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On “Biblical Morality,” Cognitive Psychology, and Narrative Ethics

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“But is it biblical?” My Wheaton College friends and I would query each other in the dorm with this question. We were being mischievous; reacting in jest to the seeming evangelical obsession with “biblical morality”—and to the assumption that “biblical morality” was uniform, universal, and simple. But if it’s just a matter of reading it off the page, why are there so many debates and disagreements among Christians?

We’ve got Christian pro-lifers and pro-choicers. Christian capitalists and anti-capitalists. Christians for intensive ecological care and Christians for mostly unregulated economic production. We’ve got Christians against gay marriage, Christians for it, and Christians somewhere in between. We could go on in on. But the point is: In each of these cases, we can find Christians who claim biblical support and who insist their view reflects “biblical morality.”

At a more abstract level, we find Christians who emphasize holiness, purity, and separation, and Christians who prefer compassion, nurture, and inclusion. We have Christians who gravitate toward authority and hierarchy, and Christians who lean toward equality and democracy. Aren’t all these concepts in the Bible? What gives? So how—and why—and on what basis should we choose which moral impulses should lead us?

The interesting question is, and one that cognitive psychology is increasingly pressing upon is, how much does conscious choice and rational reflection play into our moral preferences? The answer they give: far less than we think. Much of our moral preferences and behavior are responses of intuitions and affective preferences, many of which were lodged into our brains long before we learned to speak. We enter human existence with a pre-formed moral architecture, which is mollified, shaped, and confirmed or challenged through the process of human development and socialization.[1]  

If morality is at least, in some sense, a product of evolution (or if its building blocks are) and if our moral responses comprise a combination of internal, emotive reactions and a developmental process of socialization, then this raises a number of interesting questions about “biblical morality.” Not only might we be quicker to reflect on our own moral preferences and impulses, but we might also slow down and think about how our biology and our social context impacts our interpretations of the Bible. I’ve seen a number of blog posts recently on the phenomenon of “cherry picking” the Bible to support our preformed moral preferences. We all cherry pick to some degree, but the more we are aware of the various factors undergirding and motivating our cherry picking, the greater will be our capacity to responsibly reflect on our biblical interpretations and moral conclusions.

Perhaps the best antidote to an unreflective, entirely intuitive moral structure is intentional exposure to alternate biblical interpretations and moral perspectives. As a white, male, American Christian, I ought to read and listen to perspectives on Scripture and morality from Christians and others who occupy contextually different perspectives on morality. This intentional exposure doesn’t force me to change my perspective nor does it require epistemic or moral relativism; it does, however, remind me of the possibility that I might not be in possession of the absolute truth. I might not have the correct “biblical” interpretation, and I certainly don’t have the only or final word on a complex, moral issue.

The mere recognition that morality has a basis in biology does not automatically lead to epistemic relativism, to atheism or to a reductive naturalism. It simply means that the brain and the body, as God’s creational gifts, function as instruments of moral behavior. The biological, evolutionary, and social influences on morality do not undermine its importance nor do they suggest that intuitive or inherited morality cannot or should not be altered to conform to God’s will. It does suggest that we should spend some time and effort considering not only what God’s will is, but how best to conform to it.

To point toward an answer, perhaps the most psychologically natural approach to nurturing a moral life (i.e. Christian discipleship and spiritual formation) is through story and symbol. This is convenient, since the Bible is chock-full with both. In this respect, I think narrative ethics (e.g. Stanley Hauerwas, James McClendon) holds the most promise for Christians and church leaders who desire to have and to commend “the mind of Christ” (1 Cor. 2:16). I find compelling McClendon’s description of the task of narrative Christian ethics: It is “the discovery, understanding, and creative transformation of a shared and lived story, one whose focus is Jesus of Nazareth and the kingdom he claims—a story that on its moral side requires such discovery, such understanding, such transformation to be true to itself” (Ethics: Systematic Theology, Vol. 1, pg. 330).

Christian narrative ethics builds on the scientific understanding that all human beings inhabit a moral universe and come “pre-loaded” with moral impulses, leanings, and aversions. We acquire and alter those moral impulses through hearing and experiencing impactful narratives. Through evangelism and Christian discipleship, we invite people into the story of Jesus Christ, which has past, present and future ramifications for understanding what “morality” is and ought to be. To be a follower of Jesus is to seek the mind of Christ, to seek justice, holiness, to love with a sacrificial love, and to anticipate the coming kingdom of God in which human morality will happily submit and conform to the absolute holy, loving, will of God. In the interim, as individuals (shaped as we are by biology and everything else) and as communities of believers committed to following Jesus together, we are invited to think and pray very hard for discernment in navigating the moral universe and in constructing and reconstructing together (the moral structures we inhabit. We ought to have moments of intentional, serious reflection and self-criticism, being open handed about what we think we know to be the case and being willing to be led by the Spirit, shaped by the life of Christ, and impelled by the coming Kingdom, as we follow the Spirit and Scripture toward “biblical morality.”

 

[1] Here I am indebted to Jonathan Haidt’s essay, “Moral Psychology and the Misunderstanding of Religion,” in The Believing Primate, eds. Jeffrey Schloss and Michael Murray (Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 278-291. Thanks to my colleague, Adam Johnson, for pointing me this direction.

What Would Jesus Like?

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In the 1990s, evangelical reflection on morality was a simulacrum of Joseph’s amazing technicolor dreamcoat.  Only, evangelicals sported the psychedelic colors on wrists instead of backs.  For during this time, the first and greatest moral interrogative was “What Would Jesus Do?” (WWJD).  

The number of parodies to which the WWJD fad has now been subject undoubtedly suggests to some that the turn of the last century represents the nadir of evangelical reflection on morality.  This conclusion, while tempting, would be hasty.  For the social media revolution has unleashed a formative cultural icon that threatens to undermine the very possibility of moral deliberation among evangelicals: the Facebook “Like” button.   

In 1989, Bill S. Preston, Esq. (Alex Winter) and Ted “Theodore” Logan (Keanu Reeves) delighted moviegoers with their Excellent Adventure.  Their academic foolishness notwithstanding, Bill and Ted illustrated a capacity for human(e) reflection by “philosophizing” with Socrates.  Granted, their attempt to offer existential wisdom on the human condition (“Dust…wind…Dude.”) is hardly the stuff of philosophical legend.  But the rudiments of the Socratic dictum (“The unexamined life is not worth living.”) are there nonetheless.  

Almost 25 years later, it is worth wondering.  Were Socrates to come again (in a telephone booth, of course) would he find reason on the earth?  A quick perusal of any social media platform suggests that the prospects look grim.  For the unexamined status statement is apparently worth liking.  

With respect to morality, the danger that the Like button presents rests in its formative effects.  For starters, the Like button reduces everything to which it is attached to consumer preference – an object of appetitive desire.  To “like” something is to signal a preference lower than intellectual assent or moral conviction.  It is to express mere taste or personal preference.  At best, it signals a fleeting allegiance to an unspecified vibe.  

To employ the Like button (as for example, nearly half a million of the over 25 million viewers did for the “Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus” video on YouTube) forestalls meaningful conversation about moral matters.  Such silence follows from the internal logic of the Like button itself.  If my moral convictions are merely matters of taste (like my preference for Coke over Pepsi), then what I “like” requires neither rational deliberation nor defense.  Why think?  Just click.

Beyond the obstruction of inquiry, the Like button conditions its users to think of moral conviction as a kind of personal accessory – a way of constructing an identity.  In the techno-consumer society we inhabit, we accessorize to say who we are.  By aligning ourselves with moral perspectives expressed in cyberspace, we use morality as a way of expressing our present profile.  And in so doing, we trivialize moral conviction.

Even more worrisome, however, is the fact that treating morality as a mere expression of one’s persona, as the Like button does, fundamentally subverts the relationship between morality and the individual seeking to live a moral life.  Historically, orthodox Christian belief has been committed to a transcendent understanding of morality, construed as a “Way” to which one ought to conform.  This is, for example, the explicit structure of The Didache – one of the earliest Christian documents expressing the shape of the moral life.  And as C.S. Lewis points out in The Abolition of Man, it is arguably the predominant understanding of morality, Jewish, Christian, Muslim or pagan, before the advent of modernity.  

But the world of the Like button turns this way of thinking on its head.  No longer is morality a transcendent order to which we seek to conform; it is rather a digital drop-down menu from which we select our status.  Instead of seeking pre-existing moral norms that necessarily bind us, we click to create motifs that define us.  And our self-definition has all the contingency of whim.  For we remain attached to particular stances only as long as we continue to feel as though they authentically express who we are at any given moment.  

In a sense, the Like button in social media is the sacrament for the religion that sociologist Christian Smith has identified as defining the present generation: “moralistic therapeutic deism.”  It is a religious stance in which “feeling happy” is the first principle and how one “feels” is the epistemological lens through which everything is assessed.  Of course, Smith’s work does not apply uniquely to evangelicals (rather to U.S. teenagers, generally).  However, as another noteworthy Smith has recently observed, sacraments such as the Like button are embedded in larger, “cultural liturgies” in which the evangelical world is immersed (see James K.A. Smith, Desiring the Kingdom and Imagining the Kingdom).  

Evangelicals should take seriously the formative effects of the prevailing cultural liturgies.  For if the foregoing analysis is right, the overwhelming effect of the liturgies of social media is not to the good.  Rather, they threaten to erode the very foundation on which deliberation, conversation, vision, and formation are built – namely, the assumption that the moral fabric of reality is ontologically prior to the volition of the individual.

This is reason enough for thinking that despite its inherent limitations, the WWJD bracelet, when compared with the liturgies of social media, is a step in a salutary direction.  For starters, the interrogative mood, together with the implied dominical authority, suggests a posture of submission that is the beginning of moral formation.  To be sure, the bracelet is an accessory.  But the content it expresses, while truncated, does not accessorize.  For when properly applied, the WWJD bracelet does not permit the wearer to use the fruits of inquiry as a means of self-expression (except perhaps in choosing a neon color).  Rather, what Jesus would do in a given situation becomes a “Way” to which the faithful evangelical must conform.  Philosophically speaking, as morally formative liturgical acts go, snapping on a bracelet seems superior to clicking a mouse.  Perhaps the renewal of evangelical reflection on morality looks more like a rosary than a blog. 

From Principle to Policy: Navigating the Moral Terrain of Immigration Reform

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If there is one debate in American politics where an “alternative political conversation” is most needed, it is the debate over immigration reform.  Perhaps because we are a nation of immigrants, perhaps because the debate connects with so many other sensitive policy issues, or perhaps because of deeply-felt but poorly-articulated fears concerning those who are different, the rhetoric that opponents level at each other—and at immigrants themselves—has been the opposite of what anyone would call Christian.   Indeed, our lack of progress on the issue can be explained to a great extent by the way we talk about it.  

Christians in particular should be troubled by this, whatever their positions might be on the various issues at stake.  Remarkably, however, there exists considerable agreement when it comes to identifying underlying moral principles.  Here, I suggest three, though no doubt there are more:

  • First, states have the authority—and indeed the responsibility—to police their borders.  As no country can admit simply everyone who wants to enter, states need to make decisions concerning the number of immigrants they can accept.  Moreover, states need to be concerned about cross-border criminal activity, including human trafficking.
  • Second, the desire of persons to migrate when they cannot find employment or other opportunities in their home country is legitimate, and even praiseworthy.  While migration may not be possible in all cases, states everywhere have a responsibility to facilitate migration flows, both for the sake of the countries involved and for the migrants themselves.
  • Third, the responsibility of states to do justice extends to all: citizens and non-citizens, legal and illegal residents alike.  Justice may not mean treating everyone alike, but it will require the recognition that all persons have dignity, and that this dignity comes not from the possession of a passport. Any number of implications may follow from this, but chief among them are responsibilities concerning hospitality and respect.

Now we can agree on the principles that should be brought to bear on a situation, and yet disagree as to where a reasonable balance of these principles might lead.  It’s entirely possible for people of good will to disagree with each other, for good reasons.  As I seek a balance of these principles, I can describe at least three possible conclusions:

  • Refugees have a special status in immigration policy.  Our commitment to justice for all implies that the right to asylum for those who suffer intolerable oppression cannot be denied.
  • A commitment to the rule of law implies that it is appropriate for governments to set limits on numbers of immigrants that can be admitted.  Moreover, when it does set limits, it is appropriate and responsible to enforce those laws, even through deportation if necessary and appropriate.
  • One result of our unwillingness to establish a comprehensive immigration policy has been a backlog of millions of undocumented residents, here partly because of failures to enforce the law at the border and at the places that hire them.  Our commitment to justice and our recognition of the legitimate desire of persons to improve their situations means that we share responsibility.  Even if it were possible to deport all those who are undocumented, it would wrong to do so.    

From here we can begin to develop policy guidelines.  For example:

  • While the distinction is often overlooked in popular political rhetoric, the situations of legal and illegal immigrants are so different that they require different treatments in terms of policy.  A debate over the precise number of immigrants admitted to the US, for example, is an entirely different topic than the debate over amnesty for those here illegally.  Similarly, popular frustration with undocumented residents gaining access to public services should not lead to restrictions on such services for immigrants who are here legally.
  • The state’s interest in protecting the weak as part of its justice mandate requires that it take special steps to protect the most vulnerable.  For that reason, children of illegal immigrants require special protection. Something like the DREAM act is likely to be an important step in this regard. 
  • For those undocumented who have long been here, working and contributing to society, we should establish the opportunity for legalization and citizenship.  Theirs is not the preferred path, and indeed we should endeavor to close it for others, but our unwillingness to enforce our own laws, our failure to facilitate migration for those who most seek it, and their demonstrated willingness to participate in American society all suggest in favor of moving in this direction.

These points together do not come close to a program for comprehensive reform.  But my hope is that as we disagree on these policy points, or as we see to contribute others, our policy disagreements might not be seen to indicate disagreement “all the way down”.  Immigration is indeed an issue where vital moral principles are at stake: let’s continue to affirm those basic principles while we debate the policy solutions. 

Moral Principles and Moral Courage

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As I have followed the national budget debate over the past twelve months or so, I have been struck by the ways that the arguments are framed morally.  Today, it has become commonplace to declare that the budget is a “moral” document, that as a statement of the nation’s economic priorities, it makes decisions that are moral by their very nature, both in themselves and in their consequences.  

This declaration is, of course, absolutely true: it is hard to see how anyone might imagine the federal budget to be merely “economic.”  In fact, it is so true that the reminder is almost unhelpful, for once we attune ourselves to the moral questions at stake, we see that in fact that participants are making moral claims all the time concerning budget priorities.  The question then is not whether moral principles, but which moral principles.

I see at least two great sets of moral claims at play.  One set is based upon economic stewardship.  The United States today is living beyond its means, and in fact, has been doing so for some time.  While extending costs over time may be appropriate and even advisable when benefits likewise extend over time, passing costs to future generations for benefits enjoyed only today goes against any stable norm of stewardship.  And when certain national priorities threaten to grow beyond the government’s ability to sustain them—I have in mind entitlement programs—stewardship demands that we consider how we might pursue these priorities responsibly.

A second set of moral arguments emphasizes justice.  While we have an obligation to consider our stewardship responsibilities for the sake of future generations, it is equally important to carry out our responsibilities to our neighbors today.  So if justice requires that all members of society have the ability to participate in our common life, the cost of efforts to reduce deficits may not be borne by the most vulnerable members of society.  Programs designed to meet these goals may need to be rebuilt from time to time, but the foundational requirements of justice with regard to the poor do not change.

I find it helpful to consider the moral framing of the debate in this way because, first of all, it encourages us to consider our motivations in the debate—and equally important, the motivations of others.  Often, opponents in the political budget fight are caricatured as uncaring and selfish (on the one side) or stupid and selfish (on the other).  Recognizing that our opponents’ positions may be morally grounded is valuable, even if we reject the policy prescriptions that flow from them.  It may not be necessary to find that our opponents are uncaring, stupid or selfish; it could be that they are merely wrong.

But does the recognition of the varied moral positions at stake issue help us as we stumble towards policy?  I think it may, for although we may arrive at these moral principles from different religious or ideological starting places, they enable a place from which alternate political conversations may become possible.  We may discover, uncomfortably perhaps, that our moral principles cut both ways in terms of policy.  The moral principle of stewardship, for example, applies not only to our finances.   Surely, a wise steward will not pay for yesterday’s fiscal deficits by passing social or environmental deficits to tomorrow.  It’s hard for me to see how tax increases on the most wealthy can or should be avoided in pursuit of these ends.

The moral claims of justice also cut both ways.  While justice requires bringing to the most vulnerable the care to which they are entitled, justice is also implicated in our  obligations to future generations, and that will require us to take a hard look at unsustainable spending patterns in particular areas. This will include military spending.  But the far more significant challenge, and the more difficult, will be the rebuilding of entitlement programs.  And for that reconstruction project, justice itself will require that all options remain on the table. 

What becomes clear, I believe, is that neither justice nor stewardship can be considered alone, and they certainly need not be opposed to each other.  Fortunately, the interplay of these two principles may result in more policy options than we perhaps had expected.  These are moral decisions, these are difficult decisions, but they remain decisions. 

And here we arrive at what is perhaps most challenging.  To make moral decisions, we must be morally courageous.  And in politics, that requires refusing easy answers (“tax the rich!”; “cuts across the board!”) and a willingness to assume some of the costs that come with being morally principled.  Both of the tempting options of  “more of the same” and “less of the same” must be rejected.  Now is the time for public policy makers to be as courageous as they are principled.