed. The most

extreme reaction against Aquinas’s view of the natural law was William of Ockham’s

nominalism. Recognized as a dilemma since Socrates posed it as a question of whether

what is pious is pious because it is pleasing to the gods, or whether it is pleasing to the

gods because it is pious, the Euthyphro dilemma was answered by Ockham decisively on

the side of acts being pious simply by nature of their being pleasing to the gods. For “if

God is the supreme master of all and if the whole of creation depends on him, not only

for its coming into being but for its internal structure, it is hard to see how nature can be

endowed with an intelligible necessity over which he has no control and which he is

therefore bound to respect.” Thus, Ockham denied the very existence of natures.223

From here, Fortin proceeds to enumerate two developments occurring after this conflict between the natural law and its critics (including Ockham). The first is the resurgence of “the pre-Nominalist view, spearheaded by the great Thomistic commentators and natural law theorists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, such as Cajetan, Vitoria, Vasquez, John of St. Thomas, Suarez, and Grotius.” The second was

“the emergence of the modern rights theory,” which is described by Fortin as containing principles that “are not self-evident or naturally known to the human mind but arrived at via a process of deduction that seeks to establish the means by which the individual’s natural right of self-preservation can best be safeguarded” (232).

222 Ibid., 229.

223 Ibid., 231. 83

The Church, unsurprisingly Fortin argues, long “remained firmly entrenched in its opposition to the new theory” (232). However, with the usurpation of Aristotelian science by Newtonian science came the eventual movement of Catholic scholars away from a

teleological view of nature, and an effort to reconcile the tension of rejecting teleology in

the area of natural science while accepting it in the area of the science of man. This

movement led to the preeminence of human rights in Catholic moral theology today. To

this concept of human rights though has been added the concept of social justice, “which

makes its first appearance in an official church document with Pius XI’s Quadragesimo

Anno.” Indeed, “the first author to use the term is thought to be the Roman Catholic

theologian Taparelli d’Azeglio, who devotes a chapter to it in his Theoretical Essay on

Natural Right Based on Facts, an immensely popular work that originally appeared in

1840 and that set the tone for much of what transpired in the field of moral theology

during the second half of the nineteenth century.” Interestingly, “Taparelli himself shows

no awareness of the novelty of the expression and seems to have assumed that its

meaning was self-evident.”224

Regardless of the meaning of “social justice,” Fortin does not believe it to be self-

evident. He goes so far as to say that the term “social justice” appeared in the intellectual

conversation “as if parachuted from heaven.” Indeed, Fortin paints Taparelli as a

relatively muddled thinker, though through little fault of his own. He notes his

appointment to a position of moral theology without previous academic experience, and

his reliance on a Protestant jurist Burlamaqui. “To make matters worse, the French

Revolution had severely disrupted university education throughout Europe and caused a

224 Ibid., 233. 84

break in a badly battered Scholastic tradition that had somehow succeeded in maintaining

itself up to that time.”225

Still, we are stuck with the term, and so Fortin attempts to decipher its meaning.

“Social justice, in contradistinction to either legal or distributive justice, does not refer to

any special disposition of the soul and hence cannot properly be regarded as a virtue. Its

subject is not the individual human being but a mysterious society named ‘X,’ which is

said to be unintentionally responsible for the condition of its members and in particular for the lot of the poor among them.” The term, according to Fortin, makes sense only

“within the context of the new political theories of the seventeenth century, the thrust of which was to shift the focus of attention from virtue or moral character to the reordering of our social structures in such a way as to insure the security and freedom of the atomic individuals who choose to enter into society or accept to remain in it.” He argues that the term is connected with the Rousseauian attempt to “ground politics in something more fundamental than the desire for self-preservation, namely freedom.”226

While recognizing the goals of the term, Fortin argues that the need for a distinct

“social” justice is questionable in view of the social nature of justice by definition.227

Admitting the need for such a term could lead one along the following line of thought:

If society and its accidental structures are the primary cause of the

corruption of human beings and the evils attendant upon it, they must be

225 Ibid.

226 Ibid., 234.

227 Ibid. 85

changed. Social reform takes precedence over personal reform; it

constitutes the first and perhaps the only moral imperative. Better

institutions will give us better human beings and not vice versa. Under

such circumstances, the pre-modern emphasis on education and moral

character as the true causes of happiness of both the individual and the

community could safely be laid aside. The only true evil is social evil, just

as the only sin is social sin.228

An historical shift has occurred, according to Fortin, away from the view that “education and moral character” enabled the achievement of happiness, and towards the view that social sin and social evils were the real causes of unhappiness, especially of unjust suffering, and that structures and institutions, rather than individuals, needed to be changed.

Having satisfactorily dealt with the origins of the terms social justice, and contrasted it with the natural law, Fortin moves on to a discussion of modern and contemporary views of the natural law. He begins by listing thinkers who have attempted

“to demonstrate, not only the compatibility, but the direct continuity between the view of justice embodied in the natural law theory and its modern alternative,” listing Jacques

Maritain and John Courtney Murray, along with John Finnis and Felicien Rousseau as such thinkers. Indeed, Fortin singles out Felicien Rousseau (F. Rousseau) as describing the natural law “as nothing more than an earlier version of the modern ‘rights’ theory, shorn of its individualism.” Fortin expresses an extraordinary skepticism at such an argument, accusing F. Rousseau of blatantly misconstruing Thomas Aquinas. Thomas

228 Ibid., 235. 86

never spoke of inalienable rights; “in the Thomistic scheme, rights were contingent on the

performance of prior duties. Far from being inalienable, they could be forfeited and were

so forfeited by criminals who could then be deprived of their liberty and even put to

death.” Thus, “the typical Hobbesian dilemma of the convict whom the state has the right

to execute and who has the right to kill his executioner belongs exclusively to the world

of modern thought.”229 Here we pause simply to note the absence of such a dilemma in

contemporary liberal thought, and posit that perhaps this Hobbesian dilemma belongs

exclusively to the world of Hobbesian thought, and has little to do with natural rights.

Indeed, According to Rothbard’s account, murderers not only have the right to die, but this punishment can be enacted on him by anyone in society.230

Fortin goes on to critique F. Rousseau’s seemingly democratic portrayal of the

natural law. The natural law doctrine, he writes, “was originally taken to be compatible

with all legitimate regimes and did not of itself favor any one of them over the others.”

Indeed, “Rousseau’s suggestion that [the natural law doctrine] did much to foster the

political equality of all human beings is anything but obvious, especially in view of the

fact that over the centuries it was more often used to uphold the status quo than to change

it.”231 Fortin points to Aquinas’s defense of the justice of legal slavery, going beyond

even Aristotle in its defense.

Despite this example, Fortin ends with a call for a second look at the natural law.

He recognizes that it has “thorny objections that might be leveled at it,” chief of which is

229 Ibid., 235–236.

230 Rothbard, The Ethics of Liberty, 77–84.

231 Fortin, Classical Christianity and the Political Order, 236. 87

the law’s “natural knowability.” If we do not know what the natural law is, then in what

way can it be considered natural, or even a law at all? This difficulty, which will be

examined in further detail in our discussion of Fortin’s essay The New Right Theory and

the Natural Law, essentially has to do with the displacement of teleological views of the universe with modern scientific views. Fortin, however, does not view it as fatal, and argues that the natural law still offers a solution to the relativism of the age, which he believes is what is really described by the euphemism of “pluralism.” The natural law,

Fortin argues, can better serve to satisfy “the higher part of the soul without neglecting

the lower.” It serves “human wholeness,” and provides a mean between the “extremes of fanaticism and vulgar relativism to which we have lately been treated.”232 However, while he labels the natural law as a corrective to present day issues, he does not consider whether a solution to present day issues can be found within the natural rights tradition.

He does not consider whether a more refined or reformed version of natural rights might be better placed to correct the issues of the present day.

Indeed, such a version of natural rights could be formulated to be compatible with a subjective natural law, such as that Rothbard describes. This subjective natural law though would need to be based on a more accurate and objective understanding of the human person to account for the absurdities absolute, negative, natural rights confronts when dealing with the problem of dependents. Perhaps the natural law, as Aquinas describes it, should apply more in cases of children, while subjective natural law (that is, natural rights) should take over as children reach adulthood, and acquire more independence. Contrary to the argument of Aquinas, the objective natural law should not

232 Ibid., 238. 88

be the legal floor. Rather, the objective natural law would fair better, as would society, if

the legal floor were lower, along the lines of some sort of synthesis between natural rights

and Rothbard’s subjective natural law.

Fortin’s next article on the natural law, entitled “On the Presumed Medieval

Origin of Individual Rights,” opens by noting a scholarly divide of opinion between those who argue that the doctrine of the natural law and the doctrine of natural rights are opposed to one another, on one hand, and those who “see the rights doctrine, not as a substitute for its predecessor, but either as a more polished version of it or a useful complement to it,” on the other. According to Fortin, the implications of either position are of importance, especially to American citizens, because the former heralds a potential conflict between biblical commitments and enlightenment dogmas.233

Fortin begins his discussion of this problem by proposing to look at the origins

and development of the theory of individual rights. He notes though that this is difficult,

due to the sharp divide of scholarly opinion on the issue. To illustrate this divide, Fortin

lists three thinkers who stand out on the subject. The first is Michel Villey, who “sought

to prove that the father of the rights theory as we know it is William of Ockham.”

Villey’s main argument is that there is a distinction between “objective right—‘the right thing…’ ‘one’s due’ or one’s proper share…—and subjective right, by which is meant a

moral power… or faculty… inhering in individual human beings.” In other words,

individuals are either possessed by rights or possess them. This distinction is important

because “‘right’ in the first sense does not necessarily work to the advantage of the

individual whose right it is.” For example, “in Rome, the right of a parricide was to be

233 Ibid., 243. 89 stuffed in a bag filled with vipers and thrown into the Tiber.” “In Villey’s view, a straight path leads from Ockham’s nominalism, according to which only individuals exist, to the rights with which these individuals are invested.”234

The second thinker, Richard Tuck, locates the origin of subjective rights in the

12th century, with their full expression coming to bloom, “in the works of Locke and, before Locke, Grotius, who finally ‘broke the ice’ by casting off the shackles of

Aristotelian philosophy.” Tuck attempts to do this by distinguishing “between passive rights, by which he means rights reducible to duties incumbent on other people, and the more pertinent active rights or rights understood as the absolute liberty to do or to forbear.”235

The third thinker, Professor Brian Tierney, is significant in that he “argues that there is no significant hiatus or breach of continuity between the medieval and modern understandings of right. His thesis in a nutshell is that the subjective rights to which

Villey points as the hallmark of modernity are in fact an invention of the brilliant canonists and civil lawyers of twelfth and thirteenth-century Europe.” Fortin notes that

Tierney’s work subjects the writings of these canonists and lawyers “to a far more painstaking scrutiny than either Villey or Tuck had done,” and argues that Tierney convincingly shows “that the definition of rights as ‘powers’ antedates the Nominalist movement by some two centuries and that in this matter Ockham and his followers were

234 Ibid., 244.

235 Ibid. 90

not the radical innovators Villey makes them out to be.” Indeed, Fortin remarks,

“Ockham’s treatment of the natural law… is anything but revolutionary.”236

Despite such praise, Fortin takes issue with the labeling of subjective rights in the

Middle Ages as “‘natural,’ something that few medieval authors… ever do.” Indeed, “in the vast majority of cases, the rights in question are called ‘rights’ without qualification and appear to have been understood as civil or canonical rights… which manifestly belong to the realm of positive… rather than natural right.”237

Causing further difficulty for the one who would maintain that natural rights were

a medieval invention is the fact that the “powers” that Tierney understands as natural

rights “were contingent on the performance of prior duties and hence forfeitable. Anyone

who failed to abide by the law that guarantees them could be deprived of everything to

which he was previously entitled: his freedom, his property, and in extreme cases his

life.” Such is not the case in a Hobbesian scheme, and would not be the case with many

who would describe individual rights “as absolute, inviolable, imprescriptible,

unconditional, inalienable, or sacred.”238

Despite this difficulty, “one cannot conclude from the absence of any explicit distinction between objective and subjective right in their works that the classical philosophers and their medieval disciples would have objected to the notion of subjective rights or rights as moral faculties or power.” Indeed, while there is no “natural rights teaching comparable to the one set forth in the works of a host of early modern political

236 Ibid., 245.

237 Ibid., 246.

238 Ibid., 246–247. 91

writers, beginning with Hobbes… the medievals could conceivably have put forward a

doctrine of natural rights rooted in natural law.” After all, since “rights are already implied in the notion of duty… anyone who has a duty to do something must have the

right to do it.” Perhaps the early modern political writers were simply taking the next

logical step in the separation of natural rights from natural law. But the fact that the

medievals did not take such a step can be seen as due mainly to the reason that medievals

“tended to take their cue from the Bible, the Church Fathers, Roman law, the canon law

tradition, and Aristotle’s Ethics and Politics,” none of which emphasize natural rights.239

The early moderns, by contrast, had no such allegiances. While they disguised this fact by writing in traditional language, Fortin argues, they really were advocating a revolutionary doctrine. Fortin writes, “it is not surprising that the leaders of the new movement should have been careful to express themselves in language that made them sound more conservative than they actually were.”240 Indeed, “Francis Bacon had already

admonished radical innovators to express themselves only in familiar terms, adding that

one should always begin by telling people what they most want to hear, that is, what they are accustomed to hearing.”241

So while Hobbes, Locke, and others might have attempted to pass their new

doctrine of natural rights off as simply an extension of the natural law, what they were really aiming to do was to create a new political science that would “procure the good of society by putting an end to the massacres and bloody wars that had hitherto marked its

239 Ibid., 247–248.

240 Ibid., 254.

241 Ibid., 255. 92

life.” This could be accomplished simply by turning “private vices to public advantage… enabl[ing] one to enjoy the rewards of moral virtue without acquiring virtue itself… without having to undergo a painful and chancy conversion from a concern for worldly goods to a concern for the good of the soul.” Thus, Fortin concludes his assessment of their new doctrine by arguing that their new political science simplified morality by

reducing it to a “social virtue,” while simultaneously simplifying the virtue of justice to

be simply concerned with “the requirements of peace.”242

With his conclusion made, Fortin restates his original point, which “was not to

argue for the superiority either of these two distinct approaches to the study of ethics and

politics but to clarify the difference between them and caution against any hasty

identification of one with the other.” Having accomplished this goal, he now proceeds to

examine its practical considerations. Assuming that “no ultimate synthesis between a

consistent natural law theory and a consistent natural rights theory is possible… does this

mean that any kind of rapprochement between them is out of the question? Not

necessarily.” As Fortin explains, “one thing is nevertheless certain: no such

rapprochement can be effected on the basis of a principle that transcends the original

positions, each one of which claims supreme status for itself. This leave only one

possibility: a rapprochement effected on the basis of the highest principles of one or the

other of these two positions.”243 In effect, either the natural law must submit to the new

natural rights theory, or natural rights must submit to natural law.

242 Ibid., 253–254.

243 Ibid., 256–257. 93

Thus, Fortin again ends with a call for a second look at natural law. As he sees it,

“the modern world has been experimenting for close to four centuries with a theory that

subordinates law to rights. The results have been mixed at best, and this is what lends a

measure of credibility to the now frequently heard calls for a reexamination of the discarded alternative, which insisted on the subordination of rights to duties or the

common good.”244

In his final essay on the subject examined here, “The New Rights Theory and the

Natural Law,” Fortin opens with the lyrics to a song: “I love Carolina, I love Angelina,

too, I can’t marry both, so what I gonna do?” These lyrics hint at the problem facing political theorists of the natural law and natural rights today: the two systems of thought

each have their merits and the problems, but one eventually must win out over the other.

Fortin begins his discussion with an acknowledgement of “one of the major difficulties facing the natural law theorist [which] is that his understanding of human nature was originally bound up with a teleological view of the universe which has seemingly been destroyed by modern science.”245 If there were no telos to nature, why

would man have a natural telos? Such difficulties, as previously argued, have made the

idea of, variously, natural, human, and individual rights more attractive to Catholic

theologians.

This change in ethical argumentation can be seen with respect to Catholic thought on the morality of abortion. “Although the Roman Catholic Church has not altered its

official stand on this matter and gives no indication of wanting to do so, it now supports it

244 Ibid., 256.

245 Ibid., 266. 94

[that is, the prohibition of abortion] by means of a distinctly new argument based on

natural or human rights rather than on natural law. The bottom line may be the same in

both instances, but the reasoning behind it is obviously different.” “The old argument,”

Fortin continues, “was mainly concerned with what abortion does to the person who

performs it or allows it to be performed; the new one, with what it does to the aborted

fetus. One argument emphasizes duties; the other emphasizes rights.”246 Put another way,

previous Catholic moral theology prohibited abortion because such an act was wrong; it allowed evil into one’s heart, whereas today the fetus is held to have an inalienable right to life that must be honored.

Is such a shift in argumentation a problem for Catholic moral theology? Not if natural rights and the natural law are fundamentally compatible with each other. Indeed, as Fortin sums up, “the prevailing view among Catholic scholars is that they are in fact

compatible and that the modern rights doctrine is simply a perfected version of the old

natural law doctrine.” He lists two prominent defenders of this view, including Jacques

Maritain and John Finnis.247 It is John Finnis’s work, Natural Law and Natural Rights that Fortin focuses on for the rest of this review essay. Indeed, while Fortin says that

Finnis’s work, “surpasses anything that has yet been produced by a Roman Catholic

scholar in our generation,” he does enumerate various criticisms and questions that

Finnis’s work bring to light.248

246 Ibid.

247 Ibid.

248 Ibid., 279. 95

At first pointing out the differences between Finnis’s doctrine of natural rights

and, say, Thomas Hobbes’s, Fortin notes that Finnis grounds “the modern rights doctrine in the intrinsic dignity and worth of the human person.” Thus, “Finnis has unquestionably succeeded in infusing it with a properly moral content.” Finnis’s account of natural rights may be moral, but that does not make it synonymous with the natural law. As Fortin

notes, Finnis’s work still defends “absolute or unconditional rights, circumscribed only

by the derivative requirements of practical reasonableness and a proper respect for the

rights of others.” According to Finnis’s schema, “self-interest and public interest coalesce

into a harmonious whole which does not depend for its coming into being on the

conversion from a selfish concern for worldly goods to a concern for the good of the soul

or the transformation of the individual into a citizen through the mediating agency of

virtue. To be sure, moral virtue is not excluded, but neither is it indispensable.”249 A further difference between Finnis and previous theorists of the natural law is that for

Finnis “human beings are not united in a common dedication to a common goal. They are not ‘parts,’ as Thomas Aquinas still taught, but atomic wholes, open to others and often in need of them, but nonetheless free to organize their lives or devise their ‘life-plans’ as they see fit, provided they do not interfere with the freedom of others.”250 Perhaps these

differences are not so bad though. After all, is it wise to advocate a political system where

virtue is indispensable, given the fallen nature of man? Is an individual really to a polis

what a hand is to a body?

249 Ibid., 270.

250 Ibid., 272. 96

Regardless, Fortin does insist that something has been lost in the transition from natural law to natural rights. He writes, “Finnis’s solution has neatness in its favor, but it can hardly be said to account for all the facts of experience.”251 Fortin argues that a system of natural rights could work against “the rarer forms of human flourishing,” because

[i]ts spirit is that of democratic liberalism, whose leveling tendencies it

reflects without much concern for the deprivations imposed on certain

higher types of human beings, to say nothing of the community as a

whole. It is doubtful whether anyone who subscribes to it will be inspired

to make the almost superhuman effort required to attain the lofty goals of

wisdom, prudence, or piety that an older tradition of ethical thought

sought to promote.252

In other words, while a rights-based polity might be better for everyone taken as an aggregate, it certainly is not better for some individuals, who are not developed to their full potential as excellent human beings. Instead of focusing on developing these individuals, the new political science focuses on developing “trustworthy institutions, geared to the achievement of modest goals, [which] will give us what we could never be sure of having otherwise, at the risk of making us forget that human beings once thought

251 Ibid., 274.

252 Ibid., 275. 97

it possible to aspire to something higher.”253 Fortin simply points out that, by conflating

natural law and natural rights, Finnis misses out on what we could be missing out on by

adopting a natural rights scheme. Thus he ends with a reflection on one who did

recognize the shift, writing, “one is reminded… of Tocqueville, who also thought it

necessary to go along with the new trend but was much more keenly aware of the price

that human beings would have to pay for acquiescing in it. Tocqueville knew from

experience that the modern principles would produce a different type of human being and

one which was not in every way superior to the type it was destined to replace.”254

Our first observation concerning Fortin’s comparison of natural rights and natural law is that the concept of natural rights was originally intended as a substitute rather than a development of natural law. Indeed, perhaps this is true, as it does seem from our reading of the original liberal thinkers. However, this observation does not condemn the doctrine of natural rights, which should be examined on its own merits, and is not bound by the goals of its original proponents. What is to say that the doctrine of the natural law could not experience development, even borrowing from those most opposed to it (such as Hobbes), making room for natural rights?

Keeping this in mind, it is interesting that Hobbes chief political goal is the same as Augustine’s first requirement of justice: peace. It is in light of this fact that we must take Fortin’s observation of the different ends of natural law and natural rights.

According to his telling, natural rights seem directed towards the end of political peace, while natural law seems directed towards higher ends, including the end of salvation. But

253 Ibid.

254 Ibid., 276. 98 what if there were a natural law that was better able to accommodate political peace, or a natural rights theory more amenable to man’s ultimate religious ends?

Indeed, many modern attempts to show the natural development of natural rights from natural law have such a goal in mind. The attempts discussed by Fortin include that of Brian Tierney, who, while he experienced difficulty in establishing the medieval origin of natural rights, since his examples of such rights were forfeitable without the performance of duties, nevertheless conclusively establishes the medieval origin of rights as powers. Indeed, Fortin even grants that natural rights could have been a natural development of medieval natural law, were it not for the reliance on the bible, the church fathers, and Aristotle. Such an acknowledgment is crucial because, in fact, we do now live in an age in which the teleological view of the universe has been replaced by modern science, and in political regimes whose inhabitants and rulers are not Christian, and therefore do not rely on the bible or the church fathers. Coupled with Fortin’s praise of

John Finnis’s demonstration of the moral basis upon which natural rights can be established, the project of crafting a natural rights in accord with natural law seems entirely possible, while remaining within the Catholic tradition of political thought.

99

CHAPTER THREE

A Contemporary Interpretation of the Social Encyclicals

Rerum Novarum to Centesimus Annus

With the key principles of liberal and libertarian thought established, as well as various

political insights from Catholic thinkers, we now turn to the first of our authors who

attempts to reconcile Catholic political thought with liberalism. In his work, Papal

Economics: The Catholic Church on Democratic Capitalism, Maciej Zięba attempts this

reconciliation through an examination of the Social Encyclicals of the popes, from Rerum

Novarum to Caritas in Veritate, with a particular emphasis on the thought of Pope John

Paul II in his work, Centesimus Annus. He begins by asking the question, “what is man’s

place in society, particularly in economic and political life?”255 He remarks that, “for decades commentators of all stripes have tried to enlist Catholic social teaching in their cause, variously arguing that it is left-wing, or right-wing, pro-socialist or pro-capitalist, or even pro-‘third way.’” Zięba, however, argues that such an approach has its limits, and he “aims to correct the misconceptions about the Church’s teachings on economics.256

Ultimately, he will argue,

[t]he most serious dangers arise when the state and the market are elevated

to absolutes in themselves—when man’s spiritual dimensions are

255 Zięba, Papal Economics, 4.

256 Ibid., 5. 100

subordinated to his material ones. The market economy and the

democratic order must operate in a larger culture that allows man to

discover the transcendent dignity of each person and realize his humanity

by giving himself to his fellow men and to God.257

Rerum Novarum

The first step that Zięba takes in order to accomplish his purpose is to begin an overview

of Catholic social teaching, particularly when it comes to the Papal encyclicals of the 19th

and 20th centuries. He begins with Rerum Novarum (1891), which he refers to as “‘the

flagship of Catholic social teachings.’”258 This encyclical, to a great extent, set the terms of the conversation for subsequent encyclicals, and defined to a great extent

Catholicism’s relationship with socialism and capitalism. Zięba notes that “although the term capitalism does not appear in Rerum Novarum’s pages, Leo treats the then-extant form of capitalism as a system natural and right in principle, if in need of some correction in practice.” As he further notes, “the encyclical takes a different approach to the competing economic system. Socialism, the pope argues, is wrong at its core.” This is because “its pathological source is envy, while its aims—the complete equality of all humans, the abolition of private ownership, and ‘freedom from pain and trouble’—are utopian. Leo suggests that socialism will break society apart, bring harm to workers, and

‘rob the lawful possessor.’ Socialists ‘delude the people’ and ‘bring forth evils worse than the present.’”259 Those of all political persuasions have commented on the emphasis that

257 Ibid., 6.

258 Ibid., 14.

101

private property as an institution gets in Rerum Novarum. Zięba notes that, for this

reason, classical liberals and socialists often regard Rerum Novarum as breaking with the

Thomist tradition. Zięba argues that, to the contrary, any differences are terminological

rather than material.260

As far as the encyclical’s treatment of the state, Zięba acknowledges that the pope’s “view of the role of the state is complex,” but argues that he ultimately “treats the

state, according to the classically Thomist theory, as a societas perfecta responsible for

realizing the common good.”261 Zięba elaborates as follows: “Pope Leo XIII views both

the state and society from an Aristotelian-Thomist perspective. This perspective is

teleological and postulates a harmonious social life: ‘the purpose and perfection of an

association is to aim at and to attain that for which it is formed, and its efforts should be

put in motion and inspired by the end and object which originally gave it being.’”262 Such a vision of the state would seem to be “opposed to the classically liberal ideal of the minimal state.”263

Despite such a view of the state, Zięba cautions, papal affirmations should be read

“against the backdrop of a Church frequently failing to keep pace with the rapid social changes and sometimes longing nostalgically for the ancient regime.”264 Indeed, Zięba

259 Ibid., 8.

260 Ibid., 13–14.

261 Ibid., 8–9.

262 Ibid., 11.

263 Ibid., 9.

264 Ibid. 102 does not make such a point, but one could ask whether the Aristotelian-Thomist vision of the state, given modern conditions, is the most useful under modern conditions.

Quadragesimo Anno

Released 40 years after Rerum Novarum, after the advent of the Great Depression, Pius

XI’s encyclical Quadragesimo Anno reflected the conditions of the time. In it, Pius XI notes, “‘all economic life has become tragically hard, inexorable, and cruel.’”

Throughout his encyclical, the Pope blames individualism, the separation of economics from ethics, and the negation of the social nature of ownership as root causes of the crisis.265 He rails against the “idols of Liberalism,” specifically economic liberalism and its supposed laws, as well as against the privileges of those with capital. Indeed, the Pope argues that the “night watchman” state had proved unable to solve the social problems of the age.266

Explaining the Pope’s arguments, Zięba writes, “from the context of

Quadragesimo Anno, one could conclude that Pius was concerned with extreme versions of classical liberalism that saw property rights as absolute and economic laws as impersonal and unchanging, analogous to the laws of physical science.”267 But Zięba does not simply explain, he criticizes the Pope’s argument, writing, “the rise of monopolies and the concentration of economic power were mainly caused not by the liberalization but by the politicization of the economy.” Indeed, he notes, “some of Pius’s views (for example, regarding the Manchester School) were echoes of widely spread opinions rather

265 Ibid., 15.

266 Ibid., 16.

267 Ibid. 103

than the result of analysis of primary-source materials.”268 This implies that the papal

interpretation of events is questionable because it was influenced not by rational

investigation but instead by varying ideologies hostile to liberalism.

Despite such criticism, Zięba argues that Pius did not go so far as to support the

anti-liberal solutions of fascism and corporatism, “system[s] of economic organization

that [see] the various bodies within society (for example, labor unions, firms, business

groups), rather than individuals, as the main economic actors.” Such arguments have

been made, and “frequent references to Quadragesimo Anno by Mussolini, Salazar,

Franco, and the leaders of Latin American juntas—all helped to popularize a stereotype

of Pius XI as the ‘father of corporatism.” Zięba argues that such a characterization is

unfair, and that Pius preferred a “capitalism reformed through social justice and

charity.”269 Indeed, the economist Wilhelm Ropke was “‘unable to find in the Encyclical any passage sanctioning the belief that an order based on the market economy should be

replaced by another.”270

In fact, there are many aspect of the encyclical that are pro-market in their

orientation. For example, Pius argues that “although the honest use of goods is a moral

responsibility, it is false ‘to hold that a right to property is destroyed or lost by reason of abuse or non-use.’”271 Additionally, he decries the crowding out of mediating institutions

in society by the state, writing “‘just as it is gravely wrong to take from individuals what

268 Ibid., 17.

269 Ibid., 19.

270 Ibid., 20.

271 Ibid., 21. 104

they can accomplish by their own initiative and industry and give it to the community, so

also it is an injustice and at the same time a grave evil and disturbance of right order to

assign to a greater and higher association what lesser and subordinate organizations can

do. For every social activity ought of its very nature to furnish help to the members of the

body social, and never destroy and absorb them.’”272 Such understandings of the free

market and of the mediating institutions of civil society that accompany it lead Pius to

endorse a market solution to the Great Depression, and to remark that “‘[n]o one can be

at the same time a good Catholic and a true socialist.”273 Indeed, Pius still argued that

socialism was wrong at its core, “‘proposing a remedy far worse than the evil’ it was designed to cure.”274

From this, Zięba concludes that “for Pius, then, the ideal is a decentralized state

created by an active and self-organizing society, rich in social ties and independently

undertaking the tasks standing before it.” He goes further, arguing that “by carefully

examining the meaning of the words liberalism and corporation as the pope understood

them, one sees that the vision of social life outlined in Quadragesimo Anno—in both its

economic and political dimensions—clearly does not promote a corporatist third way or condemn liberalism.”275

272 Ibid., 22.

273 Ibid., 18, 21.

274 Ibid., 5.

275 Ibid., 22–23. 105

Mater et Magistra

From here, Zięba turns to the encyclical Mater et Magistra (1961), which he describes as

concerning itself with distributive justice, in contrast to commutative or social justice.276

In this encyclical, “John writes, ‘that in the economic order first place must be given to the personal initiative of private citizens working either as individuals or in association with each other in various ways for the furtherance of common interests.’” According to

Zięba, John argues, “state intervention should “‘never be exerted to the extent of depriving the individual citizen of his freedom of action,’” and is acceptable only if it leads to economic growth and… to an advantage for all the citizens… [always] supported by the principle of subsidiarity.”277 This principle, central to Catholic political thought,

dictates that matters should be handled at the most local and least centralized level of

government possible.

Although John emphasizes personal rights and “the free development of

productive activity,” he does qualify such rights. For example, he writes that “‘where

personal initiative is lacking, political tyranny ensues and, in addition, economic

stagnation in the production of a wide range of consumer goods and of services of the

material and spiritual order… Where, on the other hand, the good offices of the State are

lacking or deficient, incurable disorder ensues: in particular, the unscrupulous

exploitation of the weak by the strong.’”278 As the second half of John’s statement serves

276 Ibid., 24.

277 Ibid., 25.

278 Ibid., 26. 106 to show, John believed that without certain action by the State, the rich would take advantage of the poor.

Indeed, certain “statements supporting small and medium-sized properties, worker participation in management, [and] in the profits and property of enterprises,” seem to support a sort of distributism, which will be examined at length in Chapter 4. Such a conclusion seems even more likely considering John’s quoting of Pius XII’s plea on behalf of “‘the fundamental obligation of granting an opportunity to possess property to all if possible,’” as well as his statement that “‘now, if ever, is the time to insist on a more widespread distribution of property.’”279

Zięba notes that Michael Novak interprets the encyclical as stressing “the many possibilities of human development and demonstrat[ing] the connection between freedom, self-realization, and responsibility.” Novak argues that Pope “John’s concept of a just social order contains many ‘liberal’ elements,” while simultaneously acknowledging that the Pope criticizes liberal views.280

Zięba argues that Novak’s observations should be qualified to a certain extent.

While Pope John XXIII advocated subsidiarity, he specifically recommends state intervention at points. Indeed, he restates Pius XI’s opposition to “all ideological forms of liberalism that separate ethics from economy, attempt to reconcile the laws of economy with the laws of nature, [and] see profit and free competition as ends in themselves rather than as means to the common good, and accept no form of state intervention.”281 Such a

279 Ibid., 27.

280 Ibid., 28.

281 Ibid., 28–29. 107

qualification is indirectly acknowledged by Novak as well when he writes that “the

cardinal tenet of liberalism is not so much denied as subsumed within a social and

transcendent framework.”282

Zięba notes that “Mater et Magistra speaks more positively of the state than did

earlier encyclicals.” He theorizes that this was “perhaps because the ‘spirit of the times’

favored the ideas of the political Left, statism, central planning, and socialism.” Indeed,

agricultural price regulations and tax incentives to farmers are specifically advocated in the encyclical.283 From this, Zięba concludes that “Mater et Magistra, while preserving

the essence of the description of social life from Rerum Novarum and Quadragesimo

Anno, is less balanced and, from an economic point of view, less realistic in its details.”284

Pacem in Terris

The next encyclical of social, political, and economic thought that Zięba examines is

John XXIII’s Pacem in Terris. In this encyclical, John writes of the relationship between

a government and its citizens, which “‘must be regulated by the principle of freedom.’”285

He also praises democracy, which he refers to as natural and good, and the constitutional

separation of powers, with its role in safeguarding rights.286 John links such rights with

282 Ibid., 29.

283 Ibid., 30.

284 Ibid., 31.

285 Ibid., 32.

286 Ibid., 33. 108

human responsibilities, viewing the two as reciprocal in nature.287 In order to make sense

of John’s thought, Zięba argues, one must realize that “the key to John’s thinking is

personalism. According to this view, the human being as a person is the subject of

universal and inalienable rights and responsibilities. This conviction implies that each

human community should be constituted on the basis of respect for freedom and

governed by the principle of subsidiarity.” And while the Pope does not focus on the

economy in Pacem in Terris, he mentions the “rights to work, to equitable conditions, to

engage in economic activities, to fair family wages (though adapted to the capabilities of

the economy), and to possess private property.”288

Populorum Progressio

From here, Zięba turns to Paul VI’s encyclical, Populorum Progressio, in which Zięba

discerns a definite shift of thinking in the course of Catholic social, economic, and political thought. He first notes that others have “criticized Populorum Progressio for

confusing the issue, being unfamiliar with economic reality, and replacing the classical

vision of the political-economic order with an ideological appraisal of reality.”289 Indeed,

Zięba concurs with such criticism, accusing the encyclical of lacking awareness of the

“social problems in some countries,” as well of treating progress “solely as economic development.”290

287 Ibid., 34.

288 Ibid., 31–32.

289 Ibid., 35.

290 Ibid., 36. 109

Private property is not regarded as an absolute right in the encyclical and, Paul

argues, “‘if certain landed estates impede the general prosperity… the common good

sometimes demands their expropriation.’”291 Indeed, he blames “unbridled liberalism” for

“pav[ing] the way for a particular type of tyranny, right condemned by Our predecessor,

Pius XI, for it results in ‘international imperialism of money.’” In response to such a critique, Zięba references Michael Novak, who argued that “‘Paul VI seems to assume that ‘liberalism’ means only and solely a radical individualism, materialism, and

Darwinian struggle,’” a characterization Novak disputes.292

Zięba accuses the Pope of “frequently portray[ing] central planning as a panacea

for the injustices of economic life.”293 The Pope’s understanding of economics is, at

times, not only naïve, but incoherent. For example, a blatant contradiction is found when

“the encyclical criticizes privileged prices for industrial goods with relation to foodstuffs

as a cause of poverty in unindustrialized nations that export primarily agricultural

products, but then, a moment later… endorses agricultural subsidies in the developed

countries, which artificially decrease prices on these crops.”294 To give only one more

example, Paul VI also claims that the price of manufactured goods was rising rapidly as a result of technological progress, when the exact opposite was occurring.295

291 Ibid.

292 Ibid., 37.

293 Ibid., 38.

294 Ibid., 39.

295 Ibid., 40. 110

In light of such criticism, Zięba’s earlier listing of an observation of Czeslaw

Strzeszewski begins to make sense. Of Paul VI’s encyclical, Strzesewski observed that

“of the references mentioned in earlier documents St. Thomas Aquinas has disappeared completely; the Church Fathers so frequently cited in Gaudium et Spes… have also disappeared; the number of references to the Holy Scriptures has decreased rather significantly; and a complete novelty is the citing of numerous ecclesiastical and secular authors.”296 Indeed, Zięba is sympathetic to the reading of “the leading ideologist of the

Italian Communist Party in the 1960s, who wrote that this encyclical is innovative in that

‘the relation of private ownership of the means of production and natural law is set aside,’

and that ‘the main villain, though with certain limitations, is no longer communism or

socialism, but capitalism, colonialism, and the concept of liberalism which provided

ideological justification of the capitalist reality.’”297

Laborem Exercens

After Populorum Progressio, Zięba turns his discussion to the encyclicals of Pope John

Paul II. Zięba argues, at first glance, that Laborem Exercens allows varying readings. He cites two opposing interpreters to illustrate this phenomenon, each attempting to put the pope in his own camp:

A journalist from the Spectator of London wrote, ‘[Laborem Exercens] is

so at variance with the laissez-faire ‘New Jerusalem’ Reaganites that one

cannot ignore it. If the Pope were an American you would place him on

296 Ibid., 35.

297 Ibid., 36. 111

the far left wing of the Democratic Party.’ Simultaneously, the

conservative, pro-Reagan Heritage Foundation published a book in which

the author argued that Laborem Exercens constituted a great step forward

in the evolution of Catholic social thought in the direction of democratic

capitalism.298

For his own part, Zięba argues that the pope’s encyclical demonstrates that the principle of the Church

diverges radically from the program of collectivism as proclaimed by

Marxism and put into practice in various countries in the decades

following the time of Leo XIII’s encyclical. As the same time, it differs

from the program of capitalism practiced by liberalism and by the political

systems inspired by it. In the latter case, the difference consists in the way

the right to ownership or property is understood. Christian tradition has

never upheld this right as absolute and untouchable.299

Absolutely crucial in understanding this distinction between the Church’s economic teaching and what the pope calls the “capitalism practiced by liberalism” is the pope’s definition of these concepts. As Zięba writes, “the pope’s definition of capitalism is inspired by what happened in the early stages of capitalist development: he describes it as

298 Ibid., 41.

299 Ibid., 42. 112

a system in which the person is treated as a tool of production, not as a creative subject of

the discharged labor.” Indeed, the pope writes, “‘precisely this reversal of order, whatever

the program or name under which it occurs, should rightly be called ‘capitalism.’”

Expounding on such a definition, the pope argues, “‘the error of early capitalism can be

repeated wherever man is, in a way, treated on the same level as the whole complex of

the material means of production, as an instrument.’”300

The second term, or “integral concept” that John Paul defines is “economism: the

ideology according to which human labor is treated as an exclusively economic category,

thus eliminating any thinking about economic life in personal and humanist categories.”

In the words of Novak, “‘economism is to the economy what scientism is to science.’”

The third important concept “is that of the ‘indirect employer,’ which includes both

persons and institutions of various kinds and also collective labor contracts and the

principles of conduct which are laid down by these persons and institutions and which

determine the whole socioeconomic system or are its results.’” The Pope identifies the

chief indirect employer as the state, thus “mak[ing] the state co-responsible for the

economy.”301

With such concepts defined, John Paul can then “[highlight] the danger of statism,

as Paul VI did not.” For example, John Paul “writes critically of the depersonalizing

‘system of excessive bureaucratic centralization,’” and explicitly denounces “one-sided centralization by public authorities.”302

300 Ibid., 42–43.

301 Ibid., 43.

302 Ibid. 113

Sollicitudo Rei Socialis

The last encyclical examined before Centesimus Annus is John Paul’s Sollicitudo Rei

Socialis. In it, the pope writes the following, which is crucial to any authentic interpretation of the Church’s social, political, and economic teaching as laid out in its encyclicals:

The church’s social doctrine is not a ‘third way’ between liberal capitalism

and Marxist collectivism, nor even a possible alternative to other solutions

less radically opposed to one another: rather, it constitutes a category of its

own. Nor is it an ideology, but rather the accurate formulation of the

results of a careful reflection on the complex realities of human existence,

in society and in the international order, in the light of faith and of the

Church’s Tradition. Its main aim is to interpret these realities, determining

their conformity with or divergence from the lines of the Gospel teaching

on man and his vocation, a vocation which is at once earthly and

transcendent; its aim is thus to guide Christian behavior.303

In the encyclical, the Pope uses the idea of “structures of sin,” which he argues are

“‘rooted in personal sin, and thus always linked to the concrete acts of individuals who introduce these structures, consolidate them, and make them difficult to remove.’” Thus, he diverges from leftists of liberation theology who view such structures as the product of

303 Ibid., 47. 114

impersonal forces.304 Furthering his difference with some on the left is his reproach of

socialism and his vindication of, as Zięba puts it, “the human right to private ownership.”

John Paul writes:

Experience shows us that the denial of this right [to private ownership], or

its limitation in the name of an alleged ‘equality’ of everyone in society,

diminishes, or in practice absolutely destroys the spirit of initiative, that is

to say the creative subjectivity of the citizen. As a consequence, there

arises, not so much a true equality, as a ‘leveling down.’ In the place of

creative initiative there appears passivity, dependence and submission to

the bureaucratic apparatus.305

The pope goes on to warn of reducing “the concept of ‘development’ to economic growth and thus marginaliz[ing] other dimensions of human and social life—cultural, religious, and ethical.” Indeed, John Paul criticizes consumerism or the ‘consumer society,’ ‘which

easily makes people slaves of ‘possession’ and of immediate gratification, with no other

horizon than the multiplication or continual replacement of the things already owned with

others still better,’ and which often creates artificial needs.”306 As an alternative, “John

Paul stresses the principle of the universal destination of goods, stating this in terms

304 Ibid., 48.

305 Ibid., 49.

306 Ibid., 51. 115

heretofore not used in social encyclicals: ‘private property, in fact, is under a ‘social mortgage.’”307

Zięba concludes his discussion of the Papal encyclicals prior to Centesimus Annus

with the observation that, while “all the popes oppose more extreme liberal, and

especially libertarian, concepts of the state and assign it a decisive role in social life,”

nonetheless “when one compares the social encyclicals written in the century after Rerum

Novarum, it is possible to discern an evolution [toward the acceptance of liberal concepts] in the Church’s views on political-economic systems and in its postulated social solutions.”308

Summarizing the changes in the social thought of the popes over time, Zięba

argues that Leo XIII and Pius XI strongly emphasized the principle of subsidiarity with

regard to the activities of the state, but that, over time, “in subsequent encyclicals… the

role of civil society weakens as the popes evolve in the direction of the welfare state, attempting to ensure that each individual receives the largest possible packet of rights understood as privileges.” As Zięba argues, “the connection of these rights with corresponding responsibilities is evident in John XXIII, becomes practically imperceptible in Paul VI, but returns again in John Paul II.”309

In the area of social planning similar differences are evident. “The problem of planning social development is, according to all the encyclicals, the prerogative of the state. Still in Populorum Progressio, the planning and coordinating role of the state…

307 Ibid., 52.

308 Ibid., 54–55.

309 Ibid., 56. 116

migrates in the direction of central planning of social life, and the field of intervention is

greatly expanded. John Paul once again limits the meaning of central planning and this

type of role for the state.”310

Comparing the encyclicals’ stances on socialism and capitalism, Zięba argues that

“Leo and Pius take an approving but critical stance on capitalism, which stands in stark

contrast to their unequivocally negative attitude toward socialism. [In] John’s and Paul’s

writings… the critique of socialism appears to be even more moderate than that of

capitalism. The situation changes again in John Paul’s encyclicals, demonstrating that the

practice of socialism is significantly more discordant with the Church’s social teachings

that is capitalism.” While Leo and Pius express nostalgia for the guild system, John’s and

Paul’s criticisms of capitalism could lead one to search for a “third way” between

capitalism and socialism, a third way that John Paul denies the Church is presenting.311

To conclude, Zięba quotes Robert Royal, who argued of the encyclicals that “‘as

in many of the last papal documents, la question du style is not without meaning. In

Rerum Novarum (1891) and Quadragesimo Anno (1931), the two cornerstones of modern

Catholic social teaching, the language is crisp in a way that is largely absent in the later

encyclicals. The drafters of the earlier texts were particularly careful because they

thought someone might, at some point, ask them to form a government on their

principles. Subsequent encyclicals, with no such possibility in view, exhibit a

corresponding lack of meticulous attention to social problems. In the later texts, genuine moral urgency frequently jumps to quick political conclusions or even outright

310 Ibid., 57.

311 Ibid., 58. 117

simplifications of complex social realities.’”312 Zięba argues that caution is therefore needed when reading the encyclicals between Quadragesimo Anno and Centesimus Anno,

especially when considering questions of policy.

In thinking about Rerum Novarum, the most important thing to note is its

treatment of capitalism as, at its core, a good system merely in need of corrections.

Socialism, on the other hand, is presented as wrong at its very core, and has the sin of

envy as its source. Thus, the logically next step is to determine what corrections we need

to make to capitalism.

With respect to the Great Depression, it is interesting that Zięba and Pius XI

disagree as to whether liberalization or politicization served to cause monopoly and the

concentration of economic power. Whichever it was, identifying the correct cause of

economic ills would surely be a prerequisite for proposing economic remedies. And, as

Zięba points out in his analysis of Mater et Magistra, the recommendations of the Popes can be influenced by the ideas of the times. Indeed, he simply comments that Pius’ recommendations are “unrealistic,” a very mild way of putting things compared to the analysis of the author to be examined in Chapter 4. It is argued here that Pius XI’s admonition against separating ethics from economics is proper, but that can, and indeed, should, be just as well applied to those who lack an understanding of economics and disregard economic law. Such intellectual arrogance has ethical consequences, as will be seen. Indeed, Populorum Progressio’s lack of economic understanding has had some disastrous consequences. Such a denial of economic reality can only be seen as itself ideological, something the popes have repeatedly condemned.

312 Ibid., 59–60. 118

John Paul’s analysis of the errors of capitalism, in his pre-Centesimus Annus writings, should be noted. John Paul defines capitalism historically, and argues that its errors occur whenever people are treated as simply instruments of production instead of

“creative subject[s] of the discharged labor.”313 Thus, it is clear that, not only within economic systems but within any defense of an economic system, we should remember the errors of “economism,” and treat the subject in personal terms instead of exclusively

“economic” ones.

Finally, we should remember John Paul’s rejection in Sollicitudo Rei Socialis of the idea that the Church’s social doctrine is a “third way” between capitalism and socialism. Rather, it is “‘the accurate formulation of the results of a careful reflection on the complex realities of human existence, in society and in the international order, in the light of faith and of the Church’s Tradition… its aim is thus to guide Christian behavior.’”314

Centesimus Annus – Politics

Zięba spends the bulk of his work discussing Centesimus Annus, the encyclical written, in part, in reaction to the fall of the Soviet Union and the collapse of communism. He begins his discussion by remarking on the distinction the encyclical makes “between faith and ideology.”315 “By the encyclical’s account, ideology maintains a concept of truth and goodness that captures all of reality in a simple and solid schema, and its advocates believe that this concept can be imposed on other people.” Indeed, “ideologues and their

313 Ibid., 42–43.

314 Ibid., 47.

315 Ibid., 62. 119

followers claim not only that they have grasped the objective truth that clarifies the

essence of reality but also that they know this truth so well that they can impose their

vision on the rest of society—that is, on people who for some reason (whether class, race,

intellectual capacity, sin, caste, nationality, or religion) are incapable of perceiving it.”316

By contrast, the Christian attitude towards truth should be one of humility. “Christian truth has a dialectical character. It is indeed absolute and revealed to the Church, but the

Church is not its owner, only its depository.”317 Such a statement captures the earlier statement of the Second Vatican Council’s Declaration on Religious Liberty. In

Dignitatis Humanae, the council “declared that ‘truth can impose itself on the mind of man only in virtue of its own truth.’”318 To attempt to impose doctrine would be

ideological. Instead, the Church should be a public authority on morality, in order to

prevent the rise of secular ideologies. As Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger later argues:

It is only where the duality of Church and state, of the sacral and the

political authority, remains maintained in some form or another that the

fundamental pre-condition exists for freedom. Where the Church itself

becomes the state freedom becomes lost. But also when the Church is

done away with as a public and publicly relevant authority, then too

freedom is extinguished, because there the state once again claims

completely for itself the justification of morality; in the profane post-

316 Ibid., 65.

317 Ibid., 65–66.

318 Ibid., 68–69. 120

Christian world it does not admittedly do this in the form of a sacral

authority but as an ideological authority – that means that the state

becomes the party, and since there can no longer be any other authority of

the same rank it once again becomes total itself. The ideological state is

totalitarian; it must become ideological if it is not balanced by a free but

publicly recognized authority of conscience. When this kind of duality

does not exist the totalitarian system is unavoidable.319

With this distinction between faith and ideology established, John Paul again rejects the

so-called “ideological” versions of Christianity. He writes, “‘no political society—which

possesses its own autonomy and laws—can ever be confused with the Kingdom of

God.’”320 There would be much danger in such a confusion, as “‘when people think they possess the secret of a perfect social organization which makes evil impossible, they also think that they can use any means, including violence and deceit, in order to bring that organization into being. Politics then becomes a ‘secular religion.’’”321 In contrast to the

bold claims of secular religion, “‘the Christian faith does not presume to imprison

changing sociopolitical realities in a rigid schema, and it recognizes that human life is

realized in history in conditions that are diverse and imperfect.’” For this reason, “‘the

Church has no models to present; models that are real and truly effective can only arise

within the framework of different historical situations, through the efforts of all those

319 Ibid., 70.

320 Ibid., 63.

321 Ibid., 64. 121

who responsibly confront concrete problems in all their social, economic, political and

cultural aspects, as these interact with one another.’”322 In other words, prudence and

judgment are needed to confront political problems, not ideology, nor individuals

claiming to be the Catholic candidate, or lightly condemning the views of their opponents

as unchristian.

Zięba moves from the discussion on ideology to depict Centesimus Annus’s

political vision of society. This vision begins with a vision of human beings, who “are

persons” and “possess a social nature.” This means, Zięba argues, that “the encyclical

criticizes proposals for ‘thoroughgoing individualism.’” An “individualist,” according to

the encyclical, is “‘more like a producer or consumer of goods’ than a subject, a person,

who produces and consumes.” At the same time, Zięba argues that the encyclical

criticizes as equally dangerous socialist attempts to “‘socialize’ man; these approaches

fail to see him [as] a person… as an autonomous subject endowed with transcendent

dignity, reason, and liberty.”323

“From this vision of man, John Paul introduces the concept of the ‘personality (or

subjectivity) of society,’ discussing the distinction between the ‘body politic…’ (or

‘political society,’ to use Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain’s terminology) and the state.” He notes that mediating communities ‘give life to specific networks of solidarity… and strengthen the social fabric, preventing society from becoming an anonymous and impersonal mass.’” Thus, ideally society will be composed of “numerous

322 Ibid., 62–63.

323 Ibid., 71. 122

interpersonal ties and organized at a grassroots level.” For “‘it is in interrelationships on

many levels that a person lives, and that society becomes more ‘personalized.’”324

Zięba makes the prescient observation that one can “discern in this vision of the self-organizing society a convergence with the liberal tradition, especially its Anglo-

Saxon variety. As Pierre Manent wrote in his classic treatise on the subject, An

Intellectual History of Liberalism, ‘the foundation of liberalism is the distinction between civil society and the state: the latter is the representative instrument of the former. Civil society tends to be self-sufficient.’”325 Indeed, Zięba remarks that the compatibility of

John Paul’s position in the encyclical “with the views of distinguished representatives of

classical liberal thought—figures like F.A. Hayek, Milton Friedman, and Karl Popper,326 all of whom criticized the sweeping social visions that in extreme form led to totalitarianism,” is often overlooked.327 As John Paul writes, on an individual level, “‘it is through the free gift of self that one truly finds oneself.’” And on a societal level, “‘not only is it wrong from the ethical point of view to disregard human nature, which is made for freedom, but in practice it is impossible to do so. Where society is so organized as to

reduce arbitrarily or even suppress the sphere in which freedom is legitimately exercised,

the result is that the life of society becomes progressively disorganized and goes into

decline.’”328

324 Ibid.

325 Ibid., 72.

326 Not a classical liberal. Not known why Zięba includes Popper

327 Zięba, Papal Economics, 64.

328 Ibid., 77. 123

Despite such praise and seeming convergence with the liberal tradition, John Paul does recognize “the limits of the liberal horizon: equality, justice (understood in a legalistic way), and the market.” He realizes these concerns are important, “but a society constituted solely on this basis would be a dehumanized society.”329 Zięba points out that

original sin remains as a caution to a society based on self-interest, and a reminder of its

limitations. Since sin draws man towards evil, “a rational individual interest cannot

suffice to build a vibrant, unified society. It will change into a shallowly understood

egoism, transmitting a fatal germ into the collective life.” Indeed, one can see this in the

works of Ayn Rand and her totalizing philosophy of objectivism (Virtue of Selfishness).

This does not mean that one cannot “promot[e] one’s own interests,” but simply that

these interests must be “formed and limited by religion, ethics, and culture and… not

break with the common good.” It is possible for man to “‘transcend his immediate

interest and still remain bound to it’” and to harmonize one’s personal interest with that

of society.330

Finally, Zięba considers the presentation of the state in Centesimus Annus. He

writes: “whereas previous popes had erected divine authority as a model for state

institutions, John Paul, chastened by the experience of totalitarianism, emphasizes the

need for limits on state power. In their ascent toward omnipotence, states, especially

authoritarian ones, habitually abused the idea that the institution of power comes from

God.”331 John Paul gives the specific example of “the Social Assistance State,” which,

329 Ibid., 73.

330 Ibid., 76.

331 Ibid., 78. 124

“‘by intervening directly and depriving society of its responsibility… leads to a loss of

human energies and an inordinate increase of public agencies, which are dominated more

by bureaucratic ways of thinking than by concern for serving their clients.’”332 Occasions

of intervention should be “‘as brief as possible,’” and take place only for “‘urgent reasons

touching the common good,’” such as the instance of a monopoly hindering economic

development, or other possible circumstances in which market forces and mechanisms

have failed.333

Zięba ends by arguing that a crucial insight to be gleaned from John Paul’s vision

of society was recognized by Father Richard John Neuhaus, namely, that “‘the state… is not to be equated with the society, and it is always to act as the servant, never as the master.’”334 He concludes his section even more strongly than Neuhaus, stating, “broadly

speaking, we could sum up these reflections simply: the less there is of the state, the

better, because it is better to have ‘more society.’”335

Centesimus Annus – Economics

The next facet of the encyclical that Zięba discusses is the economic facet, which Pope

John Paul II treats in three thematically discernable ways, including a critique of historically “unbridled capitalism,” a discussion of the positive and negative aspects of

332 Ibid., 79.

333 Ibid., 80–83.

334 Ibid., 80.

335 Ibid., 84. 125

the contemporary market economy, and “a vision of economic life as it would appear if

Catholic social teaching were widely implemented.”336

In his discussion of historical capitalism, Zięba quotes Rodger Charles, SJ, “an authority on Catholic social doctrine,” who writes: “‘In America a double standard was

accepted. If businessmen combined to further their own purposes, this was in accordance

with natural law, but if labour did the same, it was a conspiracy. Likewise, monopoly was

good business, but the closed shop for trade unionists was un-American. The government

had a responsibility to aid business and protect its interests, but if it did the same for

labour then that was socialism.’”337 Summarizing, Zięba writes, “the doctrine of the free

economy, considering the political and economic advantages of its defenders, tipped the

scales in favor of the stronger. Profit became a tool of injustice as the wealthy bought

influence in the legal and political systems.”338 Here Zięba’s language confuses the issue though, by conflating the purchase of government influence with the doctrine of the free economy. Indeed, Rodger Charles’s analysis suffers a similar problem, neglecting to mention that supposed “monopolies” were formed by voluntary mergers, whereas closed shop unions secure permission from government to force businesses to use only labor that

joins a union. The former uses its property to offer a service. The latter restricts the use of the property of others, including the firm excluded from hiring non-union labor and the freedom of a non-unionized-laborer to work where he will.

336 Ibid., 97.

337 Ibid., 100.

338 Ibid., 101. 126

Zięba has many such instances where his historical interpretation and economic

analysis is questionable. For instance, his claim that “the early stages of capitalism

brought the decline of many traditional workshops as working hours were prolonged and

the cheapest labor—child labor—was pitilessly exploited” is a claim that Woods will

refute in Chapter 4.339

Zięba cites Wilhelm Ropke, who writes of the nineteenth century, “life becomes

de-humanized and man becomes the plaything of unhuman, pitiless force… Hence the

increasing indifference to all matters of collective ethics, hence scientific positivism and

relativism… It further leads to a fanatical belief in a mechanical causality even outside

the processes of nature… to social laws such as Malthus’ ‘law of population,’ or

Lasalles’s ‘immutable law of wages.’” Zięba argues that “this intellectual atmosphere bore some responsibility for the accumulation of social injustices.”340 But it seems more

likely that such social injustices were rather an economic reality, and that it was the

intellectual atmosphere of the day that led to the formulation of the “laws” of Malthus

and Lasalles, which ultimately served as justifications for government intervention.

Indeed, the very “reformers” of the time concurred in these theories. If these theories

were incorrect, should we not look to different reformers?

Zięba continues, citing sociologist Peter Berger, who writes that “‘in all Western

capitalist societies, the Industrial Revolution was accompanied by a sharp and long-

lasting increase in inequality… By the late nineteenth century, there was very high

inequality in all industrial or industrializing countries, highest of all in Britain (where,

339 Ibid., 100.

340 Ibid., 99. 127

indeed, it was greater than in most Third World countries today).’”341 But what if this

inequality was the only way to raise countries out of poverty? Indeed, Britain is now a

wealthy society, as compared to these Third World countries that supposedly have less

“social injustice” than did Britain in the nineteenth century. Perhaps George Reisman’s

analysis is correct, that “‘what made possible the rise in real wages and the average

standard of living over the last two hundred years is precisely the fact that for the first

time in history the redistributors were beaten back long enough and far enough to make

large-scale capital accumulation and innovation possible’”342 According to Zięba’s

telling, authors such as Berger and Ropke are “favorable to liberal and capitalist

institutions.”343 But are these principled defenders of the free market, or lukewarm

defenders whose middle-of-the-road attitudes obscure rather than enlighten?

It is nevertheless clear that Zięba’s goal is to defend the market. After these

comments critical of early capitalism, he reverses himself, and provides an alternative

interpretation for the ailments of the so-called gilded age. He cites How the West Grew

Rich, in which “Nathan Rosenberg and L.E. Birdzell Jr. write: ‘the romantic view that

workers in pre-industrial Europe lived well may safely be dismissed as pure fantasy. If

early factory work was oppressive, the alternatives open to those who voted with their

feet for factory work were worse. The early factories were able to attract workers with

low wages because the wages were still… better than anything available elsewhere to an

341 Ibid., 100.

342 Thomas E. Woods, The Church and the Market: A Catholic Defense of the Free Economy, Studies in Ethics and Economics (Lanham, Md: Lexington Books, 2005), 63.

343 Zięba, Papal Economics, 99. 128

impoverished agricultural population.’” This insight leads to the question next asked:

“Why, then, did capitalism bear so much criticism for conditions that predated capitalist

systems? One explanation involves the development of a moral consciousness that

recognized the dignity of each individual being. As cultural historian Christopher

Dawson put it, ‘It is true that the worst results of modern industrialism cannot be

compared with the horrors of the Roman slave system, but the existence of the modern

ideals of humanity and liberty has caused the evils of the modern system to be far more

strongly felt.’”344 Such an interpretation is, as we shall see in the next chapter, similar to

one Hayek gives, although Hayek attributes the change in attitude to economic realities

rather than “modern ideals.”

Zięba’s argument attempts to separate capitalism from “laissez-faire ideology.”

Indeed, he argues that “the concern for human freedom and human dignity leads John

Paul to caution against radical laissez-faire ideology, which avoids scrutinizing the

problems of poverty, exploitation, and alienation, leaving their solution to the free play of

market forces.”345 Capitalism becomes an ideology when it ignores the problem of the poor. However, Zięba makes a logical leap when he argues that “absolutizing ownership, profit, and freedom of the market leads to the ideology of capitalism, which in turn makes the human being the object of the play of the free market.”346 Zięba connects an absolute defense of private property with a lack of concern for the poor (capitalist ideology).

However, in order to make such a connection, Zięba would have to justify his assumption

344 Ibid., 102.

345 Ibid., 105.

346 Ibid., 107. 129

that those who defend private property lack such concern. Indeed, he would have to go farther, and argue that those who defend private property could not have such a concern.

Otherwise, what is to say that it is not better for man to be “the object of the play of the

free market” rather than the object of play for political forces? Needless to say, such

questions are not adequately answered by Zięba, and will be further examined in Chapter

4.

Zięba recognizes this burden of proof to a certain extent, and so attempts to justify his separation of capitalism from “capitalist ideology.” He argues that a focus on consumption has been prevalent “among people living in various eras and cultures. But capitalist ideology spreads and strengthens such an attitude and even gives it moral sanction.” As examples of those “who propagate capitalist ideology,” Zięba names the

“economist Milton Friedman, political philosopher Robert Nozick, and Objectivist philosopher Ayn Rand.”347 Thus, “Friedman writes, ‘there is one and only one social

responsibility of business—to use it[s] resources and engage in activities designed to

increase its profits so long as it stays within the rules of the game… engages in open and

free competition without deception or fraud.’” For Rand, the market “‘represents the

social application of an objective theory of values.’”348

As for Nozick, Zięba gives us an excerpt, worth quoting in full, to prove his point

that “the libertarian approach to the right of private property, though theoretically not an

absolute right, is in practice free of social and moral obligations.”349

347 Ibid., 108.

348 Ibid., 109.

349 Ibid. 130

The fact that someone owns the total supply of something necessary for

others to stay alive does not entail that his (or anyone’s) appropriation of

anything left some people (immediately or later) in a situation worse than

the baseline one. A medical researcher who synthesizes a new substance

that effectively treats a certain disease and who refuses to sell except on

his terms does not worsen the situation of others by depriving them of

whatever he has appropriated. The others easily can possess the same

materials he appropriated; the researcher’s appropriation of purchase of

chemicals didn’t make those chemicals scarce in a way so as to violate the

Lockean proviso [which holds that people can appropriate property from

nature only as long as ‘there is enough, and as good, left in common for

others.]’”350

And yet, it is Pius XI who acknowledges that property rights are not lost through the

abuse, or even non-use of such rights. Nozick is saying nothing here about “social and moral obligations,” and is simply commenting on legal ones. Indeed, his admission of the

Lockean proviso leads him to argue on the previous page that, in cases where “someone’s

ownership runs afoul of the Lockean proviso, there are stringent limits on what he may

do… Thus, a person may not appropriate the only water hole in a desert and charge what

he will. Nor may he charge what he will if he possesses one, and unfortunately it happens

that all the water holes in the desert dry up, except for his. This unfortunate circumstance,

350 Ibid., 109–110. 131

admittedly no fault of his… limits his property rights.”351 Zięba’s analysis is remarkably

limited, and he simply dismisses as “extreme” those who hold views like Nozick’s.

Indeed, he argues they view capitalism “as a panacea for society’s ills,” a criticism that

should be reserved for Rand alone.352 And yet, the question is not whether these authors

view capitalism as the panacea Zięba asserts they do. The real question is whether the policies they support are better or worse for society than the alternatives, whether the

social nature of ownership (Pius XI) necessarily implies a role for political action. This is

not attempted by Zięba, and will be examined in depth in Chapter 4.

Despite the aforementioned criticism, Zięba points out the positive mentions of the economics of capitalism in Centesimus Annus, John Paul, for instance, reflects on

“the sources of wealth of developed nations,” and “points to three determining factors.

The first is ownership of knowledge technique, and talent,” the second “‘the ability to foresee both the needs of others and the combinations of productive factors most adapted to satisfying those needs,’” and the third “the existence of many goods that ‘cannot be adequately produced through the work of an isolated individual… requir[ing] the cooperation of many people working toward a common goal.’” Although Zięba does not draw this inference, John Paul’s three sources of wealth can be rephrased in economic terms as human capital, entrepreneurship, and the division of labor. On the subject of entrepreneurship, John Paul argues, “‘the role of disciplined and creative human work

and, as an essential part of that work, initiative and entrepreneurial ability becomes

increasingly evident and decisive.’” Indeed, the process of entrepreneurship, “which

351 Nozick, Anarchy, State, and Utopia, 180.

352 Zięba, Papal Economics, 110. 132

throws practical light on a truth about the person which Christianity has constantly

affirmed, should be viewed carefully and favorably.’”353

John Paul’s praise of the market economy extends to economic reasons. For

example, “he observes that free market institutions ‘help to utilize resources better; they

promote the exchange of products; above all they give central place to the person’s

desires and preferences, which, in a contract, meet the desires and preferences of another

person.’” Pointing to the problem of non-market economic systems, John Paul writes,

‘where self-interest is violently suppressed, it is replaced by a burdensome system of

bureaucratic control which dries up the wellsprings of initiative and creativity.’” Thus,

suppressing the profit motive does not seem to be the solution.354

John Paul’s defense of private property is even more interesting. “The Church,”

he writes, “has always defended ‘the necessity and therefore the legitimacy of private

ownership.’ The right to private property ‘is fundamental for the autonomy and

development of the person.’” The pope does not stop at highlighting the importance of

private property, but also describes the mechanism by which such an institution came into

being. “‘It is through work that man, using his intelligence and exercising his freedom, succeeds in dominating the earth and making it a fitting home. In this way, he makes part

of the earth his own, precisely the part which he has acquired through his work; this is the

origin of individual private property.’”355 Thus, John Paul concurs with John Locke,

Murray Rothbard, and a host of classical liberals concerning the origin of private property

353 Ibid., 115.

354 Ibid., 116–117.

355 Ibid., 117. 133

in the mixing of one’s labor with land. And “[b]ecause work plays such a key role—

because a person ‘realizes himself’ through it—‘ownership of the means of production,

whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work.’”356 Such

an argument fits well with the insights of Ludwig von Mises, who argues that private

property and work will be allocated to those who best serve the needs of society.357

In reviewing Zięba’s economic vision and interpretation of the papal encyclicals, it is important to look at an economic school of thought called the “Ordoliberal” school which, Zięba argues, along with the Austrian school of economics, “recognized the dangerous and inhumane assumptions underlying modern economics,” but whose

“criticisms could not penetrate to the mainstream.”358 Zięba labels Ordoliberal thought, a

chief proponent of which was the German economist and historian William Ropke, as a

precursor to Centesimus Annus. Ropke’s “social state” attempted to create “a synthesis of

freedom and social justice, or personal responsibility and solidarity.”359 This economy

would, ideally, be “based on four fundamental principles:”

1. The economy must be a “competitive market economy,” without

any form of monopoly

356 Ibid.

357 Ludwig Von Mises, Profit and Loss ([South Holland, Ill: Consumers‐ Producers Economic Service, 1951), 24.

358 Zięba, Papal Economics, 204.

359 Ibid., 125. 134

2. Any state interventions in the economy “must be compatible with

the market economy”

3. The economy would be decentralized, and “based on widespread

property ownership,” balanced income distribution, and would

support “small and medium-sized companies, not just massive

firms”

4. Nonmarket problems would be dealt with by the state in order for

the market to prosper. Examples could include “investments in

research and education,” “environmental protection,” etc.360

A similar attempt was made by the Freiburg School to formulate principles of an

“organized competition system.” This system included elements such as a price system, money with stable purchasing power, access to domestic and foreign markets, protection of private property, the freedom to contract, “material responsibility (“he who plans and

decides is held responsible for the results”), and “stable economic policy… removed

from current politics.”361 The caveats to these core principles though, due to “Ordoliberal

distrust of automatic market solutions,” were three “regulating principles.” These

included “intervention to prevent monopolies,” monetary policies to stabilize the market,

and “instruments of social correction, such as fiscal policies… to counter market-led

preferences for production of luxury goods at the expense of goods needed by the

impoverished,” or quality of life goods such as publicly financed “public schools, health

360 Ibid., 125–126.

361 Ibid., 126–127. 135

care, and… transportation.”362 Such a list, upon first glance, seems to have much to

recommend it. One has to wonder though whether the goods on the first list of core

principles could be threatened by an attempt to achieve those on the second list. For example, might an active, expansionary monetary policy work against the principle of price stabilization?

Once put into effect, the Ordoliberal program introduced social services “one after another: in 1950 a system insuring war victims was established and pensions raised; in

1952 a fourteen-week paid maternity leave was introduced; in 1954 benefits for large families appeared; and in 1957 the pension reform included an annual cost-of-living increase.”363 Zięba refers to this as a “social state,” and contrasts it with the “welfare

state” that evolved after it. The beginnings of the welfare state, according to Zięba, were

in 1967, when a bill “supporting stability and economic growth based on Keynesian

elements” was passed, but was definitively birthed in 1969 “when Ludwig Erhard’s term

as chancellor ended and SPD rule began with the election of Willy Brand. There followed

a far-reaching expansion of social benefits and bureaucratic apparatuses while the

country began so succumb to the specific pressures of various interest groups.” This

politicized the economy, according to Zięba.364 One wonders, however, why the social

programs of SPD counts as politicization, while those of the CDU, as listed above as

positive reforms, do not. Perhaps the economy was already politicized, and Zięba’s party

just happened to lose?

362 Ibid., 127–128. 363 Ibid., 129–130.

364 Ibid., 130. 136

Zięba concludes his chapter on economics with a section entitled “Exposing the

False Choice.” He restates his argument, writing, “the pope’s ‘methodological anthropocentrism…’ permits him to identify Christian sources for many of the same liberal institutions that have in recent centuries often placed themselves in opposition to

the Church and Christianity.”365 Indeed, it implied “the dignity and equality of human

beings” whose social nature, according to Zięba, is opposed to both “individualism and

collectivism” in their ideological forms.366

Centesimus Annus – Culture

From here, Zięba moves into the realm of culture, where, he argues, “economic realities

(and all the more so those that come from the political sphere) are to a great extent only epiphenomena within the moral-cultural system.”367 Thus, they are a symptom of a

culture, and to “fix” them requires fixing the culture first, rather than attempting to “fix”

economics to change the culture.

In order to understand the cultural outlook of Centesimus Annus, we must

understand John Paul’s idea of “the ‘social nature of man’ [which] finds its outlet

primarily in the family and other mediating institutions.” This nature involves

relationships with institutions other than the state. Indeed, “when the state interferes in

the ‘social tissue,’ culture becomes an instrument in the hands of politics, which infringes

on the ‘subjectivity of society.’ A state whose goal is the good of its citizens cannot take

365 Ibid., 134.

366 Ibid., 135.

367 Ibid., 138. 137

command of culture.”368 And yet, neither is the market (which John Paul limits to

monetary interactions) sufficient, for “‘[e]ven prior to the logic of a fair exchange of

goods and the forms of justice appropriate to it, there exists something which is due to

man because he is man, by the reason of his lofty dignity.’ In other words, in economic

life, people acting under free competition must always remember that ‘there are many

human needs which find no place on the market’ and some ‘important human needs

which escape its logic.’”369 Thus, John Paul argues, “‘the individual today is often

suffocated between two poles represented by the State and the marketplace,’ which

reduce him to either a ‘producer and consumer of goods, or an object of State

administration.’”370

Such critiques lead John Paul to argue that both the individual and the culture of society should be formed non-coercively, but also not by the interests of money. “As one scholar of John Paul’s thought put it, ‘Neither homo technicus, nor homo oeconomicus,

nor homo politicus is the pastoral object of the Magisterium, but rather homo

humanus.’”371

For Zięba, John Paul’s discussion, in the encyclical, of politics and economics

ultimately comes down to anthropology, and “[t]he obligation of the Church’s social

teaching is ‘to incarnate the one truth about man in different and constantly changing

368 Ibid., 145. 369 Ibid., 164.

370 Ibid., 145.

371 Ibid. 138

social, economic, and political contexts.’”372 At the root of this teaching “is undoubtedly the dignity of the person,” derived from his bearing “the image of God within himself.”373

This dignity means, “that therefore an individual cannot be treated in a merely instrumental manner.”374

It is in this context that we must read John Paul’s remarks that “freedom is a

necessary condition for the possibility of learning the truth; at the same time, truth protects freedom from degeneration and even from annihilation. Considered separately, freedom and truth can lead to totalitarianism; their interdependence confers on them an antitotalitarian character.”375 Put another, way, freedom isn’t everything, but it is an

important thing, something F.A. Hayek seemed to grasp when he wrote, “‘a society

which has no other standard than efficiency will indeed waste that efficiency.’”376

Post Centesimus Annus

The last social encyclical that Zięba discusses in depth is Caritas in Veritate, written

eighteen years after Centesimus Annus and after the financial collapse of 2007/2008.

Commenting on the encyclical, Zięba writes, “perhaps the most notable aspect of Caritas

in Veritate is its ambiguities and tensions. In many ways Benedict’s encyclical evokes the

spirit not of its immediate predecessor, Centesimus Annus, but rather of Pope Paul VI’s

Populorum Progressio.” Indeed, Benedict XVI in fact “calls Populorum Progressio…

372 Ibid., 154.

373 Ibid., 148. 374 Ibid., 150.

375 Ibid., 158.

376 Ibid., 163. 139

‘the Rerum Novarum of the present age, shedding light upon humanity’s journey towards

unity.’”377 This, for Zięba, is not viewed favorably. While he sees the influence of John

Paul’s thought in the encyclical, he nevertheless argues that it “lacks the coherence

displayed in Centesimus Annus.”378 Indeed, he is sympathetic to Baylor University

Professor Thomas Hibbs’s criticism that “largely because Caritas in Veritate ‘does not

say enough about the nature of the common good,’ it ‘leaves us guessing a bit as to the

principles needed to spell out the relationship’ between subsidiarity and globalism.” As

John Paul’s biographer, George Weigel, wrote, the encyclical “‘seems to be a hybrid…

blending the pope’s own insightful thinking on the social order with elements of the

[Ponticifical Council for] Justice and Peace approach to Catholic social doctrine, which

imagines that doctrine beginning anew at Populorum Progressio.’” Indeed, “Weigel went

so far as to say that the encyclical ‘resembles a duck-billed platypus.’”379

As an example of this lack of coherence, Zięba cites Benedict’s call for “‘a true world political authority,’” while still “criticiz[ing] the ‘actual effectiveness’ of

international organizations, noting that their ‘bureaucratic and administrative machinery’

is ‘excessively costly.’” Indeed, side-by-side with recommending a world government,

Benedict echoes “John Paul’s statement that man’s social nature is ‘realized in various

intermediate groups,’ [that] ‘the autonomy of intermediary bodies… fosters freedom and

377 Ibid., 167. 378 Ibid., 168.

379 Ibid., 175–176. 140

participation through assumption of responsibility’ and is ‘the most effective antidote

against any form’ of paternalism.”380

In another example, concerning globalization, Benedict argues that “the main

political issue with globalization involves ‘the limitations to [a country’s] sovereignty imposed by a new context of international trade and finance.’ The main economic

problem, meanwhile, results from the fact that a globalizing market ‘has stimulated first

and foremost, on the part of rich countries, a search for areas in which to outsource

production at low cost.’” The consequences of this, according to Benedict, are “‘a

downsizing of social security systems as the price to be paid for seeking a greater competitive advantage in the global market, with consequent grave danger for the rights of workers, for fundamental human rights and for the solidarity associated with the traditional forms of the social State.’” And yet, “offsetting these criticisms of the global market economy are passages highlighting positive aspects of globalization.” For example, the pope writes that globalization, “‘originating within economically developed

countries… has been the principle driving force behind the emergence from

underdevelopment of whole regions.’”381 Indeed, “globalization ‘represents a great

opportunity,’ since ‘the export of investments and skills [benefits] the population of the

receiving country.’”382 Well, which is it? Do firms moving into poorer countries harm the

rights of workers, or do they help to lift whole regions from destitution and poverty?

380 Ibid., 175. 381 Ibid., 169–170.

382 Ibid., 171. 141

Perhaps such vagueness and indecisiveness is the goal though. As with previous popes, Benedict reiterates that “‘the Church does not have technical solutions to offer,’” and “generally praises the market as ‘the economic institution that permits an encounter between persons, inasmuch as they are economic subjects,’ while firmly warning against both ‘autonomous economy’ and the ‘application of commercial logic’ in other areas of

life.”383 Perhaps Benedict simply wants to raise awareness of the relevant merits on

economic issues of grave importance for out modern world.

Zięba: Analysis and Implications

Perhaps the most significant statement in Centesimus Annus is this: “‘the Church has no

models to present; models that are real and truly effective can only arise within the

framework of different historical situations, through the efforts of all those who

responsibly confront concrete problems in all their social, economic, political and cultural

aspects, as these interact with one another.’”384 The question of the proper role of

government thus is one of judgment based on the circumstances.

Given present historical conditions and circumstances, the convergence of the

thought of John Paul with the liberal tradition should also be seen as significant. His

differentiation between society and the state is a core principal of the liberal tradition, as

it is only through such a recognition that one could be morally opposed to a certain action

in society, and yet reject state intervention in said activity.

Finally, Zięba’s conclusion to his work encapsulates his ultimate thesis. He

argues, “[f]rom the perspective adopted in Centesimus Annus, one can easily see that the

383 Ibid., 173.

384 Ibid., 62–63. 142

true adversary liberal democracy confronted after the Enlightenment was faith reduced to

the level of ideology. It is also easier to understand that the antagonists of Christianity

were not democracy, liberalism, and capitalism but rather their ideological

interpretations”385 He ends with the following thought: “it seems that the Church, for so

long seen as liberalism’s adversary, is positioned to be its savior—but only if the liberal

culture is willing to accept the proffered aid.”386 This proposal accords with our thinking

in previous chapters. Liberalism can be improved, refined, and reformed if it allows for

the criticism of the Church, just as natural rights can be improved if it is formulated to be

in accord with natural law. Likewise, the Church would benefit from adopting liberal

principles, and can formulate a version of natural rights compatible with natural law that

is truly natural, instead of understandable only to those with belief. We will now examine the merits of Zięba’s classification of economic libertarianism as an ideology, a

classification our next author, Thomas Woods, would surely reject.

385 Ibid., 183.

386 Ibid., 193. 143

CHAPTER FOUR

A Contemporary Attempt to Reconcile “The Church and The Market”

Thomas Woods is the other author we will examine who attempts to reconcile Catholic political thought with liberalism and, in his case in particular, libertarianism. His work,

The Church and The Market: A Catholic Defense of the Free Economy, as implied by the title, attempts a defense of the free market while maintaining Catholic principles. Woods introduces his work by justifying the need for such a defense. In his estimation, there is and has been a marked “prejudice in favor of the state and against the market that perhaps first emerged with the coming of the Social Gospel movement in the late nineteenth century.”387 Contributing to this prejudice has been the fact that “‘very few Roman

Catholic theologians really know what [economic] liberalism is or understand the working of a market economy.’”388 Woods argues that this has resulted in lukewarm,

“middle-of-the-road” support of the free market on the part of many Catholics, who are willing to make “so many concessions” against the idea. Indeed, “the net effect of these concessions… has been to yield the moral high ground to the interventionists, who are essentially told that their arguments for intervention into the market, rather than being qualitatively mistaken, are simply quantitatively too extreme—i.e., they are mere errors

387 Woods, The Church and the Market, 1.

388 Ibid., 41. 144

of degree, not of kind.”389 As a Catholic libertarian himself, Woods will make no such

concessions.

While he notes that it would be easier to critique “the socialists ‘of the left’ who

look forward to a collectivist utopia,” his book deals with those “faithful to the Church

who reject free enterprise and favor a wide array of interventions into the marketplace.”

Indeed, “they often favor these interventions because they believe Church teaching

requires them.” Woods attempts to disprove such claims, and views himself to “be

challenging not so much the doctrinal position of these Catholics as their practical

application of economics, which is often notably deficient.”390

Woods realizes that before making his argument he must first make an argument

in defense of even making his argument in the first place, which he does in a section

titled “The Lawful Diversity of Opinion.” Such a justification is necessary, as there are a

number of voices maintaining that diversity of opinion on the matter of the free market is

not allowed. “For example, theologian Todd Whitmore has raised the question of whether

the free-market positions adopted by Michael Novak ‘constitute formal dissent on

Novak’s part.’ ‘I believe that they do,’ he concludes.” To give but one more example,

Mark and Louise Zwick argue, “‘We need a Mandatum… to ensure that the economics

taught in Catholic universities will reflect the social teaching of the Church.’”391

In his response to these critics, Woods quotes Pope Leo XIII, who “once said, ‘if I were to pronounce on any single matter of a prevailing economic problem, I should be

389 Ibid., 2.

390 Ibid.

391 Ibid., 214. 145

interfering with the freedom of men to work out their own affairs. Certain cases must be

solved in the domain of facts, case by case as they occur… [M]en must realize in deeds those things, the principles of which have been placed beyond dispute… [T]hese things one must leave to the solution of time and experience.’” In other words, the Church gives the principles, but the facts must be dealt with separately. Hammering the point, Woods continues: “Pope John Paul II issued a similar caution: ‘It goes without saying that part of the responsibility of Pastors is to give careful consideration to current events in order to

discern the new requirements of evangelization. However, such an analysis is not meant

to pass definitive judgments since this does not fall per se within the Magisterium’s

specific domain.’”392 This caution is crucial to understand, for it maintains that while the

pope can, and even must, analyze as part of his duty as a pastor, his analysis is not

infallible or binding teaching on the consciences of Catholics. Again, Woods cites Pius

XI, who acknowledged both “‘matters of technique for which she [the Church] is neither

suitably equipped nor endowed by office,’” as well a the fact that “‘economics and moral

science employs each its own principles in its own sphere.’” From this, Woods

concludes, “once it has been conceded that economics is a bona fide science possessing

an internal coherence of its own, problems immediately arise for those who would claim

that Catholic social teaching definitively settles all major economic matters in an absolute

and binding way.”393

But what of the criticism that economics and the free market are products of

liberalism and of those fundamentally opposed to the Catholic faith? Woods touches on

392 Ibid., 4.

393 Ibid., 5. 146

such a criticism when he remarks that, “while it is certainly true that such thinkers as

Mises and Hayek were themselves agnostic, their insights into human action are not for

that reason alone to be ignored or despised. Just as St. Thomas Aquinas built on the

philosophical reasoning of the pagan Aristotle, present-day Catholics may appropriate a broad range of sources in their attempt to understand the working of the economy.”

Indeed, Woods paraphrases Pope John Paul II, writing, “the Church has always

maintained that faith and reason are not in conflict but rather constitute two harmonious

paths to truth.” Among other examples of this tradition in Catholic thought, he references

St. John Damascene, who wrote, “‘whatever there is of good has been given to men from

above by God, since ‘every best gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down

from the Father of lights.’’”394 Thus, we cannot disregard the insights of even secular

economists in applying the social teaching of the Church. To do so deviates from the

traditional Catholic approach to truth.

So while he maintains a great deal of respect for the popes, Woods nevertheless maintains that “great as they were, merely by occupying the Chair of Peter they did not inherit any particular economic insight over and above what any intelligent layman might possess.”395 In recognizing this, Woods recommends the Church take the position of St.

Augustine, who “is said to have remarked, ‘(in faith, unity; in doubtful matters, liberty; in

all things, charity).”396 Nevertheless, Woods ends his introduction with a call to fix the

“‘central problem with many schools of Catholic social thought, namely, the inability to

394 Ibid., 6.

395 Ibid., 9.

396 Ibid., 215. 147

integrate both the logic of the market and the logic of morality,’” a problem that must be

taken as seriously as the Church wishes to be taken herself.397 It is this problem that he concerns himself with for the rest of his work.

In Defense of Economics

Woods’s first chapter, entitled “In defense of Economics,” proceeds to give an elaborated and detailed defense of the methods and evidence he will employ to prove his positions.

In particular, Woods attempts to justify the approach of the Austrian school of economics, which he defines as “the science of individual choice.”398 As described by

Woods, “the Austrian approach to economics rejects the scientism that has crept into so

many disciplines and indeed virtually all of economics itself; instead the Austrians insist

upon a methodology that respects the uniqueness of man as a creature with free will.

Additionally, the Austrians posit a universe of order that reason, properly exercised, is

able to apprehend. And they reject the argument that the only kind of meaningful

knowledge is that derived by means of the induction and empirical investigation of the

scientific method.”399 In contrast to this Austrian view of economic law as “something

universal and accessible to reason,” other schools, such as the German Historical School,

“rejected the idea of universally valid economic law.”400 Such differences would appear

to be of interest to Catholics concerned about a proper moral analysis of economics,

especially given the argument of classical liberals, that, as with the physical sciences, so

397 Ibid., 9.

398 Ibid., 7.

399 Ibid., 19.

400 Ibid., 15. 148

with economics: “‘observe the functioning of the market system… and you will discover

in it the finger of God.’”401

What, then, are some of the key fundamental insights of Austrian economics?

First, it is important to understand the difference in method between the Austrian school and the economics profession today, which has gone through a period of mathematization. Mises, a leading thinker of the Austrian school, opposed such a change, and “argued that the predictive power of economic theory was comparative rather than absolute.” Thus, “while economic theory can tell us that a ten percent increase in the

supply of money will tend to raise prices higher than they otherwise would have been, it cannot tell us the precise extent of this increase in prices.”402

Indeed, Austrian economics is grounded, not in statistics and empirical

observation, but in what is called “praxeology,” an altogether different method of inquiry.

This method “begins with an axiom that is surely incontestable: human beings act.”

While Mises justified this axiom on Kantian grounds and Rothbard did so using Aristotle

and Thomas Aquinas, “both agree that the attempt to deny the existence of human action

would be self-refuting, since the denial itself would constitute an action.” From this

proposition, the Austrians are able to derive “an entire edifice of economic truth.”403

Take, for example, the law of diminishing marginal utility. As Mises wrote,

human action “‘is an attempt to substitute a more satisfactory situation for a less

satisfactory one.’” Likewise, “St. Thomas observes in his Summa Contra Gentiles that ‘in

401 Ibid., 14.

402 Ibid., 15.

403 Ibid., 16. 149

acting every agent intends an end’ and that ‘every agent acts for a good.’” Thus, “since

man acts for a good… his action involves moving from a less satisfactory situation to a

more satisfactory one,” or, as put by the “author of a study of the Thomistic foundations

of praxeology… ‘from potency to act.’”404 Since, in acting, man must choose, all actions

contain a cost (opportunity cost). This, in turn, “implies that he [man] possesses an

ordinal ranking of ends, which is revealed in action… Naturally man pursues his most

highly valued end.” And since subsequent units of a good “must be desired less insofar as

[they] satisf[y] a need felt not as urgently,” “the (marginal) utility of each additional unit of the homogenous supply of a good decreases as the supply of units increases.”405

As the above example demonstrates, “the statements and propositions of praxeology ‘are not derived from experience. They are, like those of logic and mathematics, a priori. They are not subject to verification and falsification on the ground of experience and facts’” Thus, the arguments of Mises amounted “to a wholesale assault on logical positivism, according to which only those statements that can be tested by experience can provide us with genuine knowledge.”406 Indeed, the method was praised

by Richard Weaver, who “considered praxeology a quintessentially conservative

approach to economic thinking” due to its realism with regards to human nature.407

Despite the praise of its chief method, prominent Catholics have disparaged

Austrian economics, to the disappointment of Woods. For example, John Sharpe “the

404 Ibid.

405 Ibid., 17.

406 Ibid., 19.

407 Ibid., 28. 150

head of a publishing house dedicated to books on Catholic social teaching,” wrote

“‘many of the critics of Distributism repeatedly cite the words of Murray Rothbard,

Ludwig von Mises, and others of the Austrian school in defense of their position…. The

Austrian economists were liberals, plain and simple, following on the heels of the French

Physiocrats and the liberal English Political Economists. They opposed socialism not because it violates the natural law as taught by true philosophy and confirmed by

Revelation, but because it is less efficiently productive of material wealth than the free market’” Woods finds the ignorance of such statements curious, remarking “no one who had ever read anything by Mises, or especially by Rothbard, could have made such a remark” (20). Indeed, he criticizes such authors for their lack of charity when he writes,

“St. Thomas Aquinas went out of his way to understand his opponents’ arguments in order better to refute them. He demonstrated this kind of charity even when dealing with the arguments of outright heretics. Surely we have a right to expect that our fellow

Catholics, before launching such attacks, likewise acquaint themselves with the matter at hand.”408

In dealing with the broadside about the value of a concern for efficiency, Woods

writes, “economists’ preoccupations with ‘economic efficiency’ is routinely cited as

evidence of their moral perversity—do they not know that there is more to life than mere

efficiency? But surely efficiency is a value. It is simply the avoidance of waste. Any

conception of man’s stewardship of the earth must inevitably involve a concern for the

avoidance of waste.” Going further, he gives the humorous aside that, due to the poverty

of their society, “it is a good thing that the capitalists of the [nineteenth] century were

408 Ibid., 19–20. 151

every bit as committed to cost-cutting and efficiency as their modern-day critics claim they were.”409

What is interesting, however, is that it is actually the Chicago school of

economics that is chiefly interested in efficiency. For example, “Chicago economist

Harold Demsetz argued that ‘[e]fficiency seems to be not merely one of the many criteria

underlying our notions of ethically correct definitions of private property rights, but an

extremely important one. It is difficult even to describe unambiguously any other

criterion for determining what is ethical.’” This is quite an astounding statement; not only

is efficiency ethical, but it is the only framework from which moral issues can by

“unambiguously” seen. Thus, Ronald Coase on the question of torts was able to argue:

“‘the question is commonly thought of as one in which A inflicts harm on B and what has

to be decided is: how shall we restrain A? But this is wrong. We are dealing with a

problem of a reciprocal nature. To avoid the harm to B would inflict harm on A. The real

question that has to be decided is: should A be allowed to harm B or should B be allowed

to harm A? The problem is to avoid the more serious harm.’”410

Murray Rothbard, on the other hand, “explicitly rejected the utilitarian case for

the free market,” while “making the moral case for private property.”411 He argued:

“[W]e cannot decide public policy, tort law, rights, or liabilities on the basis of

efficiencies or minimizing of costs. But if not costs or efficiency, then what? The answer

is that only ethical principles can serve as criteria for our decisions. Efficiency can never

409 Ibid., 20.

410 Ibid., 26.

411 Ibid., 25. 152

serve as the basis for ethics; on the contrary, ethics must be the guide and touchstone for

any consideration of efficiency. Ethics is primary. In the field of law and public policy…

the primary ethical consideration is the concept that ‘dare not speak its name’–the

concept of justice.’”412 Needless to say, this is quite different from both the Chicago

School and from what one would expect had one read only Mr. Sharpe’s dismissal.

Must this concern for justice, though, come at the expense of economic theory

and law? Not so, Woods argues. For “if economic law exists, then it no more makes

sense to say that economic law should be subordinate to moral law than it does to say that

physical laws should be subordinate to moral law. If they exist, they exist. The moral law

cannot possibly contradict economic law. The moral law tells us what we ought to do.

Economic law, on the other hand, is purely descriptive and necessarily amoral, having

nothing to do with morality one way or the other.”413 Thus, a true concern for justice must

come to terms with and acknowledge economic law. If the consequences of government

action are not understood, then we are left without a framework with which to discuss the

most just policy. “Economics is a discipline that reckons with the fact of scarcity in the world, and which demonstrates to man, given his ends, how they can or cannot be achieved.” It does not tell us what our ends should be, though. Thus, as Rothbard put it, while “‘economic science may be value-free… men can never be.”414

412 Ibid., 27.

413 Ibid., 29.

414 Ibid., 31. 153

Prices, Wages, and Labor

After justifying his method of economics, Woods moves on to a discussion of Prices,

Wages, and Labor, in his chapter by the same name. The first concept he discusses is the

idea of “The Just Price,” and the implicit question he attempts to answer is whether or

not this price is the same as the market price. It should be noted that Hobbes argued in the

affirmative, writing, “The value of all things contracted for is measured by the appetite of the contractors; and therefore the just value is that which they be contented to give.”415

In order to justify his argument in the affirmative, Woods first reviews previous

economic observations and analyses conducted by the Spanish Scholastics. These writers, while not possessing “a self-conscious or explicitly elaborated conception of the market

as an intrinsically harmonious and self-regulating system analogous to the self-regulating

physical universe,” nevertheless recognized “the binding nature of economic law.” And

while some such as “Heinrich von Langenstein the Elder “favored government price

fixing in order to establish a ‘just price,’ others such as Juan de Mariana argued that

“only a fool would try to separate these values in such a way that the legal price should differ from the natural… Men are guided in this matter by common estimation founded on considerations of the quality of things, and their abundance or scarcity. It would be vain for a Prince to seek to undermine these principles of commerce. ’Tis best to leave them intact instead of assailing them by force to the public detriment.” Indeed, as one scholar’s overview of the Scholastic critique of price fixing put it, “‘Regulation of prices by the authorities or by guilds sooner or later produces incorrect prices and a distorted market. Because the prices of goods are internally related, it serves no purpose to regulate

415 Hobbes, Leviathan, Curley edition, 94. 154

the price of the end-products only… If the authorities wish to regulate the prices of bread

and shoes, the prices of wheat and leather must also be kept under control. If not, then

distorted growth takes place in the production line or between this and the distribution

line.’”416

Keeping this in mind, what becomes of the concept of “price gouging?” To aid in

the discussion of this concept, Woods gives the example of hotels after the attacks on

September 11th, which experienced a dramatic rise in prices. Rather than being an

“unconscionable” way to take advantage of people, Woods argues, these higher prices

encourage the economizing of a scarce good, which “must be rationed somehow.” Thus,

in the above example, a rise in prices can incentivize a family of four to rent one room

instead of two, allowing additional families to stay at the hotel. According to Woods’s

account, “this is how a market economy encourages sharing and cooperation during

crises: not by central planning… but by a price system that is free to fluctuate in response

to changing conditions.” As he puts it, “A market economy with freely fluctuating prices

constitutes one form of rationing… price controls simply reward those who, in effect, can

run fast.”417 That is, whoever gets in line first is rewarded, whereas a system allocating hotel slots to those most willing and able to pay requires purchasers to, in effect, bid on hotel slots in an effort to maximize utility according to given budget constraints. If society values meeting people’s needs, then the market system is the best mechanism to fulfill those needs. If society does not value meeting people’s needs, there is no reason to expect a democratic political system to do so.

416 Woods, The Church and the Market, 44.

417 Ibid., 47. 155

But is not such a system discriminatory against the poor, who may be priced out

of the market? On the contrary, Woods points out, “price controls favor those who have the leisure time to wait in long lines, and those who are most capable of doing so are not likely to be the poor and disadvantaged… John D. Rockefeller can always get one of his servants to stand in line.”418 Adding to the benefits of allowing the market price to float

freely in times of emergency is that this provides “incentives whereby the shortage may

be alleviated.” Woods give the example of a Hurricane in Florida that increases the price

of lumber dramatically in Florida. This increase in price will encourage Americans to

economize lumber, while directing increased amounts to Florida until the need

subsides.419 Finally, price controls encourage contempt of the consumer, as “there are

always plenty more where he came from.”420 Indeed, Woods contrasts the customer service of a New Jersey gas station manager who, during a period of rationing, would

simply allow customers to wait an hour in line before informing them that it wasn’t their

day to purchase gas. By contrast, some of the hotels previously mentioned above, after

receiving complaints that their prices were too high (above the just, market price),

refunded overcharged travelers and made “free rooms available to members of the

military and the USO as well as workers from the Red Cross.”421

A similar analysis can be made with regard to wages as with prices, since wages

are simply the price of labor. The scholastic Luis de Molina argued that the “just wage

418 Ibid.

419 Ibid., 48.

420 Ibid., 49.

421 Ibid., 50. 156

was that which was reached by means of the common estimation of the market.”422

Likewise, Domingo de Soto “concluded that ‘if they [the worker] freely accepted this

salary for their job, it must be just,’ [for] ‘no injury is done to those who gave their

consent.’”423 Such arguments are firmly rejected in Rerum Novarum, which “flatly

declares it a falsehood to conceive of wages as ‘regulated by free consent, and [that]

therefore the employer, when he pays what was agreed upon, has done his part and

seemingly is not called to do anything beyond.’” Instead, “‘there underlies a dictate of

natural justice more imperious and ancient than any bargain between man and man,

namely, that wages ought not to be insufficient to support a frugal and well-behaved

wage-earner. If through necessity or fear of a worse evil the workman accept harder

conditions because an employer or contractor will afford him no better, he is made the

victim of force and injustice.’”424

What does Woods make of such an argument? He labels it a “critical and fateful

idea that the wage rates established by market processes could be held up to moral

critique by outside observers on the basis of their inadequacy in meeting workers’ material needs.” Indeed, recall his earlier argument that economic law is not subordinate

to moral law any more than the physical law. In arguments such as that which Leo XIII

makes in Rerum Novarum there is “a hidden assumption… which is central to the rest of

the document as well as to nearly all of late-nineteenth-and twentieth-century Catholic

criticism of the market order, and upon which practically the entire edifice of recent

422 Ibid.

423 Ibid., 51.

424 Ibid., 54. 157

Catholic social thought has been built.” This “assumption is that the wage rates and the working conditions that come into existence through the unhampered market process do not necessarily reflect fundamental economic realities… [and thus] may be improved upon through wise state intervention.”425

Is there any recognition of such “economic realities” in the social encyclicals

though? Implicitly, yes. As Woods’s analysis of Quadragesimo Anno notes, the

encyclical continues “Rerum Novarum’s call for a ‘living wage,’ but qualifies this

demand with the “statement: ‘But if this cannot always be done under existing

circumstances, social justice demands that changes be introduced as soon as possible

whereby such a wage will be assured to every adult workingman.’”426 Thus, it is

conceded that a living wage cannot always be legislated, a concession that Msgr. John A

Ryan also makes in his work, A living Wage (1906).427 Given this concession, Woods

rhetorically asks whether it “might not be able to be done because the productivity of

labor is not sufficiently high to make such wages possible.” Indeed, a related point is Pius

XI’s argument that social justice should prevent wages from being “‘excessively lowered or raised’” so as “‘to offer to the greatest possible number the opportunity of getting work and obtaining suitable means of living.’” However, Pius maintains that this can be best achieved “‘through an agreement of plans and wills,’” rejecting the mechanism of the market out of hand. But this, Woods argues, “would appear to be an area for legitimate

425 Ibid., 55.

426 Ibid.

427 Ibid., 57. 158

disagreement among Catholics,” lying as it does as a question of means and not ends.428 It is a “matter of technique” (Pius XI), within the “domain of facts” (Leo XIII), and thus falls outside the teaching of the Magisterium’s “specific domain” (John Paul II).

So how can Pius XI’s goal be achieved if not “through an agreement of plans and wills?” How one approaches finding a solution to this problem depends on what theory of wages one adopts. Indeed, if one assumes the iron law of wages, as William Emmanuel,

Bishop of Mainz did in his The Labor Problem and Christianity, one might conclude, as did both Rerum Novarum and Quadragesimo Anno, “that wage rates are determined by the more or less arbitrary fiat of employers.” Indeed, Pius XI wrote that, “‘Property, that is, ‘capital,’ has undoubtedly long been able to appropriate too much to itself, hardly leaving to the worker enough to restore and renew his strength.’”429 The productivity

theory of wages, by contrast, holds that “the fundamental way in which people’s standard

of living rises… is… as a result of increases in the productivity of labor—the amount of

output per worker.”430 If this theory more closely conforms to economic reality, then the

economic analyses of Leo XIII and Pius XI would be off base. And off base they

certainly are. Woods cites William Luckey, who wrote that “it is ‘hard to excuse Leo

XIII’ for his statements” that workers’ conditions stagnated and/or deteriorated during the

Industrial Revolution. Indeed, “‘Using life expectancy figures, which ought to have been

available to Leo, it is clear that at the dawn of the nineteenth century life expectancy in

England was about 37 years, but after 1871-1875, about 20 years prior to Rerum

428 Ibid., 56.

429 Ibid., 72–73.

430 Ibid., 59. 159

Novarum, there is an acceleration in life expectancy with no setbacks, so that by 1900

English life expectancy is about 50. Real per capita income begins to soar immediately

after 1800 in all of Europe.’”431

Once this foundation has been grasped, problems with seemingly benevolent laws

such as those setting maximum hours, mandating improved worker conditions, and even

child-labor laws become more apparent. To take the example of the first, “when output

per worker is miserably low, then a supply of consumer goods that most people consider

adequate requires people to work correspondingly long hours to produce them all. As the productivity of labor increases, and with it the level of real wages, people begin to opt for

additional leisure rather than continue to work the long hours of the past.” To the extent

that legislation preempts this rise in productivity, it harms “the very people it was

allegedly intended to help,” since it outlaws additional work and limits the incomes of those workers.432 But what of the objection that a law could merely mandate time and a

half or double wages after a certain number of hours worked per day or per week?

Unfortunately for those who believe in clever ways for government to subvert the laws of

economics, such a policy would have similar negative results. Employers will respond by

lowering base pay, and formerly task-based jobs will be converted into by-the-hour

jobs.433

431 Ibid., 72.

432 Ibid., 63.

433 James Sherk, “Salaried Overtime Requirements: Employers Will Offset Them with Lower Pay,” The Heritage Foundation, accessed April 10, 2016, http://www.heritage.org/research/reports/2015/07/salaried‐overtime‐ requirements‐employers‐will‐offset‐them‐with‐lower‐pay. 160

With regard to child labor laws, Woods writes, “even the International Labor

Organization conceded in a 1997 report, ‘poverty, however, emerges as the most

compelling reason why children work. Poor households need the money, and children commonly contribute around 20 to 25 percent of family income. Since by definition poor households spend the bulk of their income on food, it is clear that the income provided by working children is critical to their survival.’”434 Outlawing such labor can lead to

instances such as that of Bangladesh where, when “factory owners… gave in to pressure to fire child laborers, thousands starved or went into prostitution.”435 Should this be

considered the necessary price to pay for a unification of ethics and economics? Or,

rather, is this a perfect illustration of precisely what happens when ethics and economics

are separated, due to a disregard for the latter by well-meaning moralists?

To finish out this chapter, Woods turns to labor unions. He acknowledges that

there is nothing wrong, in theory, with non-coercive unions. In fact, “a non-coercive

strike could serve the salutary purpose of alerting the employer to the fact that he is

offering a wage rate below the prevailing market wage.”436 Despite this, in practice

unions usually require coercion to be effective, which Woods unequivocally condemns.

He writes, “the result of union activity, therefore, is to raise the money wages of their

members, while at the same time relegating many workers, driven out of this line of work

by the decreased quantity of labor demanded there, to other lines of work, whose money wages must decrease as a result of the greater supply of workers now forced to compete

434 Ibid., 66.

435 Ibid., 67.

436 Ibid., 74. 161

for them.”437 This, in effect, is the old problem of two wolves and a sheep deciding what

to eat for lunch; while union members receive higher wages and thereby benefit, those

who have been priced out of the labor market most certainly do not. Indeed, this cost is

often compounded when those priced out of the market are unable to gain experience,

and so remain in their situation.

The costs of unionism in raising wages over the long run are evident even to those

who do not accept the Austrian method of analysis. Woods writes, “the unimportance of

labor unionism is empirically evident as well: at a time when unionism was numerically

negligible and federal regulation all but nonexistent, American workers were much better

off that their much more heavily unionized counterparts in Europe. Real wages in

manufacturing climbed an incredible 50 percent in the United States from 1860 to 1890,

and another 37 percent from 1890 to 1914.”438 Woods points to recent migration patterns

among U.S. states as another indicator of the negative effects of labor unions. For

example “the eleven states with the lowest unionization rates from 1990 to 1999 ‘had net

in-migration of 3,530,108… Conversely, the eleven most highly unionized states suffered

a drain of population amounting to some 2,984,007 people.” Economically, families have

more purchasing power in right-to-work states, which “created 1.43 million

manufacturing jobs over the past three decades, [while] states without such laws lost 2.18 million manufacturing jobs.” Indeed, “none of the seven states in which the poverty rate has increased over the past thirty years had right-to-work legislation.”439

437 Ibid., 75.

438 Ibid., 78.

439 Ibid., 77. 162

So why has unionism proved so pervasive and persuasive in being a net benefit?

According to Woods, a large reason is an overemphasis on the short run over the long run

and from, as Frederic Bastiat would put it, “devoting too much attention to ‘what is seen,’

and little if any attention to ‘what is not seen.’”440 Indeed, “labor unionism is all the more

pernicious because its negative effects go essentially unnoticed, while its beneficiaries are

clear and identifiable.”441 It is easier to notice the higher wages achieved by coercive

union methods than to notice those who might be laid off, or who simply find it harder

and harder to get a job once companies increase their hiring standards.

Such analysis explains Woods’s introductory remarks, where he writes that “the type of question to which Catholics who support a free-market economy have never received a straightforward reply is as follows: If I can show that coercive labor unionism must have the overall effect of impoverishing society more than in proportion to any

‘gains’ won by unionized labor, and that unionized labor itself would be better off in a society with a free labor market, how can I be obliged in conscience to believe coercive labor unionism to be a boon to workers and an indispensable institution to whose defense

I must be committed?”442

Money and Banking

From here Woods proceeds to a discussion of “Money and Banking,” which begins with

a discussion of the origin of commodity money (which, according to Mises’ regression

theorem “must first possess use value” before taking on exchange value) and its

440 Ibid., 42.

441 Ibid., 77.

442 Ibid., 3. 163

replacement by fiat currency. This foundation leads into his subsequent examination of

the business cycle and the causes of depressions. He cites Rothbard, who “argued that

any theory of the business cycle must, at the very least, explain two things… why so

many businessmen should suddenly and simultaneously make egregious entrepreneurial

errors… [and] must account for another empirical fact about economic depressions: that

they hit capital-goods, or producer goods, industries much more heavily than they do

consumer-goods industries.” The standard “underconsumption” theoretical account of the

Great Depression, “vigorously promoted by Msgr. John Ryan,” does not adequately

explain such facts. “Why the greater intensity of both boom and bust in capital-goods

industries?”443

The answer, according to the Austrian theory of the business cycle, lies in the

coordination of time and interest, originally proposed by Ludwig von Mises in his The

Theory of Money and Credit. “In an unhampered market with a commodity money… by saving more of their money, consumers have indicated that they are prepared to spend less in the present. Investors see this signal in the lower interest rate.” Thus, businesses invest more in attempt to satisfy demands for future consumption. When the Federal

Reserve intervenes “to increase the availability of credit and lower interest rates” businesses still tend to borrow and invest more in an attempt to satisfy future consumption. The difference is that “this time, the lower interest rate does not reflect an increased willingness on the part of consumers to defer purchases and consume less in the present.”444 There are no savings to justify such investment, and it becomes clear that

443 Ibid., 100–101.

444 Ibid., 102. 164

“‘not all of the investment undertakings can be profitably completed.’” There follows a bidding for scarce resources and additional credit, an increase in interest rates, and

eventually a bursting of the bubble, resulting in either lost capital or abandoned projects,

with delays and higher costs in any of those eventually completed.445 How to fix such a

disaster? “Any attempt to lend support to malinvested capital only obstructs the recovery,

since economically sound firms are forced to continue to compete with these unsound

firms for the scarce resources they need.” Government stimulus is similarly ineffective,

as it attempts to prop up consumption, while what in fact is needed is “‘more saving, to

validate some of the excessive investments of the boom.’”446

This analysis contrasts markedly with that “of Fr. James Gillis… editor of the

monthly Catholic World from 1922 to 1948… [who wrote,] ‘at bottom, all questions,

even economic questions, are simple.’ The Pope, he said, solved the problem of the

Depression – ‘supposedly so intricate’ – with one word: ‘greed.’” Woods labels such

pseudo analysis as nothing more than anti-intellectualism. Gillis, “if he were speaking

within the confines of any other discipline would not dream of engaging in so cavalier

and careless a mode of argument.”447

Such an understanding of the causes of the business cycle, when combined with

the effects of inflation, enables a broad attack on the fractional reserve banking system of

fiat money in place today. Earlier 20th century Catholic critics of the Federal Reserve,

such as Frs. Charles Coughlin and Denis Fahey, did not achieve such an attack. Indeed,

445 Ibid., 103–104.

446 Ibid., 105.

447 Ibid. 165

while both “recognized that something was wrong with fractional-reserve banking, and both would have forbidden the practice,” they overemphasized “‘private ownership’ of the Federal Reserve System,” and would simply have permitted the government to inflate the currency instead of the Federal Reserve.448 Such a reform though would not do much

to counter the negative effects of Federal Reserve policies. To begin, the Federal Reserve

is instrumental in inflating a currency, which is basically counterfeiting. As Gabriel Biel,

“a fifteenth-century professor of theology at the University of Tubingen [taught:] ‘if a

prince should reject valid money, in order that he may buy it up more cheaply and melt it,

and then issue another coinage of less value, attaching the value of the former currency to is, he would be guilty of stealing money and is required to make restitution.’” In other words, inflation is theft, and therefore unjust. To strengthen his point, Woods draws support from scholastics such as “Luis Saravia de la Calle, Martin de Azpilcueta Navarro, and Tomas de Mercado,” who argued that “demand deposit[s] did not amount contractually to a transfer of property, even for a time, from the depositor to the banker, and that it would be wrong for a banker to attempt to seek profit by lending out deposits that are supposed to be available to depositors on demand.”449

In addition to such a principled argument, however, there are additional negative

effects to inflation, such as the Cantillon (distribution) effects of injecting new money

into the money supply. These effects occur when favored firms (the government, or

firms/banks with easy access to credit) get access to the newly created money before

other firms and people, thereby allowing them to experience the benefits of new money

448 Ibid., 106–108.

449 Ibid., 98. 166

before experiencing a rise in prices “commensurate with the new quantity of money.”450

Such effects work to the detriment of “those on fixed incomes, or those who rely for their sustenance on accumulated savings.”451 Indeed, they often work to the detriment of the

poorest of society, contrary to the Catholic preferential option for the poor.

The final subject Woods discusses on the subject of money and banking is

perhaps one of the most important in any discussion of libertarian and Catholic political

thought: that of usury. Despite Aristotle’s argument against it in The Politics, Woods notes that “no one in the ancient world, neither the Greeks nor the Chinese, Indians, or

Mesopotamians, prohibited the charging of interest. The one exception was the Hebrews, who permitted the charging of interest to non-Jews but forbade the practice among Jews.”

In scripture there is Psalm 14 (“Lord, who shall dwell in thy tabernacle?… He that hath not put out his money to usury”), but “it was only in the late twelfth century that we begin to see references to a phrase from Luke 6:35—‘lend, hoping for nothing thereby,’”

as a condemnation of usury. The Dominican Domingo de Soto, however, “denied that the

verse from Luke had anything to do with lending at interest or that Christ had declared usury to be sinful.” Indeed, the Catholic Encyclopedia concedes that the verse is ‘only an exhortation to general and disinterested benevolence.’”452 Completing his overview,

Woods again quotes the Catholic Encyclopedia on the Church fathers:

450 Ibid., 95, 107.

451 Ibid., 95.

452 Ibid., 109. See also The Politics, Book 1 167

The vehement denunciation of the Fathers of the fourth and fifth centuries

were called forth by the moral decadence and avarice of the time, and we

cannot find in them any expression of a general doctrine on this point; nor

do the Fathers of the following centuries say anything remarkable on

usury; they simply protest against the exploitation of misfortune, and such

transactions as, under the pretense of rendering service to the borrower,

really threw him into great distress. The question of moderate rates of

interest seems scarcely to have presented itself to their minds as a matter

of discussion.453

From here, Woods begins his in-depth discussion, beginning with St. Thomas Aquinas.

Thomas argued that “some things are consumed in the very act of being used, and that

money is one of these… since money is consumed when used, it is not legitimate to

charge rent on money… for this would be charging both for the use of the money and for

the money itself.”454 The examples Thomas gives are of a house and wine: while one may

sell the use of a house separately from the house itself, one cannot do the same with wine, for it is consumed in its use.

Woods sees two immediate difficulties with Thomas’s argument, the first of which being the question of why the phenomenon of interest is widespread, but no one attempts “to sell wine separately from the use of wine.” Thus, Woods asks, “might there be a fundamental difference here?” His second initial objection assumes that Thomas is

453 Ibid., 109–110.

454 Ibid., 111. 168

correct and that “interest amounts to ‘selling the same thing twice.’” Woods asks, “So what? What exactly is wrong with that, particularly since both parties agree to the

terms?”455

Woods gives a more serious objection though in his discussion of Thomas’s view

on the societas, “an arrangement whereby two or more people united their resources… in some common enterprise. These partnerships often consisted of one person who supplied only money and another who supplied only labor. The risks as well as the profits were

typically shared.” While “St. Thomas heartily endorses the societas… the arguments he

uses in its favor tend to undermine his arguments against usury.”456 Indeed, “he

contradicts his earlier claim that use and ownership are inseparable… [for] he argues that

although one partner uses the other partner’s funds, they remain the property of the

latter.” Such inconsistencies, according to Woods, “from so staggering an intellect as that

of St. Thomas speaks volumes about the logical difficulties involved in the prohibition of

interest.”457

After St. Thomas, Woods overviews the development of the views of scholastic

theologians over the centuries. He credits Cardinal Hostiensis with the “recognition of the

economic concept of opportunity cost” in his allowing an exception to the usual

prohibition on interest for non-habitual lenders. Eventually, additional exceptions were

added that weakened the rule, such as the permission of a lender to charge a late fee

455 Ibid.

456 Ibid.

457 Ibid., 112. 169

“since he was thereby deprived of [his] money for a period of time.”458 But this same line

of reasoning could be used to justify the charging of interest. Indeed, “[i]n the early

sixteenth century, the Franciscan Juan de Medina (1490-1546) became the first scholastic

writer to defend the idea that risk assumed by the lender constituted legitimate grounds for charging interest,” exactly the opposite of the argument of the early scholastics who

“had argued against interest because the lender bore none of the risk involved.” As shown in Murray Rothbard’s economic history, “another of Medina’s important arguments …

[was] that by Medina’s day, ‘theologians now admit that someone who guarantees a debtor’s loan can licitly charge for that service.’” Woods clarifies the implication, writing

“if it is morally allowable for a third party to be paid to guarantee the loan, how could it be morally illicit for the borrower himself to pay the lender a similar fee (in the form of interest) if such a guarantor cannot be found?”459

So what is an interest rate exactly? “Austrians have typically described the interest rate as the ‘social rate of time preference.’”460 This concept of time preference is

best explained as “the basic principle of human action according to which man prefers the

enjoyment of a good in the present to the enjoyment of the same good in the future.” A

simple way to see this economic principle in action is to consider that “if time preference

did not exist, the price of land would have to approach infinity,” since “the price of land

would approach the sum of its productive output into the indefinite future.”461 This idea

458 Ibid., 113.

459 Ibid., 114.

460 Ibid., 116.

461 Ibid., 115. 170 of time preference appears in the writings of the scholastics. For instance, “Giles

Lessines, one of St. Thomas Aquinas’ most brilliant students, wrote in 1285 that ‘future goods are not valued so highly as the same goods available at an immediate moment of time, nor do they allow their owners to achieve the same utility. For this reason, it must be considered that they have a more reduced value in accordance with justice.’” And while San Bernadino of Siena came close to recognizing the significance of time preference, Martin de Azpilcueta “taught that ‘a claim on something is worth less than the thing itself, and… it is plain that that which is not usable for a year is less valuable than something of the same quality which is usable at once.’” According to Woods, once the implications of such insights “are grasped, the interest prohibition collapses at once.”462 For if money returned in the future is worth less than when it was loaned, does not justice require the borrower to pay back the difference?

In ending his discussion, Woods confronts a modern argument for the prohibition on interest, found in the writings of Hilaire Belloc, a well-known twentieth century

Catholic author. Belloc attempted to justify the prohibition of interest by distinguishing between “unproductive” and “productive” loans. The later increases the amount of wealth in society, while the former does not. But “such a distinction is explicitly rejected as a basis for the charging of interest in Pope Benedict XIV’s Vix Pervenit of 1745” according to “John T. Noonan’s book The Scholastic Analysis of Usury.”463 Noonan writes that

“Belloc’s ‘chief distinction, between consumption and production loans, is totally unfounded,’ and Belloc is

462 Ibid., 117.

463 Ibid., 121. 171

lacking in historical perspective when he denounces profit on credit

extended to states and when he decries international moneylenders;

historically the scholastics always approved the annuities which were the

earliest form of state deficit finance, and historically, the exchange

bankers, international financiers on a grand scale, were encouraged by the

Church and approved by the developed scholastic theory.464

The Economics and Morality of Foreign Aid

Woods’s next two chapters are his shortest, and concern “the economics and morality of

foreign aid” as well as “the welfare state, the family, and civil society.” Beginning with

foreign aid, Woods indicts Paul VI for moving “beyond the limits suggested by Leo XIII,

and with very unfortunate consequences,” due to “the endorsement he gave to mainstream development programs.”465 Indeed, in his encyclical Populorum Progressio,

Paul VI wrote that “‘it is for the public authorities to establish and lay down the desired

goals, the plans to be followed, and the methods to be used in fulfilling them; and it is

also their task to stimulate the efforts of those involved in this common activity.’” As for

the citizens, “‘each man must examine his conscience, which sounds a new call in our

present times. Is he prepared to support, at his own expense, projects and undertakings

designed to help the needy? Is he prepared to pay higher taxes so that public authorities

may expand their efforts in the work of development?’”466 Why was foreign aid such a

priority for the pope? Paul VI believed that “underdeveloped countries… suffered what

464 Ibid.

465 Ibid., 133.

466 Ibid., 132. 172

economists call ‘deteriorating terms of trade.’”467 However, as “Robert E. Lipsey’s Price and Quantity Trends in the Foreign Trade of the United States concluded:

Two widely held beliefs regarding net barter terms of trade found no

confirmation in the data for the United States. One is that there has been a

substantial long-term improvement in the terms of trade of developed

countries including the United States; the other, that there has been a

significant long-term deterioration in the terms of trade of primary as

compared to manufacturing products.468

Both beliefs were held by Paul VI, and argued in Populorum Progressio. Indeed, such

beliefs led him to oppose free trade among nations on unequal economic playing fields,

and to support protecting “‘certain infant industries.’”469 This type of industrial policy

goes by the name of import substitution; an industrial policy that Woods argues has led to

great harm. He gives the example of Raul Prebisch, “one of the greatest champions of

import substitution in Latin America,” who was forced to later admit that “‘[T]he

proliferation of industries of every kind in a closed market has deprived the Latin

American countries of the advantages of specialization and economies of scale, and

467 Ibid., 135.

468 Ibid., 136.

469 Ibid., 136–137. 173

owing to the protection afforded by excessive tariff duties and restrictions, a healthy form of internal competition has failed to develop, to the detriment of efficient production.’”470

Returning to the subject of foreign aid, Woods argues that instead of deteriorating

terms of trade, “it is cultural attitudes and institutional arrangements… that have played a

far more decisive role in determining the economic fates of nations.”471 Such was the case

in South Korean, Taiwan, and Chile, which eventually adopted free markets after they

were “faced with a cutoff in U.S. aid.”472 As the economist Peter Bauer wrote, “‘if the

conditions for development other than capital are present, the capital required will either be generated locally or be available commercially from abroad to governments or to businesses. If the required conditions are not present, then aid will be ineffective and wasted.’”473 Indeed, “even where the World Bank has funded projects that have turned out to be successful, the recipient country has still suffered. Such projects would likely

have been financed by private capital, and thus the net effect of World Bank funding of state-owner enterprises has been to dissuade private capital from entering the country.”474

Thus, property rights and contract enforcement, rather than outside assistance to poor countries, is what is essential in development. In fact, “according to Bauer, there is not ‘a single instance in history when external donations were required for the economic

470 Ibid., 138.

471 Ibid., 130.

472 Ibid., 131.

473 Ibid., 133.

474 Ibid., 141. 174

development of a country.’”475 Indeed, as Alan Waters, the “former chief economist for

the U.S. Agency for International Development” wrote, “‘foreign aid is inherently bad. It

retards the process of… economic growth and the accumulation of wealth… it weakens

the coordinating effect of the market process; it pulls entrepreneurship and intellectual

capital into non-productive and administrative activities; it creates a moral ethical tone

which denies the hard task of wealth creation. Foreign aid makes it possible for…

societies to transfer wealth from the poor to the rich.’”476

But surely forms of aid such as food aid are an unqualified good? Perhaps in

certain circumstances, but even such a noncontroversial policy “is fraught with

destructive potential… As many in the West have finally learned, recipient governments

very often use the food not to feed the hungry in their countries, but rather to prop up support for their regimes by making food available to groups whose political support is

deemed important,” who are usually not the poor. Aid politicizes life, “as more and more people devote their energies to efforts to gain political favor… and less and less time to

productive effort in satisfaction of consumer needs.”477 Indeed, here we recall Zięba’s

warnings against such politicization.

The Welfare State, the Family, and Civil Society

Woods begins his discussion of the welfare state by noting that “on a fairly regular basis,

committees on the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops and, at one point, the conference

itself, have been heard advocating a substantial expansion of the vast network of social

475 Ibid., 133.

476 Ibid., 131.

477 Ibid., 134. 175 and economic programs collectively known as the welfare state.” As far as the pronouncements of the popes are concerned, Woods sees “mixed signals,” at times

“appear[ing] to call for a fairly substantial and expensive array of government welfare programs,” while also warning, as in Centesimus Annus, of excessive bureaucratization, which would “both violate the principle of subsidiarity and threaten to undermine the spirit of civic involvement.”478

Woods quotes a short anecdote from Wilhelm Ropke (who, it will be recalled,

Zięba cites favorably) in order to introduce his argument that the welfare state has allowed “the disappearance of natural feelings.” In the anecdote, “‘a member of the

House of Commons movingly described her father’s plight in order to prove how inadequate the welfare state still is… the lady in question received the only proper answer when another member of Parliament told her that she should be ashamed if her father was not adequately looked after by his own daughter.’” Indeed, if it is the case that the welfare state is in competition with the family, it is even more evident that “the welfare state also amounts to a direct assault on the extended family.” For “an extended family whose members live within a reasonable distance from one another is able to provide child care, provide for members temporarily out of work, take care of the sick, and engage in a variety of other tasks that are today routinely transferred to the state. It can also do things that no state could ever do: transmit the family’s history, cultural inheritance, and traditional beliefs.” “[I]f the state… takes on these tasks, though, it effectively subsidizes the breakup and dispersal of these extended family units.”479 This,

478 Ibid., 147.

479 Ibid., 148. 176

it would appear, is clearly contrary to subsidiarity, where a bureaucracy replaces the

functions of the family.

The implications of this for conservatives is captured brilliantly by Hans Hermann

Hoppe, who wrote, “by relieving individuals of the obligation to provide for their own

income, health, safety, old age, and children’s education, the range and temporal horizon

of private provision is reduced, and the value of marriage, family, children, and kinship

relations is lowered. Irresponsibility, shortsightedness, negligence, illness and even

destructionism (bads) are promoted, and responsibility, farsightedness, diligence, health

and conservatism (goods) are punished.”480 Consequences of such policies include a diminished desire for children, a decline in respect for elders, and an increase in “all indicators of family disintegration and malfunctioning, such as rates of divorce, illegitimacy, child abuse, parent abuse, spouse abuse, single parenting, singledom, alternative lifestyles, and abortion.”481 Indeed, to cite just one statistic, as the state

assumed “the role of the absent father,” “from 1960 to 1990, out-of-wedlock births

increased from 5 percent to 28 percent.482

Thus, welfare policies historically have meant that “‘the natural economy of the

household… and the value that children had brought their parents—be it as workers in

the family enterprise or as an ‘insurance policy’ for old age—was stripped away.’” Thus,

“‘society’ enjoyed the financial benefits of children, but only their parents had to bear the

480 Ibid., 149.

481 Ibid., 150.

482 Ibid., 154. 177

economic burdens.”483 The results? The observations and research of Gunnar and Alva

Myrdal seem to confirm Woods’s argument. The Myrdals argued “that the Swedish

demographic catastrophe was indeed the result of welfare-state policies that socialized

the economic benefits of children but imposed on parents the entire costs of raising

them.” Indeed, they “concluded from this that Sweden had two choices: either repeal the

welfare-state policies that had created the demographic problem in the first place… or

press on to the total welfare state, in which the government… would provide children

with clothing, housing, health insurance, day care, summer camps, free breakfasts and

lunches, and a great many other things. As avowed socialists, the Myrdals considered the

choice an easy one.”484

Similar findings and solutions were reported and advocated by economist Sylvia

Ann Hewlett, who “pointed out that in the modern world, ‘not only are children

‘worthless’ to their parents, they involve major expenditures of money… In return for such expenditures, ‘a child is expected to provide love, smiles, and emotional satisfaction,’ but no money or labor.’” Such, according to Hewlett, is “irrational,” and therefore the “costs and burdens” of child rearing should be shared.485

But the welfare state does not just have consequences for the family. It also has dire consequences in terms of poverty. Indeed, the Swedish Institute of Trade (HUI) released a study in 2002, which showed that “by the end of the 1990s, Sweden’s median income was $26,800, compared to $39,400 in the United States. More to the point the

483 Ibid., 150.

484 Ibid., 151.

485 Ibid. 178

HUI economists specifically points out: ‘Black people, who have the lowest income in the United States, now have a higher standard of living than an ordinary Swedish

household.’”486 As additional support, Woods cites Professor Robert Lawson as

demonstrating “graphically that even if we accept the Rawlsian premise that the just

society is the one in which the condition of the least well-off is maximized, we still have

to favor the free market, since the condition of the poorest is consistently far higher in

market societies than in heavily interventionist ones with heavy wealth redistribution.”

Indeed, “the market is the preferential option for the poor.”487

The recurring problem in these issues is incentives. “Given the realities of original

sin and the disutility of labor,” Woods argues, “it is already difficult to persuade people

to work and easy to persuade them to enjoy leisure. When economic incentives not to

work are added to the mix, the results can be readily predicted.” Indeed, Woods cites a

1995 examination by the Cato Institute of welfare packages. “In 40 states, the study

found, welfare paid more than an $8 per hour job; in 17 it paid more than a $10 per hour

job.” Indeed, “‘in 9 states welfare pays more than the average starting salary for a

teacher. In 29 states welfare pays more than the average starting salary for a secretary. In

47 states welfare pays more than a janitor makes. In the six most generous states, welfare

benefits even constitute more than the entry-level salary for a computer programmer.”

These incentives, according to Woods, reinforce “the suffocating welfare dependency and

sense of entitlement that has wrought such havoc in poor communities.”488

486 Ibid., 154.

487 Ibid., 155.

488 Ibid., 156. 179

Taken together, these policies have gradually resulted in “an idolatrous devotion

to the central state, with its implied promise of a simple and costless political solution to

every social ill.” Indeed, Hilaire Belloc’s concept of “the ‘servile state,’ in which a

spiritless population is cared for, from the cradle to the grave, by a state apparatus to

which it gives its highest allegiance,” seems an apt description of the direction in which these policies are taking us. As an alternative, Woods recommends that we turn “once against to the families, churches, and local institutions that we have allowed to atrophy under the domination of the central government, and which constitute what Edmund

Burke aptly called the ‘little platoons’ of civilization.”489

Answering the Distributist Critique

Woods devotes his longest chapter to a discussion and evaluation of an economic system

that purports to be an application of Catholic social teaching. The chief principle of

Distributism, according to Woods, is that “that social system is best in which ‘productive

property’ is widely dispersed rather than concentrated.” Popularized by “celebrated

Catholic writers G.K. Chesterton and Hilaire Belloc,” distributists “contend that the

market order introduces an intolerable level of insecurity and anxiety into the economic

life of the ordinary person.” To assess this contention, Woods compares distributism with

the free market, and argues that “the purported advantages of distributism as well as the

alleged iniquities of the market have both been greatly exaggerated.”490

Belloc was perhaps the chief advocate of this system, and, as such, his arguments

are addressed first. Woods writes that “[f]or Belloc… the great advantage of distributism

489 Ibid., 157.

490 Ibid., 161. 180

is that it gives the household a significant measure of independence,” which distributists

view as a form of economic freedom. Such freedom “‘comes from the possession of

sufficient productive property, such that a man need not depend upon his employer for a

wage, but rather to depend upon himself and his land, craft, tools, and trade for his

sustenance.’” At its core, this freedom and independence “amounts to the distributist

family’s ability in the last resort to retreat altogether from the division of labor and live in

a condition of self-sufficiency.” And yet, according to Woods, “the advantages of the

division of labor are so clear that relatively few people have found Belloc’s proposal attractive enough to attempt to observe it in practice.”491 Instead, he argues, “many people

prefer to be wage earners rather than their own businesses.” The economic question

facing concerned Catholics is this: are these people making a rational choice, as Woods

argues, or are they simply “‘wage slaves’—the distributists’ favorite slur?”492

Distributists argue that their solution solves Pope Pius XI’s concern in

Quadragesimo Anno for “‘the insecure lot in life in whose uncertainties non-owning

workers are cast.’” Woods counters that “by no means does it follow that by not working

for another [does] one thereby [avoid] ‘hand-to-mouth uncertainty.’” Indeed, “those who

work for wages in fact enjoy a kind of security that is simply not acknowledged at all by

distributists—namely that the worker receives his pay whether or not the goods toward

whose production he contributes ever sell.” From an Austrian viewpoint, this can be

explained by the existence of profit. As Austrian economist Eugen von Bohm-Bawerk

argued, the “differential between capitalist profit and wages paid to labor” can be

491 Ibid., 162.

492 Ibid., 163. 181

attributed “to the time factor involved.” In layman’s terms, “rather than having to wait, say, the full year that must ordinarily elapse before the product on which he has worked is sold, the laborer can be paid immediately.”493 Thus, it is the capitalist who experiences

the uncertainty, not the worker, who compensates the capitalist for his risk-taking activity

by giving up some of the profit.

Woods acknowledges that workers do face job insecurity, but argues that such is

the natural result of “technological improvements, changing tastes, [and] new methods of

production.” He gives the examples of electronic mail and the various agricultural

revolutions, both of which displaced labor and required adjustment as these people

(former couriers or farmers respectively) were freed up to engage in other pursuits.

Should these both have been repressed? Perhaps one and not the other? “Shall we

establish a board of economic commissars to dictate which improvements will be

permitted and which not?” Woods argues that such security is illegitimate, for “no one

has a ‘right’ to a particular job. Put another way, no one has a right to demand that

society continue to compensate him for performing a task they no longer require, whether

he is a wage earner or a shop owner.” Indeed, Woods thunders, “an economy based on

the division of labor does not tolerate such a self-centered, antisocial attitude. Instead, it

encourages us to satisfy the needs of our fellows.”494

Woods argues that at the root of Belloc and his fellow distributists’ attempt is a

skewed view of history and economics. The “uncertainty” of modernity is not unique to

modernity, but has always existed. Indeed, Woods cites several examples and accounts

493 Ibid., 163–164.

494 Ibid., 164. 182 from history of the situation of the rural peasantry in Europe, who were most certainly not free from insecurity and insufficiency. Thus, Woods argues, “to say that the free market led to the destruction of some previously existing, harmonious community life is simply to defy historical testimony.”495 Indeed, the great Alfred Marshall concurred, and pointed out that “‘Popular history under-rates the hardships of the people before the age of factories.’”496 Belloc’s view, by contrast, can be seen when he writes, “‘[I]t is a necessary inference that there will be under capitalism a conscious, direct, and planned exploitation of the majority… by the minority who are owners… If you left men completely free under a capitalist system, there would be so heavy a mortality from starvation as would dry up the sources of labor in a very short time.’” Woods counters that “[t]his is something like the opposite of what has actually happened in practice.” He compares the cases of North Korea, which, “as of this printing… still cannot feed itself” and South Korea. Indeed, Woods asks, “if businessmen really are as greedy as Belloc believes they are, wouldn’t their greed lead them to produce food for profit?”497

Woods now turns to the straw man, yet “rhetorically effective argument that there is more to life than material possessions.” Woods grants the point, but argues, “the more efficient we are in producing the goods we need, the more leisure we can enjoy to pursue the very ‘higher things’ that economists allegedly leave out of account.”498

495 Ibid., 164–165.

496 Ibid., 172.

497 Ibid., 165.

498 Ibid., 166. 183

There also seems to be a contradiction in the chief distributist benefit of economic

independence, for “if state privilege alone is what keeps a man in business, then it is only in a very strained sense of the word that we may call him independent. He is utterly dependent on the continuing good will of the state authorities.” Of such a situation Mises remarked, “‘the outward appearance of economic independence may be retained… but in fact the beneficiary of government support turns more and more into a ward of the administration.’”499

Not only are such persons lacking in independence, but one wonders whether they are not in even more danger from the state than the market. Woods points out that “it is taken for granted that the consequences of original sin are such that the wealthy man cannot be permitted the full enjoyment of his property (which, as we have seen with Pius

XI’s admission that the non-use or misuse of one’s property does not take away one’s right, is not necessarily the case), but it is rarely if ever acknowledged that the same effects of original sin are at work in the man whose job it is to confiscate property on behalf of the state.” In a free market, as Mises argued, the “ownership of the means of production ‘is not a privilege, but a social liability.’” Those with wealth will maintain it

“only to the extent that [they] make prudent investments and [continue] to satisfy the needs of [their] fellow man.” By contrast the state is subject to no such check, and “is insulated from the consequences of arbitrariness. In fact, the worse a government agency performs, the higher its budget tends to be the following year.”500

499 Ibid., 169.

500 Ibid., 168. 184

In order to better understand the arguments and issues at stake, a historical and

economic understanding of what is called the “standard of living debate” is necessary.

While “the standard view of the Industrial Revolution among the general public and shared by prominent distributists (including Belloc himself) is that it led to the

widespread impoverishment of people,” alternative scholarly interpretations have grown in recent years. For example “in a 1985 major study, economist Nicholas F.R. Crafts estimated that real income per capita doubled in England between 1760 and 1860.” Even the pessimist E.P. Thompson “now agrees that, ‘no serious scholar is willing to argue that everything got worse.’”501

What led to the initial misunderstanding of the Industrial Revolution? Quite

simply, many of “the historians… were Marxists.” As F.A. Hayek argued, “‘[B]ecause

the theoretical preconceptions which guided them postulated that the rise of capitalism

must have been detrimental to the working classes, it is not surprising that they found

what they were looking for.’” An example of such assumptions leading to varying interpretations of the time period can be seen in a comparison of the interpretation of economist and philosopher Leopold Kohr with that of Hayek. Kohr argued, “‘[A]n increase in reform movements… is a sign of worsening, not of improving, conditions. If social reformers were rare in former ages, it could only have been so because these were better off than ours’”502 However, as Hayek points out, such is not necessarily the case.

He writes, “‘The very increase of wealth and well-being which had been achieved raised

standards and aspirations. What for ages had seemed a natural and inevitable situation, or

501 Ibid., 169.

502 Ibid., 170. 185

even as an improvement upon the past, came to be regarded as incongruous with the

opportunities which the new age appeared to offer. Economic suffering both became

more conspicuous and seemed less justified, because general wealth was increasing faster

than ever before.’” Thus, “In Hayek’s view, capitalism created the proletariat not in the

Marxist sense that it took an already existing segment of the population and reduced it to

poverty, but in the sense that the new opportunities for work that it created meant that

many, many more people could now survive.”503

Thus, Woods concludes that “capitalism, and not distributism, literally saved

these people from utter destitution, and made possible the enormous growth in

population, in life expectancy, health, and living standards more generally that England

experienced at the time and which later spread to western Europe at large.”504 Quoting

Mises in his work, Human Action, Woods writes, “‘It is a distortion of facts to say that

factories carried off the housewives from the nurseries and the kitchens and the children from their play. These women had nothing to cook with and to feed their children. These children were destitute and starving. Their only refuge was the factory. It saved them, in the strict sense of the term, from death by starvation.’” Such analysis lines up with the observations of T.S. Ashton, who argued that “the central problem of the first half of the

nineteenth century involved ‘how to feed and clothe and employ generations of children

outnumbering by far those of any earlier time’”505

503 Ibid., 171.

504 Ibid., 171–172.

505 Ibid., 173. See also Human Action, 615. 186

From here, Woods turns to some additional critiques of capitalism by distributists.

One of these is its propensity towards economic concentration, allegedly inevitable and without limit. Woods argues that such claims “are considerably exaggerated.”506 Indeed, one such limit was described by Murray Rothbard; “‘complete vertical integration for a capital-good product can never be established on the free market (above the primitive level). For every capital good, there must be a definite market in which firms buy and sell that good. It is obvious that this economic law sets a definite maximum to the relative size of any particular firm on the free market.’”507

But a series of monopolies resulting in complete vertical integration is an extreme

case to begin with. What of the argument that monopolies can be established by

“predatory pricing,” where firms lower their prices to crush competition, and then

proceed to raise them and extract monopoly level profits? In reference to such an

argument, Nobel-prize winning economist George Stigler declared, “‘today it would be

embarrassing to encounter this argument in professional discourse.’” In the late 1800s, as

shown by Thomas DiLorenzo in his article for the International Review of Law and

Economics, “the industries most frequently accused at that time of holding a

‘monopolistic’ position were not in fact behaving in conformity with standard neoclassical models of monopoly.”508 For while the standard model posits that

monopolies are able to restrict output and raise their prices, “these industries were doing

506 Ibid., 174.

507 Ibid., 176.

508 Ibid. 187

neither.” Indeed, to list several examples, between 1880 and 1890 the price of steel experienced a 58% decline, zinc a 20% decline, and refined sugar a 22% decline.509

A discussion of monopoly would not be complete without reference of Standard

Oil. As Lester Tesler argued, “‘the oil trust did not charge high prices because it had 90 percent of the market… It got 90 percent of the refined oil market by charging low prices.’” Woods cites a 1958 article written by John W. McGee “in which he decisively refuted the standard charges that John D. Rockefeller had engaged in [predatory pricing].” And as another historian pointed out, “‘before 1870, only the rich could afford whale oil and candles… the rest had to go to bed early to save money. By the 1870s, with the drop in the price of kerosene, middle and working class people all over the nation

could afford the one cent an hour that it cost to light their homes at night.’” Indeed, such

prices “continued to decline during the next two decades of Standard’s dominance.” And

while Standard Oil was “dissolved by antitrust prosecution in 1911,” even certain New

Left historians have conceded that Standard Oil’s decline should be dated from 1899,

rather than its break up in 1911.510 This decline was, according to historian Gabriel

Kolko, “‘primarily of its own doing—the responsibility of its conservative management

and lack of initiative.’”511

In addition to the historical difficulties of identifying predatory pricing, from a

theoretical standpoint it is easy to see why it would be extremely difficult. As George

Reisman points out, “a large firm attempting predatory pricing must endure losses

509 Ibid., 177.

510 Ibid.

511 Ibid., 178. 188 commensurate with its size,” that is, its market share. The larger a firm, the harder this is to do, in contrast to Belloc’s claim that “the ‘larger unit of capital can afford to lose on its wares for a longer time than the smaller unit.’”512 And even if a monopolist position could be achieved by driving out competitors through predatory pricing, and by keeping a large fund to threaten any new firm attempting to enter the market with the same, Professor

Reisman points out that this advantage would be minimal. In addition, there would be a limit equal to the average rate of profit in the economy as to how large this fund would be, that is, how much a firm would be willing to spend “in order to seize this market for itself.”513 Firms simply have better opportunities to invest than to attempt to keep the slim advantages that theoretically existing monopolies bring.

Ultimately, it is the consumer who is sovereign in the market, not the firm. As just one example of this, Woods points to McDonald’s, which in 2003 “reported its first-ever quarterly loss” as preferences shift away from fatty to healthy foods.514 And, make no mistake, the sovereign consumer can choose to support a decentralized market. A perfect is example is the measures taken by “those who care to support locally based and smaller-scale agriculture [and] have already been doing so for two decades now by means of community-supported agriculture, which is booming… The organizers of this movement, rather than wasting their time complaining about the need for state intervention, actually did something.”515

512 Ibid.

513 Ibid., 179–180.

514 Ibid., 181.

515 Ibid., 205. 189

Woods ends this section by pointing out an irony of the distributist position, in that “it is precisely state coercion that has contributed to some of the advantages that larger firms enjoy.” Indeed, “Nobel Prize-winning economist George Stigler contended that ‘as a rule, regulation is acquired by the industry and is designed and operated primarily for its benefit.’”516 “Thus the regulatory apparatus tends to favor established firms at the expense of upstarts.”517

The next aspect of distributism that Woods criticizes is the partiality of Belloc and his fellow distributists towards guilds. Guilds are organizations that “regulated minimum prices, wages, hours of operation, and product quality. In this way one shop was prevented from underselling another. Cooperation rather than competition was the rule, and the result was occupational stability.” While such a system “possesses a superficial plausibility,” it must result in “higher prices and less production than if free entry into the profession, a free price system, and less production had been allowed.”518

An example of this phenomenon in American history is the National Recovery

Administration, created to deal with what Roosevelt felt was the “problem of

‘overproduction.’”519 Under this system, as in Mussolini’s Italy, “each industry was invited to establish a production code which would set minimum wages, minimum prices, and a variety of other regulations to be observed by the firms in that industry.” Such a

516 Ibid., 181.

517 Ibid., 182.

518 Ibid.

519 Ibid. 190

destruction of competition had remarkably similar effects to what one would expect from

monopolies, as Henry Hazlitt has pointed out: higher prices and reduced output.520

But an example from 80 years ago is not needed. One need look no further than the American Medical Association and the American Bar Association for examples of such practices today. As Nobel-winning economist Milton Friedman wrote, “the justification is always the same: to protect the consumer. However, the reason is demonstrated by observing who lobbies at the state legislature for the imposition or strengthening of licensure. The lobbyists are invariably representatives of the occupation in question rather than of the customers.” Indeed, the licensing laws set up by these guilds force consumers “‘to use highly trained, expensive personnel when other types might serve quite well.’”521 For example, in medicine, “costs could be dramatically

reduced by allowing medical personnel below the rank of physician to perform routine

work, [while] paralegals are more than capable of performing a variety of legal tasks”

that the guild reserves “for lawyers only.”522

As indicated above by Friedman, while it may be claimed that this guild mentality

protects consumers from low quality services, it is interesting to “‘note that the [medical]

examinations are almost always imposed only on entrants. If the limits [on entry into the

field] were mainly motivated by the interests of patients, older physicians would also be

520 Ibid., 183.

521 Ibid., 184.

522 Ibid., 186. 191

required to pass periodic qualifying examinations to demonstrate that they have kept their

medical knowledge up to date.’”523

In place of such a system, Woods argues for “private certification boards,

providing certification to physicians who met certain standards.” “Lacking a coercive

element, such boards would be limited to providing information to consumers… and

would be unable to use their position to transform the entire profession into a guild or

cartel able to crush all competition.”524 This would be the free market solution to the

problem, as consumers, not bureaucracies immune to price signals, would decide the

level of care they needed. The standards such boards require may be better than the

market, but as Professor Reisman observed, “if government regulations allowed only

automobiles less than five years old on the roads, there would certainly be an overall increase in the quality of automobiles on the roads. But a great many perfectly serviceable automobiles would thereby become unavailable for use at all.” As for the

consequences, “the main victims of such alleged largesse would be, as usual, the poor.”525

And indeed, the same consequences for the poor can be seen with regard to the access of

the poor to legal services and healthcare, which are normally too expensive for the poor

without government funding.

Further examples of this anti-competitive rigging of the market are found

throughout the American economy, from the cosmetology cartel attempting to shut down

hair-braiding entrepreneurs to the taxi-cab industry attempting to shut down services like

523 Ibid., 185.

524 Ibid.

525 Ibid., 186. 192

Uber.526 Indeed, Public Choice economics shows that “since the benefits that accrue to

such pressure groups from their political agitation are sizable and concentrated while

their costs are dispersed and hidden, the tendency over time is for more and more of this

kind of activity to go on at the expense of the ordinary person.” Bastiat was correct when

he labeled this “‘legal plunder.’”527

Woods takes particular issue with distributists over the issue of subsidiarity. “In his Essay on the Restoration of Property, Belloc made clear that the power of government would have to be harnessed on behalf of distributism, in the form of punitive taxation against large concerns and other such coercive measures.” Indeed, a 20th century distributist tract, in reference to department stores, argued that they “‘must be handicapped by taxation which should begin after a few categories [of goods] and become prohibitive before it deals with many.’” Licenses “‘to prevent illegal expansion… would be granted as a matter of right to every applicant at a nominal cost, but this cost would rise very steeply as the number of licenses applied for by one man increased.’” Woods calls these limitations “arbitrary,” and rhetorically asks, “should we have mom-and-pop potato chip makers? Mom-and-pop automobile manufacturers?

Mom-and-pop airlines? And if not, why not? Who shall decide? Who would trust a government agency to make such decisions?”528 Indeed, “the property holdings that

constitute a ‘large’ business in one industry may amount to a small business in another,

526 Ibid., 187.

527 Ibid., 189.

528 Ibid., 190. 193

given the greater capitalization that its product requires.”529 Such policies cannot in any

way be considered as in line with the principle of subsidiarity, given that the answers to

these questions in a distributist system would be decided by the government, whereas in

the market they are decided by mutual agreement of the consumer and producer, the most

decentralized level possible.

But is such government regulation simply the price that must be paid to avoid

“‘‘cutthroat competition’ and ‘survival of the fittest’ economics?’” Is this what “social

justice” requires? Woods points to Msgr. John A. Ryan who, while not a distributist, “is

consistently cited by distributists and others as a great exponent of the social teaching.”

Ryan claimed that the New Deal programs “were very much in line with what Pope Pius

XI had advocated” with regard to subsidiarity. Indeed, as he wrote in his autobiography,

“‘practically all the reform measures enacted during the Roosevelt Administration have

met with my hearty approval.’”530

But “according to the econometric estimates of Richard Vedder and Lowell

Gallaway, in the absence of Roosevelt’s policies the Depression ‘would have been completely over (less than 5 percent unemployment) by 1936.’” Instead, unemployment averaged “a whopping 18 percent from 1933 to 1940.” Much of this was due to the maintenance of high prices, including wages, throughout the depression. As Woods writes, “partisans of the social teaching got their ‘just wages.’ These minimum wages, however, were absurdly high in light of the depressed condition of American business.

The general minimum was 90 percent of the average hourly wage of 1933.” The inflated

529 Ibid., 191.

530 Ibid., 192. 194

price level was not allowed to readjust, and thus, “the sadly predictable result of these

policies was that a select few did indeed prosper during the Depression, enjoying the high wages that these programs made possible. Americans bought more than twice as many refrigerators in 1935, when unemployment was over 20 percent, as in 1929, when unemployment was 3.2 percent. But millions of Americans had no wages at all.”531

So are there any legitimate restrictions that can be made with respect to the right of private property? If one follows Thomas Aquinas, who “is frequently cited as having placed restrictions on people’s use of their property,” then yes. Or at least, perhaps. As documented by Woods, the circumstances Aquinas requires “in which it would be licit for a person in need to appropriate for his own use the property of another… rarely if ever hold in a modern market society.” Thomas writes, “‘if the need be so manifest and urgent, that it is evident that the present need must be remedied by whatever means be at hand (for instance when a person is in some imminent danger, and there is no other possible remedy), then it is lawful for a man to succor his own need by means of another’s property, by taking it either openly or secretly.’” Important to highlight are the requirements of a “manifest and urgent” need that cannot be remedied in any other way.

Such conditions, Woods argues, would “rarely if ever hold in a modern market society.”532

Woods points out, however, that this Thomist position was the result of Thomas’s argument that private property was “a mere fixture of human positive law” rather than “a natural or divinely bestowed right.” Woods argues that there has been “a venerable

531 Ibid., 193.

532 Ibid., 194. 195

lineage of thinkers who treat property as a natural right.” He cites Richard Tuck’s

observations on Pope John XXII’s bull Quia Vir Reprobus (1329), as well as “Henry of

Ghent, one of the great masters at the University of Paris in the late thirteenth century,

[who] justified property rights on the basis of the individual’s ownership of himself.”

Additionally, Woods points to Brian Tierney’s work The Idea of Natural Rights (which, as we saw in Fortin’s analysis, highly problematic analysis) as “dispending with the simplistic view that finds such arguments developing spontaneously in the seventeenth century.”533

Furthermore, Woods argues that Leo XIII’s description “of private ownership as a

‘natural right of man,’ “whether intentionally or not, builds upon the natural rights

tradition evident among earlier Catholic thinkers.” He cites Luis de Molina, a sixteenth century Jesuit theologian, who wrote, “when we say… the someone has a ius to

something, we do not mean that anything is owed to him, but that he has a faculty to it,

whose contravention would cause him injury. In this way we say that someone has a ius

to use his own things, such as consuming his own food—that is, if he is impeded, injury and injustice will be done to him. In the same way that a pauper has the ius to beg alms, a

merchant has the ius to sell his wares, etc.’” In analyzing this passage, Woods writes,

“[i]t is significant that Molina should say that the pauper has the right to beg alms; he

does not say that the pauper has the right to receive alms. Although his fellow men may

be morally bound to help him, this moral imperative is altogether distinct from a legally

binding obligation, enforceable by violence.”534 Indeed, the answer to whether restrictions

533 Ibid., 194–195.

534 Ibid., 196. 196

can be made on man’s right to private property seem, in part, to depend on whether one accepts natural rights, or rather, what version of natural law/natural rights one accepts.

Indeed, Woods discusses several deep and complicated issues in ending his discussion on distributism. Having argued in favor of a Catholic tradition of natural rights, he turns to the Catholic view of the state in general, writing that “it is often condescendingly intimated that Catholics who insist on the strict limitation or even elimination of state power have been ensnared by a modern ruse.” To this, Woods replies,

“if anyone has been seduced by modern ideas it is these critics themselves.” As recognized by Centesimus Annus, “the modern state is something altogether new and not to be treated analytically as merely an extension of the political order that preceded it.”

As one scholar writes, “‘The political state depicted in Centesimus Annus is no longer the classical or medieval civitas.’” In fact, “[t]he very idea of sovereignty, according to which there must exist a single, sovereign voice, competent and forceful enough to make its will felt throughout society, would simply not have been recognized by the medieval, whose political order our critics think they are defending.” Indeed, “sociologist Robert

Nisbet described medieval society as ‘one of the most loosely organized societies in

history.’”535 “In such a society, where competing legal jurisdictions abounded and no

single sovereign voice could be found… law was something to be discovered, not made.”536 Woods is very favorable to such a society, and here it would seem that Woods

would be in alignment with Zięba and Pope John Paul II in their advocacy of “mediating

535 Ibid., 199.

536 Ibid., 200. 197

institutions,” to serve as natural social protections against the novelty that is the sovereign

state.

Finally, Woods ends his section on distributism with a defense of the profit

motive. Woods observes that Adam Smith’s “‘invisible hand’” has produced “a small

industry over the years devoted to poking fun” at it. However, Woods argues “there are

only two options here: either man can pursue his ends without regard for the needs and wishes of his fellow man, or he can act with regard to those needs. There is no third option. By seeking to ‘maximize profits,’ a motivation that is routinely treated as a

terrible scourge of civilization, man ensures that his talents and resources are directed toward areas in which his fellow man has indicated the most urgent need.” Thus, “the price system, and the system of profit and loss that follows from it, forces him to plan his activity in conformity with the expressed needs of society and in the interest of a genuine stewardship of the things of the earth.”537 What are the implications of such an insight?

Woods argues, “profit signals, then, make for peaceful social cooperation and the most

efficient use of scarce resources.”538 Remarkably, such arguments are in accord with

Thomas Hobbes’s fifth law of nature, Complaisance, whereby “every man strive to

accommodate himself to the rest.”539 Indeed, both Woods and Hobbes argue for the value of modifying ourselves to serve the needs of others, although for Hobbes this is the best way to serve one’s self-interest. This value of the market was also recognized by Ropke,

537 Ibid., 202.

538 Ibid., 203.

539 Hobbes and Curley, Leviathan, 95. 198 who “pointed to this marvelous coordination of the market, by which ‘anarchy in economics’ produces an ‘orderly cosmos.’”540

Woods wraps up his critique with the argument that there should be a moral presumption on behalf of the market, with the burden of proof to be placed on the advocates of government action. For, “unlike any alternative, the market order does not require the use of coercion—the initiation of physical force—but amounts instead to a system of peaceful social cooperation. This fact alone lends a prima facie moral superiority to the market order.” He continues, “Belloc would have been the first to admit that no system is perfect, his own included. We must, therefore, make a prudent choice among imperfect alternatives. And in such a competition, the market wins hands down.”541 Indeed, it seems fitting to let the challenge of Mises, who puts the moral argument for the market and its benefits in the form of a challenge, have the last word:

“He who disdains the fall in infant mortality and the gradual disappearance of famines and plagues may cast the first stone upon the materialism of economists.’”542

540 Woods, The Church and the Market, 203.

541 Ibid., 205.

542 Ibid., 203. 199

Conclusion

Is Catholic libertarianism possible? It depends how one justifies libertarianism. For example, Mises’s support of liberalism is based off of the benefits that it brings to economic productivity. In some ways, this is a moral argument, as economic prosperity does seem to be a real good. Indeed, the accompanying drop in infant mortality that has come with capitalism puts the burden of proof on those would deny the good of economic productivity. However, the arguments of Mises leave much to be desired, and his dismissal of religion as a possible higher good than economic productivity is not at all convincing. This difficulty for Catholics becomes especially pronounced if

Montesquieu’s analysis is correct, and commerce necessarily weakens religion. And while the example of America may seem to contradict Montesquieu, this does nothing to address the criticism that the Hobbesian attempt to establish the doctrine of natural rights seems based off a different view of man and his ends than the Christian view.

Indeed, it is particularly troubling that his is the first defense of the modern notion of natural rights. And yet, his rights are not necessarily the same as the negative rights of libertarianism. Indeed, while Hobbes’s rights do all exist in the state of nature, under the form of the unlimited right to all things, they are simply the remains of that original right.

They have a dependence on an agreement with others that distinguishes them from principled pre-political rights.

Regardless, as Fortin shows, the doctrine of natural rights did not arise from, and was not intended as, a development of the natural law. Indeed, the natural law of Thomas 200

Aquinas is fundamentally opposed to libertarian principles, as it grants the state a role in

fostering virtue and discouraging vice. While Rothbard’s natural law allows for different

ends among men, and thus leads to natural rights, the natural law of Aquinas is not so

subjective. Indeed, whereas modern natural rights are possessed by persons (subjects), the

previous conception of natural right was the opposite: rights possessed people, and did

not always work to their advantage.

Despite such differences, even Fortin acknowledges that natural rights can be

infused with morality and justified based on moral principles. And while Fortin argues

for taking another look at the natural law, I argue for taking a look at ways in which to bring natural rights more in line with a subjective natural law, modified by a correct understanding of the human person to account for the absurdities of absolute, negative, natural rights when it comes to dependents. For while Aquinas argues that the law should

direct citizens towards virtue, we should keep in mind Augustine’s skepticism as to law’s ability to instill virtue or to overcome man’s sinful nature.

Indeed, Augustine’s political thought contains many political principles that can be used to argue for such a position. We should first remember the crucial role that attaining peace holds in Hobbes’s political philosophy, and that this good is Augustine’s first requirement of justice, and a necessary precondition to the other benefits of society.

Second, we must ask, if private property can be allowed to man because of his weakness, why not the doctrine of natural rights? While such a doctrine lowers the political goals of a regime, it seems this evil could be outweighed by the greater evil of attempting to impose a higher goal upon society. Finally, we must always remember that, ultimately, the salvation of souls is the responsibility of the Church, not the State. 201

Thus, I argue that natural rights, liberalism, and libertarianism should be cast in

the role of a handmaid in the Catholic political tradition. This would not only enrich the

Catholic tradition, but would save the aforementioned doctrines from the dangers and

errors they are prone to without the guidance of the Church. Indeed, we can already see

the adoption of various liberal principles in the social thought of the Church. To cite just

a few examples, the social encyclicals speak positively of a self-organizing society,

recognize that the right to property is not lost through non-use or abuse, and have adopted

Locke origin of the right to property.

Despite this, the economic analysis of the popes and various Catholic theologians

leaves much to be desired. Indeed, there should be a greater and more conscious

awareness of the discipline of economics, its insights, and its internal debates in the

Church. In our day and age, we could use a moral voice of discernment with respect to

economic issues. But careless moralizing by denying economic law separates ethics from

economics, demonstrating the very arrogance against which the popes have warned. We

must always remember that the Church’s social doctrine is not a third way between socialism and capitalism, as the Church does not have a specific political program to offer. Indeed, while there is a pastoral responsibility to speak on the economic situation of the day, the analyses of Church officials does not have binding magisterial authority.

Indeed, excessive interference in factual economic matters serves to confuse rather than

enlighten, which can and has had disastrous consequences.

202

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