somewhere in the churn of daily life—between the ping of a slack notification and the ritual of brewing coffee—i catch myself wondering why any of it matters. not in the melodramatic, existential-crisis sense, but in a quieter, more nagging way. why do i care so much about getting this email just right or hitting a deadline when, from a cosmic vantage point, it’s all a speck in the void? it’s not despair driving the question; it’s a kind of bemused detachment, like watching a squirrel hoard nuts with frantic precision and thinking, “mate, what’s the endgame?” this is where the notion of life’s absurdity creeps in—not as a punchline, but as a puzzle. it’s the tension between taking our pursuits seriously and knowing, deep down, that they’re stitched together from quirks and contingencies that could’ve been otherwise.
philosophers have wrestled with this for ages, often framing absurdity as a clash between our aspirations and the world’s indifference. but i’m not convinced the problem lies out there, in the universe’s cold shoulder. the real snag is inside us: we’re wired to chase meaning while simultaneously clocking the arbitrariness of the chase. we’re like characters in a pixar flick, pouring heart into quests we half-know are idiosyncratic—think woody clutching his sheriff badge, aware it’s just a toy’s prop, yet still rallying the gang. this isn’t about futility; it’s about the oddity of being creatures who can see the strings of our own puppet show and keep performing anyway.
let’s unpack this. absurdity, in this sense, isn’t about life being meaningless or our goals being pointless. it’s about the peculiarity of our condition: we take things seriously—our jobs, our relationships, our moral codes—while recognizing they’re grounded in a specific, contingent way of being human. my morning coffee ritual isn’t mandated by the cosmos; it’s just what i, a particular human with a particular history, do to kickstart the day. and yet, i guard those beans like they’re the one ring. this doubleness—seriousness paired with self-aware specificity—is what makes life feel absurd. it’s not a flaw to fix but a feature of our existence, one that moral relativism throws into sharp relief.
moral relativism and the human condition
moral relativism gets a bad rap in some circles, often painted as a cop-out that leaves us adrift in a sea of “whatever works.” but that’s a caricature. at its core, relativism isn’t about denying morality’s weight; it’s about admitting that morality is always someone’s morality, tethered to a particular community, culture, or moment. there’s no universal playbook, no single way to live that every rational creature must salute. instead, moralities are like languages—diverse, evolving, and rooted in the messy particulars of human life. this view doesn’t make morality less serious; it makes it more human.
consider the way we navigate moral disagreements. when i argue with a friend over, say, the ethics of eating meat, we’re not just tossing abstract principles around. we’re grappling with our respective backgrounds—my urban, eco-conscious bubble versus her rural, farm-raised roots. relativism says neither of us is tapping into a cosmic moral truth; we’re each working from a framework shaped by our slice of the world. and yet, we argue passionately, as if our stance might shift the universe’s axis. that’s the absurd bit: we know our moralities are contingent, yet we defend them with the zeal of a marvel hero guarding the infinity stones.
this tension mirrors the broader absurdity of human life. just as we pour energy into personal rituals (my coffee, your yoga, someone else’s true crime podcast obsession), we invest in moral systems that are, at bottom, peculiar to us. the relativist doesn’t see this as a problem. unlike the absolutist, who yearns for a morality that transcends all human quirks—a kind of ethical avengers: endgame where everyone agrees on the one true good—the relativist is content with the peculiar. we don’t need to be creatures-in-general, worshipping at the altar of a universal code. being human, with all our specific baggage, is enough.
but here’s where it gets tricky. if morality is relative, can we still take it seriously without slipping into absurdity? some philosophers argue that moral seriousness demands a belief in absolute values—rules that hold no matter who or where you are. without that, they say, we’re just play-acting, like kids in a sandbox making up rules for a game that’ll dissolve at dinnertime. i disagree. moral seriousness doesn’t hinge on chasing a transcendent truth; it hinges on commitment to our own moral progress, however local and idiosyncratic that may be.
think of morality as a craft, like woodworking or coding. a carpenter doesn’t need to believe there’s one perfect table design to strive for better craftsmanship. she works within her tradition—maybe mid-century modern, maybe rustic farmhouse—and hones her skill, knowing her tables won’t suit every taste. similarly, a community’s morality can evolve to better serve its shared goals—say, fostering trust or reducing harm—without pretending to be the final word. relativism allows for this kind of progress: not toward a universal ideal, but toward a morality that’s truer to what a particular group needs and values. that’s serious work, even if it’s specific to one corner of the human tapestry.
absurdity, not ridiculousness
now, let’s circle back to absurdity. the term gets thrown around loosely, often confused with ridiculousness. if i trip over my cat while giving a zoom presentation, that’s ridiculous—worthy of a chuckle, maybe a meme. absurdity is different. it’s not about external mishaps but about an internal collision: the way we hold fast to our pursuits while seeing their contingency. it’s absurd to spend hours perfecting a spreadsheet when i know, in a million years, it’ll be dust. but i do it anyway, not because i’m deluded, but because that spreadsheet matters to me, here and now, as a creature with my particular wiring.
this is where relativism offers a kind of liberation. by embracing the specificity of our lives—our morals, our rituals, our quirks—we sidestep the trap of ridiculousness. the absolutist, chasing a universal way to live, risks looking like a cosmic try-hard, demanding that human life conform to some god’s-eye blueprint. the relativist, by contrast, leans into the peculiarity. i don’t need my coffee ritual to be eternally significant; it’s significant because it’s mine. i don’t need my morality to be the one true path; it’s enough that it guides my community’s messy, human journey.
this perspective doesn’t dissolve the absurd—it refines it. life remains absurd because we can’t fully escape that doubleness: we’re serious about things we know are contingent. but relativism makes the absurdity bearable, even comic. it’s like realizing you’re in a wes anderson film—every frame is meticulously crafted, yet you know it’s all a bit whimsical, a peculiar slice of someone’s imagination. you don’t stop caring about the story; you just enjoy the oddity of being in it.
so where does this leave us? not with a neat resolution, but with a stance. we can take our lives seriously—our morals, our projects, our quirks—without pretending they’re written in the stars. we can strive for moral progress, not as a quest for absolute truth, but as a human endeavor, grounded in our particular form of life. and we can laugh, gently, at the absurdity of it all: creatures like us, specific and idiosyncratic, pouring heart into pursuits that are ours alone. it’s not ridiculous. it’s just human.
references
velleman, j. david. “life absurd? don’t be ridiculous.” in foundations for moral relativism, 2nd expanded ed., 119–27. open book publishers, 2015. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt19b9jt0.1d
