Moral Capital and Moral Humility

October 14th, 2020 | Click to Comment

Jonathan Haidt’s book, The Righteous Mind, is helping me better understand some important dynamics of the liberal/conservative divide. I can appreciate some of the things driving the thinking of others, even if I don’t agree with them. And I find that we sometimes have more in common than I realized.

In my previous post I discussed Haidt’s first two major points. He shows that the basis of our political and moral decisions is based more on instinct than reason, and he examines the difference between the left and right in regard to the five main foundations of moral judgment.

Haidt’s third major point is that human beings thrive when we are connected to others and feel part of something greater than ourselves. Being part of the whole lifts us out of the mundane reality of everyday life. This gives life meaning, and we need one another for that experience.

Groups of people who agree on a moral worldview offer a sense of support and belonging to their members. This creates something that Haidt calls moral capital—his term for the trust, accountability, and buy-in that allows a group of people to work together, trade with each other, and achieve what they could not accomplish on their own. Moral capital gives individuals confidence that their investment of time, energy, and resources will be rewarded. Moral capital encourages people to work in a way that benefits not only themselves, but the others in their community.

When people can trust one another, they don’t have to hold back out of fear that their hard work will be taken advantage of. Their shared commitment to act for the good of the group brings out the best in its members. Moral capital is a source of real power, and it allows the group to be highly effective in what they undertake together.

In many ways, a moral community operates like a powerful hive. To belong, individuals must sacrifice some personal freedom and act for the good of others in the hive. In this way the community multiplies the power of an individual, making itself into a cohesive organism able to survive challenges and defend against enemies.

Here’s what Haidt has to say about building a strong moral society, by which he means a society with ample moral capital:

“Moral communities are fragile things, hard to build and easy to destroy. When we think about very large communities such as nations, the challenge is extraordinary and the threat of moral entropy is intense. There is not a big margin for error; many nations are failures as moral communities, particularly corrupt nations where dictators and elites run the country for their own benefit. If you don’t value moral capital, then you won’t foster values, virtues, norms, practices, identities, institutions, and technologies that increase it.

“Let me state clearly that moral capital is not always an unalloyed good. Moral capital leads automatically to the suppression of free riders, but it does not lead automatically to other forms of fairness such as equal opportunity. And while high moral capital helps a community to function efficiently, the community can use that efficiency to inflict harm on other communities. High moral capital can be obtained within a cult or a fascist nation, as long as most people truly accept the prevailing moral matrix.

“Nonetheless, if you are trying to change an organization or a society and you do not consider the effects of your changes on moral capital, you’re asking for trouble. This, I believe, is the fundamental blind spot of the left. It explains why liberal reforms so often backfire, and why communist revolutions usually end up in despotism. It is the reason I believe that liberalism—which has done so much to bring about freedom and equal opportunity—is not sufficient as a governing philosophy. It tends to overreach, change too many things too quickly, and reduce the stock of moral capital inadvertently. Conversely, while conservatives do a better job of preserving moral capital, they often fail to notice certain classes of victims, fail to limit the predations of certain powerful interests, and fail to see the need to change or update institutions as times change.” (pp. 342-343)

We all tend to believe that we own the moral high ground. We gather with like-minded people and share a hive mindset. The sense of community is enjoyable, and we find empowerment in aligning with those who think like us. Belonging to a hive gives us a buzz, so to speak.

Inside communities like these, politics takes on a religious fervor. The left and right come to view each other not as opponents, but enemies. Without shared moral capital, the two sides cannot work together. This is the morass we’re in, and we can’t get out of it by trying to change each other’s mind.

We need a way transcend the impasse we’ve reached. Einstein said that problems are never solved on the same level at which they are created. We must orient ourselves according to a higher vantage point. It’s imperative to elevate our perspective and our dialogue so we can talk to one another. Our challenge is to release our death-grip on being right, and to cultivate moral humility.

Moral humility means easing our battle stance. In conversation, it means willingness to listen. It requires resisting the urge to be right, and refraining from attack. Moral humility seeks instead to understand the fears that drive the other person. This is not easy. Moral humility makes our judging mind give up the driver’s seat.

This is not a call to abandon what we think is right. It is rather about expanding our moral sense to reach beyond our hive.  Moral humility does not mean that anything goes. It means noticing when a puffed-up sense of righteousness threatens to take us over.

If I’m convinced that I’m right and you’re wrong, I can’t see anything new; I can only see what I already know. Moral humility means I’m less invested in being right, and more invested in discovering how the world works.

This can look a lot like curiosity, and a sincere interest in learning from each other. Practicing moral humility together allows us to exchange ideas, not just shout at one another. Perhaps it even helps us create a place where, individually and collectively, we all can thrive.

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The Righteous Mind

October 12th, 2020 | 4 Comments

In a political era that renders us painfully disconnected from one another, Jonathan Haidt offers some help. Informed by his studies of how politics and morality are entwined, he explores the very different world views that shape our political and moral decision-making. In his book, The Righteous Mind: How Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion, he describes how we arrive at moral judgments. His work shows what contributes to the chasm between people on the left and the right more clearly than anything I’ve encountered.

The first point Haidt makes is that we make our moral and political decisions instinctively. Only then does our analytical mind come along and construct the reasoned arguments that justify those moral and political choices. Haidt’s analogy is that reason is like the rider perched on top of an elephant. The elephant of instinct holds the power to set our direction.

This is why we don’t change each other’s minds with our clearly reasoned arguments. It’s helpful to remember that important decisions are made according to deep feelings about what matters most. Reasons don’t convince anyone. They simply explain or justify our decisions. If someone comes to see things in a new way, it’s because the change happens at a deeper level.

Haidt’s second major point is that human beings make moral judgments according to five main categories. Though all of us rely on these foundations of morality, some carry more weight than others, depending on the individual. The categories are:

Care vs. Harm

Fairness vs. Cheating

Loyalty vs. Betrayal

Authority vs. Subversion

Sanctity/Purity vs. Degradation

We use these categories to make sense of our experience and to determine what is right.

These categories affect everyone’s moral judgments, but we interpret behavior in relation to these categories differently. For example, both liberals and conservatives value fairness. Liberals tend to focus on fairness in terms of equality and social justice. The liberal idea of fairness is a level playing field. Conservatives tend to focus on fairness in terms of proportionality. The conservative sense of fairness is a society where people receive rewards according to the effort and contribution they make. Both liberals and conservatives value fairness, but their attention is directed to different aspects of what makes a system fair.

Liberals are most concerned with the first two categories of morality: care and fairness. Liberal political messaging generally addresses support and protection for vulnerable individuals, and creating a level playing field for everyone. The other three categories of moral decision-making do not carry the same import in the liberal mindset. Conservatives give more equal weight to all five categories. Conservative messaging includes the importance of loyalty to the group, respect for authority and the need for hierarchy in an orderly society, and the dignity and sanctity of human life. As Haidt points out, this gives conservatives an advantage in their political messaging. Speaking to all five moral categories offers more ways to connect with the priorities of individuals.

Haidt describes how studies of neurological structure reveal differences between the brains of individuals who describe themselves as liberal and as conservative. Neurological patterns of those who identify as liberal correlate with seeking and enjoying novelty and diversity in their experience, whereas those who identify as conservative show neurological patterns aligned with putting new ideas to the test and wariness of new experiences. A healthy society needs both perspectives, and thrives when these two propensities can be in conversation, determining through dialogue and debate how best to proceed.

Haidt offers further explanation of the difference between liberals and conservatives by examining three primary moral themes: autonomy, community, and divinity. Which is most important to you? Has it changed over time?

The moral theme of autonomy is central in what Haidt designates as WEIRD culture: Western, educated, industrialized, rich, and democratic. But in other parts of the world, and among conservative people in the West, community and divinity matter just as much as autonomy. In many cultures, community and divinity far outweigh autonomy in importance.

To create a society that effectively safeguards autonomy, the moral categories of Care vs. Harm and Fairness vs. Cheating matter most. Again, liberals who place the highest value on autonomy will be most concerned about the moral categories of Care and Fairness. On the other hand, to create a society that effectively safeguards community, the moral categories of Loyalty vs. Betrayal and Authority vs. Subversion are more important. Safeguarding a sense of the divinity of human life and society, makes Sanctity vs. Degradation the main priority. Once again, Loyalty, Authority, and Sanctity are categories of moral concern that resonate more strongly with conservatives, whereas WEIRD people focus mostly on Care and Fairness.

Seeing these fundamental differences in perception laid out so clearly has helped me understand more about my own moral and political values, as well as those of others. It has also made me more aware of what I hold in common with those whose politics are very different from mine. This is a welcome surprise, and perhaps even a way to find common ground. At a time when our nation is in such great need of the ability to work together, perhaps the non-judgmental insights Haidt offers can help us crack open the heavy doors of our ideological fortresses.

Haidt’s third major point is that human beings thrive when we are connected to others and feel part of something greater than ourselves. I’ll look at what he means by that in my next post.

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In the Midst of It

September 20th, 2020 | Click to Comment

After half a year of guarding against the coronavirus, there’s no longer much that feels novel about it. We’re all learning to live with the isolation and limitation, along with the toll it takes. I feel like a potbound plant. Yet just as roots pushing against their container force new growth above the soil, the constriction of these days pushes me to leaf out in new ways, even as I long for life to open up again.

I’ve learned about sewing masks over these long months since the pandemic took hold. My first efforts were pleated rectangles, stitched on the machine one after another like a banner of prayer flags. In those early, frightening days when masks were nearly impossible to find, each was a supplication for safety, offered to and for my loved ones.

The masks I make now fit better, and there are many other places to find them. Maybe I’ll attempt another round with a new design, but these days I’m weary of the project and the clutter. It’s time to clear the dining room table, piled with the fabric, interfacing, and allergen filter I’ve experimented with. I designated a box for keeping my tools and materials at hand. Like the fears that arrived with the virus, they’re not quite put away but no longer sprawling everywhere.

In this and so many other ways, we’re living in the in-between. Covid has imposed strange, yet increasingly familiar, routines even as it remains long way from being over. The end, so far, isn’t even in sight.

I would have thought that my imposed solitude should yield more creative work, and more plans for teaching. After all, the quiet is something writers and contemplatives long for. But for much of the summer, I haven’t been able to settle on what project to take up next, or what kind of plans to be putting in place.

I remember months ago considering paths to choose from, different directions in which to focus my attention. New possibilities surely still exist, but at this point there is nothing to illuminate the path forward. I lack a sense of beckoning energy, or of alignment with a greater will, when I consider generating something new.

If I knew what to work on I would do it, but the character of this time resists forward momentum. Even now as the calendar turns toward fall, usually a productive time for me, it’s not a season for looking forward. For now, I’m doing more learning than teaching, more reading than writing. I’m digging and planting in my yard, and trusting that the soil of my inner life will yield new growth as well. We’re living in a liminal time. I’m getting through it with this repeated mantra: Bow to what is.

For me, bowing to what is means allowing myself to see what is happening and to accept that it’s real. It means not resisting or denying what is true, even if I dislike it. It means trying my best to see without distortion. Only then can I respond effectively, whether it’s showing compassion to myself or someone else, or setting a boundary where it’s needed. We can’t force the world to be as we wish, we can only meet the world where it is and go from there.

The events of this year are bigger than I am. I can’t fix what’s wrong. Yet how I respond, how each of us responds, matters. We need deep healing in this country—not just a fix, but a reset. How to do that is beyond me, but I want to be part of finding a way. When things are this out of balance, the best thing I can offer is a commitment to connecting to the true, balancing center, and encouragement for others to do the same.

So my direction, for now, is not so much forward but inward. I look for glimpses of the pattern being woven through the unfolding of these days. I listen for the messages behind the daily onslaught of news. I value silence, a rest from the stream of information that yields no insight. If true knowledge is to be had, it must come from deeper and more enduring place.

The upheaval we’ve all experienced this year has made clear that we are not in control. But we do have choice. We’re part of something bigger than we are, and each of us has a role to play as this greater reality unfolds. This is a time for each of us, in our own way, to listen for our soul’s wisdom.

This world is in dire need of the genuine gifts that each of us can offer. We must read the inner compass that allows us to bring forth the abilities that are uniquely ours to share. How do we act not from fear but from love? What can we offer that strengthens the collective?

This liminal time offers an invitation to consider questions that we’ve held off, perhaps for years. It’s time to listen—not to the cacophony out there, but to the wisdom that dwells inside. It’s time to see clearly, respond effectively, and create a society that can somehow hold us all. Let’s keep working to find a way of life, individually and collectively, that fits better.

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