There is a curious thing about the human heart: it cannot escape the notion of ought. No matter how far we wander into the wilds of skepticism or the clamor of our own desires, we find ourselves shadowed by an invisible law—a sense that some things are right and others wrong, not because we decree them so, but because they simply are. A man may steal bread and call it survival, yet his heart whispers guilt. A woman may betray a friend and justify it with a thousand reasons, yet sleep eludes her. Why is this? Whence comes this unbidden judge that sits enthroned in our conscience, pointing an accusing finger when we stray?
Let us consider a strange truth: this moral law is not like the laws of nature. Gravity does not care whether you fall; it merely pulls. Fire does not pause to judge before it burns. But morality? It commands, it pleads, it praises. It is not content to describe how things are; it insists on how they should be. When a child shares her toy, we nod with approval, as if she has aligned herself with some cosmic harmony. When a tyrant slaughters the innocent, we recoil, not merely because we dislike it, but because something deep within us cries, “This ought not to be!” Yet why should we feel this way? If we are but accidents of stardust, cobbled together by chance, why does the universe seem to care whether we lie or love?
Imagine, for a moment, a world where morality is merely a game we invent, like rules for a sport. If we made it up, we could change it at will. Why not declare cruelty a virtue and kindness a vice? Why not say that cheating is noble and honesty a fool’s errand? But the moment we try, something in us rebels. We cannot live as though betrayal is as good as fidelity, or as though courage is no better than cowardice. Even those who shout loudest that all is relative, that good and evil are but shadows of opinion, will cry foul when their own trust is broken or their own dignity trampled. They, too, appeal to this unseen law, though they deny its name.
Now, here is a paradox: the very people who claim morality is a human construct live as though it is not. They argue that right and wrong are mere conventions, yet they bristle when cut off in traffic or cheated in a deal. They say justice is an illusion, yet they march for it in the streets. It is as if they are actors in a play, denying the script while reciting its lines. Could it be that this moral law is not something we invented, but something we discovered? Like a melody heard faintly on the wind, it calls to us, not because we composed it, but because it was already there, waiting to be heard.
But if this law exists outside us, what then? If it is not the product of our minds, nor the whim of our cultures, nor the blind churn of evolution, where does it come from? Dare we entertain the thought that this haunting sense of ought points to something—or Someone—beyond the veil of this world? A mind, perhaps, that wove goodness into the fabric of reality, just as it wove stars into the sky? For if there is a law, there must be a lawgiver. If there is a standard by which we are judged, there must be a source from which it flows.
Yet here is the rub: to acknowledge this law is to feel its weight. It does not flatter us; it demands. It does not bend to our excuses; it stands firm. And in its presence, we find ourselves both drawn and undone—drawn to the beauty of a life lived in harmony with it, and undone by our own failures to measure up. But perhaps that, too, is part of its mystery: that the law which condemns us also beckons us toward something higher, something eternal.
So, pause and ponder, dear friend.
The next time you feel the sting of guilt or the glow of a good deed, ask yourself: Why do I care? Why does this invisible law hold sway over my heart? And what might it mean if the voice that whispers ought is not my own, but the echo of a truth older than the stars?
Let us consider a strange truth: this moral law is not like the laws of nature. Gravity does not care whether you fall; it merely pulls. Fire does not pause to judge before it burns. But morality? It commands, it pleads, it praises. It is not content to describe how things are; it insists on how they should be. When a child shares her toy, we nod with approval, as if she has aligned herself with some cosmic harmony. When a tyrant slaughters the innocent, we recoil, not merely because we dislike it, but because something deep within us cries, “This ought not to be!” Yet why should we feel this way? If we are but accidents of stardust, cobbled together by chance, why does the universe seem to care whether we lie or love?
Imagine, for a moment, a world where morality is merely a game we invent, like rules for a sport. If we made it up, we could change it at will. Why not declare cruelty a virtue and kindness a vice? Why not say that cheating is noble and honesty a fool’s errand? But the moment we try, something in us rebels. We cannot live as though betrayal is as good as fidelity, or as though courage is no better than cowardice. Even those who shout loudest that all is relative, that good and evil are but shadows of opinion, will cry foul when their own trust is broken or their own dignity trampled. They, too, appeal to this unseen law, though they deny its name.
Now, here is a paradox: the very people who claim morality is a human construct live as though it is not. They argue that right and wrong are mere conventions, yet they bristle when cut off in traffic or cheated in a deal. They say justice is an illusion, yet they march for it in the streets. It is as if they are actors in a play, denying the script while reciting its lines. Could it be that this moral law is not something we invented, but something we discovered? Like a melody heard faintly on the wind, it calls to us, not because we composed it, but because it was already there, waiting to be heard.
But if this law exists outside us, what then? If it is not the product of our minds, nor the whim of our cultures, nor the blind churn of evolution, where does it come from? Dare we entertain the thought that this haunting sense of ought points to something—or Someone—beyond the veil of this world? A mind, perhaps, that wove goodness into the fabric of reality, just as it wove stars into the sky? For if there is a law, there must be a lawgiver. If there is a standard by which we are judged, there must be a source from which it flows.
Yet here is the rub: to acknowledge this law is to feel its weight. It does not flatter us; it demands. It does not bend to our excuses; it stands firm. And in its presence, we find ourselves both drawn and undone—drawn to the beauty of a life lived in harmony with it, and undone by our own failures to measure up. But perhaps that, too, is part of its mystery: that the law which condemns us also beckons us toward something higher, something eternal.
So, pause and ponder, dear friend.
The next time you feel the sting of guilt or the glow of a good deed, ask yourself: Why do I care? Why does this invisible law hold sway over my heart? And what might it mean if the voice that whispers ought is not my own, but the echo of a truth older than the stars?
No Comments