I’ve been thinking about good and evil lately—not in some abstract philosophical way, but in the way these words actually show up in our lives. We use them constantly. "That was evil." "She’s a good person." "This policy does more harm than good." But what are we really saying when we invoke these loaded terms?
Here’s what strikes me: good and evil aren’t really things you can point to. They’re frameworks we use to make sense of actions, intentions, and outcomes that matter to us deeply. They’re how we organize our moral universe.
Think about it this way. When you call something evil, you’re not just describing it, you’re condemning it. You’re saying this crosses a line that shouldn’t be crossed, that it violates something fundamental about how we believe the world should work. Evil carries weight. It’s reserved for the worst: genocide, torture, deliberate cruelty toward the vulnerable. We don’t usually call a parking ticket evil, even if it annoys us. The word does heavy lifting.
Good works differently but just as powerfully. Calling someone good isn’t merely observational; it’s recognition. It says this person’s actions align with values we hold sacred, compassion, integrity, courage, fairness. Good points toward an ideal, even when we know perfection is impossible.
But here’s where it gets messy: these concepts are both universal and deeply personal. Almost every culture has developed frameworks for distinguishing right from wrong, helpful from harmful. That commonality suggests something real that human beings, living together, need shared understanding about what helps or harms the collective. At the same time, what counts as good or evil shifts dramatically across contexts. Sacrifice could be noble or horrific depending on what’s being sacrificed and why. Lying could be evil or heroic depending on who you’re protecting.
I think that’s because good and evil aren’t abstract principles floating somewhere in the ether. They’re embodied in consequences, in suffering and flourishing, in the texture of lived experience. When we call something evil, we’re often responding to pain, real, tangible harm done to people who didn’t deserve it. When we recognize goodness, we’re acknowledging actions that reduced suffering, that created space for human dignity and thriving.
The danger comes when we forget that these are tools for understanding, not weapons for certainty. History is littered with atrocities committed by people convinced of their own goodness, certain that those they harmed were evil. The concepts themselves become dangerous when they stop us from seeing complexity, when they let us dehumanize others, when they become excuses rather than guides.
Maybe the most honest thing we can say is this: good and evil are real in the sense that suffering is real, that cruelty and kindness have real effects on real lives. They’re the language we’ve developed to navigate moral terrain that actually matters. But they require humility. They demand that we keep questioning, keep examining our certainties, keep listening to those who experience harm we might not see.
The concepts endure because we need them. But they serve us best when held lightly enough to allow for doubt, firmly enough to act when action is needed.
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