Dialectic

February 1, 2023 | Justin Ferrugia TD ‘24

image description: sketch of St. Dominic Catholic Church

In 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake nearly destroyed St. Dominic’s Catholic Church in San Francisco, California. The Gothic church, originally constructed between 1923 and 1948, is the seat of the western province Dominican order—an important church, and one that could not be lost without a fight. Since 1984, engineers had determined that the brittle stone construction of the church made it seismically unstable—and if it was to persist until the next generation, it would have to be reinforced. Most modern methods of earthquake fortification involve complex systems of subterranean springs and slides that allow the earth to move underneath a building that remains stationary. This was not an option for St. Dominic’s, as it would essentially require the demolition and reconstruction of the church—an endeavor antithetical to the restoration. 

The solution devised by engineers was nothing short of medieval: they proposed the construction of nine flying buttresses to shore up the cathedral’s walls. [1]

Flying buttresses are an engineering tool used since at least the 4th century which provide lateral stability to the tall, ill supported walls that exist in many cathedrals. In the Gothic era, these buttresses were used to counteract the outward lateral force provided by the vaulted ceiling.

As construction methods and materials improved, the flying buttress was no longer needed and became largely obsolete. It was a cornerstone of the Western architectural tradition that, because of progress and advancement, was no longer needed and was discarded. Yet, in 1989, in a situation of exception, architects and engineers used this relic of a past time—a bygone tradition—to reinforce and insure the longevity of a modern structure. 

Tradition is a complicated and fraught subject. In the science of engineering, when the central question, “does it work?” is answered objectively by the principles of static equilibrium, it can be easy to revive methods that our current age has discarded. But, in the realm of human interaction, society, politics, and the institutions that govern our lives and behavior, the answer to the question “does it work?” is far more difficult to decipher. 

The example of St. Dominic’s Church, however, reframes the question: how do we know when a tradition that has been discarded can be useful to solve a modern problem?

There is an increasing tendency to reject traditions of the past wholeheartedly to the point that we refuse to—or perhaps, more modestly, are uninterested in—studying. Much of this is justified. Human suffering has been reduced. The forces of inequality have been weakened. Progress exists, but despite the modernists’ best efforts, it is not always linear. How, then, do we decide which traditions to keep and which should go? Furthermore, how do we determine which situations call for a return to a prior tradition? Or, in other words, when progress can only come about through a reclamation of prior values or traditions? 

In the Catholic Church after the 1960’s and the Second Vatican Council, this question has plagued the mind of the faithful and the clergy alike, often leading to bitter disputes and even schisms between the so-called orthodox and heterodox, or between the “rad-trads” (short for radical traditionalists) and the “reformists.” These debates are often destructive.

But even outside the Church, these are questions society must continually wrestle with. But how? I hope here to build a framework, much like the framework used by engineers, by which we can evaluate norms and traditions of the past and present, and decide what practices to reinstitute.

Certainly, moral disagreement exists. And in a world where sociocultural norms are rapidly changing, much discord emerges when individuals do not understand the reason for the rejection of traditions. We all consume literature, music, laws, common opinions, and sage sayings—and unite these through our lived experience. Diverse perspectives are bound to emerge and if we cannot achieve a sense of understanding through open discourse, the shockwaves from the rapid change of traditions and cultural norms risks cracking the foundations of families, cultures, and nations.

As it happens, the method itself I will propose to clarify and resolve these disagreements comes from the medieval Scholastic tradition and the ancient Greek tradition before it: the Dialectic. Though the dialectical has taken on a new, more metaphysical connotation in Modernity, the ancients and scholastics understood it, in its most basic form, as an argument or conversation. A thesis meets an antithesis, distinctions are drawn, and a synthesis emerges. In his Topic, Aristotle describes dialectical reasoning thus:

“Reasoning…is 'dialectical', if it reasons from opinions that are generally accepted. Things are 'true' and 'primary' which are believed on the strength not of anything else but of themselves: for in regard to the first principles of science it is improper to ask any further for the why and wherefore of them; each of the first principles should command belief in and by itself. On the other hand, those opinions are 'generally accepted' which are accepted by every one or by the majority or by the philosophers—i.e. by all, or by the majority, or by the most notable and illustrious of them.” 

All human life deserves respect. Suffering should be alleviated when possible. Justice is to be sought. These are principles both primary and universally true. Yet their application is hotly contested. Does euthanasia dignify or destroy life? Is a cash bail system just, or not? These are opinions that emanate from these first principles, and the only way to develop them is through the process of dialectic reasoning. 

The instinct to cast away the things of old, to exclude from the conversation relevant ideas or relics simply because of their antiquity, should cause us great fear. If we ever are to have hope of progress, we must be open, seek out, and nurture the opposing argument. If this sounds legalistic, you’re right. The last vestiges of a pure dialectical thinking exhibit themselves most prominently in the legal system generally and in the courtroom specifically. Looking at democratic backsliding and the rise of autocracy throughout time, it is paradoxically lawyers who are the most ingrained in the elite in times of peace but are the last line of defense against the rise of autocracy—the single greatest example of regression achieved through the quashing of antitheses, even those most vulgar.  

To make the case for the dialectical I will give two examples: one contemporary and one historical. Paul de Man, a Belgian-born literary theorist pioneered the development of post-modern literary thought and—along with his great friend Jacques Derrida, an ethnic Jew— worked, in short, to understand Auschwitz. How had modernity and the enlightenment led to Nazi death camps? How had the enlightenment––an enterprise that promised to build itself upon human reason and exalt human self-determination, a movement that endeavored to move beyond God and locate the transcendent within the human mind— led to one of the greatest atrocities in human history?

At the end of his life, Paul de Man taught at Yale and was appointed as the Sterling Professor of Comparative Literature. After his death in 1983, a Belgian graduate student at the University of Leuven discovered a multiplicity of articles that de Man had written during the Second World War. They were shockingly anti-semitic. Derrida, a Jew and avid fighter against the relics of Nazism, had to answer for his deceased friend. In a time when universities were struggling with the question of whether to teach Heidegger, Derrida, as part of a sixty page essay embraces the antithesis, saying:

 “Will I dare say ‘on the other hand’ in the face of the unpardonable violence and confusion of [de Man’s] sentences? What could possibly attenuate the fault?…But one must have the courage to answer injustice with justice. And although one has to condemn these seances, which I have just done, one ought not do it without examining everything that remains readable in a text one can judge to be disastrous…Therefore, I will dare to say, this time as before, ‘on the other hand.’” [2]

Derrida’s point in this short passage and the essay as a whole is not to be tolerant of evil, but to search desperately to find the other side of the coin. The insidious evil of the 20th century posed a complex problem for academics. What is to be done when good ideas are born from the minds of those who cooperate with or perpetuate great evil, the existence of which leaves scars that will persist for centuries? Derrida’s answer is, in part, “be not afraid.” In an essay on forgiveness, Derrida acknowledges without hesitation that “...yes there is the unforgivable.” But, he asks, “Is this not, in truth, the only thing to forgive? The only thing that calls for forgiveness?” [3]

I argue that Derrida’s enterprise defending his friend Paul de Man was dialectical in character for the simple reason that, after a time and a place when the “true” and “primary” axioms of humanity were forgotten, he reclaimed these axioms and rather than rejecting the man who rejected the axioms, Derrida used the tool of forgiveness and synthesized a path forward.

This is a high stakes, and incredibly complicated example on which reasonable people will disagree for centuries. How, though, does the dialectical enter into our lives as students, young academics, and young professionals?

I’ll explore another example. I was recently at an event with a person in a position of leadership at the Yale Law School. As one would expect from someone in a leadership role at one of the most prestigious law schools in the world, this person has been both praised and criticized for the handling of several free speech issues. In this context the discord and polarization that exists in the United States and around the world was discussed—especially in the legal field. In so doing, the speaker demonstrated the power of the dialectical admonishing the attendants to never reject the counter argument. Paraphrasing one of the most salient points, the speaker said that the day when we collectively cannot find an opposing argument will be the day that discourse and progress dies. 

Derrida’s “on the other hand” is not only a powerful tool, but essential for moral progress. 

This essay began with the question: how do we know when a tradition that has been discarded can be useful to solve a modern problem? As it turns out, the answer to this question comes to us in the form of a forgotten tradition: the dialectic. The dialectic gives us both a powerful tool to discover which traditions enable us, and which ones corrupt us. It stabilizes our dialogue, and gives us the scaffolding to build empathy with our interlocutors and, perhaps, if we are lucky, to forgive the wrongs they make.

The seismic upgrade project that added the flying buttresses at St. Dominic's Church in San Francisco cost 6.6 million dollars. They are constructed on concrete piers many feet underground. In reality, the level of engineering and the construction––in short, the application of this medieval solution––was adapted to the common era. The ingenious solution will serve the church for years to come. I suggest we see a lesson in the story of St. Dominic’s to search through the good customs we have inherited for those that can buttress us and stabilize us for years to come.  

[1]  Hurley, Fr. Michael. “The Feast of the Dedication of St. Dominic's Church - Pastor’s Corner.” St. Dominic's Catholic Church: Pastor's corner. Accessed January 6, 2023. https://stdominics.org/resources/pastors_corner?id=678. 

[2]  Derrida Jacques, Like the Sound of the Sea Deep within a Shell: Paul de Man's War. Critical Inquiry, Vol. 14, No. 3, The Sociology of Literature (Spring, 1988), pp. 590-652
[3] Derrida, Jaques: On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness. Routledge London, England (2001)