Many of us anxiously awaited the Masterpiece Cakeshop v. Colorado Civil Rights Commission, 584 U.S. ___ (2018) decision, crossing our fingers that our particular position would be validated. Surely the Supreme Court would see that the principle of freedom of religion was more important than the principle of accommodation for all—or perhaps tilt the balance the other way. But all were disappointed. No one scored a win except the arena of public discourse. The Justices reminded us that as we balance these two core values in our public policy actions, both sides must be respected and given a thoughtful voice.
But as recent passions around immigration issues and what to do with children brought across the border have erupted in the mainstream media and our own worlds of social media, it became clear that living into the vision of the Supreme Court for respectful discourse is very difficult. And, like many, I began singing the ethics blues.
The conundrum is not new. Even St. Paul sang the blues: “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good.” (Romans 17:15-16, NIV)
If we struggle to live into the vision of civility laid down by the Supreme Court with our friends and neighbors—and are also expected to teach the behaviors and model them in the classroom—how do we avoid slipping into either monologues or avoiding all controversy? If the law is that we are to respect both sides of a policy dilemma and, after respectful conversation, we are still supposed to act, how do we avoid being disrespectful as we discern what action to take?
Here, philosophy becomes a wise teacher. The philosophers have given us a series of strategies for avoiding the pitfalls of careless thinking and mean-spirited conversation. Two temptations that seep through our social media and stoke the fires of anger and fear are illustrative.
- Glittering generalities. The pundits say we live in a post-fact world because we seem to not be able to agree on even the most basic of realities. One problem is that we are tempted to cherry-pick our facts, finding data points that seem to support our preferred position and ignoring those that don’t. However, facts are neutral: they have no inherent meaning. To bolster our own world view and feel righteous, we spout simple solutions as we paint our pictures with a very broad brush. And, in the process, we conflate the meaning and implications of the data point with the data point itself—short-circuiting all conversations.
- Ad hominem arguments. When facts aren’t on our side, we might attack the person rather than their ideas or behaviors. And once we attack a person, the fight becomes—well, personal. Respecting the person even though we don’t agree with their beliefs or behaviors is very hard. However, without a threshold of respect, we’ll never be able to bridge the divide that separates us from each other.
Even as I review the lists found in every primer on critical thinking, I notice what delight I get from breaking the rules. As the passions flame higher, rather than acknowledging the values on the other side and the frustration of trying to solve a wicked problem—one where the problem is multifaceted, and we don’t know which strategies will actually resolve the problem—careless thinking, name calling, and mean-spirited conversation seem much easier. And, as I rehearse my comments with those who think like me and reinforce my beliefs and passions, the fire burns brighter. Maybe I need to step back and with some humility acknowledge that I don’t have all the facts and am not always right.
Ethics is the place where we decide what beliefs and behaviors will help us live productively with others. As we fashion our individual and communal understandings of ethics, we compete and cooperate with others from many different walks of life and work together to create communities where all are respected, and systems are put in place for all to have a fair opportunity to thrive.
Those of us who include an ethics component in our classes know that modeling the respect and humility envisioned by the Justices is difficult. Creating a place where we can safely examine and calibrate the knowledge and beliefs of all members of the community is hard work. To create an engaging classroom, we each have to acknowledge our own tendencies to stoke the flame of passions rather than exercise restraint with thoughtful dialogue. So, we do the hard work of knowing ourselves, watching our own behaviors, and continuing to hone our skills.
And, at the end of a difficult class period where passions flared and feelings were hurt, we come home and sing those ethics blues. But, all is not lost. Those of us who love the blues note that in the end the songs are hopeful: relationships are mended, lost love is found, and people are resilient. We pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and remind ourselves that tomorrow is another day. As we commit ourselves to being civil and practice respecting people, we become better at building those bridges. And, little by little, we notice that stoking the fires of discord is no longer satisfying.
Anger and fear—the source of the vitriol—turn out to be thin gruel. Martha Nussbaum in The Monarchy of Fear (2018) provides an antidote as she encourages us to engage in the politics of hope: loving imaginative vision and a spirit of deliberation and rational critique that leads to the action and commitment required to produce anything that is good or useful. Nussbaum reminds us that hope is the opposite of fear, and that by embracing hope we can create, as Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “a world where men and women can live together.” Even when we disagree.