Jonathan Haidt (pronounced “hite”, like the horrible Korean beer), is a social psychologist at Virginia. He’s gained a lot of popular exposure for his research in to the moral foundations of politics. I first encountered him in this TED Talk which is quite good, and which I recommend to all students of important things. Recently I came across this talk at Edge, which is even better than the TED Talk because it’s addressed to a convention of social psychologists. It is most certainly not preaching to the choir. He even calls out a previous speaker for providing a great example of what’s wrong with his discipline: tribalism.
Haidt’s work (following Durkheim, as he mentions in the Edge piece) explains morality in terms of its social function, which is group binding. If you want to argue that this is reductionist, fine, but I think that even if we want to expand the definition, all of us would still admit that whatever else morality is or does, it definitely binds people into groups. Haidt is interesting because he takes that very basic social sciences assumption and applies it with considerable force to social scientists themselves - and by extension to highly educated liberals who think their knowledge of social science somehow exempts them from its implications.
Liberals, in other words, are just as “tribalistic” as conservatives. In his Edge talk he backs up this claim with three points usually made by social scientists when they are criticizing “backward” organizations or communities. These are directly specifically at the social psychology community, but they apply to every mostly liberal group that thinks they don’t count as a (in Haidt’s words) “tribalistic moral community. These groups:
1. have taboos and danger zones (e.g. sex differences in standard deviation on IQ scores)
2. have a statistically impossible lack of diversity (there were 3 “conservatives” among the 1000
social psychologists in his audience)
3. create a “hostile environment” for members with different views (as evidenced by several
testimonies from “closeted conservative” social psychologists)
When you live in Portland, Oregon, Haidt’s argument becomes especially convincing. People move here because they want to get away from close-minded midwestern conservatives, and congregate with open-minded west coast liberals. Functionally, there is no difference between their morality and the morality of the group they left behind. Each refuses to countenance certain heretical notions (the 2nd amendment really is in the Constitution?!), each enforces a self-perpetuating homogeneity (a trend intensified nowadays by various structural factors, as Bill Bishop explained in The Big Sort), and each creates a hostile environment for divergent opinions (try defending George W. Bush in a vegan cafe and see what happens).
Of course I could mention some evil twin sister city - Branson, Missouri comes to mind - and reverse the charge with completely different examples. That’s exactly the point.
Haidt’s point, as far as I can tell, is not necessarily that morality is therefore a bad thing, and that we should try to overcome it (in fact it seems more likely he would argue that this is ultimately impossible). The point is rather that for certain endeavors, the “binding and blinding” effect of morality is an obstacle. Scientists are the best example, which is why his thesis is so powerful when aimed at a group of social psychologists. But morality is also an obstacle in politics, where we are ostensibly aiming at the “common good,” in which case conflicts between morally bounded groups is a very large obstacle indeed.
I wonder if anything productive might come from putting Haidt’s ideas into conversation with, say, Rawls' idea of the overlapping consensus. Maybe I should read more social psychology when I start that PhD program.
Great post Adam. That article by Haidt is wonderful. The thread you've pulled out, that moral codes are central to the creation and maintainance of group solidarity, is a great place to start.
ReplyDeleteWhat I find most intereseting is that 'moral barriers' are intuitively okay in some domains and not in others. The modern liberal state, it seems, necessitates a good deal of life to be 'open to all' and therefore free of the implicit morality tests groups have used for time immemorial. It seems to those swimming in a 'liberal milieu' (and most forms of modern conservatism swim there too) that the existence of moral boudaries for entering the Southern Baptist clergy are different than moral hurdles for entering 'neutral and open to all' areas of life like academic psychology, mass professions, commerce, government, etc.
I like what Alasdair MacIntyre says about the problem with the contemporary liberal state - that loyality to it is like loyalty to one's phone company - but Haidt, in suggesting that moral requirements for social psychologists are problematic in their current form (resulting in conservatives having to be closeted, for example), makes a good case that 'thinner' institutions in many domains may be good. Maybe the lack of shared moral purpose that MacIntyre laments in the bureaucratic modern state is the best of what's around.
Haidt's piece, especially the thread you pulled out, could also be seen as drawing attention to the fact that, contrary to the goals of modernity and liberal society, communities end up as 'thick' communities no matter how hard they try to be 'thin'. So, oddly, your treatment of Haidt leaves me both wanting more neutrality and knowing that it's unachievable.
Indeed, this is an excellent post. It reminds me of a similar blindness found in those recurring arguments over whether science can explain religion as natural or not. (e.g. claims about the 'god' gene.) It's a fair question, but the debate is usually conducted under the assumption that if religion is natural, then it must be a primitive phenomenon we should all grow out of, etc., etc. I'm still waiting for someone to apply the same logic to evolutionary psychology: it's a natural product of evolution, so we should grow out of it.
ReplyDeleteAnyway, to return to the topic at hand, do you think a certain degree of blindness might be necessary for group binding? That is, would a community that acknowledged in its founding narrative that they are just as 'bad' as the other groups with which they contrast themselves be as successful? Or, as someone famous observed, do we all need people to look down upon?
Put another way, is a certain degree of hypocrisy also a necessary feature of tribal moral communities?
I have a theory about this, specifically in relation to Christianity.
ReplyDeleteI grew up in the Christian group, but after the typical intellectual's journey I can no longer justify calling myself by that name. The interesting thing about my transition to apostasy is that it was guided by my commitment to the Christian narrative. Once I concluded that "love your neighbor as yourself" was at the heart of being Christian, I lost the ability to be a Christian - that is, I didn't see how one could identify as a Christian, and still be a Christian.
This is nothing new. I think Nietzsche said something about how Christianity inculcated truthfulness to the point that being truly Christian meant not being Christian at all, or something like that. All this to say: maybe Christianity is one group that does "acknowledge in its founding narrative that they are just as 'bad' as the other groups." Christianity's success as a "moral tribe" depends on Christians forgetting this, or failing to follow through on its implications.
However, if I have some "political hopes," they center on the possibility that "irony" can overcome the tragedy entailed in the need for groups to bind and blind. Irony is the ability to bind without going blind.
I am by now intimately familiar with the strange and strong desire to once again be part of a church, despite the fact that I could never bind myself to such a community if the binding depends on believing. I want to have my cake and eat it too; I want freedom from the constraints of group identity, AND the fulfillment (not to mention job connections) that comes with group membership. I am also shamefully nostalgic about potlucks in church basements.
The interesting question is whether my "irony" is just a fancy name for the your "hypocrisy." I would like to say that the difference is between self-consciousness and lack thereof, but I'm not sure - and even if there is such a difference, I'm not sure that it makes a difference.
That's a captivating story Adam, but i don't think that newfound awareness of the reality of "moral discourses for group binding" requires, for most people, a journey like yours. Many people can both a)become aware of their own religious (or intellectual or ideological) community's contigency and the reality and worth of the communities of others, and b) remain within their community as genuine believers. Surely not all 'moral binding' is close-minded "us vs them" tribalism that can't be participated in by those who are aware of the discourses that Haidt highlights!
ReplyDeleteThe religious, intellectual and ideological development I witness (and experience) regularly is a bit different:
1) habitation in a world were things "fit well" and outsiders and their deviances are simply explained.
2) awareness of social and psychological factors in one's own system, as well as of problematic and contradictory behaviours exhibited by those within one's group. This corresponds with some disorientation. Haidt seems to be kindly bringing his colleagues into this stage.
3) participating in one's original community, or a similarly functioning new one, while aware of both the beauty and the potential problems of the discourse of that 'tribe' and 'tribes' in general.
We find solidarity and community in different ways as adults than we do as children, but for many people that doesn't mean ironic appropriation of the trappings. People everywhere are finding non-bliding binding! (I'm sorry...) A community can say, "let's muddle forward with humility" and still be bound together.
Besides, we can't choose not to participate in moral communities, just like we can't choose, upon hearing about the social construction/negotiation of knowledge, to not know.
The question is, what binds us to a community? The problem is that we lack the commitment. with our hyper-modernity, there is no reason not to be mobile and participate in various morally binding communities. These communities are only morally binding when we are present (physical or not) in them. When we enter a community, we are bound to their morals, yet we have the freedom to leave and come back whenever we wish to.
ReplyDeleteThis freedom granted to us by our hyper-modernity then makes us question both binding morals and the existence of communities. It seems possible that what we are left with are loose associations with people and their morality, thus do not feel the restraint given by either.
This mobility and ability to change then makes me wonder if this whole debate is raising a moot point.
While teaching Ethics, I see this all of the time. The only moral community that the students feel bound to is the community between their minds and feelings. They are only willing to be bound to themselves, which is philosophically untenable.
ReplyDeleteIndeed. Stanley Hauerwas makes a similar point: modernity attempts to “produce people who believe they should have no story except the story they chose when they had no story.” It's equally philosophically untenable, in that it's impossible to achieve the 'zero point' or 'God's-eye-view' from which you could see all stories fairly and 'choose' one for yourself. And if you do choose, then you encounter the problem Dan describes: why don't I just leave? _I_ made the choice to 'enter' this story, so _I_ can make the choice to abandon it at any point.
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure if there's a generic solution to this problem, but personally, I've found it quite helpful to study virtue ethics, one of the consequences of which was stop believing in absolute individual autonomy. I simply cannot choose for myself any community or narrative; my options are severely limited by my prior communities and narratives, including my being born in a (politically) liberal society, which perpetuates the myth of self-creation. And it's a useful myth - it helps us all get along, and I'd certainly rather live here than Saudi Arabia, but although I can't ever 'get away' from my liberal heritage, I can qualify it by fitting it into a larger story of how it came about.
To put my last comment another way: I love the values of liberalism, but like Hauerwas, Murdoch, MacIntyre, etc. I don't believe the (disguised) mythos or narrative of liberalism is philosophically tenable. Ergo, I need a different narrative, but because liberalism is ultimately incorrect about human autonomy, I can't choose _any_ narrative I want. As the person I am right now, I can't become a conservative Muslim or adopt Chinese Communism or join a commune, etc. (And that's not really what Kant meant by autonomy, either: he thought everyone would choose the "self-evident" moral truths of 18th C. bourgeois conservative Christian morality.)
ReplyDeleteRegarding Dan's point that the centrality of morally bound communities may be fading because of modernity and mobility: This piece (http://experimentaltheology.blogspot.com/2010/03/how-facebook-killed-church.html) by one Richard Beck argues that the new social media is killing the church. He argues that in the past a lot of people who weren't actually that into church would still go because that was where the people, community and connections were. As the church ceases to be a social hub, people fall away. Putmann's Bowling Alone argued, way back in the early 1990s, that participation in civil society institutions was on the decline. This led to hand-wringing, of course. Perhaps now, with no institutional mediation and facilitation of our social selves, we've embraced a Mark Zuckerberg designed replacement.
ReplyDeleteThis is interesting. Intellectual liberal Christians, when struggling with that contradiction, seem to negotiate with themselves for a permissible identity in the same way that hipsters do (acknowledgement and ironic/nostalgic acceptance of what they see as quaintness and parochialism). The fear, of course--and the ultimate sin--is forgetting about this half-removal-of-self, even if for a fleeting moment, and catching yourself looking like a douchebag gleefully accepting a grammy for record of the year. I'm not pointing fingers, either, I ironically admit that I am one such douche bag (and worse, that no one is offering me a grammy).
ReplyDeleteI think that this is on to something. There is more than a crisis of morals going on, but a greater crisis of identity. I think we need to worry about the decline of communities before we worry about the decline of binding morals.
ReplyDeleteThough, binding morals is a more interesting topic for a lot of us, as the conversation tends to allow us to get rid of our subjectivity while having the conversation.
I agree with Michael about the practical impossibility of world-view choice. You see this with seekers, who flit from religion to religion and remain best described not as converts to each respective religion but rather as, well, "seekers." I wonder, however, whether an acknowledgement of the practical impossibility of choice at this level puts one at odds with the orthdox Christian narratives of conversion (in which we're called to drop our fishing nets and pick up our cross, or in which we're born again, or filled with the spirit, etc.). These processes seem to involve and prescribe radical transformations ("you can't serve two masters"), not the slow--even at times begrudging--realizations typical of the struggling-with-doubt, modern, usually-male, usually-young, quasi-Christian who says to himself, "OK, well I guess this is just who I am." Even if one were to assert that it is God who chooses us, rather than the other way around (as in some road to Damascus, or burning bush, or Abramic covenantal experience), this still wouldn't properly acknowledge Michael's point that cultural and personal inertias shape people much more than one realizes--especially when occupying the subject position of a new convert amazed at one's own transformation. Saul was a Zealous pharisee, and Paul was an equally zealous pharisaic anti-pharisee.
ReplyDeleteThus, the argument about choice being not possible can serve a purpose, in terms of compelling the return of prodigal sons, ie, keeping historically Christian people Christian. This is a considerably less ambitious, less robust project than the one requested in the great commission, however. So I agree with you Michael, it's the implications of this for the tenability of Christian narratives that I find disquieting.
P.S. cudos to Rob for changing the setting so that you don't have to have an account and remember a password to post on this thing. Now all your friends can post, hassle free!
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ReplyDeleteThe comments raise a lot of different issues. Let me direct this to the comment Robert left immediately after my comment about my "journey."
ReplyDeleteI don't see how anyone can become aware of their community's contingency and remain within that community as a genuine believer, unless their community is united precisely by an awareness of contingency, which I'm not sure is possible. I suspect that all those people who you say are aware yet still believe are not "aware" in the way that I am. That sounds arrogant, so let me rephrase: most people who are aware of their community's contingency simply don't care about it to the same extent, or in the same way, that I do. I other words, when they're sitting in church and the preacher talks about the existence of god or the divinity of christ or the authority of the bible, and they privately disagree, they simply ignore that private disagreement, or subordinate it to their desire to be a part of the community.
I don't see how their reaction, contrasted with mine, expresses a healthier conception of "autonomy" than I apparently hold. For me, it's not about protecting some fictitious moral independence from the constraints of membership in a community. That overcomplicates matters. It's the simple fact that I don't believe this stuff, and everyone else does (or says they do), and it hurts my conscience to pretend that I'm on the same page. In my experience, it's NOT the case that "everyone else" is at the same time aware of their contingency and able to genuinely believe. I don't know what "genuine" could mean, according to their definitions, if it can accommodate the "awareness" that I'm talking about.
When I've offered my fellow-churchgoers an honest description of where I really stand, they've consistently and immediately questioned why I want to belong to any church at all, and this regardless of how hip, ironic, or intellectual they are. No one has yet been able to conceive of why I'd involve myself in the church community if I don't really care about "believing" in God. Of course I may yet meet people who would understand. My point is, they are definitely not the majority that Robert suggests.
Again, regarding this idea of irony/hypocrisy - I'm just not convinced that it stems from a philosophically untenable and practically unworkable conception of autonomy or from a fear of commitment. If commitment means being dishonest, or silent, then yes, I'm afraid of committing to any moral community. The question - the answer to which may finally refer us to the "tragedy" I mentioned above - is just whether the truthfulness i prioritize is compatible with any real moral communities. I think/hope it is, but I want to know what those communities look like.
That is a great post Adam. I think that you sum up your position nicely with the phrase "the truthfulness I prioritize." I suspect that you distinguish yourself from others in this way not just when it comes to the "big matters" of theology (authority of the Bible, divinity of Christ, etc.), but also at many less weighty levels, and in non-theological discussions as well. As academics, distinguishing our opinion (or perhaps we might better call it our 'stance') from others comes naturally--it's in our blood. It's too bad if this leads to loneliness in other contexts, however, where most people are simply participating in a different dialectic. I sympathize with your stance (I'm the guy who want's to yell 'fake!' at WWE matches), but I also suspect, like Rob (though I shouldn't speak for him), that even the priest can't "actually" believe the stuff (if by "actually" I mean a surety akin to my faith in mundane things like my car working to get me from A to B [which, incidentally, is a faith it doesn't really deserve]). The tradition of creed recitation unfortunately leads us to habitually think about faith propositionally (as does the academic tradition), but I suspect that faith operates much differently than this for most people, even though they say the creeds.
ReplyDeleteI'm comforted by the fact that most people don't actually believe in impossible things in their everyday lives, even if they purport to believe that impossible things happened 2000 years ago. Put them in a time machine and take them back 2000 years and I suspect that they still will be people who don't believe in impossible things. Similarly, tell your average churchgoer that Jesus is coming back today they'll grow concerned for you instead of soiling themselves.
When fellow church-mates ask you, after your description of your position to them, why you would want to be a member of a church, I read this question as: "why would this guy, who is taking pains to explicitly make the case for his difference from us, still want to be a part of our group?"
Perhaps I'm being totally unfair. I just relate to this sort of thing myself, is all.
JpJ,
ReplyDeleteVery interesting analysis. I have a couple of thoughts in response:
1. If, as I've suggested, big decisions to shift from diametrically opposed worldviews are impossible, then how should we understand people who claim or seem to make such major choices? I think it's best understood as a sort of iceberg effect: lots of small decisions or choices have been going on under the surface, so that the actual day when person X announces their "conversion" may be a fairly minor event. However, because most people haven't been privy to the long journey X has taken to that point, it may seem like a sudden change. A similar phenomenon, I suspect, is at work in those stories we tell about some people who go on a rampage or fly small planes into the IRS. "They seemed like just an ordinary guy." "I had no idea he had become so..."
2. I agree that this understanding of choice is at odds with some accounts of Christian conversion, but I don't think those accounts are necessarily the standard to go by. The pietist concept that conversion always involves hearing a charismatic preacher or a powerful apologist and making a sudden turn from another belief system to accepting Jesus as your personal saviour from a life of sin is thoroughly modern, and I would argue out of place in the first century. For example, according to the New Perspective on Paul, Paul didn't have a problem with sin; his conscience was robust enough that he could honestly claim to be blameless before the law. Therefore, instead of understanding his encounter with Jesus as a conversion experience, Krister Stendahl argues that Paul receives a new and special calling to serve the one and the same God he already worships, by bringing the surprising message of Jesus to the Gentiles.
3. So although it might not take the shape of a dramatic conversion, I think there is still the potential for people to join and leave the Christian faith, especially if it's not construed as primarily a state of emotional attachment or intellectual assent to certain propositions, as you say.
Thanks Michael,
ReplyDeleteI agree that a series of small steps can lead to a "breaking point," (in which, as you point out, there is actually no real "break" when you look at it closely) and I guess that this means that you could in fact become a Muslim by choice if only in that you could choose to place yourself in a context which would acculturate you, through small steps, to change into a Muslim. This could happen either by moving to an Islamic country, or less drastically, by simply dunking consistently in Islamic enclaves in NA society, making yourself attend Mosques so that you develop friendships there (to the exclusion of your prior friendships), start organizing your schedule around prayers, etc. Also important for conversions are "exit costs" imposed from without--what will you lose if you leave? What will you lose if you express doubts/grievances/untimely ambition, etc. All of this encourages you to "buy in," and while this buying in is a choice, it's what Janja Lalich describes as a "bounded choice." So perhaps the scenario of Michael-becoming-a-Muslim would be feasible if the will and the medium were there (and now, to me, despite my past statements, it would seem ludicrous to claim that it would be otherwise--perhaps I've drifted away from the original consideration and can't see it any longer).
I haven't read Stendahl so I can't argue against him, but I suspect that the only thing "thoroughly modern" here would be the argument that Paul's conversion wasn't seen as a radical one in the first century. Luke's narrative presents Saul breathing "murderous threats" against followers of Jesus and presiding over the stoning of Stephen. It presents Jesus' followers being terrified of and distrustful of him after the conversion. It mentions scales falling from eyes. It casts none other than Jesus himself as the one with the requisite gravitas to shake sense into him. To my thoroughly untrained eye, this suggests an authorial voice that is intent on describing Paul's conversion as radical transformation--and as Luke's authorial voice, it is very much IN place in the first century (or perhaps early second century, depending on who you believe). We agree with each other that this type of rapid transformation is most often infeasible from a social psychological perspective, but are you really saying you disagree with the fact that it is presented as a radical transformation in the biblical narrative? And there's much more. Over and over again, the metaphors implicit in washing rituals, the practice of assigning new names, the abandonment of former friends and families and eventual persecution by them, the fealty to some radically-other Kingdom--these are themes and practices that are propounded and encouraged by boringly common contemporary cultic groups, and it would be a mistake to say this wasn't also boringly common in the first century. Pietism's particular focus on the personal saviour is a modern idiosyncrasy surely, but the larger theme of the radically transformative power of the good news (with attendant outward signs) is just as surely not.
Early in this thread, JPJ suggested that pro wrestling is fake. Here's evidence to the contrary: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DU4TDGlbTz8
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