Chasing Unicorns: The Futility of a ‘Universal’ Moral Code

Hey guys, for today, a short history story

Are you on a quest for some grand, universal moral code—like a shiny, one-size-fits-all rulebook that everyone from medieval monks to modern Reddit commentators can get behind? You might as well be searching for unicorns, or maybe the fabled perfect avocado (the moment you find it, it’s already too late). Because for most of human history, morality has been messy, complicated, and shot through with a million warring viewpoints.

Let’s rewind to those first glimmers of human moral codes, back when people huddled around fires and tried not to get eaten. Morality was pretty personal: “I don’t like that guy’s behavior,” or, “Hey, if we all pitch in, maybe we won’t starve.” Then bigger groups emerged, and like clockwork, religions popped up to provide a moral framework. At first, this was pretty handy—shared beliefs help hold big communities together. But it quickly turned into a competition of “my truth vs. your truth,” with each religion waving its own banner and claiming moral superiority. You know the drill: “This is the one true way, the rest of you are doing it wrong.”

These hardline stances did more than ruffle feathers; they tore entire societies apart. One group’s “righteous crusade” was another group’s “brutal invasion,” so communities ended up at each other’s throats. And the thing is, when you’re convinced you’ve got the ultimate truth delivered from on high, you’re less inclined to compromise. That kind of single-minded certainty can fuel generations of conflict—even overshadow common goals like feeding people or building better roads.

Then there’s science, whose progress has been one of history’s most profound disruptors. When new findings started popping up—like, “Hey, maybe the Earth isn’t the center of the universe”—religious institutions that had relied on unchanging truths got stuck. Unable (or unwilling) to adapt, many either fought scientific insights tooth and nail or pretended they didn’t exist. You can imagine how that created a rift. Instead of adjusting their narratives, they doubled down, disrupting communities even more by turning what could’ve been a healthy merger of faith and reason into an angry standoff.

Philosophy tried to step into that gap, offering a calmer, more rational approach—until postmodernism, that is, which basically decided all truths were equally valid. Suddenly the pendulum swung from rigid, unchanging dogma to a free-for-all of “Hey man, it’s all good; that’s just your opinion.” If every viewpoint is inherently “true,” does that mean we can’t say anything is right or wrong? That’s a recipe for chaos, or at least for Twitter feuds so convoluted nobody remembers what sparked them.

Meanwhile, these ideas trickled down into everyday life, further fragmenting our understanding of morality. Social media only amplified the noise—now everyone can broadcast their personal moral code from the comfort of their couch, and we’re all too happy to scroll by, occasionally tossing in a spicy comment or two.

So, is there any hope? Actually, yes. Here’s the kicker: in the 21st century, we can choose not to chase that elusive, carved-in-stone “absolute truth.” Instead, we can look for the best explanations we have so far—the frameworks, moral or otherwise, that seem to generate the most well-being, fairness, and overall stability. Then we can collaborate with others to refine these frameworks, knowing that real progress comes from constant revision. When reality throws us a new curveball—be it a scientific discovery or a social shift—we adjust.

And that’s the piece so many earlier moral systems missed: the willingness to adapt. When you treat your current moral code like a temporary answer to be refined rather than an eternal decree, you free yourself up to move forward without demonizing everyone who disagrees. Sure, we may never get a neat, final universal code, but we can make one that’s better than what we had yesterday.

Think of it like open-source software—everyone contributes, updates get made, and occasionally there’s a total overhaul. That might sound less grand than “Truth from on high,” but hey, at least it won’t lead us headfirst into centuries of conflict. It’s a system that can evolve with our society, bridging gaps instead of blowing them wide open.

So, here’s your happy(ish) ending: We will never discover the “one true moral code,” but we can keep inching closer to a better one. By staying flexible, working together, and letting reality hold us accountable, we can build a moral landscape that’s both grounded and open to revision. Maybe that won’t make for a transcendent “revelation moment”—but it’ll create a much healthier space for all of us to grow, debate, and, you know, maybe even get along. And in a world that’s seen far too many conflicts over who owns “the truth,” that sounds pretty good to me.