The Fire and the Fold

Author’s Note

I, personally, am not religious. But I try—intentionally—to live a deeply moral and ethical life, having come to the conclusion long ago that any just god would understand that all well-founded beliefs are rooted in experience and introspection. I don’t see this as a cosmic gamble—I see it, somewhat ironically, as a kind of faith: that a benevolent god, creator, or judge would weigh my actions, my intent, and my impact, not the book I read or the prayers I recite.

This piece isn’t a condemnation of faith, nor is it a rejection of religion’s potential. On the contrary, I believe religion—like all shared human endeavors—can be a profound force for good. It offers community, meaning, and a framework for navigating the complexity of life. What troubles me is not belief, but unexamined obedience: the assumption that the words spoken from behind the altar—or the pulpit, or the podium—must be followed without question.

Too often, we forget that most religions were born not as legal systems, but as moral compasses. The rules were never meant to be the destination—they were the foundation. A place to begin, not a checklist for salvation.

This post is an invitation: to think more deeply about where morality begins, where responsibility lies, and what it means to act with integrity in a world where the letter of the law is often louder than the spirit behind it.

~Dom

When I was young, I remember a friend asking a Sunday school teacher, “If you say you’re sorry, but you aren’t really sorry, does God still forgive you?” It was a child’s question, but it contained something quietly profound. Even then, we were learning to navigate the line between what is required and what is real. We wanted to know the rules, the boundaries, the escape hatches.

That moment stuck with me—because it was my first real exposure to the idea of rule-based morality: a worldview where the goal isn’t necessarily to be good, but to avoid punishment. Where morality isn’t a matter of conviction, but of compliance. And once you begin to see it, you start noticing how often people treat ethics not as a compass, but as a contract.

This is not a condemnation of faith, but it is a critique of moral systems that lean too heavily on divine decree and not enough on philosophical introspection. I’ve come to believe that true morality isn’t found in what we are told, but in what we understand—and how we choose to act on that understanding.

Yet in countless communities of faith throughout history, there has been a troubling pattern: an overreliance on rule-based morality can create loopholes that undermine ethical accountability. Whether through the promise of automatic forgiveness or the technicalities in religious law, these loopholes can corrode not only individuals’ integrity but entire institutions. From child abuse by clergy to prosperity gospel preachers exploiting congregations, and from extremist calls for crusades or jihads to the persecution of outsiders, the damage done is not merely theoretical—it is painfully real. When people use systems of belief as escape routes rather than moral compasses, the harm can echo across generations.

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Commandments and Compliance

Western religions—particularly Christianity, Judaism, and Islam—are built on a foundation of divine commandments. Whether it’s the Ten Commandments, Halakha, or Sharia, moral authority is typically external: God said so. These systems offer clear do’s and don’ts, rewards and punishments, sins and absolutions. There is an understandable attraction to such clarity. Rules can provide comfort; they can unify communities; they can guide those who might otherwise struggle with moral ambiguity.

However, when morality is treated as a simple list of rules, it opens the door to legalistic thinking: What, exactly, counts as adultery? How far can I go before it’s considered a lie? If I repent in the correct manner, is my wrongdoing fully erased in the eyes of God? Religious leaders, especially those who hold institutional power, sometimes rely on these precise definitions to justify harmful behavior or to excuse themselves from accountability. They point to scripture or doctrinal rulings that, when interpreted in a certain way, appear to grant them absolution—or at least shield them from scrutiny.

Consider, for instance, child abuse scandals that have plagued certain religious institutions. The public outcry often focuses on two dimensions of this tragedy: the horrific acts themselves and the subsequent cover-up. But beneath both issues lies a deeper cultural norm of deflecting responsibility: “The institution will handle it internally” or “The abuser repented, and God forgave them”—as though spiritual absolution could negate the trauma inflicted.

This is the morality of loopholes. Of technicalities. Of asking, “How close can I get to the fire without getting burned?” rather than “Why am I drawn to the flame at all?” It’s a mindset that can justify nearly anything, as long as it fits within the bounds of a doctrinal framework. Even the Bible warns against mistaking form for essence: “The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life” (2 Corinthians 3:6). When the form of morality replaces its essence, we lose the point entirely.

Absolution and Accountability

Perhaps no concept illustrates the tension between rule-based morality and genuine ethical reflection better than absolution. In many Western traditions, one can sin grievously, confess sincerely (or strategically), and be forgiven (or saved – a far more dangerous interpretation). The slate is wiped clean—at least in the eyes of God and, often, in the eyes of the community. The underlying principle, at its best, is that redemption is always possible. People can change and improve. This hope is not inherently problematic.

But what does forgiveness mean when separated from accountability? If morality is tied to real-world impact, consequence, and intent, then divine forgiveness does not undo tangible harm. A sincere apology may be part of healing, but it should not function like a cosmic delete key for worldly damage. When abusers claim to have prayed and found grace, yet face minimal or no legal consequences, victims are left to suffer anew. That kind of absolution is ethically hollow.

From a utilitarian or humanist perspective, absolution without restitution is empty. It’s the equivalent of apologizing for theft while keeping the stolen goods. Yet entire religious structures have historically granted spiritual cover to offenders, as if a heavenly verdict could overwrite the lived reality of the harm caused. This not only trivializes the suffering of victims, but also encourages a culture where wrongdoing can be rationalized by performing the right sacraments or saying the right prayers afterward.

We see similar dynamics in the realm of prosperity gospel preaching. Certain televangelists and mega-church leaders promise God’s material blessings in exchange for financial contributions. There are cases of these preachers living in lavish mansions, flying private jets, and pressuring congregations to give beyond their means, all while quoting scripture to justify personal enrichment. If or when they are exposed for fraud or exploitation, they often invoke divine forgiveness or suggest that their misdeeds should be overlooked because they continue to “do God’s work.” The net effect is the same: the harm caused—the financial strain on vulnerable people, the erosion of trust—is glossed over with spiritual language.

The Game of Morality

When morality becomes codified into rigid systems, people inevitably learn to game those systems. We see this everywhere: politicians who claim moral high ground while exploiting tax loopholes, pastors who preach abstinence and humility while leading double lives, congregants who treat Sunday service like a spiritual insurance policy rather than an opportunity for introspection.

It becomes a game of optics. Virtue signaling isn’t just a secular problem—it’s ancient. Even in the Bible, the Pharisees were criticized not for having rules, but for weaponizing them. They were called “whitewashed tombs” because their piety was a performance, a demonstration of obedience devoid of genuine compassion or humility.

The creeping rot within organizations often begins with these small performances, where leaders learn to say the right things and project the right image, regardless of their actual conduct. Over time, if institutional structures reward the appearance of morality more than actual integrity, the entire culture can tilt toward hypocrisy. The worst of it is that many people in such systems are not consciously malicious; they are merely continuing patterns they inherited, convinced that external compliance equals genuine righteousness.

This is how, historically, religious fervor has led to tragic chapters of persecution: the Crusades in medieval Europe, the Inquisitions that tortured and executed so-called heretics, witch hunts that condemned innocents, and extremist jihads in various contexts. When an institution ties moral legitimacy to “following the rules”—and those rules dictate that “unbelievers” or “heretics” must be purged—atrocities become a kind of religious duty. The logic is painfully simple: “God commanded this, so it must be done, no matter the human cost.”

From an outside perspective, these actions might seem starkly immoral. But when an individual is trained to equate morality with obedience, they may commit horrors with a clear conscience. They are “doing what God (or the clerical authority) wants,” despite the staggering human toll. This, too, is a game of morality, albeit a deadly one, in which the players never pause to question the rules themselves.

Philosophical Morality and the Eastern Tradition

If rule-based morality invites loopholes, what would a wisdom-based approach look like?

In contrast to predominantly rule-based religious systems, many Eastern religions and philosophies—Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, and Confucianism—often emphasize self-awareness, intent, and harmony. Although these traditions are not monolithic and can be interpreted in ways that also produce oppressive or hierarchical structures, their core teachings generally prioritize internal transformation over rote compliance.

• Buddhism: The Eightfold Path does not command obedience in the sense of a divine decree; rather, it provides guidance aimed at reducing suffering (both personal and collective). One does not accumulate “points” toward enlightenment by ticking boxes off a moral checklist. Instead, one cultivates understanding, compassion, and mindfulness. The measure of morality is its effect on the reduction of suffering.
• Taoism: The principle of Wu Wei suggests acting in harmony with the natural flow of the Tao (the Way). Ethical living arises from being attentive and responsive to the subtle dynamics of life, rather than forcing actions to conform to rigid prescriptions. Morality here is not about whether one followed a rule but whether one’s actions are in harmony with the holistic unfolding of events.
• Hinduism: The concept of dharma is deeply contextual—it depends on a person’s social role, stage of life, and personal disposition. This does create certain rules and obligations, but at its best, dharma is not merely a list of prohibitions; it’s a guiding principle that calls a person to uphold truth, righteousness, and social harmony. The sense of duty is tied to the broader cosmic order, which encourages deep reflection on how actions affect the self and the community.
• Confucianism: Focuses on cultivating virtues such as ren (benevolence) and li (proper conduct) within social relationships. While there are guidelines about how one should behave toward family, community, and society, the emphasis is on the internalization of these virtues, not merely outward compliance. The genuinely moral individual acts rightly because it aligns with their cultivated character, not because they fear punishment.

These perspectives do not offer the same kind of “get out of jail free” cards that certain Western doctrinal systems can appear to provide. They resist the temptation of moral arithmetic, the idea that you can balance out sins with enough prayers or confessions. There is no checkbox that guarantees virtue—only the ongoing process of self-awareness, ethical discernment, and empathy.

Creeping Rot in Institutional and Cultural Foundations

One might wonder how well-meaning institutions devolve into places where child abuse gets covered up, or where extremist views lead to violence. Part of the answer lies in how certain interpretations of religion provide moral loopholes that can be exploited.

1. Child Abuse by Clergy: Repeated scandals have shown how abusers, once caught, may be quietly transferred to another parish or given internal “penance” but allowed to continue their duties. The theological emphasis on forgiveness can, in these cases, become distorted into an insistence on moving forward for the sake of the church’s reputation. The harm to victims is downplayed or ignored, breeding mistrust and cynicism among congregants and the broader public.
2. Prosperity Gospel and Exploitation: Some pastors preach that God wants believers to be wealthy, effectively twisting faith into a transaction: “Donate, and you shall receive tenfold.” When allegations of fraud surface, the leaders often cite personal divine revelation or claim redemption through God’s grace, as if a religious message excuses financial wrongdoing. Over time, such behavior can poison the communal well, as believers grow either disillusioned or further ensnared in a cycle of exploitation.
3. Extremism and Persecution: From medieval witch hunts and heresy trials to modern-day terrorism carried out in the name of God, the justification is often that “We are commanded to do this”. Whether it’s a crusade to reclaim holy lands or a jihad declared against perceived infidels, the line between devout obedience and moral atrocity blurs. Adherents who question these acts are sometimes labeled heretics or traitors, stifling dissent and ensuring the violence continues unimpeded.

In all these cases, the promise of instant forgiveness or the absolute certainty of divine endorsement can allow a creeping rot to spread through the organization and its leadership. Instead of addressing the root causes—such as systemic lack of accountability or unchecked authority—institutions double down on their image of righteousness, trusting that ritual or lip-service repentance is enough to maintain moral standing. But true morality demands more than public declarations of virtue; it requires genuine transformation, reparations to those harmed, and a willingness to dismantle corrupt structures.

Toward an Internal Compass

So, where does that leave us? For me, the answer lies not in abandoning all structure, but in refusing to mistake the rules for the reasons.

Morality should not be a performance for the divine. It should be a reflection of who we are, who we’re becoming, and what we bring into the world through our actions. To act ethically is not to follow orders blindly but to understand—to consider our choices, our motivations, and the potential consequences for ourselves and others.

In the realm of philosophy, Immanuel Kant framed this as the Categorical Imperative: “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.” Not because God demands it, but because reason and respect for all rational beings do. We can also look to the Stoics, who emphasized virtue as the highest good: “If it is not right, do not do it. If it is not true, do not say it.”

These ideas do not promise a simple formula for salvation or a neat ledger of sins and good deeds. They require ongoing reflection, emotional intelligence, empathy, and above all, consistency between belief and behavior. This internal compass does not always yield easy answers, but it grounds us in a deep sense of responsibility, one that cannot be offloaded onto the nearest doctrinal authority or “forgiveness ritual.”

Reclaiming Responsibility

A core challenge in religious communities—and indeed in any ethically minded group—is reclaiming responsibility. This means recognizing that while traditions, scriptures, and communal norms can guide us, we ultimately stand accountable for our own choices. No external system, however well-intentioned, can fully replace our personal discernment.

1. Encourage Questioning: Communities thrive when believers are encouraged to ask hard questions: “Why do we believe this?” “Who benefits from this teaching?” “What is the impact of this practice?” This willingness to question can disrupt destructive patterns and expose harmful loopholes.
2. Prioritize Victims’ Well-Being: Whether the issue is child abuse, financial exploitation, or systemic persecution, a red flag that an institution is rotting from within is when it protects perpetrators more than it protects victims. Faith communities should develop transparent mechanisms to ensure that survivors’ voices are heard and that restitution is more than a theoretical concept.
3. Resist Deference to Authority: Especially in hierarchical traditions, the impulse to trust leaders implicitly can be strong. While respect and reverence can be positive, they become dangerous when leaders are beyond criticism. Institutions can foster a healthier environment by cultivating checks and balances, rotating leadership, and promoting lay involvement in decision-making.
4. Distinguish Spiritual Growth from Image Management: Ethical authenticity involves acknowledging failures and undertaking genuine repentance or atonement—not simply managing public perception. Where institutional culture emphasizes looking holy over being compassionate, it’s time for a recalibration.
5. Engage with Broader Ethical Dialogues: Religions do not exist in a vacuum. Interfaith and secular conversations about ethics—ranging from human rights to climate action—can expand a community’s moral vision. This cross-pollination of ideas often reveals blind spots and points to more holistic ways of understanding harm and responsibility.

Beyond Compliance

Obedience is easy. Ethics are not. It’s much simpler to follow a rule than to wrestle with a principle, to ask a priest what’s permitted than to ask ourselves what’s right. But the world doesn’t need more rule-followers—it needs more people willing to think, feel, and act with integrity.

True morality does not begin with God’s voice thundering from the sky. It begins in the quiet, uncomfortable space where we ask: Who am I, when no one is watching?

The child who asked about hollow apologies and automatic forgiveness wasn’t trying to be bad; he was grappling with the paradox of doing what is required versus doing what is right. That tension lies at the heart of every faith tradition, and indeed, every human life. Perhaps the most crucial moral question each of us can ask is: What makes my actions truly matter?

When forgiveness becomes a loophole that erases responsibility, it is not divine grace—it’s a moral dodge. When rules become more important than compassion, we’ve lost sight of what the rules were meant to protect. And when people commit atrocities in the name of obedience, it isn’t faith—it’s fanaticism.

As we reflect on our own moral journeys, we might evolve from asking, “What is required for salvation?” to something more enduring: “What kind of man is a man who does not try to make the world better?” It may be from a movie, but I prefer this guidance—not because it’s commanded, but because it resonates with something deeper than compliance. It resonates with the best of our humanity, calling us to cultivate genuine empathy, courage, and moral clarity.

In the end, morality is not a contract. It’s a testament to our shared humanity. If we can hold on to that—resisting the temptations of loopholes, technicalities, and empty absolutions—we stand a chance of building communities that are not just obedient, but truly just and compassionate. That is the promise of an ethical integrity that does not hide behind divine decree but lives out the spirit of love, responsibility, and genuine transformation.