Thou shall not cheat. Thou shall not lie. Thou shall not steal.
These are good rules, and a good many of us grew up with them. But they aren’t the panacea of morality. Nor is the complete list of all the rules from the Ten Commandments, nor all the rules in the Bible, nor all the rules of all the religious texts in the world combined, nor even all the religious rules combined with all the wise rules laid out by all the human sages across time.
Rules are not morality. Rules are signposts or guidelines to help us to recognize morality, and they’re usually pretty decent at their function during times that lead to typical moral conundrums. Wish you had a bit more money at the end of the year to use for gifts for your kids, home repair, or even charity? You could get that by fibbing to the tax man a bit. But if we all did that, we’d resent the results, because there are certain things we expect out of the programs funded by that tax money.
It would be an unreasonable conclusion to say that it would be moral to do the thing we’d regret if everyone were doing it. So the rule to not lie holds for this ordinary, recurring situation. But are there any times when the rule doesn’t hold?
To explore that possibility a bit, let’s bring ourselves to the Underground Railroad in the antebellum American South. (If you could use a primer to get familiar with this context, Wikipedia will get you started: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Underground_Railroad.)
Imagine our protagonist Cletus, whose home is a safehouse on the Underground Railroad. Cletus believes people should be free, and he is disgusted by slavery. He’s sheltering a handful of escaped slaves in his cellar.
(A quick note about terminology—from here on, I’ll refer to these people as escapees rather than escaped slaves, because the term “slave” describes the condition that has been imposed upon them, not who they are as people. Their enslavement is a grievous wrong against their personhood, not the nature of their personhood, and I’d hate to imply the latter through repeated/exclusive use of the term “slave”. I’ll instead use the term “escapees” because that at least captures something they’ve done of their own free will. Sheriff John, in contrast, will pay no heed to such considerations.)
Through Cletus’s years of experience running the safehouse, he’s gone so far as to construct a secret door for the escapees to hide behind when the authorities come searching for them. And come searching they do. Sheriff John and his deputies come pounding on Cletus’s door, and when he opens, Sheriff John asks him point-blank, “Are you harboring any slaves, Cletus? The Smiths told us they spotted some heading this direction.”
Cletus feels a knot developing in his stomach. You see, while Cletus hates slavery and is doing what he can to help people escape it, he has a moral code. That moral code of behavior includes the rule to not lie. Cletus even believes that the consequences of his actions aren’t his responsibility—his responsibility in his mind is to “do the right thing”, i.e. comply with his list of moral rules. He might even tell himself that it will all work out in the end if only he does the right thing.
Still, the knot gives way to a wave of nausea, knowing what happens to escapees who are caught. He can’t lie, and he doesn’t want to give them away. What’s a morally upright Cletus to do?
He opts for an evasive answer to steer between the moral hazards of lying on the one hand and directing captors to the escapees on the other. “If I were harboring any runaways, I probably wouldn’t tell you, would I?” he asks, forcing a laugh. For Cletus, this misleading question isn’t an outright lie, so it’s okay.
“Cletus,” Sheriff John presses, “I need you to tell me point-blank. Are you harboring any slaves here?”.
Cletus stares at the sheriff, not answering, because there’s no point-blank answer that will satisfy his moral code. But the non-answer is itself an answer. Sheriff John knows about Cletus and his very strong aversion to lying.
“You and you,” Sheriff John points at a couple of deputies, “search the house. And you two,” he points at another pair, “search the cellar.”
Cletus knows that Sheriff John knowns that the escapees are somewhere in his home. Cletus knows the secret door in the cellar is disguised well enough to deceive someone not seriously expecting to find escapees, but that a determined searcher will almost certainly discover the secret door.
“Run!” he screams desperately. “The Sheriff is here!” The escapees burst out of the cellar where they’re hiding, a chase begins, and within a matter of minutes, most of them are recaptured. A couple of them evade capture for several hours, but are nonetheless brought in.
Cletus has maintained his integrity as he sees it by not violating the moral rule to not lie. Several human beings, with desperate dreams of freedom and whom he earnestly meant to help, are being returned to a life of forced labor and will suffer beatings upon their return. One or two of the recaptured escapees could suffer beatings severe enough that they won’t survive.
Come on, Cletus. Do better.
Now, let’s rewind the tape a bit to the time just before Sheriff John pounds on Cletus’s door. In this parallel version of the antebellum American South, Cletus 2.0 hears a pounding on his door. Sheriff John asks him, “Are you harboring any slaves, Cletus? The Smiths told us they spotted some heading this way.” This version of Cletus is usually equally as honest as our previous version, but he’s become accustomed to lying about the presence of escapees on his property. He stares Sheriff John in the eye, and without blinking or hesitating, replies, “Of course not, Sheriff John. Never have, never will.” Lie #1.
Sheriff John knows Cletus is an honest man, so he takes him at his word. Still, he has his due diligence to do. “Mind if we take a look around?” he asks Cletus.
“Go right ahead, Sheriff. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Lie #2.
The search begins, but given they have Cletus’s very reliable word that there will be no one to find, their efforts are half-hearted. They scarcely look around all the objects in the cellar before leaving it.
“Thank you for your time, Cletus,” says Sheriff John on his way out, almost apologetically.
“No problem, Sheriff. I hope you’re able to track them down.” Lie #3.
The sheriff and his deputies leave. The escapees will rest a bit more, then make their way to the next safehouse.
Well done, Cletus 2.0!
This time, Cletus lied. He lied boldly, and given the circumstances, it was the bestmoral decision he could make. Knowing that lying was the right choice here, when it’s usually the wrong choice, we cannot conclude that morality is a collection of rules. I’m not suggesting we just throw the rules away—note that Cletus’s lie was only effective because he was normally an honest person. It’s just that the rules aren’t all of morality.
If it isn’t a collection of rules, then, what is morality? As in physics, a theory of everything for morality has thus far proven elusive. But I believe there’s a hint in this: We believe in breaking the rules if it means securing a future in which people can live freely and at peace. I hope to explore this more in a future post.
What do you think? I’d love to hear your feedback in the comments down below!
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