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There is a moment in certain debates where everything speeds up. Morality is called subjective; subjectivity becomes preference; preference becomes power—and once power is named, the conversation is over. What began as a question about right and wrong turns into a contest of will. The move is effective because it presses on something real: if moral claims have no grounding beyond preference, it’s not obvious why anyone should follow them, especially when defection pays.
The pressure is genuine. The leap that follows is not.
The argument doesn’t stop at identifying the problem. It slides past it. The claim arrives fully formed: without objective grounding, morality collapses into power; if there is grounding, it must lie beyond human beings. From there, the appeal to a higher authority presents itself as the only way out. It’s clean, decisive—and too quick. It skips a possibility that does not depend on metaphysics at all.
You don’t need a higher power to get constraint. You need a world that pushes back. That is already enough for science. The success of a model has little to do with who proposes it and everything to do with whether it survives contact with reality. When it fails, it fails for everyone. No appeal to authority rescues it. That is objectivity without metaphysical scaffolding.
Something similar appears in moral life, though in a different register. Human beings are not abstract choosers floating above circumstance. We are vulnerable, dependent, and locked into repeated interaction with others who are very much like us. That combination exerts pressure. Cooperation is not optional if anything stable is to be built; defection carries costs that accumulate; control over outcomes is partial at best; and roles do not remain fixed. Over time, those conditions shape what can persist.
Rules that cannot be justified beyond advantage tend to fracture. Norms that work only when you hold power lose their grip as soon as power shifts. Arrangements that fail under reversal—when you are no longer the beneficiary—erode the moment they are tested from the other side. You can see this in ordinary disputes: a speech rule that feels protective when applied to your side quickly feels suppressive when applied against it. None of this descends from above. It emerges from the conditions under which people have to live together.
“You don’t need a higher power to get constraint. You need a world that pushes back.”
This is why a simple question keeps resurfacing, even among people with no interest in philosophy: would this still make sense if I were on the receiving end? You don’t need theology to ask it. You don’t need a theory of value to feel when the answer is no. You need only to notice that positions change, that vulnerability is shared, and that rules have to survive that movement. That alone rules some things out. Not everything. But not nothing.
The familiar objection comes back quickly: if this is all human arrangement, isn’t it still just power? The answer is that power without constraint is unstable. Systems built on dominance invite resistance; rules applied asymmetrically invite defection; norms that cannot justify themselves beyond advantage lose legitimacy the moment advantage shifts. These are not floating intuitions. They are structural pressures. They can be ignored for a time. They do not disappear.
The point of the “nuke” is not to prove that morality is objective in the way gravity is objective, or that every moral question has a single correct answer waiting to be discovered. It does something narrower and more useful. It removes the claim that, absent a higher power, morality collapses into arbitrary preference backed by force. There is a third option: morality can be constructed and constrained at the same time—neither invented freely nor dictated from above, but shaped by the conditions under which human beings must deal with one another.
The attraction of higher grounding is easy to understand. It promises certainty, authority, final answers. Naturalism offers something thinner: no absolute guarantees, no universal enforcement, no resolution that settles every dispute. What it does offer is a way to sort between rules that hold up and those that don’t, to explain why some norms persist while others unravel, and to resist both relativism and coercion without appealing to anything outside the world.
Scientific objectivity does not require a perfect observer; it requires that models fail when they are wrong. Moral objectivity does not require a divine lawgiver; it requires that rules fail when they cannot withstand contact with the people they govern. That is a narrower claim than the one often made. It is also enough.
You can believe that morality ultimately rests beyond human beings. You can also see that, even without that belief, moral systems do not collapse into chaos. They bend, strain, and sometimes fail, then rebuild under pressure. They are not unconstrained—because we are not unconstrained.
And that pressure, more than any proclamation, is what gives morality its shape.
This Is Not a Theology Argument
There’s a version of this argument that collapses on contact.
“Christian societies succeed because Christianity is true.”
That’s not serious. It’s too broad, too easy to counter, and it drags the discussion into theology. That’s not what this is.
This is narrower.
Modern successful societies appear to rely on a set of moral assumptions that did not arise randomly—and may not sustain themselves indefinitely once detached from the structures that produced them.
Not proof, not prophecy, but rather… dependence.
Name the Structure, Not the Institution
When I refer to “Judeo-Christian ethics,” I’m not talking about the historical behavior of churches or states. That record is mixed at best and often indefensible. It doesn’t need rescuing here.
I’m pointing to a moral architecture—a cluster of ideas that shaped behavior long before belief began to fade:
- intrinsic human worth
- moral equality beyond tribe
- limits on power
- individual responsibility
- restraint
- forgiveness over vendetta
These now feel obvious.
They weren’t.
What looks like baseline morality is often inherited structure—and inheritance has a way of disguising itself as inevitability.
Christianity Is Not the Only Path—And That Matters
If the claim were simply “Judeo-Christian societies do better,” it would fail.
There are Christian-majority countries that struggle. There are secular societies that thrive. There are atrocities carried out under religious banners that no serious reader will ignore.
And then there’s Japan.
Japan is not a counterexample. It’s a correction.
It demonstrates that similar outcomes—order, trust, cohesion—can emerge from entirely different traditions. Which means the key variable isn’t Christianity itself.
It’s something deeper.
Japan suggests the underlying requirement is not a specific doctrine, but a sufficiently internalized system of obligation—whether grounded in universal dignity or social duty. The forms differ. The function is similar: behavior is constrained before enforcement becomes necessary.
Not all structures are interchangeable. But high-functioning societies tend to converge on systems that reliably produce restraint, accountability, and continuity across generations—however they justify them.
These systems are not immune to strain. Japan’s own pressures—aging demographics, declining birth rates, and shifting social norms—suggest that even deeply internalized frameworks are not static under modern conditions.
What These Systems Actually Do
Strip away the language and look at function.
These frameworks tend to produce:
- higher social trust
- delayed gratification
- stable family structures
- informal accountability
- expectations that limit the use of power
These are not abstract outcomes. They follow from repeated behaviors:
- when restraint is internalized, fewer actions require enforcement
- when accountability is expected, trust rises and transaction costs fall
- when power is seen as limited, institutions stabilize rather than dominate
Over time, these behaviors compound into systems that rely less on coercion and more on expectation.
That sounds mundane. It isn’t. It’s what makes large, complex societies livable.
None of this requires belief.
But it does require internalization.
And internalization is slow, uneven, and difficult to rebuild once it thins out.
The Enlightenment Didn’t Start From Zero
The Enlightenment didn’t sweep this away and replace it with reason.
It reorganized it.
It challenged religious authority, formalized rights, and built institutions that still define modern life. That’s real progress and it shouldn’t be minimized.
But it did not begin from moral zero.
The assumptions were already there—about equality, dignity, and limits on power. The Enlightenment clarified and extended them. It did not generate them out of nothing.
The harder question is whether reason alone can reproduce the same depth of commitment, especially when those commitments become costly.
Reason is excellent at organizing systems. It is less reliable at compelling sacrifice—and societies eventually run into situations where something has to give.
The Problem Friedrich Nietzsche Identified
Nietzsche is often invoked carelessly. This isn’t that.
His point wasn’t that religion should be preserved. It was that removing it has consequences that don’t show up immediately.
You can discard a system and keep its language for a while.
You can keep its assumptions even longer.
What you can’t do indefinitely is treat the foundation as optional while expecting the structure to remain stable.
That process doesn’t announce itself.
It drifts—and by the time it becomes obvious, it is usually well underway.
Drift Shows Up as Substitution
Drift doesn’t look like collapse.
It looks like substitution.
As informal norms weaken, societies compensate with formal mechanisms:
- more regulation
- more surveillance
- more litigation
- more explicit enforcement of what was once assumed
That shift isn’t inherently catastrophic. In many cases it works.
But it changes how order is maintained. It replaces internal constraint with external management—and that trade is rarely free.
You can see it at the margins: rising regulatory density, increased reliance on formal compliance systems in workplaces and institutions, growing legal mediation of disputes that were once handled informally. These trends have multiple causes, but they share a common feature—behavior that once required little enforcement now requires more of it.
The Secular Case—and Its Limit
A secular answer exists.
We can justify these norms through reason, reciprocity, and shared interest. We don’t need theology to understand cooperation or stability.
And in many cases, this works. High-trust secular societies demonstrate that norms can be transmitted without widespread religious belief.
The question is not whether this is possible.
It clearly is.
The question is whether these systems are fully self-sustaining over long time horizons, or whether they depend—quietly—on inherited assumptions that become harder to justify as those assumptions lose coherence.
That dependency is easy to miss because it feels like common sense.
It isn’t. It’s memory.
If these systems are fully self-sustaining, we would expect high-trust, high-restraint behavior to remain stable even as the underlying moral frameworks continue to thin. If they are not, the pressure will show up first at the margins—in declining informal trust, rising enforcement costs, and increasing reliance on explicit rules to maintain baseline order.
What This Argument Is—and Is Not
This is not an argument for belief.
It’s an argument against pretending we’re starting from nothing.
Societies that function well do not run on law and incentives alone. They rely on internalized limits—on what people will not do, even when they can.
Judeo-Christian ethics provided one version of that in the West. Other civilizations developed their own.
The open question is not whether we can discard those frameworks.
We already have.
The question is whether we understand what they were doing well enough to replace them—or whether we are still relying on them while insisting we are not.
The Uncomfortable Conclusion
Removing a foundation does not collapse a structure immediately.
It exposes, slowly, what the structure depended on—and whether we’ve mistaken inheritance for design.
You can usually tell what kind of argument you’re about to hear before the argument is made.
It’s in the language.
Certain words don’t just describe reality—they quietly reframe it, often in ways that make disagreement harder before it even begins. They shift the ground you’re standing on, sometimes without you noticing.
Once you recognize them, the pattern becomes difficult to miss.
“By the time the argument begins, much of it has already been decided.”
Here are a few to listen for.
“Lived experience”
Often used to elevate subjective accounts above other forms of evidence.
Experience matters. But when it becomes the final authority, it can no longer be questioned or compared. At that point, it stops being evidence and becomes a conclusion.
“Social construct”
A useful concept in limited contexts. Overextended, it suggests that because something is shaped by society, it is therefore arbitrary or infinitely malleable.
The move is subtle: from influenced by culture to not anchored in reality at all.
“Harm”
A word that has expanded far beyond physical or material damage.
Disagreement, discomfort, or perceived invalidation can all be folded into it. Once that happens, ordinary debate starts to look like misconduct.
“Equity”
Not the same as equality.
It shifts the focus from equal rules to equal outcomes. That shift often justifies unequal treatment in the name of correcting disparities.
“Centering” / “Decentering”
Signals who is allowed to speak, and whose perspective is treated as primary.
Less about argument, more about managing whose voice carries authority.
“Problematic”
A soft accusation that avoids specificity.
It implies wrongdoing without clearly stating what the problem is, which makes it difficult to respond directly.
“Safe spaces”
Originally about protection from harassment. Now often used to limit exposure to challenging or opposing ideas.
The definition quietly expands from safety from harm to safety from disagreement.
None of these words are inherently illegitimate. The issue is how they are used. Individually, they can be useful. In combination, they tend to narrow the space for disagreement.
When they appear together, they often shift discussion away from evidence, elevate subjective claims beyond challenge, and quietly limit what can be said without consequence. By the time the argument begins, much of it has already been decided.
When you hear language like this, a simple question is usually enough: what claim is being made—and could I reasonably disagree with it? If the answer is no, you are no longer in a normal debate. You are being asked to accept a framework, not evaluate an argument.
This pattern isn’t unique to any one ideology. It appears wherever language is used to secure agreement before the argument begins. Language doesn’t just communicate ideas—it sets the terms under which those ideas can be questioned, and sometimes whether they can be questioned at all.
In a previous piece, I described what happens when ideas move from abstraction into mass use. They tend to lose fidelity along the way. What begins as theory arrives as posture, and what returns is often a reinforced version of something only partially understood.
That process raises a second question.
What kinds of systems can survive that kind of pressure?
Whether we are talking about an ideology, a scientific framework, or a political structure, the answer is less mysterious than it first appears. The systems that endure—and, more importantly, the ones that improve over time—share a common feature: they contain some built-in way of correcting their own errors.
At some point in their operation, they turn inward. They compare outcomes to expectations, theory to reality, and allow that comparison to have consequences. When the mismatch becomes difficult to ignore, something gives. Assumptions are revised, methods adjusted, conclusions reconsidered. Not always quickly, and rarely cleanly, but the process exists.
Without that phase, a system can still function for a time. It can even appear successful. But it has no reliable way to distinguish between being right and merely being unchallenged.
This is where the divergence begins.
Some systems treat failure as information. Others treat it as an external intrusion. In the first case, error becomes a resource—something to be examined, incorporated, and learned from. In the second, it becomes something to be explained away, often by shifting attention outward.
The pattern is familiar. When predictions fail, the explanation drifts toward circumstances, interference, or incomplete implementation, rather than toward the model itself.
That difference is not cosmetic. It determines whether a system gradually converges toward reality or begins to drift away from it.
Certain ideological systems illustrate the problem. When outcomes fail to match predictions, the failure is often attributed not to the theory itself, but to contamination from external forces—imperfect implementation, hostile environments, insufficient commitment. The theory remains intact; the world is judged to have fallen short.
“If no possible outcome can count as disconfirming evidence, a system doesn’t just resist error—it begins to accumulate it.”
That move preserves internal coherence, at least on the surface, but it comes at a cost. If no possible outcome can count as disconfirming evidence, then the system has insulated itself from correction. It can adapt in form—changing language, adjusting strategy—while leaving its core assumptions largely untouched.
In practice, this kind of insulation does not operate in a vacuum. Correction, when it happens, is often forced from the outside—through competition, failure, or pressure from systems that are less tolerant of error. The process is uneven, sometimes delayed, and not always recognized for what it is.
Still, the underlying constraint remains.
No system is exempt from it. Any framework that cannot absorb disconfirming evidence will eventually begin to separate from the reality it claims to describe, regardless of how compelling its starting assumptions may have been.
Where error cannot be internalized, it does not disappear. It accumulates.
And once that accumulation becomes visible, trust begins to erode—not necessarily because people have worked through the theory in detail, but because the outputs no longer align with what they can see for themselves.
This is where the two dynamics meet.
Ideas that lose fidelity as they spread place additional strain on the systems that carry them. If those systems can absorb and correct for that loss, they tend to stabilize. If they cannot, the distortion compounds.
The difference is not a matter of intent or intelligence. It is structural.
A system that cannot, or will not, update itself in response to reality does not simply make mistakes it will simply accumulate them.
Would people hold the views they do if they understood the first principles those views rest on?
I suspect many would at least pause. Not necessarily abandon their position, but slow down long enough to ask what exactly they are affirming. This is not a universal pattern, but it shows up often enough in public discourse to be worth paying attention to.
What I am describing is a kind of reverse percolation. Ideas that begin in highly abstract settings move downward into activism and identity, where they are simplified, moralized, and widely adopted. Something is lost in that movement. The underlying logic—the structure that gave the idea its shape in the first place—does not always make the trip.
Take a common example.
One influential strand of queer theory makes a striking claim: that identity need not be grounded in any stable essence, but instead takes shape in relation to what is considered normal or legitimate. At the level of theory, this is an attempt to examine how norms are constructed and how they operate, often in ways that are invisible to those who benefit from them.
But when that framework moves out of the seminar room and into everyday political identity, it tends to arrive in a thinner form. The scaffolding is gone. What remains is the posture.
“Ideas move downward into mass use, losing fidelity as they go, and return upward not as refinement, but as reinforcement—positions hardening around ideas that have already shed much of what made them coherent.”
That shift creates a tension that is easy to miss. If an identity is defined in relation to norms, then friction with those norms is not an accidental byproduct; it is part of the structure. Yet many who adopt the language of queer politics encounter that friction as if it were imposed entirely from the outside, rather than something partly generated by the logic they have taken on.
This is where the gap begins to open—between first principles and lived adoption.
What makes the dynamic more interesting is that it does not run in a single direction.
A similar distortion can be seen in conservative responses, where disparate strands of progressive thought are often folded together under the single label of “liberalism.” In doing so, distinctions that matter are blurred or lost altogether. Classical liberalism, with its emphasis on individual rights, pluralism, and limits on power, is not interchangeable with theoretical frameworks that aim to critique or unsettle those foundations.
Once those categories collapse into each other, critique starts to rest on unstable ground.
The result is less a clash of well-formed positions than a kind of mirrored simplification. On one side, ideas are adopted without much reference to their internal logic. On the other, they are opposed without being clearly identified. Whether the greater loss happens in adoption or in response is difficult to say, and in a sense it does not matter; each process feeds the other.
This is where the reverse percolation effect completes its cycle.
Ideas move downward from abstraction into mass use, losing fidelity as they pass through each layer. They are then taken up again, interpreted, resisted, or amplified by others working from similarly partial models. What comes back is not refinement. It is reinforcement—positions hardening around ideas that have already shed much of what made them coherent.
At that point, disagreement becomes inevitable, because the participants are no longer operating within the same conceptual frame. Understanding does not so much fail as it is quietly set aside.
Glossary
Queer Theory
A body of academic thought that examines how categories like sex, gender, and sexuality are constructed, regulated, and experienced. It often challenges the idea that these categories are fixed or natural, instead emphasizing their fluidity and relationship to social norms. The field is not monolithic, and different strands place different weight on these elements.
Classical Liberalism
A political philosophy centred on individual rights, equality before the law, freedom of expression, and limits on state power. It forms the foundation of many modern democratic systems and emphasizes pluralism within a shared legal framework.
The profession can change, the venue can change, but the gender-woo methodology remains the same. Personally attack the person who dares to speak about biological reality, libel and defame their character while poisoning the well as to prevent discussion of an import issue facing women.
The bullshit doesn’t change. It is especially disheartening to see professionals whose business is to be thoughtful and charitable completely abandon those principles in order to defend normative patriarchal values.
“A debate has arisen among philosophers concerning a couple of papers published recently in the prestigious journal Philosophical Studies. The first paper, “Are women adult human females?” by Alex Byrne (January, 2020) attempts to refute what Byrne identifies as “the orthodox view among philosophers,” that “the category woman is a social category, like the categories, wife, firefighter, and shoplifter,” rather than “a biological category, like the categories vertebrate, mammal, or adult human female.” Byrne argues woman is a biological category, that to be a woman is to be an adult adult human female. The second paper, “Escaping the Natural Attitude About Gender,” by Robin Dembroff (forthcoming, but available already online), attempts to discredit Byrne’s argument.
The controversy surrounding the two articles does not concern the arguments themselves but the fact that Dembroff’s article includes an ad hominem against Byrne in which Dembroff effectively accuses Byrne of bigotry against transsexuals despite the fact that there is nothing in Byrne’s paper to support such a charge. The editor of the journal, Stewart Cohen, resigned in protest because he wanted to publish an apology for printing an article that included defamatory rhetoric, rhetoric which should never have made it past the journal’s referees, but the publisher of the journal, Springer, refused to allow him to do that.
Philosophers are not generally known for being warm and fuzzy. But Dembroff’s paper represents a new low in levels of civility. Usually, philosophers aim their barbs at an opponent’s cognitive abilities. Even then they aspire to some subtlety. They’ll intimate that an opponent is feebleminded, but they rarely say so directly. It’s not simply that it’s rude. It’s unprofessional. It’s rare, for the same reason, for a philosopher to directly accuse another of being a “shoddy scholar.” It’s rarer still, again, for the same reason, for a philosopher to accuse another of being immoral. Yet Robin Dembroff has advanced both charges against Byrne.
The debate amongst philosophers surrounding what Byrne has dubbed GenderGate, focuses on a brief passage at the end of Dembroff’s article. The line is:
Byrne’s paper fundamentally is an unscholarly attempt to vindicate a political slogan [“women are adult human females”] that is currently being used to undermine civic rights and respect for trans persons. And it is here that I return to Byrne’s advice to question the motivations behind this debate.”If someone is personally heavily invested in the truth of [some proposition] p,” Byrne writes, “it is prudent to treat [their] claim that p is true with some initial caution.” I agree. So we may ask: What are the motivations of someone who would so confidently insert themself into this high-stakes discourse while so ill-informed?
That is, Dembroff is insinuating here that Byrne has an anti-trans agenda that he is trying to advance in an scholarly paper published in an academic journal even though, again, there is nothing in Byrne’s paper to support such a charge.”
The Gender-woo really needs to stop. :/
Catch the rest of the essay on Counterpunch.
Is the cost of embracing the reality of our existence sadness and misery? These are excerpts from an insightful essay found over at Aeon magazine by Julie Reshe. I would recommend you follow the link and go read the full essay, as Reshe’s writing and conclusions she has reached seem to be quite compelling.
For instance, this passage eloquently speaks to the emotional fracture I felt back in 2018 when my wife decided to end our long term relationship and marriage. It’s like, ‘whoa, right there with you Julie’…
“The reason for my depression was a breakup. But what led to depression was not so much the reaction to our split, but the realisation that the one you believed loved you, who was closest to you and promised to be with you forever, had turned out to be someone else, a stranger indifferent to your pain. I discovered that this loving person was an illusion. The past became meaningless, and the future ceased to exist. The world itself wasn’t credible any more.”
[…]
“Although the depression following my breakup doesn’t rise to the level of existential angst, it was the strongest perspective-shifting experience of my life. It irreversibly changed and traumatised me at the core of my being, and I am now generally sadder and more withdrawn than I used to be.
Alas, what if this is the cost of losing our illusions and learning infinitely more about reality itself? We might be getting there. Some studies suggest that existential suffering and mental distress is rising worldwide, but particularly in modern Western culture. Perhaps we chase happiness precisely because it is no longer attainable?
The vicious cycle in which we find ourselves – the endless pursuit of happiness and the impossibility of its attainment – hurts us only more. Perhaps the way out is actually accepting our raised level of consciousness. In our melancholy depths, we find that superficial states of happiness are largely a way not to be alive. Mental health, positive psychology and dominant therapy modalities such as CBT all require that we remain silent and succumb to our illusions until we die.
In closing, I must address you, my dear reader. I realise that, as you were reading this essay, you must have experienced a ‘yes, but…’ reaction. (‘Yes, life is horrible, but there are so many good things too.’) This ‘but’ is an automatic response to negative, horrifying insights. Once exposed to these forces, our positive defence mechanisms kick in. I myself was caught in the drill while writing this essay (and pretty much during the rest of my life). Without this protective measure, we would all probably be dead already, having most likely succumbed to suicide for relief.
A small proposal of mine would be to explore disillusionment and refuge from positivity as a new space to experience life, hopefully before a suicidal reaction follows. Next time, before you plunge into alcohol, or make appeals to loved ones, friends, psychotherapists or to any other of the many life-affirming practices, remember that almost all constructions of meaning – from work to sport to opening our hearts to Jesus – are inherently illusory. An alternative to running away from life through illusion is to explore an illusion-free space for as long as possible, so as to become more capable of bearing the reality of a disillusioned and concrete life. If successful, you’ll free yourself from your faux-positivity and your chains.
In the end, of course, we might not be able to liberate ourselves, either from suffering or from illusions. Life is hell, and it looks as though no heaven awaits us, to top it off. This, in itself, might be a path to liberation since, after all, we have nothing to lose.”
Age old question really, ignorant and happy or informed and discontent? Which is better?
bleatmop
Mystro
The Arbourist
Dead Wild Roses 
Your opinions…