INDIFFERENCE, FILLED WITH TEARS. AN ESSAY.

Nemo me impune lacessit

Why do we venerate the vulnerable?

Isn’t protection of the vulnerable enough?

No.

Protection (action) requires veneration (moral uplift) as an urge and a guide—otherwise protection, we fear, won’t happen.

This very simple formula, in which action is necessarily accompanied by heightened moral rhetoric, accounts for most of the left/right friction in this country.

What happens is this: heightened moral rhetoric in turn becomes a call for more action, which invites further moral rhetoric, rife with hurt and insult, and soon a common sense cause breeds insult and push back, and the cause becomes a war.

Rhetoric alone, then, easily creates division, hurt and misunderstanding—which is ironic, since rhetoric of a moral kind should be precisely that which explains why something is necessary, and which heals and unites.

When the vulnerable requires a rhetoric which venerates, the problem which arises is that common sense cannot stomach the veneration of vulnerability itself.

That which springs into action to help deserves veneration—but when veneration is showered upon the vulnerable itself, an error in rhetoric occurs—and since action and rhetoric are often found together, this error—which involves mere words, but which impacts principled action—is quite significant.

The unborn is a vulnerable group—and to add heightened moral rhetoric, calling this vulnerable group “life,” is bound to offend those who find the vulnerability of the unborn precisely that which precludes that group from protection.

The pro-abortion position cannot abide the veneration of the unborn—and yet no anti-abortion position were possible without rhetoric which venerates this vulnerable group—even if the tag, “life” is not precisely venerating the vulnerable—to those who are anti-abortion, this is exactly what the anti-abortion rhetoric is doing.

This is always where the sting of disagreement (and insult) is found—in rhetoric which venerates the vulnerable—which common sense finds offensive—for vulnerability itself is, logically, a wrong, and not, in itself, something to be sought, or venerated.

But any vulnerable group which needs protection—to ensure that protection, will be venerated.

And one can see how the philosopher, especially of the Nietzsche or Darwin variety, will severely object to venerating the vulnerable; reality should not be twisted by moral rhetoric—that’s not philosophy’s job.

The vulnerable should not, just because they are vulnerable, be venerated, says many a philosopher.

But doesn’t the assertion of any right contain within it the implicit notion of the vulnerable?

One cannot help but think, in this instance, of the right of the mother to control her own body, which eclipses the right of the unborn—the vulnerability of the mother who is forced to bring a child she does not want, to term, is at the center of the mother’s right to an abortion.

Every right contains within it vulnerability, for otherwise there would be no reason to assert a right, whether the grievance is the vulnerability of the poor who seek happiness, or the vulnerability of the property owner whose property may be taken away.

Veneration of vulnerability, then, is at the heart of human rights.

But should vulnerability be the test?  If a tyrant managed to take over the whole world, wouldn’t we say the tyrant would be highly vulnerable to the world taking it back?

Evil can be highly vulnerable.

Is it the vulnerability of the unborn which is at the heart of any contemplation of the rights of the unborn?

Or is it something else?

Does the whole notion of the veneration of the vulnerable completely cloud our judgment and lead us into radical error?

“Don’t tread on me,” the birth cry of America, sums up vulnerability and its veneration—and perhaps this is why Americans are so quick to build rights upon vulnerability.

It’s not that Americans worship a mighty God—the soul of America is not about God, but about the right for anyone to worship what they want to worship.

But isn’t God the first thing, and the worship follows from that?

And how do we understand “don’t tread on me” if we don’t know who “me” is?  Who are you, and who is stepping on you, and why?

The vulnerable are generally venerated socially these days, since we generally assume that the vulnerable are “sensitive,” and only “mean people” want to hurt, and take advantage of those of us who are vulnerable.

So good people are those who easily take offense, who are easily wounded.

But do we want friends around whom we have to watch what we say, because they are so sensitive?

We commonly say that we respect a person who allows us to speak our minds.

But this is more true: We will have more respect and love for a person—if we can allow them to speak their mind and express their feelings, and they can do so, without us being insulted by them.

The vulnerable cannot be us.

But the vulnerable must be us.

Or so we think.

Someone who has tremendous empathy for others—and yet is thick-skinned.  Is this possible?

Certainly this involves a paradox. If you are too sensitive, you are constantly under attack; you are so vulnerable you can’t be sympathetic towards others, or help others.  So the paradox here is that the truly sympathetic person must be insensitive.  Those who care are the ones who don’t care.

Surely this paradox will confuse many—people will think, “This person must be a psychopath! They never lose their cool about their own issues; so they must be faking their sympathy for me!”

Love. Hate. Love.

Hate. Love. Hate.

A rainstorm of passion inside a statue.

Indifference, filled with tears.