The Enlightenment promised a universal Reason; what we got was a carnival mirror that flatters philosophers and fools the rest of us. MacIntyre and Anscombe diagnosed the corpse with precision, but then tried to resurrect it with Aristotelian or theological magic tricks. Iâm less charitable: you canât will petrol into an empty tank. In my latest essay, I put âReasonâ on the slab, call in Kahneman, Hume, Nietzsche, and others as expert witnesses, and deliver the verdict: morality is a house rule, not a cosmic law. This piece is part of a larger project that includes my Language Insufficiency Hypothesis and Against Dumocracy. The Enlightenment isnât dying â itâs already dead. Weâre just cataloguing the remains.
The Enlightenment was many things: a bonfire of superstition, a hymn to autonomy, a fever dream of âReasonâ enthroned. Its philosophers fancied themselves heirs to Aristotle and midwives to a new humanity. And to be fair, they were clever enough to trick even themselves. Too clever by half.
Alasdair MacIntyre, in After Virtue, plays the role of forensic pathologist with admirable precision. He shows us how the Enlightenment dynamited the teleological scaffolding of Aristotle, then tried to keep the vocabulary of virtue, duty, and rights standing in mid-air. The result: what he calls a âmoral Babel,â a chorus of shrill assertions dressed up as rational law. Elizabeth Anscombe had already filed the death certificate back in 1958 with Modern Moral Philosophy, where she pointed out that our talk of âmoral obligationâ is just a Christian relic without a deity to enforce it. And Nietzsche, that perennial party-crasher, cheerfully declared the whole project bankrupt: once the gods are dead, âoughtâ is nothing but resentment pretending to be metaphysics.
And yet, when MacIntyre reaches the heart of the matter, he canât quite let the body stay buried. He wants to reattach a soul by importing an Aristotelian telos, even summoning a ânew St Benedictâ to shepherd us through the ruins. It plays beautifully with those still tethered by a golden string to Aquinas and the premodern, but letâs be honest: this is just hypnosis with a Latin chorus. Descartes told us je pense, donc je suis; MacIntyre updates it to je pense, donc jâai raison. The trouble is that thinking doesnât guarantee rightness any more than an empty petrol tank guarantees motion. You can will fuel into existence all you like; the car still isnât going anywhere.
The behavioral economists â Kahneman, Tversky, Ariely, Gigerenzer â have already demonstrated that human reason is less compass than carnival mirror. Jonathan Haidt has shown that our âmoral reasoningâ usually lags behind our gut feelings like a PR department scrambling after a scandal. Meanwhile, political practice reduces âjust warâ to a matter of who gets to publish the rule book. Progressâą is declared, rights are invoked, but the verdict is always written by the most powerful litigant in the room.
So yes, MacIntyre and Anscombe diagnose the corpse with impressive clarity. But then they canât resist playing resurrectionist, insisting that if we only chant the right metaphysical formula, the Enlightenmentâs heart will start beating again. My own wager is bleaker â or maybe just more honest. There is no golden thread back to Aristotle, no metaphysical petrol station in the desert. Morality is not a universal constant; itâs a set of rules as contingent as the offside law. Killing becomes âmurderâ only when the tribe â or the state â says so. âLife is sacredâ is not a discovery but a spell, a linguistic sleight of hand that lets us kill in one context while weeping in another.
The Enlightenment wanted to enthrone Reason as our common oracle. Instead, it handed us a corpse and told us to pretend it was still breathing. My contribution is simply to keep the coronerâs mask on and say: The magic tricks arenât working anymore. Stop looking for a metaphysical anchor that isnât there. If thereâs to be an âafter,â it wonât come from another Saint Benedict. It will come from admitting that the Enlightenment died of believing its own hype â and that language itself was never built to carry the weight of gods.
