One of the primary concerns of the great human philosophical project — that largely futile effort to define ourselves in terms of collective existence — has been to draw an appropriate line between the respective levels of consciousness of the inhabitants of planet Earth. Humans, by right of consciousness, we say, are the rightful superiors of the rest of the animal kingdom. Scholars John Peter Anton, George L. Kustas, and Anthony Preus (thank you, Google Books) remind those of us who haven’t spent much time with the Toga-sporting set that, in ancient Greece, “[e]ach thing, according to Aristotle, is defined by its ergon, that is, its power….[that] virtue is the completion or perfection of that power….[and] the virtues of plants, beasts, and human beings will themselves be different.” The implications of Charles Darwin’s take on all that blurred the line — sure, humans were separated from other fauna (and certainly all of the flora), but only by virtue of lapsed time. Still, for Darwin, we were more evolved than our knuckle-dragging predecessors (and thus the Geico caveman commercials). Spiritually speaking, there is of course Genesis 1:26, a rather strong divine endorsement of the idea that human beings are A-Number One on this here planet.

Never mind, for a moment, that some adherents to the latter two ideas seem unable to reconcile their systems of belief: There is common ground here — for both groups, it is important that human beings have a place at the head of the earthly table. Trouble comes when Darwin leaks ever so slightly into King James and the chosen species is reminded of the real reason for its existence. Namely, that we are here to procreate (thus, most recently, John Ensign and Mark Sanford).

So we get anguish. And a press conference. And sometimes even an honest reflection about what this all might mean in the scheme of things. (If we were bested by lust, is this not a surrender to animal instinct?) And then we get the tears. As wielded in exemplary form this past week by the philandering Sanford, these things are a deployable tool that, spiritually speaking — and that’s certainly how Sanford intended them — seem to come out as a reinforcement of one’s humility before God. Here, in front of the podium, coming on as a public supplication, they serve as a protestant replacement for kneeling; “I spent the past five days crying in Argentina” is, in the hands of a Mark Sanford (as Indiana Jones reminds us), a sign of penitence.

Funny thing is that, even in this seeming act of self-degradation, humans may be continuing to play out the concept that they are better than any of their animal kin. As Vassar College psychology professor Randolph Cornelius told the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in 2003, “[t]he kind of crying that humans do is very special because it appears as if only humans cry in this emotional way.”

For Sanford and his dick-thinking brethren, this presents an interesting dichotomy: Sure, their tears may, in the eyes of science, signal a certain human superiority, but the very act that leads to those hanky moments remains a perfect illustration of how the need to procreate — a base animal survival instinct if there ever was one — can win out over each of our “better” natures. For his part, Sanford doesn’t seem to quite get this (as he wrote in an e-mail to his lovely Maria, “[h]ow in the world this lightening [sic] strike snuck up on us I am still not quite sure”). But then, how could he? To him (and his ilk) humans are still the creatures who were told that, not only were they created in God’s image, but that they would have dominion over “the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.”