The unexpected collision of ancient definitions of sin with modern trauma, and the unraveling of utopian justice systems in the face of human complexity, formed the unexpected crucible of a "birthday week" meant for quiet relaxation. This profound intellectual journey revealed the critical need for a balanced approach to individual culpability and societal order, a nuanced understanding vital in an era grappling with unprecedented challenges to free speech and algorithmic governance.
It was during my annual birthday week, planned for quiet relaxation with a new CD player and some movies, that the universe, in true Jungian fashion, began to weave an intricate tapestry of coincidences. For years, I've been a fan of Jung, particularly his concept of synchronicity: the idea that seemingly coincidental events are meaningfully related, weaving together to reveal a larger pattern, a hidden order beneath the apparent chaos. This personal synchronicity laid the groundwork for an intense intellectual journey, far removed from the planned relaxation, which ultimately became a crucible of thought.
As if pulled by an invisible thread, I found myself revisiting Psycho-Pass, an anime favorite. Simultaneously, a jarring headline seized public attention: Milo Yiannopoulos's controversial remarks on pedophilia from his book Dangerous. And then, in a truly synchronous moment, a character in Psycho-Pass mentioned Pascal, prompting me to investigate his work. These three threads, seemingly pulled from different worlds, began to intertwine, leading me down a path of inquiry into sin, justice, and the nature of truth.
I recalled the earlier uproar when Milo was prevented from speaking in Berkeley, sparking intense debates about free speech and concerns about "political correctness" stifling ideas. Weeks later, a video surfaced showing the explicit nature of his pedophilia remarks, leading CPAC to drop him from their speakers' list. He had, by common consensus, gone too far. His statements, in part, included: "We get hung up on this child abuse stuff. … This is one of the reasons why I hate the left, the one size fit all policing of culture, this arbitrary and oppressive idea of consent. I’m grateful for Father Michael. I wouldn’t give nearly such good head if it wasn’t for him." He further attempted to differentiate between pedophilia and pederasty, arguing for "enriching" relationships between "younger boys and older men," claiming them as "hugely positive experiences." While some might initially defend the abstract concept of unlimited free speech, Milo's explicit comments crossed a universally understood moral boundary, making his case a potent touchstone for examining the limits of individual expression and accountability.
Milo's defense, and the priest's actions, force us to confront the very heart of Pascal's debate: the accountability for sin, especially when complex factors like trauma are involved. At the heart of this shocking modern controversy, I saw an echo of a classic theological debate from Pascal’s 1656 Provincial Letters, concerning the nature of sin and grace. Pascal, through a fictional narrator, exposed the arguments of certain Jesuit casuists who held a lenient view on sin's imputation. As the Jesuits argued: "we maintain that unless a person have, whenever tempted, actual grace to keep him from sinning, his sin, whatever it may be, can never be imputed to him." The Jansenists, in stark contrast, affirmed "that sins, though committed without actual grace, are, nevertheless, imputed."
For Pascal, and for us, the core question is: Can sin be a product of ignorance, or can one only sin with the foreknowledge of committing a wrongful act? Considering the priest in Milo's narrative, who clearly has foreknowledge of his carnal lust and commits an act he knows is wrong, his actions align with the strict definition of sin's imputability, as championed by the Jansenists. Pascal’s critique of the casuist arguments highlighted the absurdly detailed mental gymnastics they claimed were necessary to excuse sin, even sarcastically offering their criteria:
"1. On the one hand, God sheds abroad on the soul some measure of love... and on the other, a rebellious concupiscence solicits it... 2. God inspires the soul with a knowledge of its own weakness. 3. God reveals the knowledge of the physician who can heal it. 4. God inspires it with a desire to be healed. 5. God inspires a desire to pray and solicit his assistance."
The true absurdity, as the Jansenist voice in Pascal's letters argues, is the notion that one might escape sin simply by avoiding thought: "What an excellent device for being happy both in this world and in the next! I had always supposed that the less a man thought of God, the more he sinned; but... if one could only succeed in bringing himself not to think upon God at all, everything would be pure with him..." This brings us to the immediate, unsettling question that Pascal's debate makes profoundly relevant to our modern context: Did Milo sin with the priest? This isn't a simple yes or no, especially when considering the devastating impact of trauma. This deep dive into Pascal forces us to consider how modern understandings of moral injury or complex trauma profoundly complicate traditional notions of free will and culpability, posing an immense challenge not only to theological frameworks but also to contemporary legal and ethical systems grappling with true accountability when the very "will and perception of self are so fundamentally fractured by abuse." Pascal's framework, in its rigidity for the Jansenists or its intellectual contortions for the Jesuits, illuminates the immense difficulty in assigning moral culpability when the victim's internal world has been so violently twisted, echoing Pascal's own profound grappling with human fallibility and the elusive nature of divine grace.
This deeply personal question about individual culpability, however, wasn't isolated. It soon broadened, merging with an exploration of societal justice and the very nature of truth, a path illuminated by the unexpected convergence of Psycho-Pass and Plato. Indeed, the very philosophical complexities Pascal wrestled with regarding individual sin find a chilling, systemic echo in the world of Psycho-Pass, forcing us to question how a society attempts to bypass inherent moral ambiguities. This anime depicts a fascist utopia run by the Sibyl System, a supercomputer that dictates all choices and laws. Criminals are identified by a "tainted hue," a psychological color. Latent criminals are summarily executed by enforcers, who are themselves latent criminals, monitored by investigators. The system is flawless, absolute. Perhaps the Sibyl System, in its unwavering control, represents a societal attempt to bypass the very moral ambiguity Pascal wrestled with, implicitly aiming to eliminate the need for "actual grace" by controlling all behavior and precluding the possibility of individual sin through absolute regulation. This quest for a 'perfect' system, however, highlights the inherent dangers of relying solely on technological or systemic solutions to address fundamentally human moral dilemmas, often sacrificing individual nuance, genuine human agency, and the very essence of human dignity for a presumed, yet ultimately flawed, absolute order born from a dangerous hubris that believes human morality can be algorithmically resolved.
Yet, the villain defies this perfect system; his hue remains clear, allowing him to commit any evil act unpunished. In a harrowing scene, he confronts our hero, holding her best friend captive. He offers her a choice: use a conventional shotgun, or attempt to use her official weapon, which only fires if his hue is "colored" (if the system deems him criminal). She hesitates, bound by the system’s law, and he kills her friend. The ultimate twist: the Sibyl System desires to absorb the villain's mind, incorporating his unique perspective into its program. This echoes Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, where the idea of a "superior man" who transcends conventional morality to lead finds its dark expression.
This entire intellectual journey, surprisingly, began with an article in Time magazine (or another publication) about the debate between Socrates and Thrasymachus in Plato’s Republic on the nature of justice and injustice. Thrasymachus famously argues that "justice… is the interest of the stronger," that governments make laws to serve their own interests and punish those who transgress them. Socrates challenges this, not dismissing the idea of self-interest, but questioning whether a true ruler acts for their own benefit or for the good of their subjects. He ultimately defines justice as acting for the interest of the subject, aligning with the "art" of governance. The chilling reality of Psycho-Pass's Sibyl System thus became a modern parable for the timeless question posed by Socrates: does true justice serve the powerful, or the governed? The anime starkly illustrates the dangers of a system that becomes an end unto itself, rather than a means to serve its populace.
Returning to Psycho-Pass, our hero eventually discovers the chilling truth: the Sibyl System itself is composed of the minds of latent criminals. She is given a choice: destroy the program, or allow it to continue. She chooses to uphold the law, to allow the system to continue, embodying the principle that law, despite its imperfections, is a guiding principle essential for mankind to preserve good and bring out what is best in humanity. It is far better than the alternative—the lawlessness of individual, unchecked will.
This leads us to the profound inquiry of the day: Is justice to be preferred to injustice? Does the greater good demand that we truly know good from evil?
Let us return to Milo. He was molested by a priest. He stated he was grateful for the abuse. Did he sin? This is the fundamental question that every survivor asks. The flesh betrays the soul; it is an Orwellian experience, the greatest of betrayals—the betrayal of self. It is Orwellian because it involves the twisting of one's inner truth, a forced internalization of a false and damaging reality, creating a profound conflict within the self's perception. For a survivor, the very notion of "knowing good from evil" becomes an agonizing paradox, as the source of immense pain is conflated with warped expressions of affection, making Pascal's clear distinctions incredibly complex to apply. It is the attainment of the knowledge of good and evil, a profound and painful transformation that changes a person forever.
I understand why Milo is angry; I understand his tears. Yet, I fear that Milo, at last, is a man without values beyond the thrill of the chase. For him, it’s just a game. He's lost himself, a path many survivors unfortunately traverse in their search for meaning amidst profound trauma.
For my own part, I can't offer absolution; I am no priest. I do believe this is a powerful topic we desperately need to discuss, yet the words are never quite there to capture its complexity. In truth, it brings to mind a concept, perhaps from the film A Beautiful Mind where, much like the arguments in Plato's Republic, the intellectual dilemmas never adequately resolve themselves, and the arguments of Pascal likewise lead to a never-ending contradiction.
This journey, however, suggests a very simple and elegant solution, right where we started: the middle ground. While Adam Smith championed competition as a societal virtue, my journey suggests that, in the realm of ethics and governance, a different kind of balance is needed. This "middle ground" is not a weak compromise, but a dynamic and empathetic pursuit of proportionality in justice and responsibility. It entails recognizing both the necessity of individual freedom and the vital role of societal structure, a careful navigation between unchecked will and absolute control. It means striving for what is best for both the individual and for society as a whole, acknowledging that rigid ideologies often fail to account for the complex human experience.
Achieving this elusive yet essential balance—constantly debated in contemporary issues from censorship to public health mandates—is not merely an intellectual exercise, but a pressing ethical imperative. It demands continuous critical engagement, profound empathy, and an unwavering willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. This dynamic equilibrium, perhaps the most vital truth revealed by these synchronous events, stands as humanity's ongoing and profound challenge, urging us towards a future built not on rigid adherence but on constant critical inquiry, empathy, and a tireless refinement of our understanding of justice and responsibility.
