Showing posts with label Atheist Meditation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Atheist Meditation. Show all posts
Monday, June 18, 2012
Atheist Meditation: Two-Part Morality
Since I first became an atheist about four years ago, I have read, thought, and encountered many different ideas about ethics and morality. I have attempted to reconstruct my moral views since I decided that my former Christian ideas were no longer adequate.
Previously, before my deconversion, my sense of morality was influenced by my Christian faith, but it wasn't strictly defined by the Bible or by the teachings of my church. The ideas of my friends and family, as well as my personal intuitions, were another strong influence on my beliefs. I was usually able to reconcile my faith with these more personal views.
As a cynic would note, it is not surprising that my values and my interpretation of Christianity coincided. That is not what I want to discuss, however: I'm trying to showcase how I formed some of my views of morality as an atheist.
While I majored in philosophy (along with political science), I'm afraid that my views on ethics are not influenced in a major way by the individual foundations of any philosophers. My take on morality now is mostly formed by intuitions I've formed based on a combination of philosophical and academic readings, discussions with intelligent friends, and personal experience.
In my opinion, many philosophical arguments about ethics are misleading and don't encourage relevant discussions of what is actually moral. One of the biggest offenders is the subjective/objective morality argument: is there some set of concrete moral values that exists outside the whims of humanity, or is morality a product of human experience?
My current conclusion about the subjective/objective morality question is that the question is a red herring - the question itself is too limited. A better question, and line of thinking, examines the nature of morality and then decides which labels fit the phenomenon of moral thinking.
Morality concerns human action or inaction, so morality is really a study of decision-making. Different sorts of decisions tend to achieve different sorts of results, but which decision to choose often depends on which result is desirable. Morality concerns both questions: 1) which moral decisions are effective, depending on the result? 2) which moral results are desirable, depending on the situation?
Different situations may require different results, and different results may require different decisions. There are empirical answers to tell you which decisions will bring which results, but there no empirical answers to uncover which results are desirable.
Thus, when someone such as Sam Harris argues that morality can be illuminated with research, he is partly right and partly wrong. Once you agree on your assumptions (about what results are desirable), then yes, research can hone your knowledge about which decisions are effective in bringing your goals into being, and therefore, moral. However, there is no empirical process that can state definitely which results and assumptions are important in a situation - that is a judgement of values, not physical reality.
From this perspective, morality is objective on one level, and subjective on a deeper level. Once you decide what results and conditions are important, you can use evidence to conclude which decisions will drive the results you desire. Decision-making is objective, but value-making is subjective: morality combines the value-making and decision-making elements, and a fully developed sense of morality requires both parts to function properly.
I hope you weren't expecting me to devise a moral system. That's beyond the scope of this blog! I encourage you to read ethicists if you are interested in the subject (haha). I can't let my audience leave without returning again to philosophy, can I?
Friday, June 8, 2012
Atheist Meditation: Grace Like Rain
I love being outside, and feeling a sudden tinge of excitement as I sniff the air and survey the clouds, and I realize that there will be a rainstorm soon. It's a visceral feeling for me: somehow, the atmosphere has had enough - there's so much tension and pressure, yet everything is quiet - the stillness and its promise of disruption fills me with delight.
When I reflect on this foreboding, I think of my adolescent time at church camp. The rain was never stressful. I can't recall feeling that the storms were an interruption. The rain was a pause. The storm was part of the flow of life at church camp. I loved listening to the rain bounce from the eaves of buildings and cabins.
I was promised, again and again, that I wouldn't remember this. At least, my counselors promised me that my memories were conditional. If I failed to keep thoughts of Jesus, redemption, sin, and divine forgiveness close to my heart -- every other experience that I wanted to keep in my thoughts would lose its meaning and value. Everything would slip away, like pebbles on the trails we walked that had eroded over time.
I have not forgotten. My memory lingers. I still feel warmth and happiness when I contemplate the times I spent at church camp. I no longer pray, but I feel the stillness of a forest and then I remember walking to chapel in reverent silence. I no longer sing hymns, but I feel the joy of companionship when I lose my sense of self and drunkenly sing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" with my friends. I no longer believe in eternal life, but I have memories that I will never relinquish while I live.
Most fondly, I remember when everyone was together. I remember our campfire sessions, late at night before each cabin and its group would leave for devotions and then go to sleep. We sang tenderly. We told stories. We laughed, we cried, we shouted, and we danced. I know what it's like when people love one another. I've heard that it's God's grace.
Where is this grace? It is abundant, and it is everywhere, but I can't tell you that it involves a god, a scripture, or a savior. I see it in my Jewish friend who left to teach underprivileged children for two years with Teach for America. I see it in my Muslim friend, one-time leader of the Muslim Students Association, who just left to spend two years in Kenya serving with the Peace Corps. I see it in one of my Christian friends, a former Buddhist who exemplifies conscience and compassion while working tirelessly to oppose suffering in many areas of her life. When I was at church camp, we used to sing a song about a Bible verse, 1 John 4:7-8 -- "beloved, let us love one another..." -- my friends may not have heard it, but they live its message every day.
Growing up in the Christian faith and settling into adulthood as an atheist and humanist, I have learned that love and compassion are values for every creed. I have learned that anywhere there are people who support each other without hesitation, you can find a love worth remembering. I think of the rain again. Often, the rain is so ordinary and common place for those who already witness it, that we cannot know what it's like to live an arid and parched life. We are fortunate. The rain replenishes and nourishes us. The rain surrounds us, yet it does not belong to any of us. There are so many who don't have it, or don't have enough of it. We don't need to quarrel about who really has the rain, we just need to ensure that we all have some of it. This rain, and this grace, is worth the effort to remember -- and no one can remove those memories from us, or prevent us from bringing their spirit into our lives again.
When I reflect on this foreboding, I think of my adolescent time at church camp. The rain was never stressful. I can't recall feeling that the storms were an interruption. The rain was a pause. The storm was part of the flow of life at church camp. I loved listening to the rain bounce from the eaves of buildings and cabins.
I was promised, again and again, that I wouldn't remember this. At least, my counselors promised me that my memories were conditional. If I failed to keep thoughts of Jesus, redemption, sin, and divine forgiveness close to my heart -- every other experience that I wanted to keep in my thoughts would lose its meaning and value. Everything would slip away, like pebbles on the trails we walked that had eroded over time.
I have not forgotten. My memory lingers. I still feel warmth and happiness when I contemplate the times I spent at church camp. I no longer pray, but I feel the stillness of a forest and then I remember walking to chapel in reverent silence. I no longer sing hymns, but I feel the joy of companionship when I lose my sense of self and drunkenly sing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" with my friends. I no longer believe in eternal life, but I have memories that I will never relinquish while I live.
Most fondly, I remember when everyone was together. I remember our campfire sessions, late at night before each cabin and its group would leave for devotions and then go to sleep. We sang tenderly. We told stories. We laughed, we cried, we shouted, and we danced. I know what it's like when people love one another. I've heard that it's God's grace.
Where is this grace? It is abundant, and it is everywhere, but I can't tell you that it involves a god, a scripture, or a savior. I see it in my Jewish friend who left to teach underprivileged children for two years with Teach for America. I see it in my Muslim friend, one-time leader of the Muslim Students Association, who just left to spend two years in Kenya serving with the Peace Corps. I see it in one of my Christian friends, a former Buddhist who exemplifies conscience and compassion while working tirelessly to oppose suffering in many areas of her life. When I was at church camp, we used to sing a song about a Bible verse, 1 John 4:7-8 -- "beloved, let us love one another..." -- my friends may not have heard it, but they live its message every day.
Growing up in the Christian faith and settling into adulthood as an atheist and humanist, I have learned that love and compassion are values for every creed. I have learned that anywhere there are people who support each other without hesitation, you can find a love worth remembering. I think of the rain again. Often, the rain is so ordinary and common place for those who already witness it, that we cannot know what it's like to live an arid and parched life. We are fortunate. The rain replenishes and nourishes us. The rain surrounds us, yet it does not belong to any of us. There are so many who don't have it, or don't have enough of it. We don't need to quarrel about who really has the rain, we just need to ensure that we all have some of it. This rain, and this grace, is worth the effort to remember -- and no one can remove those memories from us, or prevent us from bringing their spirit into our lives again.
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