In his paper “Why I Am an Objectivist About Ethics (And Why You Are, Too)”, David Enoch (2014) aims to show that we are all, in practice, already committed to moral objectivism. His core claim is that moral discourse aspires to objectivity: that when we engage in moral reasoning, argument, and judgment, we do so as if there are right and wrong answers to moral questions—answers that are independent of our preferences, attitudes, or social conventions.
Importantly, this is not presented as a metaphysical argument for the existence of objective moral facts. Rather, Enoch is making a claim about how ordinary moral discourse functions. His point is that the way we talk and think about morality suggests an implicit commitment to objectivity—even among those who would explicitly deny such a commitment in theory.
To support this thesis, Enoch introduces three thought experiments or “tests” that are meant to reveal how deeply embedded objectivist assumptions are in our moral practices:
1. The Spinach Test
This test takes its name from a joke:
“I’m glad I don’t like spinach — because if I did, I’d eat it. And I hate that stuff!”
This is humorous precisely because it confuses taste with independent evaluation. It makes no sense to say you’re glad you don’t like something because you’d then have to eat it and dislike it — if you liked it, you wouldn’t dislike eating it. The joke plays on a category mistake.
Now imagine an analogous moral version:
“I’m glad I believe slavery is wrong — because if I didn’t, I might support it, and that would be terrible.”
This version isn’t funny. In fact, it sounds entirely serious. Enoch argues that this difference in how we respond shows that we do not treat moral attitudes like mere preferences. We take them to be about something external to us, as if they were objectively right or wrong.
2. The Phenomenology of Disagreement
Enoch next points to how moral disagreement feels from the inside. When we argue about morally charged issues — whether capital punishment is just, or whether eating animals is wrong — we typically experience the disagreement as substantive. We don’t simply feel that others have different preferences; we feel that they’re mistaken. This contrasts sharply with disagreements about taste, where we can easily accept that different preferences coexist.
According to Enoch, this phenomenological experience mirrors factual disagreement, suggesting that we implicitly treat moral judgments as truth-apt — that is, capable of being right or wrong — just like claims in science or history.
3. The Counterfactual Test
Finally, Enoch invites us to consider counterfactual scenarios. Suppose that in a different society, everyone believed that gender-based discrimination was morally acceptable. Would that mean it was morally acceptable in that society?
Most of us, Enoch claims, would say no — we would insist that such discrimination would still be wrong, even if universally accepted. This reaction suggests that we take at least some moral claims to be true independently of belief or consensus, just as we do with claims in mathematics or science.
Based on these tests, Enoch concludes that our moral discourse does not function like expressions of taste or culturally relative norms. Instead, it functions more like science or logic, in that it aims at truth and treats disagreement as indicative of error. Thus, even if we reject objectivism in theory, we behave as if moral objectivity is real. According to Enoch, this gives us a reason to take moral objectivism seriously: not because it has been proven, but because we are already, in practice, committed to it.
Why This Interpretation Is Not Compelling
I argue, however, that this is not a necessary interpretation of the data. The phenomena Enoch identifies can just as plausibly be understood as affective and culturally conditioned responses, rather than as expressions of a metaphysical commitment to moral objectivity.
The central problem is that Enoch fails to clearly distinguish between strong moral conviction and an actual claim to objectivity. That something feels absolutely wrong does not mean we believe it to be objectively wrong. This distinction can be illustrated with a simple analogy: imagine someone has a phobia of spiders. To them, the spider feels dangerous, but this does not entail that they believe the spider is objectively life-threatening. The fear is affective, not metaphysical. In a similar way, we can feel that child abuse is deeply wrong without holding a metaphysical belief in objective moral truth. Our reaction might just as well be grounded in empathy, aversion to suffering, or socially ingrained norms.
Enoch seems to assume that strong affect and stable convictions always imply a commitment to objectivity. But this is a crucial interpretive leap he does not argue for. The sense of certainty we sometimes experience in moral matters may be a false certainty, arising from social conditioning rather than from a metaphysical stance. For this reason, I find it more plausible that Enoch’s tests measure cultural and psychological investment rather than philosophical commitments regarding the status of moral claims.
Implications for Metaethics
This has implications for Enoch’s broader metaethical claims. He argues that any theory aiming to explain moral discourse must take moral objectivism seriously. But if our experience of objectivity is the result of cognitive and cultural construction, then no such demand arises.
The task of metaethics is not to mirror our intuitive feelings, but to examine the nature of morality itself. An alternative theory might explain our moral practices as affective phenomena without requiring any assumption of objective truths. Thus, I contend that what Enoch has actually shown is that moral discourse is often experienced as serious, binding, and non-relativistic. But he has not demonstrated that this experiential pattern implies a belief in objective morality. He therefore fails to establish that moral discourse inherently aspires to objectivity. What he interprets as a sign of objectivity might equally be explained by internalized norms and affective responses.
Anticipating the “Charitable Reading” Objection
Some might object that I am not offering a “charitable” reading of Enoch’s position. But the distinction I am pointing to is not about interpretive generosity—it concerns a missing argumentative step. I am not willing to supply this step on his behalf, simply because some unreflective feeling could be interpreted as implying objectivity. My broader claim is that Enoch conflates external patterns of expression with internal metaphysical commitments. He interprets surface-level behavior as evidence of deep metaphysical allegiance.
A Final Thought Experiment: Sun Worship and Misattribution
To further clarify why this is problematic, consider the following thought experiment:
Imagine someone has the habit of stepping out onto their balcony each morning and turning their face toward the sun. A passerby who happens to be a devout follower of the Egyptian sun god Ra observes this behavior and interprets it as a religious ritual—a moment of reverence directed toward the divine sun.
But in reality, the person has no such belief. They step into the sunlight simply to feel more awake, to enjoy the warmth, or perhaps for entirely unrelated reasons. The behavior resembles a religious act, but is in fact motivated by something entirely different.
This illustrates the core issue in Enoch’s reasoning: he fails to show why we should interpret certain patterns of moral expression—such as outrage, disagreement, or counterfactual judgment—as necessarily indicating a metaphysical stance on moral objectivity. Why is moral objectivism the only—or even the best—interpretation? Why should we disregard alternative explanations, such as psychological affect, cultural training, or linguistic convention?
That someone acts in a way that resembles a moral objectivist does not mean they are one.
Enoch, D. (2014) ‘Why I am an Objectivist about Ethics (And Why You Are, Too)’, in R. Shafer Landau (ed.) The Ethical Life, 3rd ed. Oxford University Press. pp. 208-221.