While walking on the treadmill at the gym, I watched a morning news feel-good story about an American military neurosurgeon who was haunted by an Iraq War patient he had treated. The soldier that landed on his operating table was “the most horribly wounded soldier” the surgeon had ever seen. But they patched up his terrible head wound and shipped him off to Germany. Years later, the doctor was ready to re-visit his war experience. He Googled the name of the soldier he was sure had died of his wounds and, to his surprise, the man popped up in a T.V. interview, very much alive.
The news story then showed video from that interview of a man who looked as if someone had scooped out a third of his brain and replaced a portion of his formerly-round skull with a sunken flat plate. But the soldier could walk and talk, despite having lost a chunk of his frontal lobe.
And though the soldier was “not up to another interview” (for this current report), there were still-pictures of him and his neurosurgeon meeting. The doctor reported (after) that he had asked his former patient what I thought was a deeply insightful question: was he happy that he had survived? The soldier answered that, yes, he was.
This was a powerful moment. About as profound as can be imagined. But, of course, these kinds of news stories aren’t really about the profound (or disturbing) aspects of these stories: they are meant to be inspirational, aspirational, “feel-good” tales of that type that allows you and I to easily borrow some added confidence (in our own resilience) from hearing of the experiences of someone who’s been through real shit.
But I don’t feel good when I watch a story like this. I see the lingering, daily struggle (that is the long shadow of the original tragedy) that looms over the “happy ending” that we are all supposed to assent to — and move on from — having snatched up our bit of “borrowed courage”. (I felt the same way about all of the cheering for the slightest progress of Representative Gabby Giffords after she was shot in the head).
As I watched the story of the “recovered” soldier this morning, I reflexively uttered “Goddamn war”, expressing a deep revulsion at the idea that sentient individuals had worked together to create the conditions of war under which a strong, physically able young man was suddenly and irrevocably stripped of a large chunk of his capacities.
But even as I said that, I realized that other humans were very likely watching this story and having equally strong emotional reactions that were going to be the complete opposite of mine. Some might feel a sweeping sense of admiration for the soldier, or awe at the doctor’s skill, or anger at the bastards that set off the road-side bomb that wounded the soldier. In short, each of us who react to a story react according to different sets of moral triggers. As Jonathon Haidt describes so well in “The Righteous Mind” (reviewed this blog), we humans fall into one of several categories on that score (meaning that — when presented with a moral dilemma — though many of us will react in similar ways, we are not safe to assume that all humans will react in the same way we do).
Everywhere you look there is, well, our physical reality.
Despite this natural variation in our moral response, in practice I think that we all pretty much assume that our moral centers are the ones that are properly calibrated, and so we are often surprised when the obvious wrong that outrages us don’t elicit the same outrage in others. This is abundantly clear in politics and social values, where, as an example, an evangelical conservative might see abortion as the moral equivalent of institutionalized genocide, yet be mystified by a progressive who sees the denial of the right of a gay citizen to marry as the equivalent of denying an African American of his legal rights because of his race.
So it would seem that the thing that we all have in common is not the particular moral issue we react to, but the strength of the reactions we have to events that outrage (or inspire) us.
It is clear to me that we are “feeling” animals. And I would take this further and suggest today that it these sorts of experiences — when our deep emotions are attached to experiences — that are, to my mind, the source of all that we might possibly define as “meaning”.
Each of us, if pressed, could probably write out a list of the things that make life “meaningful”. I suspect that these would be the activities (or traits) that we feel the most strongly about. We might put on that list “a sense of purpose”, or “love”, or “meaningful work” or “kindness”. These are the kinds of things that make us feel good in a way that we see as different from the simple satisfying of a hunger for food or a lust for sex. These are the kinds of things that give us a specific kind of feeling — that sense of well-being that comes from a regular experience of the “higher” emotions.
What do I mean when I argue that it is the welding of our “higher” emotions to experience that forms the basis for meaning in our lives? I realize that we might be hesitant to grant this rather mechanical-sounding point, as one of the things that makes our “higher” emotions, well, “higher” is that we attribute to them a certain transcendent quality. Part of the reason they have such an elevated influence on us is that they come upon us in ways that are most often rare and wondrous. They are harder to generate than the simpler pleasures of eating our favorite snack or watching our favorite t.v. show. Like everything else, their rarity makes them precious and highly valued. And like everything else of value, it almost follows as axiomatic that we will try to manufacture these most desired feelings (the “feel good” story I relate above is a perfect example of this).
Now to a religious person, all of this may simply sound like me trying to drag the realm of the angels down to earth. (That’s just silly, of course, because no actual angels will be harmed by this sermon). But many do seriously believe that a materialistic view of life (meaning that there is nothing about our experience of life that happens outside of natural processes, whether understood or not) leads to a cheapening of human life. I hardly think this is the case, but it’s worth taking a serious look at this important point.
The fear of a materialistic view is, I think, twofold: The first being that a loss of external (divine) validation will weaken the moral bonds that moderate bad human behavior. The second fear is that our experience of the transcendent will simply cease (this fear being a reflection of just how much we value these experiences and feelings). Both of these fears are rooted in the assumption that morality and transcendent experience are purely products of God, of which we are passive recipients and respondents: i.e. we are not the source.
Were this to be an accurate description of reality, these fears would, indeed, be reasonable and completely valid (for then it would be true that if God were to go away, then with Him would go our treasured morality and ecstatic experience! ) But here is the tricky part of this transition from what is, essentially, our habitual practice of dislocating portions of our consciousness from inside the brain to outside of our physical selves: if we can allow ourselves to entertain the possibility that our experience of existence is actually a process occurring within the confines of our body and brain, then this deep fear of this great loss becomes meaningless and moot. If we can allow ourselves this shift — what I would call a returning of our dislocated self to it’s true location, what actually changes is more akin to moving some colored pins on a map than actually moving any actual nations or landmasses. Nothing essential actually changes (or goes away). We are simply thinking about our experiences differently.
To be honest, it might be worth saying here that even when I locate (or conceptualize) my self within my physical body, I still experience my thoughts and feelings in a sort of imagined space in that body — meaning that I’m not actually sensing where each synapse or nerve is functioning when I think or feel. So it could be argued that I am quibbling over swapping one conceptually useful inaccuracy for another, more useful one! So why even bother with it?
As I’ve asserted before, recognizing that you and I only get this one chance at being living, breathing human beings reveals, to my mind, a truer value of life. There is no hiding our naked vulnerability in “heavenly rewards” or “the next life”. (Yes, our DNA carries on in our children, and our component elemental parts will be “recycled” once we no longer require them in our living bodies, but we will most likely not go on living forever as the individuals we were in life reborn by God in newly-minted heavenly bodies).
I think that — when it comes to the conscious individual experience of existence — this one life is all we get. And it reasonably follows that there is nothing intelligent “out there” to either rely on or worry about. An unexpected result of this word-view is the fact that I now recoil at human tragedy like I never did when I was trying so hard to be a Christian. (Some of that may be a function of age and experience, but my Darwinian world-view is surely a large part of the equation).
None of this diminishes the value that our emotions place upon the things that are meaningful to us. To think that would be silly as well. Sure, what you and I value means nothing to the rest of the vast, cold universe. So what? (I mean that: so what?). That also means that the rest of the vast, cold universe is incapable of passing even the slightest judgement upon us for feeling our feelings as we do (for every loss there is also gain). We are what we are. And a great deal of what we are is our capacity to feel deeply about things that matter to us.
All living things want to keep on living. But we are the only animals that want — no, need — to live meaningful lives as well. It could be argued, I think, that it is a sense of meaning that fuels our capacity to want to continue living. And the fact that this matters to us as much as it does is, in the end, all the justification we need.