The golden calf that so concerned and infuriated Moses was, as all idols seem to be, a distraction from the practical moral system that the prophet offered. Yes, practical—and workable. It appears obvious to me that the Ten Commandments largely set up some rules by which a society can function with the least contention, e.g., avoiding contention with those restrictions on adultery and coveting “thy” neighbor’s wife and the restriction on killing. In contrast, the golden calf, which might have been a takeoff from Apis or Baal, two bull-like gods the Hebrews knew back in Egypt, seems to have offered no code, no practical, workable way to keep the wheels of society on the chariot’s axel. Yet, to the dismay of Moses, Aaron and the lot worshipped an idol not associated with explicit rules. And it’s not as though Moses’ brother and the Hebrews were unaware of “codes” prior to the prophet’s descending from Mt. Sinai to offer a social contract. Codes had long been a part of society. Hammurabi had laid down a set of rules centuries before the Hebrews left Egypt.
Now of course, all rules are subject over time to reexamination and tweaking according to the times. Generations after the Founding Fathers, American legislatures and courts continue to make minor adjustments to the Constitution that even the Founders saw fit to alter with the Bill of Rights in 1791.
So, tweaking is inherent in living any code because the next generation sees something the previous generation did not see. And the same goes with those Ten Commandments as interpreted by generations millennia removed from their initial proclamation. Take those restrictions on adultery and coveting. What could be so wrong in the minds of many TV characters about a slip, a momentary dalliance? “But Honey, I was lonely at the conference, had a bit too much to drink, and she just took advantage of me. It didn’t mean anything. I still love you.” It’s the mentality encapsulated in the song by Stephen Stills: “When you’re not with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” And as for that restriction on killing that the Sixth Commandment bans, doesn’t it seem rational to allow killing in self defense? “Come on, work with me on this, Judge. What was I supposed to do? He had a knife.”
Codes organize us. Those Ten Commandments have served as controls on inimical behavior—more or less—for many centuries now, even across cultures. If, for example, harming an enemy in war is moral, is there such a thing as excessive harm (short of killing)? The “world” must think so; thus, international tribunals seek justice against perpetrators of “war crimes.” So, codes provide a basis for a justice system, and they do so even a fluidly litigious one that has to respond to quandaries never foreseen by the code makers. In various interpretations of code tweaks, punishments for transgressions also vary: In the US one state might have a death penalty that another state eschews. One jurisdiction might have a liberal parole board compared to a more restrictive board in another jurisdiction. Universal codes always run up against special circumstances that induce urges to tweak, to modify. Even if the code is ostensibly the same (e.g., Thou shall not kill), the interpretation varies.
That means, of course, that having a code is different from applying a code. And that is what we see when politics and justice mesh. In some instances, the unspoken or secret political code allows one group to treat another unjustly while they feign adherence to a “universal” code. Thus, Germans who knew about the treatment of the Jews but said or did nothing to prevent the Holocaust probably adhered to the ostensible moral code that goes back not just to Moses, but also to Hammurabi. The German on the street in 1939 probably would agree that killing violates the “code” but would probably not have been adverse to the starting down that slippery slope to the concentration camps and gas chambers. Little by little, every code slides.
In tweaking a code, those with a particular agenda can see some humans as different and unworthy of protections offered by the code. Morality in practice always seems to be situational, always seems to be convenient and self-serving. The Inquisition’s torturing of heretics and the Puritan’s burning of witches reveal how situational morality can become. Both those Christian authorities of a half millennium ago and those in New England decided that the commandment about killing just didn’t apply in certain circumstances—uniform application be damned, heretics and witches are exceptions; and during World War II, Jews, also.
Shouldn’t we as intelligent beings be able to adjust according to circumstances? Look, for example, how modern technology has altered traditional human interactions. Should we interpret all actions on the basis of an ancient pre-tech code? What of all the variations that tech has introduced, such as enabling people to spread hate or lies through the Web, resulting in some instances in a suicide by a bullied and distraught teenager? And consider the uneven application of the principle of complicity in a crime: Should Hollywood producers and actors be held accountable for crimes that mimic those portrayed in films? Should video game-producers be held accountable for teenagers acting out in imitation of a graphically violent video game? How does that commandment about killing fit into the twenty-first century? The original “Thou shall (shalt) not kill” seems so bare bones, so simplistic, so unrealistic. The logic of the times demands its tweaking.
We apply codes for convenience and control, and our constant tweaking turns clarity into murkiness. The United States has a tradition going back even before Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Self Reliance” that individuals are responsible for their actions and are equal under the law. But—tweak—times have changed. Now many argue that society is responsible for individuals’ actions: “How could he have committed murder? you ask. Well, didn’t you know about his upbringing and his neighborhood? What can you expect given those circumstances? He was reared to be a murderer.” Is such an answer about influence not a mitigating factor? “Your Honor, please consider his background.” Thou shalt not kill unless thou were reared to do so—tweak! Thou shalt not kill unless the baby that is almost, but not quite, out of the womb as a partial birth abortion will undo a potential burden on the living—tweak! Thou shalt not commit adultery unless the spouse also strays—tweak! Thou shalt not have false gods except for people like Jim Jones in Guyana or Marshall Applewhite in Rancho Santa Fe—tweak!
Because we are often ambivalent about our moral codes, we are easily influenced by emotions. We adhere to a code according to our social, religious, and political beliefs. Yes, we have been code-makers since Hammurabi, but we have also been tweakers for the same duration. Have a code about border security? So what? Have a code about men using women’s bathrooms? So what? Have a code about women’s sports? So what? We are tweakers, aren’t we? We can change any code on a whim. We can even completely ignore any code as we choose.
Was Moses just an ancient Marshall Applewhite, getting his code not from a comet like the Heaven's Gate leader, but from some grander celestial source, say a stellar nursery visible in an age before light pollution faded the stars? But then if those ten rules came from a stellar nursery, would they not possibly be like the stars in that nursery, coming into and going out of existence in random fashion, some exploding as supernovae and others merely turning into white and brown dwarfs? And after the eons, would any of those stars look as they did at their births? The Ten Commandments and the US Constitution have wandered through time and space, picking up mass at time by gravitational in-falling and losing mass at other times by outright ejection. Come to think about it, the whole of the Cosmos is in a state of constant tweaking. So, I guess tweaking codes is part of the natural order of entropy.
Holy cow! There’s really nothing new here, is there?
Now of course, all rules are subject over time to reexamination and tweaking according to the times. Generations after the Founding Fathers, American legislatures and courts continue to make minor adjustments to the Constitution that even the Founders saw fit to alter with the Bill of Rights in 1791.
So, tweaking is inherent in living any code because the next generation sees something the previous generation did not see. And the same goes with those Ten Commandments as interpreted by generations millennia removed from their initial proclamation. Take those restrictions on adultery and coveting. What could be so wrong in the minds of many TV characters about a slip, a momentary dalliance? “But Honey, I was lonely at the conference, had a bit too much to drink, and she just took advantage of me. It didn’t mean anything. I still love you.” It’s the mentality encapsulated in the song by Stephen Stills: “When you’re not with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” And as for that restriction on killing that the Sixth Commandment bans, doesn’t it seem rational to allow killing in self defense? “Come on, work with me on this, Judge. What was I supposed to do? He had a knife.”
Codes organize us. Those Ten Commandments have served as controls on inimical behavior—more or less—for many centuries now, even across cultures. If, for example, harming an enemy in war is moral, is there such a thing as excessive harm (short of killing)? The “world” must think so; thus, international tribunals seek justice against perpetrators of “war crimes.” So, codes provide a basis for a justice system, and they do so even a fluidly litigious one that has to respond to quandaries never foreseen by the code makers. In various interpretations of code tweaks, punishments for transgressions also vary: In the US one state might have a death penalty that another state eschews. One jurisdiction might have a liberal parole board compared to a more restrictive board in another jurisdiction. Universal codes always run up against special circumstances that induce urges to tweak, to modify. Even if the code is ostensibly the same (e.g., Thou shall not kill), the interpretation varies.
That means, of course, that having a code is different from applying a code. And that is what we see when politics and justice mesh. In some instances, the unspoken or secret political code allows one group to treat another unjustly while they feign adherence to a “universal” code. Thus, Germans who knew about the treatment of the Jews but said or did nothing to prevent the Holocaust probably adhered to the ostensible moral code that goes back not just to Moses, but also to Hammurabi. The German on the street in 1939 probably would agree that killing violates the “code” but would probably not have been adverse to the starting down that slippery slope to the concentration camps and gas chambers. Little by little, every code slides.
In tweaking a code, those with a particular agenda can see some humans as different and unworthy of protections offered by the code. Morality in practice always seems to be situational, always seems to be convenient and self-serving. The Inquisition’s torturing of heretics and the Puritan’s burning of witches reveal how situational morality can become. Both those Christian authorities of a half millennium ago and those in New England decided that the commandment about killing just didn’t apply in certain circumstances—uniform application be damned, heretics and witches are exceptions; and during World War II, Jews, also.
Shouldn’t we as intelligent beings be able to adjust according to circumstances? Look, for example, how modern technology has altered traditional human interactions. Should we interpret all actions on the basis of an ancient pre-tech code? What of all the variations that tech has introduced, such as enabling people to spread hate or lies through the Web, resulting in some instances in a suicide by a bullied and distraught teenager? And consider the uneven application of the principle of complicity in a crime: Should Hollywood producers and actors be held accountable for crimes that mimic those portrayed in films? Should video game-producers be held accountable for teenagers acting out in imitation of a graphically violent video game? How does that commandment about killing fit into the twenty-first century? The original “Thou shall (shalt) not kill” seems so bare bones, so simplistic, so unrealistic. The logic of the times demands its tweaking.
We apply codes for convenience and control, and our constant tweaking turns clarity into murkiness. The United States has a tradition going back even before Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Self Reliance” that individuals are responsible for their actions and are equal under the law. But—tweak—times have changed. Now many argue that society is responsible for individuals’ actions: “How could he have committed murder? you ask. Well, didn’t you know about his upbringing and his neighborhood? What can you expect given those circumstances? He was reared to be a murderer.” Is such an answer about influence not a mitigating factor? “Your Honor, please consider his background.” Thou shalt not kill unless thou were reared to do so—tweak! Thou shalt not kill unless the baby that is almost, but not quite, out of the womb as a partial birth abortion will undo a potential burden on the living—tweak! Thou shalt not commit adultery unless the spouse also strays—tweak! Thou shalt not have false gods except for people like Jim Jones in Guyana or Marshall Applewhite in Rancho Santa Fe—tweak!
Because we are often ambivalent about our moral codes, we are easily influenced by emotions. We adhere to a code according to our social, religious, and political beliefs. Yes, we have been code-makers since Hammurabi, but we have also been tweakers for the same duration. Have a code about border security? So what? Have a code about men using women’s bathrooms? So what? Have a code about women’s sports? So what? We are tweakers, aren’t we? We can change any code on a whim. We can even completely ignore any code as we choose.
Was Moses just an ancient Marshall Applewhite, getting his code not from a comet like the Heaven's Gate leader, but from some grander celestial source, say a stellar nursery visible in an age before light pollution faded the stars? But then if those ten rules came from a stellar nursery, would they not possibly be like the stars in that nursery, coming into and going out of existence in random fashion, some exploding as supernovae and others merely turning into white and brown dwarfs? And after the eons, would any of those stars look as they did at their births? The Ten Commandments and the US Constitution have wandered through time and space, picking up mass at time by gravitational in-falling and losing mass at other times by outright ejection. Come to think about it, the whole of the Cosmos is in a state of constant tweaking. So, I guess tweaking codes is part of the natural order of entropy.
Holy cow! There’s really nothing new here, is there?
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