What is Justice? A Socratic Dialog

In Education and the Seduction of Modern Culture this semester, one of our assigned readings is Plato’s Republic. Most have heard of this work though it is unlikely that many have read more than fragments of it. However, it provides some very fruitful grounds for discussion and thought and will provide the basis for this issue’s newsletter.

It has been said that all modern philosophy is but a footnote to Plato and whether this statement is an accurate one or not, it does suggest something about the amount of ground covered in this Greek philosopher’s works. In addition, what we know of Socrates, we know only through the quill of Plato. In fact, Socrates is the central character in the Republic and scholars are in sharp disagreement as to how authentically he is portrayed versus how much of Plato’s ideology is wrangled in unawares. Resources abound on the life and history of Plato and Socrates, so I will keep my comments pertaining to their lives and circumstances succinct. We should first note that both were from Athens, the ancient city-state in Greece, some four hundred years before the coming of Christ.

Socrates was older than Plato (c. 470–399 B.C. as opposed to 428–347 B.C.) and served as his mentor and teacher. Socrates was the son of Sophroniscus (who was most likely a stonemason) and Phaenarete, a midwife. His father had political connections and his family moved about in the upper echelon within the Periclean circle. (Pericles was the ruler of Athens when Socrates was a youth.) Socrates married Xanthippe and they had at least a few sons. He served in the Peloponnesian War and was specifically noted for his courage in the battles at Potidaea, Delium, and Amphipolis. (The history of the war as recorded by the ancient historian Thucydides—an Athenian general who witnessed the fighting firsthand—is available through the Internet Classics Archive.) However, in his later years he neglected his private affairs to great degree caring naught for wealth beyond his own simple needs. Instead, he devoted his time to “the supreme art of philosophy.”

Plato came from an elite family in the aristocracy that was against the proposed inception of the new democracy. When this form of government won out, Plato’s family was largely disenfranchised. Plato likely fought in the Peloponnesian War, no doubt a member of the cavalry, the wealthy class of equestrian warriors. Plato became a pupil of Socrates at the age of twenty; Socrates died around the time that Plato was thirty-one. Skipping over the list of names in between Socrates death and Plato’s crowning achievement, we will simply note that Plato went on to found the Academy when he was around forty, the forerunner to the modern university. When Plato was sixty, one of his best known pupils, Aristotle, all of twenty years old, became his student. Interestingly, a study of the Church Fathers will reveal that Plato and Aristotle were the two key pillars for the philosophical elements found within our Christian theology, creating a sort of tension or polarity that still exists somewhat in the present day between these two competing schools of thought.

The Republic of Plato, as it has come to be called, takes place in Athens and is an extended dialog between Socrates and a handful of aristocratic young men who stand the potential of becoming tyrant of Athens. At the time, a tyrant was simply a type of leader put into office outside the usual system of government and nothing more; often he was a great benefactor of the city and very popular with the populace. The reason we think of a tyrant today as someone who is a despotic ruler also finds its origins in ancient Greece, though namely in abuses suffered by the sons who succeeded their fathers’ thrones. It is to men just such as these—the makings of tyrants—that Socrates engages in the course of his dialog recorded in the Republic.

Though it is not even always the most interesting theme, the question “What is justice?” acts as the underlying thread that weaves the dialog together. Specifically the young men want to know why it is better to be just than to be unjust, provided one can get away with injustice. We will pick up the yarn starting with Book II, where an argument presented by a rhetorician and overturned by Socrates is being presented in a much stronger light. We should also note before diving in that there is lesson to be learned here: if you wish to be persuasive, you should not find some small objection to your point and triumphantly knock it down expecting your hearers to be convinced. (This method is the way in which many people argue, from quarreling couples to zealous fanatics.) No, rather than building a straw man and knocking it down much to the derision of your listeners who are not so easily impressed, you should instead find the biggest, toughest, most difficult objections you know and proceed to show how they are false. If you do not know your opponent’s views this well—if you cannot argue both sides equally well—you had probably best leave the argumentation up to someone who does and do some further research of your own.

There are three variations of the argument a young man by the name of Glaucon (one of Plato’s brothers, no less) presents to Socrates. He first sets up his argument by inserting a disclaimer we will include to be fair to his honor. Glaucon is a student of a sophist by the name of Thrasymachus, a man who gets paid to teach the young men the art of rhetoric—in his case at least, how to make the weak argument appear the stronger. Thrasymachus proposed the same arguments in Book I that Glaucon is getting ready to reiterate here in Book II, though Socrates shrewdly used philosophical sleight of hand to embarrass the “master” to silence, hence the origin of the literary allusion “Thrasymachus blushing.” Glaucon begins:

So reads the translation provided by Allan Bloom, the same author we mentioned in the last issue who wrote The Closing of the American Mind. (Incidentally, an online copy of the Republic and others by Plato can be found at Ancient/Classical History: do note, however, that the online copy of the Republic was translated by Benjamin Jowett, not Allan Bloom.) Recall that Glaucon is a young man with wealth and political clout. He is receiving the very finest in education as to the “tricks of the trade” every tyrant needs to know and it is in his teacher Thrasymachus’ best interest—think job security—to instruct him as to how to get what he wants. Further, even without attaching any working definition to justice (which at least to this point Socrates has not done), we all have an intuitive sense that what I want is not necessarily synonymous with justice, for justice indicates some degree of fairness. If we think about fairness for a moment, it does not mean that whatever I happen to want at any given moment is always what ought to happen, but rather built into this idea is the concept that my will should be subjugated to the greatest good. At any given moment the greatest good may or may not include what I might happen to want to do. However, if I am the tyrant, I am free to do what I will, even going so far as to give the title “tyrant” a bad name if I wish. If I have absolute power, why should I bend my knee to you, a mere man I can crush with my little finger?

Thrasymachus’ worldly wisdom suggests that a ruler should not only learn that he is ruler, but that he should also learn how to exploit his position to his greatest advantage. Justice? Who cares? Grab life by the horns and milk it for all its worth, baby. I’ll teach you ways of cunning beyond your wildest lusts; I’ll teach you how to get away with murder, if you can pardon my banality of speech.

If we are to believe the words that come from Glaucon’s lips (so far as I can see, we have no reason not to), there is something within him that wills Socrates to demonstrate that there is a higher and better way. It would seem that he, like us, realizes that there must be something to virtue and honor and goodness, yet also like many of us, he does not see it receiving much accolade. Quite the contrary, evil always seems to triumph and maybe that is an indication that it is indeed stronger. It can be rather difficult to believe in the goodness of the good when everywhere it is struck down in the streets. “So then, Socrates,” Glaucon says, “persuade me in irrevocable terms that what I know is true and right is really true and right. Show me that it is better to be just than to be unjust, even if I can be unjust and get away with it.” His first argument in the series of three begins like this:

Now what are we to make of this statement? Glaucon claims (not speaking for himself, but in speaking for the powerful opinion he often hears) that “the genesis and being of justice [. . .] is a mean between what is best—doing injustice without paying the penalty—and what is worse—suffering injustice without being able to avenge oneself.” All arguments have underlying presuppositions built into them: that is to say that all arguments assume certain things to be true without the sake of an appeal to reason. In this case, the assumption of this argument is that injustice is a noble thing: provided that one can get away with it, it is far better to be unjust than to be just. However, for all the goodies that being unjust can get a person—his neighbor’s wife, his neighbor’s clothes, his neighbor’s house—it is by far a greater malady to be so weak you cannot be unjust—your wife taken by the neighbor, your clothes on his back, your eviction notice so that he can move in or sell your house. Since practicing injustice is a good thing (here is that underlying assumption again) yet having it done to you is even worse than the good injustice will bring you, weak men make contracts with one another to avoid the even worse fate of having injustice done to them: it’s fun to play, but it ain’t so fun to pay. This factor alone is what we call justice: it does not otherwise exist. Is there any truth to this observation? Is such a statement entirely false? Keep these questions under your hat as we move into the second argument Glaucon raises;

As a bit of an aside, I would have to wonder if the literary parallels are more than coincidental to a much more recent author by the name of J.R.R. Tolkien and his conception of a ring with the power to render one invisible. Tolkien, being the professor of medieval literature, itself greatly influenced by the Greek thinkers of renown, was surely not unaware of either this account or perhaps the original myth of Gyges. Whatever the origin of his sub-creations, we could safely conclude that the lord of such a set of rings mentioned by Glaucon would be no less diabolical than Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings nor would the rings be any less a temptation to those who possessed it magic powers. Don’t let this side note sidetrack you from the discussion at hand.

Glaucon argues that if we were to follow two men—one who was just and one was unjust—who had been presented with identical rings that made each invisible when the gemstone was turned inward, soon enough we would see that the man who was supposedly just would gravitate toward injustice, recognizing he could do so with total impunity. How far off the truth is he in this observation? Or what of his statement: “Indeed, all men suppose injustice is far more to their private profit than justice.” Is this not true? Can we agree that it is most likely that even those who consider themselves most devout (perhaps even you?) would be tempted to the point of sin, particularly if they believed that even God would not hold them accountable? Do you think you could hold out forever if not even God knew? Maybe you wouldn’t stoop to the same level as the totally unjust man: maybe you wouldn’t go raping anyone or defrauding anyone of what rightfully belonged to him or her. But would you be tempted to the point of sin to do something you knew was wrong; something that was unjust? Assuming that you agree that yes, you very likely would be tempted to the point of sin and you would much rather not be put to such a difficult test, thank you very much: what does this observation do to the question of what justice is and how it ought to be practiced? Can we admit the truth of one without denying the other? Of course I have some thoughts, but do allow me to move on and I’ll wrap up my own observations at the end.

Glaucon picks up the third leg of his argument with these same two men, this time minus their invisible rings. He wishes to examine the quality of their lives:

Let’s recap this third phase of the argument. We are again presented with these two men and care is taken to insure that they are the best possible representatives. The unjust man is cunning and crafty and well able to get away with his salacious pursuits whereas the just man does not merely seem to be good, but is indeed good. It is interesting that this distinction between appearances and reality is made: the just man must not only have the appearance of virtue but must practice it with all of his heart. Interestingly, another stipulation is rallied into support for the argument: the unjust man must seem just and the just man, like Job, must seem unjust in the eyes of his fellows. Needless to say, this stipulation presents a worse case scenario in keeping with our concept that toppling the strongest possible argument is the most effective means of persuasion. Now then, do you notice the criteria used to determine which is superior to the other? The text concludes by stating “they can be judged as to which of the two is happier.”

Now is the time for us to begin asking some questions of our own. Perhaps the first question we should ask ourselves is whether the criterion for judging the relative goodness or badness of justice should be happiness. Is it fair to evaluate the presence and relative merit of justice on whether or not it would make one happy in the worst possible case scenario? Yet even as we ask such a question, we will have to admit that on a purely practical level this is exactly how we often evaluate things: “Does it make me happy?” We realize if we but take a moment to consider that happiness is not the highest criteria for evaluating the relative worth of something. There are many things that are not particularly enjoyable or filled with happiness that are nonetheless essential to ensure a greater quality of life. For example, if I am ill, it is not particularly pleasant for the doctor to stick me with needles or to prescribe medicine that tastes disagreeable to me. By looking at the larger picture, I recognize that the immediate displeasure I experience—displeasure added over and above the displeasure of my illness—will lead to the alleviation of all the displeasure associated with my illness. We could cite other examples: learning Greek may not be very enjoyable but the satisfaction one gets from being able to read the Iliad of the Odyssey or the New Testament in the native language is its own reward. There are many things in life where my personal happiness at any given moment must be subjugated in light of the larger picture.

Now then, what is the larger picture in the case of these arguments? The first argument begins with the assumption that “They say that doing injustice is naturally good, and suffering injustice bad.” If we are to get at any larger picture here, we must ask some more questions. What exactly is the criteria for good and bad used here? The second argument provides us with a vital clue behind the use of “good” in this passage: “Indeed, all men suppose injustice is far more to their private profit than justice.” We are, then, arguing that the way we measure goodness (and badness) is based on what we get out of it: “what’s in it for me?” If I profit, that is a good thing. If I lose out, that is a bad thing. Goodness is gaining, badness is losing.

Yet within our very argument we already see the fatal flaw to this system of determining goodness and badness: it is not consistent. Imagine a third person standing silently by and listening to our definition of goodness and badness. She stands there, arms folded, as we proceed to explain. She can see that we are both saying the same thing: “If I harm you to my gain, that is good. If you harm me to your gain, that is bad.” But the problem is that while our words agree, the big picture of goodness and badness do not. What is good for me is bad for you, what is bad for you, is good for me. Thus what is good is bad, what is bad is good, an inherent contradiction that makes any discussion of the relative merit of these virtues an exercise of futility.

So then, what is good and what is bad? These things must be measured in some other way than the personal gain that I get from it, because if this system is the only one we use in determining what is good or bad, there is no universal goodness or universal badness. It is simply relative to the person in question.

As I see it, Glaucon’s argument expresses two great truths: (1) it shows the sinful, selfish nature of humanity and (2) it notes that this creates a problem precisely because we are not alone in this world. If other people besides just me exist, from necessity’s sake alone we have to figure out some way of reconciling these contradictions. How can my goodness be your badness? This would not pose so large a question if I alone existed: however, other people also exist, hence a glaring problem arises. Glaucon suggests that the common way of handling this contradiction is to set down some kind of compact or legal agreement where I agree not to do injustice to you and you agree not to do injustice to me. In so doing, he suggests, this is where justice is born. I am not suggesting that justice or fairness would not be accomplished by this method, but Glaucon’s argument still suggests that it is better to be unjust than to be just. He is, in effect, advocating a contradiction even while presenting a working system to skirt around the issue. If they set down such a contract, men do in fact now behave more justly to one another: however, the argument itself is still saddled with a contradiction.

Before we look further at justice and injustice, let’s consider if we could come up with a better system for determining if something is right or wrong. If we sign a contract with one another agreeing not to harm each other yet we still believe that doing injustice to others is good and that suffering injustice from the hands of others is bad, we have done nothing to eliminate the contradiction in our thought, even if we outwardly more civil to one another. Thus, we still do not know what goodness and badness are—if indeed they are anything beyond personal preference. Based on the implicit definition that goodness is what I get out of the deal and that badness is what I suffer, we could say that Glaucon’s argument is valid. But if we can demonstrate that the source of authority to which we appeal is not universal enough, we can find the vital flaw to his argument.

Did you notice that our words agreed even though their source did not? We both said that it was good to profit and we both said that it was bad to suffer. The main problem with our definition, however, was how we sought to profit and the source by which we suffered. For a moment, let’s take the idea that gain and loss are achieved through the tool of injustice and set it up on the shelf. Let’s assume that goodness and badness are measured by the standards of profits or losses, regardless the agency that brings such gains or setbacks about. Finding this commonality in our argument gives us some room to work with in determining what is truly good and what is truly bad.

Now if we both agree that goodness is when we gain something worthwhile and badness is when we lose something worthwhile then maybe we can use this as a universal standard. We could go back to the third person who was overseeing our discussion and say that in light of what we do agree on, goodness involves not only personal gain, but gain for anyone, whether for ourselves or others. If all people agree that it is better to gain than to loose, then this rule must be a universal one. This means that it is not only better for me to gain something but it is also better for you to gain something as well. So too, if we all agree that it is bad to suffer loss then what is true of the single individual must be true of the multitude. So for all people, badness is when anyone loses out. Now we have a standard for what is good and what is bad that agrees from person to person as well as agrees with itself. There is no remaining contradiction in our argument.

Now let’s return to the argument with this higher-minded view of good and bad in place. At the very onset of our argument, we said, “They say that doing injustice is naturally good.” Why do we say this? Because injustice brings about personal profit. The problem is that injustice also brings about personal loss. We said that not only can injustice bring about personal loss, but we made a value statement about the personal loss it brings. We said, “They say that doing injustice is naturally good, and suffering injustice bad, but that the bad in suffering injustice far exceeds the good in doing.”

Taken according to our current understanding of good or bad, is the big picture of injustice more positive or more negative in nature? If suffering injustice far exceeds the good in doing it, injustice must not in and of itself be a universally good thing. It might be profitable to me, but it can cause me even greater harm when it is used against me. Therefore, we assert that injustice is “naturally good,” but this is only true if our definition of goodness is exclusively limited to what we personally, as individuals, stand to gain or lose. And, as we have pointed out, if this is how we define good or bad, we have an inherent contradiction on our hands. When we correct the problem of what is good and what is bad to make it consistent from person to person and with itself, we have to conclude that injustice cannot be “naturally good,” for while it does sometimes benefit people it always harms someone and the harm it does far exceeds the good it does. If someone is always harmed, then it cannot be good according to a non-contradictory definition of what goodness is: what is good for the goose is good for the gander. (And if you argue that the goose and gander have different needs, we still admit that meeting those specific needs is the greater good; our rule still holds that goodness is what is good for all, not solely for one—and especially not at the expense of others.)

Let’s look at another thing we have attempted to do with our very first sentence: “They say that doing injustice is naturally good.” In effect, we have begun our argument by talking about injustice: by stating a negative. Do you remember the recent issue of Le Penseur Réfléchit where we discussed the idea of negation? Lenny Esposito of Come Reason Ministries was responding to a critic who argued that if God created everything, that would mean He also created evil. Implicit in his allegation was the notion that evil is a “thing” and therefore was necessarily included in the concept of “everything.” But while “everything” is literally “every thing,” Esposito argued that sin and evil were not “things” at all. He illustrated his point by holding the concept of coldness up for inspection. The only way we can define the term “cold” is by knowing what heat is, because coldness is the lack of heat. Thus coldness does not truly exist in itself but is rather defined by the absence of something that does exist: thermal energy or heat. Esposito noted that the same is true of a vacuum: a vacuum is empty space defined by what it lacks, not by what it contains within itself.

Now that we have made this distinction clear, we again notice that the argument presented by Glaucon begins on a negative by talking about injustice: the lack of justice. If we were to rephrase it in terms of a positive, we would be forced to say “They say that not doing justice is naturally good.” Let’s look at the argument one last time in context:

We started with a negative, talking about injustice. But now comes the curve ball: “And this, then, is the genesis and being of justice; it is a mean between what is best—doing injustice without paying the penalty—and what is worse—suffering injustice without being able to avenge oneself. The just is in the middle between these two, cared for not because it is good but because it is honored due to a want of vigor in doing injustice.” Why is this a curve ball? Because we have started by speaking of injustice, a negative that can only be defined in terms of the existence of a positive, and from this negative we have attempted to define the positive.

Yet how can this be? For in order to speak of “injustice”: the “in” meaning “lack of,” we have to have something there in order to be able to take away from it. We must tack the prefix “in” at the beginning of a word that already exists and has meaning if we are understand what it is exactly that we have a “lack of.” In order to understand that “injustice is naturally good,” we first have to understand what justice is. Then, once we have understood what justice is, we can decide whether or not the lack of it is good (or bad). When we attempt to define what justice is by using its negative, we already assume the knowledge of what justice is in the first place. I suppose you could say that justice is indeed the “lack of injustice,” but the double negative is more cumbersome than it is worth.

The first argument concludes by suggesting that if a man is capable of getting away with injustice—and if he be a real man—he wouldn’t dream of signing a contract in which he agreed to be just, or, perhaps more accurately, in which he agreed to refrain from injustice. Its final synopsis of such a man is “he’d be mad.” We have already noted that if we wish to avoid contradictions, we need a definition of goodness that not only agrees from person to person but also with itself. If goodness is to have meaning, it must be capable of existing apart from personal preference. In the case of goodness being defined as something of gain or profit for all men, goodness not only stands on its own but also happens to be supported by personal preference as well. We all would rather experience gain than to suffer loss.

Now then, which sort of man would be a “real” man, a man consistent within himself and sound in mind, body, and spirit? Would it be the man who believes that goodness is purely what gives him gain even when it takes away from others, or, more specifically to the central point of the argument, knowing that it will take away from the good of others? or would it be the man who can see the larger picture and recognizes that gain for all persons is good and that any suffrage of loss is bad no matter who suffers it? Which would be the madman, the man of unsound mind? And what does it mean to be unsound if not suffering from internal disunity? Harmony and wholeness go hand in glove: madness is mental disharmony or disharmony between the mind and the cosmos. So again I ask: is a man closer to madness (a) if he believes in and soundly supports an inherit contradiction, or (b) if he gives his loyalties to a virtue that is consistent with itself as well as personal preference?

Perhaps we should modify our definition of goodness being gain or profit and badness being the suffrage of loss. What if we raise the objection that a man who commits a crime is locked away for thirty days? He is a man—a human being—and he has lost something, right? In an ideal world, we would look at this as a corrective loss for his greater good. His temporary loss of freedom is enacted so that he might gain something greater—personal virtue—than the freedom which he has lost with his short stint behind bars. But let us assume that he does not gain personal virtue through the experience. Why then, do we still believe it is just to punish him for his crimes? It is because he is infringing on the right of other persons to enjoy goodness. When it is done fairly, our legal system suggests that a man forfeits his own rights (at least for a time) when he trespasses the rights of his neighbor. Therefore, it is because of (and not in spite of) our definition of goodness and badness—that gain or profit is good for all people and that the suffrage of loss is bad for all people—that we penalize those who transgress this principle.

Let us move onto the second phase of the argument where we are presented with two men—one just, the other unjust—and two magic invisibility rings. The argument suggests (and quite correctly in my opinion) that soon enough there would be little difference between the just and the unjust man. At the least, we would have to admit that a just man who knew he could commit injustice with impunity would be sorely tempted to do so, at least on occasion. Temptation is not sin, but it does suggest warring passions. But let us ask another question: does it necessarily follow that if a just man and an unjust man both become unjust when given license to do so that (a) there is no such thing as true justice, or (b) that justice is not worth pursuing? What if I were to say that all men are sinners and I pointed to the obvious empirical evidence a casual glance through history affords to support my premise. Does it follow that (a) there is no such thing as righteousness, or (b) that righteousness is not worth pursuing? If anything, I have merely shown the limitations of humanity, suggesting that we fallen short of the ideal. But if there is no ideal there whatsoever, to what new kinds of lows will we sink? The fact of the matter is that we are still straddled with the realization that we are not alone in the world and our temptations toward selfishness (which is what injustice ultimately fulfills) are short-sighted, focusing on immediate gratification at the expense of a richer, fuller experience brought about by true brotherhood and unity between fellow members of the human race.

There is always a price to pay for injustice: isolation from others, their distrust of you, in many cases their hatred. With many people, if you wrong them, they burn to avenge themselves, waiting for you to trip up and stumble. Then too, you have to live with the spiritual poverty and emptiness your own actions have engendered. But even if you wish to continue being unjust, there is an interesting principle at work mentioned in the third leg of the argument that we do not find with justice: “For the extreme of injustice is to seem to be just when one is not.” Why does injustice need to parody the just if it is truly superior? Let it stand alone like a man if it be so valiant. Yet what applies to injustice, applies to all forms of evil.

Good and evil are not opposites—certainly not equal and opposite. Evil is merely a “parasite” or perversion of the good; good can exist by itself, evil cannot exist apart from the good, for it owes its very existence to the good. A murder depends on life to be the murder that it is, yet it cannot give life. Light is the presence of energy, darkness is merely the absence of light. Reality does not depend on belief to exist: believe it or don’t, it will still continue to exist regardless. A lie’s power, however, exists only within the mind of the deceived and promptly disappears once the truth is learned.

All negatives have meaning only in regard to the positive, whereas the positive can exist by itself. If there were no such thing as justice, there would be nothing to call unjust; if there was no such thing as injustice, there could still foreseeably be something to call just. It is possible to have justice without ever having injustice: it is not possible to have or to understand injustice without the standard of justice by which to measure it. This factor is why the Apostle Paul says in Romans 7:9 that when the law was introduced “sin sprang into existence.” Sin was always present, of course, but without understanding that sin is a dependent “entity” that must stand in negation to something else (God’s righteousness) and never on its own, there was nothing by which to define it, so therefore it did not “exist” metaphorically. Without the law to show the utter righteousness of God (and thereby the shamefulness of sin), it remained hidden and unknown.

Supposedly, in our third argument, “we shall take away nothing from the injustice of the unjust man nor from the justice of the just man, but we shall take each as perfect in his own pursuit.” Yet, in the same breath, we not only set the unjust man up as appearing just but we cripple the good man by making him seem to appear unjust. Perhaps our rationale is to make the strongest possible argument against justice and see if it can still stand. Is this because we secretly know that justice is superior and must therefore be curbed more stringently if we stand any chance of squashing it flat? Let us make the just man appear a miserable wretch in the eyes of the world and the unjust man a sparkling diamond. And then, in the end, let us judge between the two men which of the two is happier.

Again, I pose to you the question I raised earlier. Is happiness a sufficient criteria in determining our two objectives (a) is there such a thing as justice, and (b) if there is, is it worth pursuing? Certainly the personal happiness of our two respective candidates says nothing whatsoever about whether true justice exists or not: in fact, it seems to assume that it does for the sake of an argument. Of the just man it says “a man simple and noble, who, according to Aeschylus, does not wish to seem, but rather to be, good. The seeming must be taken away.” Now we really get to the heart of whether justice is worth pursuing. Is it worth pursuing justice even if one is made miserable by it?

In order for justice to be worthwhile in light of such heavy opposition, I must either say that the internal reward I reap from such an uphill fight would exceed whatever I lost in terms of happiness or that this life is not the only life that there is or both. I think I could honestly say that neither man would be truly happy: the just man would not be happy because his justice appears to go unrewarded and the unjust man would not be happy either because he had to live with himself: every victory he achieved would be hollow. Perhaps, in the end, the just man would be the happier of the two, for while he was scorned for his justice, vilified and defiled, he could nonetheless lay his head down at night in perfect rest. The unjust man, however, could never pass a mirror without realizing how great of a phony he was. The unjust man could never have any kind of richer spiritual life, for his skill at injustice would effectively bar him from communion with God or the realization of some of his greater potential.

If this life is not the only life there is to live and there be a good God above, I, along with Job, can surely confess that even if I spend my days in unhappiness here on earth, I will be blessed there. Jesus teaches in the Beatitudes that those who suffer for His sake will be blessed, and we could certainly say that justice is all part of His desire for our lives. Whatever the case, I do not think that we can say it is better to be unjust than just even in the face of such dire circumstances. Further, I do not think it likely that a just man would spend his entire life appearing unjust. I think Glaucon’s second argument involving the invisibility rings is perhaps truer to life in this regard: “if a man were to get hold of such license [as the rings] and were never willing to do any injustice and didn’t lay his hands on what belongs to others, he would seem most wretched to those who were aware of it, and most foolish too, although they would praise him to each other’s faces, deceiving each other for fear of suffering injustice.”

Even if the people around him considered him a wretched fool for not seizing opportunities for injustice, they would still praise him with their lips. But further, I think that most people have a built-in respect for virtue, hence the need of such arguments as these in the first place to rationalize human vice. In an interesting trade-off, even those who practice deceit and dishonesty tend to look less favorably upon others who practice the same. This was certainly true of my pre-Christian days in the drug world. When I entered the homes of others who were doing the very same things I was doing in front of their children, I was often repulsed. What is more, I did not hold a very high opinion of myself either for I knew that my life was a hopelessly tangled web of deceit and lies.

What is justice? Well, I suppose we could have a fruitful discussion of that question for years to come. Perhaps I have not succeeded in arguing down these classic arguments that still surface to this very day. I can only hope that the presentation of a text over two thousand years old combined with my feeble attempts at knocking down these erected barriers will at least broach the issue anew and perhaps clarify your thinking on a few of these matters. At the least, I hope that my words have caused you to consider these ideas more thoughfully and that through them new truths have been revealed. So then, until the next issue . . . au revoir! Revoyez-vous en deux semaines.

“The exercise of justice is joy for the righteous, but is terror to the workers of iniquity. Evil men do not understand justice, but those who seek the LORD understand all things.”

Subscribe to Le Penseur Réfléchit, the Mr. Renaissance bi-weekly newsletter.

Previous E-mail | Next E-mail