On the first morning of the Justice seminar, Professor Michael Harrington stood before a crowded lecture hall at a public university in Boston. The students expected a typical introduction—syllabus, grading policy, office hours. Instead, Harrington dimmed the lights and projected a single image: a rusted railway track splitting into two directions.
He introduced a scenario involving Daniel Moore, a fictional trolley operator. Daniel was driving a tram when its brakes failed. Ahead on the main track stood five maintenance workers. On a side track stood only one. Daniel could pull a lever and redirect the tram. If he did nothing, five would die. If he acted, one would die by his deliberate choice.
Harrington asked the students to vote anonymously. Nearly three-quarters chose to pull the lever.
Then he changed the story. This time, Daniel did not control the trolley. Instead, Emma Collins, a bystander, stood on a bridge above the tracks. Next to her was Robert Hayes, a large man leaning over the railing. If Emma pushed Robert onto the tracks, his body would stop the tram and save the five workers below. If she did nothing, the five would die.
The room fell silent. When the votes appeared, the result shocked many students: only a small minority believed Emma should push Robert.
Harrington didn’t comment. He simply moved on.
Next came a real-world case. At St. Anne’s Hospital, an emergency physician named Dr. Laura Bennett faced two choices during a mass casualty incident. One patient, critically injured, required all available resources. Five others were wounded but likely survivable with quick treatment. Dr. Bennett chose to treat the five. Most students agreed with her decision.
But then Harrington presented another case. Dr. Samuel Reed, a transplant surgeon, had five patients who would die within days without organ transplants. A healthy man, Andrew Keller, was in the hospital for routine tests. Killing Andrew would save five lives. Almost no one supported this option.
At this point, murmurs spread through the room. The same students who favored saving the greater number suddenly drew a hard line.
Harrington finally spoke. “You’ve just made moral judgments that contradict each other on the surface,” he said calmly. “And yet, most of you feel confident in all of them.”
He paused, letting the tension build.
“Why does intention matter? Why does direct physical involvement feel different from flipping a switch? Why do numbers matter sometimes—but not always?”
The lecture ended without answers. As students packed up, many looked unsettled. One student, Jason Miller, lingered in his seat, replaying the scenarios in his mind. He realized the course wasn’t about abstract philosophy at all. It was about the uncomfortable reality that moral reasoning governs courtrooms, hospitals, and everyday decisions.
As the bell rang, Harrington left them with one sentence:
“By the end of this course, you may no longer trust your first moral instinct.”
That was the moment the real journey began.
Over the following weeks, the Justice seminar grew more intense. Professor Harrington introduced the students to two towering figures in moral philosophy, though he did so through lived experience rather than abstract theory.
The first was Jeremy Bentham, whose ideas were reflected in decisions based on outcomes. Harrington framed Bentham’s thinking through modern legal systems—cost-benefit analyses, public health policies, and sentencing guidelines. Jason began to see Bentham’s influence everywhere. Speed limits, vaccination mandates, even tax laws seemed to follow a logic of maximizing overall benefit, even if some individuals bore the burden.
During one class, Harrington presented a real court case involving Olivia Grant, a city official who approved the demolition of an unsafe building. The decision displaced dozens of families but prevented what experts believed would have been a deadly collapse. The court upheld her choice, citing public safety. Jason recognized the same reasoning as the trolley lever: one harm accepted to prevent greater loss.
But Harrington didn’t let the students settle comfortably into that logic.
Next came Immanuel Kant, introduced not through dense readings, but through a story. In a small town, Nathan Brooks hid his neighbor from an abusive ex-partner. When the aggressor arrived and demanded to know where the neighbor was, Nathan lied. The lie saved a life. Most students applauded the decision.
Harrington challenged them. “If lying is acceptable when it produces good outcomes,” he asked, “does truth ever have intrinsic value?”
He explained Kant’s view: some actions are wrong regardless of consequences. Killing an innocent person, lying, or using someone purely as a tool violates moral duty. In Kant’s framework, Andrew Keller could never be sacrificed for organs, no matter how many lives it saved.
Jason felt the weight of the conflict. Bentham offered clarity and practicality. Kant offered moral boundaries. Both felt right—and incomplete.
The class discussion grew heated. Some students argued that refusing to act was itself a choice with consequences. Others insisted that crossing certain lines destroyed the moral foundation of society. Harrington remained mostly silent, guiding the discussion with questions rather than answers.
Outside the classroom, Jason noticed the course changing how he saw the world. News headlines about policing, healthcare rationing, and military decisions no longer felt distant. Each one mirrored the dilemmas they debated in class. Judges, doctors, and policymakers weren’t just applying laws—they were making moral choices under pressure.
Midway through the semester, Harrington assigned a paper: Describe a moment in real life when you believe a moral rule should not be broken, regardless of the outcome.
Jason struggled. He realized how often he instinctively leaned toward outcomes. But he also felt uneasy imagining a world where individuals could always be sacrificed for the greater good.
For the first time, Jason understood the course’s true purpose. It wasn’t about telling students what was right. It was about teaching them to recognize the moral weight of their decisions—and the responsibility that came with making them.
On the final day of the course, Professor Harrington returned to where he had started. No slides. No images. Just a question.
“Has anyone changed their mind?”
Several hands rose. Jason hesitated, then raised his as well.
He spoke about his paper, admitting that he still didn’t have a clean answer. “What scares me,” he said, “is realizing that laws don’t remove moral responsibility. They just distribute it.”
Harrington nodded. “That realization,” he said, “is the beginning of justice.”
The professor closed the course by revisiting the real legal case of Queen v. Dudley and Stephens, where shipwrecked sailors killed and ate a cabin boy to survive. The court rejected necessity as a defense for murder. The decision echoed Kant’s reasoning: survival did not justify killing an innocent person.
But Harrington didn’t frame the ruling as obviously correct or cruel. Instead, he asked the students to imagine being the judge, knowing public opinion was divided, knowing the men would die if punished harshly, and knowing that excusing them might legitimize killing the vulnerable in desperate times.
“There is no trolley lever here,” Harrington said quietly. “Only judgment.”
As the class ended, Jason felt unsettled—but also sharpened. He realized that moral philosophy wasn’t about hypothetical puzzles. It was about preparing citizens to face real decisions without hiding behind instinct, authority, or numbers.
Weeks later, Jason would still think about Emma on the bridge, Dr. Bennett in the emergency room, and Andrew Keller on the operating table. None of them were abstract anymore. They represented choices society continues to face—about healthcare, justice, and human dignity.
The course didn’t tell Jason what to think. It taught him how dangerous it is not to think at all.
