It's Not My Way

When Disobedience Is The Only Ethical Option

I watched Masters of the Universe the other night. It was super fun and funny. It could have benefitted from a bigger budget, but the laughs were almost constant and the story was redeeming. It was basically a mashup of a lot of Marvel and other superhero mythology, but I didn’t mind.

I enjoyed how the movie explored manhood through the lens of a boy-Prince who is a reluctant messiah who eventually steps into power and mastery.

As the movie ended and some of the mythic messages were downloading into my neural net, a couple of lines emerged that were not from the movie in question.

“It’s our way. It’s the Klingon Way.”

“I know. But it’s not my way.”

I always enjoyed Star Trek: The Next Generation for the deep philosophical explorations that were hidden beneath the thin veneer of space exploration. Few characters were more compelling than Worf, a Klingon raised by human parents.

Klingons were war-like and proud, fierce and quick to anger. Theirs was a noble warrior archetype, but their stoicism could drift into a dogmatism too hung up on tradition to reconsider old precedents.

One such moment occurred in the episode, Redemption II. Worf’s family name had been dishonored because of a lie about his father, Mogh. Worf and his brother, Kurn, had worked diligently, investigating the incident in question to find the truth—a secret that could undermine the very legitimacy of the Klingon Empire.

When the truth came out, Worf’s family name was cleared and the son of the real villain, now deceased, was presented to Worf for execution, in keeping with Klingon tradition.

Worf was a proud Klingon. He practiced the ceremonies, knew the history and was competent in battle. And yet he had grown up with human parents and later joined Starfleet instead of serving the Klingon Empire. He had chosen his own way, much to the chagrin of his brother and other Klingons.

When presented with the opportunity to take the life of a young man, an innocent, he demurred. Even though it was the Klingon way, he could not follow through. Not because the act was unsanctioned—but because the act was morally wrong, despite its legality. He knew that killing this young man would have been barbaric and would have solved nothing.

Through the episodes, Worf was revealed to us as a proud Klingon: stoic, stern and uncompromising. And yet this caricature, the warrior stereotype, was the entry-point into the person behind the archetypal mask.

In the moment where Worf dropped the knife and proclaimed, “I know. But it is not my way,” we see the gap between the map and the territory. The soldier and the orders he cannot in good conscience carry out. Because any tradition or law that would have one kill an innocent young man for the crimes of his family is bankrupt.

His choice caused consternation among his brother and the other Klingons. Yet it was his choice to make. He knew the rules. He revered the culture. He was the ultimate emblem of Klingon virtue. And yet, his moral code superseded even his reverence for his people’s history and ways.

That is individuation. Courage. Discernment. True power.

Worf was perfectly capable of carrying out the order. But the true mark of a human, just like a Klingon, is the exercise of restraint.

One who looks solely to tradition and archetypal messaging becomes a stereotype, a caricature. A warrior was but a facet of Worf’s identity.

He looked inside for what honor demanded. He was a proud Klingon and yet, drew his wisdom from multiple sources--from humanity and Starfleet and his Captain, whom he respected greatly.

Worf represented the collision of two different cultures, with vastly different worldviews and ethical standards. He was of the Klingons, but also an individual, and a Starfleet officer. As a hybrid character, he brought much-needed perspective to situations and traditions in need of revision.

Suddenly, mercy had entered the Klingon imagination, sending ripples throughout the empire. His choice offered a new tradition, a new perspective, and new possibilities. One obvious result of his choice was that a young Toral survived. He was not forced to die for the sins of another—sins he did not commit. He was free from the bondage of his family’s shame, an unfair burden—guilt by association.

Worf had just received this gift and immediately bestowed it on another. A man who now held his own fate and his life’s trajectory. He was not automatically destined to be good, but to have agency.

Perhaps merciful actions such as this spread like a contagion of right action. A virtuous spiral.

This episode demonstrates the appeal to tradition fallacy: the idea that because something is ancient, long-standing, or customary, it must be legitimate and must continue. Tradition can convince us that dissent against such customs is itself an ethical violation.

Star Trek, in its brilliance, forced us, the viewer, to question our dogmas, our sureness. What does it mean to be, in this case, a man, a warrior, an adherent, a soldier, an animal, and an individual? Are we more than our conditioning? Are we static or dynamic? What makes our rules legitimate?

For if we merely adhere to our scriptures, then we are little more than docile adherents, supplicants. If we have agency, we challenge what is wrong, what is unfair and what can no longer be accepted. We revise the stale and archaic tome into a living document. A tradition that breathes and sheds its skin.

Any movement or system, any founding document that will not stand before an ethical challenge is moribund. Any system that will stand and thrive and provide for its adherents will welcome correction, as it is for the good of the people it serves.

Blind obedience to laws, orders, scriptures and traditions is not virtuous unless and until those rules are compared against universal ethics.

Any system that prevents such a challenge is hollow.

Discernment is knowing when the hour of reckoning is upon us.

These moments, these choices, contain inherent risk.

Yet, courage demands that we take a stand or we may find ourselves complicit in the ethical lapses of systems that need our correction.

When we refuse to face these risks, we elevate obedience above conscience and silence the inner voice, surrendering the judgment that makes moral action possible.