In the world of noise commonly referred to as politics, I have become accustomed to flagging random sound bites to return to later. I can recall the words themselves with ease; it is the sources from which they come that don’t always stick. This was the case with a particular thought experiment I stumbled upon a few years ago. As time went on, I continued to formulate my philosophy and came to what I understand to be the most logical answer to the question posed to me years earlier. Today, I intend to seek out its deepest implications.
It was only recently that I revisited the paradox, finding out with the help of Google AI that it is commonly referred to as the Ship of Theseus.
As Plutarch, ancient Greek philosopher describes it in his book The Life of Theseus:
“The ship on which Theseus sailed… was preserved by the Athenians down to the time of Demetrius Phalereus. They took away the old timbers from time to time, and put new and sound ones in their places, so that the vessel became a standing illustration for the philosophers in the mooted question of growth, some declaring that it remained the same, others that it was not the same vessel.”
Essentially, the dilemma poses to us the question of: Does the essence of a physical object lie in anything other than the object itself, or is there nothing more than what meets the eye? Not surprisingly, there is a large population whose philosophy would lead them to claim that the refurbished ship is not the same ship as the one Theseus began with. To them, the ship’s essence comes purely from the planks and sails it is composed of. There is nothing more than what meets the eye.
“After all,” they will posit, “what is a ship other than an amalgamation of wood and sails?”
I, on the other hand, have a completely different view.
In my careful consideration of the Ship’s relationship with the world, I was reminded of an older Greek, who, despite living nearly 500 years before Plutarch penned his paradox, had already curated a nearly perfect framework on how to approach this question. Not only is Plato’s Theory of Forms instrumental in learning how the classical Greek philosopher himself thought about the intelligible and unintelligible realms, but attaches abstract significance to all of Creation.
According to Plato, Theseus’ ship is not merely an amalgamation of wood and sails, but a piece of a puzzle more vast than any human can even understand. Humans create a ship by cutting the wood and assembling the body, but the idea, or Form of a ship comes from the unintelligible realm. Human’s construction of a ship acts merely as a recreation of divine wisdom that their superiors have bestowed upon them. To Plato, the invention of the ship was not merely an accident, but a physical representation of the Form from which it was made. Because ships aid in the execution of humanity’s rational goals, they are of the Good. Plato calls Good a Form. Christians call it one of three transcendentals.
While, according to Plato, human intellect can never possibly grasp what the true “Form” of the Good is (or Form of a ship, as it extends from the Good). Though, we can still use our reason to bring an imperfect manifestation of the Forms to our world by creating ships of our own. Our hands bring us out of the life of the mind and into reality where merchants need to trade and leaders need to travel. A ship is still a ship if its parts work together in harmony to serve the greater Form of a Ship and the greatest Form of the Good.
This does not mean that all ships constructed are identical to each other, but simply that all ships are equal if they were made in the image of the Forms that preceded them.
So why does this all matter? At this point, I commend you, good and faithful reader, for making it this far into a rant about a ship.
The penultimate paragraph may have rung familiar as you read about the making of ships in the image of the Forms, and you would be correct to recall the similar concept in Genesis, when man is detailed as having been made in the image of God.
This very thought in Western society unilaterally deconstructs the materialist notion. Just as ship is not merely wood and sail, man is not only skin and bone. Whether the discussion concerns men or ships, it remains true that both man and ship were created with a purpose and with a philosophy. To best explain what I believe is the correct answer to the Ship of Theseus, it is best to scale it from one man to millions.
It is undoubtedly so that the United States of America has changed immensely since the day of her founding. Not a single American alive today fought on the front lines of the Revolutionary War, lived under the Articles of Confederation, or debated the principles our Constitution ought to uphold. The nation has become both weaker and stronger, her people both privileged and persecuted in the past 250 years. If we are to make the most direct analogy of the Ship, “is the country the same country despite, from time to time, replacing the timbers that embody it?”
To answer this question in keeping with their philosophy, the materialists must argue that the mass of land should no longer go by the name that its founders gave it 250 years ago. “After all,” they must necessarily posit, “what is a country other than an amalgamation of laws and people?” With every birth and death, land acquisition made, and bill passed, the majority of the timbers that built this country are no longer the same as the ones that exist today. None among us are Revolutionary veterans and our government has extended well beyond that which the founding fathers intended it to.
Yet, I presume that even the most extreme adherents of this philosophy may hesitate to adopt this absurd conclusion. What else would we call ourselves? How often should we change our name? What counts as a significant enough change to declare our status as a different country?
Our current generations may have different habits, accents, and DNA codes than the generations that suffered through the winter at Valley Forge, surprised the Hessians on Christmas Day 1776, and bled out on the battlefield of Ticonderoga. The one commonality that the modern patriot shares with the colonial patriot is the calling we have as citizens of this great nation.
Our country is an extension of our personal identity, and the founders took great care to ensure that it does not hold us back, but compels us forward towards achieving peace, prosperity, and a more perfect union.
There is a reason why anti-American elites focus most of their effort on persuading us of America’s inherent evil, and pressuring us into apologizing for our history at all costs: The second we forget the fact that our country was created in the image of the Good, True, and Beautiful is the second that we will cease to be these United States of America.
After all, a ship is more than just an amalgamation of wood and sails, as a country is more than an amalgamation of laws and people. We are the new timbers, and America is still the same ship.
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