The Problem of the Ethical Ethicist

I am lucky enough to have a job as an ethicist, which, statistically speaking, is unlikely. Most of the people with whom I completed my undergraduate degree in philosophy do not work in the field. They have what might be called normal jobs: working with spreadsheets, tending bar, or selling something to someone. While I am sure they still occasionally think about philosophy, and perhaps even about ethics, they are not immersed in it in the same way that I am. I am paid to do philosophy. Whether that is a good thing, or whether I have simply turned something I care deeply about into nothing more than a job, remains to be seen.

Still, I do feel fortunate to spend my days thinking about right and wrong. With that fortune, however, comes what I take to be a certain self-imposed expectation. If I make my living evaluating the reasons and frameworks according to which we pass value judgments on the world and on those around us, then surely I ought to be a good person myself. If I am not, then on what grounds is it fair or even appropriate for me to judge others, whether directly or indirectly through their actions?

An analogy might help here. Imagine you go to the doctor because you have a cough that simply will not go away. Your usual doctor is unavailable, so you see someone new. This doctor, however, is conspicuously unhealthy. Most notably, they are smoking while they examine you. After finishing the exam, they tell you that you need to take better care of your lungs; perhaps take up running, and for God’s sake, quit smoking. You would likely find this advice a little rich, perhaps even hypocritical, coming from someone who is, at that very moment, hacking on a dart.

To me, something similar applies to people who work in ethics. You cannot reasonably claim to be an ethicist if you do not, even at a very basic level, attempt to act ethically in your own life. If you are a bad person, where does your justification come from to judge others? It seems almost self-evident that if you make your living examining right and wrong, then you yourself would be a good person, or at least better than average. After all, if that is not the case, then what chance does the rest of the population have, those who do not spend their time thinking about morality for a living?

And yet, despite how intuitive this view may be, it simply is not true. Ethicists are no more moral than non-ethicists. In their 2016 meta-analysis, Eric Schwitzgebel & Joshua Rust found that “ethicists in the United States appear to behave no morally better overall than do non-ethicist professors.” While this study was limited to the United States, it seems reasonable — unless one believes there is something uniquely morally corrosive about that country — to assume that similar trends would be found elsewhere. In short, studying morality full-time does not necessarily make one a more moral person.

Still, I suspect many of the people included in that study would resist this conclusion. My intuition is that most of us see ourselves not as bad people, but at the very least as morally acceptable. We see ourselves as good. This is backed up by research by Ben M. Tappin and Ryan T. McKay, who found that “most people believe they are just, virtuous, and moral.” I am no exception. I think I’m a good person, or at least, I think I try to be.

This tension came into focus for me recently, in both a personal and professional capacity. I was scheduled to present at the 2026 Law and Society conference, which this year is being held in San Francisco. I have long wanted to visit the city, and I saw the trip as an opportunity to fulfill both professional obligations and personal aspirations. In early January, I began making plans, aware that the socio-political climate in the United States was less than ideal but believing I could set those concerns aside. After all, nothing too terrible had yet happened.

Then came January 7th and the shooting of Renee Good. I will not rehearse the details here; by now, most of us are familiar with what occurred, and you have likely seen the footage. In the aftermath, I found myself asking whether I could justify entering the United States given what was unfolding in Minneapolis and, presumably, in other parts of the country. I was undecided — until I received a personal message from a friend who told me they had been accosted by men claiming to be ICE agents. According to their account, which I have no reason to doubt, they were nearly disappeared off the street, prevented only by the presence of enough bystanders to make the public pressure unbearable for the self-identified “agents.”

That was the moment that tipped me over. I immediately contacted the conference organizers and informed them that I would no longer be presenting, citing the deteriorating conditions within the country. Then came more news of similar incidents; the most recent being the shooting of Alex Pretti.

Now, would I have been at personal risk had I gone? Almost certainly not. The conference was in San Francisco, a sanctuary city in a sanctuary state. Moreover, and not to be indelicate, I am white. Unless I open my mouth and expose my accent, those who profile based on skin color would be unlikely to identify me as a target. It’s safe to say that personal safety was not the motivating factor. I have little doubt I would have been physically fine.

Rather, the issue was ethical. I could not justify going to the United States at this moment in time as an ethically acceptable thing to do. It would have been wrong. And if that is so, then as an ethicist, I take myself to be more obligated than most to avoid the wrong and to do the good — even when doing so comes at a personal or professional cost.

While I was considering whether to withdraw from the conference, my mind went to an unlikely place: Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation Now. On the back of my edition is a short list of endorsements, one of which comes from Richard Dawkins: “Peter Singer may be the most moral person on the planet.” I do not know what to make of that claim. Both Singer and Dawkins have attracted their share of controversy, and Dawkins’ assessment strikes me as, at best, hyperbolic. Still, the sentiment lodged itself with me. The idea that someone might look at a professional philosopher — someone paid to think about right and wrong — and conclude that they actually do the right thing was unexpectedly moving.

It forced me to reflect on my own behavior, and on what it would mean to deserve that kind of judgment.

Ultimately, I think what I am circling here is the idea that teaching and researching ethics are, on their own, insufficient. Is it valuable? Perhaps. I might even have motivated a student to do the right thing at some point. But the harder question is whether I do the right thing when the opportunity presents itself, or whether ethics is merely the means by which I make a living.

I hope it is not the latter. I hope my decision not to present at the conference was the right one. I am unsure whether anyone will follow my lead, or whether that matters. But at least in this instance, that quiet moral confidence Tappin and McKay attribute to the population at large feels — just possibly — earned.