Morality and moralism: antonyms mistaken for synonyms.

Morality explores, moralism decrees, how best to be. The goal of morality is awareness, of moralism, obedience. Morality is humble, uncertain, open-minded; moralism proud, sure, allergic to doubt.

Jesus nailed the difference with this parable:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedTwo men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: “God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.” But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.

My parents were moralists who mistook themselves for moral. My dad, especially, knew right from wrong, no questions asked. To veer from his dictates was heretical. Opposition infuriated him. I’d get beaten – vigorously – on the bare bottom if I disobeyed. So I obeyed.

Mostly his precepts were OK: duty, charity, courtesy, industry, service, piety, noblesse oblige. Their faults were inflexibility, pride, and incuriosity about the human condition. I sensed this early on, age five or so. My rebellion was pooping in the field. My parents would be “taking” cocktails on the screened porch. Cocktails meant martinis prepared a certain way. When my dad died, age 46, my mom renounced martinis, which she’d disliked for a quarter century.

Having deposited my obligatory kiss on the prescribed cheek, I snuck with the dogs to a far field, secured a likely leaf (preferably non-poisonous), dropped my pajama pants, protruded my chubby bottom, and plop – a triumph I’d been readying all day. Having used my leaf – an unpleasant feeling – I returned to the screened porch, brimming with self-satisfaction, to kiss goodnight.

How could something so thrilling be bad?

My dad’s rigid rectitude made me a closet rebel. Secrecy was essential to protect my bottom. If my dad had lived, I’d have fled his rule, grown long hair, dropped out, done drugs maybe. But his death made me – cringeworthy phrase – “the man in the house.” I was oh-so-good – in public, wild in my dreams.

The live-and-let-live relativism of the so-called Woodstock generation answered our parents’ know-it-all certitude. From coerced compliance we graduated to anything goes. I and the Nameless One are both products of that revolt.

The vileness of our moment made morality my study. Did good and evil or right and wrong exist – or were they prejudices? Is there a reason we’re here? If not, how to figure how best to be? Is beauty décor or a moral force? Does truth matter? Do I owe my life to my loved ones, neighbors, or self?

Thoreau was my first transgressive professor.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedWhat old people say you cannot do you try and find that you can. Old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new… What old people see as evil may be good to you. What my neighbors thought good, I thought bad.

Zero-basing existence, thinking for myself, became my life’s giddying joyride, assurance my abhorrence, doubt my delight. I wrote to feel my way in the dark.

The tension between morality and moralism is endless. Moralism is easy and proud; morality hard and modest. “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”