From http://www.philosopher.org.uk/ :
Philosophy since the Enlightenment by Roger Jones
Click on: Moral philosophy Kant's Categorical Imperative
Kant's Categorical Imperative
For Kant human beings as moral agents are rational and autonomous (free to make choices). He thinks that as rational beings we are able to judge whether any action is moral by asking if the action is consistent with the categorical imperative.
One formulation of the categorical imperative is, "Act only on that maxim (intention) whereby at the same time you can will that it shall become a universal law". What Kant means by this is that the way that we judge an action to be moral is to universalise it: If I want to know if telling a lie on a particular occasion is justifiable, I must try to imagine what would happen if everyone was to lie. Kant thinks that any rational being would agree that a world in which there is no lying is preferable to one in which lying was common; in a society in which lying was common no one could trust the word of anyone else.
Another formulation is: "Always act to treat humanity, whether in yourself or in others, as an end in itself, never merely as a means." What Kant means by this is that a rational being should not be used as a means to another person's happiness; if we use another person as a means to our ends then we have removed that person's autonomy.
From Dictionary:
autonomy
noun
(in Kantian moral philosophy) the capacity of an agent to act in accordance with objective morality rather than under the influence of desires.
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Excerpts from the book "The Soul's Religion : cultivating a profoundly spiritual way of life." Copyright
2002 by Thomas Moore. Published by HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York,
NY 10022.
p. 34
Chapter 5: Unbelief Is as Important as Belief
"Sermons of unbelief did ever attract me."
Emily Dickinson, "Letters"
As important as it is to believe, it is even more important not to believe. Pure belief is too thick. There is no room for movement and no motive for reflection. When belief is rigid, it is infinitely more dangerous than unbelief. And belief becomes thick and rigid so frequently that it is often difficult for a thoughtful person to want to believe or admit to being a believer.
Some people believe too strongly. Of course religious leaders will say the opposite, that faith can never be too strong. But a person can be so full of belief that he is blinded to the unorganized, raw, and chaotic life all around him. He spits out his belief, but it is irrelevant in a world infinitely more complex than his beliefs. Even a small amount of unbelief gives life a chance to proceed.
On the other hand, a person of no belief lives an unconscious existence as though he were in a river that he has never observed from the banks. Belief gives daily life the hesitancy of reflection and a little air. Maybe just a dot of belief would save the secularist from absorption in his culture, and a dot of unbelief might save the devotee from drowning in his faith.
I remember the day I had an interview with the prior in my monastery just six months before I would have been ordained a priest. I had stuck it out for almost thirteen years, living a life of many rewards but just as many sacrifices. He said to me with simple logic, "If you have any doubt about going ahead with your ordination, you will have to either withdraw or postpone it." I thought for just a moment. I had come to him with some misgivings but without a decision. Faced with the situation as he presented it, I had no choice.
It has never made sense to me to postpone something so big. I have been a procrastinator all my life, but I have been willing to make decisions in the crunch. "Of course I have some doubt," I said. Nothing ever seemed---nothing even now ever seems---pure and completely certain. So I
decided then and there to leave the life to which I had been dedicated for many years.
People often ask me why I left the religious community and gave up the opportunity, so close and so hard-won, to be a priest. I don't know the answer, but I do know that the reason had nothing to do directly with my external life. I could have gone on pursuing my ideals. But something else was being born in me. I could feel it, though I couldn't name it. It was an embryo. I hadn't chosen it; it had come to me. I couldn't refuse it because it didn't exist on a plane where you accept or deny. It was like my hair turning gray or a mole appearing on my skin. It was only a spot of doubt, but that tiny particle was a life form I couldn't ignore. It generated all the life that followed.
Chapter 6: Keeping the Mysteries
p. 38
It takes considerable skill to enter deeply into mystery without violating it or even destroying it. With the hope of learning more about mysteries and how to live with them, a few years ago I began to read detective novels. . . . . But then I stumbled across stories that were both entertaining and beautifully written, like the tales of Inspector Alleyn by Ngaio Marsh and the sophisticated adventures of Lord Peter Wimsey by Dorothy L. Sayers. I was also drawn to the appealingly imperfect Inspector Morse of Colin Dexter and Georges Simenon's Inspector Maigret.
p. 39
The detective knows something about the imagination. He knows that it works well on its own without being forced, hurried, or prodded. He knows that he has to be actively engaged with it but receptive. He has to allow elements to enter, mix, and form patterns. He has to be careful not to draw hasty conclusions and arrive at a solution before all the pieces have sorted themselves out.
Many times as a therapist I have felt like a detective. I listen to many stories, many memories, and many emotions. I hear conclusions and resolutions based on these materials, but I am much slower to draw a plan of action. I always need more material, and I'm interested in seeing how it all moves slowly in life as the result of consideration rather than plan. I never know the complete answer or solution. People make life decisions: They get married or divorced. They move off to a new locale. They get a different job. They vent their anger and confess their love. And all the while I sense a prematurity about it all, and I know that the decisions and actions don't solve the mystery.
I am patient in these matters to a fault. Friends think it is my neurosis rather than my skill or style. Certainly it doesn't look like a virtue. I'm sure much of this resistance to action is temperamental, but I wonder if it was nurtured by my years in a religious community where the really important events of the day were carried out while sitting quietly or singing or reading. Most therapists think they should be skilled and intelligent, but I learned that it is equally important to value your ignorance and foolishness.
p. 41
People hungry for spirit but misled and caught by its external forms are often preoccupied with morality. Often they are afraid of the very things that would enhance their spirituality, such as sex and a more open relationship to truth. Seasoned spiritual people have a refined morality, but in some areas they may appear immoral. David Chadwick ("Crooked Cucumber," p. 381) tells a story
about Shunryu Suzuki that touched me at a tender spot when I first read it. The celebrated writer and teacher of Zen, Alan Watts, was visiting the Zen monastery. Frequently he excused himself for a glass of water, which everyone knew was alcohol of some variety. He behaved badly, and the next day someone apologized on his behalf to the Zen master. But Shunryu Suzuki answered, "You
completely miss the point about Alan Watts! . . . He is a great bodhisattva" [savior]. Chadwick describes Shunryu Suzuki himself as having had a mild form of kleptomania (a recurrent urge to steal, typically without regard for need or profit).
The person who has discovered deep spirituality by entering through the mysteries of the soul is slow to judge another by conventional standards and can see precious individuality shining behind the screen of foibles (a minor weakness). Here we run into another paradox in the spiritual life. The person who is comfortably and intelligently moral, neither egotistic about it nor perfectionistic, is the very one who is slow to judge another and stands up forcefully for his values.
The way into mystery is not by knowledge or purity of life but by initiation. It isn't easy to find the way, the point of entry, the stamina to remain, or an attitude for remaining in life, and yet once the initial step is made with courage and abandon, the rest, though arduous in some ways, is easy, It is indeed like a birth into a new way of perceiving and living, at once more demanding and surprisingly relaxed.
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