Trickle Up Economics: The Christian Basis for Capitalism

The New Republic, that thoroughly secular voice of American liberalism, a year or so ago found reason to celebrate Pope John Paul II. Flaunting the Roman Pontiff on its cover as a friendly old coot and man of the people, suggestive perhaps of Gorbachev in a terry cloth wrap, the liberal magazine exalted him as a kind of working-class hero.

No, the magazine was not turning Catholic. Even before Sollicitudo Rei Socialis, it was celebrating the Pope’s alleged conversion to the American Left—his emergence as a stern enemy of capitalism.

The New Republic’s article quoted heavily from John Paul II’s encyclical Laborem Exercens. According to the author, the Pope emphatically rejects the free-market ideas that supposedly prevail in the Reagan administration and cause a stony indifference to the needs of the poor and a continual solicitude for the comforts of the rich.

This article, attacking the moral foundations of capitalism, aroused only one letter of rebuke, a lame libertarian slur on the Pope for opposing sexual freedom. In fact, as I have learned from the barrage of derision heaped on any reference to religion or faith in a book of economics, most of America’s capitalist intellectuals readily and fervently grant the essential correctness of the New Republic’s claim. Capitalism, in their view, is fundamentally amoral and materialist.

As a conservative and a Christian, I must concede that the Pope is correct in rejecting the excesses of the free-market system and in criticizing the greed of capitalists. The idea, prevalent on the Right, that economics constitutes a realm almost completely divorced from the moral order, is preposterous on its face. If religion is true, its truths must necessarily apply to the economic sphere—to all the great ventures of enterprise and production to which most of us devote so much of our time and treasure. Yet capitalism, for all its productivity and creativity, has failed to produce or create a compelling argument for its own moral foundations.

The problem began with Adam Smith. Like many present-day intellectuals on the Right, he was charmed by the way of free markets but disdainful of businessmen. Seldom did they gather but to “conspire against the public interest,” wrote Smith in one of his most famous passages. “Not from benevolence,” he insisted, should one expect one’s bread from the baker. It is an alchemy of self-interest, guided by an invisible hand, that is to bring us the benefits of capitalism.

Later, the more mathematical advocates of capitalism would sing of equilibrium, a Newtonian dance of equations, as the source of our multiplying loaves. To this day, most conservatives would rather celebrate free markets than applaud private enterprise. They would rather laud individual freedom than praise the particular free individuals—the entrepreneurs—who make the system work.

This is a vision of capitalism without capitalists. It sees the system as an interplay of interests lifted into equilibrium by an invisible hand and consisting chiefly of invisible men. It is an economics bereft of both man and God. No wonder the Pope finds it offensive.

In response to this free-market nirvana, the Left, by contrast, can offer seductive indictments of “monopoly capitalism”… vivid catalogues of “crime in the suites”… grim recitations of “dark satanic mills.” The Left caps off the critique with bizarre tales of predatory “robber barons” as the founding fathers of the system and lineal forebears of its current multinational leaders.

Against this onslaught, the Right usually musters in retort only the evidence that capitalism works to create wealth, and that its associated freedoms are congenial to the self-interest of intellectuals. To the Left’s dramatic tapestry of capitalist criminals and monopolists, robber barons and oil sheiks, in counterpoint to the images of the exploited poor and black—to a Leftist repertory of “compassionate socialist leaders,” militant protestors, and austere revolutionary—the Right responds with apostrophes to abstract market processes. This will not do. The Pope has been perfectly right to say so.

The case for capitalism is necessarily the case for capitalists. It should not be a difficult argument to make. Even the so-called robber barons built the railroad, steel, and oil industries on which American prosperity still partly relies and on which the Third World still heavily subsists. For the first time, the robber barons made it possible for the masses of the poor to hope for an escape from poverty and oppression—and even to dream of wealth. Today, moreover, these great monsters of so-called monopoly capitalism are all beset everywhere with rivals.

In the inexorable logic of capitalism, the monopolists grew by steadily lowering their prices. Finally, the luxuries they once sold to the rich became accessible to the majority of the citizens of the world. The robber barons ended by making automobiles and gasoline and telephones and hamburgers and television sets available to the poor in nearly all capitalist countries.

We have seen, however, that such practical and materialist arguments fail to persuade most Christians, including the Pope. Christianity is not chiefly a materialist faith and does not respect a materialist test. The most telling claim made against capitalism—a charge constantly echoed in Catholic writings—is that the system subsists on selfishness and greed.

This view began with Adam Smith, who identified narrow self-interest as the essential impulse of capitalist growth, and it has been accepted by most defenders, as well as critics, of free enterprise. But the Smithian vision bears the deadly suggestion that capitalism violates crucial religious and moral teachings.

The implication is that our wealth springs from some Faustian pact: a deal with the devil by which we gain material benefits in exchange for succumbing to the sin of avarice. By their fruits, you shall know them. Originating in sin, the system bears the fruits of a corrupt and tawdry prosperity that feeds the body and starves the soul in a neon wilderness. The Left even maintains that all too often, amid this glut of shoddy goods, millions of worthy poor go hungry and homeless, while God wanders with them, bearing the cross by crowds of complacent capitalists.

This is the critique of capitalism that can be detected resonating in some of the economic writings of the Pope. This is the critique that impels the recent statements of the American Catholic bishops. This is the critique that the defenders of capitalism have so pathetically failed to answer.

The critique, however, is addressed principally to the abuses that the public mind associates with capitalism, and not to capitalism itself. But if this important distinction is overlooked or disregarded, the criticism leads churches to abandon their supreme role of moral and spiritual leadership, and it makes workers and entrepreneurs ashamed of their labor in satisfying the material wants of men. It creates a wasteland in which ignorant armies of clerics and businessmen clash by night. The clerics implicitly demand that the entrepreneurs give up the profits that sustain their businesses; and the businessmen, relegated beyond the bounds of the church, gyrate between sieges of guilt and amoral defiance.

Let us look more closely at the nature of business—the essential altruism of enterprise. The anthropological evidence shows that the system begins not with the greed that provokes tribal wars, but with the gifts that prevent them. In fact, it can be said that capitalism begins with giving. The tribal capitalists were not warriors or predators; they were the feast givers, the potlatchers, and the mumis—the so-called big men who transcended the constraints of barter by simply making offerings to their neighbors.

Such gifts, ubiquitous in the anthropological literature, imposed implicit debts on their recipients, who tried to reciprocate with gifts in return. Thus were extended and accelerated the processes of exchange that had been stalled in the intricacies of predetermined trading or in the conflicts of a precapitalist zero-sum mentality. In a zero-sum game, a gain for one player can only come at the expense of a loss for another. In voluntary capitalist exchanges, both participants emerge better off than they were earlier, or else they would not have willingly made the exchange.

The most successful gifts are those that are most profitable—that is, gifts that are worth much more to the recipient than to the donor. The most successful givers, therefore, are the most altruistic, the most responsive to the desires of others. In the most rewarding and catalytic gifts, the giver fulfills an unknown, unexpressed, or even unconscious need in a surprising way. The recipient is startled and gratified by the inspired and unexpected sympathy of the giver and is thus eager to repay him. In order to repay him, however, the receiver must come to understand the giver. Thus, the contest of gifts can lead to an expansion of human sympathies.

The circle of giving (the profits of the economy) will grow as long as the gifts are consistently valued more by the receivers than by the givers. In deciding what new goods to assemble or create, the givers must therefore be willing to focus on the needs of others more than on their own. They must be willing to forgo their own immediate gratification in order to produce goods of value to the beneficiaries.

Capitalism today still thrives on the same principles of imaginative giving in conditions of freedom. A gift is defined not by the absence of any return but by the absence of predetermined return. Unlike socialist investments, investments under capitalism are analogous to gifts, in that the returns are not preordained and depend for success entirely on understanding the needs of others.

Just as successful gifts are valued more by their recipients than by their donors, investments succeed only if their resulting products are valued more by the potential purchasers than by the producers.

The difference—this increase in value imparted by the process of production and exchange—is the profit engendered by the system. Profit is a kind of index of the altruism of a product, a measure of the extent to which an investment reflects an accurate understanding of the needs of others and a suppression of the immediate needs and desires of the producer.

Egocentric producers, oriented more toward self-expression than toward the service of others, often claim special virtue and demand public subsidies for their unwanted production—whether of alternative energy, excess butter, unintelligible poems and music, or undesired personal-counseling services. But, in fact, it is the businessmen they disdain for their “other-direction” (as David Reisman, the American sociologist put it). It is these market-oriented entrepreneurs who are really willing to sacrifice their own interests in order to serve others.

Even then, profits reflect not a mere calculation of the demonstrated needs of others but an inspired guess about their future. Profits are residual gains beyond the predictable gains. If gains are surely predictable, they are bid away—and the capitalist will merely earn interest, which in many countries rarely exceeds inflation and taxes.

In fact, the owners of most of the large companies in America have gained no net profits at all, adjusted for inflation on their stock holdings over most of the last two decades. That is why labor unions almost uniformly oppose profit-sharing plans in the kinds of large companies that many critics see as representative of capitalism.

Large companies, however, often are the sclerotic face of capitalism in decline, seeking government favors to replace the profits they no longer can earn by serving others. The heart of the system must always be giving, not taking, or the body will run down and rot.

The altruism of the capitalist goes further. Not only must the entrepreneur comprehend the wants of others, he must also collaborate with others in his business. And most of all, he must wish that others succeed. The businessman must be full of optimism and hope for his potential customers. He must want them to prosper.

Above all, he must want the poor to prosper, if only because the poor always comprise the world’s largest untapped market. He must begin by saving, by forgoing personal consumption in order to serve others. And he must hope for and celebrate the successes of others.

The spirit of enterprise is generous and optimistic about human nature. “Give and you will be given unto” is its fundamental theme. Altruism—an orientation to the needs of others—is its moral compass. The argument that capitalism is a valuable system chiefly because it recognizes and exploits human greed and rapacity is the opposite of the truth.

The Christian foundations of capitalism go still deeper, however. For contrary to the usual notion, capitalism is most profoundly antimaterialistic. Capitalists thrive largely to the extent that they partake of the gifts of the spirit, which come from the Church. An amoral and tawdry capitalism bespeaks a failure in the Church more than in the economy.

Walter Lippmann, a columnist and a great American political philosopher, approached this truth in a book called The Good Society, written during the Great Depression of the 1930s. Speaking of the rise of industrial capitalism, he wrote: “For the first time in human history,” an economic system had emerged that gave men “a way of producing wealth in which the good fortune of others multiplied their own.” At long last, he declared, “the golden rule was economically sound,” and “for the first time men could conceive a social order in which the ancient moral aspiration of liberty, fraternity, and equality was consistent with the abolition of poverty and the increase of wealth.”

Lippmann continued: “Until the division of labor had begun to make men dependent on the free collaboration of other men, the worldly policy was to be predatory. The claims of the spirit were otherworldly. So it was not until the industrial revolution had altered the traditional mode of life that the vista was opened at the end of which men could see the possibility of the Good Society on this earth. At long last the ancient schism between the world and the spirit, between self-interest and disinterestedness, was potentially closed.”

The belief that the good fortune of others is also finally one’s own does not come easily or invariably to the human mind. It is, however, the golden rule of economics, a key to peace and prosperity, a source of the gifts of progress. David Hume expressed this belief on an international level when he declared in 1742, at the end of his essay Of the Jealousy of Trade: “I shall therefore venture to acknowledge, that, not only as a man, but as a British subject, I pray for the flourishing commerce of Germany, Spain, Italy, and even France itself. I am at least certain that all nations would flourish more with such enlarged and benevolent sympathies toward each other.”

The optimism of the entrepreneurial investor is always, in a sense, irrational. In a free society, he has no way to force a market for his goods, and people have every right to deem them worthless. His investments, therefore, must spring not only from a spirit of altruism or charity, but also from a commitment of hope and faith.

Government planning assumes that the future can be predicted and controlled. But as the British economist George Shackle has written, “What has a world where knowledge is already complete and everything is known to do with a world where choice is about the future but knowledge is only about the past?”

From the point of view of past knowledge, the entrepreneur usually seems a fool. Throughout history, most of the key inventions have been scorned by the experts in the field. The vast majority of new investments in unexplored fields or untried products always fail. Of all plausible new inventions, fewer than one percent are brought into production; of all the books that are written, only a small proportion is published, and perhaps only ten percent of these would be said to compensate the writer for his time and effort. Yet, such “irrational” investments, such waste of creative energies, are the secret of capitalist success and the source of human triumph, against all odds, over the centuries.

A rationalist intellectual may be reluctant to depend on a fundamentally irrational process like capitalism, which subsists on optimism and faith, for the very survival of human civilization. He instead will prefer to rely on planning and control.

Above all, he will fear the multiplication of human lives on this earth, for he will see each as a mouth rather than a mind. He will see humans as problems to be solved rather than opportunities for love and creation. He will count up the numbers, compare them with the resources, and predict the decline and fall of the race. He will advocate the hoarding of material wealth and its redistribution, rather than the emancipation of people on the frontiers of new creation.

The problem is that the secular intellectual is a man of little faith. This lack of faith manifests itself in the idolatrous worship of material things. Like a pygmy in the jungle worshipping the trees, the intellectual tends to reject the reality of anything he cannot see and feel. Wealth is believed to consist in things.

Through all the centuries of man, there has recurred this same morbid misunderstanding of the nature of wealth and the wealth of nations. Always, wealth is seen as something solid and calculable: to be seized and held, clutched and hoarded, measured and inventoried, amassed and monopolized. In the age of imperialism, it was imagined to consist in land and the armies which could acquire it; in the mercantilist era, it was recognized as bullion, gained through a favorable balance of trade; in every period, men have fawned over gems and glitter; in the modern age, fossil fuels and strategic minerals have seemed to be the open sesame, but seekers of wealth still fumble for gold and baubles, and real estate as well.

All bespeak the materialist fallacy, a fixation of leftists, but a shibboleth also for much of the intelligentsia of capitalism: the idea that wealth is material and collectible, finite and definable, subject to measurement and inventory, to entropy and exhaustion.

Wealth, however, in the modern era, consists not of things but of thoughts. An entrepreneur does not find value in a new product, or pool of oil, or computer design. He brings value to what was previously seen as worthless. And this value springs from his own values: his courage, ingenuity, diligence, and faith. The most valuable products of today largely consist in ideas of enormous complexity inscribed on computer chips made of the silicon in sand, the most common substance on earth.

In the current era, when scientists can inscribe whole new worlds on a grain of sand, the value of particular territories and resources plummets. More than ever before in history, wealth is metaphysical rather than material. The “limits to growth” that supposedly dictate population controls are merely the new frontiers of progress. From the awesome reaches of the universe to the microelectronic galaxies of inner space, from microbiology to laser photonics, the world opens its portals, sloughs off limits and boundaries, and overcomes the “closing circles” of ecological expertise with ever-widening spirals of possibility.

Nonetheless, the experts are afraid. They know they are living in an era—they dare say it—of unprecedented perils: of scarcity, pollution, famine, and plague. In fact, these so-called crises are unprecedented chiefly in their possibility of being overcome by the continuing advance of capitalism.

Why is it that as real human possibilities expand almost boundlessly, many intellectuals feel only new pangs of claustrophobia? While science and enterprise open vast new panoramas of opportunity, our established authorities flee in horror to all available caves and cages, like so many aborigines, terrified by freedom and change. From the statistical and ecological penitentiaries in which they have confined themselves, and wish to incarcerate mankind, they can find hope only in halting progress, possibility only in limiting population, and gaiety and freedom chiefly in the glum sweats and sterilities of “liberated” sensuality.

These intellectuals, of course, are absolutely sincere in their claustrophobic testimonies. Their morbid anxieties about “nonrenewable” resources, “finite” reserves, the “limits of growth,” and the “closing circles of nature” all bespeak the predicament of any moral worshiper of matter and flesh. Matter is “non-renewable,” flesh is finite and exhaustible, youth is fleeting and beset by natural laws and depletions of energy. The contemporary intellectual, denying God, is in a trap, and he projects his entrapment onto the world. But the world is not entrapped; man is not finite; the human mind is not bound in material brain.

Like most of the hype and hysterics of modern intellectuals (for instance, the population crisis, the energy crisis, or the pollution crisis), the crisis of the day is most deeply a religious disorder, a failure of faith. It can be overcome chiefly by worship—by a recognition that beyond the darkness and opacity of our material entrapment is a realm of redemptive spirit, reachable through that interplay of faith and fact which some call science, others poetry, but which is most truly comprehended as forms of prayer.

The exploration of matter—our visible surroundings—is always a first step, pursued through the scrupulous collection of data in the light of physical laws. But matter obeys those laws only to the extent that it is dead. Any creative breakthrough, in science or art, in enterprise or love, depends on glimpsing and engaging a higher realm of life—the realm of prayer. Beyond the long labyrinths of things and the multifarious carrels of fact, the inspired explorer can finally break out into the mansions of providential mind. He then sees the limits of the culture of thanatopsis: the dismal mazes of sense and flesh, the vain hoards of sterile wealth. He can stand at last with wild surmise on the frontiers of matter where life and God again begin, and see a world renewed and shining with possibility.

“Where your treasure is, your heart is also.” It is Marxism and statism that are based on the materialist fallacy, that believe in the treasure of things. It is capitalism that is based on the treasure of ideas and spirit. To the extent that capitalists are predatory and materialistic, hoarding and miserly, hedonistic and prodigal they betray the essence of capitalism and balk its growth.

The fable of Midas, the king who turned everything to gold until he had nothing to eat, is not the story of the perils and contradictions of capitalist wealth. It is the tale of the pitfalls of materialism itself. The real capitalists have the anti-Midas touch, turning the hoards of gold and liquidity, through an alchemy of creative spirit, into productive capital and real wealth. And the foundation of wealth is always giving, not taking. The deepest truth of capitalism is faith, hope, and love.

Christian intellectuals, in their understandable frustration at the presence of vice in Vanity Fair, often tend to attack capitalism. But capitalism in itself is not the problem. The problem is secular hedonism.

To the extent capitalists produce depraved goods, they destroy the moral conditions of capitalist progress, they undermine the families from which all true natural resources flow. It is largely liberal culture that refuses to ban pornography, or effectively suppress vice, or uphold the moral values of family life.

The value of a nation’s goods stems from the values of its people. If the churches more confidently and effectively evangelized for their own moral and religious values, rather than for socialist and materialist fantasies, depraved capitalists could not easily make money off the vices of others, and society would become more righteously prosperous. Profits from vice are spurious in a capitalist society, because they undermine the faith and trust, the hope and charity, on which real growth and progress depend.

The central truths of Christianity apply luminously to capitalism. The crucial capital of the system is not the physical accumulation of natural resources and machines but the metaphysical capital of ingenuity and faith.

Thus, the Pope is completely correct in denouncing materialism. Materialism is the perennial enemy—and temptation—of capitalism.

The Pope is right in supporting a broad ownership of the multinational means of production, and he is right to denounce the exploitation of the many by the few in a class society. But modern corporations, with their millions of free customers and shareholders (many of them workers with pension funds), diffuse the control and benefits of production more widely and concretely than any bureaucracy of socialism or any United Nations commission.

Capitalist systems now assign some 85 percent of income to labor and comprise millions of small businesses that are owned by their leading workers. It is small firms in free economies that have impelled the vast increase in human wealth and destroyed the class society, while class war persists virulently between bureaucrats and proletarians in every socialist state.

If the Church is truly concerned with the material problem of world hunger and poverty, it should temper its own efforts at distributing food and instead promote the moral and spiritual conditions of capitalist farming. Wherever entrepreneurship is extended to the production of food—from China to Bangladesh—people begin feeding themselves. Wherever government rules, famine and dependency spread.

Most of all the Pope is correct in exalting equality. As Tom Bethell, a brilliant Catholic writer in Washington, has pointed out, equality before the law is the central prerequisite of capitalist prosperity. Without equality before the law, private property cannot be preserved from the powerful and the free exchanges of capitalism cannot take place. In order to give, you must first be able to own. In a stratified society where the powerful control the law, the entrepreneurial challenge of established businesses cannot happen. Capitalism thrives because it defends equally the property rights of all. Thus, it constantly benefits from the creative surprises of the poor.

In America today, many of the most creative and successful new companies emerge from the ideas and sacrifices of unlettered men. Very often, these men are penniless immigrants without personal charm or even mastery of English; they do not even have high school diplomas to show. But they work 16 hours a day, and eventually outdo all the credentialed powers and principalities of the world.

Because leading entrepreneurs are rarely elegant, tall, eloquent, or well educated, they do not often impress academics or aristocrats and do not always spend their money in fashionable pursuits. But capitalism is the only economic system in which the last regularly become first by serving others in humble ways.

Intellectuals and others certified as “first” by schools and professional societies rebel at a system that rewards such a motley and improbable crew as the world’s entrepreneurs with wealth beyond that of the kings of old. But this continual uprising of the wretched of the earth is the redeeming miracle of capitalist wealth. It is made possible only by the principle of equality before the law. And as Bethall maintains, equality before the law tends to crumble into various class privileges—unless it is sanctified by a belief in equality before God. The Pope’s constant stress on the position of the poor is thus a source of replenishment for capitalism, not an attack on it.

If I may be so bold, I would suggest in fact that the Pope, if he looked carefully, could see that the worldly society of his dreams must be capitalistic. Although many capitalists fail to fulfill the essential values of the system, the problem of free economies is not the nature of their economies but their corruption by a secular hedonist and amoral culture.

Capitalism is suffering from the increasing betrayal of its moral, spiritual, and religious foundation by churches and schools, by preachers and politicians who believe that the paramount natural laws of giving and faith are irrelevant to the great dramas of human creativity and production, science and art.

The problem is not a crisis of economics, but of religion. Too many clerics have renounced the claims of the spirit in favor of inept ventures of materialism and social politics, thus depriving capitalism of its indispensable moral rules and roots and spreading famine and poverty in the name of social justice.

As Monsignor Escriva writes: “Don’t forget that charity, more than in giving, consists in understanding.” Understanding is hard. But it is the arduous first step in successful charity. Giving requires first a hard-earned understanding of others. That is the chief insight that the experience of capitalism offers the church. Indeed, it is the very genius of capitalism that it recognizes the difficulty of successful giving, and understands the hard work and sacrifice entailed by the mandate to help one’s fellow man.

To give without hurting is hard. Excessively “generous” foreign aid or welfare, for example, hurts its recipients, demoralizing them or reducing them to an addictive dependency that can ruin their lives. The anonymous private donation may be a good thing in itself. As an example for others, it may foster an outgoing and generous spirit in the community. But as a rule of society, it is best if the givers are given unto, if they seek some form of voluntary reciprocation. Then, the spirit of giving spreads, and wealth gravitates toward those who are most likely to give it back and are most capable of using it for the benefit of others—in short, toward those whose gifts evoke the greatest returns.

Even the most indigent families will do better under a system of free enterprise and investment than under an excessively “compassionate” dole that asks no return. The understanding of the law of reciprocity—that one must supply in order to demand, save in order to invest, and consider others in order to serve oneself—is crucial to all life in society.

True generosity is not soft or sentimental. It consists not in “giveaways,” but in responsible giving. It has little to do with the often lazy or degenerate “good works” of the gullible, all the protests and programs of “social change” and equality urged by the sterile and predatory left. Much of the world’s most valuable and generous work comes from the labor and sacrifice of ordinary citizens, supporting their families, building small businesses, performing useful services, continually giving back their earnings in the practical cause of human betterment, and thus doing the work of God.

Capitalism transforms the gift impulse into a disciplined process of creative investment based on a continuing analysis of the needs of others. The investor cannot be fundamentally selfish. A truly self-centered capitalist will eschew the very initiatives—the risky but inspired venture of innovation—that, being untested or unproven, depend most on an imaginative understanding of the world beyond himself and a generous and purposeful commitment to it.

According to Adam Smith, selfishness and greed lead—as by an invisible hand—to a growing and prosperous capitalism. But the truth is contrary to his brilliant insight. The fact is that the greedy or self-centered man seeks first his own comfort and security and pressures the state to give it to him—by taking from others what he has not earned himself. Greed, therefore, leads not to capitalism, but to socialism. As by an invisible hand, self-interest impels a society to an ever larger welfare state, which ends by extinguishing the faith, hope, and charity of capitalism.

That is why the Pope is right in lashing out at contemporary capitalism for its materialism and immorality. But the system can save itself not by becoming socialistic, but by adhering more truly to the essential laws of the altruism of enterprise.

Author

  • George Gilder

    George F. Gilder (born 1939) is an American writer, techno-utopian intellectual, Republican Party activist, and co-founder of the Discovery Institute. His 1981 bestseller Wealth and Poverty advanced a practical and moral case for capitalism during the early months of the Reagan Administration.

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