I used to be a strong advocate for the death penalty and an even stronger opponent of abortion. I proudly attended Young Republican rallies, fervently listened to Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity, and sadly worshiped every gelled hair on Ronald Reagan’s head. I didn’t care in the least that the Canadian spotted owl was endangered or that my wife’s hair spray was slowly depleting the ozone. And I was happy. To me, my pro-life, ultra-conservative opinions were unassailable, self-evident and absolute truths. “How could anyone not be pro-life?” I naively reasoned. “What are they—pro-death?” Those were simpler, easier times, of course--before a thing called life got in the way.
I’d always heard that people tend to get more conservative as they get older. In my case, it seems that the opposite is true. After studying Stephen Toulmin’s position on theoretical and practical argument [I know it's not exactly light reading, but I was in graduate school and trying desperately to make an A], it occurred to me that my shifting political views were not so much the result of gray hair, fatherhood, and boxer shorts, but a more gradual and subtle reevaluation of my beliefs based on practical life experience.
Descartes was looking for the “single certain thing.” Thomas Carlisle and John Stuart Mill called it the “one thing necessary.” If experience has taught me anything, it is to be wary of anyone who claims to have all the answers. There are no pat, easy answers to life’s great issues. Toulmin argues that practical concerns, due to their complexities, can not be “governed by a single overriding principle.” The complexities surrounding both abortion and capital punishment have caused me to shift my thinking on these two very controversial issues. My early political views, sadly, reflected my blind allegiance to a single overriding principle--conservative absolutism. My experience has taught me, however, that issues like abortion and the death penalty are far too complex for this convenient absolutist philosophy. My rational voice tells me that killing is wrong, for example; but my reasonable experience has seen that there are times when killing is justified. As much as I’m coming to despise labels, I still consider myself “pro-life.” Abortion is a dreadful practice when it is used as a birth control device, yet over the years I have come to understand, as much as I can, that women view the abortion issue as more a power struggle than a moral dilemma. Pro-choice women resent the male-dominated political and religious systems of our society dictating to them what they can and cannot do with their bodies. Although I do not agree with their ultimate conclusions, pro-choice advocates are neither immoral nor evil. They simple adhere to a different overriding principle—self-determination.
My changing views on the death penalty, like abortion, were due to fifteen years of critical observation, and one very poignant conversation with my father. Although for years I strongly supported capital punishment, I was gradually becoming dissatisfied with its application. As Toulmin would say, two of my absolute principles were having a difficult time coexisting. How could I justify state-ordered executions while I was simultaneously arguing the immorality of abortion? My father is a man who frequently defies both labels and logic. He’s an admitted yellow-dog, liberal Democrat, yet he voted for Barry Goldwater in 1968 and my beloved Ronald Reagan in 1980. He's deeply and powerfully spiritual, yet he is ambivalent toward organized religion. He also seemingly defies his liberal beliefs in his support of the death penalty. Several years ago in one of our frequent philosophical conversations, he awakened me to a central truth about my own belief. In countering my statement that capital punishment is necessary as an effective deterrence, he said, “Greg, capital punishment has never been about deterrence. It hasn’t been an effective deterrent since the beginning of time. It’s always been about one thing--revenge.” Again, this was coming from a man who feels the death penalty is a social necessity. As much as I hate to admit it, and I certainly didn’t tell him this at the time (sorry, Dad), my father was absolutely right. For me, the death penalty was mostly about satisfying my own personal need for justice. I simply wanted revenge. How can a “Christian” society that proudly advocates such doctrine as “love thy neighbor” and “turning the other cheek” also sanction and carry out public revenge killings? I really haven’t felt the same way about the issue of capital punishment since that conversation with my father.
I haven’t completely changed my conservative doctrine, however. Life is too complex. If I ever want to get in trouble with my wife, for example, all I have to do is mention the environment. I refuse to recycle. Al Gore be damned. [Yes, he's my cousin, but haven't you ever had a cousin you were ashamed of?] How do we know that God didn’t create man for the divine purpose of inventing vacuum-formed plastics and chemicals that thin out that pesky ozone layer? And why should I trouble myself with the fate of the endangered American alligator? He’s been around for millions of years, and now I’m supposed to help stop his extinction? Maybe God intended the species to die out hundreds of years ago, but He didn’t anticipate the politically-correct interference of Greenpeace. Obviously, my cavalier opinions about the environment are not extremely popular. If past evidence of my growth and experience is any indication, however, I am a work in progress.
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