Christopher R. Rush

Though I grew up in a home ensconced in the past, with hardly ever a thought about the present (except for the eager anticipation of getting to the video game rental store for the latest Mario or Final Fantasy game), my sense of history was primarily from an aesthetic perspective.  I mentioned in the initial definition some of the historians I read – skimmed, read, let us not quibble at the close of a semester – Tuchman, Ambrose, others.  I did not mention then I read them from an aesthetic point of view, likely because I did not realize it until this course.  My definition four months ago for a “good” history was “some sort of combination of ‘true’ and ‘engaging,’” likely as I reflect with more emphasis on the “engaging,” since I rarely read multiple authors on a topic or event or person to compare, contrast, refute, and such.  The histories and the historians I enjoyed, aesthetically, were “good historians.”

Lukacs instigated an awareness of that approach.  His definition of history as “the remembered past”[1] has lingered in the middle of my mind all term, especially his earlier line: “the very purpose of historical knowledge is not so much accuracy as a certain kind of understanding: historical knowledge is the knowledge of human beings about other human beings, and this is different from the knowledge which human beings possess of their environment.”[2]  I thought historians wrote so we could remember what people used to know or do; Lukacs’s “remembered past,” with his emphasis on people knowing people, not just actions, showed me that my aesthetic approach was limited, yet I did not need to read history more like a historian but more like a person (not a literary critic in training).

After we read Lukacs, Adler’s remark, “The historians are aware of the difficulty of combining truth telling with storytelling,”[3] resonated even more – perhaps because I have been reading Catton recently, and I read Michael Shaara’s Killer Angels as a younger guy when I went through my Gettysburg movie phase, watching it every other week or so for a time, enjoying the narrative-driven historians more than the factual historians.  Is Shaara a bad historian because he tells stories?  No one doubts Catton, surely (he does have endnotes, after all – perhaps that is what saves him).

As a classical educator, I have read Thucydides and Herodotus before, but this encounter with them, with echoes of Lukacs and Adler dancing in my head, struck a bit differently. Thucydides: “my habit has been to make the speakers say what was in my opinion demanded of them by the various occasions, of course adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of what they really said.”[4]  Here is Thucydides, admitting without compunction, he has told stories about what the participants said based on his understanding of the needs of the moment, what they likely or should have said, and he is a great historian – not “fast and loose,” but a bit “peppy and sub-taut,” perhaps.  Herodotus: “My judgment as to the extent of Egypt is confirmed by an oracle delivered at the shrine of Ammon, of which I had no knowledge at all until after I had formed my opinion.”[5]  An oracle said it, so Herodotus is working it into his history.

Tacitus relates a story (historical anecdote?) about Sejanus and concludes, “Neither of these statements would I positively affirm; still it would not have been right for me to conceal what was related by those who lived up to the time of my youth.[6]  This brings us back to Lukacs’s “remembered past” – here are stories passed down to Tacitus, he cannot confirm it, but the people he knew in his youth knew these stories, and their knowledge is part of history, so he includes them as part of Roman history.

Kirk never said, “Beam me up, Scotty”; Rick never said, “Play it again, Sam,” but people think they did.  Those misremembered phrases have been more influential in pop culture, a real aspect of modern Western human history, than the actual lines of those video stories.  Surely that has some connection to “history, the remembered past.”  We did not read 1984 for this course, though it would certainly be an interesting pairing with Lukacs: Lukacs is not concerned so much with “controlling” the past as Orwell was, as a tool for controlling the present, but Lukacs does want us to know the past (as accurately as possible, I took it, though there is the rub) to live in the present better, concerned as he is with our humanity and our connection to our common past and inexorable march to our collective future (not in a Marxian sense, of course).  The mis-remembered past may be “false,” but that falsehood is not necessarily a moral evil.  I do not know why I have two fir trees in my home with lights and baubles on them to celebrate the birth of the Lord Christ, but my peers would find it odd if I did not have at least one, though none of us know why we do such a thing.  We are operating on a misremembered past, but we seem to be doing all right with this tradition, at least.

My understanding of history is still in motion; Lukacs was by far my favorite reading of the term, and I wrote my paper on historical gaming mainly as a way to honor and satisfy him, even more than preparation for my forthcoming gaming elective.  It is his (and Adler’s) counterbalance between history and literature, facts and the “remembered past” that will stick with me the most from this course

I am also preparing to teach the ’60s Pop Culture course again with my librarian father, likely for the last time.  I have been encouraging students to sign up for it mainly for his personal reflections, his “remembered past” growing up in the ’60s in New Jersey within ballistic missile range of Cuba.  The last times we taught it we focused mainly on American Pop Culture, with a dose of British Invasion, USSR Cold War, and Vietnam aspects.  I want to add more international components, more jazz, and more remembered past for myself and my students.  This course, and Lukacs especially, has encouraged me to emphasize as well a line I used previously in the course that everyone’s “the ’60s” was different: the ’60s were different for those in San Francisco, in New York, in London, in Saigon, and certainly for those in Birmingham, Alabama.  We created the course years ago mainly for the aesthetical experience: okay, it was an excuse to listen to the Beach Boys and the Beatles, but it has since become for me an opportunity to grow in this sense of “the remembered past.”  I have a few colleagues who do not approve of this course, mainly because they do not want to remember those years, but with all due respect to them, I do not think that will help our students know why the United States is what it is very much, nor where we stand collectively and individually in light of those years.  We shall see how it goes.  My approach going in, thanks to this course, is much different this time around, from an appreciation of the arts of the day, to an understanding of the people, the ideas, the history.  Perhaps I will see this decade not from a literary/aesthetic perspective this time but from a historian’s point of view.

Bibliography

Adler, Mortimer. Syntopicon. Vol. 1. Edited by Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz. Second Edition. Vol. 1. Great Books of the Western World. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990.

Herodotus. The History of Herodotus. Translated by Richard Crawley. Edited by Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goeta. Second Edition. Vol. 5. Great Books of the Western World. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990.

Lukacs, John. Historical Consciousness: The Remembered Past. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1994.

Thucydides. The History of the Peloponnesian War. Translated by George Rawlinson. Edited by Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goeta. Second Edition. Vol. 5. Great Books of the Western World. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990.

Tacitus. The Annals and The Histories. Translated by Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodribb. Edited by Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goeta. Second Edition. Vol. 14. Great Books of the Western World. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990.

[1] John Lukacs, Historical Consciousness: The Remembered Past (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1994), 9.

[2] Ibid., 7.

[3] Mortimer J. Adler, “History” in Syntopicon Vol. 1, in Great Books of the Western World, 2^nd ed., eds. Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz (Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990), 1:549.

[4] Thucydides, The History of the Peloponnesian War, trans. Richard Crawley, in Great Books of the Western World, 2^nd ed., eds. Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz (Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990), 5:354.

[5] Herodotus, The History of Herodotus, trans. George Rawlinson, in Great Books of the Western World, 2^nd ed., eds. Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz (Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990), 5:52.

[6] Tacitus, The Annals and The Histories, trans. Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodribb, in Great Books of the Western World, 2^nd ed., eds. Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz (Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990), 14:48.

Christopher Rush

Justice is often considered today an abstract value, an intangible ideal of society and sundry impersonal amalgamations that governments and other anonymous congregations should pursue.  For many foundational thinkers of the classical Western world, however, justice is foremost a human quality that becomes the goal of the collective after enough individuals demonstrate a capacity for such a trait.  Such an emphasis on the individual responsibility of the person, whether as a citizen or more broadly as a free human being regardless of political ties, resonates throughout the book of Proverbs, the dialogues of Plato, and the treatises of Aristotle.

As Solomon begins his collocation of proverbs, he informs us he is a son before he is a king, a member of a one-to-one personal relationship before he is a leader of an impersonal political mass: “The proverbs of Solomon, son of David, king of Israel” (English Standard Version, Proverbs 1:1).  The lessons he learned as a son from his father he is now passing on to his son.  After a general overview of the purpose of this communication, to “know wisdom and instruction, to understand words of insight” (1:2), Solomon indicates the foremost quality for a son is to “receive instruction in wise dealing, in righteousness, justice, and equity” (1:3, emphasis added).  Even if the order of these benefits (or possibly goals) of instruction are not an indicator of priority, though there is no reason not to presume they are, the issue remains: these are human qualities Solomon wants his son to have.  These are the words of a father (and mother, cf. 1:8) to a son, not a ruler and consort to the heir apparent responsible for a mass of humanity.

Solomon proceeds to describe justice and other virtues not as abstract ideals but as human moral qualities, personality traits as evidence of attaining wisdom in adherence to the law of the Lord: “he is a shield to those who walk in integrity, guarding the paths of justice” (2:7b-8a).  The person who receives wisdom from the Lord will “understand righteousness and justice and equity, every good path” (2:9).  Justice is a byproduct of living correctly as an individual in pursuit of the wisdom of God before it is a corporate trait of a community.  They are so necessary for the proper human life rightly lived that righteousness and justice are “more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice” (21:3).  Justice, the moral human quality, is more important to God than external shows of social decorum, a lesson a boy must learn before he expects it of his subjects.

Many of Plato’s dialogues deal with justice in a variety of human endeavors, individually and corporately, though the Republic is easily the most memorable, partly for its length and also passages such as the allegory of the cave.  Somewhat ironically, despite its advocacy for justice as an individual trait, the didactic nature of Proverbs does not allow for much discussion, yet the human interaction Plato employs through his dialogues enables the conversational Socratic method of engagement to define justice as a corporate, impersonal social trait, initially.  Cephalus, the host of the gathering in the Republic, is the first to offer a definition of justice, summarized by Socrates as “to speak the truth and pay your debts” (sec. 330).  The moral quality remains in Cephalus’ definition, though moral in terms of trustworthy social discourse and fulfillment of social obligations.  This does not satisfy either Thrasymachus or Socrates, and the Republic proceeds to explore justice and the ideal (or idealized) polis that embodies justice.

Thrasymachus attempts to define justice as a human quality but without the moral component altogether: “I proclaim that justice is nothing else than the interest of the stronger” (338).  Might makes right; just acts are what the powerful declare to be just.  This is as wholly distinct a conception of justice from Solomon as one can get.  Justice is no longer an objective trait from God for the individual to embody; justice is now an effect subjectively denoted by whoever has the gaul, temerity, and muscle-power to whimsically declare a thing is just because it is beneficial or desirable (“I affirm injustice to be profitable and justice not” (348), he says).

Socrates does not allow Thrasymachus to get away with an unsubstantiated, outlandish definition, returning justice to an internal human trait, though he struggles at first to define justice beyond an effect or abstraction: “And we have admitted that justice is the excellence of the soul, and injustice the defect of the soul” (353).  After much discussion, Socrates eventually alights on a definition much more akin to Solomon’s definition, as a personal moral quality of the individual before it should be sought after by the community as an abstract value: “ … justice was such as we were describing, being concerned however, not with the outward man, but with the inward, which is the true self and concernment of man … he sets in order his own inner life, and is his own master and his own law, and at peace with himself” (443).  Only after the individual has achieved this inner moral quality of justice should the person “act, if he has to act, whether in a matter of property, or in the treatment of the body, or in some affair of politics or private business; always thinking and calling that which preserves and co-operates with this harmonious condition, just and good action, and the knowledge which presides over it, wisdom” (443-44).  Justice is again an individual companion of wisdom, though Socrates’ definition is much more human-centric than Solomon’s understanding of justice as first originating from YHWH.  Still, Socrates concludes with his own eternal perspective on justice and its connection for humanity to the present and the future: “my counsel is that we hold fast ever to the heavenly way and follow after justice and virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal and able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil” (621).

Socrates adheres to this moral, supernatural quality of justice at the end of his life, though he discusses justice more in social terms in the Apology, victim as he is of dishonesty and injustice.  “Now do you really imagine that I could have survived all these years, if I had led a public life, supposing that like a good man I had always maintained the right and had made justice, as I ought, the first thing?  No indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any other man.  But I have been always the same in all my actions, public as well as private” (32-33).  On his deathbed Socrates wonders if justice is too high a value to be truly embodied in mortal, fallible mankind after all, settling in a sense for Cephalus’ definition: he has always been the same person in public and in private, and he has always done right by his fellow citizens – honest and debt free, the justice of old age, yet still the individual human trait first, the corporate trait second.

Aristotle, as is his wont, disagrees with Platonic and Solomonic justice, agreeing more with the contemporary conception of it as a social ideal than a personal moral quality, though that is not surprising given Aristotle’s commitment to the wellbeing of the polis.  Still, even in his distinctions Aristotle acknowledges in Nicomachean Ethics the existence of justice as an internal human trait: “We see that all men mean by justice that kind of state of character which makes people disposed to do what is just and makes them act justly and wish for what is just; and similarly by injustice that state which makes them act unjustly and wish for what is unjust” (1129a.5-10).  Far removed from Solomon’s understanding of justice as a gift from YHWH, now justice is almost an impersonal circular force seeking its own quality.  Aristotle furthers that distance by exploring justice as a distinct virtue: “What the difference is between virtue and justice in this sense is plain from what we have said; they are the same but their essence is not the same; what, as a relation to one’s neighbor, is justice is, as a certain kind of state without qualification, virtue” (1130a.10-14).  Justice is still a moral quality, and somehow connected to virtue (“Justice in this sense [of establishing community], then is not part of virtue but virtue entire” (1130a.9), though it is not as personal a trait in Aristotlian philosophy, at least at first.

But Aristotle then does something unexpected with justice: he makes it a kind of mutual prerequisite with friendship, perhaps the most important social bond outside of filial love: “when men are friends they have no need of justice, while when they are just they need friendship as well, and the truest form of justice is thought to be a friendly quality” (1155a.27-29).  Justice, the pan-virtuous moral trait of society, enables the existence of friendship among equals, who then, driven by their mutual affection and camaraderie, no longer require the impersonal force of justice.  If they only have cold justice, the human trait of friendship is necessary to make that justice worthwhile, which then rekindles the connection of friendship and justice.  “For in every community there is thought to be some form of justice, and friendship too …. And the extent of their association is the extent of their friendship, as it is to the extent to which justice exists between them” (1159b.25, 29-30).  Justice and friendship create for each other a symbiotic relationship, enabling equals to enjoy both justice and friendship.  And this mutuality is a human endeavor before it is a social endeavor: though there can be no friendship between unequals, such as between a slave and a master, “[b]ut qua man one can; for there seems to be some justice between any man and any other who can share in a system of law or be a party to an agreement; therefore there can also be friendship with him in so far as he is a man” (1161b.7-9).  This human endeavor of friendship, enabled by justice, reciprocally allows for social justice: “Therefore while in tyrannies friendship and justice hardly exist, in democracies they exist more fully; for where the citizens are equal they have much in common” (1161b.9-10).

Before it is a social, governmental, political virtue, justice is a human quality.  Justice drives personal, intimate relations between father and son, teacher and student, friend and friend, before it drives still personal but less intimate relations among rulers and subjects, citizens and citizens.  When justice is sought by individuals as a desired human trait, righteousness, equity, knowledge, wisdom, understanding, and friendship thrive and find their proper place in the human heart, and then, and only then, can they find their proper place in human society.

References

Aristotle. Nicomachean Ethics. In The Works of Aristotle. Vol. 2. Edited by Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz. Translated by W. D. Ross. Second Edition. Vol. 8. Great Books of the Western World. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990.

The Holy Bible: English Standard Version. Wheaton, IL: Crossway Bibles. 2016.

Plato. The Dialogues of Plato; The Seventh Letter. Edited by Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz. Translated by Benjamin Jowett and J. Harward. Second Edition. Vol. 6. Great Books of the Western World. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990.

Christopher Rush

On the steps of justice, an odd meeting occurs between two acquaintances, both enmeshed in situations that may not have anything to do with justice and even less to do with piety.  Euthyphro has come to the Porch of the King Archon to prosecute his own father for murder.  Socrates is there to defend himself against charges of corrupting the youth.  Three generations collide in the search for human justice, but the more pressing concern is whether these cases are not only just in the eyes of mortal man but pious in the eyes of the immortal gods.

If a son prosecuting his father for murder were not unusual enough, Socrates, the beleaguered defendant, is actually pleased he is being prosecuted, since, like his prosecutor, he is in favor of eliminating those who corrupt the youth.  He is not pleased for himself, of course, but pleased Meletus is taking action to keep the youth uncorrupted, misguided as he may be in direction if not intention.  With his typical self-effacing humor, Socrates soon shows his delight at being prosecuted is more akin to surprise at the true nature of Meletus’ antagonism: Socrates is purportedly “a poet or maker of gods” who “invent[s] new gods and den[ies] the existence of old ones.”  Euthyphro agrees this is a worse crime in the eyes of society, as maintaining the status quo concerning the gods is a great comfort to the people.  Anything that changes that status quo hints at impiety, a situation Euthyphro himself knows well.

Euthyphro tells Socrates about his own case, which instigates the main argument of the dialogue, for only a wise man, says Socrates, would have the courage to bring his own father to court on such a serious charge of murder.  Euthyphro naturally believes he has such wisdom, and concomitant piety as well, since he would prosecute his father for this crime whether the victim were a loved one or a servant; a distinction that should not matter concerning justice, wisdom, and piety.  The case gets more complicated (not to Euthyphro) in that his father did not directly kill the servant but indirectly allowed him to die, tantamount to murder according to Euthyphro (but ignored in the rest of the dialogue).  Euthyphro is the only person who thinks he is being pious and doing what the gods want him to do.  Such self-assuredness by Euthyphro impels Socrates to learn from him what piety truly is, beginning the dialogue’s five attempts at defining piety in a way that satisfies Euthyphro and Socrates, a herculean task indeed.

Euthyphro’s first attempt at a definition is his current conception of piety: “Piety is doing as I am doing; that is to say, prosecuting any one who is guilty of murder, sacrilege, or of any similar crime — whether he be your father or mother, or whoever he may be — that makes no difference; and not to prosecute them is impiety.”  Like for most of us, Euthyphro’s initial standard for piety is not only achievable by his own human effort but also representative of how he already lives his life.  It is also circular and not a real definition, as Socrates points out: “Remember that I did not ask you to give me two or three examples of piety, but to explain the general idea which makes all pious things to be pious.”  This gentle reprimand from Socrates is the most useful part of the dialogue: knowing that examples of concepts are not the same as defining the concept is a crucial distinction for all philosophers (and students writing papers).  A definition, says Socrates, gets to the essence of the concept as well as enables the person to use the term correctly: “Tell me what is the nature of this idea, and then I shall have a standard to which I may look, and by which I may measure actions, whether yours or those of any one else, and then I shall be able to say that such and such an action is pious, such another impious.”

Undeterred, Euthyphro attempts to satisfy Socrates with his second definition: “Piety, then, is that which is dear to the gods, and impiety is that which is not dear to them.”  Here Euthyphro shifts the direction of piety completely from the standard of human activity to the attitude of the gods.  This is more to Socrates’ liking, as it is an actual definition of the concept of piety that restores piety to the heavenly realm of ideals and absolutes, but it is still rather ambiguous.  Socrates’ contention with this definition stems from the gods’ own inability to agree on what pleases and displeases them, mirrored in humanity’s inability to distinguish absolutely what is pleasing and good and just from what is displeasing, bad, and unjust: “people regard the same things, some as just and others as unjust, — about these they dispute; and so there arise wars and fightings among them” and “the same things are hated by the gods and loved by the gods, and are both hateful and dear to them,” says Socrates, with which Euthyphro must agree.

The conversation returns to Euthyphro’s case against his father, as the only specific example of actions or behaviors considered pious or impious by all or some men and gods.  Zeus may approve of Euthyphro prosecuting his father, but Cronos, naturally, would likely disapprove of it.  This distinction inspires Euthyphro to combat Socrates’ enthymeme: perhaps not all would be pleased by the situation, “[b]ut I believe, Socrates, that all the gods would be agreed as to the propriety of punishing a murderer: there would be no difference of opinion about that,” says Euthyphro.  Socrates effectively agrees with this remark, but only as a general statement of propriety.  Whereas Euthyphro believes the gods find punishing murderers pious because he is trying to do that (returning to his first definition), Socrates acknowledges both gods and mankind should never say “the doer of injustice is not to be punished” — but that still does not clarify what actions are just or pious, only that pious actions should elicit a certain kind of response.

To keep the argument going, Socrates assists Euthyphro by rephrasing his second sally into a more specific third attempt at defining piety: “But I will amend the definition so far as to say that what all the gods hate is impious, and what they love pious or holy; and what some of them love and others hate is both or neither.”  Euthyphro gladly assents to this revision centered on unanimity among the gods, but this definition, even from Socrates, is not sufficient either, though it leads into the heart of the dialogue: are things pious because the gods love them, or do the gods love them because they are pious?  Is piety an intrinsic quality, or is it attributed to something (or someone) by an external authority (such as the gods of Olympus)?

Socrates leans toward innate qualities prior to current circumstances: “my meaning is, that any state of action or passion implies previous action or passion. It does not become because it is becoming, but it is in a state of becoming because it becomes; neither does it suffer because it is in a state of suffering, but it is in a state of suffering because it suffers.”  The nature of a thing exists prior to an outside observer becoming aware of such qualities of the thing observed; it does not “receive” those qualities because of an observer observing them, though the observer can still adjectivize the quality or condition sequent to the observation.  If piety (or holiness) is that which is “loved by all the gods,” then, the thing is “loved because it is holy, not holy because it is loved,” agrees Euthyphro.  The gods choosing to bestow love onto something or someone does not concomitantly impute holiness or piety onto the thing or person in this view.

As much sense as this distinction makes, it does not achieve the ultimate end of defining piety, since it only establishes piety is not created by the affections or attentions of the gods (all to the good, knowing how capricious they are even in Socrates’ view).  Socrates highlights this insufficiency by returning to the application of definition number three: even if the gods love things that are already pious, those same things are “dear” to the gods because they are loved by them, not loved because already dear.  Socrates posits that since the attribute of being dear to the gods comes as a result of their loving yet their loving does not impart piety to that thing, if the thing held dear is also pious, the present postulate reverts to merely another example of piety, not an actual definition.  Saying piety is “the attribute of being loved by all the gods” is simply describing something that happens to pious objects, not elucidating the concept of piety itself.

By this point Euthyphro is, somewhat understandably, growing weary of the conversation, resulting in Socrates mocking his youth, calling him “lazy,” and taking over the conversation.  Socrates, now in full control, returns to his usual form by beginning definition number four in the form of a question and recalling the audience to the setting of the conversation, two court cases of justice: “Is not that which is pious necessarily just?”  This is not an entire definition, as Socrates knows this is more of a correlating quality of piety than a nature-of definition, but he is building to a fuller definition.  He begins with a lateral movement from definition three, applying enthymemes similar to an “all squares are rectangles but not all rectangles are squares” theorem to piety’s connection to justice.  Justice, they decide, is of a larger scope than piety and can exist without piety, meaning piety is a part of justice, not its own absolute characteristic.  If they can discover what part of justice piety is specifically, they will finally arrive at an actual definition.  Euthyphro, having learned from Socrates’ earlier remonstrations that piety should not be man-centered, says, “Piety or holiness, Socrates, appears to me to be that part of justice which attends to the gods, as there is the other part of justice which attends to men.”  Socrates is not wholly satisfied with this and draws out further explication on “attends,” only to end up back where they started, leading Euthyphro circuitously to the idea “piety is the art of attending to the gods,” leaving justice momentarily by the wayside.  To this Socrates adds that those who attend to things (such as a huntsman attending to his dogs) do so for the benefit of that which is attended: the dogs are benefited by the huntsman’s attention, oxen are benefited by the oxherd’s attention.  If this is true, though, the gods must then benefit from the attention paid to them by pious worshipers, a notion both Euthyphro and Socrates quickly reject.  If piety is attending to the gods, it must be of a different nature than actions or attitudes that improve or assist the gods, and as neither of them can adduce a satisfactory substitute for what “attending” the gods might mean, the fourth definition peters out.

Euthyphro, now clearly tired of the conversation, gives a fifth and final attempt at defining piety: “Let me simply say that piety or holiness is learning how to please the gods in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices.  Such piety is the salvation of families and states, just as the impious, which is unpleasing to the gods, is their ruin and destruction.”  Socrates effectively acts as if Euthyphro said nothing at all and asks again, “what is the pious, and what is piety? Do you mean that they are a sort of science of praying and sacrificing?”  Euthyphro agrees, possibly without fully attending to what Socrates is saying either, leading Socrates to narrow this final definition into “piety is a science of asking and giving.”  If this definition is true, then we are back to definition four: piety requires the gods receive from us sacrifices that they desire, and when pious worshippers give the gods that which they desire, the gods benefit from this transaction.  Yet, if they do not benefit from such sacrifices, the pious give nothing of substance to the gods, and that hardly meshes with what they think piety should be, more than receiving bountifully from the gods and giving nothing meaningful in return.  But if the gods still desire such prayers and sacrifices, then, says Socrates, they are back to definition number two, “piety is dear to the gods.”  The gods do not benefit from sacrifices by pious worshipers, but they do enjoy them.  By inadvertently returning to a definition they have already rejected, Euthyphro and Socrates have walked a long way to arrive back where they started, no closer to defining piety than when the conversation began.  Having swung at and missed piety five times, a tired Euthyphro bows out, leaving Socrates mildly (yet likely insincerely) despondent.

As is typical of many early Platonic dialogues, the Euthyphro ends with no satisfactory definition of piety, having spent most of the time describing what piety is not.  Still, Euthyphro and Socrates highlight at least two important aspects of piety, especially early on.  The major flaw of Euthyphro’s first definition is its human-centeredness: “Surely I am doing what is right, therefore the gods must approve” sort of attitude is typical, as we have said, of most humans’ conception of piety (or holiness or, perhaps today, “virtue”).  Such a standard has nothing transcendent about it, nothing substantial, and is effectively no better than saying “I’m not as bad as Hitler, so I must be good.”  The “standard,” such as it is, for piety is as flexible as taffy and just as salubrious.  Socrates’ quick dismissal of this human-centered perspective is helpful and beneficial, certainly for Christians and for non-Christians as well.  Piety is more than being “good enough”; it must be suprahuman at the least, if not divine (divinely inspired, perhaps, or divinely granted).  The rest of the dialogue’s centering piety on the gods is much closer to a useful conception of piety for us flawed mortals.

The brief discussion during the third definition, whether things are pious because they are approved by the gods or the gods’ approval of things makes them pious, is the other important aspect of this dialogue, if not one of the more important aspects of Western philosophy: do things have certain qualities by their essence, because they have them (or are them), or do things have certain qualities because the observer observes and describes the things a certain way (possibly imputing the qualities onto what is observed through simple sensory human acts).  Such an interesting distinction requires more time and space than we have here to explore adequately, but the distinction is worth considering.

Despite the unsatisfactory conclusion of the dialogue, Socrates leaves us with a small but helpful handful of negations on what piety is not: centered on man’s self-appraisal, affected by a majority or minority of opinions, determined by attributive observations or assessments, or measured by its effect on others.  This is a helpful beginning to defining an elusive abstract concept such as piety, but before concluding this exploration of Socratic piety, let us examine some of the other references to piety in Plato’s other dialogues to see if we can glean any further insights from Socrates as to what piety might possibly be.

Most of the other dialogues associate piety with the gods, a quite natural and expected association.  In Apollodorus’ story in the Symposium, he recalls this line: “Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we may avoid evil, and obtain the good, of which Love is to us the lord and minister; and let no one oppose him — he is the enemy of the gods who oppose him.”  Apollodorus has just recalled the gods punishing people for disobedience, so the exhortation toward piety is an exhortation to revere and fear the gods, not specifically praying and sacrificing to them, but whatever it is (no specifics are given). piety consists of both a right attitude and right actions.  The motivation is almost (acceptably) mercenary: to avoid chastisement from the gods and to receive blessings.  Piety may be done for one’s own benefit, even if it does not benefit the gods who receive the fruit of pious deeds (whatever they may be).

The Apology and Republic have likewise very brief references to piety and impiety, which is odd: two dialogues one might suppose should be replete with overt examples, discussions, and explanations of piety (Socrates’s self-defense against charges of impiety and a detailed manual for creating the right kind of society) only have passing mentions of the concept at their conclusions.  Socrates ends his address in the Apology by urging his friends not to perjure themselves in court because “there can be no piety in that. Do not then require me to do what I consider dishonorable and impious and wrong, especially now, when I am being tried for impiety on the indictment of Meletus.”  Here is another quality of what piety is not: piety is not dishonesty, especially in court.  Impiety is perhaps tantamount to dishonorable and wrong actions, motivation, and thoughts as well, which may imply piety is akin to honor and rightness.  Except for a passing remark about the rain falling on the pious in book two of the Republic, Socrates does not mention piety until the end of the lengthy discourse, while berating the poets: “We will not have them (the poets) trying to persuade our youth that the gods are the authors of evil, and that heroes are no better than men — sentiments which, as we were saying, are neither pious nor true, for we have already proved that evil cannot come from the gods.”  Again Socrates associates piety with another abstract value, truth, and again he mentions piety in a negation (poets are not pious when they lead others, especially youth, to think ill of the gods), and again we have a passing example but no substantial definition of piety.

About halfway through the Theaetetus, while trying to define knowledge itself, Socrates, revisits another abstraction he associates with piety: “But in the other case, I mean when they (sophists) speak of justice and injustice, piety and impiety, they are confident that in nature these have no existence or essence of their own — the truth is that which is agreed on at the time of the agreement, and as long as the agreement lasts; and this is the philosophy of many who do not altogether go along with Protagoras.”  Piety is again associated with justice, and again Socrates (perhaps more Plato, if Theaetetus is a later dialogue) leans toward piety (and justice) being an intrinsic quality despite what sophists advocate as temporary or superficial observations.  Nothing new is added to the aspects found in Euthyphro, but the constancy of relating piety to justice and best understood as innate reality not subjective attribution is helpful in arriving at an understanding of Socratic/Platonic piety.

Finally in Plato’s output, in book four of the Laws, the Athenian Stranger says, “In the first place, we affirm that next after the Olympian Gods and the Gods of the State, honor should be given to the Gods below; they should receive everything in even numbers, and of the second choice, and ill omen, while the odd numbers, and the first choice, and the things of lucky omen, are given to the Gods above, by him who would rightly hit the mark of piety.”  Piety is again the proper response of man to the gods themselves.  Later, the Stranger mentions the three “noblest aspirations”: “The principle of piety, the love of honor, and the desire of beauty, not in the body but in the soul.”  Again, piety is another abstract value among many (not justice here) and a spiritual, almost otherworldly aspect of mankind’s function in life.  Toward the end of the Laws, the Stranger echoes two of Socrates’ negation descriptions of piety, saying poets and prose writers “draw you aside from your natural piety” by praising evil men, and other men who “defile the names of the Gods” and “care little about piety and purity in their religious actions.”  Reversing the negation, piety is honoring the names of the Gods among fellow humans, not just honoring the gods themselves directly through prayer and sacrifice.

Through a scrutiny of Euthyphro and a survey of other Platonic dialogues, we get, if not a full and satisfactory definition of piety, at least a helpful and somewhat practical starting conception of piety, especially as to what it is not.  To be fair to Socrates (and Plato), we know we are not going to get a full and satisfying definition of anything, really — but that is much of the joy and challenge of dialoguing with him: it truly is the journey not the destination.  We need not be as exasperated as Euthyphro at seemingly getting no closer to defining piety, since we are actually better able to grasp the qualities of the pious person in motion, at least, if not in fact.  Piety is a part of justice and a boon companion of truth, honor, and spiritual beauty.  It is rooted in our acknowledgement of the divine above and, to an extent, beyond us, and our actions and attitudes must be aimed toward pleasing God, even if we do not benefit Him by our prayers or sacrifice or obedience.

What does that piety actually look like?  As Euthyphro said, look at the time…

Work Cited

Plato. The Dialogues of Plato; The Seventh Letter. Edited by Mortimer J. Adler and Philip W. Goetz. Translated by Benjamin Jowett and J. Harward. Second Edition. Vol. 6. Great Books of the Western World. Chicago: Encyclopædia Britannica, 1990.  All dialogues quoted are taken from the pagination of this source.