From Confucianism to Islam, the majority of organized religions would recoil in horror at this idea. Without absolute laws, they believe there can be no morality. For them, suggesting that human beings should follow their internal sensibility rather than rules is blasphemy. Taoism, on the other hand, is one of the very few traditions believing no number of rules can fix the lack of good instincts. As the Tao Te Ching tells, “The mighty Way declined among the folk and then came kindness and morality.”
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In other words, the external trappings of outer morality are for those who lack inner morality. Just as Jesus repeatedly broke the traditional codes of accepted behavior of his times in the name of this deeper, inner call, Taoism tells us we need more heart and fewer laws.
That's nice and all, Bolelli, but what about the millions of people who don't have what it takes to regularly make good choices? Would you have child molesters follow their instincts over laws? Should we
leave fairness up to the goodness of the hearts of people obsessed with greed?
The quick answer is: no. Even Taoism doesn't preach the elimination of all rules for everybody. What separates Taoism from most branches of Confucianism, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and all other religions emphasizing absolute laws of behavior is the fact that Taoism is speaking to a different audience. Taoists downplay the importance of rigid codes because they focus only on individuals of superior heart, mind, and talent. Since it plays with a very refined, aware audience, philosophical Taoism (which is different from the more mainstream, popular version of religious Taoism) can afford the luxury to invite them to take a step forward, and move beyond an obsessive attachment to the letter of the law. This is why Taoism dismisses Confucian doctrines, with their insistence on etiquette and rules of conduct, as a crash course in morality for idiots.
But even if they are right, so what? There are plenty of people in the world who are too weak to handle life without the crutch of absolute laws. Just telling them they should be smarter is not going to raise their IQ. They don't know how to choose wisely, or when to stop. Unable to find a healthy balance, they badly need guidelines and directives spelling for them how to behave.
Taoism is the first to recognize this, and makes no mystery that its message is not for everybody. “If you don't have what it takes,” Taoism seems to say, “don't even bother playing with us. You would only get confused and hurt yourself. It's better for you to follow Confucianism. There, they'll give you a simple system of ethics to guide you and prevent you from screwing up your life too badly.” If this sounds more than a little elitist, it's because it is. But so is life. Talent is not a democratic virtue. Taoism has no patience for the fairy tale telling us everybody is the same. Too much evidence
indicates otherwise. Recognizing this fact prompted William Blake to write, “One law for the lion and ox is oppression”—a very Taoist sentiment indeed.
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Unlike Taoism, most religions take upon themselves the responsibility for directing people who are selfish, shortsighted, and only too happy to hurt someone else to gratify their own desires. In an effort to set some boundaries for them, these traditions impose tough laws and try to instill a fear of supernatural punishments (hell or karma) as an incentive to comply. There's nothing wrong with this mission: most people simply need these rules. The only problem with this is assuming that
all
people need them. Many individuals, being insensitive to anything but selfish considerations, can't fathom behaving ethically without some hope for reward or fear of punishment; but decent human beings can. Offering a safety net to those likely to fall is a key task for any healthy religion, but even more important is teaching people to refine their instincts and giving them the tools to trust themselves.
The game is a tricky one—no doubt about it. Our dance with good and evil takes place on a rope stretched across the abyss. Tilt too much one way, and we fall on the side of a self-righteous fascism willing to trample freedom in order to impose its ideas on everyone. A step too far in the opposite direction, and we end up lost in a jungle of relativism and weak values. It truly takes good feet to maintain the delicate balance of this dance.
When it comes to morality, the safest, most basic step is to guarantee people the full freedom to make their own choices
as long as
they don't infringe on someone else's freedom. The desire to promote
any other value should never violate this essential premise. There's absolutely nothing wrong in wanting to share cherished ideas with others. If we feel they can help multitudes of people, it only makes sense to want to spread our ideological treasures. But too often many religions can't accept the fact that some people may want to live by different values. As the Tao Te Ching indicates, the spirit of moral crusaders offers their medicine to others but “when no one responds to it, then it angrily rolls up its sleeves and forces people to comply.”
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Like psychotic spurned lovers who can't take no for an answer, they fall for the temptation to impose their own ideas by force. Rather than trusting the power of their message to conquer people by fascinating them, they take the shortcut of wanting to dictate it by law. This denotes a deep lack of confidence in the beauty of their ideas, for if they were more secure, they would trust persuasion without ever feeling the need to resort to coercion.
Many religions portray God as the guardian of morality. Breaking social rules undetected is not too hard, so some religions like to emphasize how no one can escape the never-distracted eyes of God, who acts simultaneously as the super-cop of the sky, as well as judge and jury. Accordingly, heaven and hell are seen as essential tools to coax people into behaving decently. Morality through fear is the name of the game. But even though it may occasionally act as an effective deterrent, fear doesn't work nearly as well as its supporters claim.
Too often, a stern, fear-based morality is a tough façade hiding a tremendous hypocrisy. The number of very religious people who, on a regular basis, preach one thing and do another never fails to surprise me. A strong belief in heaven and hell is obviously not enough of an incentive to actually practice the same morality they preach. When they are exposed, the list of excuses is always the same . . .
“The devil made me do it; I'm a sinner, but Jesus will forgive me.” Borrowing a page from Martin Luther, rather than taking responsibility, they never stop whining about the sinfulness of the human condition and the weakness of the flesh. Somehow, however, they usually emphasize how through faith they'll be forgiven for their shortcomings.
This sorry spectacle irks me to no end (in case you don't have a dictionary handy, “irks me” is a fancy way of saying it pisses me off). Rather than wasting so many words condemning “immorality,” just save your energy to grow a damned spine, and be able to walk your talk. People so ready to make excuses for their actions shouldn't be so aggressive about wanting to enforce a code of ethics they are too weak to follow. Clearly, strict rules of behavior and the fear of supernatural punishments don't have such a good record when it comes to spreading high standards of morality.
A recent study analyzing the correlation between adherence to organized religions and the rate of social dysfunctions underscores this irony very well. Contrary to popular expectations, the places with the highest participation in organized religion are also the leaders in the rates of murder, abortion, divorce, teen pregnancy, sexually transmitted diseases, etc.—something that holds true both worldwide and within the United States. This doesn't necessarily mean organized religion causes a spike in the very illnesses it attacks, but it does mean that
(a)
it is not particularly effective at stopping them, and
(b)
the lack of a belief in supernatural rewards and punishments (i.e., heaven and hell or karma) doesn't drive people toward moral anarchy.
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A fear-based morality is like hoping to prevent a flood by sticking a finger in the crack of a dam. OK, maybe it's slightly more effective—superglue on the cracks rather than a finger. But like any
strategy that's only aimed at containing massive damage, it's not going to work by itself. Religions and ethical philosophies shouldn't be satisfied with such an elementary approach.
Fear, guilt, shame, the threat of punishment, and the lure of rewards do absolutely nothing to spur me toward moral behavior. Maybe they work for some people, but definitely not for me. If anything, I take these tactics as a challenge. Feeling that I'm being tricked into being “good,” my first instinct is to rebel against these manipulative efforts to direct my choices. I agree 100 percent with Albert Einstein when he writes, “I am convinced that a vivid consciousness of the primary importance of moral principles for the betterment and ennoblement of life does not need the idea of a lawgiver, especially a law-giver who works on the basis of reward and punishment.”
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Luckily, my parents felt the same way. They never yelled at me, prodding me to take certain actions, or prohibited me from taking others. They taught me good judgment by example, and left the rest up to me. Knowing I had their full trust did more to shape my sense of morality than a million lectures on proper behavior. Being entrusted with the freedom to make my own choices injected me with a dose of self-confidence and implicitly gave me the message there was nothing wrong with my instincts. I was no evil sinner whose innate essence was fundamentally flawed and in need of redemption. I didn't need to be ashamed of who I was. Through the occasional, gentle advice I was encouraged to hone and refine my natural instincts, but never to repress them. Even when I made poor choices, I was pushed to see them as learning experiences—not as reasons to start second-guessing myself. Just learn from your mistakes and move on.
This feeling of not having anything to hide gave me a sense of great freedom, and yet paradoxically also instilled in me a great sense of responsibility. Precisely because I haven't been burdened with millions of rules, I am dead serious about always living in a way as to be deserving of so much trust.
Just to set the record straight, I'll freely admit that, in more ways than one, my morality is extremely flexible. Many of my choices fly in the face of most rules cherished by moral crusaders. I routinely break laws—both religious and secular alike—for I only obey the laws I agree with. Robin Hood always seemed much cooler to me than the Sheriff of Nottingham. My ethics are flexible, sure, but in some ways I'm far more demanding of myself than even the most severe fans of moral absolutism. Those who peddle a strict, inflexible morality often appear to me too ready to make excuses for whenever their actions fall short of their ideals. Their bark is loud, but their bite is soft. Their loud speech is a cover for their inability to live up to their values. By contrast, I don't blab so much about morality, I violate traditional moral codes every other step I take, and yet I never, ever violate my own ethical code—whether I can get away with it or not.
Every second of my existence, I make it a point not to cause unnecessary pain to any living being, and I'm almost paranoid about not wanting to inconvenience people around me. Unlike the staunch defenders of monogamy, I don't see it as something particularly desirable, but if I decide to be in a monogamous relationship, there's not a chance in hell I'll break my word. Betraying somebody's trust in me is simply not an option. My word is sacred, and I don't break it for anything or anybody—ever. What motivates me is not the fear of punishment and the hope for rewards in this life, or another. It's
simply that this is how I want to live. If people who love me couldn't trust me, if I couldn't trust myself, nothing else would matter.
In my religion, morality is both super-flexible and super-strict. The goal is not simply to keep a sad, shallow humanity from doing too much damage, but to shape a better humanity altogether. What I am interested in is forging human beings who don't need laws to remind them how to act.
Only the obtuse are unappreciative of paradox
.
—Tom Robbins,
Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates
This work is haunted—no doubt about it. An invisible presence keeps poking its head in every chapter, but every time you turn to catch it, it's already gone. You are not imagining things. It's true. A little, literary ninja has been stalking the pages of this book. For too long now, it has been toying with us as it hides between the words. But don't worry. The little bastard hasn't been as careful as it should have been. I woke up before dawn to follow the tracks it left behind, and laid in wait. It was only a matter of time until it fell into my trap. I've got a hold of it now, and I'm not letting go. No more hide-and-seek games. It's time to bring our elusive guest forward—into the spotlight.
If there is a single, recurring theme that shows up in every section of this book, it's paradox. Over and over, regardless of which
topic we are playing with, we end up bringing together ideas and values that most people keep separate. And mixing together the most unlikely ingredients in such a way as to make conventional wisdom blush is precisely the game paradox loves best.
I swear I'm not doing this just for the sake of being the proverbial pain in the equally proverbial ass, or because I like flirting with apparent contradictions. Paradox only seems contradictory in the eyes of people who worship a narrow-minded logic, and divide existence into tiny compartments. But the essence of life itself defies rigid schemes, and prefers dwelling in the harmonious play of opposite qualities. As Tom Robbins tells it, “Reality
is
contradictory. And it's paradoxical. If . . . there's any one word—if you had to pick one word to describe the nature of the universe . . . I think that word would be paradox. That's true at the subatomic level, right through sociological, psychological, philosophical levels on up to cosmic levels.”
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