Timeless Principles: What Are They?

Over the course of centuries, human beings have discovered eternal truths: Principles that are true at all times and in all places. These discoveries form a part of the foundation for knowledge, civilization, and science.

During Hellenistic Age of Greek History, Euclid compiled some of those truths and founded what is now known as geometry. The Hellenistic Age began roughly with the death of Alexander the Great in 323 B.C. and lasted for approximately two centuries. Two thousand years later, Euclid’s collection of axioms and definitions still serves not only students everywhere, but also engineers and architects. Euclidean geometry contains timeless principles.

In the realms of geometry and mathematics, more such principles accumulated over the centuries, as people discovered non-Euclidean geometries, trigonometry, algebra, and calculus.

Physics also contains timeless principles, the discoveries of Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein and many others. The fact that Newton physics differs from Einstein’s physics does not detract from the reality that both men discovered absolute principles.

Just as the quadratic equation is an eternal truth in mathematics, so also in society and civilization there are eternal truths about how to structure communal life.

In the same way, thinkers like Thomas Hobbes and John Locke have discovered timeless truths about human nature. Hobbes and Locke wrote in the 1600s. In the late 1700s, their works would play an important role in American history. In the history of the United States, the authors of foundational documents like the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights began by looking to ancient and modern philosophers to collect some of these timeless principles, as Ben Shapiro writes:

The Constitution was created to deal with flaws in human nature, not to cope with technological advancements: we may have better means of communication than we did in 1787, but we don’t have better people. People are the same as they ever were. The founders constructed the Constitution on the basis of three main realizations about human beings. First, they realized that human beings are imperfect, selfish, driven by self-interest. They will go to war with each other to assure the victory of that self-interest. The founders agreed with the central theory of Thomas Hobbes, that without government, man reverted to constant warfare: “No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death; and the life of man solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”

In writing the Constitution, the founders took into account that human nature is essentially imperfect, flawed, and limited. Hobbes had gone on to suggest that the best way to deal with human nature was to establish a powerful and unchallenged government, which would then control people to prevent them from running wild.

The founders rejected the solution proposed by Hobbes, even while accepting the principles he had discovered: yes, human nature is imperfect, but, no, the best solution to that problem is not to establish an absolute dictatorship. Ben Shapiro explains:

But they disagreed with Hobbes that the only way to solve this conundrum was a great and powerful ruler. They believed that such rulers were similarly capable of brutality in their own self-interest. They adopted this philosophy from John Locke, who wrote, “The end of government is the good of mankind; and which is best for mankind, that the people should be always exposed to the boundless will of tyranny, or that the rulers should be sometimes liable to be opposed, when they grow exorbitant in the use of their power, and employ it for the destruction, and not the preservation of the properties of their people?” In other words, if rulers invaded the rights of others, they ought to be curbed.

John Locke argued that the purpose of government was not to control human beings, but rather to protect their lives, freedoms, and properties. The founders wove into the Constitution ideas from Hobbes and Locke, combining two sets of eternal truths.

They rejected the idea of Hobbes that an absolute, all-powerful, unlimited government was the solution. So what did the founders of the United States do instead?

So, how could society survive without an all-powerful ruler checking men? By a series of mutual checks and balances. As James Madison famously stated in Federalist #51: “If men were angels, no government would be necessary. If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary. In framing a government which is to be administered by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this: you must first enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place oblige it to control itself. A dependence on the people is, no doubt, the primary control on the government; but experience has taught mankind the necessity of auxiliary precautions.”

If the founders decided that having an absolute dictatorship was not the way to go, then which type of government would be better? The answer lies in limiting government: making sure that the government doesn’t get too powerful.

It’s important to avoid a powerful government, because if it is powerful, then it will try to control its citizens rather than protect their freedoms.

One way to limit a government's power is to divide the government into parts, and then pit the parts against each other. This system of “checks and balances” is usually known as “separation of powers.” If the different parts of the government are busy battling with each other, then they won’t have the time or energy to try to control the citizens, and then the citizens have their liberty:

Checks and balances were designed to prevent government from overreaching its boundaries; only widespread agreement could overrule such checks and balances. The judiciary was therefore designed not to lord over the executive and legislative branches, but to interpret the law “under the Constitution”; it was checked by its requirement of funding from Congress and execution from the executive branch. The legislative branch was designed to pass laws in concurrence with the Constitution; the president was given the power to veto laws. Congress itself was checked by distribution of power between the House, chosen by population, and the Senate, chosen by state. The executive branch was checked by the legislature; the executive couldn’t create laws or self-fund, and the legislature could always impeach an incipient tyrant. The federal government as a whole was checked by state governments, all of which had their own checks and balances.

Even though human beings are by nature essentially imperfect and flawed, they still have rights. A limited government works to protect those rights. An unlimited government will work to violate those rights.

People sometimes forget that the U.S. Constitution is not a set of laws for citizens to follow. It is a set of rules for the government to follow. Citizens do not need to obey the Constitution; the government must obey the Constitution.

The structural Constitution, not the Bill of Rights, is the essence of American government. And it has nothing to do with technological progress. It relies on the same vision of human nature held by the founders, and the same vision of human rights: that because you are a human being, you have inviolable rights that cannot be removed from you by majority vote.

Because the Constitution is based on, and contains, timeless principles, it “is a timeless document.” It is backed up by the experiences and reflections of several thousand years — from Babylonians, Egyptians, and Hebrews to Greeks, Romans, and the highpoints of medieval Europe. These principles have been shown to accurately address all human beings, at any time, at any place, of any race, religion, or ethnicity. These are universal principles.

An Unexpected Lesson from Martin Luther: How Social Media Affects Writing in the Twenty-First Century

If a writer is trying to create some introspective and meditative prose in the current era, she or he may well learn some valuable lessons from Martin Luther, who wrote in the first half of the sixteenth century. Luther’s lack of media made him a better writer.

Although Luther found himself in the midst of the most heated debates in centuries, he was also able to shut out the passion and invective for days, weeks, and even months at a time. This allowed Luther to think, and to think without interruption: to reflect, to analyze, to ponder.

Luther was able to write without instant feedback. He was able to write without worrying about the immediate reaction he might receive. To be sure, he would receive reactions, both friendly and hostile, but he would receive them at the pace of pen on paper, and at the pace of a mail delivery system which travelled by foot over dozens of miles, requiring days and weeks before a letter reached its destination.

Considering Luther’s writing process, historian Jonathan Kay notes:

Saul Bellow, in his introduction to Allan Bloom’s The Closing of the American Mind, makes the memorable point that great and important writing is possible only when one is able to shut out “the noise of history.” This is what Luther managed to do when he created his 95 theses, his translations and the other texts that became part of the Reformation’s early canon. As a writer (not a religious one), I deeply admire his dedication to the craft.

I envy him, too. Five hundred years later, there are few writers, artists, designers or intellectuals who do not feel impelled to deliver regular updates on their work online, or at weekly grad seminars, shareholder meetings or workshops with colleagues. And all of us, whatever our professional subculture, imagine ourselves as plugged into some larger intellectual “community” that sits in judgment of an idea’s worth.

Comparing Christianity in the 1500s to Islam in the twenty-first century, Jonathan Kay points to the ways in which thoughts are shared in writing. Could the publishing styles shape something so profound as major religious movements?

These networks make us more professionally productive and accountable. But they also can make us more cautious, since we know that any new idea can expose us to instant censure from complete strangers in other parts of the world who know nothing of our local circumstances. This phenomenon goes by different names — groupthink, political correctness, herd mentality. But in every form, it serves the interest of the orthodox and frustrates the heretic.

This may help explain, for instance, why the path of religious reform has been halting in so many parts of the Muslim world in recent decades: The same miraculous technology that allows would-be reformers to communicate their modern, pluralistic interpretations of Islamic liturgy also allows hard-liners to brutally suppress them.

The speed at which ideas travel shapes history. Luther was able to get his ideas spread across Europe quickly, thanks to the printing press. His famous 95 theses were printed mechanically; multiple printings occurred in various cities within a few months of their appearance.

Luther’s ideas spread quickly, but not too quickly: there remained the quiet weeks between mailing a copy of his theses and receiving a reply — friendly or hostile — from the recipient. This gave Luther time, not to react, but rather to respond: time to craft thoughtful, analytical responses.

This timing also slowed Luther’s enemies. They could not create a “flash mob” to “shout down” Luther’s insightful questions.

In Bangladesh, for example, Islamists have engaged in a systematic campaign of extermination against bloggers who express even moderate critiques of their religion. In Pakistan, a man recently was sentenced to death for posting criticism of the prophet Muhammad on his Facebook page. Even in my Toronto neighborhood, in the heart of one of the most liberal and tolerant nations on Earth, a friend of mine who leads a group of ex-Muslims takes pains not to reveal the location of her monthly meetings, lest such information attract the attention of extremists on the other side of the planet. If modern Islam had its Luther, we might never know, because he could be silenced, or worse, before his ideas could take root.

Luther lived in that historical sweet spot between the invention of the printing press and the invention of the telegraph, when communication was not quite too fast nor quite too slow. As such, he was able to tune out the noise of history — not to mention the threat of death at the stake — and transform his demons into an idea that set the world ablaze. Since then, there has not been a religious revolutionary like him. My guess is there never will be again.

Twenty-first century technology plays all too easily into the hands of violent extremists, allowing them to silence thoughtful observations.

Europe in the 1500s was situated so that its communication was fast enough that Luther’s 95 Theses could be spread across the continent in a few weeks or months, but slow enough that it was the rationality of the responses which shaped the discussion rather than the quick large numbers of emotional reactions.

For those whose research and discoveries are in some obscure corner of the natural sciences, the speed and tone of discourse is not significant. If a researcher invents a new and better way for empirically measuring the halflife of isotopes, a social revolution or cultural upheaval is not at stake. He may share his results quickly or slowly, and the only difference may be to his professional and academic career.

But for those whose work is liable to create change in society or culture, the ways in which they communicate can make a major difference. Reasoned responses from opponents are welcomed as part of a dialectic, but virulent reactions from enemies are not constructive. The communication methods of the twenty-first century make it sadly easy to shut down, shout down, and ensure that reasonable ideas are neither heard nor read.