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“Critically assess the importance of the sanctity of life in decisions about euthanasia.” [40]

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The sanctity of life is the belief that human life is intrinsically valuable and sacred, often grounded in the idea that life is created in the image of God (imago Dei) and therefore possesses inherent dignity. This principle has been especially influential in religious ethical frameworks, most notably within Roman Catholic teaching, where it plays a central role in opposition to euthanasia, as well as in the Biblically based teachings of Protestant denominations. The principle of the Sanctity of Life has also influenced Kantian, Virtue and Human Rights frameworks. However, alternative approaches, particularly those grounded in utilitarianism and personhood theory, challenge the absolute status of the sanctity of life. Overall, while the sanctity of life remains an important consideration in decisions about euthanasia—especially in safeguarding against abuse and affirming human dignity—it should not be regarded as decisive, as it can lead to morally problematic outcomes when applied rigidly in cases involving suffering and autonomy.

Firstly, the sanctity of life is highly important within traditional religious approaches, particularly in the teaching of the Roman Catholic Church, where it provides a clear and consistent moral framework opposing euthanasia. The Church’s position is articulated in the Declaration on Euthanasia (1980), issued by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, which states that “nothing and no one can in any way permit the killing of an innocent human being.” This reflects the belief that life is a gift from God and that only God has authority over its beginning and end. Such a view is rooted in Natural Law, particularly the primary precept to preserve life, as developed by Thomas Aquinas. The strength of this approach lies in its consistency and its protection of vulnerable individuals; by rejecting euthanasia outright, it avoids the risk of coercion or the devaluation of lives deemed less “worthy.” Furthermore, it upholds a strong sense of human dignity that does not depend on physical or mental capacity. The fact that having the sanctity of human life can be the basis for a credible ethical approach is demonstrated by the work of John Finnis, who situated life as a basic human good that cannot be compromised in his “Natural Law and Natural Rights” (1980). However, critics argue that such an absolutist stance as is supported by the principle of the Sanctity of Human Life can lead to inhumane outcomes, particularly in cases of extreme suffering, where prolonging life may seem to conflict with compassion. Nevertheless, the sanctity of life remains a foundational principle within this tradition, demonstrating its significant importance in shaping ethical decisions about euthanasia.

Secondly, the sanctity of life plays an important role in secular ethical debates as a safeguard against the potential dangers of legalising euthanasia, even if it is not always treated as absolute. Upholding the intrinsic value of life can act as a barrier against the “slippery slope” argument, which suggests that permitting voluntary euthanasia could lead to non-voluntary or involuntary forms. By maintaining that all human life has value, societies can resist pressures to normalise ending life for reasons such as disability, old age, or economic burden. This concern is implicitly supported by religious frameworks but also resonates in broader human rights discourse. However, thinkers such as Peter Singer challenge the sanctity of life by distinguishing between “human life” and “personhood.” Singer argues that moral value should be based not on mere biological existence but on characteristics such as self-awareness, rationality, and the capacity to suffer. He controversially claims that “killing a person is normally worse than killing a non-person,” implying that some forms of euthanasia may be morally permissible or even desirable. While Singer’s approach allows for compassionate responses to suffering and prioritises quality of life, it also raises serious ethical concerns about who gets to decide which lives are valuable. In this context, the sanctity of life continues to function as an important counterbalance, ensuring that ethical decisions do not become purely utilitarian calculations.

However, the importance of the sanctity of life can be challenged on the grounds that it may conflict with other key ethical principles, particularly autonomy and compassion. Critics argue that an absolute commitment to preserving life can undermine an individual’s right to choose how and when they die, especially in cases of terminal illness or unbearable suffering. From a liberal perspective influenced by thinkers such as John Stuart Mill, respect for autonomy is central to moral decision-making, and denying a competent individual the right to end their life could be seen as an unjustified form of paternalism. This is reinforced by the work of Peter Singer, who argues that the capacity to suffer, rather than mere biological life, is morally decisive; where continued existence brings more suffering than benefit, euthanasia may be justified. Furthermore, even within the Roman Catholic Church there is recognition that preserving life is not an absolute duty in all circumstances. The Declaration on Euthanasia permits the refusal of “over-zealous treatment” and accepts that allowing death to occur may be morally permissible where burdens outweigh benefits. Similarly, the doctrine of double effect allows for actions such as administering high doses of analgesics that may hasten death, provided the intention is pain relief rather than killing. This suggests an implicit prioritisation of compassion and proportionality over the mere prolongation of life. However, this critique does not entirely undermine the importance of the sanctity of life. Rather, it demonstrates that even its strongest proponents recognise the need for nuance in its application. The principle continues to act as a moral constraint, ensuring that decisions about euthanasia are not reduced to purely subjective or utilitarian calculations. Therefore, although autonomy and compassion challenge its absoluteness, they do not eliminate its significance.  Nevertheless, it could be argued that the sanctity of life remains the most important principle in decisions about euthanasia because it provides a necessary safeguard against the dangers inherent in alternative approaches. Without it, ethical decision-making risks sliding into a form of utilitarianism that permits the devaluation of certain lives. Peter Singer’s distinction between “persons” and “non-persons,” for example, has been widely criticised for implying that individuals lacking rationality or self-awareness—such as infants or those with severe cognitive impairments—may have less moral worth. Critics such as Leon Kass argue that abandoning the sanctity of life leads to a “culture of death,” where human dignity is contingent and negotiable. In this context, the sanctity of life provides an essential moral foundation by affirming the equal and inherent value of all human beings, regardless of their capacities. However, this defence can be challenged. While the sanctity of life may protect against abuse, its rigid application can itself produce morally troubling outcomes, such as prolonging intense suffering against a patient’s wishes. Moreover, the slippery slope argument is often overstated; empirical evidence from countries where euthanasia is legal suggests that robust safeguards can be implemented. Therefore, while the sanctity of life is undeniably important as a protective principle, it should not be treated as overriding all other considerations. Its role is better understood as one element within a broader ethical framework, rather than the decisive factor.

In conclusion, the sanctity of life plays a significant but not decisive role in decisions about euthanasia. It provides a vital moral foundation, particularly within religious traditions such as the Roman Catholic Church, and serves as an important safeguard against the devaluation of human life. However, its absolutist application can lead to morally troubling consequences, especially when it conflicts with considerations of autonomy and the alleviation of suffering. The strongest argument against its ultimate importance lies in its inability to adequately address complex, real-world cases where preserving life may not align with compassion or individual dignity. Therefore, while the sanctity of life should remain a central consideration in ethical deliberations about euthanasia, it must be balanced with other principles to ensure that moral decision-making is both humane and context-sensitive.

“In situation ethics, moral decision-making is entirely individualistic and subjective.” Discuss [40]

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Situation ethics is a teleological and relativist ethical theory most fully developed by Joseph Fletcher in the 1960s, which argues that moral decision-making should be guided not by absolute rules but by agape—selfless, unconditional love. While other situational approaches exist, such as those proposed by William Temple and John A. T. Robinson, this essay will focus specifically on Fletcher’s formulation. In Situation Ethics (1966), Fletcher rejects both legalism (strict adherence to moral laws, such as Natural Law or Divine Command Theory) and antinomianism (the rejection of all moral constraints, associated with thinkers like Søren Kierkegaard), proposing instead a middle way where principles guide but do not determine action. However, despite Fletcher’s intention to avoid complete relativism by grounding ethics in agape, this essay will argue that his approach ultimately renders moral decision-making highly individualistic and subjective, because it depends on personal judgement in both defining and applying love within each situation.

Firstly, Fletcher’s rejection of absolute moral laws clearly demonstrates the individualistic nature of situation ethics. By reducing traditional moral rules to contingent “rules of thumb,” Fletcher allows individuals to override them whenever they conflict with agape. His four working principles—pragmatism, relativism, positivism, and personalism—prioritise flexibility and personal engagement with moral dilemmas. For example, relativism explicitly denies that moral norms are fixed, with Fletcher insisting that “the situationist avoids words like ‘never’ and ‘always’.” This rejection of universality is reinforced by his use of case studies such as the “honey trap” and the bombing of Hiroshima, where he invites individuals to determine the most loving course of action for themselves rather than prescribing a single correct response. This approach is attractive in that it avoids the moral rigidity of systems like Natural Law, allowing agents to respond compassionately in exceptional circumstances, such as lying to protect innocent life. However, as John A. T. Robinson later recognised, such freedom risks descending into “moral chaos” without firm boundaries. The absence of binding rules means that moral authority rests entirely with the individual, reinforcing the claim that situation ethics is fundamentally individualistic.

Secondly, this individualism leads directly to subjectivity, as Fletcher’s system relies on each person interpreting and applying agape for themselves. Fletcher defines agape in broadly utilitarian terms as the maximisation of love or wellbeing for those involved, claiming that “only the end justifies the means.” However, this raises immediate difficulties, as there is no universally agreed definition of what constitutes “the most loving” outcome. Different individuals may prioritise different aspects of wellbeing—emotional, physical, spiritual—or even different groups of people. For instance, Fletcher’s focus on the immediate situation, as seen in the case of Mrs Bergmeier, arguably neglects wider social consequences, such as the long-term impact of undermining moral norms. Critics such as William Barclay argue that if love is the only law, then “each man has to decide what love means,” inevitably leading to conflicting conclusions. This subjectivity can be seen as a strength, allowing moral agents to act compassionately in complex and tragic circumstances where rigid rules would produce inhumane outcomes. Nevertheless, it also creates inconsistency and unpredictability, as two equally sincere individuals may justify entirely opposite actions as “loving.” Therefore, Fletcher’s reliance on personal interpretation ensures that moral decision-making is not only individualistic but also deeply subjective.

However, it could be argued that situation ethics is not entirely subjective because it is grounded in the objective and universal principle of agape, which provides a consistent moral standard. Fletcher insists that agape is not a matter of personal preference but a rational principle rooted in Christian teaching, exemplified by the command to “love your neighbour.” His six fundamental principles are intended to give structure to moral reasoning, emphasising that love is intrinsically good, that it is the ruling norm, and that justice is love distributed. From this perspective, situation ethics could be seen as objective, since all moral agents are aiming at the same end. Yet this defence ultimately fails. While agape may be universal in theory, Fletcher provides no clear method for calculating or measuring love in practice, leaving its application open to interpretation. The six principles are highly abstract and offer little concrete guidance when principles conflict or when consequences are uncertain. As a result, the supposed objectivity of agape collapses into subjectivity at the point of application. Two individuals may both sincerely aim to act in accordance with agape yet arrive at incompatible conclusions, undermining the claim that situation ethics provides a stable moral standard. Therefore, even this counterargument reinforces the view that moral decision-making within situation ethics remains fundamentally subjective.

In conclusion, Fletcher’s situation ethics ultimately renders moral decision-making both individualistic and subjective. Although it aspires to ground ethical reasoning in the universal principle of agape, its rejection of absolute moral laws and reliance on personal judgement mean that individuals must determine for themselves what love requires in each situation. The strongest support for this view lies in the absence of any clear or consistent method for applying agape, which leads to divergent and potentially conflicting moral conclusions. While this flexibility allows situation ethics to respond sensitively to complex moral dilemmas, it also undermines its reliability as a moral framework. Therefore, situation ethics is best understood not as a true middle way between legalism and antinomianism, but as a system that ultimately collapses into subjectivity. Ethical theories going forward should seek to preserve Fletcher’s emphasis on compassion while also incorporating clearer moral boundaries to ensure consistency and coherence in moral decision-making.

Critically evaluate Flew’s claim that religious claims are meaningless because they are unfalsifiable. [40]

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Anthony Flew presented his argument that religious claims are meaningless because they are unfalsifiable in his article “Theology and Falsification” (1944).  Building on Karl Popper’s argument that meaning depends not on the means of verification but on whether a claim is capable of being falsified, Flew used John Wisdom’s parable of the gardener to suggest that religious beliefs are meaningless because they are incapable of being falsified.  The believer, like the believing explorer in Wisdom’s parable, is convinced that there is something and won’t accept evidence to the contrary, making excuses and adapting their beliefs rather than admitting that the evidence has shown the beliefs to be false.  For example, believers cling on to their belief that God is good and just despite the evidence of war and the holocaust.  For Flew this shows that these beliefs are meaningless. Overall, Flew’s claim is persuasive, but relevant to only one specific interpretation of meaning.

Firstly, Flew’s argument was criticised by RM Hare in his contribution to the 1955 Falsification Symposium.  Hare pointed out that whether a belief is meaningful or not does not depend on either the means of verification or capability of being falsified.  We all have our everyday lives shaped by non-rational beliefs, such as that my car is roadworthy… how many of us really stop to check under the bonnet before each journey  Hare used a parable about a lunatic to illustrate his point.  The lunatic is convinced that all dons are out to kill him, which shapes his life entirely.  Just because there is no evidence to support or verify this belief and no circumstances under which the lunatic will abandon his belief as being falsified does not change the extent to which the belief makes a difference to and is meaningful within the lunatic’s life.  Nevertheless, and even though Hare is right to say that a whole range of unverifiable and unfalsifiable beliefs – which he called BLIKS – shape our everyday congress with the world, he is arguing at cross purposes with Flew.  For Flew, meaningfulness is a technical concept and relates to ontological claims, statements that purport to describe reality.  If I say “this chair is blue” then I am making a claim about an existing object and how it can be perceived.  In this case, for the claim to be meaningful it is reasonable to say that it must either be capable of verification, such as by looking at the chair, or capable of being falsified… as Flew suggests, at the very least I should be able to admit that I would regard the claim as untrue if somebody looked and the chair turned out to be red.  Hare is using the word “meaningful” in a different sense, meaning impactful in the life of an individual.  Of course, lots of unverifiable and unfalsifiable beliefs make an impact on our lives.  The belief that “it will all be OK in the end”, our family loves us, that a politician or party is “better” than another, that we don’t like cabbage… all of these beliefs have impact in our lives, but are mostly not capable of verification or falsification.  This is because these beliefs are not based on ontological claims, but are more like affirmations of personal preference, identity, culture or the like. It is reasonable to point out that religious claims are meaningful even when non-rational because they make a big difference in the life of the believer, but it is also reasonable to point out that the claim “God is good” cannot be meaningful in an ontological sense when it is neither verifiable nor falsifiable. Both Flew and Hare have a point, but they are using the idea of meaningfulness in different senses, thus Hare’s criticism does not really affect Flew’s claim that religious claims are meaningless because they are unfalsifiable. 

Secondly, Flew’s argument was criticised by Basil Mitchell in his own contribution to the Falsification Symposium (1955).  He pointed out that not only was Hare mistaken in seeing religious beliefs as non-rational bliks but Flew was also mistaken in claiming that religious beliefs are meaningless because they are unfalsifiable.  Mitchell used the parable of the partisan to make his point.  In a time of war, a follower meets a stranger and, as a result of what the stranger says and does, decides to follow him and become part of the resistance.  Over time, there is some evidence that the stranger is on the side of the resistance, and other evidence that he is not, but the partisan keeps faith and carries on believing despite the falsifying evidence because that is what commitment and the decision to trust the stranger demands. As Mitchell pointed out, the decision to commit to the partisan – like the believer’s initial decision to have faith in God – is based on evidence, so it is not a non-rational blik as Hare claimed.  Further, the partisan’s unwillingness to accept falsifying evidence, whether relating to the partisan or God, is the result of the commitment they have made, not evidence that their belief is meaningless as Flew claimed.  Nevertheless, despite Mitchell’s argument being persuasive and a fair characterisation of the faith that many believers have, Flew still has a point because of the very slender evidence on which believers make their decision to commit and because of the extent of the falsifying evidence of evil in the world. Separately and later, Flew criticised the arguments for God’s existence, pointing out that “ten leaky buckets are no better than one” and he has a point.  While there have been many attempts to demonstrate God’s existence from observations and from reason, in the end there is no credible evidence for God’s existence, either in terms of sense perception or in terms of logic.  Even Swinburne accepts that the evidence is ambiguous and depends on our assessment of “prior probability,” suggesting that the case for God’s bare existence depends on what we feel about God before the evidence, on our wants and needs, rather than on an assessment of the facts.  In relation to Mitchell’s parable, if the partisan chose to commit to a stranger who gave so little reason to believe in him… and then refused to waver when the stranger was knowingly and unnecessarily allowed the deaths of six million Jewish people, then it is difficult to claim as Mitchell does that the decision to commit is rational.  Hare is surely right to say that belief is at best non-rational if not positively irrational, as JL Mackie later claimed.  Further, Mitchell is surely wrong to claim that continued belief, despite the overwhelming falsifying evidence, is meaningful.  As Flew and no doubt William Rowe, Gregory Paul and Ivan Karamazov would agree, there comes a point where despite commitment, continued faith must be falsified… or it becomes ridiculous.  It follows that Flew’s claim that religious claims are meaningless because they are unfalsifiable also survives Mitchell’s criticism.

On the other hand, Swinburne pointed out a difficulty with Flew’s argument using his “toys in the cupboard” analogy.  When a claim or belief relates to a state of affairs that is unverifiable and unfalsifiable by virtue of its object, that claim or belief must be evaluated in terms of the meaning it has in somebody’s life rather than as an ontological claim.  Further, as Swinburne pointed out, science makes many claims of a similar nature which it upholds despite not being verifiable or falsifiable. Quantum events cannot be observed without influencing what is observed meaning that any claim about a quantum event is unverifiable and unfalsifiable, but such claims are made all the time by quantum physicists.  This suggests that the falsification principle is no more “scientific” than the verification principle, which was discredited by Flew and previously Popper on the grounds that it is pseudo-scientific.  Nevertheless, Swinburne’s criticisms do not destroy Flew’s argument because he can’t deny that some religious believers claim to have direct experience of God, and because almost all religious believers claim that they will eventually encounter God after death, making their beliefs capable of verification in a way that beliefs about toys in the cupboard or claims about quantum events are not.  Further, Swinburne’s example of science not being able to verify that “all ravens are black” serves to show how Science reasonably relies on capability of falsification as a criterion of meaning routinely.  God is not incapable of verification, as Swinburne claims, like the toys in the cupboard or quantum events, but rather can’t be verified for lack of evidence like the ravens being black, meaning that Flew’s use of the falsification principle as a criterion of meaning is entirely appropriate.  Science regards a claim or belief as contingently meaningful and is always willing to proportion its beliefs to the available evidence, as Hume suggested a wise man should. Flew is right to suggest that religious believers should do the same in order to be regarded as similarly wise.  When believers hang on to belief beyond and even despite the evidence, they show how foolish and meaningless they and their beliefs are. Further, Hick suggested that his parable of the celestial city shows Flew’s argument to be wrong, because like the traveller’s belief in the city, the believer’s belief in God will be verified or falsified at the end of the journey or when we die. Nevertheless, this is not persuasive because while it is true that the belief may be eschatologically verifiable, it is not falsifiable.  If our belief was correct then we will know that it was correct, but if our belief was incorrect we will never know and never have to admit that we were wrong or change our belief.  It follows that belief in God, like belief in the city, is not properly meaningful in a scientific or ontological sense, at best half-meeting the criteria of meaning and more probably only having a tiny possibility of meeting half of these criteria, given the absence of credible evidence for an afterlife of any sort, let alone for one in which “I” could remember and know whether my beliefs had been verified or not.  Hick himself struggled to defend the belief that “I” could survive death, given the break in spatio-temporal continuity under an object that death must represent.  He abandoned his own “replica theory” in the end and tried to embrace re-incarnation, although with no real evidence or argument for this.  This shows that Hick’s point does not seriously challenge Flew’s claim that religious belief is meaningless because it is unfalsifiable.

In conclusion, Flew’s claim is persuasive, but relevant to only one specific interpretation of meaning.  The fact that Flew changed his position and proportioned it to the evidence, becoming a deist in 2010 shortly before he died as a response to new evidence about fine tuning, only serves to support this conclusion.  For Flew meaningfulness is a strictly scientific term and relates to whether a claim is contingent on the state of the evidence, whereas for Flew, Mitchell, Swinburne and Hick – although in different ways – meaningfulness is interpreted in different ways.  Because of this, Flew’s claim stands despite his opponents pointing out other senses of the word in which beliefs can be meaningful.

Any talk about a separate or separable soul rests on a category error.  Critically evaluate this claim [40]

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In his book “The Concept of Mind” (1949) Gilbert Ryle attacked what he called the “official doctrine” of dualism or “the doctrine of the ghost in the machine”, arguing that the idea of a separate and particularly a separable soul depends on a “category error” or misuse of language.  To explain the idea of a category mistake he used the analogy of a foreigner watching a game of cricket and asking to see the “team spirit” as another feature of the game, alongside bats, balls and fielders. He also uses the analogies of a tourist visiting Oxford and asking to see “the university” separately from the colleges, libraries etc. that make it up, and of a discussion about the British Constitution confusing people into believing that there is such a document. Ryle means that when we talk about the “soul” we are confused into thinking that it is something separate from how the brain and body function, which implies that it might also be separate.  Clearly, dualists ranging from the Substance Dualists Plato and Descartes through to the Modified Dualist Aristotle, Critical Dualists Popper and Eccles and Property Dualist Chalmers would disagree with Ryle.  They all argue that there is a separate soul, which for Plato and Descartes is separable also. Nevertheless, Ryle successfully showed that dualists are wrong, meaning that he was right to say that talk about the soul rests on a category error.

Firstly, the arguments for substance dualism and the existence of a separable soul are deeply unimpressive.  Plato argued for the soul using arguments from affinity, opposites and simplicity which are mere assertions arising from Plato’s general metaphysical worldview and theory of the forms. His claim that recollection supports the existence of an immortal, pre-existent soul, articulated in the Meno through the example of the slave-boy learning geometry, is similarly unconvincing.  Chomsky’s nativism explains how the brain is structured or “hard-wired” with linguistic and mathematical concepts, so our facility in learning these can be explained biologically rather than by appealing to a separable soul.  Descartes was more sophisticated than Plato, accepting that universals are pure ideas rather than metaphysical realities in a separate “world of the forms” and yet his worldview is also antiquated. Advances in science and technology show that Descartes is wrong to give up on sense-observations as a way of understanding reality and wrong to see ultimate reality as conceptual.  Similarly, Descartes is wrong to claim that “I” am my soul when as Chan observed, what he regards as the “soul” is so affected by brain injury and drugs and when research into neuro-biology so falsifies his theories about the pineal gland.  In the end, both Plato and Descartes appeal to how we feel to support their substance dualism.  While it is true that most people feel like souls and not like bodies, having a self-concept that is largely unchanged by time or physical impairment, as both Norman Malcolm and Brian Davies have observed, the way I feel is not necessarily the way things are.  Just because I feel sober doesn’t mean that I am sober!  This shows that talk of a separable soul is confused and unconvincing, making Ryle’s argument that it is based on a category error and misuse of language convincing.

Secondly, the arguments for a weaker form of dualism, whereby the soul is separate but not separable, are more convincing than those for substance dualism and a separable soul, but in the end even “modified dualism” is still “giving up on science” as Dennett put it.  Aristotle’s claim that the soul exists as the formal cause of the body, being separate but not able to exist without a body, makes sense of both experience and the lack of evidence for a separable soul, but there is little really to support his assertion that the soul exists separately, his theory of the tripartite soul let alone his claim that the Sophia part of the rational soul might be immortal.  Similarly, while Popper’s argument for critical dualism is compelling, using world 3 evidence such as art or music as evidence for the existence of a mind or soul and world 1, in practice his own research with Eccles into the operation of the frontal lobes shows that the creativity he cites as evidence for a separate mind or soul can in fact be explained in physical, material terms. Chalmers’ property dualism is little more persuasive as although he is right to suggest that there are physical objects and separately, how we experience them as qualia, the fact that he links them and sees them as two poles of the same reality suggests that qualia do not truly support the existence of a separate mind or soul.  While as Blackmore admits, we do not yet understand the “Hard Problem” of consciousness, our lack of material explanations are not a conclusion that something immaterial exists.  It follows that we should continue looking for material explanations of consciousness and embrace Ryle’s suggestion that “the soul” is not really a separate entity but rather a product of our language and limited understanding at the present time.

On the other hand, Ryle’s claim that category errors explain all talk about a separate or separable soul could be too simple.  It is true that Ryle’s behaviourism struggles to account for the “reality” of mental events in the imagination or memory, or for qualia.  Frank Jackson’s 1982 thought experiment “Mary’s Room” convinces many that there is something more that we learn through subjective experience than we could ever learn theoretically, suggesting that there is a mind or soul whose activity and experiences cannot be described in physical terms.  Also, Popper’s suggestion that “world three” provides verifiable evidence for the activity of and so the existence of the soul is persuasive. However, in the end just because neuroscience cannot as yet explain the hard problem of consciousness doesn’t mean that one day it won’t.  As Dennett wrote and as Blackmore agreed, “dualism is giving up”.  It is also true that there is significant evidence for paranormal experiences, ranging from near death experiences to telekinesis. Vardy lists ten different types of paranormal experience which suggest the existence of minds or souls separately from bodies.  HH Price also confirms that the possibility of out-of-body existence makes sense in relation to both logic and our human experience.  Pam Reynolds’ near death experience is probably the most famous example of a near death experience where there is medical evidence that what she experienced happened when the brain had no electrical activity at all.  Dr Sam Parnia’s extensive research into near death experiences shows that experiences like Pam’s are neither rare nor explicable in physical or material terms as the product of brain activity.  Nevertheless, Blackmore’s research showed that there is much less hard evidence for paranormal activity than is claimed, concluding after 25 years that all the reports she had investigated were either mistaken or in some cases fraudulent.  Dawkins would agree that so-called evidence of paranormal events should be approached sceptically and placed in the context of the weight of evidence against their possibility.  It follows that, dualists go well beyond the evidence in concluding the existence of a separate, let alone a separable, soul on the basis of very slight evidence indeed.

In conclusion, Ryle was right to dismiss talk of a separate or separable soul and argue that this is the product of ignorance or confusion.  Materialism, as I have argued, is much more persuasive than any form of dualism.  Of course, Ryle’s argument is rather more specific than that, claiming that all discussion of soul rests on a “category error” and it is probably fair to say that this is an overstatement.  Sometimes people use the word soul in a metaphorical sense, what Dawkins called a soul 2 sense, which is not quite the same as making a category error.  However, the thrust of Ryle’s argument, that dualism is a false doctrine, still stands. 

The amount of pleasure produced is the only factor determining whether a sexual act is right. Discuss [40]

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The central issue concerns what is meant by pleasure, and crucially, whose pleasure is considered in assessing the morality of sexual acts. Pleasure could be defined narrowly as physical or sensual gratification, or more broadly as psychological, emotional, or spiritual fulfilment — the flourishing of persons through mutual respect and love. Different ethical theories draw the circle of concern differently: some include only the immediate participants, while others consider the wider social and moral consequences. Utilitarianism and Natural Law both offer frameworks that could, in broad terms, agree that pleasure is relevant to moral judgment — though they interpret pleasure and goodness in distinct ways. Kantian Ethics, by contrast, challenges the idea that pleasure, or any consequence, can determine moral worth at all. This essay will argue that the amount of pleasure produced is the most important factor determining whether a sexual act is right, when pleasure is understood as contributing to human flourishing and the circle of ethical concern is drawn widely.

Utilitarianism supports the idea that the moral rightness of an action depends on the pleasure or happiness it produces, making it an ethical theory that aligns closely with the statement. Jeremy Bentham’s classical act utilitarianism defines the good in quantitative terms: the right act is that which produces “the greatest happiness for the greatest number.” For Bentham, pleasure and pain are the only measures of value, so a sexual act would be right if it maximizes pleasure and minimizes harm for all affected. John Stuart Mill, developing the theory, refined this by distinguishing higher and lower pleasures — suggesting that not all pleasures are equal, and that those associated with intellect, love, and moral sentiment are superior to mere physical gratification. In evaluating sexual ethics, Bentham’s approach would justify consensual sexual relationships of any form, provided they increase overall happiness and harm no one. For instance, non-traditional sexual relationships or same-sex partnerships could be defended under utilitarian reasoning, if they lead to mutual pleasure and well-being without causing wider social or personal harm. Mill’s perspective would affirm sexual acts that express love, mutual respect, and psychological depth as contributing to higher forms of pleasure — thus aligning morality with the quality of human relationships rather than with biological function or social convention. Utilitarianism’s strength lies in its flexibility and inclusivity. It allows moral evaluation to evolve alongside human understanding of sexuality, consent, and well-being. This makes it particularly compatible with contemporary ethical discourse, which emphasizes consent, equality, and emotional health. However, critics argue that pure hedonistic utilitarianism risks justifying exploitative or objectifying sexual acts if they produce more pleasure overall — for example, if the pain of a few is outweighed by the pleasure of many. Mill’s qualitative refinement addresses this by grounding moral pleasure in human dignity and rationality, not mere sensation. While utilitarianism’s focus on pleasure aligns strongly with the essay’s claim, it must be understood in Mill’s enriched sense — as contributing to overall human flourishing. If pleasure is interpreted this way, utilitarianism demonstrates that the amount of pleasure produced is the most important factor in determining whether a sexual act is right, if pleasure includes psychological and relational well-being, and is balanced against potential harm. Thus, utilitarianism supports the thesis when pleasure is defined broadly and the moral circle includes all those affected — showing that pleasure, properly understood, remains central to moral judgment in sexual ethics.

Natural Law, though seemingly at odds with a hedonistic view, can also support the claim when pleasure is defined as the flourishing of human beings through the fulfilment of their natural purposes. Thomas Aquinas’ Natural Law theory holds that moral acts are those that align with the purposes (telos) built into human nature by God. The primary precepts — including the preservation of life, reproduction, and the nurturing of social order — guide moral reasoning. Sexual acts, in this view, are good when they contribute to both procreation and the union of persons in mutual love. While pleasure is not the ultimate good, it is a secondary good — a natural consequence of rightly ordered sexual relations that foster human flourishing. Aquinas explicitly acknowledges that sexual pleasure is not sinful in itself; rather, it becomes wrong when detached from its rightful context — marriage and the potential for procreation and unity. For example, within marriage, sexual pleasure strengthens the bond between spouses and encourages familial stability, fulfilling both biological and relational purposes. Modern Natural Law theorists such as John Finnis reinterpret these ideas less biologically and more relationally, focusing on “friendship” and “marital good” as intrinsic goods that promote the flourishing of persons. When pleasure is seen as a sign of human flourishing rather than mere sensation, Natural Law aligns with the view that pleasure is a moral indicator. A sexual act that is selfish, manipulative, or contrary to the integrity of the person fails to promote true pleasure, as it undermines the good of the participants. Thus, Natural Law and utilitarianism converge when the concept of pleasure is widened from bodily gratification to holistic well-being. Yet, some critics might object that Natural Law’s restrictive stance on non-procreative sex limits the scope of legitimate pleasure, potentially excluding many consensual and loving relationships that do promote flourishing. Despite these limits, the Natural Law approach supports the thesis insofar as it recognizes pleasure as a natural component of right sexual acts — evidence of human flourishing when ordered toward love and unity. When “pleasure” is thus redefined in line with human purpose, it becomes a key measure of moral goodness. Therefore, in Natural Law as in utilitarianism, pleasure remains a vital moral factor — not as mere hedonism, but as an expression of ordered human flourishing. When this is the definition applied, pleasure is indeed the most important factor in determining the rightness of a sexual act.

By contrast, Kantian Ethics fundamentally rejects the idea that pleasure — or any consequence at all — can determine the moral rightness of an action. Immanuel Kant’s deontological ethics insists that moral acts must be done from duty, in accordance with the command of reason (known as the categorical imperative), rather than from inclination or desire. The Formula of Humanity states that one should “act so that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or another, always as an end and never merely as a means.” Sexual acts motivated by pleasure risk reducing a person to a means of satisfaction rather than respecting them as an autonomous moral agent. For Kant, sexuality presents a moral danger precisely because it tempts individuals to objectify others. In his Lectures on Ethics, he describes sexual desire as one that “makes of the loved person an object of appetite,” comparing them to a lemon that has been squeezed and then thrown away. Thus, even consensual sexual pleasure must, for Kant, be morally constrained by the institution of marriage, where reciprocal respect and mutual obligation can preserve personhood. However, Kant also acknowledged the problem with ignoring pleasure as a moral factor when he accepted that human beings naturally seek to maximise pleasure and minimise pain. It is not rational to ask people to act against their own natures, so the categorical imperative must include the desire to establish a “kingdom of ends” in which people will be happy and flourish. In his late essay Towards Perpetual Peace, Kant rooted his ethic in the concept of the Summum Bonum — the highest good — in which virtue and happiness ultimately coincide. While he warned that people should not be directly motivated by the desire to produce the Summum Bonum, the hope that it will be realised through rational duty gives moral action its final coherence. It follows that the likelihood of a sexual act contributing to the Summum Bonum, when measured by its consistency with reason and the categorical imperative, is the only factor determining whether it is right, even for Kant. Though Kant explicitly warned against using sex merely for pleasure, his challenge ultimately reinforces rather than undermines the thesis: when pleasure is redefined as the flourishing of persons in respectful, rational relationships, it remains central to moral rightness.

In conclusion, the amount of pleasure produced is indeed the most important factor determining whether a sexual act is right, but only when pleasure is defined in terms of human flourishing and the circle of ethical concern is drawn widely. Both Utilitarianism and Natural Law demonstrate that pleasure — understood as psychological, relational, and moral well-being — is integral to assessing sexual ethics. Although Kantian Ethics reminds us to respect human dignity and resist treating others merely as means, this very respect deepens our understanding of pleasure as shared flourishing rather than selfish gratification. The best reason to adopt this integrated view is that it unites emotion and reason, acknowledging pleasure not as the enemy of morality but as its expression in human happiness.

“Religious teachings should have no further role in shaping laws relating to sex.” Discuss. [40]

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The question raises the issue of whether religion should continue to shape public law in an increasingly secular and pluralist society. Laws relating to sex — concerning marriage, contraception, homosexuality, and consent — have long reflected religious moral codes, especially those derived from Christianity. Yet modern societies increasingly define justice in terms of autonomy, equality, and harm prevention rather than divine command. The key issue, then, is whether moral authority should remain rooted in theology or instead rest on rational, secular grounds accessible to all citizens. Utilitarianism, through Bentham and Mill, strongly supports the separation of religion from law, grounding legislation in reason and human well-being rather than in revelation. By contrast, Natural Law and post-secular thinkers such as Durkheim, Habermas, and Taylor maintain that religion continues to provide essential moral cohesion and guidance. This essay will argue that religious teachings should have no further role in shaping laws relating to sex, because secular, rational ethics are better suited to protecting liberty and pluralism in a diverse society.

Jeremy Bentham provides a powerful philosophical foundation for removing religious influence from sexual law. His utilitarian ethics, based on the principle of utility — that the right action is the one which produces “the greatest happiness for the greatest number” — rejects all appeals to divine command or natural law. Bentham viewed religious moral codes as sources of unnecessary suffering, describing them as “nonsense upon stilts” when used to justify legal coercion. In his private manuscripts on sexual ethics, Bentham condemned laws criminalising homosexuality and other consensual sexual acts, arguing that they produce pain without preventing harm. For Bentham, pleasure and pain are the only valid measures of moral value, and the law’s function is to maximise the former and minimise the latter. Religious interference in sexual legislation thus violates both reason and justice, since it restricts harmless pleasures out of superstition. Laws against contraception or same-sex relations, for example, inflict pain through guilt and punishment without increasing happiness or social welfare. Bentham’s secular utilitarianism replaces divine authority with empirical calculation, insisting that moral and legal reasoning must be open to all rational agents regardless of belief. The separation of church and state is therefore not merely political but ethical: it ensures that law serves human well-being, not theological conformity. Critics might object that Bentham’s hedonism risks moral relativism, allowing any pleasure to justify action. Yet Bentham’s consistent application of the harm principle safeguards against exploitation: where there is no harm, there is no ground for prohibition. In this sense, Bentham provides a compelling philosophical basis for excluding religious teaching from sexual law, ensuring legislation is grounded in measurable human welfare rather than metaphysical speculation.

John Stuart Mill extends and refines Bentham’s argument by linking secular law to individual liberty. In On Liberty (1859), Mill articulates the harm principle: “the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others.” Mill’s utilitarianism is qualitative rather than quantitative — distinguishing higher pleasures of intellect, love, and moral development from mere sensual gratification — but his political philosophy is firmly secular. He explicitly warns against the “tyranny of the majority,” including the moral tyranny of religious majorities imposing their views through law. For Mill, the role of law is not to enforce moral virtue but to protect personal autonomy and the freedom to pursue one’s own conception of the good life. Religious teachings, being based on faith rather than universal reason, have no rightful authority in determining law for all citizens. In sexual ethics, this means that laws should regulate only matters of consent and harm, not sexual morality itself. For instance, Mill would oppose laws restricting same-sex marriage or reproductive rights on religious grounds, since these violate individual liberty without preventing harm. At the same time, Mill does not advocate moral nihilism: he recognises that society depends on moral education and self-restraint, and that religion may continue to influence individuals privately. However, he insists that such influence must remain within the realm of persuasion, not coercion. Law must be neutral among competing moral doctrines, safeguarding the liberty necessary for moral and personal growth. Thus, Mill strengthens the case for excluding religion from sexual law: only a secular framework, grounded in harm and autonomy, can ensure both justice and freedom in a pluralistic society.

A contrasting view, however, comes from Natural Law and from post-secular sociological thinkers who argue that religion continues to play a vital role in maintaining moral order. Thomas Aquinas held that human law derives its legitimacy from natural law, itself a participation in divine reason. Laws are just only if they accord with this higher moral order. From this perspective, sexual ethics cannot be detached from religious teaching, since human sexuality has a divinely intended purpose: procreation and the unitive bond of marriage. Modern Natural Law theorists such as John Finnis defend this in secular language, identifying basic human goods — including procreation, friendship, and community — which the law should protect if it is to carry universal, rational authority. Religious teaching, on this account, articulates objective moral truths about human flourishing so that excluding religion from law risks making that law unjust and to quote St Augustine “not really law at all”. Post-secular thinkers such as Émile Durkheim, Jürgen Habermas, and Charles Taylor extend this argument sociologically. Durkheim saw religion as the expression of the collective conscience, binding societies together through shared moral norms. This suggests that the law and religion should be saying the same thing in articulating a value consensus, even if religion should not directly influence or dictate what the law is. Further, Habermas argued that in a “post-secular” age, secular and religious citizens must engage in dialogue, translating moral insights from faith into public reason. Taylor likewise maintains that secularism should ensure fairness between worldviews, not simply banish religion from the public sphere. Together, these perspectives challenge strict secularism: if religion helps sustain moral consensus, its exclusion might weaken the moral foundations of law. However, this counterclaim can be rebutted by questioning the practicality and justice of grounding law in religious or natural-law reasoning in an increasingly plural society. The assumption that there is a single, knowable moral order is untenable in contexts of religious diversity and moral disagreement. Programmatic secularism argues not for hostility to religion, but for its restriction to the private sphere, where it may shape personal conscience without constraining public law. Habermas’s call for dialogue can be preserved within this framework: religious citizens may express moral concerns publicly, but the laws themselves must be justified in secular terms accessible to all, avoiding the privileging of any faith tradition. Moreover, attempts to legislate moral order on religious grounds often produce the very social divisions they seek to prevent — as seen in conflicts over reproductive rights and marriage equality. The pluralism of modern societies requires laws grounded in reason, consent, and human rights, not theological anthropology. Religious teachings may continue to guide believers, but they cannot serve as the foundation of public law without undermining equality and freedom. Thus, while religion may contribute to moral discourse, its direct role in shaping sexual law should end.

In conclusion, religious teachings should indeed have no further role in shaping laws relating to sex. Bentham and Mill demonstrate that secular, rational principles of harm and utility provide a clearer and fairer foundation for legislation than appeals to divine command. Although Natural Law and post-secular thinkers highlight religion’s continuing moral and cultural value, in a plural and democratic society law must be justified to all citizens through reason alone. The best reason for this is that secular law protects both freedom of conscience and the integrity of religion itself, preventing faith from becoming an instrument of coercion. Religion may still inform private morality and public dialogue, but it must no longer determine the content of sexual law. In a society of many faiths and none, the only just foundation for law is the shared language of human reason.

Critically evaluate the view that conscience is the best guide when making decisions about sex. [40]

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Conscience, for Aquinas, is the application of moral knowledge to specific situations, a rational process (conscientia) rooted in an innate awareness of moral law (synderesis). Freud, by contrast, saw conscience as part of the superego—an unconscious internalisation of social and parental norms, often tied to feelings of guilt and repression, especially in matters of sexuality. These contrasting views lead to different evaluations of whether conscience can be trusted as a moral guide. Natural law theorists and some liberal theologians might affirm that conscience, when properly informed, is the best guide in private moral matters such as sex. However, others argue that conscience is fallible, shaped by social forces or limited understanding, and therefore unreliable. This essay will argue that conscience is not the best guide when making decisions about sex. Both Aquinas and Freud highlight that conscience requires proper formation or critical analysis to be trustworthy; by itself, it is too dependent on reason, psychological conditioning, or social norms to reliably lead to moral truth.

One reason conscience is not the best guide when making decisions about sex is that, for Aquinas, conscience is not infallible and must be correctly formed in order to lead to right action. Aquinas described conscience (conscientia) as the act of applying moral knowledge (synderesis) to particular cases through reason. Because this process involves human judgment, it can err. A person may reach the wrong moral conclusion about a sexual act, for example believing contraception to be morally acceptable, even though, by Aquinas’ standards of natural law, it frustrates the natural end of procreation and is therefore wrong. However, crucially, Aquinas argued that it is always a duty to follow one’s conscience—even when it is mistaken. To act against conscience is to act against reason, and since reason is the image of the divine in the human person, deliberately disobeying conscience is always sinful. Paradoxically, this means that someone who, in good conscience, engages in immoral sexual behaviour may still be morally blameworthy, though less so than someone who knowingly chooses to do wrong. Aquinas’ view highlights a key limitation of conscience: it can bind even when wrong. If conscience were the best guide in sexual decision-making, it would need to reliably lead to good moral outcomes—but in Aquinas’ account, it does not guarantee this. Its authority lies not in its accuracy but in its role as the proximate guide of action. This makes it essential, but not sufficient: it cannot be the best guide unless it is first well formed through right reasoning and knowledge of moral law. Therefore, while Aquinas upholds the dignity and authority of conscience, his account also reveals its dependence on prior moral formation, which prevents it from being the highest or most reliable guide on its own.

A further reason conscience is not the best guide in matters of sex comes from Freud’s analysis of its psychological roots. Freud viewed conscience as a function of the superego, the part of the mind that internalises moral and social prohibitions learned during early childhood. In his view, conscience is not a rational tool for discerning objective moral truth but a psychological mechanism enforcing conformity through feelings of guilt and anxiety. This is especially evident in sexual ethics, where many people experience shame or repression not because their actions are truly immoral, but because they contravene internalised taboos. For example, someone might feel deep guilt over homosexual desires or masturbation, not because those acts are intrinsically wrong, but because their superego has absorbed a strict moral code from parents or religious authority. Freud’s analysis suggests that conscience, far from being the best moral guide, is often a reflection of social conditioning and unconscious fears. While he did not advocate abandoning conscience altogether, Freud believed that true moral maturity comes from bringing these unconscious forces into conscious reflection, allowing individuals to examine and question their inherited values. Conscience may therefore need to be deconstructed and re-evaluated before it can be trusted. This challenges the idea that conscience is the best guide, particularly in areas like sexual ethics, where historical repression and moral panic have left deep psychological imprints. If conscience is often a distorted product of cultural anxiety, then following it uncritically may do more harm than good. Thus, Freud’s theory supports the view that conscience must be scrutinised rather than obeyed, making it a necessary but unreliable guide in decisions about sex.

Nevertheless, some argue that conscience is the best moral guide in sexual matters precisely because it allows individuals to make personal, context-sensitive judgments in complex or private situations. This view is supported by thinkers such as John Henry Newman, who described conscience as the “voice of God” speaking within the individual. Many liberal Christians similarly maintain that conscience, when properly informed by love, compassion, and reflection, offers the most authentic and morally sensitive way to navigate questions of sex—such as the permissibility of same-sex relationships, contraception, or divorce. For example, an individual might, after careful thought and prayer, conclude in conscience that a faithful, loving same-sex partnership is morally acceptable, even if traditional doctrine suggests otherwise. In such cases, conscience functions as a source of moral autonomy and responsibility, rather than blind obedience to external rules. However, even this more optimistic account rests on the assumption that conscience has been adequately formed and freed from irrational prejudice or self-deception. Both Aquinas and Freud would challenge this assumption. Aquinas would insist that conscience must be aligned with right reason and divine law to lead to true moral judgments. Freud would caution that what feels like a voice of authenticity may in fact be a buried voice of repression. In either case, the trustworthiness of conscience depends on factors beyond the individual’s immediate experience. Thus, while the appeal to conscience has emotional and moral weight, it does not establish conscience as the best guide—only as a significant one, whose conclusions must still be tested and examined.

In conclusion, conscience is not the best guide when making decisions about sex. The strongest reason for this is Aquinas’ recognition that while conscience must always be followed, it can still be mistaken and lead to sin, even when it binds sincerely. This highlights that conscience is only as reliable as the knowledge and reasoning that inform it. Freud reinforces this by showing how conscience may reflect internalised societal repression rather than genuine moral insight, particularly in the area of sexuality. Both thinkers suggest that conscience cannot stand alone; it must be formed, questioned, and corrected through deeper engagement with reason, law, and the self. In an age of competing moral values and sexual diversity, individuals should be encouraged to reflect critically on their conscience, test it against evidence and principle, and be wary of treating it as the highest authority. Conscience matters—but it must be educated and examined, not simply obeyed.

We all know the difference between right and wrong; it is just common sense. Critically assess this claim. [40]

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While it is easy to understand why somebody might say that we all know the difference between right and wrong, because most people do and because in general what is right causes most people to be happy and what is wrong causes suffering, the fact that some criminals either aren’t aware of their actions being wrong or don’t care suggests that this claim is not sound. 

Firstly, while St Thomas Aquinas did argue that we all have a God-given desire for the good and to avoid evil (Conscientia, the Primary Precept of Natural Law) he argued that we need to learn how to put this desire into practice by developing our Synderesis (what Aristotle called Practical Reason). Superficially it might seem that inherently wrong actions serve one or more of the basic human goods of natural law.  For example, killing my enemy might seem like it promotes peace and harmony in society.  Nevertheless, it also goes against the basic human good of life, so I must learn that killing can never be right, even when it affects an unpopular troublemaker!  When people do evil things, argues Aquinas, it is usually because they are pursuing an apparent and not a real good and this because their synderesis has not been properly formed.  For Aquinas then, it is not fair to say that we all have clear knowledge of the difference between right and wrong or that this is “just common sense”.  While we have good instincts for morality, we need to learn what is right and what is wrong and it is not always the way these seem superficially. 

Secondly, Immanuel Kant argued that the moral law appeals to peoples’ reason as a synthetic a priori, suggesting that we all have a knowledge of good and evil regardless of our experience in the world.  Nevertheless, he was at pains to explain how what is right is not always what makes people happy or seems instinctively to be the correct course of action.  Take, for example, Kant’s famous axe-murderer example from the Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals (1785).  Kant argued that it is right to tell the truth, even though we suspect that this will lead to the death of a friend, rather than tell what seems to be a white lie to save a life.  This is far from being common-sense!  For Kant though, reason shows us that if we can’t universalise the maxim of lying and would be using the suspected axe-murderer as a means to an end of saving our friend then what we do would be irrational and wrong.  The moral law is a categorical imperative and will not allow us to make decisions situationally, but demands consistent rational action. This shows that while we all have the ability to know the difference between right and wrong, this is not just common sense but requires deep thought and analysis. 

On the other hand, utilitarians like Jeremy Bentham argue that “nature has placed mankind under two sovereign masters; the pursuit of pleasure and the avoidance of pain” meaning that maximising pleasure is natural to human beings, which implies both that everybody knows the difference between right and wrong and that this could reasonably be described as “common sense.”  Yet this is not convincing because there is a gap between our instinct to pursue our own pleasure and knowing that we should maximise human pleasure in general.  Hume pointed out the is-ought gap in logic that affects Bentham’s reasoning and GE Moore dismissed classical Utilitarianism for relying on the Naturalistic Fallacy as well as for reducing goodness to what causes pleasure in a way that he felt to be far too simplistic.  Moore pointed out that it makes sense to ask if an instance of pleasure is good, as well as whether pleasure is good per se, which shows that pleasure is not in fact good in itself.  This means that many people might not know the difference between right and wrong by a utilitarian definition. Out instinct to maximise pleasure is not the same as a natural knowledge of the difference between right and wrong and the utilitarian moral imperative – to sacrifice our own interests when this would make more people happy – does not seem to be “common sense” to everybody! 

Further, drawing on Platonism GE Moore argued that all people recognise goodness when they see it, although goodness itself is indefinable. This is quite appealing because it explains why many people see fruitlessly altruistic actions – like a soldier getting blown up disobeying orders in trying to save an injured comrade – as good when this can’t be explained by other means. Yet, it is a stretch to say that everybody knows that such actions are good or that it is “common sense” when there is such a diversity of opinion and disagreement about this sort of issue.  While scholars like CS Lewis and Alastair MacIntyre were right to point out that some values and virtues are admired across ages and cultural boundaries, not all values and virtues are and certainly not by everybody.  If they were, there wouldn’t be any cultural disagreements over issues like polygamy and FGM and neither would there be any crime.  Wittgenstein’s approach of seeing meaning and truth depending on the rules of a “language game” and varying over time and between contexts makes best sense of the diversity that exists in the moral sphere, despite some basic agreement over the value of human life. This approach also casts doubt on both the claim that everybody knows the difference between right and wrong and the claim that such is “common sense”… because what is right and what is wrong depend on context and is neither objective, nor universal.

It seems that Hume’s sentimentalism or even AJ Ayer’s emotivism best explain why some people admire fruitless altruistic actions while others condemn them. By Hume’s analysis, our moral values represent our sentimental reactions to actions.  Surely, most people are repelled by murder, but this does not mean that there is something “wrong” about murder that can be “known,” only that many people share feelings about an action which often causes suffering. Further, by Ayer’s analysis, moral claims have no factual significance but are expressions of emotions and feelings in much the same way as hooray or boo might be.  Again, they don’t make ontological claims about actions, but only express approval or disapproval.  JL Mackie agreed with Ayer, arguing that moral values are “queer” in not belonging to any category of existence and that moral claims are based on errors.  For Hume, Ayer and Mackie, the difference between right and wrong is not something that can be “known” at all…. only felt.  The feeling that murder is wrong might appear to be based on “common sense” but this would apply only if “common sense” refers to popular opinion rather than the universal knowledge suggested by the wording of the title.  As RM Hare suggested, people might be prescribing actions when they say things like “murder is wrong”, rather than making a claim about murder itself, suggesting that a claim like murder is wrong has meaning while lacking factual significance. Yet, the fact that as CL Stevenson observed, moral claims are difficult to analyse and might in fact be doing a lot of different things suggests that it is wrong to say that everybody has knowledge of right and wrong, let alone that these are matters of “common sense”. 

In conclusion, while the claim that “we all know the difference between right and wrong; it is just common sense” is superficially attractive, it cannot withstand deeper critical analysis. For ethical realists, the claim goes well beyond what most would suggest.  For most ethical naturalists the knowledge of good and evil, while open to everybody, demands deeper analysis and study to attain.  Similarly, for most non-naturalists a priori knowledge of right and wrong goes beyond common sense and demands deeper thought.  While GE Moore did argue that it makes no sense to keep asking what goodness is because it is indefinable, an intuition… and we either recognise it or we don’t, even for him – the author of a famous essay called “Common Sense” (1905) knowledge of the difference between right and wrong is not the sort of gut reaction that this phrase might often suggest.  Also, for ethical non-realists the difference between right and wrong is neither something that has factual significance and can be “known” nor something that is agreed on in the way that “common sense” might suggest. 

Assess Sigmund Freud’s view of the conscience. [40]

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Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis, developed a psychological account of the conscience rooted in his tripartite model of the psyche: the id, ego, and super-ego. The id represents instinctive drives, the ego is the rational mediator with the external world, and the super-ego forms through the internalisation of parental and societal norms. Freud believed that the conscience operates within the super-ego and emerges during early childhood, especially through resolving the Oedipus complex, during which the child internalises authority figures’ moral standards. For Freud, the conscience is not a divine or rational guide but a psychological mechanism designed to control behaviour through guilt and anxiety. Freud’s view of the conscience is ultimately flawed, as it reduces moral awareness to unconscious repression and social conditioning, and fails to account for authentic moral responsibility or objective moral knowledge.

Firstly, Freud’s theory presents conscience as the result of early childhood development, particularly through the repression of unacceptable desires and the internalisation of external authority. While this offers a plausible explanation for the feelings of guilt that can accompany moral failure, it also leads to a highly relativistic and subjective account of morality. If conscience is simply the product of cultural norms and parental expectations, then it becomes difficult to explain how people can meaningfully challenge the moral values of their upbringing. For example, Jean Piaget’s research into moral development showed that children progress from heteronomous morality (based on external rules) to autonomous morality (based on internal principles), suggesting that morality can mature beyond social conditioning. Lawrence Kohlberg further argued that the highest level of moral reasoning is based on universal ethical principles, not conformity to rules. These developmental models imply that conscience is more than an internalised superego—it has the capacity to reason, reflect and evolve. Freud’s model, by contrast, traps the individual within their early psychological environment, undermining the idea that conscience can offer a rational or universal moral standard. His view might explain guilt, but it cannot reliably distinguish between moral guilt and unhealthy repression.

Additionally, Freud’s portrayal of the conscience as a largely punitive force presents a narrow and negative understanding of moral awareness. In Civilisation and Its Discontents, Freud suggested that conscience becomes more severe as society imposes greater restrictions on instinctual life, resulting in increasing guilt and psychological discomfort. This bleak view of the conscience as a source of anxiety ignores the possibility that it can serve a positive, guiding role. Erich Fromm, a fellow psychoanalyst, criticised Freud’s reduction of conscience to a repressive super-ego, proposing instead that a “humanistic conscience” arises from our inner awareness of what fosters growth, integrity and human flourishing. Fromm’s perspective better accounts for the experience of moral clarity and peace when acting in accordance with one’s values, not merely the avoidance of guilt. Furthermore, religious thinkers such as St Augustine and Cardinal Newman viewed conscience as a means by which the individual discerns the will of God. Newman called it the “aboriginal Vicar of Christ,” highlighting its role in pointing toward truth, even in the absence of external authority. Freud’s theory, by contrast, dismisses such transcendental elements and fails to account for why conscience sometimes leads people to oppose social expectations rather than conform to them. The super-ego, in his view, punishes disobedience but does not inspire moral courage or sacrificial goodness.

Nonetheless, some scholars have defended aspects of Freud’s theory as a helpful corrective to overly idealised or religious accounts of the conscience. Freud exposed how moral beliefs can be shaped by psychological pressures and social authority, revealing that what people regard as conscience may sometimes be little more than internalised fear. For instance, Joseph Butler argued that conscience is a God-given faculty that naturally approves of virtue and disapproves of vice. However, Freud would argue that such confidence in moral intuition overlooks the fact that what appears to be “right” might simply be what we have been taught to believe, regardless of its objective moral status. Freud’s view has found support among feminist thinkers such as Carol Gilligan, who argued that traditional moral development theories—like Kohlberg’s—often ignore the role of care, context and relational factors. She suggested that feelings of guilt and responsibility are more complex and shaped by interpersonal dynamics than Freud or rationalist models allow. However, while both Freud and Gilligan helpfully highlight the emotional and social dimensions of the conscience, their approaches do not replace the need for a standard by which conscience can be judged as right or wrong. Freud’s theory lacks any clear framework for moral evaluation, meaning it cannot explain why one person’s conscience might be more morally trustworthy than another’s. The idea of objective moral truth—found in thinkers like Aquinas, who grounded conscience in reason and natural law—is entirely absent in Freud’s psychology.

In conclusion, Freud’s view of the conscience is ultimately flawed, as it reduces moral awareness to unconscious repression and social conditioning, and fails to account for authentic moral responsibility or objective moral knowledge. While Freud offers valuable insight into how conscience can be shaped by upbringing and can generate unhealthy guilt, his model is ultimately too narrow and pessimistic. The strongest critiques—from Piaget, Fromm, and Newman—highlight that conscience is not merely a psychological mechanism but a dynamic and potentially rational or spiritual guide to truth. To understand the conscience fully, students must engage both with the psychological forces Freud identified and with the rational and ethical capacities recognised in moral development theory and religious tradition. Only then can the conscience be seen not just as an echo of early experience, but as a mature faculty that seeks and responds to the good.

Critically evaluate Aquinas’ approach to moral decision making. [40]

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Aquinas’ approach to moral decision-making goes well beyond basic Natural Moral Law. Influenced by Aristotle, Aquinas’ ethic is sophisticated and includes a virtue ethic and theory of conscience as well as a normative approach for deciding on what is right and what is wrong. As such, Aquinas’ approach to moral decision-making is very useful.

Firstly, because Aquinas’ approach is rooted in Aristotelian Ethics it is supported by rational arguments and is consistent. Like Aristotle, Aquinas observed human beings and saw that people tend to flourish and then defined his primary precepts or basic human goods in relation to human flourishing, in terms of what supports that end. People flourish when they enjoy long life, live peaceably in society, when they have children and teach them and when they learn and praise God. Aquinas reasoned that actions which contribute to one or more of these goods and so to flourishing are right and actions which inhibit one or more of these ends are wrong. The secondary precepts of Aquinas’ natural law are, therefore, easily deduced from the primary precepts, providing a useful source of moral guidance and justification for rules, which are more practical and useful than expecting people to make decisions situationally. Nevertheless, Aquinas recognised that everyday decision-making is not only about following rules like do not murder… flourishing involves developing positive habits (virtues) and avoiding vices. Aquinas agreed with Aristotle (and modern virtue ethicists also agree) that habits, as well as consideration of somebody’s whole character rather than only individual actions, are useful in moral decision-making. This focus on virtue, habits and character has been overlooked by Roman Catholic Ethics in their application of Aquinas’ approach, leading to what Fletcher criticised as a legalistic approach, meaning that Aquinas’ approach is more useful than Roman Catholic applications of his thinking today. In addition, Aquinas argued that people should act autonomously, following their God-given desire to do good and avoid evil and what they have learned from practical reason (synderesis) to act on what their conscience suggests as a moral duty. This focus on individual autonomy and conscience also makes Aquinas’ moral philosophy more useful than Roman catholic applications of it, which often seem to support blind obedience. As Kant, William Temple and Bonhoeffer would point out, “on freedom our moral life depends.” If we don’t make decisions for ourselves, but defer to authority and practice blind obedience then we will not flourish as a person even if strictly speaking we do the right thing. This shows that Aquinas’ approach to moral decision-making is a useful one and more useful than Roman Catholic applications of it today.

Secondly, Aquinas approach to moral decision-making is useful because it is rooted in and is consistent with the Bible and Christian faith. For Aquinas, the reason people want to flourish and act to support human flourishing is because God created them that way. In Genesis 1, God creates people good and orders them to “be fruitful and increase in number…” showing that flourishing and following the primary precepts of living long, procreating etc. are in fact doing God’s will. Whereas Aristotle’s ethic is avowedly non-religious, Aquinas’ ethic is so acceptable to Christians – still the largest group of religious believers in the world – that it was adopted as the basis for Roman Catholic ethics at the Council of Trent. Today, Roman Catholic Ethics stands on the three legs of Scripture, Tradition and Reason as authorities… meaning that it is not subject to Biblical literalism as Protestant ethics is, and neither is it changeable, inconsistent or unreasonably conservative. Aquinas showed the Church the way to achieve this, which has contributed significantly to the Church’s survival and growth through centuries of change and new moral challenges. Clearly, Roman Catholic Ethics today has rightly been criticised for being Legalistic, inflexible and encouraging blind obedience, but other scholars have returned to Aquinas for inspiration in showing how this is a selective and not a necessary application of His original ethic. For example, John Finnis roots his ethic in Aquinas, providing an approach which encourages both autonomy and acting according to Church teachings. Bernard Hoose also roots his proportionalism in Aquinas, and shows that it can be applied to support breaking even the strongest prohibitions in extreme situations, avoiding the criticism of being inflexible. Again, the fact that Aquinas’ approach to moral decision-making is so useful to Christians shows that it is a useful approach.

On the other hand, Aquinas’ approach to decision making has been widely criticised. Natural Law relies on moving from observations of the natural world to claims about how we ought to behave. Hume pointed out that moving from an is to an ought needs significant justification, because how things are is not a good guide for how things necessarily ought to be. Further, GE Moore rejected Natural Law because it depends on what he called the Naturalistic Fallacy, suggesting that people should do what they naturally do. Nevertheless, John Finnis has rejected this criticism of Aquinas’ Natural Law, pointing out that Aquinas can be interpreted as being an intuitionist, seeing that the desire to do good and avoid evil and the primary precepts appeal directly to reason before and without experience. This shows that the metaethical critique of Hume and Moore is not conclusive. Aquinas’ virtue ethic has also been criticised by Kantians for encouraging people to develop habits rather than making rational decisions each time. For Kant a “good will” can only be good by acting freely and rationally, being fully human, in every decision, acting out of habit would make a will bad, even if it did the “right” thing as a result. Nevertheless, Finnis again shows that Aquinas’ concern for virtue and character can be brought together with his natural law by making “practical reasonableness” one of the basic human goods. Rather than separating natural law and virtue ethics, Finnis sees being free and rational as the single human habit on which being good – whether in individual actions or character-traits – depends. Again, this shows that Aquinas’ approach to decision-making can be made to evade criticisms and can still be useful. Finally, Aquinas has been criticised for having a over-complicated and speculative account of conscience which is likely to lead people into error, following the guidance of their own imperfect synderesis rather than the infallible teachings of the Church. It is true that Aquinas’ theory of conscience is not based on science, but then again, neither really is Freud’s! Aquinas’ understanding of conscience does do justice to human experience, explaining why we naturally want to do good and avoid evil but also why we sometimes struggle to know how and feel drawn to break moral norms. It is also consistent with other theological accounts of conscience, such as that of Newman, and with Philosophical accounts as well, such as Kant. In this way, Aquinas’ use of conscience within his approach to moral decision-making is not a weakness and his approach is still useful.

In conclusion, Aquinas’ approach to moral decision-making remains useful, both to Christians and more widely. While the application of Aquinas’ approach by the Roman Catholic Church has led Aquinas’ approach to be treated with scepticism, it merits serious consideration both by Catholics and by everybody else.