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On the use of the term ‘spiritual’

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Another response to the ‘spirituality’ debate, this time from Alan Rogers.

 All religions of whatever variety try to find words which imply virtue and special qualities and which are accepted without question. Politicians do the same. American politicians use ‘America’ and ‘the American people’ in this way, as does Tony Blair use ‘family values’. The word ‘spiritual’ might once have meant simply ‘relationship to God’ but now it is a Humpy Dumpty word which means whatever the speaker wants it to mean. Thus, whenever someone uses the word ‘spiritual’ to me I have to ask, ‘What do you mean by “spiritual”?’

—Dorothy Rowe, world-renowned psychologist and writer

 

Jeremy Rodell of the British Humanist Association wrote an article in August defending the use of the term ‘spiritual’ by an atheist for describing emotional response to a variety of circumstances. I disagree.

Jeremy Rodell cites the experiences of looking at the night sky, seeing a superb mountain vista, being moved by great music and serving an ace in tennis as examples of spiritual experience. I struggle to see what these experiences have in common that requires an umbrella term and, if one must be used, why it should be the highly inappropriate word ‘spiritual’.

I am well aware of these experiences. I live in rural West Wales. We may not have many gin-clear nights but we are spared the far too prevalent phenomenon of light pollution. Looking up into that awe inspiring sight I am acutely aware of a sense of privilege. To be alive and aware at this time and place, to be the beneficiary of over 3 billion years of evolving life, to have received an education which allowed me to read the science which established the scale in space and time of the observable universe, such that I can see and understand what this spectacle means, is a privilege which I have done little or nothing to deserve. Where I live I am surrounded by beautiful scenery and have been fortunate enough to visit some of the greatest landscapes our planet has to offer. I enjoy music. The constructions in the syntax of melody, harmony and orchestration created by the greatest talents of my fellow man are pleasurable, joyous and often moving.  To link these disparate experiences seems to me to be an artificial and unnecessary device. They each affect the senses and the mind in different ways. To name all these experiences with a word like ‘spiritual’ conveys the impression that they are outside human mental processes. In fact there is little evidence of permanence or universality in these things. The night sky was once the source of superstitious fear. Some still follow the idiotic utterances of astrologers. Mountain scenery was, a few centuries ago, regarded as oppressive and ugly. Not until the Romantic movement was established did the appreciation of such landscapes develop. Music too has its fashions. I know this myself since I appreciate virtually nothing written after Elgar and Holst. I simply do not understand the language, the syntax of modern composition.

So I think the need for a universal term is not demonstrated. Worse by far is the choice of ‘spiritual’ for this unnecessary purpose. Let us firstly dispose of the homographs.

The phrase over the pub door ‘licensed to sell wine and spirits’ does not mean that you will necessarily receive spiritual guidance within. The root of the word spiritual is ‘spirit’ with the meaning of a supernatural presence within or without the human body. Inside it is a soul. Outside it is a free soul or a ghost.  The concept of material body and supernatural soul (spirit) is called Cartesian Dualism by philosophers. In 1949 Cartesian Dualism was put to the intellectual sword by the Oxford philosopher Gilbert Ryle in his book The Concept of Mind. He proved methodically that Cartesian Dualism was bunkum. Subsequent research in neuroscience completely vindicates Ryle. The computational theory of mind has removed the need for a supernatural explanation of mind every bit as much as the theory of evolution has removed the need for a supernatural creation of the species. A modern scientific view of mankind is that we have a body including a brain and nervous system and that the mind emerges from the working of these physical components. The mind is what the brain does. We see the placebo effect and the possible benefits of holistic medicine because the body and mind are one integrated system – necessarily, since they evolved together.

The followers of received religion which affirms the possibility of an after-life have no alternative but to suspend disbelief and visualize an immaterial soul which can escape the physical body upon death. They need the concept of spirit and the word ‘spiritual’ in order to sustain this self deception. The Concise Oxford Dictionary defines spiritual as: Of spirit as opposed to matter; of the soul especially as acted upon by God, holy, divine, inspired…. It has recently become very noticeable that religious leaders find the word “religious” inadequate. They refer pompously to “the Religious and Spiritual Life of the Nation”. I think it would be unkind to steal this word from them at a time of their greatest need.

Jeremy Rodell admits that the word is ambiguous. I think that this is due to its use being stretched to breaking point. I will give what I think is an important example later. He quotes the Church of England opposing an atheist or humanist contribution to Thought for the Day and seems to think that, if we can convince the C of E and the BBC that we have ‘spiritual’ experiences, they will graciously allow us to contribute; that we must present our beliefs as quasi-religious. I think that is too high a price to pay for five minutes of air-time. Personally, I would rather we concentrated on getting Thought for the Day renamed as Religious Platitude for the Day.

But the most dangerous result of the use of ‘spiritual’ from my own experience is its use in the NHS. Remarkably Jeremy Rodell quotes the NHS use of this term as a justification for the non-religious use.

The ambiguous use of the word ‘spiritual’ has been seized upon by the College of Health Care Chaplains. Despite the impressive academic name the CHCC is a branch of UNITE the union. This is an example of the trick I mentioned previously of using Religious and Spiritual as a cover, a smoke screen, for justifying the extension of religious interference into a wider sphere than that of the dwindling number of Christian adherents.

As I mentioned earlier I live in Wales. In 2010 the Welsh Government produced a set of documents called Standards for Spiritual Care in the NHS Wales.  In fact the documents were written by the CHCC (in fact mostly copied from the CHCC sister organisation in Scotland) and signed off by the Minister for Health in Wales. These documents contain the following ‘definition’ of spiritual care. From the Standards for Spiritual Care in the NHS Wales 2010 we have an attempt at a definition of spiritual care.

Spiritual Care and Religious Care

The document Service Development for Spiritual Care in the NHS in Wales (2010) differentiated between spiritual care and religious care:

Spiritual Care in usually given in a one to one relationship, is completely person centred and makes no assumptions about personal conviction or life orientation.

Religious Care is given in the context of shared religious beliefs, values, liturgies and life style of a faith community.

Spiritual care is often used as the overall term and is relevant for all. For some the spiritual needs are met by religious care, the visits, prayers, worship, rites and sacraments often provided by a faith leader or representative of the faith community or belief group.

Spiritual care can be provided by all health care staff, by carers, families and other patients. When a person is treated with respect, when they are listened to in a meaningful way, when they are seen and treated as a whole person within the context of their life, values and beliefs, then they are receiving spiritual care. Chaplains are the specialist spiritual care providers.

Notice the sentence within the definition of Religious Care: Spiritual care is often used as the overall term and is relevant for all.

From this point on there is total confusion about these terms Religious Care and Spiritual Care. When we use one do we mean both? In the end there is a further definition following ‘Spiritual care can be provided by all… ‘and the whole thing simply becomes a requirement to be kind and empathetic. This should be in the job description of every health care worker in contact with the public and doesn’t need to be labelled ‘spiritual care’.

If we had only the definition of Religious Care ‘…shared religious beliefs, values, liturgies and life style of a faith community’ and an expression of the need to treat patients with humanity and with empathy then a great deal of the nonsense about ‘spiritual care’ could be eliminated.

In the past four financial years every chaplaincy post funded in the NHS Wales has been held by clerics. Of these 97.4% were for Christian clerics.

The care delivered in this time, at a total cost of over £5 million, has been religious care. I hope the chaplains are kind and empathetic towards all patients that is, or should be, a responsibility for all NHS staff in contact with patients. The chaplains are trained clerics and are in hospitals to provide religious care. The use of the word ‘spiritual’ is obfuscation. We really must not allow ourselves to be a party to this deception.

In the Standards for Spiritual Care Guidance document (2010) the Acknowledgements section is as follows (my comment in square brackets):-

Rosemary Kennedy, Chief Nursing Officer    [A political appointee]

Rev. Peter Sedgewick

Rev. Alan Tyler

Rev. Chris Lewinson

Rev. Peter Gilbert

Rev. Cliff Chonka

Rev. Wynne Roberts

Rev. Edward Lewis

Rev. Robert Lloyd-Richards

Rev. Lance Clark

Imam Farid Khan

Carol English UNITE    [The College of Health Care Chaplains is a branch of UNITE the union]

Steve Sloan    UNITE

You will notice that the Standards for Spiritual Care Guidance have been prepared by clerics (as it happens, exclusively male clerics), their trade union officials and a political appointee of the Welsh Government. I can find no reference to a consultation with the public or with hospital patients. I understand that a letter was sent to the Royal College of Nursing which received a brief, formal reply.

Could it be any clearer that hospital chaplaincy is about delivering religious care and the use of the word ‘spiritual’ is an attempt to justify the use of tax payers’ money for this purpose? That’s what I personally think is going on.

In Wales, we have a Charitable Chaplaincy Campaign intended to save £1.3 million of NHS Wales budget for nursing and medical use by encouraging organised religion to set up a charity to fund this service. I contend that the use of the Humpy Dumpty word ‘spiritual’ by the non-religious muddies the waters, allows it to be used unchallenged by organised religion and obstructs our campaign.

 

A Humanism without the word ‘spirituality’

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Todd Battistelli makes the case for humanists turning to words other than ‘spirituality’ to describe feelings of wonder and awe.

We all feel wonder from time to time. But should we be mindful not to use language with religious connotations? Photo: Trey Ratcliff

We all feel wonder from time to time. But should we be mindful not to use language with religious connotations? Photo: Trey Ratcliff

I enjoyed reading Saif Rahman and Jeremy Rodell’s essays on spirituality. Even though I don’t use the term spirituality myself, I share their appreciation of our deepest experiences. Non-humanists can stereotype our worldview as coldly rational, but humanism has long embraced the insight that reason and emotion depend on each other.

The IHEU Amsterdam Declaration describes this interdependence in ‘a lifestance aiming at the maximum possible fulfillment through the cultivation of ethical and creative living and offers an ethical and rational means of addressing the challenges of our time.’ Humanism can movingly describe profundities. While some humanists may choose the word spirituality to do so, others do not, and their choice is informed not by negative associations between spirituality and religion but by the positive associations of alternative words.

There is more to be said about spirituality than I can discuss here. Rodell raises several questions worth exploring: Can humanists be spiritual and/or use the term spiritual? Should humanists use the term? Is spirituality ‘the best word’ to describe our sense of deepest meaning? I will focus on the question of why I do not use the word, but I also want to state up front that humanists can use the term spirituality if they find it appropriate. I do not use it for two reasons. First, using other words helps me clearly communicate my humanism to non-humanists. Second, I find other words more moving.

I approach language from a descriptivist perspective where the most common usage of a word defines its meaning. This isn’t to say that meaning doesn’t change or that people can’t intentionally and successfully work to change a word’s meaning. However, if a word carries one set of connotations for most who hear it, then using the word to mean something different poses a challenge.

When religious people call deep feeling spiritual, they connect it to supernatural or transcendent meaning. I could try to change that meaning, describing a purely naturalist usage for spirituality (after all its root traces back to the word for breath), but such usage conflicts with the way most understand the word.

Instead of departing from this widespread connotation of spirituality, I turn to other words more commonly understood to have secular connotations. Looking to other words also helps head off confusion when spirituality is used to refer to multiple distinct ideas that can be discussed separately (e.g. aspiration, respite, wonder, awe, a sense of connection to the universe and others, etc.).

To give one example, I could speak of the frisson that accompanies Carl Sagan’s ‘we are made of star-stuff’ no matter how many times I think of it. Sagan’s idea speaks to humanity’s primal connection to nature. It is a deeply moving idea, but not, I would say, a spiritual one.

Others would disagree. For them the word spirituality does describe that frisson, and yet others would find the idea of an entirely natural existence abhorrent instead of moving. Such disagreements are part of the challenge of talking across worldviews and traditions. We can see this challenge even within a group such as humanists and our different reactions to the word spirituality. Certain words hold powerful meaning for some while ringing hollow for others.

When my audience attaches supernatural connotations to the word spirituality or uses it to ambiguously refer to multiple ideas, I will use alternatives to explore in detail where we agree and disagree. For instance, by the word mystery do we mean some unknown but potentially knowable element of the cosmos or some supernatural aspect to existence that surpasses any possible understanding?

It’s been my experience that many have trouble accepting that I or any humanist could be authentically satisfied with a wholly naturalist understanding of existence (and satisfied with always having more questions than answers about that existence), but we are. Trying to revise the dominant understanding of spirituality adds another layer of potential misunderstanding.

As for whether using the word spirituality would decrease anti-atheist stigma, I suspect that the prejudice of those like Christina Rees will last for some time no matter the words we use. What will decrease stigma, according to social science research, is more personal interaction with people who identify as atheists.

Sociologist Penny Edgell and her colleagues have found that people reflect more on atheists as an abstract group than on their experience with actual atheists, and that the atheist identity is seen to reject a common morality that has been (incorrectly) linked to belief in deity. Psychologist Will M. Gervais discusses [pdf] how stigma for non-obvious characteristics, like atheism, declines when people believe the stigmatized are more common in society.

This research suggests that the more atheists freely identify as such to their fellow citizens, while at the same time demonstrating their commitment to common values, the more they will help lessen stigma. This should hold true whether or not atheists use the term spiritual. Indeed, a greater diversity of atheist and humanist identities could help even more, conveying how similar we are to our religious neighbors in our own disagreements.

Just as using spirituality isn’t a term used by all atheists, it also doesn’t describe how everyone makes meaning. Rodell quotes the NHS language on ‘spiritual care’ where ‘spirituality’ is ‘looking for meaning in your life.’ The Department of Defense in the United States uses similar language, and, yes, nontheists have asked that that language be changed. A term that has religious connotations for many should not be used by government to describe the meaning making of all.

It is certainly possible to qualify the use of the term and to try to revise its definition, but doing so appeals less to me than using alternatives to spirituality that I find much more compelling. This approach is not solely or even primarily a matter of pragmatic communication. As I have developed as a humanist, the language of explicitly naturalist thinkers has moved me more deeply than those who talk of spirituality. These voices include Sagan and early twentieth century Unitarian humanists such as Arthur Wakefield Slaten and Earl F. Cook and others recorded in the 1927 book Humanist Sermons.

My humanism is neither spiritual nor transcendent. My avoiding the term spirituality comes not from pride or distaste for anything that smacks of religion. My motive is something else altogether: a delight in secular language and ideas. I too have had profound experiences of grandeur, of feeling my small place in the seemingly infinite gulf of space, of fellowship with other people of Earth, and of art that speaks to the core of my being.

These emotions spring from my recognition of the deep interconnectedness of all elements of the universe. From my perspective, there is simply nothing to be transcended. Existence is of one piece counterbalanced only by nonexistence. We live for a short time in a place we know little about, a place indifferent to us and where we alone make our lives meaningful. As Cook puts it more poetically:

‘Although the universe cares not particularly about our morality and our ideals, we must care for them. Upon our shoulders is being carried the ark of life through the wilderness. All the virtues, all there is of goodness, kindliness, courtesy is of our own creation and we must sustain them, otherwise they will go out of existence into darkness, as a star goes out.’

This aspiration to virtue, the promise of helping to build a better world for ourselves and those who come after, urges me forward. It is an aspiration I gladly share as common ground with those who, religious or not, describe it as spiritual so long as they allow me to describe it otherwise as Slaten does:

‘Humanism sets before us a great World-Hope…. Humanism may take away some of the old consolations, but it offers others more convincing…. Our sojourn here becomes a wonder-awakening romance, a pilgrimage through mysteries and marvels, and as we walk together our hearts burn within us.’

However we describe the flame of our burning hearts, it lights the way on our brief journey between oblivions, revealing moments of profound feeling and understanding.

Todd Battistelli is an independent scholar in rhetoric and a freelance writer. He runs the blog Humanism Speaks.

My spirituality as a humanist

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This article by Saif Rahman is cross-posted from the New Humanist magazine

Dedicated to the late Robin Williams, based on a conversation between Hughman and Warner

Is there any value in spirituality? As a non-believer you might expect me to say no, but the sentimental part in me would like to say yes. Of course when I talk about the human spirit, I’m not talking about some ghostly ethereal entity living inside my body. I’m talking about the non-material essence of being ‘human’. My colleagues might prefer the term ‘humanity,’ but for me this doesn’t capture our inter-relationship with the universe. There aren’t many words in our language that do, so I use the words spirit or spirituality in the same way I loosely use the phrase ‘Bless You’ when you sneeze. I can only describe it as an acute sense of the sublime, to feel its awe and succumbing to its wonder.

Some religious groups of course attempt to usurp its grandeur by pointing behind the sky’s celestial curtain. But whilst bottling our universe’s mystique may control her essence, it also strips her from a majesty of her very own.

I recall a moment standing on a cliff’s edge looking down towards the sea, watching the waves below beating at its sides, the mountains above cutting through the clouds… and I could feel the presence of something much greater than myself, I knew it was all around me.

country view

I remember lying on the grass underneath a clear night sky, gazing up and seeing more stars than I could imagine; from a billion miles away I could see their intense beams still radiating a billion years after their death.I felt humbled to be a part of them, honoured to still be their witness.

And there are simple, everyday moments too: being with good friends, the magic of a frolicking kitten, a quenching sip of freshly-squeezed juice on a sunny day, that game of tennis which goes to tie-break, or the soft embrace which stops space and time. At times I can be so overwhelmed by the sensation of being alive that I melt; sometimes I just smile and breathe deeply with a sigh.

I no longer imagine any of this belonging to a supernatural. But I do believe the thing which built those mountains has a name. It’s called plate tectonics. The thing causing those stars to twinkle is called nuclear fusion.  I understand that my body naturally craves specific foods for nutritional value, sometimes just for psychological reasons. Humility is simply recognizing our muted relevance in an infinite universe, and being grateful for it doesn’t require a someone or a something to be thankful towards.  I recognise that being happy in a comfortable social setting is an evolutionary trait of my species. And the intoxication of romance is most likely driven by the need to procreate.

Understanding provides me with the depth of perception to view the world as profoundly and with as much empathy and compassion as humanly possible. I am one with the universe, not metaphysically, but physically. So whilst I may be that bungling imperfect gene, I made it against all odds to be here.  I am as much the universe as a supernova. Made of the same particles; governed by the same forces.

I treasure its magnificence and to think that out of all the things in the universe, I am lucky enough to be one of the only things that can. I love learning, hitting that perfect serve, and hearing the sound of uncontrollable laughter. What a beautiful time to be alive and to explore ourselves, our time and our place in this universe. And that’s simply wonderful.

Saif Rahman is a strategic consultant, author of The Islamist Delusion, and founder of HCMA (the Humanist and Cultural Muslim Association).

A humanist and his son’s fear of death

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Julian Sheather shares a personal story of easing his son’s bedtime terrors about death and the afterlife.

When he was eight, or thereabouts, my eldest son developed an intense fear of death. Without warning – at bedtime or waking in the quiet hours of the night – he would cry out in terror: ‘Daddy…I’ve got that terrible feeling again.’ My wife and I, although in fairness a little more often my wife than I, would take it in turns to console him. We would lie alongside him on his bed under the eaves – it seemed to help if it was raining – and try gently, clumsily, to soothe him. At times, seized with fear and disbelief, he would list all the people he loved – his grandparents, my wife and I, his friends, his younger brother (usually) – and almost physically wrestle with the knowledge that they were all, at some point, going to die.

Fear of death is infectious. Like most of us I suppose I have succeeded, most of the time, in pushing it to the margins of my mind. We may vaguely have heard that all philosophy is a preparation for death, but then not many of us are philosophers. Among healthy adults talk of death has a morbid, almost lavatorial quality: you tend to keep it to yourself. But ripped from sleep to confront a young boy’s – your own boy’s – appalled struggle with mortality, to hear him in the night confront so unprepared the basic terms of life, is a sobering experience. It rather throws you back on yourself.

During those long nights, the question of religious belief, of some possibility of an afterlife, inevitably came up. And I admit I struggled. There is a great deal of cheap, pre-fabricated criticism of religion knocking about at the moment. (There’s also a deal of cheap, pre-fabricated religion, but that’s another story.) If we are going to criticise any system of thought or belief then I figure we are obliged to take it in its best dress, at its richest and most serious. And fair to say that at its best religion addresses itself with great attentiveness to common human fears. Consider some of the great spiritual autobiographies: fear of death played its part in Tolstoy’s conversion; in Grace Abounding fear certainly had a heavy hand on John Bunyan’s tiller. So although there is a great deal more to religion than the weaving of tales to still our terrors, there is no doubt that for millennia religions have also spoken to our fear of death and helped structure a response to it.

I am not very good when I am tired. I remember saying to my son during one of his crises, casting around for something, anything that might help still his grief, that there were those (oh weaselling words) who believed in an after-life – words to the familiar effect that for some death is a horizon not a terminus. ‘But you don’t believe that, do you, Dad?’ he shot back.

I am not in the habit of lying to my sons, and I didn’t then. This is partly because, on the whole, I’d rather tell the truth. But also because lying would be pointless. They know me too well. My son’s response wasn’t a question, it was a statement. And so night after night we lay there together under the eaves until his anguish stilled itself and he fell asleep.

My son’s fear of death was with him on and off for several years. It took many forms. He would shield his eyes when we drove past cemeteries. He would suddenly call a halt to certain conversations. The TV would be switched off abruptly. He continued waking in the night cold with fear and my wife and I continued, clumsily, to console him. Somehow linked, he grew terrified of the severely disabled. He once bolted up the road when a disabled child was wheeled on a recumbent chair from our local surgery. Life was showing itself to him.

If I were writing this as fiction, this is not the ending I would choose. It is a little too pat. A friend gave me a book of philosophical puzzles. I can’t now remember why but my son was interested and I started to read them to him at bed time. He grew intrigued and I bought a version for children. And so we chatted about pigs that wanted to be eaten, and pills that made you win at everything, about rings that made you invisible and ships reassembled on the brilliant foreshore. And one night he looked up and said that his fear of death had gone: the puzzles had set flight to it.

It was one of those occasional, sun-lit moments you get as a parent when, groping around in the dark, you feel you’ve finally hit on something right. I am not quite so naïve as to believe that in philosophical paradox he had found a substitute for religion. Partly he was growing up. Looking back – this was a few years ago – it probably had a lot to do with the ordinary work of being a parent, the slow accumulation of all those nights, one slightly less-frightened human being consoling another. But I still like to think that in the face of some of life’s biggest fears, its most intransigent problems, he had found some of the breathing room that thought brings. And just recently he has told me he would like in the future to work with children – including the disabled.

 

 

Moral, religious, psychopathic, or just human?

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Glen Carrigan looks at the science of morality

Science, increasingly, is answering questions which before only philosophers could attempt

Science, increasingly, is answering questions which before only philosophers could attempt

Why doesn’t Microsoft Word recognise the word ‘Neuropsychology?’ Maybe because it’s a rather new field, although people have been musing on the workings of the physical brain for a very long time indeed – don’t worry though, we’re not trepanning people anymore!

My interest is the moral brain, how humans – and other animals to some degree – draw the distinction between right and wrong to organise society. Some argue that moral standards are axiomatic and that moral compasses come from god. There actually seems to be some truth to this, in that some absolutist standards like Thou Shalt Not Kill or the Golden Rule seem to be very intuitive – as is the notion that you’re somehow a social pariah if you play World of Warcraft. A paper by Baumard and Boyer called “Explaining Moral Religions” shows just how universal this is.

Is the Golden Rule any good though? Maybe, but you’re making your own narrow individual experience the basis for how you treat others. Wouldn’t it be better to ask them how they’d like to be treated? This should indeed be the case for issues such as assisted dying, where holding to Thou Shalt Not Kill diminishes the dignity and autonomy of a feeling, reflecting being. To hold dogmatic moral views also only works if you believe in god and that at least in some religions, you’re good to escape punishment in the hereafter, rather than for the sake of the here and now.

Far from being divine in origin, there seems to be a wealth of evidence showing us that being an individual yet social animal, with a big (relative to body size) and healthy brain, necessitates certain behaviours for us to flourish in a group. This then, gives rise to our need to discuss and reflect upon what it means to be a moral agent. You can see similar intuitive behavioural patterns to our own in other animals that operate in social groups. A wonderful example is the reciprocal behaviour of vampire bats, who seem to understand that a good deed (donating a regurgitated blood meal – stomach churning I know) deserves repayment. There is much converging evidence in evolutionary psychology that points to animals being the origin of their own ‘moral’ codes. But there are driving forces behind being a good egg other than reciprocity.

Throughout history philosophers have struggled with what constitutes the virtuous act. We notice that certain behaviours are predictable and wrong such as rape and rightly condemn people for it. We also need to accept that we make choices – if we have free will – and should be responsible for them. The fact that certain prohibitions are intuitive might suggest an in-built moral acquisition and refinement device (MARD) which is nurtured by social experience, emotion and reflection, rather than an omnipotent law giver. Perhaps we are actually responsible for the holy books that seek to have us toe the moral line – although we were managing to beforehand – in any event we seem to be the only species we know of that spends a great deal of time writing books telling ourselves to be good, that we’re special, and that we should be humble about it!

Neuropsychology can perhaps tell us a bit about this MARD and how we think, rather than what we should think here: We establish the social norms after all and what acts constitute deviance. The archetypal Psychopath seems to be deviant to many of us and this is why I study them. The fact is that we all have psychopathic traits along a spectrum; it’s just that some people have more pronounced, what the majority consider to be, morally deviant tendencies. Neuropsychology shows us that Psychopaths seem to have diminished empathic concern, as well as, fail to notice the importance of intention in a harmful act. Since it’s us that establish that intention to cause harm is worse than an accident (the difference between murder and manslaughter) we view psychopaths as morally deviant in society – perhaps their MARD is broken?

People often panic here and think that if we can predict someone will think and perhaps behave murderously then the notion of choice in society falls apart. It might, if you want Neuroscience to strip us of our humanity. In my view, although we could see why such people might be like this, that doesn’t mean they walk away scot free. What matters is that we discuss our options reflectively and organise society around us as moral beings that makes choices, with a sense of responsibility, and who can be punished for transgressions, rather than allowing my brain made me do it as an alibi in all cases where mental instability is an issue. It’s also worth pointing out that most psychopaths actually don’t run around murdering people like Heath Ledger in Batman!

Glen Carrigan is a neuropsychology researcher at the University of Central Lancashire, as well as ex-military, a qualified fitness instructor, communications specialist, youth mentor, humanist, science presenter and model who advocates social and political activism in equality and education.

Speculative fiction as philosophy

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Graham Walker explores what philosophical lessons there are to be found in the stories of science fiction.

Science fiction is a better vehicle for philosophy than other genres, argues Graham Walker

Science fiction is a better vehicle for philosophy than other genres, argues Graham Walker. Image: Kurt Nordstrom.

Science fiction allows some of the most imaginative and visionary authors and film directors of all time to transport us to places where anything is possible and where the only rules are the rules of that fictional world’s creator. But at the same time, it is much more than this. Not only does science fiction challenge us think of the universe in new ways, it can also make us think about life from new and novel perspectives, to an extent which I would argue that non-science fiction simply can never achieve. For one, and for me personally, ‘sci-fi’ as a genre represents one of the best outlets for philosophy that is on offer today.

The basic goal of philosophy is to ask the big questions about life: what is consciousness? What is ‘free will’? What is morality and how do we be good? How best is a state run? Sci-fi as a genre is remarkable in its power to comment on all these questions, and in its ability to ask questions from unusual and innovative angles in order to genuinely problematise some of the philosophical answers to these questions that have been proposed over the ages.

What I am proposing is not a new or groundbreaking concept. Plato himself was aware of it, almost 2,500 years ago. In Plato’s greatest work, The Republic, Socrates describes the Ring of Gyges: a mythical ring which grants the wearer invisibility. By inventing this novel and impossible scenario enables, Socrates to ask genuine questions about what justice is and whether an intelligent person would act morally if he knew that he could never be caught in his immoral act. The stories of Homer, too, used the Greek pantheon in a similar manner. He paints the gods of ancient Greece as capricious and vindictive, allowing the reader to ponder why we are here and how we can make sense of a chaotic world.

Today, science fiction is still used to tackle the big questions of philosophy. The novel I,Robot by Isaac Asimov is a collection of short stories primarily exploring the nature of morality and consciousness. One short story though develops an elegant argument for how a rational thinker cold develop the idea of a higher power when they lack the necessary information to otherwise explain the nature of the world.

In my opinion, one of the most powerful sets of books (and currently films) is the Hunger Games trilogy. A dystopian fiction in the tradition of so many great twentieth century novels, The Hunger Games poses a range of powerful questions and answers. Author Suzanne Collins creates a satire on inequality, ridiculing the idea that those, literally, at the coal face work hardest and remain poor while others profit from their work. It asks what is good and evil, or right and wrong, for both the individual and the state, and it highlights the immorality and pointlessness of honour and revenge, and how greed can ultimately corrupt leaders even when they fight for a worthy cause. The writer George Orwell, who was one of the 20th century’s greatest writers of speculative fiction, posed many similar questions in Animal Farm.

It’s worth keeping an eye out as you next watch or read a work of science fiction. Be sure to ask yourself: what can aliens, superheroes and robots teach me about living well and living right?

Graham Walker is a student and blogger. Graham has studied psychology and cognitive behavioural therapy, and is currently studying for an MSc in occupational therapy. He blogs on various issues that he feels are important. You can follow him on Twitter at @think_damn_it.

See also: If you liked this post, you may like Doctor Who: Fifty Years of Humanism.

The Bridge

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Ben Greenhalgh shares a short narrative based on the writings of David Hume.

Bridge at dusk

The road and the high beams of the bridge were hidden, blurring seamlessly into a thick mist surrounding it. Photo: Dirk-Jan Kraan.

The Bridge

I have never enjoyed crossing it at night. To describe it crudely, as my limited vocabulary allows, it is as if a section of the Golden Gate Bridge were hacked out and jammed between the high walls of a gorge. Nothing lives below it but air and height, and to look over the edge on a clear day tingles every lower inch.

On that day, as daylight struggled against dusk, all that could be seen as I moved across it were the small lights against the quiet, dry blooded metal. The road and the high beams of the bridge were hidden, blurring seamlessly into a thick mist surrounding it.

As always, I quickened my pace until I happened upon a silhouette. He had the stillness of a gargoyle, out of place on the metallic structure, sitting watching over the gorge. His gaze, although difficult to tell, was suggested in the position of his head, raised into the tie-dyed sky of the falling sun.

“Sir? Are you okay?” I called out

The small thin lights above him outlined only his form, his torso strong, confident and, above all, purposeful.  For, as he would tell me later, no man ever threw away his life while it was worth keeping.

“My life will end tonight.” He said turning to me. “I’m sorry you have to be here, I truly am, but is it wrong that I am also glad?”

My heart began to thrash against my ribs, my feet began to sweat and nothing but a cracked clichéd response to offer in return.

“Don’t be afraid, I’ll get help. I’ll call the police.”

Knowing now, although I couldn’t see him at the time, he smiled and I equally knew it was only me on that bridge that night who felt any hint of fear.

His voice lilted softly as if weakened instantly by the mist, the words only just able to reach my ears.

“The police? Of course, for what is about to happen here is a criminal act and must entail their invite.”

“Yes, they will talk to you. Just wait there.” My voice was raised more than I would have liked but I fumbled for my phone in my pocket.

“If it is a crime, I ask against whom?”, he continued. “I have no one who will benefit financially from my death so it is not within societie’s laws a crime. If I am to die here tonight I will no longer contribute to, or take from society any longer. So the crime must only be against God or myself”.

My phone couldn’t find a bar of signal in the mist. I plunged it back into my pocket as my mind hurried to find conversation.

Having shed the blanket of organised religion a long time ago, I had been given the role of a preacher to a man in his final hours. In that moment I was sure that to not give an answer, to not talk or help this man would forever haunt me.

“God doesn’t want you to die, I am certain”.

“Thank you. I am sure I will not shun him by ending this life. Unless perhaps he thinks I am special?”

“Yes we are all special”.

“Because we are human?” He paused for a moment in a lengthy sigh.  “How self-serving of us. How much we lord over ourselves, almost divine yes? Yet, my life, like yours, is as fragile as any other being on this planet. I can be taken by a single hair, fly or insect. If I am so special, existing above all other animals, is it not an absurdity to suppose that human prudence may not dispose of what depends on such insignificant causes?”

“You must be sick, sir, to want this. It isn’t natural to want such a thing”.

“Natural?” His chuckle lingered, held as an echo by the gorge. “You believe suicide is against nature?”

I was taken by surprise in a moment of honesty.

“Yes”.

“Yet we build houses, fly and sail the ocean. Even this bridge we find ourselves on encroaches upon nature. In all these ventures we have used our minds and bodies to produce innovation in the course of nature. If ending my life early is against nature surely all these things are equally innocent or criminal. An attempt to extend my life in a hospital bed many years from now would surely break the same rules?” I stepped forward, bringing the man into focus as he went on. “Is it wrong to use my mind, the same mind which innovated into nature? The same mind that God, or indeed nature has provided for me to take what is also given to me? To the universe I am matter, nothing more”.

“I am sure you are a good man, and have so much to live for. Think of those you are leaving behind”. At the time I hoped the guilt of leaving his family would sway his decision, to this day I am unsure as to whether he had any at all.

He turned his head and looked at me, gazing into me for what seemed like an age before he spoke.

“My friend, no man ever threw away his life while it was worth keeping. If I were to fall now of my own accord I would only cease to do good, if as you say, I am a good man. If I am a man full of vice then I do the world a service, no?”

As I took steps towards him I wondered why he didn’t threaten to jump. It wasn’t until I was right beside him that I remarked upon his head angled awkwardly as he politely kept my gaze. His body leant impotently against one of the metal struts.

“The truth is my friend, I need your help. Many people have helped me get here, one to this exact place. Each has said almost the same as you in an attempt to stop me. All I have answered to the best of my ability my reasons for doing so. All have played their part in helping me to this point, yet I am afraid I must ask of you to help me to the final end. Help me end what is truly my own. I entrust that act to you as I am unable to myself”.

I took a step back, not to move and run for help, but so that he was no longer in pain keeping my eye.

“Are you ill?”

“All you need know is that life has become a lengthy burden and I want to rid myself of its existence.   Although liberty has always been in my heart and mind, I have never been able to grasp it until this day, to take control of my own fate. I wish only to use my will prudently for my own self”.

His legs were thin, gaunt and useless yet his face, although pale, gazed into everything with constant thought.

“My only fear is for you. To help me would be a crime. Yet, if I were able myself, we may never have met as I would have been rid of life long ago”. His head sunk for the first time to the girder below. “Those for whom life is bearable will never understand. Your help they will see as an act of murder, to take a life I valued. Yet in reality, if I am sure to voice my choice based on my own sentiment, your act for me is nothing but a most loving release. For I do not value my life, so how can it be murder to take it from me?”

I stood for a moment before climbing over to his side. We spoke for some time, but never another word about his decision. And, as the sun finally surrendered to night, he turned to nod to me.  I slowly unbalanced him, took him by the hands and carefully let go as his weight took him from the rusted frame and into the mist below.

Ben Greenhalgh is a philosopher and writer. He works full time as a tutor for vulnerable young people who cannot be educated within mainstream education.

‘Militant atheism’

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Blogger Christian Franz shares his strongly-worded, individual perspective on charges of ‘militant atheism’ in Britain and elsewhere, and more besides.

Is there really such a thing as militant atheism? Photo: Ashley Basil

Is there really such a thing as militant atheism? Photo: Ashley Basil

If you believe what some politicians would tell you, the UK is developing a new problem; a social evil so menacing that it threatens to eclipse ‘Islamophobia’ any day now: militant atheism.

There is a certain progression to be observed: first come accusations of ‘special rights’, then we hear dire warnings of a slippery slope, invariably ending in persecution of religious people and death camps for believers, run by – you guessed it – militant atheists.

This calls for some explanation – on more than one account: by and large, ‘militant atheists’ are about as threatening as ‘fundamental hippies’. Coining the phrase is demonstrably an attempt to tarnish a term of non-description (‘atheist’) by combining it with a word evocative of conflict, violence, automatic weapons, scimitars, and death: ‘militant’. And yet, this attempt is about as successful in suggesting lethality as the term ‘combat doe’.

The most ‘militant’ of atheists was Christopher Hitchens. He earned that distinction by publicly assailing men of the cloth with remarks as cutting as ‘you are an idiot!’

The world’s second most ‘militant’ atheist would be Professor Richard Dawkins. Soft-spoken and infuriatingly polite, he’s known for book signings where, on occasion, he brings along a sharp pen.

So it’s not by their actions that militant atheists have gained the ‘militant’ epithet; there is a decided lack of streets overflowing with blood, no posters yelling ‘massacre those who insult atheism’, and to my knowledge no atheist has yet blown up a church on the grounds of advancing atheism.

So, for better understanding, we need to turn to the source. Recently, a number of British exponents have complained about the exploits of militant atheism:

In a highly publicized BBC-produced episode of The Big Questions (and a same-day publication on their web page), Voice For Justice UK speaker Lynda Rose raised awareness about the alarming fact that militant atheism is the reason why Christians are now persecuted in the UK.

A few days later, UK Minister of Faith (an office I have difficulty mentioning while keeping a straight face – it’s way too Phythonesque) Baroness Warsi voiced similar sentiments.

Shortly thereafter, Prime Minister David Cameron went on record saying that living in a religious country was easier for people of competing faiths than in a country run by (presumably militant) secularists.

And just a few days after that, former MP Anne Widdecombe – in a strangely pre-emptive evocation of Godwin’s Law – bemoaned the fact that today Christians have it more difficult to live in the UK than Nazis.

What is going on here? From a rational thinker’s point of view it surely seems as if they left a lot of lead in the pipes feeding the drinking fountains of Westminster Palace. Let’s take a closer look.

VFJUK’s Lynda Rose complained:[i]

But now, apparently, the newly claimed sexual rights of a minority are being prioritised over all other traditional rights, to the extent that ‘religious’ rights are now being assigned a separate, and seemingly subsidiary, category.

It’s a bit disconcerting that Lynda – who is a lawyer – makes this mistake: there are no ‘rights of a minority’. She was referring to a couple in the UK who had their existing right to their sexuality enforced. Lynda not only makes it sound as if a sexual minority (gay people) have special rights; she then asserts that there is something called ‘traditional rights’. First, of course, there are no special rights, and in fact, everyone has the same rights. And further to this, no civilized country in the world recognizes ‘traditional rights’. After all, once it is determined that something is unethical (such as slavery, or the right to discipline your disobedient wife), it is done away with, all ‘tradition’ be damned. ‘Traditional’ never trumps ‘just’. Most importantly, though, there scarcely any special rights attained only through adherence to a particular religion in the UK, restrictions on ascending to the throne notwithstanding. Today it is one law for all. Or at least it should be, anyway.

What we do see here – and we’ll see this again – is the feeling of entitlement: people are loath to give up privileges that they used to have. In this case, it is the privilege of imposing one’s own view of sexuality on others, something which Christianity has enjoyed for over two millennia, but has now been curtailed.

We next turn our attention to Minister of Faith, Baroness Warsi. In trying to make sharia law more acceptable in the UK, Warsi first remarked that[ii]

There is no doubt that the word ‘sharia’ carries huge challenges in relation to public relations. If you talk about anything [related to] ‘sharia’, the first vision people get is chopping off of people’s hands, having four wives and all sorts of unusual practices which, in today’s world, are not compatible with the values which we live by.

Above is an astute observation. The word ‘sharia’ does have a bad reputation: much like the words ‘apartheid’ and ‘Spanish Inquisition’. Personally, I believe that this is well deserved, on all accounts.

Now, Warsi, for reasons fully understood, complains that acceptance of ill-reputed Sharia law into UK’s courts is impeded by secular fundamentalists[iii]:

The most aggressive post I get is [sic] from people who are secular fundamentalists.

Of course atheists are vehemently opposed to these ideas, ideas that would introduce superstition and medieval morals into present-day jurisdiction – but I would submit that vehement opposition is to be expected not only from ‘militant atheists’, but from everyone who can count to eleven without having to remove a sock.

Warsi’s efforts to impose her preferred version of law are frustrated by people who do not share her ideology. She believes that she is entitled to bring Sharia law into UK’s courts, and spots the enemy among what she believes to be militant atheists – those people who publish so many ‘aggressive post[s]’.

Not being outdone by amateurs, David Cameron enters the fray asserting that[iv]

it is easier to be Jewish or Muslim in Britain than in a secular country.

The reason? Militant atheists, of course. He goes on to extol the virtues of a religious society – blithely ignoring that each and every social advance of the past two hundred years has come at the cost of lives among humanists, and in the face of strong opposition from the Church. To me it seems as if Cameron is building up a straw man and defending religion for one reason only: because the devout in his constituency are starting to grumble that their privileges are being taken away, that they can no longer tell the gays what to do.

More frighteningly, though, Cameron concludes his speech with this:

Greater confidence in our Christianity can also inspire a stronger belief that we can get out there and actually change people’s lives, and improve both the spiritual, physical, and moral state of our country, and even the world.

I guess it does take a pesky militant atheist to point out that if you replace ‘Christianity’ with ‘Islam’, Cameron would be saying exactly what the Taliban and Boko Haram are saying: they, too, believe that by stronger adherence to belief, that by following scripture more closely, this world will become a better place. The Taliban in particular are quite explicit about this; they state that their intent is to improve this world by changing the way people behave: by making them stronger believers.

Changing people’s lives based on faith is a terrible idea. Ask any woman in Pakistan or Saudi Arabia. When we talk about ‘improvements’ based on religion, we almost always talk about restrictions: no gay marriages, no abortions, no women’s education, no blaspheming, no work on the holy day, etc. The more confidence people have in their religion, the more likely they are to impose their religious ideology on others. Ironically, there is only one group who can’t do that: (militant) atheists – who, by definition, don’t have a religion.

Ann Widdecombe’s rant takes the cake, though[v]:

Christians now have quite a lot of problems, whether it’s that you can’t display even very discreet small symbols of your faith at work, that you can’t say ‘God bless you’, you can’t offer to pray for somebody, if it’s an even bigger stance on conscience that you’re taking, some of the equality laws can actually bring you to the attention of the police themselves.

So I think it is a very difficult country now, unlike when I was growing up, in which to be a Christian, an active Christian at any rate.

A former MP, Ann has unfortunately developed a distinct habit of being economical with the truth. She did so when during the ‘Intelligence Squared’ debate she claimed that everyone who joined the Waffen-SS had to sign away their religion. The exact opposite is a documented, fact. People who joined the SS had to sign a paper stating that they were gottgläubig – believers in God – and affirmed that they were not atheists.

Widdecombe does it again here when she claims people can no longer wear religiously-themed jewelry, say endearing well-wishes, or promise piety to other people.

In reality Ann is angry at another fact: she has lost the privilege of an automatic religious bonus. People now openly scoff when someone offers prayer as ‘help’, and do not look impressed when someone openly wears a crucifix, crescent, or Star of David. Her importance and status as an openly devout believer have diminished – which is what irks her. In short, she’s angry that she’s become unpopular, and wants to assign blame.

That, in short, is what ‘militant atheism’ is all about: a scapegoat for one’s own misgivings and shortcomings, a scapegoat for the perceived injustice of privileges revoked, a scapegoat for being called upon one’s own moral failings.

Well, at least the believers are staying true to form – if there ever was an Abrahamic ritual, it’s the scapegoat.

Is it really that simple? Are politicians really trying to shift the blame from them to a minority? After all, much of what was said is monumentally stupid. Wouldn’t the political elite be more careful to avoid putting their foot into their collective mouth? Obviously, no. The reason for that, though, can be explained:

As we know, any sufficiently advanced stupidity is virtually indistinguishable from religion. That is what is tripping up politicians: they are increasingly coming down on the wrong side when they try to decide: ‘Is this still stupid or already religion?’

And then they do something ‘militantly’ stupid.

Notes

[i] “Human vs. Religious Rights“, No Blogs, No Glory 

[ii] “Sharia-conform blood diamonds“, No Blogs, No Glory 

[iii] “Sharia’s bad rap“, No Blogs, No Glory 

[iv] “Come on, Cameron!“, No Blogs, No Glory 

[v] “MP’s race to IQ bottom“, No Blogs, No Glory 

Christian Franz is a secular blogger and the author of No Gods, No Glory – Unpreaching the Choir. You can also visit his blog , No Blog, No Glory – further unpreachings.

No such thing as an atheist child?

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9-year-old Alex, and his father, Ian, write for HumanistLife on the subject of ‘atheist children.’ 

Alex (age 9⅔) with his father, Ian (age 36)

Alex (age 9) with his father, Ian (age 36)

byalex

I think that children should not think they have to be the same religion as their parents if they don’t want to be. There is no point in following the rules of a religion you don’t believe in. A person has to decide that they believe, not just in a god but in the rules that go along with it.

I think a child isn’t really religious until they say so themselves, and they actually know enough about the religion they say they follow. Sometimes I think that children my age at school feel they have to belong to a religion. This might be because of where they were born or the colour of their skin. They feel they belong because they go to a place of worship with their family, not because they have thought about it.

I think of myself as an atheist now but I might change my mind. As I get older my ideas might change and that’s okay. But I don’t think my little brother (who is 5) is old enough to decide his religion because he doesn’t know enough yet.

byian

The recent arguments about whether a child starts life without religious belief – not starting as an ‘atheist baby’, despite the misquoting headlines – are neither new nor original. As a parent I would argue that human beings may start off credulous, but that we are not born with a specific religious faith. Believing what we are told by our parents may have sound evolutionary value but it means that we may not think critically about the things they teach us.

I’m trying very hard not to be guilty of this myself. I consider myself mostly atheist, but certainly agnostic, and to start with I was very careful to discuss religion with my kids in terms of ‘Some people believe…’ rather than as fact. This was made more difficult when I found that some of their teachers were describing religious stories as historical events. So now our kids are growing up asking questions and being told what we believe, always being promised that they’ll be able to make up their own minds.

I should point out that I’m not always so truthful. We’ve had childhood stories including the usual Santa Claus and Tooth Fairy myths. We’ve discussed how revolving doors are powered by mice (hence the squeak) and my surgical scars being the result of sword fights or a shark attack. Or a sword fight with a shark. But once they were old enough to ask about religion, they were old enough to be told what we consider the truth.

I see ‘agnostic’ as a default setting. I think it’s interesting that we often don’t see it as a neutral one, seeing as most religious people are unbelievers for every faith but their own. My own feelings about young people having the right to choose their own beliefs should be clear from the YAH4schools campaign I accidentally started. I think freedom of religion is hugely important – which is why I think we should question whether identifying a child by their parents’ faith is meaningful. I suppose a lot of it comes down to whether we think religious belief is something based on feelings or on thoughts. But this is about whether a young person can or should be considered to have a religious faith. I’m not young, so I asked someone who is. My son’s words above make me very proud.

Alex‘s dad, Ian Horsewell is a science teacher, and the originator of the Young Atheist’s Handbook for Schools campaign, which came to fruition in April this year.

What can social psychology tell us about ‘teaching British values’?

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by Graham Walker

Is pursuing 'British values' the best way to go about pursuing social cohesion? (Flag by Nicolas Raymond. Handshake by Aidan Jones.)

Is pursuing ‘British values’ the best way to go about pursuing social cohesion? (Flag by Nicolas Raymond. Handshake by Aidan Jones.)

Many will already know something of the so-called Operation Trojan Horse: the apparently organised attempt to change the leadership of a number of Birmingham schools. The letter was purported to be evidence of a plot by hardline Islamists to replace school leadership in Birmingham schools with a high proportion of attendees from Muslim backgrounds, in order to instil a much more religiously conservative ethos and curricula. Though the letter is now widely suspected to be as a hoax, it triggered several investigations into 21 schools different schools in Birmingham. Long before the letter, the British Humanist Association already forwarded concerns raised by whistleblowers about narrow nurricula at the school to the Department for Education, before notions of political ‘extremism’ caught the media’s eye.  In the end, Ofsted found evidence of poor practice in six schools in Birmingham, with allegations that members of school leadership had been ‘marginalised or forced out of their jobs’. All of this, and more has unsurprisingly sparked strong reactions in Westminster. One reaction, made by the Secretary of State for Education Michael Gove, stated that schools in England should start teaching ‘British values’. For me, this is an absurd and unhelpful knee-jerk reaction without necessary thought for implications and consequences. What are ‘British values’? How does one teach these? How will people react to this idea and these teachings?

England is a complex multicultural society. There is more religious, political and cultural pluralism than ever before in Britain and these factors absolutely need addressing to ensure the beneficial flourishing of all members of the population. I am not blind to the heinous crimes dictated by certain antiquated, but still followed doctrines. But, a doctrine of promoting nationalist values would be ultimately divisive; it would lead to unhelpful comparisons between apparently incompatible sets of values; and to resentment towards a prescribed syllabus which would difficult to rationally defend.

Looking through the annals of history, creating an ‘us and them’, ‘your values, our values’ belief system has never led to peaceful co-habitation. A brief glance at the literature in social psychology and this is further confirmed with the psychologist Muzafer Sherif showing, almost 50 years ago now, that in-group favouritism and prejudice towards out-groups can be created by grouping people in such trivial ways as, for example, one which favours one artist and a second group which favours another. When these artificially created groups were given goals that pitted the groups against one another, it led to instant intergroup competition and conflict.

Such studies have been shown to scale up to an international scale, as well, and go a long way to suggesting that overemphasis of ‘differences’ widens in-group favouritism and out-group prejudice. What does this suggest about Gove’s idea of teaching ‘British values’? For me, it will needlessly divide people in to ‘my values/ your values’ groups. But also, as value systems inherently determine a person or group’s goals, it could well lead to split focus on conflicting goals in our society. This could well lead to the sorts of competition and conflict seen in the social psychology studies.

Having said this, addressing values in schools is not though an inherently poor idea. The question remains: how can this be done effectively?

One way is to teach young to think critically, to critically engage with what they believe in and about what they are told to do, or to believe, by their peers and elders; and to think logically and compassionately. A ‘British person’ (whatever that is) may then see the value in acting with neighbourly love expecting nothing in return; something seen much more in Eastern collectivist societies and not in individualised Western societies. Others may see the value in treating both men and women with total equality and fairness; a fair wage for all, no violence towards women based on unscrutinised texts that breech basic human rights, and so on. Such things have been intimated by Ofsted as occurring at the Birmingham schools.

Interestingly, psychology offers insight in to the impact of this. The founder of ‘positive psychology’, the study of wellbeing and flourishing, hails the teaching of ‘character strengths’ to children in schools. These character strengths include curiosity, forgiveness, perseverance and compassion. The research suggests that not only can these strengths be measured in children and adults but lessons in character strengths can lead to measurable improvements. Reflecting on these strengths one might notice that they reflect universal character strengths, but also that they are also founded on basic human rights, without any hint of nationalist agenda.

Social psychology literature suggests that to minimise differences between groups, and to create goals which everyone would benefit from achieving, and which can only be achieved through teamwork, leads to group cohesion and inter-group harmony. The teaching of values which do not sew division between social groupings, and which create goals based on shared benefit to humanity, would hopefully therefore lead to the kind of cohesion and harmony which some of these experiments suggest could be achieved.

So what lesson does Mr Gove need to learn? I say it’s this: Take the good parts of all cultures, and build something based on basic human rights, and fair and equitable treatment for all. If the primary goal of an individual is to ensure its own wellbeing and flourishing, shouldn’t society’s be to ensure just that for society as a whole? Teaching values which adhere loosely to an idea of a country which may or may not even exist, and perhaps may have never existed, will not achieve this. But setting aside differences, and finding common ground – with listening and change on all sides – is the template that history and psychology has shown us we should follow and aspire to achieve.

Graham Walker is a student and blogger. Graham has studied psychology and cognitive behavioural therapy, and is currently studying for an MSc in occupational therapy. He blogs on various issues that he feels are important. You can follow him on Twitter at @think_damn_it.

See Martin Seligman’s website ‘Authentic Happiness’ for a huge amount of information on Positive Psychology: https://www.authentichappiness.sas.upenn.edu/home