Nuance is often lacking in
discussions about global environmental crises, which makes Roger Scruton’s Green Philosophy: How to Think Seriously
About the Planet (Oxford University Press) a gift for those distraught by
the doomsday scenarios or outright denial voiced by many today about life on
Earth. Scruton’s examinations of agriculture, climate change, widespread
plastic pollution, and much more offer sound, challenging food for thought—even
if the necessary ingredients to achieve his proposals are left largely
unstated, as people of faith will notice.
Scruton is an English writer and
philosopher. He labels himself as conservative but his writings and
observations can defy the commonly accepted meaning of that label. In How to Think Seriously About the Planet
one finds solutions that would, and do, delight liberal ecological crusaders. This
is but one example of Scruton’s willingness to seek answers along any path that
will do.
In just over 400 pages, the book
connects topics that should be connected when discussing ecology: politics,
philosophy, aesthetics, economics, sociology, the natural sciences, history,
and current events. What is hardly mentioned, however—and when it is, only with
the lightest of touches—is faith, especially the Christian faith that Scruton
has adopted and that formed the foundational narrative of much of the Western
world that he examines. Perhaps Scruton assumes that his audience will be
largely secular and so wishes to avoid any terminology—like sin, grace, or God—that
may interfere with, or be diminished by, his political message.
Nevertheless, love and sacrifice
play big roles in this book. The central proposal for thinking seriously about the planet is “old-fashioned
oikophilia”—the love of the home. It
is this love, Scruton argues, that provides the best means to counter
human-induced ecological crises. Any changes in human practices that are meant
for the good of the environment (and, thus, for people) must root themselves in
our “individualist” instinct for communities to tend to their own. The opposing
“egalitarian” reflex—to solve problems through the actions of strangers within centralized
governments, international agencies, or non-government organizations, of which
no one political authority is in control—will too often fail and in many cases
already has.
Scruton writes that “[t]he
conservative understanding of political action that I propose is formulated in
terms of trusteeship rather than enterprise, of conversation rather than command,
of friendship rather than the pursuit of some common cause. Those ideas lend
themselves readily to the environmental project, and it always surprises me
that so few environmentalists seem to see this. It is as obvious to a
conservative that our reckless pursuit of individual gratification jeopardizes
the social order as that it jeopardizes the planet. It is obvious too that the
wisest policies are those that strive to protect and keep in place the customs
and institutions that place a brake on our appetites, renew the sources of
social contentment, and forbid us to pass on the costs of what we do to those
who did not incur them.”
It is hard not to hear a dialogue
with Christian ethics in Scruton’s definition of political action. Indeed, much
of what Pope Benedict XVI has said about ecology and human consumption aligns
with Scruton, when stripped of political adjectives. But Scruton’s musings about
conservative political philosophies do not journey into faith, even if this is
where the entire project seems headed.
As for the political, there is
much in How to Think Seriously About the
Planet that makes Scruton’s case against large-scale regulatory
bureaucracies and a reliance on international treaties. There is also much to
support local control—civic associations, local elected governments, and “small
alliances of friends and neighbours…who are making space for themselves in the
nooks and crannies on which the eye of officialdom seldom falls.”
This is not to say that Scruton
won’t recognize the value of regulation. He likes government control of
building and signage ordinances that encourage traditional architecture, such
as in places like Salzburg. He acknowledges that these sorts of ordinances may
be a disadvantage to individual businesses, but since the disadvantage “is
imposed equally on all of them, none of them really suffers.” Scruton also
admits that there are issues—like climate change—that do call for an
international response, along with local and individual ones. Here and
elsewhere, Scruton shows his gift of calm, nuanced analysis where others might offer
loud, ideological shopping lists—and predictable ones at that.
In fact, in reviewing the charged
topic of anthropogenic climate change, Scruton wisely avoids in-depth critiques
of scientific details, for he is not a climatologist. Rather, he is willing to
defer to experts providing empirical evidence that a growing restlessness in
our atmosphere is (at least partly) the result of humanity’s input of
greenhouse gases. Scruton stops short of joining climate-change “alarmists,”
but he is willing to begin calling for answers.
One answer that Scruton supports
is a tax on carbon emissions. He does so for much the same reason that he
champions Salzburg’s signage ordinances: carbon taxes equitably share the pain
of reducing the unwanted side effects of doing business. Here, Scruton the
conservative is supporting a tax that is often championed by progressives and
celebrities within the climate-change entertainment industry, such actress Cate Blanchett and Al Gore.
In fairness, the politics of
carbon taxes versus other schemes—like market-based “cap-and-trade” approaches
that allow industries to buy and sell carbon credits—are not always clearly
positioned within ideological camps, nor are they topics on which Scruton
wishes to focus. Still, his offering of oikophilia as the best fuel for one’s
eco-policies aligns with his support of taxing carbon emissions because his
argument is a communal one: they pass the cost of pollution to “those who
contribute most to producing it—and that means everyone, since the cost is
passed on at the end to the consumer, who is the one ultimately responsible.”
While this may make Scruton a
friend of many on the left, he is a friend of traditional conservatives in
other areas, such as in his critique of government regulations. He provides a
number of examples to fault such top-down approaches, especially those rooted
in a fear of risk, which he believes breaches the true purpose of government.
“Instead of creating the framework
in which human beings can take risks and assume responsibility for doing so,
law becomes a universal obstacle to risk-taking—a way of siphoning
responsibility from society and transferring it to the impersonal state, where
it can be safely dissolved and forgotten. As soon as there is the faintest
suspicion of risk, the legislators will produce an edict designed to eliminate
it.”
Scruton backs this up with many
examples—and even I, a state environmental regulator, read his case studies
while (mostly) nodding in agreement. Rules and regulations can grow out of
bounds and it is sometimes forgotten that their implementation requires what
might be called a pastoral approach—a remembrance that the point of it all is
not necessarily the letter of the law but the spirit of building and protecting
communities. Indeed, Scruton is on to something in his appreciation of
aesthetic regulations, such as those that prevent McDonald’s arches in the
hearts of ancient European cities. The purpose of such edicts exemplifies the
oikophilia that Scruton champions. But if this is the case for one sort of
regulations—and regulators—can it be true for others? If so, does this indicate
that there is something more for Scruton to consider?
Here, a small detour will be
helpful: In my world of regulating water-pollution control infrastructure, my
team prefers to provide technical assistance and training, when possible,
rather than levy fines and issue notices of enforcement. The former is easier
and it ennobles the men and women that we oversee. Many of my counterparts in
the federal Environmental Protection Agency also appreciate the “tech-assistance”
approach. In fact, after 2010’s record-breaking floods inundated two wastewater
treatment facilities in Rhode Island, regulators from EPA’s Boston office spent
days helping municipal staffs operate and monitor their idled, muddy plants.
The partnerships formed between the regulated municipalities, my state office,
and the US EPA show that regulators can offer helping hands to the wounded.
Was this an example of Scruton’s
oikophilia? Yes. But it goes deeper. Such regulatory cooperation is a sort of top-down love of neighbor. This is not
to say that all governments or their agents are capable or willing to operate
in such ways. Hardly. Nor does this imply that fines and legal actions are not
a useful deterrent for those who do violence to the innocent.
For instance, one matter devoid of
adequate regulations is the process of “fracking” for natural gas that is encased
in shale deposits deep under the homes of millions. In America, a lack of local
oversight has resulted in growing hostilities between homeowners with
contaminated groundwater and the energy companies that were allowed to frack
under their land.
Last month in the state of Ohio,
the Dioceses of Cleveland and Youngstown held an educational forum to allow the
gas association to present its case and to hear from aggrieved homeowners. All
parties then listened as Catholic environmental ethicists spoke about how one
can love thy neighbor even if government regulations do not require it.
My meaning in taking this detour
is to reflect on Scruton’s silence on faith and to suggest that such silence is
a danger when dealing with local and global ecological crises.
Scruton’s oikophilia is indeed an
important factor in the equations of ecological (and social, and personal)
health. But it is not enough. Love of one’s home implies an inwardness, a
communal self-centeredness that Scruton has recognized requires sacrifice to
overcome. Indeed, any such philos is
an imperfect love that needs something other than itself to elevate it, and so bring
it to the greater agapic love of
utter selflessness. With a love thus perfected, one can spontaneously and
deeply love not just one’s neighbors or tribe, but also distant strangers—whether
they are a regulator’s regulated community, the people one wishes to sell to or
buy from, the overseas workers one employs, or the generations not yet born
that must attend to whatever wastes we leave behind.
At one point, Scruton rightly
portrays oikophilia as the product of human evolution, which required communal
assistance for individuals to survive and reproduce. It should be underscored
that this also explains why tribes clash in times of want. In contrast, a
radical, agapic love of other reaches
beyond such tribal evolutionary forces—and this reaching beyond cannot be legislated or even willed into existence.
It is not a political force. It is a religious one.
Moreover, the cultures that
Scruton principally writes about are Western ones that were baptized long ago
by Christian thought. Here, historian Christopher Dawson may make a worthy
dialogue partner for Scruton’s project, if not Pope Benedict XVI. Either way,
Scruton’s silence toward faith leaves one wanting more than his otherwise solid
political observations can offer. What is needed to bring Scruton’s philosophies
to life, then, is the authentic Christian, extra-evolutionary force of love of stranger, because only such graced,
cruciform love can appropriately shape how one thinks of, and loves, each other
and the planet.
Green
Philosophy: How to Think Seriously About the Planet
By Roger Scruton
Oxford University Press (2012)
464 pages