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Proximalism · A reader
Page 5 of 25
Contents

Part I Psychological and Relational Baseline

Chapter 2The Line Through Every Heart

Chapter for Proximalism: Community First

Essay

The Line Through Every Heart

Chapter for Proximalism: Community First

We are not born tabula rasa. The idea that each infant arrives as a clean slate, waiting only for culture and institutions to write the story, has shaped policy and education for generations. It is also false. Genesis records the opposite observation. “The Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intention of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually” (Genesis 6:5). The flood followed because the corruption had become total and the violence filled the earth. Judgment was not arbitrary. It was the response of a God who had watched the creatures he made turn every thought toward harm.

Modern psychology and history have rediscovered the same pattern. Steven Pinker documented the persistence of the blank-slate belief in The Blank Slate (2002) and showed how it distorts both science and public life. Evolutionary psychology and behavioral genetics demonstrate that human beings arrive with temperaments, biases, and capacities that long predate any particular society. Those capacities include the readiness for dominance, envy, and cruelty as well as for cooperation and care. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, writing after eight years in the Soviet camps, put the matter in the plainest terms: “The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts. This line shifts. Inside us, it oscillates with the years.”

Jordan Peterson has spent decades studying that line. In interviews and lectures he has described filling rooms of his Toronto home with roughly two hundred pieces of Soviet Socialist Realist art—portraits of Lenin, scenes of collective farms, depictions of the revolutionary spirit. He did not collect them as decoration or nostalgia. He has said he wanted constant visual reminders “of the subjugation of art to ideology and the horrors of the USSR” and of “the human capacity for atrocity.” Norman Doidge, writing the foreword to Peterson’s 12 Rules for Life, noted that the paintings covered walls, ceilings, and even bathrooms so that Peterson could not forget “that hundreds of millions were murdered in the name of utopia.” The collection functions as a private discipline against the comfortable assumption that such things happen only to other people or in other eras.

The numbers are not abstract. The Black Book of Communism (1997), edited by Stéphane Courtois, compiled archival and historical estimates totaling roughly 94 million deaths under communist regimes in the twentieth century, including approximately 20 million in the Soviet Union and 65 million in China. These figures include executions, engineered famines, forced labor, and deportations. Archival data released after 1991 put deaths in the Gulag system itself in the range of 1.5 to 1.7 million between 1930 and 1953, with many millions more passing through the camps and special settlements. Solzhenitsyn’s literary investigation made the scale and the ordinary participation impossible to ignore. Peterson’s point, drawn from Jung as well as from Solzhenitsyn, is that the capacity did not begin with Stalin or Mao. It resides in the shadow that every person carries—the unacknowledged impulses that, under the right ideological cover and the right absence of restraint, become ordinary administration of death.

Carl Jung described the shadow as the portion of the psyche that the conscious mind rejects. When it remains unexamined, it does not disappear. It gathers force and can possess groups as readily as individuals. Peterson has repeatedly noted that ordinary people staffed the camps and the denunciation systems. In East Germany roughly one person in three was an informer for the Stasi. The tyranny was not only top-down; it lived at every level once the belief took hold that the right ends justified any means and that opponents were no longer fully human. The same pattern appears in the biblical record of Noah’s generation and in the later biblical warnings against bloodshed and the exploitation of the weak. God is described as grieved by the turn toward continual evil, yet he is also described as the one who brings justice to the downtrodden. The two are not in conflict. Judgment on systematic violence is one expression of care for those who cannot protect themselves.

The practical consequence is that large-scale systems of distant authority make the shadow harder to restrain. When decisions about resources, speech, education, and punishment are made by people who will never meet the ones affected, the ordinary incentives that keep cruelty in check weaken. Reputation, reciprocal knowledge, and the simple fact that tomorrow you will see the same faces again lose their force. Robin Dunbar’s research on primate social cognition and human group sizes has long indicated that stable, personally known relationships tend to top out around 150 people—an estimate that appears across historical villages, church congregations, and modern networks when carefully measured. Beyond that scale, formal rules and external enforcement become necessary, and those rules can be captured by the very impulses they were meant to limit.

Proximalism begins from this observation. Governance that stays within the range of people who know one another’s names, families, and ordinary conduct creates the conditions in which the line through every heart can be watched. Accountability is no longer an abstract report filed with a distant office. It is the neighbor who notices when a child is neglected, the township meeting where water rights are argued face to face, the local practice of settling disputes before they harden into permanent factions. The same proximity that makes cooperation possible also makes predation visible. A person who would exploit the weak under the cover of an ideology or a bureaucracy finds fewer places to hide when the people affected can name him and remember what he did last season.

This is not a claim that small communities are free of evil. Solzhenitsyn’s line runs through those communities as well. It is a claim that the scale at which we evolved to live with one another supplies the daily friction and the daily recognition that larger systems systematically remove. Peterson’s art collection is one individual’s method of refusing to forget. Communities that govern themselves at the scale of roughly 150 people can practice a collective version of the same refusal. They keep the historical record local and personal rather than abstract. They teach children that the capacity for harm is not something that arrives only from outside. They arrange their common life so that the consequences of cruelty fall on the people who commit it while those people are still known.

Jesus told his disciples, sent out as sheep among wolves, to be “wise as serpents and innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16). The instruction assumes both the presence of predators and the necessity of remaining without guile. Proximal arrangements make the first visible and the second more practical. When the people who hold power over daily life are the same people who must live with the results, the incentives shift. Grand projects that require treating neighbors as raw material become harder to sustain. Ordinary justice—protection of the weak, restraint on the strong, repair of damage—becomes easier to demand because the demand is made by people who will still be there tomorrow.

The twentieth century supplied the clearest demonstration of what happens when that demand is removed. The twenty-first century is testing whether we will rebuild the conditions in which it can be made again. Proximalism is one answer: return the practice of self-governance to the distance at which human beings can still see one another clearly. Keep the reminders of what we are capable of close at hand. Do not wait for a distant authority to supply the justice that only people who know one another can reliably give. The line through every heart does not disappear. It can only be watched, restrained, and answered where people still stand close enough to see it.

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