The Germanic and Norse cultures, as depicted in their sagas and epic poetry, held honor and martial prowess in the highest regard. In these societies, the warrior ethos was central, emphasizing bravery in battle, loyalty to one’s chieftain, and the preservation of personal reputation. Honor was not merely a personal trait but a societal expectation that could dictate one’s status and actions. Personal and familial vengeance was crucial for maintaining honor, often leading to cycles of violence and retribution. This honor-centric perspective created a culture where personal achievements in battle and protecting one’s reputation were paramount.

A fundamental aspect of Germanic and Norse worldviews believed in fate, or “wyrd.” This belief held that the gods had predetermined human roles, reinforcing a worldview where personal courage and marital status were highly esteemed. This fatalistic outlook shaped their ethical framework, valorizing individual bravery and honor as essential virtues.

In Ancient Greece, the concept of arete, or virtue, was central to societal values, particularly among the aristocracy. Arete encompassed qualities such as martial prowess, wisdom, and skill, reflecting a broad spectrum of excellence. The Homeric epics, including the Iliad and the Odyssey, underscore the importance of honor and heroic deeds. Greek heroes were often depicted as favored by the gods, and their heroic exploits were celebrated as models of virtue.

Greek ethical thought extended beyond individual heroism to emphasize civic duty and excellence within the polis. Values such as civic responsibility, rhetorical skills, and philosophical wisdom were significant. Influential philosophers like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle stressed the importance of virtue in personal life and public affairs, advocating for a broader conception of ethical behavior. While influenced by Greek notions of virtue, Roman ethics developed distinct concepts such as virtus and gravitas. Virtus included qualities like courage and character, while gravitas denoted seriousness and dignity. Roman culture highly valued military service and personal honor, reflecting these values in societal and legal norms.

The evolution of Roman legal principles marked a significant development in ethical standards. Roman law integrated personal honor with civic responsibilities, creating a complex understanding of ethical behavior that balanced individual virtues with legal and moral duties. This evolution represented a shift towards a more organized and systematic approach to ethics.

Christianity’s introduction to these societies brought a new ethical framework centered on the doctrine of agape. This principle emphasized unconditional, self-sacrificial love for all people, including one’s enemies. This represented a radical departure from the honor-based codes of earlier pagan traditions, prioritizing personal and familial reputation over compassion. The teachings of Jesus in the New Testament, particularly in passages such as the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7) and the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37), highlighted values of love, forgiveness, and mercy.

The doctrine of agape expanded ethical concern beyond immediate kinship groups to encompass all humanity, advocating for a universal sense of brotherhood and care. This shift significantly departed from the exclusive, honor-centric values of earlier pagan traditions, focusing instead on compassion and communal support.

Christian teachings also challenged the prevailing norms of retribution and personal vengeance. The emphasis on forgiveness and the principle of turning the other cheek (Matthew 5:39) sought to replace cycles of violence with reconciliation and peace. This approach signaled a significant shift in societal values, moving away from focusing on personal honor and revenge towards a new conflict resolution model based on forgiveness and understanding. The Christian focus on charity—love in action—led to the establishment of various social institutions, including hospitals, orphanages, and schools. These institutions reflected a commitment to caring for the less fortunate and departed from the more individualistic and honor-centric values of earlier pagan traditions. This focus on social justice and communal care represented a new approach to societal responsibility.

As Christianity spread throughout Europe, its ethical teachings began integrating with pagan practices. This gradual and often uneven integration reflected the complex interactions between Christian and pagan values. Over time, Christian ethics influenced legal codes, social norms, and even martial traditions. One notable example of this integration is the chivalric code of medieval knighthood, which incorporated Christian virtues such as humility and mercy. This code reflected the blending of Christian values with existing martial traditions, illustrating the impact of Christian ethics on societal norms. The chivalric tradition, with its Christian-infused ideals, significantly evolved from earlier pagan warrior codes. The emphasis on mercy, compassion, and the protection of the weak reflected the Christian influence on martial practices. This integration of Christian ethics into the chivalric code marked a transformation in societal values, shaping the development of Western civilization and its moral frameworks.

On this example of the chivalric tradition, C. S. Lewis, in his exploration of Christian ethics, elucidates how the doctrine of agape made the development of the chivalric knight tradition possible. Lewis argues that Christian virtues of humility, mercy, and self-sacrifice were instrumental in shaping the chivalric code, which became a defining feature of medieval knighthood. The chivalric code, which integrated Christian ideals into martial practices, emphasized bravery in battle and qualities such as honor, loyalty, and service to others. This synthesis of Christian and martial values created a new ethical framework that influenced Western thought.

Despite the spread of Christianity, some pagan traditions persisted alongside Christian teachings. In regions such as Scandinavia and Germany, pagan practices often adapted to fit the new Christian context. This blending of old and new values resulted in a gradual but uneven transition, highlighting the complexity of cultural and ethical transformation. The transition from pagan to Christian ethical codes was not immediate. The gradual integration of Christian teachings into existing pagan practices reflects the complex cultural and ethical transformation process that occurred over time. This process involved resistance and adaptation, illustrating the dynamic interactions between different value systems.

The impact of Christianity on personal behavior was profound. The shift from honor and vengeance to compassion and forgiveness marked a significant change in individual ethics. This transformation influenced personal conduct, leading to new ways of understanding and practicing ethical behavior. Christianity’s influence on social organization was also significant. The establishment of charitable institutions and a focus on communal care reflected a new approach to social responsibility and governance. This departed from the individualistic and honor-based values of earlier pagan traditions. Religious institutions played a crucial role in the dissemination of Christian ethics. The Church’s involvement in social welfare, education, and legal reform reflected the broader impact of Christian teachings on societal norms and values. These institutions helped integrate Christian ethics into various social and public life aspects.

The influence of Christianity on legal systems was profound. Incorporating Christian principles into legal codes led to a greater emphasis on mercy, justice, and the welfare of all members of society. This represented a shift from the honor-based legal traditions of the past, reflecting a more comprehensive approach to ethical and legal issues.

The spread of Christianity also contributed to the evolution of ethical philosophy. Christian teachings influenced philosophical discussions on ethics, morality, and the nature of virtue, leading to new understandings of moral behavior and social responsibility. Philosophers such as Augustine and Aquinas played a crucial role in integrating Christian teachings with philosophical thought, shaping the development of Western ethical philosophy. The impact of Christianity extended to artistic and cultural expressions. Art, literature, and music from the medieval period often reflected Christian values of compassion, humility, and community. This cultural shift demonstrated the broader influence of Christian ethics on societal values and creative expressions.

Missionary work was instrumental in spreading Christian ethics to new regions. Missionaries not only converted individuals but also introduced new social and ethical norms, contributing to the broader transformation of societal values. Their efforts played a crucial role in disseminating and adapting Christian teachings. Thus, the interaction between Christian teachings and existing cultural practices resulted in a dynamic change process. In some cases, Christian values were adapted to fit local traditions, synthesizing old and new ethical norms. This blending of values highlights the complexity of cultural and ethical transformation.

The challenges of integrating Christian ethics into existing cultural contexts were significant. Resistance to new values and the persistence of old traditions created a complex and often contentious process of cultural transformation. These challenges reflect the difficulties inherent in reconciling different value systems. Yet, the long-term impact of Christianity on European society was profound. The transition from honor-based, martial ethics to a focus on compassion and community shaped the development of Western civilization and its values. This transformation marked a significant evolution in ethical and social norms.

The legacy of Christian ethics continues to influence contemporary societal values. Principles of agape, charity, and social justice remain central to discussions on morality and ethics, reflecting the enduring impact of Christianity on ethical thought. This legacy underscores the ongoing relevance of Christian teachings in shaping modern values and practices. Therefore, comparing the effects of Christianity on different cultures reveals diverse responses to Christian ethics. Christian teachings’ varying adaptations and integrations highlight the complexity of cultural and ethical transformation. These differences demonstrate how Christianity influenced and was influenced by various cultural contexts. Looking to the future, the influence of Christian ethics is likely to continue evolving. As societies address new ethical challenges, agape and social justice principles will remain relevant in shaping ethical and social norms. The ongoing relevance of these principles reflects the enduring impact of Christianity on moral thought and practice.

In conclusion, the doctrine of agape introduced by Christianity marked a profound departure from the honor-based, martial ethics of the Germanic, Norse, Greek, and Roman cultures. Christianity reshaped personal behavior and social organization by emphasizing selfless love, forgiveness, and communal care. This transformation represents a significant evolution in ethical values, highlighting the power of religious doctrines to influence and redefine societal norms. The shift from pagan to Christian ethical codes underscores the transformative impact of Christianity on the values that guide human behavior and social organization.

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The well-known political philosopher of the University of Chicago, Leo Strauss (1899 – 1973), said that liberal education led us toward culture and sought to form a man cultivated in mind and in accordance with his nature.

As we all seem to forget today, the term cultivation comes from the word agriculture, which means to take care of the land so that it produces; in this sense, education would be the cultivation of the mind according to its nature, therefore, it would be absurd for example to cultivate vegetables replacing water, fertilizers or light by other means, that is to say, pouring whiskey instead of water we cannot expect our crop to flourish, in the same way, it is not possible to think about the development of human nature if we do not give it what it requires for its development and wellbeing.

In this sense, teachers would be like farmers of minds dedicated to making them bear fruit.
However, as the great teachers (those great minds who were not the disciples of any previous teacher) are even scarcer to be found than the teachers themselves (who are not abundant compared to the farmers), this would be a severe problem. Still, one with an immediate solution, for although we do not have the teachers in flesh and blood, we do find them in their texts, that is to say, through the reading of the so-called “Great Books.”

Thus, “liberal education will then consist in the careful and proper study of the great texts which the great minds have left us, a study in which the more experienced pupils assist the less experienced pupils, including the beginners.”

The term liberal education might initially generate some confusion for those who are not familiar with Strauss’s work or who are not situated in the world of political philosophy. We should not confuse the adjective liberal with the noun liberal.

When Strauss speaks of liberals, he refers to the adjective. A liberal is a person who practices liberality (generosity). For this, he must be a person with certain wealth but who uses it in a moderate way. That is to say, he enjoys it but also shares it with those who need it without losing it or squandering it because, in that case, he would cease to be liberal (practicing generosity).

Liberalism, as a noun, can simply be called an ideology that is identified with freedoms or rights, such as freedom of the press or freedom of expression, and appeared in the 19th century.

Clearly, liberal education is not the training of individual rights defenders but rather of citizens and human beings capable of fully developing their natural potential.

Following the classical literature, we could say that liberal education differentiates a free man from a slave (passions).  The full understanding of the meaning of liberal education can be found, for example, in the literature of Plato (The Laws and The Republic), Aristotle (Politics), and Xenophon (Education of Cyrus), as stated precisely in a passage found in Plato’s Laws: “liberal education is education from childhood in virtue, and which inspires the ardent desire to become a perfect citizen who knows how to govern and how to be governed with justice.”

Certainly, two dimensions can be perceived in liberal education. The first one advocates a moral and religious education linked to the constitution of good citizens, as one would say, an education of the heart, while the other, more transcendent, corresponds to philosophy, to the education of the mind found, for example, in the seventh book of The Republic.

Following the classics, civic education was thus based on the formation of character to achieve virtue.

For example, Aristotle understood that the virtues (courage, affability, for example) were all those qualities necessary to be able to develop our human nature fully and that this was possible through the help of the city, hence the close relationship between ethics (which is nothing more than the formation of character) and politics. In contrast, the philosopher’s training was much more demanding in the sense that the search for knowledge has no limits and could, therefore, be fundamentally dangerous.

The essence of philosophy is permanent doubt, so in this respect, it can be seen as antagonistic to authority. The philosopher then had to write in an esoteric manner to mislead authority and thus conceal his true intentions.

There is no doubt that the liberal education of the philosopher, based on dialectics, is fundamentally more important than civic education. Still, we also know that without civic education, there is no point in talking about the cultivation of the mind (without a city, there is no philosophy).

Civic education, i.e. education that moderates the character and curbs the instincts, also inculcating patriotic or moral values, is significant for the progress of the city, in fact, civic education would be the prelude to the development of philosophy.

Strauss also thought that liberal education would serve to shape a good political regime in accordance with human nature, which also made sense of the following definition of liberal education: “Liberal education is the ladder by which we try to climb from mass democracy to democracy as it was originally“.

Democracy had to be understood as the government of free men as opposed to the mass democracy that would be constituted by those men not yet formed by civic education. Democracy, in fact, would be the regime that stands or falls by virtue:

“… democracy is a regime in which all or most of the adults are men of virtue, and as virtue seems to require knowledge, a regime in which all or most are virtuous or wise, or the society in which all or nearly all have developed their reason to a high degree, or the rational society. Democracy, in a word, becomes an aristocracy which has expanded into a universal aristocracy“.

However, as Strauss rightly pointed out, the predominance of political science in these times has served to make us see democracy exclusively in merely descriptive terms, appearing more as a procedure that serves, for example, to elect public servants in a competition open to all, in which public posts are contested, rather than as a form of government whose means and ends are virtue, that is, in a normative way, as political philosophy put it.

In this sense, it is understandable why, today, still under the influence of positivist discourse, the scientific thesis of democracy dominates, and thus, the concept of democracy as mass participation, as mass democracy, is assumed. This mass democracy, in turn, generates a mass culture that is achieved with the least intellectual or moral effort and lacks aspirations of transcendence. As Strauss pointed out, the people formed by mass culture are satisfied reading the sports page or the jokes page of the newspapers, but they can hardly be interested in public affairs, let alone be in a position to hold public office.

Evidently, the fact that our society is in crisis and its political institutions completely disqualified is an unmistakable symptom that mass culture and mass democracy have imposed themselves and that this situation is not gratuitous. In fact, this occurs when the spaces for forming and cultivating people, such as the family, the school, and the university, lose their meaning and purpose, thus abandoning their task of forming free and responsible men and women. Such an event only forces us to turn our eyes towards this form of education, which, amid our desolate panorama, appears as a resplendent oasis waiting to serve those who dare to reach out to it.

Sources: 

Hilail, Gildin (ed.). An Introduction to Political Philosophy, ten essays by Leo Strauss. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1975.

Horwitz, Robert H. The Moral Foundations of the American Republic. Buenos Aires: Editorial Rei, 1986.

Pangle, Thomas L. The Ennobling of Democracy, the challenge of postmodern age. Baltimore, Maryland: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993.

“What is Liberal Education?”, in: An Introduction to Political Philosophy, ten essays by Leo Strauss. Gildin, Hilail (editor). Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1975. p. 311.

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Aristotle’s right by nature (physei dikaion) was where “everywhere [it] has the same force and does not exist by people’s thinking this or that . . . and yet it is changeable—all of it (kineton mentoi pan).13 Thus, Aristotle’s physei dikaion appeared self-contradictory, where it was valid everywhere and always, but it was also everywhere changeable. One possible solution was that Aristotle wrote esoterically, although it is not clear what would be the hidden truth.14 A more likely answer was that Aristotle meant what he wrote and left it to us to figure out what he meant by physei dikaion as being both universal and contingent.

On the one hand, Aristotle argued that physei dikaion was universal: it had the same force everywhere in forbidding such acts as murder and theft. On the other hand, physei dikaion was changeable in the sense that universal principles can have diverse actualizations according to time, object, aim, and method. The criteria of time, object, aim, and method allowed us to make the distinction between killing and murder. If certain acts fell short of or exceeded this criterion (the mean), then they were considered bad, for as Aristotle wrote, “There is neither a mean of excess and deficiency, nor excess and deficiency of a mean.”15

Murder consequently did not break some abstract rule, but it missed the mean for concrete action. Although the criteria of time, object, aim, and method may appear vague, e.g., “Do not kill at the wrong time, involving the wrong object, with the wrong purpose and method,” for Aristotle, it was appropriate to a reality that did not yield a permanent, detailed standard. Moral and ethical acts were not governed “by any art or set of precepts” but rather “according to right reason” because what was right was “not one, nor the same for all.”16 Each situation must be evaluated on a case-by-case basis with the underlying universal substance of ethics—the one way of being good—driving all of the means.

This paradox of physei dikaion was personified in the mature person (spoudaios) who saw “the truth in each class of things, being as it were the norm and measure of them” and who possessed the virtue of practical wisdom (phronesis) that included other virtues, for “with the presence of the one quality, practical wisdom, will be given all the excellences.”17 Like physei dikaion, Aristotle defined phronesis paradoxically: its possessor had the “ability to deliberate well about what sorts of things conduce to the good life in general” but could produce “no demonstration” of its first principles, even though its particular actions were true in practice.18 Phronesis could not become a science (episteme) because it was bogged down in the particulars of the world, yet, at the same time, it required deliberation of what was generally good.

This paradox of phronesis can be somewhat clarified by looking at Aristotle’s concept of nous (intellect) as both divine and human. Nous was “something divine” and superior to “our composite nature,” but it also “more than anything else is man.” By following nous, humans could make themselves immortal and “strain every nerve to live in accordance with the best thing in us.”19 Thus, Aristotle discovered that human beings possessed something within themselves that was different from them and yet paradoxically was the best thing of them—something superior to humans, which they were able to locate through a cognitive faculty that Aristotle termed nous. By making this cognitive faculty both human and divine, Aristotle had shifted divinity from the anthropomorphic gods to the intellectual faculty of the human soul.

It is clear that Aristotle believed in a divinity that was superior to but connected with humans. He wrote that there were “things much more divine in nature even than man,” which included not only the heavenly bodies but also the creator god as a physical force.20 In the Metaphysics, Aristotle also stated that “first philosophy” studies ontology, eternal causes, and the “first mover” god who was “in a better state” than humans.21 However, this “first mover” was not a creator god. Aristotle conceived of it as a final cause and not as one who set things in motion. The prime mover therefore was not the cause of the world, but the preservation of it by its rational and love-inspiring attraction.22 Thus, for Aristotle, the notion of divinity had shifted from the anthropomorphic gods to both the human intellect and the prime mover, the two of which were different yet attracted to each other.

Nature therefore was all of reality’s present form moving towards the prime mover. Defining nature as a member of “the class of causes that acts for the sake of something,” Aristotle declared that the “form” of any reality and the “mover” of any nature often coincide.23 If nature could become identical with divinity, then it would be both natural and divine. Like nous, nature was both divine and non-divine in its composition, with the latter being drawn towards the former. This claim rested upon the human reflection of their nous: “The object of our search is this—what is the commencement of movement in the soul? The answer is evident: as in the universe, so in the soul, it is God. For in a sense, the divine element in us moves everything.”24 As a result of this conceptualization of nature, Aristotle’s physei dikaion was the attraction that humans have both physically and ethically to the prime mover.

The apparent contradiction in Aristotle’s physei dikaion—it was universal in force but changeable in action—was resolved by his understanding of nature’s being everything and everywhere and having a dual final cause at the same time. All of reality sought unity with the prime mover and for what it was supposed to be. For humans, the path to unity with the prime mover was through nous: humans were to follow a single ethical direction with various adjustments made to remain on this path. Virtue was not obedience to abstract rules but following practical wisdom (phronesis) as led by the primer mover’s pull. Phronesis consequently was the motion between the primer mover and humans that occurred within the nous of the mature person (spoudaios).

Strauss, Brague, and Greek Philosophy

Given the variability of phronesis, Aristotle denied it the status of science (episteme) while categorizing it as a deliberate intellectual virtue. The universal-variable principle of phronesis, the many practical paths towards the prime mover in ethical action, precluded logical and consistent proofs. But the universality of the objective was unchanged, which allowed the spoudaios to make decisions rooted neither in relativism nor deontology but something in between as a physei dikaion. However, if physei dikaion cannot be studied at the level of episteme, how can it be demonstrated, especially with regard to Strauss’s and Brague’s differing understandings of nature’s relation to divinity? Is a theory of natural rights only accessible by an autonomous reason that uncovers a nature devoid of divinity? Or does a theory of natural right rest upon an account where both nature and reason are consubstantial with divinity?

The impossibility of studying physei dikaion at the level of episteme certainly restricts the types of demonstration of its existence where the objects of natural reason can be known as the “experiences as can be had by all men at all times in broad daylight.” Such an account of physei dikaion cannot be verified by the positivism that Strauss seemed to advocate or that modern science demands. Deductive and logical reasoning are also avenues that are blocked, since physei dikaion has no axioms from which one can reason to conclusions or first principles. By relying upon habituation in virtue and the experience of a mature person to make correct judgments, physei dikaion is beyond the grasp of those who are neither virtuous nor mature. In short, the traditional demonstrations are not available for the proof of physei dikaion.

The demonstration of physei dikaion is the same as the demonstration of nous as something both human and divine. To repeat from above, Aristotle wrote about his claim of nous, “The object of our search is this—what is the commencement of movement in the soul? The answer is evident: as in the universe, so in the soul, it is God. For in a sense, the divine element in us moves everything.”25 Aristotle appealed to a philosophical introspection of human experience for the demonstration of nous and, one could infer from his other statements, for physei dikaion, too. The acknowledgment that an action is ethical—that it is right by nature—can be verified by others not through empirical, mathematical, or modern scientific reasoning but through the introspection of one’s own experiences as a mature, serious, and virtuous person.

Some may find this proof unsatisfactory because it lacks the objective character that positivism claims for itself. Be that as it may, it should be evident after investigating Aristotle’s concepts of nature (physis), right by nature (physei dikaion), human intellect (nous), and practical wisdom (phronesis) that Aristotle had rejected an epistemological framework of sense-based, logically consistent propositions that Strauss advocated. The end result is that Aristotle’s physei dikaion is not the theory of natural rights that Strauss attributed to Greek philosophy. Aristotle’s appeal to the philosophical introspection of one’s own experiences as a mature person (spouadios) to verify whether one’s actions were physei dikaion is as different as can be when compared to Strauss’s account of Greek philosophy. Simply put, when compared to Brague, it appears that Strauss had misread Aristotle and, perhaps more broadly, misinterpreted Greek philosophy.

However, Brague’s account of Greek philosophy as one where the concept of divinity became separated from anthropomorphic gods to reside in physis is only partially correct. What Brague fails to account for is Aristotle’s prime mover as the other repository of divinity.26 That is, physis was the expression of divinity as an intelligible, rational structure, but this expression was incomplete because it longed for unity with a prime mover. Physis therefore had a dual telos: it sought to realize its own essence as well as unity with the prime mover. The neglect of the prime mover—and Aristotle more generally—in Brague’s work does not weaken his overarching argument, but it does not strengthen it either.

Notes

13. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1134b18–20.

14. It would seem unlikely that Strauss would make Aristotle a nihilist, given his remark that the philosopher needs to have a type of faith in his quest to know the whole of reality.

15. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1106a25–1107a26.

16. Ibid.,1103b31–1104a9, 1106a32.

17. Ibid., 1113a30–35; 1144b30–1145a1.

18. Ibid., 1140a24–1140b30; 1142a11–30; 1146b35–1146a7.

19. Ibid., 1177b27–1178a8.

20. Ibid., 1141b1–2; also see Aristotle, Metaphysics, 98b–984a.

21. Aristotle, Metaphysics, 1003a–1005a, 1026a.

22. Ibid., 1072a20–1072b4; 984b15–20.

23. Aristotle, Physics, 198a20–198b10.

24. Aristotle, Eudemian Ethics, 1248a25–7.

25. Ibid., 1248a25–7.

26. Cf. n. 12.

Originally published in The Political Science Reviewer.

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I say this attention is disproportionate, however, because it causes us to lose sight of the smaller forms of association that play a much larger role in our real lived experience. We go to schools, we work at jobs, and we come home to families where we hope to find some measure of belonging. The degree of impact that my place of work has upon me as an individual is thousands of times larger than the impact that Society has upon me as an abstract totality. Indeed, we can state this as a general law: A community’s influence over an individual tends to be inversely proportional to its level of abstraction. The more removed by its generality from the concrete realities of a person’s life, the more weak and inchoate the influence will be. Thus, the social dynamics of my parish exercise a greater influence upon my spiritual life than the social dynamics of contemporary Catholicism, which in turn exercise a greater influence than those of Christianity as a whole. Thankfully, I remain mostly unaware of just what goes on in the far-flung reaches of that abstraction.

I propose, therefore, that theorists would better spend their time if they turned their attention away from the highest levels of abstraction and focused their powers of analysis instead upon smaller, more concrete forms of association. Russell Kirk called these smaller forms of association “mediating institutions,” and his point was to emphasize the way that these institutions come between the top-level political power of the nation-state and the individual citizen.¹. I want to borrow this term but apply it in a broader way than political mediation alone. These communities not only come between the individual and the state; they come between the individual and capital-S Society, and it is only through them that the individual has any contact with the higher levels of abstraction. The kinds of community I have in mind accomplish this mediation in at least two distinct ways.

First, mediating institutions are epistemic mediators. That is, they provide a host of filtration and interpretation mechanisms to the individual. The individual only knows about and knows how to interpret the broader, more abstract layers of society through his life within smaller communities. Without them, the naked individual simply has no tools whereby he can make sense of what is going on in the country as a whole, let alone the totality of our geopolitical situation or the entire sweep of history. To describe this function, I will steal another term, this time from John Verveke, and call these smaller associations “sense-making communities.”

How would I even know about, let alone make sense of, the failure of Silicon Valley Bank or its effects without a concrete reporting institution such as the Wall Street Journal or concrete contact with friends at work who are themselves informed by other concrete institutions? The Wall Street Journal has an office, a staff with individual names, and a recognizable company ethos. The Economy as an abstract whole does not. After informing me about the collapse of Silicon Valley Bank, the Wall Street Journal and my circle of friends at the office also provided me with the epistemic framework to make sense of what had happened. We never hear raw data. Events are presented along with an interpretation and evaluation of those events. Only by living within networked communities that constantly present us with information and simultaneously provide us with an apparatus for interpreting that information can we, as individuals, form any opinions at all.

Second, mediating institutions are ethical mediators. That is the communities in which we live shape and form the way we live by providing the basic contours of the kind of life that is possible and the attitudes we can expect from our neighbors in response to the way we choose to live. Ethics, properly speaking, only happens within a concrete community because only a concrete community can have an ethos, that is, a communally established way of living and acting. The individual can only have an ethos in a secondary sense by the way he reacts to and chooses to live within the ethos of the various communities of which he is a part. By doing so, the individual does his small part to shape the ongoing, organic development of the community. The relationship here is reciprocal and additive. The community ethos provides the basic environment and foundation for an individual’s way of living, and the individual’s way of living contributes along with his neighbors to establish the ethos of the community as it develops.

As Aristotle observed, man is a political animal. In the limited cases of feral children (none of which have been truly and completely separated from the human community), we see the devastating effects that isolation has upon the individual. Such children fail to develop even the basic capacities characteristic of a proper human existence and often die before maturity. An individual person learns how to be a person by participating in the life of communities alongside other persons. Again, man is not a political animal by participating directly in a capital-P, capital-S Political Society. He is a political animal by participating in the life of St. Louis, the life of his military regiment, or the life of his model train club. All of these overlapping communities embody a particular set of habitual judgments, habitual forms of speech, habitual ways of awarding prestige, and habitual ways of sanctioning misbehavior.

As both an epistemic and an ethical mediator, one particular form of concrete community rises above the rest as enormously more important than all the others. Man is a political animal, but he is first of all a familial animal. Even when the family is absent in a person’s upbringing, this very absence is one of the most significant facts of his life. Even when a son rejects everything that his father stands for and makes his way alone in the world, this very rejection is a response to the fundamental role his father has played and must be among the chief elements in a faithful biography. More normally, the family functions as the mediating institution par excellence in a person’s upbringing.

Through life in the family, a child first hears about many things and also learns what attitudes toward those things are appropriate. A child learns by sitting beside his father’s recliner that the Steelers are to be loved and the Bengals to be hated. He can run through the starting lineup of the Steelers by name, and he can quote detailed statistics about their performance. More generally, he learns that watching sports in a recliner is simply what one does on a Sunday afternoon and that football is something that all normal men and a few women are enthusiastic about. In another family, a daughter grows up entirely ignorant about football, supposing that the World Series is the highest achievement in that sport, but knows much about the finer points of film and cinematography. She can name several films from the sixties featuring Cary Grant or Audrey Hepburn, and at a young age, she makes sophisticated judgments about their acting. Still another family teaches its children how to quote verbatim all the political slogans of their favored radio outrage mongers. The three sons all know the names of many congressmen, political pundits, and news outlets. More importantly, they know exactly which tone of voice to use when speaking about each.

In the family, the child learns how to respond to a huge range of values both through explicit instruction and, more frequently, through implicit examples. The family goes to church on Sunday morning, and the child learns thereby what kind of response is due to the sacred. He listens to the explicit words of his mother’s instruction and the homily of the priest, but more impactfully, he watches closely and internalizes the deportment of his mother and older brother, who organize the local worship. The weekly repetition of saccharine smiles and dopey guitar accompanied by recorder and bongos does more to his soul than the catechism. It is here that he learns not merely simple, individual actions or bits of information but the entire shape of a way of life, a whole posture and way of moving that includes both body and soul. This develops organically by imitation, admiration, mockery, or by showing off.

The family sets the boundaries for the kinds of behaviors that are acceptable and unacceptable and enforces those boundaries through a variety of sanctions and rewards. A daughter in one family learns that tearing the pages in a book is tantamount to murder because books are something precious. A son in another learns that he can get away with little lies because they are glossed over and generally accepted. Frequently, the sanctions on behavior are explicit punishments, but they also involve simply awarding or withholding approval in more or less overt ways. Sometimes, the background dynamics of a family unintentionally incentivize certain behaviors just by making them easier than the alternatives. For example, a family that is in the habit of leaving the television running in the background may find that they are also in the habit of letting unfinished conversations easily drop or fade away without ever intending to train this conversational habit.

More difficult to notice because it is so frequently taken for granted in the background, the family also establishes the very horizon of possibility for what kinds of life can be undertaken by the child. While it may be normal in one family for a child to think of becoming an artist, this would not even occur to the child of another family because it has no place within their horizon of possibility. No one they know is an artist. They would not know how to begin becoming an artist. They have no reference point for how an artist might make money and so advance beyond being a mere hobbyist. If asked, they would, of course, know that such a thing is possible and that other people do, in fact, become artists, but it does not enter into the range of concrete options that they consider for their own lives.

What I have said about families can be extended in analogous and less potent ways to many other concrete forms of mediating institutions. People are enculturated epistemically and ethically in their apartment buildings, at the farmers market, at the library story hour where they bring their children, by the YouTube channels to which they subscribe, or at the local bar. The family, however, is almost always the most impactful mediating institution in a person’s life by a large margin. The family, therefore, should occupy far more philosophical attention than it does and it should form the paradigm for understanding the ways that small communities shape us as individuals.

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Aristotle says that the politeia as a thing not only refers to the ruling part or body (the politeuma) that actually held ruler or control over the given political community but also the very way of life and overall political culture that shapes that given political community. The polis—which was the form of the political community at the time of the Ancient Greeks—was understood to be an aggregation of the various households (oikoi) who shared the same space or territory and in doing so generally shared a common life together as a single community. Thus given the household (oikos) itself was an aggregation of different relationships that are found living within it (i.e., the husband-wife, parent-child, sibling-sibling, and master-slave/servant relationships). The nature of the polis needs to be understood as an aggregation of discrete parts whose only real unity arises out of their common shared life together in that shared space. And the political is the inter-arrangement, structure, or order of which part of the polis rules (that is to say has authority and control) over the whole community and thus to rule for the benefit of the whole community and not merely themselves or their friends and family.

Aristotle at first suggests that the politeia could be understood to be defined by two characteristics—(1) the number of rulers and (2) the justice of the ruler’s rule. As to the characteristic of the number of rulers (1), he presents us with a very common-sense division between the one, the few, or the many. As to the characteristic of the justice of the ruler’s rule (2), it is divided between the rulers ruling for the benefit or utility or good of themselves or for the sake of the whole community. Here Aristotle does not insist as Plato had that justice would require that rulers rule only for the sake of the ruled, but that that they ought to rule for the sake and benefit of the whole community and not some particular part. And if the rulers ruled for their own interest at the sake of the others in the community such rule would resemble in character despotic rule or mastery—which is understood to be rule over slaves/servants where the rule is for the sake of the rulers and not the ruled.

Out of the juxtaposition of these two categories, Aristotle presents the first typology of politeias:

What is interesting in this first typology of politeia is the name given for the politeia of the rule of the many for the common advantage is the same word for the thing he is trying to classify—politeia.  Thus, Aristotle uses the same word to signify one particular type or variety that he uses to label the whole class of things he is trying to describe.  It would be like if he had given a list of species or one of the specie was called specie. 

Aristotle in doing this had many commentators and translators perplexed about what to do with this politeia called politeia.  And using politeia to refer to a specific variety of politeia was rather unique to Aristotle, as neither Thucydides, Hesiod, Xenophon, or Plato did this.  Plato speaks of the timocracy, the rule of the warriors or honor lovers—Aristotle is wholly about such a regime in his Politics.  And because of this most translators and commentators opt to call this particular form of politeia a polity or something like a constitutional rule or a republic (but that would be problematic as the Latin for politeia is res publica).

            Yet right after Aristotle presented this six-fold typology in his Politics, he immediately challenges the validity of this just presented typology by making the claim that what truly defines the nature of an oligarchy is not the fact that its rulers are few but that they are the rich, the wealthy.  He argues that even if the ruling rich or wealthy were many (and the largest and most numerous part—even the majority) and not few its rule would remain oligarchic rather than democratic.   And this is as true about the rule of the poor or the vulgar (the demos)—that if the few poor or vulgar ruled over a political community its rule would be democratic in character.   Thus, the number of rulers seems to be accidental to the character of the given politeia.  What is more important and more critical is what exactly is the group that is ruling—who are they? Are they the wealthy/rich or the poor?  Aristotle suggests that what defines and distinguishes one politeia from another is the claim made by each group on who should rule and why. Thus, each politeia advances a specific claim about the justice and justification of its rule over the political community.  

            At Politics 3.10 Aristotle allows each form of politeia to put forward their individual claim (or justification) to rule.  In this particular presentation, Aristotle only does not let two of the six types of politeia present their claim as the other four are allowed to—one is tyranny and the other the politeia called politeia.   Whereas the claim of tyranny is obvious—might makes right—the claim of the politeia named politeia is not.  And given the very strangeness in its very name—one would expect some clarification would be given—but in Book 3 of the Politics, none is given.  So, at the end we have five claims—four explicitly presented in the text, one only implied and they are the following:

In Politics the claim of justice makes by each politeia seems to be what truly defines it.  Yet where we turn to Politics we not only return to the original six-fold typology of politeia of Politics but we once again see Aristotle drop it with the claim that a politeia with a much more complex one that not only has politeia varying across types but there is also variation within each type as well.  Thus, Aristotle suggests that there is a high degree of variation within a specific form of politeia than there is variance among them. 

            Yet what is shocking in Aristotle’s treatment of politeia in Book 4 is that he focuses more clearly on the politieas of democracy and oligarchy.  He says he has already discussed kingship and aristocracy already and argues that what remains is to discuss what has yet to be discussed from the original six forms of politeia—oligarchy, democracy, politeia called politeia, and tyranny, but what happens is somewhat different than promised. Instead, he spends the first three chapters going once again over what the politeia is and what is it composed of, and then he fleshes out the various parts of multitudes (the many) and notables (the few) that exist within and forms most political communities only then and there to give an account of the variations within the democratic politeia.

            After the account of the variations of the democratic politeia, the next chapter he then presents the variations of the oligarchic politeia.  One would expect for him to now turn to the next politeia—either tyranny or the politeia called politeia—but he does not, rather he represented both the account of the variations of democratic politeias and then oligarchic politeias.  Only after this representation of the variations of democratic (which slightly differs from the earlier account) and oligarchic politeias he then gives a blurred account of both aristocracy (which he said he had already discussed) and the politeia called politeia—which unlike the account of the varieties of democratic and oligarchic politeias does not offer clear cut variations for each he seems to all too often blur them both with either oligarchy or democracy.  These two chapters are some of the most confusing and difficult to read and understand in Aristotle’s Politics and remain an endless source of controversy over what exactly he is trying to argue here remains with us till today.

            It is in this more complex form of the politeia that we just mentioned above that Aristotle clearly distinguishes his teaching from that of Plato and Xenophon, as well as Thucydides and Herodotus. In fact, later writers like Plutarch and Polybius—Greeks who are writing and living at the time after Rome has conquered Greece and ruled over it—speak of the politeia as more akin to Plato than to Aristotle, especially Aristotle’s account of Politics book 4, 5, and 6.  The fact that so little is mentioned of Aristotle’s account about politeia among the Roman and early Christian authors it is commonly believed that these authors either did not bother to read or even have access to Aristotle’s Politics.

            Aristotle’s account of the politeia also fundamentally differs from that of Plato’s and Polybius’s accounts by his underscoring that change of politeia will occur between politeia but also within variations as well.  Both Plato and Polybius have a narrow understanding of politeia and thus present change or politeia as of a cyclical path.  In fact, their use of this cyclical change from one form of politeia to the next, in a particular path from kingship to aristocracy, to timocracy (which for Plato is the rule by the warriors), to oligarchy, to democracy, to tyranny.  This circular motion of the cycle of politeia change is one of the reasons such change of a politeia would be called a revolution.  Hence the power of this cyclical vision of political change.  But Aristotle’s account of this change of one type of politeia was radically at odds with his teacher Plato.  Aristotle held that that change could not only occur from one type to another as well as within type from one variation to other but also that there was no one clear set pattern or cycle that political change of politeia would take.  Aristotle would argue that yes some changes were more likely and others less likely but others changes were possible.  He also argues that the cycle did not necessarily repeat in the way Plato presented it.

When we look at what Aristotle shows us about the way political change can emerge and occur from one form of politeia to another, either a change within or among types, we see that he offers a model of political change that is not only as dynamic as many contemporary models of political systems/regimes, but we also find in today’s social scientific study of politics, what we call political science.  Yet Aristotle’s treatment of politeia differs from most if not all contemporary models found in today’s political science because his approach allows both strong quantitative and qualitative characteristics (not requiring the sacrificing of one for the other that is common in most contemporary approaches) that also are highly empirical in character yet offering great prescriptive richness that much empirical political typically lacks.

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