Conscience Russell McNeil May 31, 2020 (Draft – may contain spelling/grammar errors – written for reading) Part 1: I think about conscience as a choice we are sometimes called on to make – and it’s a choice that comes up for us when we encounter this thing – called “love: in particular when we face or yield to “loving” something new, or “unloving” something old – withdrawing love. There are times in our life experiences where we are presented with the option of effectively “ unloving ” someone or some group, AND – this is key – we make that choice in return for a self-benefit . Conscience serves as a kind of “radar” - a warning system – designed to steer us away from unloving acts. Choosing to love brings joy – we all know that ; choosing to unlove brings remorse . Avoiding the sad, and lonely consequence of living with remorse is what a good or well-trained conscience enables for us. Part 2: Rejecting love – unloving - is a tough cruel choice. But there are – or seem to be – certain benefits - benefits that might make it feel worthwhile to us to sacrifice love. Benefits like power (think getting ahead in a career), or money (getting a better job), or reputation (having lots of admiring friends), and pleasures (name your pleasure). These benefits - in and of themselves - are fine (unless we abuse them) – conscience kicks in whenever – we face the choice or decision to unlove – to treat others as objects – as a “ticket” for any of those benefits.
Our 5 th principle proclaims the “ right of conscience ” and “the use of democratic process.” Conscience & democracy in the same breath. Why is that? How and why are the two linked? Why is conscience referred to as a right ? - the only actual right mentioned in our seven principles. It’s a right because conscience IS a big deal. It may be really the only actual right we have in this life that no-one and no-thing can take from us. Some experience conscience as an “inner voice .” That may be a metaphor, but conscience can feel very real, and in a way external to us coming to us – like a voice – from outside. Conscience acts as this external “voice” - it cautions us not to stray from love. Lets take a little love detour – to remind us what love is. Back to the Greeks – who seemed to have nailed the idea of love before anyone else. Plato, in his Symposium , brought the whole idea of “love” into relief by defining love in a mystical way. Love is defined and reflected in that work by a wise woman – Socrates’ teacher - named Diotima. Socrates claims that Diotima taught the great Socrates everything he knew about love. L ove – she said – was a "daemon." In Greek mythology daemons were godlike agents – like guardian angels, before there ever were guardian angel. The teaching lesson built into this lovely allegorical construction of Plato (and that is what it is) was that love is NOT the goal in our striving . Love isn’t a thing ; love is an “ activity .” Love is the doing – it’s the act of striving after a worthy goal. Love is the pull that draws us toward beauty & truth. Unloving requires turning our backs on Beauty and Truth. In Plato's Apology – another short work - Socrates actually refers – to have his “ daimonion ” (literally, a "divine something") that “warned” him—in the form of a " voice" — against mistakes. His “ daimonion ” never told him what to do – only what NOT to do. If Socrates was on the verge of choosing a wrong path – the daimonion spoke.
Socrates taught how to listen to conscience by asking the right questions – a process requiring a continual examination of our lives. “ The unexamined life is not worth living. ” In his ultimate exercise of the choice of conscience in the Apology – Socrates chooses death over abandoning his comittment to love – it is an historically true story. Conscience seems real enough. Honestly – I remembered this incident - I will share in a second - only after I was approached to talk about conscience – it was NOT foremost in my mind. I recurred as what has come to be called an “involuntary memory.” It was triggered by the invitation. When I was a seven year old boy in Nova Scotia back in the early 1950’s I very clearly recall being goaded by a bullying, but charismatic older boy (9 or10?) into a conversation about doing something spectacular – but thoroughly bad – an act of vandalism! This fellow wanted me to become - a vandal – to commit an act that would earn me a badge in his little gang. It was one of those “I dare you” moments kids face – do you have what it takes? A serious “dare” - to a kid - is a powerful social tool: depending on how the pressure is applied; to fail a dare risks being labeled a chicken or worse. It’s an awkward spot for a child. If I accept the dare I would be embraced by the “ leader of the pack. ” My star would rise. I’d be part of a higher order of being. It was all about “reputation.” If I declined the dare I might be hunted, bullied, called names and even targetted by older boys going and coming from school. [ Powerful tribal rituals play out in the streets with children. They are invisible to most adults – and we forget those when we grow up. I ended up hunted for a few months before moving to Toronto later in the year. ] Why on earth would an innocent Catholic boy like me – just fresh from his first communion – contemplate an act of vandalism? It was simple enough – reputation! I reasoned that at seven, I would – if caught – be able to manipulate my innocence into
forgiveness, and be exonorated. It would be seen as a “boys will be boys” moment - from both the law, and my family. Within my childlike seven year old psychic landscape, this possibility of being special by being bad was short-lived fantasy. Actions have consequences. Once alone later that evening of same day I was dared to this imaginary outlaw act, I heard that voice. What if? (it whispered) What if? The responses I gave to these “what ifs” came at me like a cyclone. What I was imagining could cause pain – to those who loved me . My grandmother saw me as an angel – my actions would make me a devil. I loved her, a lot. She loved me, a lot. Becoming a devil required unloving choices. The very act of imagining what if answers triggered in me my very first sensation of impending remorse – deep remorse. It was a new feeling. Remorse is what happens when you betray someone you love. Conscience works here by allowing my reason to see clearly what the consequences of this choice would be. There was no contest – for me, that night. The decision was uninfluenced my religious indoctrination. I was not thinking about commandments or rules or catechisms, or heaven or hell, or my dad’s stern warnings about falling hanging out with a “wrong” crowd, or the role models portrayed in books about the Hardy Boys , or other popular culture heroes of that time. My religion was not talking to me. My family was not talking to me. My culture was not talking to me . I had to unlove to see my “reputation” rise. R eligion, family or culture would not fundmentally change my feelings about that. The choice seems to come before all of those influences. What is this “voice?” An angel? A daimon? The voice of reason? God? All of the above? What it boiled down to was this. I would have to sacrifice love for reputation. To grow in reputation I would have to risk harm and disappointment to people I loved. I would have to sacrifice love. I would have to lie – or deceive (which is the same thing) my grandmother. I would have to become inauthentic (false). Parallel moments of struggles
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