Reader’s Comments On My Essay About Moral Philosopher Peter Singer (And My Responses)

(essay)

I was always fascinated by the power of songs—what they could do to others and to myself. I was interested in their construction and how songs might be used to help me forge a career doing something I loved, rather than something I saw people forced to do.

Now, at sixty-five—a husband, a father and grandfather several times over—songs still hold an equally powerful place in my life. What’s changed is that my interests have grown along with me. Since my father died in 1984, the songs I’ve written have become a method for expressing myself in the spiritual arena of life and death, joy and sorrow—an arena that includes not only an appreciation for life, but for what I consider to be the Source of life.

I look out my window as I write. I see the way the branches of the apple trees and maples dance in a gentle post-rain wind. I hear the raw cry of a mother raven as she brings food to her young. And I watch the late afternoon sun breaking through the clouds, with only a few hours left before it retreats beyond the rise to my right.

All of this is a song. All of this, a miracle.

Some dispute the miraculous nature of things. They seem comforted by the idea that what they see before them must be—can only be—the product of a god of different names: science, rationality, logic.

I choose to see things as I did when I was a child. To see the world as wholly miraculous, brought Divinely into to existence at each moment. I work hard to embrace that feeling. It does not come naturally.

When I first wrote about moral philosopher Peter Singer, (May 5, 2025) I wasn’t trying to start an argument. I was responding to something deeper—a discomfort I’ve long felt with certain forms of cold, hyper-rational thinking that try to build a moral universe without any sacred foundation. Singer is not fringe. He’s a celebrated philosopher who teaches at Princeton. His ideas—especially those in Practical Ethics and Animal Liberation—have shaped everything from animal rights law to bioethics curricula to the language of public health policy.

And yet, when you read him closely, you find arguments in favor of infanticide, bestiality, and the harvesting of organs from the comatose. These aren’t tabloid smears. They’re real positions, grounded in utilitarian logic.

What troubled me most wasn’t that Singer posed difficult questions—it’s that for many people, in the absence of any belief in the sacredness of life, those questions could seem reasonable. Even compassionate.

As someone who tries—imperfectly—to live by Jewish values, I wrote my essay as a kind of counterweight. I wanted to ask: What happens when morality is severed from its sacred root? What do we lose?

I expected some pushback. What I didn’t expect was the outpouring of thoughtful, personal, often deeply moving replies from readers. Many engaged with the central questions in their own voices—probing, questioning, wrestling. What follows is a curated selection of those letters and my responses. They are not interruptions to the original essay but continuations of it. Together, they map a conversation I hope continues well beyond these pages.

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1. Rachel writes: What’s the Anchor?

“There may be no Divine anchor, so Singer just invents his own anchor to his own taste: ‘maximizing the overall well-being of sentient beings.’

It’s absurd. What’s that based on? Why should that be the priority? If there’s no starting point outside of our own thoughts, then there’s no authoritative basis to any starting point.”

Rachel goes straight to the heart of the matter: in a world without God, how do we justify moral priorities? Singer’s utilitarianism offers a rational-sounding framework—but where does it get its authority?

My response:

Rachel, these are valid questions. Given the bad rap religion has received over the last century—and at times for good reason—it’s no wonder people choose to discard its teachings.

As I've noted, the Hebrew language has no word for “religion.” In that sense, "religion" or "a religious life" is a kind of misnomer. The way I see Judaism—or holiness itself—is that there are only different levels of sanctity; there is no place in our lives that is entirely mundane.

What does this mean? It means the sacralization of all life—and all experience—is essential. Most people feel an aspect of this at various moments: when a baby is born, or when a loved one dies. Those are the times we’re thrust out of our usual frameworks. The question, then, becomes: which way of seeing the world is the most accurate?

Singer is brilliant, no doubt. But he—like me, and like most of us—is not grounded in verifiable “truth,” but in supposition. There’s no empirical proof of God. But nor is there proof of Singer’s vision of the world.

At some point we must make choices based on beliefs, experiences, temperament, and the cultural milieu we find ourselves in. I’ve come to my own views over many years, and through many difficult and beautiful moments. Blessings for health and happiness, Rachel.

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2. Alan writes: Can Morality Emerge Organically?

“Is it possible that moral equilibrium is reached through natural dynamics—personal perspectives clashing and cooperating until common ground is found?

Secular codes are an extension of religious ones. In democratic societies, with more ‘validators,’ things like bodily autonomy and equality can emerge by broad agreement.

So why dwell on hypotheticals like child sacrifice? If it’s universally rejected now, isn’t that proof morality evolves?”

Alan presents a compelling case for secular moral development: the idea that morality evolves through consensus, not command.

My response:

I'm struck by the dilemma you pose: “Would you refuse to permit child sacrifice to take place if it was in your ability?” That, I think, is the benchmark.

From the Jewish moral perspective (only because I know it best), one is duty-bound to prevent harm to others—even by force—so long as doing so does not result in harm to oneself. As you point out: if it was in your ability...

But I wonder: if not for a prior common ground—laid down by a source once widely revered—would these moral instincts have emerged at all? And will they endure in a society that increasingly doubts the sacredness of anything? Sometimes those who resist God in theory are drawn to the beauty of the sacred in practice. That tells me something: the ache for transcendence, however disguised, is not so easily extinguished.

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3. Jodi writes: Was My Daughter Disposable?

“My first-born daughter was brain damaged during birth in 1994. According to Singer and his devotees, she should have been let to die.

My daughter brought more joy into our lives and into the lives of everyone who knew her for 16 and a half beautiful years.”

Jodi’s letter lays bare the emotional and moral cost of utilitarianism. Her daughter, by Singer’s metric, had no claim to personhood. But in reality, her life radiated meaning and joy.

My response:

Thank you Jodi, for sharing this. I’ve been thinking about your daughter—and the joy she brought (and still brings). I have a similar experience in my family. And it is this very point that makes Singer’s ideas so... I want a nuanced word here... so disagreeable.

Not only because they’re heartless. But because they’re “reasonable.” They are what happens when the sacred is removed, and cold calculation takes over.

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4. Arthur writes: What Sets Us Apart?

“As I understand it, as a Jew, you base your moral grammar on Torah and accept that "It is not perfectible by human reason, nor is it subject to cultural fashion. It is a system of revealed values—a structure handed down, not conjured up." If I am correct, you believe/know it was handed down and revealed by God to Moses on Mount Sinai. I believe the most essential quality distinguishing our species from other animals is our need, ability, and desire to make our existence meaningful. For me, it matters not whether this quality was God given to Moses to be handed down to Jewish people or simply an essential aspect of being human.”

This letter, from my wise uncle—a mentor to me since childhood—raises the question: is the drive to find meaning itself sacred? Or merely human?

My response:

I didn’t know you to be so optimistic, dear Uncle. My view, based on history and what I see each day, is a little darker: few people, I think, possess that “essential quality” you describe. Humankind, in large part, has not yet risen to the level that either you—or God—has intended.

Still, your words remind me: even when we ground our ethics differently, we often yearn for the same things.

5. Jay writes: What About Gaza?

Peter, you write, "I believe that a single human life—no matter how broken, how voiceless, how terminal—is sacred," and time and again you have, rightly, called out the atrocities of 10/7. I am a supporter of the state of Israel, so in my view a Zionist, but I am troubled every day by the Israeli government's response to 10/7: 50,000 human lives lost, each "sacred," some at least entirely innocent of what occurred on 10/7. I don't know how Israel could have better conducted its war on Hamas, but I believe there must have been a better, less morally costly way.

I first came to this blog because I am a fan of your music. I have continued reading everything you write because I appreciate your moral clarity and passion. But I am troubled that you never (?) acknowledge the loss of Palestinian life. As Jews, as Zionists, we can say Hamas is responsible for that lost life, because, to borrow a child's idiom, "They started it." But don't we have to reckon with our own responsibility?

I don't have an answer, but I am troubled by the question, and because I respect you, and it is a question I have not seen you address; I find myself wondering whenever I read your thoughts: what do you believe about Gaza and the enormous suffering and loss of life there? I know the Torah says "an eye for eye," but can that, in your view, be read to justify 100,000 eyes for 2,400 eyes? Or, to extend this vision metaphor, is this Israel's (and your?) moral blind spot?

My response:

Jay, I appreciate what you’ve written. In several of my posts, I’ve expressed deep regret for the loss of life on all sides of this awful war. I would never suggest, “You started this, so anything goes.”

It’s clear you have a good understanding of what Israel is facing—or at least enough to recognize that a tunnel-entrenched enemy, openly committed to the total annihilation of one’s country and its citizens —and having already demonstrated exactly how that looks, presents a challenge unlike anything seen in modern warfare. Unlike Germany or Japan, which were thousands of miles away, this enemy holds ground just a bicycle ride from Israel’s population centers. That proximity changes everything.

Another point to consider: none of Israel’s opposition parties are offering a categorically different approach to the war. That is to say, a change in leadership wouldn’t significantly alter the way this war is being fought.

As for the human cost—this war, initiated by Hamas, like any true war (not a skirmish), is the very embodiment of tragedy. Too many have been killed. And yet, in the end, protecting innocent people on both sides will require the total defeat of Hamas. War—horrible as it is—is not, in itself, a sin. A nation is duty-bound to protect its citizens, just as you are bound to protect those you love. Here in America, we are fortunate. Two oceans shield us. Israel, sadly, has no such buffer.

Lastly, Hamas, by kidnapping men, women, children, and infants—remember Ariel and Kfir Bibas, a toddler and an infant reportedly killed by hand—has triggered both its greatest strength and its greatest vulnerability. Its strength lies in its ethos: never leave a person, not even a body, behind. Its vulnerability is that very same thing. This is Israel’s current dilemma.

Like every moral person, I long for this war to end—not just for another short-term ceasefire, but for a true and lasting peace between two peoples who, in so many ways, have much in common.

Note on "an eye for an eye.” Despite how it may sound, this phrase has never been understood by authoritative Jewish sources as a literal call for bodily retribution. According to virtually all traditional rabbinic interpretations—including those found in the Talmud—it refers instead to financial compensation for injury. For example, someone who loses an eye would be compensated according to the loss of their earning potential. A person whose livelihood depends on their vision would receive more than someone whose primary work depends on their hands, and so forth.

6. Shaun writes: Is God Necessary?

Let's go back to that bright young man in your article who is okay with sacrificing 6 year olds if it's part of that culture. Logically his position is sound, and I have no issue with it; however, this position also means no change in culture is necessary or desirable, and that includes his own culture. Jim Crow laws and school segregation were acceptable and appropriate. Chattel slavery likewise was fine.

G-d is not necessary to show how horrible this worldview is, simple logic will suffice. Moral relativism is a lazy system, and anyone who actively subscribes to it should be distrusted and treated as a wild animal.

My response:

Agreed, Shaun. And I wonder—do we need God to recognize just how horrifying the morally relativistic worldview is? My answer would be, mostly, yes. I don’t believe we can assume that humankind would have naturally arrived at the distinction between good and evil on its own. In large part, I think we haven’t— even with Divine instruction. The best we can hope for, however our (mostly) shared moral instincts came to be, is that a majority of people aspire to something higher. Aspiration, I think, is the key word. Thank you.

Closing Reflection

These letters remind me that none of us think about morality in a vacuum. We’re shaped—often invisibly—by ancient traditions, cultural memories, and personal experiences. Even those who argue purely from reason are rarely free from the fingerprints of the sacred. And those who live by sacred values are far from immune to influence by culture and desire.

A “religious” life—honestly lived—isn’t a life free from sin. It’s a life of aspiration. A life where one’s intellect and emotions connect, not only to earthly ideas, but also to Godly ones.

That, I think, is the point: We are what we think about. What we desire and how we act.

I don’t mean to suggest that atheists can’t be deeply moral—they often are—or that so-called religious people can’t be enormously immoral. But given how profoundly religious values have shaped our shared sense of good and evil, it seems unlikely that anyone—believer or not—remains untouched by that inheritance.