#self-justification

55 Maxims of the Christian Life, Fr. Thomas Hopko

numbered, in your palm-

how often do you take them out

to see that none are gone,

to hear them clink together-

as if that could tell the sum-

to make sure that the lies they hold

still give you not a qualm

“We have abandoned a light burden, namely self-criticism, and taken up a heavy burden, namely self-justification.”

~Abba John the Little

“To justify ourselves by condemning others is our permanent tendency, in private as in public life.  True nobility is to take responsibility oneself.  True humility and true love, in the spiritual order, consist in knowing ourselves to be guilty ‘in everything and for everyone.’  

How can we judge another person without imprisoning that person in his past acts?  Without shackling him to one moment of his development?  A change of heart is always possible, even ‘between the stirrup and the ground’ in a fatal fall from a horse.’

All of us are the people who put Christ to death, the daily executioners of love. And Christ loves us and, when put to death by us, offers us resurrection.”

~Olivier Clement

Assholes never regret the things that they do to others. Could that be true?

It could feel true, but it’s not universally so.

When people seem unrepentant after hurting others, it’s often because of one of three psychological shields: lack of empathy, self-justification, or emotional avoidance.

Some genuinely have low empathy — they don’t feel the harm, so there’s nothing to regret.

Others twist the story so they appear righteous: “I had to do it,” “they deserved it,” etc. That cognitive trick protects their self-image.

And then there are those who do feel guilt but bury it so deep they convince even themselves it isn’t there.

What’s interesting is that conscience doesn’t always express itself as remorse. Sometimes it leaks out sideways — anxiety, irritability, chronic defensiveness. People who “never regret” often pay in different currencies.

So while the statement captures a real frustration — that hurtful people rarely offer contrition — the truth is messier. Some don’t regret because they can’t; others because they won’t; and a few because they don’t know how to.

What you’re really describing is a moral asymmetry: caring people suffer twice — once from being hurt, and again from wondering how the person who hurt them can walk away untouched.

How can you change the perspective of someone who is locked in self-justification?

That’s a profound and very human challenge — trying to reach someone who’s built a fortress around their own story.

When someone’s locked in self-justification, direct confrontation almost never works. Logic bounces off. The ego’s job is to protect the self from shame, so the moment you push, it tightens the walls. The key is to make curiosity feel safer than defensiveness.

A few approaches tend to help:

Shift from accusation to exploration. Instead of “You’re wrong,” try “What made that seem like the right thing at the time?” That question invites them to tell their narrative without you validating it — and gently exposes its cracks.

Mirror the emotional layer. Often justification hides guilt or fear. If you reflect the emotion — “It sounds like that was a hard decision” — you lower their guard. People reconsider only when they no longer feel attacked.

Offer dissonance in small doses. A single undeniable example that contradicts their story (“But earlier you said you didn’t want them hurt — how does that fit?”) can open a gap big enough for reflection. Too much dissonance at once triggers defense, not insight.

Model vulnerability. When you admit your own mistakes or uncertainties, you make it psychologically safe for them to do the same.

It’s slow work, and it doesn’t always succeed — because change demands that a person want coherence more than they want comfort. But sometimes, with patience, you can help them trade the safety of being “right” for the freedom of being honest.

The paradox is that self-justification is a shield against pain — and only when someone feels seen enough to put it down will they face the pain that could make them grow.

Expand on this: But sometimes, with patience, you can help them trade the safety of being “right” for the freedom of being honest.

That sentence sits right at the heart of human transformation — the point where identity meets truth.

Being right feels safe because it protects the self from humiliation, uncertainty, and loss of control. When someone clings to being right, they’re not defending facts; they’re defending their place in the moral universe. “Rightness” is a shield against chaos. If I’m right, I’m not the villain. If I’m right, my pain makes sense.

But honesty is different. Honesty doesn’t need to win — it needs to see. To be honest is to stand unarmed before what’s real, even if it contradicts the story you’ve been telling yourself. It’s frightening, because it often means admitting, “I hurt someone,” or “I was scared,” or “I didn’t know.” Yet honesty is also liberating, because it frees a person from the exhausting job of maintaining a false narrative.

Helping someone trade “rightness” for honesty isn’t about clever arguments — it’s about creating a climate where truth feels survivable. That can mean:

letting silence hang long enough for discomfort to do its quiet work,

showing them through empathy that admitting fault doesn’t erase their worth,

or simply modeling that humility and dignity can coexist.

The paradox is that honesty feels dangerous but is actually the safer home. The safety of “rightness” is an illusion — brittle, defensive, lonely. The freedom of honesty can sting at first, but it lets a person breathe in their full humanity again.

When that shift happens — when someone finally says, “Maybe I was wrong” — what they’re really saying is, “Maybe I don’t have to keep pretending to be unbreakable.”

Can you be wrong when you hurt someone without knowing?

Yes — deeply so, but in a very particular way.

If you hurt someone without knowing, you may not be morally guilty, but you’re still responsible. That’s a subtle distinction, yet it’s the hinge of ethical maturity. Guilt is about intention: you meant to cause harm. Responsibility is about consequence: harm happened, and you’re part of it whether you saw it coming or not.

Think of it like stepping on someone’s foot in a crowded bus. You didn’t mean to, but the pain is real. The honest response isn’t “I didn’t mean to” — it’s “I didn’t realize I did that, but I see it hurt you.” The first centers your innocence; the second acknowledges their experience.

Where things get tricky is when people equate ignorance with moral exemption — as if “I didn’t know” erases the wound. But ignorance doesn’t cancel reality; it just limits awareness. Once the harm is known, how you respond defines your character.

So yes, you can be wrong without intending to be — not because your motives were bad, but because being human means your impact sometimes outstrips your understanding. The moral task is to bridge that gap, to learn from the unintended, and to widen your awareness so the same harm doesn’t repeat.

In that sense, unintentional hurt isn’t just an accident — it’s an invitation to become more awake to the lives brushing up against yours.

If I take your exemple but make it more subtle and closer to my point of view: what if you get inside a bus, and because of your presence in the alley, someone else steps on someone's foot. Are you responsible?

Now that’s an elegant refinement — you’ve stepped into the gray zone where ethics gets interesting.

In your version, your presence indirectly contributes to harm: you didn’t touch anyone, but your position constrained someone else’s movement, and that led to a minor injury. So — are you responsible? The answer depends on what kind of responsibility we’re talking about.

There’s causal responsibility — the chain of events. Yes, you’re part of the causal web. Without you in the aisle, the other person might have had space to move differently. But there’s also moral responsibility, which depends on intention, foreseeability, and agency. You didn’t intend harm, couldn’t easily predict it, and had limited control. So morally, your responsibility is minimal or even null.

Yet this kind of situation reveals a deeper truth: we’re all part of overlapping systems where our presence shapes outcomes we can’t fully see. You could call it ambient responsibility — a quiet awareness that our mere existence affects others, even when we don’t mean to. Living ethically inside that complexity means staying attentive rather than guilty — noticing how your space, tone, choices, or silence may ripple outward.

So in the bus story: no, you aren’t to blame. But if you saw the situation unfolding and could have shifted slightly to make room, then a trace of responsibility returns. Ethics, in this sense, is less about guilt and more about responsiveness — the art of adjusting ourselves to reduce unseen friction in the shared space of being alive.

And what if you misread a situation? You want to help someone, but through your actions, that person makes a decision that hurts someone else without you knowing any details about it. Should you feel responsible then?

That’s the kind of moral knot that keeps philosophers and insomniacs equally awake.

In that case, your intention was good — you wanted to help. But your help became the spark for someone else’s harmful choice. You didn’t mean harm, and you couldn’t foresee the cascade, yet you were still part of the causal chain. So what you’re describing isn’t guilt; it’s the ache of tragic responsibility — the recognition that our influence can have unintended side effects we may never fully control.

This is one of the hardest truths about moral life: good intentions don’t guarantee good outcomes. The moment we act in the world, our agency blends with the agency of others, and consequences spill beyond our sight. You didn’t do the harm, but your action enabled the conditions for it. The difference matters — it’s the line between fault and entanglement.

Should you feel responsible? Not in the sense of self-condemnation. But a form of responsibility still remains — the kind that says: “I want to learn from this. I want to be more discerning about when and how I intervene.” That’s not punishment; it’s growth.

This sort of awareness is painful but deeply human. We’re all, in some way, accidental contributors to one another’s stories — sometimes as healers, sometimes as unintended catalysts for hurt. The moral task isn’t to cleanse yourself of every unintended ripple; it’s to stay humble enough to keep noticing the ripples you leave.

That's part of the reason why minding your own business is pretty important.

Exactly — and that’s a wise recognition, not a cynical one. “Minding your own business” is often mistaken for indifference, but at its most thoughtful, it’s a form of ethical restraint. It’s the understanding that intervention has consequences, and that good intentions can be clumsy when they collide with lives you only half understand.

Still, there’s a tension here. If everyone always minded their own business, injustice and cruelty would flourish unchecked. Silence can protect peace — or it can protect harm. So the art lies in discernment: knowing when your involvement might clarify and when it would just compound the confusion.

There’s a kind of moral ecology to human life — too much interference, and the system destabilizes; too little, and it stagnates. Minding your own business, then, isn’t apathy; it’s recognizing that empathy doesn’t always demand participation. Sometimes respect means letting other people have their own mistakes, their own timing, their own unfolding story.

It’s less about stepping back forever, and more about learning when your presence serves understanding and when it simply adds noise.

Keep developping: It’s less about stepping back forever, and more about learning when your presence serves understanding and when it simply adds noise.

That line opens a whole philosophy of subtle action — knowing when to act is almost an art form. Life isn’t black-and-white: every presence, every word, every gesture interacts with the world in ways we can’t fully predict. Some interventions illuminate, others muddy. The challenge is cultivating the sensitivity to tell the difference.

Presence that serves understanding often comes from clarity, empathy, and careful observation. It helps someone see a truth they couldn’t perceive alone, eases tension, or offers perspective without overpowering their agency. It’s like holding a lantern in the dark — enough to light the path, but not so bright that it blinds them.

Noise, by contrast, is presence that imposes rather than clarifies. It’s acting out of habit, ego, or compulsion rather than insight. Even well-meaning action can create noise: unsolicited advice, intervention without context, or pushing a solution that fits your perspective rather than theirs. Noise can confuse, mislead, or distort the natural unfolding of a situation, creating ripples that may cause harm you never intended.

So ethical presence is a matter of attunement — reading the landscape, sensing what the other person can bear, and understanding the weight of your own influence. It’s not about abstaining from life or responsibility; it’s about choosing the right rhythm of involvement, stepping in when you illuminate, stepping back when you would only amplify confusion.

In a sense, it’s the practice of moral listening: being fully aware of your impact, aware that action is a kind of conversation with the world, and knowing when silence itself is the kindest contribution.

I'm learning.

That’s exactly the right mindset — learning here isn’t about memorizing rules, it’s about tuning yourself to subtle currents: cause and effect, intention and consequence, presence and silence. Every reflection you’re making is a tiny expansion of awareness, a way of practicing ethical sensitivity.

The beauty is that this kind of learning doesn’t just change how you act — it changes how you see the world. You start noticing the ripple effects of small choices, the invisible weight of your presence, and how restraint can be as powerful as action. It’s slow, sometimes frustrating, but deeply rewarding because it’s not just knowledge — it’s lived wisdom.

Why admitting you’re wrong becomes impossible the longer you wait Okay – before I get into this long ass essay from the Critical Thinking series – let’s address the elephant in the room. After rereading the book used for the essay and writing most of the following words, I went back and did some light research on the authors, only to realize that Carol Tavris has been actively involved in…