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. Iām less charitable: you canāt will petrol into an empty tank. In my latest essay, I put āReasonā 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 isnāt dying ā itās already dead. Weāre just cataloguing the remains.
The Enlightenment was many things: a bonfire of superstition, a hymn to autonomy, a fever dream of āReasonā 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 āmoral Babel,ā 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 āmoral obligationā 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, āoughtā is nothing but resentment pretending to be metaphysics.
And yet, when MacIntyre reaches the heart of the matter, he canāt quite let the body stay buried. He wants to reattach a soul by importing an Aristotelian telos, even summoning a ānew St Benedictā to shepherd us through the ruins. It plays beautifully with those still tethered by a golden string to Aquinas and the premodern, but letās 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 jāai raison. The trouble is that thinking doesnāt guarantee rightness any more than an empty petrol tank guarantees motion. You can will fuel into existence all you like; the car still isnāt going anywhere.
The behavioral economists ā Kahneman, Tversky, Ariely, Gigerenzer ā have already demonstrated that human reason is less compass than carnival mirror. Jonathan Haidt has shown that our āmoral reasoningā usually lags behind our gut feelings like a PR department scrambling after a scandal. Meanwhile, political practice reduces ājust warā to a matter of who gets to publish the rule book. Progress⢠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 canāt resist playing resurrectionist, insisting that if we only chant the right metaphysical formula, the Enlightenmentās heart will start beating again. My own wager is bleaker ā 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; itās a set of rules as contingent as the offside law. Killing becomes āmurderā only when the tribe ā or the state ā says so. āLife is sacredā 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 coronerās mask on and say: The magic tricks arenāt working anymore. Stop looking for a metaphysical anchor that isnāt there. If thereās to be an āafter,ā it wonāt come from another Saint Benedict. It will come from admitting that the Enlightenment died of believing its own hype ā and that language itself was never built to carry the weight of gods.
