Uncertainty and the Shape of Morality
"Man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun." — Clifford Geertz
The System-Relative Nature of Morality
If we talk about morality in the absolute sense— the theoretical right or wrong principles; such principles don't exist objectively. Morality, in the absolute sense, is system relative, but it can be objective within a framework. Earth morality can mean the mass genocide of humans, since humans are actively destroying the planet; rat morality could mean the mass genocide of cats and dogs who may have been bred to kill them; human morality could mean the extermination of ants to allow us to build a bridge for our human-built trucks to deliver resources to other humans. Morality is system relative— and in a reality of possibly infinite systems, there cannot be an absolute binary framework, since a binary framework is incompatible with the reality of competing self-interests. Rats will be concerned only with rat morality, humans will only be concerned with human morality— since humans will obviously act within survival interests. Earth will not be 'concerned' with anything, because the earth is not a system with intentionality— I just use the earth as an analogy to describe the incoherence of objective morality in the absolute sense. There's no absolute good or evil in the universe, however, for practical purposes I'll be speaking on human morality specifically for the remainder of the essay— and after all, I am a human.
Human morality is maximally and practically reducing human suffering— reinforced through reciprocal altruism, evolutionary incentives, and empathy built into our neural architecture. I intentionally use the word maximally—because we can't aim for the absolute reduction of human suffering. Absolute reduction cannot practically exist— there will always be trade-offs, conflicting interests, and mutually exclusive contexts. The goal isn't to eliminate all suffering, but to maximally reduce it within the limits of what's possible and knowable.
The way this is implemented in terms of specific actions will depend on environmental context. Doing the exact same thing in different environmental contexts will not often lead to the desired outcome of reducing human suffering. It does not require someone to be religious, it just requires reason. Many people cannot use reason alone, so may need religious (or secular) frameworks to understand what could be right and what could be wrong, even then, religious frameworks (specifically when taken literally, and as absolute truth) are rigid and outdated and do not reflect the evolving nature of morality. If you need a 2,000 year old book that defies known mathematical and physical laws— the very mathematics and physics that allows you to read this essay— to know that killing, stealing, or lying is generally wrong. Can this be functional? Yes, for many this is functional, a 'good' kind of functional— the genuine, and kind type of religious person who does not force their subjective faith-based reasoning upon others. But, it's worth noting that just because a framework is functional for some, it doesn't mean it's objectively good. Religious moral frameworks have been used throughout history to justify atrocities— such as slavery, genocide, misogyny, and child abuse— as directly quoted within their scripture.
As mentioned, secular frameworks do exist—Stoicism, existentialism, Kantianism, and many others. Veganism, too, is a secular ethical framework that aims to extend the boundaries of morality to include non-human animals. Yet many people who live by these values may never explicitly identify with the frameworks themselves. Someone might believe that animals shouldn’t be subjected to unnecessary suffering, or feel discomfort at the idea of animal cruelty, without ever calling themselves a "veganist" —nor is there a sacred text or central scripture that formally recognises such a label. They may be considered vegan in practical terms, but the label is often incidental. In the same way, a person might embody Stoic principles—resilience, self-restraint, acceptance of fate—without knowing what Stoicism is, or without ever having read Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius. The framework exists for those who seek it, but it isn’t a prerequisite for living in alignment with its principles. Many secular systems operate this way; they aren’t bound to a single canonical text or figure. Instead, they emerge from a collection of writings, ideas, and cultural developments that form a loosely unified but coherent worldview. These frameworks are available to those who wish to adopt them formally— and identify themselves as such— but, they also influence many people subtly—guiding behaviour and values even in the absence of conscious identification. This raises an interesting point—many secular frameworks, such as veganism, stoicism, or existentialism, do not have a unified scripture or central doctrine. While this allows for flexibility, it can also lead to ambiguity. In the case of veganism, for instance, there’s no definitive authority that outlines exactly what constitutes a “true vegan.” As a result, people may accuse others of being “less vegan” or inconsistent, revealing a potential disadvantage of decentralised ethical systems. Without a singular, universally accepted text or institution, interpretation becomes subjective and open to dispute. Paradoxically, however, even religious systems—despite claiming to offer unified, divinely ordained frameworks—are often deeply ambiguous. Different sects interpret the same scripture in drastically different ways. So while religion appears more structured on the surface, it too suffers from internal fragmentation. At the same time, individuals often mix and match philosophical ideas to form their own worldview. Someone might follow certain existentialist principles but reject others; they may blend Kantian duty-based ethics with aspects of utilitarianism, and construct their own hybrid moral system guided by personal reason. Others might even draw selectively from religious traditions—adopting, for example, the emphasis on discipline from Islam or the ethical teachings of Christianity—without fully subscribing to those religions in a doctrinal sense. The reality, however, is that most people cannot reason deeply or independently enough to construct their own coherent moral framework— and this is not necessarily a flaw. Many do not want to confront the existential uncertainty that comes with having to build one from scratch— humans naturally crave certainty, and having to not only look uncertainty in the face for the sake of creating a framework, in a world where frameworks exist, is existentially uncomfortable and practically unnecessary for most. It’s a deeply existential trial. Most prefer to borrow a ladder than carve one from the void. And some, perhaps most, desire something more existentially binding—something that feels necessary, rather than optional. This is where religion has a powerful psychological advantage: it provides a sense of obligation rooted not in reason, but in divine authority— a comsic referee thats keeps them in line. Even if someone doesn’t fully believe in God in a literal sense, the framework of religion can offer enough existential weight—enough “just in case God is real” assurance—to reinforce their moral choices and keep them anchored.
As one may infer from my previous points, ideal morality is highly context-dependent. Theoretically, the most effective moral system would be one that is tailored—a framework calibrated to an individual’s environment, psychological makeup, cultural background, resources, and responsibilities. However, in a world where most people are not that rational, the widespread attempt to form personal moral frameworks could introduce chaos. By contrast, in a world where divine authority binds people to fixed moral truths, one could argue such a system might offer greater stability. But, it is difficult to say this with certainty, as we have never witnessed such a world in practice.
The God Hypothesis and Moral Reasoning
People often speak about belief in a God as necessity for morality— which I do find quite interesting. I don't reject the concept of a God(s) because of suffering, or because of most of the arguments that atheists typically use—that's still playing by the internal rules of the theistic game. I reject the God hypothesis for the same reason I reject the Zeus, or Thor hypothesis, or any unsubstantiated metaphysical entity: there's no sufficient evidence— contradictory evidence even—, no explanatory necessity, and no reason to assume its existence in the first place. I don't say "reject" in the sense that I've spent years battling with it or arrived at some deep existential insight. It's just something I've never taken seriously in the first place. I've always lived as if the God hypothesis were false—not out of rebellion, but because it never earned my attention. I only engage with it now because its consequences shape the reality I live in, not because I find the claim itself, or any of the supporting scripture compelling.
An interesting fallacy lies in the selective reasoning many religious people use. Religious people regularly criticise one another with a level of emotional intensity and contempt that rivals even the most outspoken atheists—often with brutality. Muslims will say Christianity is flawed because "it changes all the time" and accuse Christians of following a corrupted book or worshipping three gods. Christians, in turn, will label Islam "outdated," "barbaric," and accuse Muslims of idolising a man who married a six-year-old, often using extremely provocative language to do so. Hindus might step in and point out the violence in both the Bible and the Quran. And then, when an atheist enters the conversation and says, "You're all just wrong—these are irrational belief systems built on unverifiable claims," suddenly the atheist becomes the villain. Now, the atheist is "the bigot," "the one who doesn't understand culture," "the one without values or morality." But what's the functional difference? The atheist just doesn't subscribe to any of the contradictory frameworks—and unlike the religious critics, isn't offering a replacement myth; just an argument grounded in logic. Religious people are often far more ruthless with each other than most atheists ever are. But somehow, their critiques are framed as theological disagreements, while atheist critiques are framed as personal attacks. The irony is interesting. Why is a Christian not considered a bigot when they accuse Islam of being morally perverse? Why is a Muslim not considered offensive when mocking the Trinity as "three mans"? Yet the moment an atheist questions the logic of any of it, they're suddenly seen as culturally disrespectful or morally bankrupt.
And it becomes even more absurd when you look at Christianity specifically. There are 45,000 estimated denominations, all claiming to represent truth, many of which hold mutually exclusive beliefs about salvation, sin, morality, and God's nature. None of them can provide objective evidence that their specific interpretation is correct; it all boils down to subjective readings of ancient scripture. And when you consider the eternal stakes these religions claim—heaven or hell, salvation or damnation—you would think there would be some degree of unified clarity. But there isn't. Christianity, despite claiming divine revelation, is so theologically fragmented that there isn't even agreement on core questions like who goes to heaven, what counts as sin, or whether morality is absolute or contextual. And yet, Christians still feel justified in questioning the morality of atheists, despite the fact that their own framework is splintered beyond recognition. You can't accuse atheists of moral ambiguity when your own house is divided into fifty thousand rooms, all arguing over what God really meant. It's genuinely surprising that Christians aren't at war with one another far more often, considering the existential weight they place on belief—eternal salvation depending on getting the "truth" right. How can anyone claim atheism lacks coherence when Christianity itself is fractured into tens of thousands of competing moral and doctrinal frameworks, all supposedly based on the same book, yet producing wildly different conclusions about how to live and what is good?
Anthropomorphising Uncertainty and the Search for Meaning
The concept of God is how humans anthropomorphise uncertainty to create meaning out of a likely meaningless universe— the issue is that this proposition implies objective meaning, when people find meaning in different ways; and some people can embrace uncertainty in ways that religious people can't. Do I believe that it remains theoretically possible? Yes, it is theoretically possible that an anthropomorphised God exists that also happens to align with human purpose and morality, out of the possibly infinite number of systems it could align with. It is more likely that a God would not exist in the traditional, modern, and intuitive sense— so in this sense I hold agnostic views. But for practical purposes, I do not hold such belief, nor do I engage with scripture or debates that assume the axioms of such being existing for practical debate purposes— perhaps a practical, apathetic atheist. Additionally, debate or discussion is pointless— because, you can't reason with someone that doesn't want to be reasoned with. It's probably more practical to simply let physics answer fundamental questions and allow people to choose what they want to believe—over time, the contrast will make certain beliefs appear increasingly absurd. This natural progression toward empirical evidence and reason can slowly align society with reality. However, the paradox is that our collective reality is still heavily shaped by irrational beliefs—religious or secular—which means there may be a necessary short-term sacrifice. Literalist, irrational frameworks may have to persist while we uncover deeper truths, even if that may result in temporary chaos. I somewhat agree with the apathetic approach, though I do think that some direct criticism is necessary, considering the existential and political issues that arise from belief frameworks— the balance between apathy and criticism is likely context and environment-dependent. To conclude, to suppose that someone not only needs to believe in such a concept of a God (modern religions), but must believe in it with certainty in order to be moral, is—at best—logically incoherent, and at worst, intellectually dishonest.
I align more with the view that it is theoretically possible and within reason to assume that there could be something more fundamental to reality, not fundamental in the anthropomorphised sense, rather physical laws yet to be fully discovered— something deeper behind quantum mechanics, whether an infinite reality, or something more finite— but, this does not require arbitrarily imposing intentionality, which falls under the anthropomorphic fallacy. The reality is that, the more we know, the more information there is to determine what satisfies the 'reducing human suffering' criteria. This doesn't imply relativism—in fact, it implies the opposite. We can look back on slavery and say it was objectively wrong because it wasn't grounded in reason, evidence, or empirical reality; it was justified through a faith-based ideology that didn't satisfy the primary objective of reducing suffering.
Someone might put forward— a somewhat existential counter-argument— the question of whether morality should even be tied to being alive or dead; or perhaps our definition and boundaries are arbitrary and without reason. They could perhaps ask to explain whether death is really suffering, and how we would know. But, I'd disagree with this reasoning. For any moral system to function, the agent to which the system applies must be alive. If there are no more beings that exist, the framework becomes redundant because there is no context where it can be applied. So, I'd argue that being alive is the minimum criterion to satisfy the criteria for reducing suffering— meaning that death is indeed suffering.