Superessentialism in Leibniz

Leibniz, Classical Theism, and the Problem of Evil - Chapter 4 (3 of 4)

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To date, I have posted the Introduction, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, and parts 1 and 2 of Chapter 4. Today, I post the third installment of Chapter 4, Superessentialism in Leibniz.

If you have yet to read all that comes before, I recommend you do so for context. Links to all prior sections are below. Be watching for the second installment of Chapter 4 next Sunday. Enjoy!

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Superessentialism in Leibniz

When exploring Leibniz’s notion of concomitance, we saw time and again that our world is an interlocking puzzle. To create man entails the creation of his world. To create the prophet Samuel entails the creation of his genealogy and the history that supports it. And in the case of monads, every facet of the cosmos and its history must be precisely as is in order for a given monad to harmonize with its world. Now, we may be tempted to see such claims as perfectly compatible with free choice, and under a certain set of commitments, they may well be. For example, the concomitance of Samuel and his genealogy and its history may well be a confluence of free activities that, if otherwise, would fail to produce Samuel. But the challenge for Leibniz is that he understands the very identity of Samuel or of any monad to be wrapped up in this cosmic confluence. As we saw in Leibniz’s theory of truth, all things that are predicate truly of Caesar are in Caesar. And when paired with the monadology, this includes all that is true about Caesar’s world from Caesar’s perspective. Such a claim raises a very serious challenge to freedom. If, like the libertarian, we believe freedom requires alternative possibilities (PAP), then in what sense could Caesar have not crossed the Rubicon? For crossing the Rubicon is part of Caesar’s identity. Yes, Leibniz admits the logical possibility of negating this action without contradiction — fine. But if Caesar did not cross the Rubicon, then he would not be the Caesar of which we speak. For he would harbor a different set of predicates and thus be a different subject.

The point raises the specter of what is called “superessentialism.” To quote David Blumenfeld, superessentialism is the view that “every property that an individual has (save existence) is an essential part of his nature.”¹ Unquestionably, Leibniz intends to preserve both freedom and contingency, so there can be no question that Leibniz wishes to avoid superessentialism. The question, however, is whether his philosophy allows him to do so. 

Blumenfeld makes a strong case that Leibniz cannot. The root of the problem is, again, his theory of identity — that is, what makes a thing itself and not something else, or makes it numerically one, or provides continuity overtime, or makes it self-same despite change?² How precisely Leibniz answers this question is a point of dispute,³ but three features of his position are relatively uncontroversial. The first is that Leibniz believes a thing’s identity is substantial. Hence, if one falls into deep sleep or suffers amnesia, this gap in consciousness and memory does not produce a gap in identity, given the continuity of substance (NE II.xxvii.9, 244-5).⁴ Second, Leibniz rejects the theory of haecceitas — that is, the view espoused by John Duns Scotus that a subject bears a discrete property of “this-ness” (haecceitas), which makes it this and not-that (A 6.1:490).⁵ Third, Leibniz admits the point made earlier, namely, if Adam did not sin in Eden, he would not be “our Adam.” In short, identity includes every truth predicated of the subject.⁶ Granting these points, the case for superessentialism proves formidable. 

To see why, let’s presume, for a moment, that superessentialism is false. Our Adam has libertarian freedom, so his transgression in Eden is contingent in the sense that Adam could have not sinned.⁷ Given that Leibniz believes in possible worlds that incarnate alternative possibilities, most think that such a presumption (i.e., Adam could have not sinned) must mean that there is a possible world in which Adam does not sin. Hence, if we could peer into the mind of God, we would find there a second Adam (call him Adam₂) in a second possible world (call it PW₂), where Adam₂ does not eat of the tree. Now, let’s add to our presumptions the relatively uncontroversial point that what we would not find in PW₂ is an invisible thread that connects our Adam with Adam₂ like a pair of siamese twins. In other words, our Adam and Adam₂ have no substantial connection to one another. Each is a discrete subject in a discrete world. 

The last point creates our first strike against freedom in favor of superessentialism. Recall that Leibniz understands identity to be substantial. If our Adam and Adam₂ are discrete substances, then they do not share a common identity. So, the sinlessness of Adam₂ does not belong to our Adam. For Adam₂ is a different person. We may be inclined to associate the two Adams because of the striking resemblance between them, their contexts, and their circumstances. But the association is mental only. Substantially, Adam₂ is no more our Adam than you or me. So, despite our attempt to say that our Adam could have not sinned by appealing to Adam₂, we are thrust back to superessentialism: There is no possible world in which our Adam does not sin. 

Now, one could try to escape this conclusion with a theory of haecceitism. That is to say, there is a metaphysical property of “Adam-ness” that makes any Adam “that Adam.” So, our Adam and Adam₂ share a common haecceity, thereby sharing a common identity. They are two iterations of the same person in two different worlds. There may be no material connection between them, but there is a metaphysical connection. Granting the point, we could speak meaningfully about Adam choosing to sin (in our world) and not choosing to sin (in PW₂). The problem, of course, is that Leibniz explicitly rejects haecceitism in his 1663 Disputatio metaphysica de principio individui (A Metaphysical Dispute on the Principle of Individuation). So no such solution is available. In this light, we begin to see why Leibniz is inclined to say that if our Adam did not sin, he would not be our Adam. Needless to say, superessentialism appears to be the natural consequence. 

Such is the case that Blumenfeld makes. After pointing out Leibniz’s denial of haecceitism and his commitment to a substantial view of identity, he highlights the seemingly inescapable conclusion, “If all properties (other than existence) are part of the concept of an individual ... then anyone with any other properties would be a different individual.”⁸ Such a conclusion appears to be the death knell of any meaningful commitment to freedom. Once again, Leibniz clearly wishes to preserve human liberty — a fact that Blumenfeld acknowledges. As Nicholas Rescher points out, Leibniz desperately needs to preserve the contingency of Adam’s sin if his project is to succeed.⁹ But how can he possibly do so? 

The only answer Blumenfeld sees is this. Adam might not have existed. In other words, Leibniz offers no means of saying that our Adam could have not sinned. If God creates our Adam, then our Adam sins. The contingency of his sin rests solely in God’s ability to not create our Adam.¹⁰ Now, such an answer hardly washes God’s hands of evil. How can the blame for Adam’s sin fall to Adam and not his maker if Adam could not have done otherwise? But equally problematic is the fact, argued by Blumenfeld, that even this thin veneer of contingency is dubious. Why? Because Leibniz’s superessentialism applies as much to God as to us. That is to say, he would not be our God unless he creates our world. Here, Leibniz’s theory of identity cascades into an unbreakable chain of necessity, which makes it difficult (if not impossible) to say that our world might not have existed. And if divine necessity cascades into a necessary world, then our Adam necessarily exists, and existing, he necessarily sins.¹¹

Blumenfeld breaks down the case as follows: 

1. Necessarily (God exists).

2. Necessarily (If God exists, then God wills what is best).

3. Necessarily (If God wills what is best, then God actualizes the Best Possible World).

4. Necessarily (If God actualizes the Best Possible World, then the Best Possible World actually exists).

5. Therefore, Necessarily (the Best Possible World actually exists). (From (1)-(4)).

6. If (5) is true, then everything that occurs, occurs necessarily.

7. Therefore, everything that occurs, occurs necessarily. (From (5)-(6)).

8. If everything that occurs, occurs necessarily, then no one ever acts freely.

9. Therefore, no one ever acts freely. (From (7) and (8)).¹²

Like his commitment to freedom, Leibniz is committed to the contingency of God’s act of creation. — That is, he denies premise (2). — Yes, if God creates, he creates the best. But the “if” is important. This is only a hypothetical necessity, since God need not create (A 6.4:1652; G 6:123-4; 391-2). The reply sounds well and good, but Leibniz’s commitments to PSR and his theory of identity immediately chime in, asking, “How”? There must be a sufficient reason why God creates rather than does not create, and the case for psychological determinism just discussed rears its head. Likewise, if God did not create our world, then he would not be our God. The problem of contrary choice is no less applicable to God as to Adam. 

The point should not be passed over too quickly. If the problem cannot be solved, then Leibniz offers us a world of absolute necessity. There is no real possibility that God does not create, nor is there any real possibility that he creates a world other than ours. If correct, then everything that exists and transpires is as necessary as God himself — which is to say, everything is absolutely necessary.

Is there any way of rescuing Leibniz from this conclusion? One possibility, which Blumenfeld explores, is the counterpart theory of David Lewis.¹³ Admittedly, the theory is not Leibnizian, but some have tried to read Leibniz along such lines.¹⁴ Lewis summarizes his theory as follows:

Where some would say that you are in several worlds, in which you have somewhat different properties and somewhat different things happen to you, I prefer to say that you are in the actual world and no other, but you have counterparts in several other worlds. Your counterparts resemble you closely in content and context in important respects. They resemble you more closely than do the other things in their worlds. But they are not really you. For each of them is in his own world.... The counterpart relation is a relation of similarity.¹⁵

The theory, in short, admits that our Adam and Adam₂ are not the same person. But the resemblance between them and their worlds make it meaningful to speak about Adam₂ as the counterpart of our Adam. 

Fabrizio Mondadori employs counterpart theory when reading Leibniz, but he adds one qualification — what he calls a “uniqueness requirement.” This requirement is that a counterpart belongs to only one subject within the actual world.¹⁶ The point is meant to ensure the meaningfulness of saying this is or that is “my” counterpart — that is, he is my counterpart and no one else’s. So, might counterpart theory offer a means of rescuing Leibniz from superessentailism? Blumenfeld thinks not.

Yes, the theory offers a means of explaining Leibniz’s talk of alternative outcomes in other worlds. Take, for example, the question: If Sextus had not raped Lucretia, would he have lived a happy life? We can look to a counterpart of our Sextus — one who is significantly like him and no one else in another possible world — and conclude from this counterpart, Yes, had Sextus not raped Lucretia, he would have lived a happy life.¹⁷ But we cannot say, if we follow Leibniz, that our Sextus might have done differently. Why? For the very reasons noted in our original thought experiment. Our Sextus and Sextus’ happy counterpart are two different people. We can associate them due to significant resemblance, but they are wholly different people. Our Sextus resides in only one world, and were he to not rape Lucretia, he would not be our Sextus. In other words, the theory offers Leibniz a way of speaking about alternative outcomes in other worlds despite being a superessentialist, but his superessentialism is in no way remedied by counterpart theory.¹⁸ 

Now, in the interest of steelmanning the case for superessentialism, Blumenfeld suggests that one could build on Mondadori in an attempt to rescue freedom. The strategy would be something like this: Argue that one essential property of any existing subject is “the property of having such-and-such counterparts in such-and-such world.”¹⁹ This revised counterpart theory offers something very similar to haecceitism. To wit, it offers a metaphysical tether between possible subjects, which elevates the meaning of this or that being “my” counterpart to an ontological level: Those alternative choices do belong to me in some sense. Yes, it remains essential to our Adam that he sin in Eden, but just as essential to our Adam is that he has a counterpart who does not sin in Eden. Might this square with Leibniz’s language and rescue freedom?

Putting aside the cogency of the theory as such,²⁰ Blumenfeld thinks the solution is of no help to Leibniz. The reason is that Leibniz has a very particular understanding of possibility and actuality. For Leibniz, possibles do not just float about in the air or in parallel dimensions. Rather, possible worlds (and possibilities generally) are produced by and dependent upon the Mind of God, a point discussed in previous chapters (see, e.g., G 6.226-7; 7.304-5). The actual refers to that set of possibles that God has chosen for existence and thereby emanated, making it concrete.²¹ Why does this matter? The reason is that counterpart theory, if wed to this theory of possibility, results in complete absurdity if applied to God. Blumenfeld explains, 

Leibniz’s view that mere possibles have only an objective existence in the mind of God conflicts with the idea that there are a series of God-counterparts, each actual at its own world. On the contrary, it implies that a single divinity exists who is real in an absolute sense, and whose thoughts form the only basis of the existence of unactualized possibilities.... Leibniz treats actuality as a unique status. It is possessed tout court, if it is possessed at all; and it is something conferred by God on the basis of perfection. But this means that the God who actually exists … would himself have existed whatever world had been actual. After all, the one absolutely real God is the world-actualizer. This again conflicts with the counterparts picture, which would express the fact that God necessarily exists in terms of an infinity of different Gods, each real at his own world.²²

To rephrase the point, the solution admits that freedom requires alternative possibilities, and its account of alternative possibilities appeals to counterparts. So, we can meaningfully say that our Adam freely sins because he has (as an essential property) a counterpart who does not sin. But both our Adam and our Adam’s counterpart find their footing in the Mind of God (the realm of the possibles), and they depend upon God for existence — he being the one who makes them concretely real. Very well. Now, if this is our solution to freedom and contingency, recall that one contingency Leibniz wishes to preserve, and which makes alternative possibilities meaningful, is God’s own choice to create the world. So, what would it mean to say that God could have produced Adam’s counterpart? Several possibilities present themselves, but all are problematic. 

First, one could deny the premise of the question and answer that our God cannot produce any other world. Our world with our Adam is the only world our God might produce. Such an answer seems reasonable, given the theory of the best, but it reintroduces the very chain of necessity that Blumenfeld first outlined, moving from the necessity of God to the necessity of our world and all that transpires within it. So, once again, Adam’s sin is absolutely necessary. Perhaps we could still say, in some meaningful way, that there are worlds in the realm of the possible where our Adam’s counterparts do not sin. But in what sense are those worlds possible? For of absolute necessity, God creates this world and no other. 

The alternative is to suggest that our Adam’s counterpart is meaningfully possible because our God could have made him rather than our Adam. But this contradicts the counterpart solution. Why? If our God could do otherwise, then on counterpart theory, he must have a God counterpart. Were our God to produce Adam’s counterpart rather than our Adam, then “he” would not be our God but our God’s counterpart. 

This brings us to our third option: Our God could produce a world other than our own and with his God counterpart. Now, putting aside the exceedingly odd question of where this God counterpart “exists” before its production, there is a greater oddity. Rephrased, this third solution means that our God could produce a world in which he does not exist. Blumenfeld takes the point to be prime facie absurd.²³ And given that God necessarily exists, the very proposal goes beyond absurdity into formal contradiction. 

The thought experiment highlights one further oddity about this solution. If (for some reason) counterparts are necessary to preserve free choice, but it is not in my control whether my counterpart exists, then in what sense is my choice free? In other words, the concept of freedom, or self-determination, places the alternative possibility in the hands of the choosing being. But if the alternative possibility is the existence of a counterpart, then the power of alternative possibilities is not in my power but in the power of whoever produces counterparts — presumably God.²⁴ In the end, Blumenfeld concludes that even a steel-manned counterpart theory is impotent to rescue Leibniz from superessentialism.

In an effort to ensure no stone is unturned, Blumenfeld explores one final theory. He entertains the possibility that possible beings multiply organically, akin to cell division. Again, using Adam, all possible Adams are originally one Adam at the start. When Adam faces a choice in Eden, he and his world split into two Adams in two worlds — our Adam and Adam₂. The solution preserves Leibniz’s substantial view of identity while providing an evident connection between the two Adams (and all subsequent Adams), namely, they all spawn from a common primordial Adam. Might this help solve the superessentialism problem? Unfortunately not. 

Putting aside the question of cogency, the solution is not available to Leibniz. Recall that on Leibniz’s theory of truth, true predicates are in the subject. And recall that, due to the monadology, Leibniz thinks this includes all predicates that will ever be true of the subject — past, present, and future. The problem is that despite a common primordial origin point, our Adam and Adam₂ have contradictory predicates. So, on Leibniz’s theory of identity, they cannot be the same subject. (This is not to mention that the primordial Adam, who contains every Adam, would be filled with formal contradictions.) The theory could only function if predicates were added to the subject temporally, as new events transpire. But such is not Leibniz’s view. 

Now, notice that much of the foregoing builds on Leibniz’s rejection of haecceitism. By rejecting the idea of a metaphysical property of, say, “Adam-ness” that can be shared by multiple beings, Leibniz cuts off one of the most obvious avenues for linking various Adams in various worlds. In this light, one could try to rescue Leibniz by contesting his denial of haecceitism. Such an approach is tried by John O’Leary-Hawthorne and J. A. Cover (hereafter “OC”).