Relativism, Absolutism – Let’s Get Real

Moral reasoning

Photo by Sora Shimazaki

Modern moral philosophy began when Captain Cook arrived at the “Sandwich Islands” (Hawaii), said one of my early professors. Cook discovered a thriving culture following a moral code quite different from Europe’s, and that opened basic questions.

Some of the differences were immediately obvious:  Nudity was common, and casual sex was the norm; both behaviors  shocked the English. In time, of course, many other differences surfaced, in Hawaii and wherever European explorers found themselves.

Eventually their shocked disapproval lessened, and early anthropologists developed the concept of cultural relativism. The term points to cultural differences embedded in ways of life. It suggests that different ways of life can be good, in the sense of supporting human flourishing. ‘Cultural relativism’ encouraged respect and discouraged interference.

Unfortunately ‘moral relativism’ soon followed, the claim that moral positions are simply preferences; that they cannot be evaluated. But that conclusion doesn’t follow. Cultural difference doesn’t make thinking useless; to the contrary, it stimulates deeper thinking. Picasso found new forms of beauty in African art. Aspirin was developed after scientists saw Native Americans ease pain by chewing willow bark. Similarly, we can find moral insight by thinking beyond our borders.

For example: I have strong convictions about truth-telling. I believe lying is almost always wrong, although occasionally allowed, and (rarely) even required. But I’ve learned that in some cultures truth-telling is not as strongly required. Roughly, if questioners ask about things that are none of their business, it’s fine to lie to them. 

This difference led me to deeper questions. What makes lying wrong? What makes truth-telling important? Do those who lie more easily understand something that I don’t? Or vice versa? Philosophers have written a lot about this.

Similarly, I learned years ago that gender is constructed differently in other cultures. Many Native American societies, for instance, honor those we now call LGBTQ – people whose lives do not fit into simple male/female categories. Such people were accepted and honored, believed to have a broader set of gifts than the rest of us, sometimes especially valued as teachers. Learning these different attitudes broadened my sense of what is normal and good. (Thinking about truth-telling, in contrast, didn’t change my convictions.)

Cultural differences, about beauty, about science, about morality, do not shut down thinking. They enrich it.

Moral Reasoning

We think about right and wrong, good and bad, all the time, although we don’t always use those words.

Moral reasoning uses several tools. One is a set of basic values, shared almost universally in their elemental form. One example is that causing pain needs to be justified. If someone suddenly slapped a baby on the back, making her cry, we would demand an explanation. The answer might be “She was choking. Couldn’t you see that?” We would be relieved. Causing the pain was justified by the greater value of saving a life. In contrast, soothing a crying baby raises no objections. Lessening pain does not, in itself, require justification.

Here’s a real world example: Psychologist Harry Harlow separated baby rhesus monkeys from their mothers and offered the infants various substitutes. The results laid the foundation for today’s attachment theory. But controversy arose immediately: did the good of scientific knowledge, and help for human children, justify inflicting suffering on the infant monkeys? Fairly soon we decided no; the discussion invigorated the field of research ethics.

(By the way: I’m using ‘moral’ and ‘ethical’ interchangeably. Not everyone does.)

Our moral debates, then, are not usually about the basic elements of morality. Rather, they’re about how to weigh those values against one another.

We share many basic values, but can disagree about how to weigh them against one another. When we disagree, we can talk with one another and learn from one another.

For such elemental values, philosophers use the term prima facie. Prima facie wrong means “morally wrong unless proven right.” Lying, causing pain, stealing, using force, disabling, killing – all these need to be justified. And all can be, but some (like killing a human being) only in extreme circumstances.

We use other basic tools, like reversibility (“Suppose someone did that to you.”) and generalization (“What if everyone did that?”). Often there’s also disagreement about facts. The immigration debate, for example, is partly about weighing obligations to our own people against obligations to desperate strangers. But it’s also about facts: How does immigration affect the country?

The contrast to this prima facie view is absolutism: Wrong is wrong. Period. As I wrote last time, there’s a lot to say for absolutism. For one thing, it keeps us off moral slippery slopes (the first theft makes the next one easier). Absolutism offers an attractive moral purity, avoiding the  messiness of prima facie reasoning.

Absolute moral stances have inspired heroism. They have also inspired fanaticism. Like its political twin Zero Tolerance, absolutism can result in serious wrongs.

Well worked out absolutist theories take those problems into account. Killing is wrong – unless it’s the only way to save a life. Stealing is wrong – unless it’s the only way to feed one’s child. Lying is wrong – but if a lot is at stake, use a “mental reservation.” (“I haven’t seen the Frank family” continued silently “since this morning.”) In the end, formulas like these amount to saying that lying, killing, and so on can sometimes be justified. The formulas specify which ends justify them, cutting short any consideration of others.

I respect attempts at saving absolutism. But I prefer the hard work of  wrestling with competing values; the contextual moral reasoning that we all do all the time.  Hard as it is,  it’s central to being human.

What do you think?