Buildings and theories need strong foundations to stand. But no building is completely unshakeable—every building falls eventually—and the same applies to theories. A theory’s foundation consists of its self-evident premises. For the full development of a theory to take place, it must have some starting ground that is acceptable because it is either obvious or undeniable. Many of these starting grounds are especially problematic when it comes to justifying familiar and accepted notions such as equality and rights, especially in political philosophy. So if theories constructed like buildings fall, then perhaps we should consider a different type of theory: one without foundations. Such a “foundationless theory” may in fact be more useful and universal than any variety of its opposite, the foundational theory.

If the relevance of this issue is not clear enough, here’s why: If every theory we have justifies notions like equality and rights on a foundation that will either fall or never become universally acceptable, then the reality of these notions is arguable. Anything arguable is problematic, of course, because it allows for the possibility of legitimately believing the opposite: namely, that the ideas of universal equality and rights are myths. Foundational theories allow for such unacceptable contentions.

A famous foundational theory that attempts to justify notions such as equality is natural law theory. The roots of this theory go back to Cicero and his predecessors. Through the centuries, it has undergone changes and has found plenty of opposition. Classical natural law rests on one main idea: nature is teleological, namely, it is an end-driven enterprise. The basis of this belief, now essentially discredited by Darwin, rests upon the assumption that nature is harmonious, and that from this natural order, the moral order is deducible. In this system nature dictates what is right and wrong, which led St. Augustine to claim that an unjust law is no law at all. However appealing the theory may be in some respects, it should be clear that its foundation, that upon which everything else follows, is flawed. Time and scientific progress became the enemy of classical natural law. This, of course, affected the theory’s conclusions and intermediary assumptions. For example, how can our moral duties be derived from a mere (wrong) description of nature? There certainly appears to be a gap in the reasoning that one can derive a moral law from nature alone. Many foundational theories make similar assumptions and posit self-evident truths that, at heart, are truly arguable and subject to the passing of time and constant change, or just utter disappearance.

How can one avoid falling into the problems of foundational theories when formulating and developing concepts in political philosophy? Namely, how can one develop a foundationless theory? First, we can focus on the idea of a contract. Many philosophers, including Hobbes, Rousseau, Kant, and Rawls have all made the idea of a social contract a keystone of their theories. Think of a contract as an exchange. Two parties, for example, will never enter a contract in which one party is required to work seventeen hours a day in the field in exchange for two weekly cupcakes. As much as the owner of the field would love to have someone accept his offer, it would be unrealistic to believe that he will find someone who would. On the other hand, if he offers five Happy Meals a day for the same hours, he might find several prospective workers. He would certainly find eager laborers if he offered each one a luxury car, but this is not in the landowner’s interest. In short, values are put on a scale of sorts, and contracts are agreed upon or not based on the balancing of the scale. Let us now see what this implies for a social contract.

Social contracts in general are seen as a sort of coming together of independent parties seeking a compromise, in this case the creation of laws and civil society, in order to evade the less preferable condition of anarchy. These laws, for example, may guarantee property and develop systems of punishment to protect those harmed by the breaking of these laws. As said before, a contract involves some sort of equal return for something else. In this case, an individual gives up the freedom of lawlessness to gain a different type of freedom that takes place within a legal framework, one which is supposed to be preferable or, at the very least, more convenient. Furthermore, it does not turn out that any one person gives up any more or any less in this convenient contract. Everyone gives up certain freedoms in equal measure, in exchange for more of a different sort of freedom, and the end result only works out if everyone participates.

If post-contract we all have the same rights, one right above all must be upheld in any situation whatsoever. This is the right to life. Not having a right to life is equivalent to having no rights at all. If I have the right to property and the right to healthcare, but I don’t have the right to life, then those other rights are just nominal. The moment a government’s democratically acceptable decision to end my life takes place, I lose all my other rights. The right to life is the one that establishes equality.

It is able to do so because it indicates that we are all of the same worth: that is, an infinite sum. This is similar to Kant’s conception of absolute worth. Think of it like the pricelessness of the Mona Lisa. Just like nobody can buy it no matter what price is offered, nobody has the right to deny someone else life. If someone does, the contract’s terms are violated, and the aggressor is not entitled to any benefits that arise from the contract. Compare this with Hobbes, who in a similar sense established equality on the basis of human mortality. He claims that because nobody is so superior in strength or intellect that he or she can evade death at the hands of others, we are all equal. But we do not even have to make such an empirical claim: We are equal because we need to be absolutely worthy in order to hold the rights we consider it so convenient to have.

By now it is clear that we can accept political concepts without resorting to explanations grounded in speculations about qualities we might inherently possess and without commenting on human nature, the order of the universe, or sentimental ideals. For instance, the claim that we are absolute worthy as a result of our nature alone is arguable in many ways, especially when seen through the almost pessimistic lens of science: we are just a mere species on a small planet crowded with animals that will presumably evolve—thus changing the natural order previously taken for granted. By contrast, the “political” approach for justifying absolute worth takes nothing to be self-evident. To establish and justify certain concepts without involving the extraneous is the necessary direction for political philosophy. Shaky foundations, after all, will always allow for someone to disbelieve with authority what we should all universally value and uphold.