Some philosophers take to painting verbal pictures in order to explain their concepts. Some of those philosophers will tell you the fabric of morality is made of principles woven together. It is a beautiful image to see that goodness is so orderly. It is a consoling thought to think that morality is universally applicable. Do we not desire for laws to govern our behavior like they do in fact govern the behavior of bodies?
If we continue with the metaphor, it continues to be fruitful. When looking closer at textiles, we see they do not consist of parallel threads. No. Cloth made in that fashion would fall apart. There are innumerable points where the strands intersect and wind around each other. Is it not the same with our picture of moral fabric? Are there not crossroads where the principles meet perpendicularly to each other? These intersections are the locations of human drama and human tragedy. Conflict and tension are what bind our lives together, and yet they also blind us to the truth. Moral quandaries exist because our vision cannot see past the knots. When two principles lead us in different directions: what then? How can both be true when each outcome is opposed?
Do not be dismayed. I am not implying these principles, which can run counter to each other, cannot be a part of one and the same string. I am not interested in passing judgment on the picture as a whole. It helps us understand morality, even if morality is something more. I will merely state the conflagration of principles and their collisions suggests they are substantial. Alas, substance is often indicated by opacity. Their being woven makes it difficult for light to shine through.
Here I want only to tug on a couple strings. Those same philosophers who paint this vision of morality will offer you various principles they think are a part of the fabric. Let us here examine examples of moral imperatives. Let us pull on two such principles to see whether and how they are connected. You will be free to consider their applicability on your own and how much that conclusion should bear upon the critique of the image as a whole.
***
1. 2.
Consider the following moral imperatives.
1: Never do evil so that good may come.
2: Do not let the perfect get in the way of the good.
The first is found in many moral texts and is attributed in its earliest written formation to the Apostle Paul. The second is heard in many political debates and is often attributed to Voltaire.
Both imperatives present commands of omission. Agents are not to do some act in order to be moral. Considering much of the good life consists in abstaining, this form of command follows. Beyond formal appearances, are the two equally strong parts of the presumed cloth?
If morality is universally applicable, then the rules it consists of must be like natural laws. They must be indisputably true through all circumstances.
Observe the truth functions of 1 and 2.
1: Always true. Evil and good are contradictory. Doing one precludes doing the other. Whoever wants to be moral--to do good--ought not to do non-good first (or ever).
2: Contingently true. If the perfect can be done and you should do what is best, then the perfect should be done and the imperative is false. In that case, the perfect is better than the good and should, therefore, "get in the way." If the perfect cannot be done and you should avoid doing anything, then the imperative is false. In that case, the greatest "gets in the way of" the less great. In this scenario, adulation for the unattainable (the best) prevents idolization for the attainable (the good). If the perfect is not achievable and if we should do something, then the imperative is true. In that case, perfection is not an impediment to human possibility. Thus, recognition of our limitations provides for realistically envisioned courses of action and gives us reason to pursue them.
It is now evident 1 and 2 are not a part of the moral fabric in the same way. 1 is absolute. 2 is contextual. While 1 is completely enmeshed in truth, 2 only partially is. 2 is like a loose string, connected on one end and dangling limply on the other. 2 requires further thought to determine whether it applies to a given case.
***
1 and 2
1 warns against compromise; 2 warrants it. Is this apparent conflict insurmountable? Let us consider possible definitions of our terms.
Both 1 and 2 use the term "good." When a good is compared against the best, a good appears evil. We know this truth of relativity when we concede that "second is first loser." If this is the totality of our understanding of the relation between perfection (best) and imperfection (a good), then we have reached an impasse. Not letting the perfect get in the way of the good entails doing a good act despite its limitations. Some of these shortcomings--that the good is not a panacea or a silver bullet--present like evils. The good at times is a half-measure and a mixed blessing. A good act may go to perpetuate the parasitic evils present in the situation while it furthers the good. If this makes the good act evil, then we would be unable to avoid doing evil so that good may come.
But is that all that is to be said? If perfection is a state and imperfection is spectrum, there is a way to abide by both imperatives. Could we not retort that it is better to be second than third, better to do a limited good act than to do nothing? If one cannot win on one's own, is it not laudable to lose as little as possible? If the good as it exists for us varies in its purity, then one is free to compromise within the range, provided the outcome is a greater good and the compromise does not involve perpetrating evil. Evil, on this view, would be circumscribed to the lowest depth.
If we consider who is acting--agents who are complex and frail--then, for them, the perfect is untenable. Imperfection is not always the intention, but is always a byproduct. Someone who does the less than ideal may not be doing evil so that good may come, but may be doing good so that better may come.
***
1 then 2
Let us apply these principles. Below, I have summarized a prevalent--if unstated--view on a moral topic.
Scenario A:
Self-sacrifice entails suffering.
Self-sacrifice is good.
Suffering is evil.
Never do evil so that good may come.
Therefore, never self-sacrifice.
Are we living in Scenario A? What an outcome we have gotten using a true moral principle! Never self-sacrifice? I shudder to think of the world where morality requires no such act. The scenario recognizes self-sacrifice is good, and yet we are prohibited from doing so. Is this an exception to 1? Where have we hit a snag?
Although a person may be tempted to believe suffering is evil, the true situation requires more subtle interpretation. Suffering, in itself, is not evil. Supplement Scenario A with 2, and we can craft a more accurate summary of the topic. Within 2, we find the possibility of redemption in suffering--the point where suffering is not evil--and thus disprove the proposition that suffering is evil pure and simple.
Redemption is an act of taking what one has and relinquishing it to be improved upon. A person redeems a coupon in order to have the discounted price. The coupon is worth its face value only after it has been relinquished.
When a person's suffering is redeemed, he releases it in order to have peace. Peace can come from wisdom or consolation. Either a person understands why she had to suffer or she ceases to be aware of her suffering.
We long for the perfect, cannot have it, and suffer through our distance from it. Yet, some people still strive for better than the good they currently possess. This "still striving" causes additional suffering as striving always brings with it exhaustion and potential for mistakes. Nevertheless, the suffering is redeemed by the greater good that follows. Those people who willingly suffer to abide by their principles and instantiate the human equivalents of their ideals are therein redeemed through suffering.
Redemption is an act of sublimation: we pursue that which we disdain in order not to be defeated by that which we disdain. We discipline ourselves, which is painful, in order to be spared worse, more dangerous pain. We turn the opposition into an ally and in so doing we win the war by conceding the battle.
Compromise is efficacious in the natural world. An effective strategy for containing forest fires is to light others. Firefighters shape the fire through man-made controlled burns. They lead flames away from valuable sites by setting less valuable sites ablaze. The first fire cannot proceed past the area already burned by the second because the fuel it needs has been consumed. Thus, firefighters are able to set boundaries to unmanageable fires by managing fires they start. A similar tactic is used in medicine. Immunizations introduce small amounts of nefarious bacteria, viruses, and allergens into the body. The body wards off these injected intruders and learns the best tactics for defense in the process. Should these foes return in greater numbers later, the body is prepared.
Can we spot the ripples of a similar movement upon the moral sphere? Consider courage. A courageous person confronts danger to avoid greater danger. Fear mixes with wisdom to create courage. We judge it better to risk bodily injury than to be healthy in body and shackled. We judge it better to risk bodily death than to be exterminated by an invader. If a tyrant enters our land, we can fight (courage), submit (prudence), or extricate ourselves from his control and take our lives (cowardice). The courageous person fights in order to not fight. The courageous person does not let the perfect (safety) get in the way of the good (justice). The courageous person does not do evil (suicide) so that good may come (freedom).
Is this not the way we are told to pursue everlasting life? For a person looking to live, he needs to partially die. He must conscript what he wants to evade (suffering) in order not to be overwhelmed (death). We cannot outrun our wrongdoings. If by evasion we feign to avoid the taint of evil, we run into the forest of a crippling moral crisis. We either cease trying to be worthy or assume we naturally are. It is pride that makes us flee and the strength of our pride will snap us asunder.
***
Like a cat with a ball of yarn, I have gotten ensnared in my own curiosity. I have lead us far away from where we began and beg your pardon. Allow me to tie the whole discussion into a bow so that you may take your leave and judge for yourself.
We have witnessed another episode in the tug-of-war between black and white versus gray, exacting versus understanding, purity versus mixture. We surveyed the relationship between 1 and 2. The fulcrum on the see-saw between them is a matter of intention. The person who wants to abide by both, contrarily oriented imperatives, needs to harness the proper motivation. Compromise must be forged--when it should be forged--by a spirit of reverence to perfection. It is a matter, too, of language and conceptions. What is good and what is evil make all the difference. If good and the perfect are equivalent or if suffering is evil, we cannot tether the two imperatives together.
Our musings began with a picture and shall end with a question about a painter. Your answer will help you decide whether you should spend time criticizing as we have done here or whether you should stay out of the museum of thought. Does an artist ennoble the subject of his artwork by reproducing it or does he defame it by hemming it into the confines of the frame?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Orientation
Those of us who know the human psyche well (and who are, nonetheless, still ensnared by its machinations) know that at its steepest pitch opposites are juxtaposed. At the height of passion--the most quivering energetic passion--contraries are consecutive. Love and hate, joy and despair are side by side. The human heart is like a compass, where a single degree distinguishes its bearing. Due west and due east are far apart, but they are tepid--neither moving up nor down. But at its greatest heights--north by northwest and north by northeast--the direction is nearly indistinguishable! The closer one's bearing is due north, the more difficult it is to tell whether a traveler is occidental or oriental. At the top of the compass, we are splitting hairs. Because of this, we can understand how an enemy can more easily be granted clemency than a luke-warm ally. We can also explain how crimes of passion are carried out against loved ones.
I know myself well and know that I am horribly lost. I have a low-tolerance for imperfection. You may even call it an allergy given that I swell with contempt whenever I am exposed to it. I do not like smudges. I frown at a frayed shoelace. I cringe around squeaks. I lose sleep over a watch that keeps poor time. These errors are associated with me. They are mine--in my very home! How could I bear to keep such company?
So much stomach acid and obsessive thoughts I have generated in response to these annoyances that I have begun to worry for my own health. While most people might lose sleep over a dripping faucet, I have lost waking productivity. I will ruminate on the cursed plumbing and curse the ruinous plumber who feigned to fix it. The conniving weasel, the disingenuous swindler! How dare he enter my house and perpetrate such a vile act! How dare he use me for his own unjust gain! I spend hours lamenting this broken fixture and decry its every drop as a personal offense against me. Try as I might to pluck such lamentations out of my mind, they sneak back like weeds in a lawn. As soon as I stop reminding myself to breathe deeply and let it go, I hyperventilate and draw it near. There is ample fodder for discontent when one feeds on flaws.
This preoccupation tarnishes the rest of my daily experience. I become short-tempered and incorrigible over these trifles. Surely these damaged items are trivialities, and yet I easily fixate on them. I am enthralled with them and enjoy in a twisted way heaping scorn upon them. Why can I not let this rest? Perhaps there is a quota in every person's heart beyond which no more brokenness can be tolerated. My bar may be set low. Wouldn't that be honorable?
If only it were that simple! It is not, however, the full story. Here I will come clean. These offenses are not isolated outside of me. I openly admit I am also frustrated with myself. It is true I abhor my own company. I hate myself so thoroughly because I know how wretched I am. I err constantly. I have worn well the path of anxiety over my missteps. This frailty does not change. At times its consistency is the cause for my distraction. I am no more likely to notice wrongdoing than to notice room temperature. It is as though I have moved on, as though I am past the point of reflexive frustration. What can change--what I am thereby apt to notice--is something near me that does not work. Could that explain it all? I hold these objects in boiling contempt because I am already hot under the collar with my own self-loathing. They become the last-straws of my back-breaking solitude.
My situation is still more complex, though. I cannot leave the topic like that and let you think I am simply a misguided fool who is "his own worst critic." No, that would still be a truncated version of my story. You might pity me then, and to let you do so would be unfair. I cannot allow you to squander your empathy. It would be disingenuous to suggest I am only self-loathing. I feel I must--to be honest--offer the additional and contrary explanation.
I must confess pride may be causing me to rebel against seemingly minor blemishes on the countenance of my surroundings. Perhaps there is a quota of desserts in every man's heart below which no more brokenness can be tolerated. My bar may be set low. When I am handed a shoddy gift, a paltry recompense, I cry I worked harder than this! I am a good and honest person and I should not be burdened with these base inconveniences! I want nothing to do with this trash. I refuse this refuse! Yes, these too are stumbling blocks of thought upon which I trip. I cannot take it any longer. I am miserable.
Something must be done to point myself in the right direction. "Let it go," I hear you say. Yes, yes, fine and well. I will gladly let it go. But how can I be rid of it when it is gripping me? I have tried to release myself from it, but they cling to me. I go about my day, and everything is fine, and then something happens--a pen is out of place or a door won't lock--and my hatred is reignited. "Then let it go again," you insist. Bah! That is not easy. Should I count to ten like a child in timeout?! Should I leave the room like an infirmed person who has to purge?! The ignobility of it all! I should not have to resort to such hackneyed tactics. They are beneath me. A man should be able to vanquish his own mind!
Now I would laugh at myself if I weren't so weary. You have caught me in the act as it were. Yes, my pride has gotten in the way once more. How turned around we become when we are by ourselves! Let it go again: I will have to try that. Yours is tough love, but it's love all the same. I do not want to take my medicine. It is bitter. If I am really as feverish and dismayed as the above indicates, I need to take my medicine. I need to rest. If only it would stop this topsy-turvy place from spinning!
I know myself well and know that I am horribly lost. I have a low-tolerance for imperfection. You may even call it an allergy given that I swell with contempt whenever I am exposed to it. I do not like smudges. I frown at a frayed shoelace. I cringe around squeaks. I lose sleep over a watch that keeps poor time. These errors are associated with me. They are mine--in my very home! How could I bear to keep such company?
So much stomach acid and obsessive thoughts I have generated in response to these annoyances that I have begun to worry for my own health. While most people might lose sleep over a dripping faucet, I have lost waking productivity. I will ruminate on the cursed plumbing and curse the ruinous plumber who feigned to fix it. The conniving weasel, the disingenuous swindler! How dare he enter my house and perpetrate such a vile act! How dare he use me for his own unjust gain! I spend hours lamenting this broken fixture and decry its every drop as a personal offense against me. Try as I might to pluck such lamentations out of my mind, they sneak back like weeds in a lawn. As soon as I stop reminding myself to breathe deeply and let it go, I hyperventilate and draw it near. There is ample fodder for discontent when one feeds on flaws.
This preoccupation tarnishes the rest of my daily experience. I become short-tempered and incorrigible over these trifles. Surely these damaged items are trivialities, and yet I easily fixate on them. I am enthralled with them and enjoy in a twisted way heaping scorn upon them. Why can I not let this rest? Perhaps there is a quota in every person's heart beyond which no more brokenness can be tolerated. My bar may be set low. Wouldn't that be honorable?
If only it were that simple! It is not, however, the full story. Here I will come clean. These offenses are not isolated outside of me. I openly admit I am also frustrated with myself. It is true I abhor my own company. I hate myself so thoroughly because I know how wretched I am. I err constantly. I have worn well the path of anxiety over my missteps. This frailty does not change. At times its consistency is the cause for my distraction. I am no more likely to notice wrongdoing than to notice room temperature. It is as though I have moved on, as though I am past the point of reflexive frustration. What can change--what I am thereby apt to notice--is something near me that does not work. Could that explain it all? I hold these objects in boiling contempt because I am already hot under the collar with my own self-loathing. They become the last-straws of my back-breaking solitude.
My situation is still more complex, though. I cannot leave the topic like that and let you think I am simply a misguided fool who is "his own worst critic." No, that would still be a truncated version of my story. You might pity me then, and to let you do so would be unfair. I cannot allow you to squander your empathy. It would be disingenuous to suggest I am only self-loathing. I feel I must--to be honest--offer the additional and contrary explanation.
I must confess pride may be causing me to rebel against seemingly minor blemishes on the countenance of my surroundings. Perhaps there is a quota of desserts in every man's heart below which no more brokenness can be tolerated. My bar may be set low. When I am handed a shoddy gift, a paltry recompense, I cry I worked harder than this! I am a good and honest person and I should not be burdened with these base inconveniences! I want nothing to do with this trash. I refuse this refuse! Yes, these too are stumbling blocks of thought upon which I trip. I cannot take it any longer. I am miserable.
Something must be done to point myself in the right direction. "Let it go," I hear you say. Yes, yes, fine and well. I will gladly let it go. But how can I be rid of it when it is gripping me? I have tried to release myself from it, but they cling to me. I go about my day, and everything is fine, and then something happens--a pen is out of place or a door won't lock--and my hatred is reignited. "Then let it go again," you insist. Bah! That is not easy. Should I count to ten like a child in timeout?! Should I leave the room like an infirmed person who has to purge?! The ignobility of it all! I should not have to resort to such hackneyed tactics. They are beneath me. A man should be able to vanquish his own mind!
Now I would laugh at myself if I weren't so weary. You have caught me in the act as it were. Yes, my pride has gotten in the way once more. How turned around we become when we are by ourselves! Let it go again: I will have to try that. Yours is tough love, but it's love all the same. I do not want to take my medicine. It is bitter. If I am really as feverish and dismayed as the above indicates, I need to take my medicine. I need to rest. If only it would stop this topsy-turvy place from spinning!
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Sacrifice or Suicide
I had for many years been grateful never to have been placed in that terrifying position of choosing to take my life rather than have it taken from me. The fear of such a choice developed into a mild strain of pyrophobia. I did all I could to avoid elevators and refused to reside anywhere higher than the second floor. I abstained from owning candles, spurned fireplaces, and went so far as to avoid barbecue pits. In effect, I had taken all due care to fireproof my surroundings. I neglected to anticipate the inherent combustibility of human affairs.
Life is a process of investing onself into oneself, other people, and/or projects. We exchange our resources, time and energy, for the chance to have our aspirations met. I will accelerate my story by stating that I had heavily invested myself in a losing venture.
For as far back as I can remember, I have thought of myself as a good man. I would not so far as to use the word 'great'. That would be overstating the case. My talents and the fervor of my devotion never allowed me to presume greatness. Still, I considered myself beyond all reasonable reproach because I had a good heart. Never had I thought to myself, "I know this is wrong, but I'll do it anyway," or "I know that will ruin someone else, but I'll opt to benefit myself regardless." I did not indulge in the popular forms of debauchery and was sure to keep my rap sheet empty.
By frequently recalling my clean conscience, I lionized myself. On a theoretical level, I could do no evil. Everyone makes mistakes, true enough, but is the attribution of blame appropriate? In my case, at least, it seemed improper. Evil is such a strong word. If one never concedes the possibility of being guilty, one becomes practically blameless. I had inoculated myself against contrition. So it was that I incinerated my life, not by striking a match but failing to turn the gas off.
"There must be something more to a good man than thinking he is without fault. What else makes a man a good man?" you wonder. Yes, I did not hang my hat solely on self-approbation. I did more than that. I was resolutely committed to self-improvement. To become smarter, wiser, more skilled, more artful, more loving--all are ways towards that goal. With all those avenues, opportunities for improvement are abundant. Yet here as elsewhere, too many options disorients people. We lose focus and disintegrate.
I was no different. Along the way, I developed a nasty habit of switching between avenues whenever the one I was following became trying. When I was stumped, I told myself there is wisdom in knowing one's limitations. When I was faced with an insuperable ethical quandary, I would abandon it altogether and delve into a project. When I ran into a demanding task--something beyond my current capabilities--I would go watch an art house movie or listen to music. When I was confronted by a confounding image, I would leave it and spend time with my girlfriend. Whenever my girlfriend annoyed me, I would compute, read, build, or sketch--anything but love. I created a system of escapes. In taking flight from this, that, and the other, I separated myself from everything. All the while, I told myself I was a good man and I was making something of myself. Who needs anything more than self-approbation?
I realized how poor my position was in a college history course. We were learning about mid-twentieth century oppression when my professor played a clip to illustrate. The grainy black and white footage contained a man in a delicate robe sitting cross-legged on pavement. With precise motions, he poured gasoline on himself. He struck a match and dropped it into his lap. He sat motionless while being incinerated until life left him. Then his body toppled over, no longer being held in balance. Fire danced along his charred corpse. The lights in the classroom went up. After collective wonder at the feat of self-control and a discussion of the monk’s political efficacy, I wondered again about the act of stepping forward to meet death. What is more unconscionable: to passively be consumed or to actively disperse yourself? Those dangling moments I recalled from my youth were the embodiment of our condition. Could it be that there is a need for death? This monk's self-immolation was the enactment of one man's answer.
How was this man's act other than suicide? Suicide is both active and passive. It is active insofar as it stops what would otherwise have continued. Without taking one's life, one sees a future restrained by the shackles of depression, anxiety, and despair. One accordingly cuts the future off at the pass of the present. Suicide is passive insofar as the act of stopping is initiated by a prior overwhelming circumstance. One who commits suicide concedes he has already been overcome; the act is tacit recognition of powerlessness. This monk, however, died to defeat something else. He gathered himself up to hurl himself at a momunment to human cruelty. It was a sacrifice rather than a suicide. Sacrifice seeks to motivate another; suicide seeks to mollify the self.
How endicting was that brave man! What was I doing with my life? I was dying, but what was I dying for? Here I was, exerting all of this energy, but in a spray rather than a stream. I was living intensely, but with mild purpose. I could not bear to unify my will and opted instead to retreat whenever challenged beyond a comfortable level. I was convicted by that monk whose death made me question my innocence and retreated to my dormroom to reflect.
***
Life for us is not as simple as life for oblivious creatures. While bacteria and plants can only die in one sense, we can die in at least two. We are at once animal and rational, body and soul, physical and mental, material and immaterial, corporeal and ethereal—and it is on account of this truth divided by a blurry border that we die more than once. Each side of the line has its own demise. In the obvious way, that monk died. What of the hidden way?
As we age, we devlop the ability to watch ourselves. First, the child becomes physically discerning in front of a mirror. One has control over a region of the visual field--the region which corresponds to our body--in a way unlike the rest of it. What is seen on the surface of the looking glass is related to what one is, but is not identical to it.
With age, we watch ourselves in new ways. The initiation into the second, hidden life is involuntary. One accumulates more control as bodily urges are tamed to make them amenable to human schedules and environmental possibilities. The youth becomes aware of her power over her self. She is still excited by what excited her prior to her self-observations, but the stimulation become less overwhelimg.
The reflective life is the second life. In self-consciousness, we distance ourself from stimuli and look upon the inside world. One recognizes inclinations may be opposed. In this power of assessment dwells freedom, the unique trait of the second life. The situation of maturity is like the man who wakes up in a taxi. He is already en route. He would arrive at some previously determined destination without further instruction. Not wanting to be delivered where he has not choosen to be, he asks the driver to pull over and let him out. He is not so independent and powerful that he does not require help to be freed, yet he is not so dependent and weak that he cannot stop the progress of circumstance and momentum.
As one can be more or less healthy in body, so too can one's reflective life be more or less vital. I was sick with ignorance. I lacked concentration and thereby lacked self-knowledge. I lost myself in the moment so regularly that I become lost in the entire sequence. In my disorientation, I was dying.
The death of the animal is well known. It was assumed after those memorable victims dropped out of the frame of that high-rise shot. We have ceremonies to mark our bodily departure. What is it, though, for the other side to die? What is it to die this second death?
The second death is a drastic alteration of the person. When this alteration is involuntary, it is suicide. When this alteration is wilfull, it is sacrifice. Unlike suicide, which aims to end consciousness, sacrifice aims to end what is diseased within consciousness.
***
I subsequently learned the observation we can die in various ways has old origins. The ancient Greeks thought the philosophical life was an exercise in dying. This death was the dying to all interior disorder. It sought the proper configuration of human life, placing the rational capacity at the top, above the passions, senses, and the appetites. Religion also calls its adherents to die. Christ said, "whoever wants to save his life, will lose it.” Thus a certain sort of death is necessary and salvational. This death was to universal disorder. It sought the proper orientation of human life, placing the Creator above the creature.
In both sorts of sacrificial death, one is called to restructure one's priorities. To prioritize: is there a more simple task for the living? The abundance of options warrants organization prior to choosing among them. The most weighty, complex, elaborate, and strenuous fields of reflective life strive to arrange the various priorities within all people.
The philosophical and religious deaths are similar. Both involve a great emphasis on self-control that comes after admission of the need to be controled. There is in both deaths explicit acceptance of the proposition that the natural bend of our psyches does not produce beneficial results. In this way, we automatically malfunction: we want peace and are prone to war. If uncontrolled, we war with self, war with others, and war with the world. Philosophy and religion enter to disarm the factions and to instantiate a just order.
On the surface, philosophy and religion speak differently and often about different subjects. Interiorly, they both console. There is no greater consolation than the truth because there is no other consolation. Lies, errors, and falsehoods anesthetize; the truth pacifies. What else is wisdom but the understanding of those truths that pacify most? What else is worship but the adoration of the truth?
***
So it was that I began to feel remorse, not by doing something wrong but seeing someone else do something right. I saw my own significance and how my lack of focus contributed to it. My motivations were impure. I was pursuing some hazy end that amounted to self-righteousness. I took great pleasure in myself. I was not giving and did not live by a pure will. That monk showed me how indebted I was. I was making something of myself, but something insignificant. I thereafter sought to consolidate my purpose and apologized for my covert cowardice.
Life is a process of investing onself into oneself, other people, and/or projects. We exchange our resources, time and energy, for the chance to have our aspirations met. I will accelerate my story by stating that I had heavily invested myself in a losing venture.
For as far back as I can remember, I have thought of myself as a good man. I would not so far as to use the word 'great'. That would be overstating the case. My talents and the fervor of my devotion never allowed me to presume greatness. Still, I considered myself beyond all reasonable reproach because I had a good heart. Never had I thought to myself, "I know this is wrong, but I'll do it anyway," or "I know that will ruin someone else, but I'll opt to benefit myself regardless." I did not indulge in the popular forms of debauchery and was sure to keep my rap sheet empty.
By frequently recalling my clean conscience, I lionized myself. On a theoretical level, I could do no evil. Everyone makes mistakes, true enough, but is the attribution of blame appropriate? In my case, at least, it seemed improper. Evil is such a strong word. If one never concedes the possibility of being guilty, one becomes practically blameless. I had inoculated myself against contrition. So it was that I incinerated my life, not by striking a match but failing to turn the gas off.
"There must be something more to a good man than thinking he is without fault. What else makes a man a good man?" you wonder. Yes, I did not hang my hat solely on self-approbation. I did more than that. I was resolutely committed to self-improvement. To become smarter, wiser, more skilled, more artful, more loving--all are ways towards that goal. With all those avenues, opportunities for improvement are abundant. Yet here as elsewhere, too many options disorients people. We lose focus and disintegrate.
I was no different. Along the way, I developed a nasty habit of switching between avenues whenever the one I was following became trying. When I was stumped, I told myself there is wisdom in knowing one's limitations. When I was faced with an insuperable ethical quandary, I would abandon it altogether and delve into a project. When I ran into a demanding task--something beyond my current capabilities--I would go watch an art house movie or listen to music. When I was confronted by a confounding image, I would leave it and spend time with my girlfriend. Whenever my girlfriend annoyed me, I would compute, read, build, or sketch--anything but love. I created a system of escapes. In taking flight from this, that, and the other, I separated myself from everything. All the while, I told myself I was a good man and I was making something of myself. Who needs anything more than self-approbation?
I realized how poor my position was in a college history course. We were learning about mid-twentieth century oppression when my professor played a clip to illustrate. The grainy black and white footage contained a man in a delicate robe sitting cross-legged on pavement. With precise motions, he poured gasoline on himself. He struck a match and dropped it into his lap. He sat motionless while being incinerated until life left him. Then his body toppled over, no longer being held in balance. Fire danced along his charred corpse. The lights in the classroom went up. After collective wonder at the feat of self-control and a discussion of the monk’s political efficacy, I wondered again about the act of stepping forward to meet death. What is more unconscionable: to passively be consumed or to actively disperse yourself? Those dangling moments I recalled from my youth were the embodiment of our condition. Could it be that there is a need for death? This monk's self-immolation was the enactment of one man's answer.
How was this man's act other than suicide? Suicide is both active and passive. It is active insofar as it stops what would otherwise have continued. Without taking one's life, one sees a future restrained by the shackles of depression, anxiety, and despair. One accordingly cuts the future off at the pass of the present. Suicide is passive insofar as the act of stopping is initiated by a prior overwhelming circumstance. One who commits suicide concedes he has already been overcome; the act is tacit recognition of powerlessness. This monk, however, died to defeat something else. He gathered himself up to hurl himself at a momunment to human cruelty. It was a sacrifice rather than a suicide. Sacrifice seeks to motivate another; suicide seeks to mollify the self.
How endicting was that brave man! What was I doing with my life? I was dying, but what was I dying for? Here I was, exerting all of this energy, but in a spray rather than a stream. I was living intensely, but with mild purpose. I could not bear to unify my will and opted instead to retreat whenever challenged beyond a comfortable level. I was convicted by that monk whose death made me question my innocence and retreated to my dormroom to reflect.
***
Life for us is not as simple as life for oblivious creatures. While bacteria and plants can only die in one sense, we can die in at least two. We are at once animal and rational, body and soul, physical and mental, material and immaterial, corporeal and ethereal—and it is on account of this truth divided by a blurry border that we die more than once. Each side of the line has its own demise. In the obvious way, that monk died. What of the hidden way?
As we age, we devlop the ability to watch ourselves. First, the child becomes physically discerning in front of a mirror. One has control over a region of the visual field--the region which corresponds to our body--in a way unlike the rest of it. What is seen on the surface of the looking glass is related to what one is, but is not identical to it.
With age, we watch ourselves in new ways. The initiation into the second, hidden life is involuntary. One accumulates more control as bodily urges are tamed to make them amenable to human schedules and environmental possibilities. The youth becomes aware of her power over her self. She is still excited by what excited her prior to her self-observations, but the stimulation become less overwhelimg.
The reflective life is the second life. In self-consciousness, we distance ourself from stimuli and look upon the inside world. One recognizes inclinations may be opposed. In this power of assessment dwells freedom, the unique trait of the second life. The situation of maturity is like the man who wakes up in a taxi. He is already en route. He would arrive at some previously determined destination without further instruction. Not wanting to be delivered where he has not choosen to be, he asks the driver to pull over and let him out. He is not so independent and powerful that he does not require help to be freed, yet he is not so dependent and weak that he cannot stop the progress of circumstance and momentum.
As one can be more or less healthy in body, so too can one's reflective life be more or less vital. I was sick with ignorance. I lacked concentration and thereby lacked self-knowledge. I lost myself in the moment so regularly that I become lost in the entire sequence. In my disorientation, I was dying.
The death of the animal is well known. It was assumed after those memorable victims dropped out of the frame of that high-rise shot. We have ceremonies to mark our bodily departure. What is it, though, for the other side to die? What is it to die this second death?
The second death is a drastic alteration of the person. When this alteration is involuntary, it is suicide. When this alteration is wilfull, it is sacrifice. Unlike suicide, which aims to end consciousness, sacrifice aims to end what is diseased within consciousness.
***
I subsequently learned the observation we can die in various ways has old origins. The ancient Greeks thought the philosophical life was an exercise in dying. This death was the dying to all interior disorder. It sought the proper configuration of human life, placing the rational capacity at the top, above the passions, senses, and the appetites. Religion also calls its adherents to die. Christ said, "whoever wants to save his life, will lose it.” Thus a certain sort of death is necessary and salvational. This death was to universal disorder. It sought the proper orientation of human life, placing the Creator above the creature.
In both sorts of sacrificial death, one is called to restructure one's priorities. To prioritize: is there a more simple task for the living? The abundance of options warrants organization prior to choosing among them. The most weighty, complex, elaborate, and strenuous fields of reflective life strive to arrange the various priorities within all people.
The philosophical and religious deaths are similar. Both involve a great emphasis on self-control that comes after admission of the need to be controled. There is in both deaths explicit acceptance of the proposition that the natural bend of our psyches does not produce beneficial results. In this way, we automatically malfunction: we want peace and are prone to war. If uncontrolled, we war with self, war with others, and war with the world. Philosophy and religion enter to disarm the factions and to instantiate a just order.
On the surface, philosophy and religion speak differently and often about different subjects. Interiorly, they both console. There is no greater consolation than the truth because there is no other consolation. Lies, errors, and falsehoods anesthetize; the truth pacifies. What else is wisdom but the understanding of those truths that pacify most? What else is worship but the adoration of the truth?
***
So it was that I began to feel remorse, not by doing something wrong but seeing someone else do something right. I saw my own significance and how my lack of focus contributed to it. My motivations were impure. I was pursuing some hazy end that amounted to self-righteousness. I took great pleasure in myself. I was not giving and did not live by a pure will. That monk showed me how indebted I was. I was making something of myself, but something insignificant. I thereafter sought to consolidate my purpose and apologized for my covert cowardice.
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