The author and his group encounter a dying pilgrim, or Sadhu, while on a mountain climbing expedition in the Himalayas. They help the holy man but ultimately continue on their trek to reach the summit, prioritizing their goal over further assistance. The author reflects on this experience and how it relates to business ethics, questioning whether goal achievement should come before other considerations.

1. The Insufficiency of Honesty
From a book
by
Stephen L. Carter
A couple of years ago I began a university commencement
address by telling the audience that I was going to talk about
integrity .The crowd broke into applause. Applause! Just
because they had heard the word "integrity": that's how starved
for it they were. They had no idea how I was using the word, or
what I was going to say about integrity, or, indeed, whether I
was for it or against it. But they knew they liked the idea of
talking about it.
Very well, let us consider this word "integrity." Integrity is like
the weather: everybody talks about it but nobody knows what to
do about it. Integrity is that stuff that we always want more of.
Some say that we need to return to the good old days when we
had a lot more of it. Others say that we as a nation have never
really had enough of it. Hardly anybody stops to explain exactly
what we mean by it, or how we know it is a good thing, or why
everybody needs to have the same amount of it. Indeed, the only
trouble with integrity is that everybody who uses the word
seems to mean something slightly different.
For instance, when I refer to integrity, do I mean simply

2. "honesty"? the answer is no; although honesty is a virtue of
importance, it is a different virtue from integrity .Let us, for
simplicity, think of honesty as not lying; and let us further
accept Sissela Bok's definition of a lie: "any intentionally
deceptive message which is stated." Plainly, one cannot have
integrity without being honest (although we shall see, the matter
gets complicated), but one can certainly be honest and yet have
little integrity.
When I refer to integrity, I have something very specific in
mind. Integrity, as I will use the term requires three steps:
discerning what is right and what is wrong; acting on what you
have discerned, even at personal cost; and saying openly that
you are acting on your understanding of right and wrong. The
first criterion captures the idea that integrity requires a degree
of moral reflectiveness. The second brings in the ideal of a
person of integrity as steadfast, a quality that includes keeping
one's commitments. The third reminds us that a person of
integrity can be trusted.
The first point to understand about the difference between
honesty and integrity is that a person may be entirely honest
without ever engaging in the hard work of discernment that
integrity requires.; she may tell us quite truthfully what she
believes without ever taking the time to figure out whether what
she believes is good and right and true. The problem may be as
simple as someone's foolishly saying something that hurts a
friend's feelings; a few moments of thought would have
revealed the1ikelihood of the hurt and the lack of necessity for
the comment. Or the problem may be more complex, as when a
man who was raised from birth in a society that preaches racism
states his belief in one race's inferiority as a fact, without ever
really considering that perhaps this deeply held view is wrong.
Certainly the racist is being honest-he is telling us what he
actually thinks- but his honesty does not add up to integrity.
TELLING EVERYTHING YOU KNOW
A wonderful epigram sometimes attributed to the filmmaker
Sam Goldwyn goes like this: "The most important thing in

3. acting is honesty; once you learn to fake that, you're in." The
point is that honesty can be something one seems to have.
Without integrity, what passes for honesty often is nothing of
the kind; it is fake honesty-- or it is honest but irrelevant and
perhaps even immoral.
Consider an example. A man who has been married for fifty
years confesses to his wife on his deathbed that he was
unfaithful thirty-five years earlier. The dishonesty was killing
his spirit, he says. Now he has cleared his conscience and is
able to die in peace.
The husband has been honest-sort of. He has certainly
unburdened himself. And he has probably made his wife (soon
to be his widow) quite miserable in the process, because even if
she forgives him, she will not be able to remember him with
quite the vivid image of love and loyalty that she had hoped for.
Arranging his own emotional affairs to ease his transition to
death, he has shifted to his wife the burden of confusion and
pain, perhaps for the rest of her life. Moreover, he has
attempted his honesty at the one time in his life when it carries
no risk; acting in accordance with what you think is right and
risking no loss in the process is a rather thin and unadmirable
form of honesty.
Besides, even though the husband has been honest in a sense, he
has now twice been unfaithful to his wife: once thirty-five years
ago, when he had his affair and again when, nearing death, he
decided that his own (peace of mind as more important an hers.
In trying to be honest he has violated his marriage vow by
acting tow d his wife not with love but with naked and perhaps
even cruel self-interest.
As my mother used to say, you don't have to tell people
everything you know. Lying and nondisclosure, as the law often
recognizes, are not the same thing. Sometimes it is actually
illegal to tell what you know, as, for example, in the disclosure
of certain financial information by market insiders. Or it may be
unethical, as when a lawyer reveals a confidence entrusted to
her by a client. It may be simple bad manners, as in the case of

4. a gratuitous comment to a colleague on his or her attire. And it
may be subject to religious punishment, as when a Roman
Catholic priest breaks the seal of the confessional-an offense
that carries automatic ex- communication.
In all the cases just mentioned, the problem with telling
everything you know is that somebody else is harmed. Harm
may not be the intention, but it is certainly the effect. Honesty
is most laudable when we risk ourselves; it becomes a good deal
less so if we instead risk harm to others when there is no gain to
anyone other than ourselves. Integrity may counsel keeping our
secrets in order to spare the feelings of others. Sometimes, as in
the example of the wayward husband, the reason we want to tell
what we know is precisely to shift our pain onto somebody else-
a course of action dictated less by integrity than by self-
interest. Fortunately, integrity and self-interest often coincide,
as when a politician of integrity is rewarded with our votes. But
often they do not, and it is at those moments that our integrity is
truly tested.
Another reason that honesty alone is no substitute for integrity
is that if forthrightness is not preceded by discernment, it may
result in the expression of an incorrect moral judgment. In other
words, I may be honest about what I believe, but if I have never
tested my beliefs, I may be wrong. And here I mean "wrong" in
a particular sense: the proposition in question is wrong if I
would change my mind about it after hard moral reflection.
Consider this example. Having been taught all his life that
women are not as smart as men, a manager gives the women on
his staff less- challenging assignments than he gives the men.
He does this, he believes, for their own benefit: he does not
want them to fail, and he believes that they will if he gives them
tougher assignments. Moreover, when one of the women on his
staff does poor work, he does not berate her as harshly as he
would a man, because he expects nothing more. And he claims
to be acting with integrity because he is acting according to his
own deepest beliefs.

5. The manager fails the most basic test of integrity. The question
is not whether his actions are consistent with what he most
deeply believes but whether he has done the hard work of
discerning whether what he most deeply believes is right. The
manager has not taken this harder step.
Moreover, even within the universe that the manager has
constructed 1 for himself, he is not acting with integrity.
Although he is obviously wrong to think that the women on his
staff are not as good as the men, even were he right, that would
not justify applying different standards to their work. By so
doing he betrays both his obligation to the institution that
employs him and his duty as a manger to evaluate his
employees.
The problem that the manager faces is an enormous one in our
practical politics, where having the dialogue that makes
democracy work can seem impossible because of our tendency
to cling to our views even when we have not examined them. As
Jean Bethke Elshtain has said, borrowing from John Courtney
Murray, our politics are so fractured and contentious that we
often cannot reach disagreement. Our refusal to look closely at
our own most cherished principles is surely a large part of the
reason. Socrates thought the unexamined life not worth living.
But the unhappy truth is that few of us actually have the time or
cons ant reflection on our views-on public or private morality.
Examine them we must, however, or we will never know
whether we might be wrong.
None of this should be taken to mean that integrity as I have de-
scribed it presupposes a single correct truth. If, for example,
your integrity-guided search tells you that affirmative action is
wrong, and my integrity-guided search tells me that affirmative
action is right, we need not conclude that one of us lacks
integrity. As it happens, I believe--both as a Christian and as a
secular citizen who struggles toward moral understanding--that
we can find true and sound answers to our moral questions. But
I do not pretend to have found very many of them, nor is an
exposition of them my purpose here.

6. It is the case not that there aren't any right answers but that,
given human fallibility, we need to be careful in assuming that
we have found them. However, today's political talk about how
it is wrong for the government to impose one person's morality
on somebody else is just mind- less chatter. Every law imposes
one person's morality on somebody else, because law has only
two functions: to tell people to do what they would rather not or
to forbid them to do what they would.
And if the surveys can be believed, there is far more moral
agreement in America than we sometimes allow ourselves to
think. One of the reasons that character education for young
people makes so much sense to so many people is precisely that
there seems to be a core set of moral understandings-we might
call them the American Core-that most of us accept. Some of
the virtues in this American Core are, one hopes, relatively
noncontroversial. About 500 American communities have signed
on to Michael Josephson's program to emphasize the "six
pillars" of good character: trustworthiness, respect,
responsibility, caring, fairness, and citizenship. These virtues
might lead to a similarly noncontroversial set of political
values: having an honest regard for ourselves and others,
protecting freedom of thought and religious belief, and refusing
to steal or murder.
Honesty AND COMPETING RESPONSIBILITIES
A further problem with too great an exaltation of honesty is that
it may allow us to escape responsibilities that morality bids us
bear. If honesty is substituted for integrity, one might think that
if I say I am not planning to fulfill a duty, I need not fulfill it.
But it would be a peculiar morality indeed that granted us the
right to avoid our moral responsibilities simply by stating our
intention to ignore them. Integrity does not permit such an easy
escape.
Consider an example. Before engaging in sex with a woman, her
lover tells her that if she gets pregnant, it is her problem, not
his. She says that she understands. In due course she does wind
up pregnant. If we believe, as I hope we do, that the man would

7. ordinarily have a moral responsibility toward both the child he
will have helped to bring into the world and the child's mother,
then his honest statement of what he in- tends does not spare
him that responsibility.
This vision of responsibility assumes that not all moral
obligations stem from consent or from a stated intention. The
linking of obligations to promises is a rather modern and
perhaps uniquely Western way of looking at life, and perhaps a
luxury that the well-to-do can afford. As Fred and Shulamit
Korn (a philosopher and an anthropologist) have pointed out, "If
one looks at ethnographic accounts of other societies, one finds
that, while obligations everywhere playa crucial role in social
life, promising is not preeminent among the sources of
obligation and is not even mentioned by most anthropologists."
The Korns have made a study of Tonga, where promises are
virtually unknown but the social order is remarkably stable. If
life without any promises seems extreme, we Americans
sometimes go too far the other way, parsing not only our
contracts but even out marriage vows in order to discover the
absolute; minimum obligation that we have to others as a result
of our promises.
That some societies in the world have worked out evidently
functional structures of obligation without the need for promise
or consent does not tell us what we should do. But it serves as a
reminder of the basic proposition that our existence in civil
society creates a set of mutual responsibilities that philosophers
used to capture in the fiction of the social contract. Nowadays,
here in America, people seem to spend their time thinking of
even cleverer ways to avoid their obligations, instead of doing
what integrity commands and fulfilling them. And all too often
honesty is their excuse.
________________
*See brief bio of Stephen Carter
Home

8. The Parable of the Sadhu
On a mountain climbing expedition to the Himalayas, Bowen
McCoy, a managing director of the Morgan Stanley Company,
and his party found a pilgrim, or Sadhu, dying of cold.
Although the climbers helped the holy man, Mr. McCoy and his
team ultimately pressed on with their trek, determined to reach
the summit. This unexpected ethical dilemma left them
questioning their values--and the values of business, which
often places goal achievement ahead of other considerations. In
this moving article, which received the Harvard Business
Review’s Ethics Prize in 1983, Mr. McCoy relates his
experience in the distant mountain of Nepal to the short and
long-term goals of American business.
Last year, as the first participant of in the new six-month
sabbatical program that Morgan Stanley has adopted, I enjoyed
a rare opportunity to collect my thoughts as well as do some
traveling. I spent the first three months in Nepal, walking 600
miles through 200 villages in the Himalayas and climbing some
120,000 vertical feet. On the trip my sole Western companion
was an anthropologist who shed light on the cultural patterns of
the villages we passed through.
During the Nepal hike, something occurred that has had a
powerful impact on my thinking about corporate ethics.
Although some might argue that the experience has no relevance
to business, it was a situation in which a basic ethical dilemma
suddenly intruded into the lives of a group of individuals. How
the group responded I think holds a lesson for all organizations
no matter how defined.
Sadhus, or holy men, roam the countryside of India and Nepal,
begging for food
The Sadhu
Nepal experience was more rugged and adventuresome than I
had anticipated. Most commercial treks last two or three weeks
and cover a quarter of the distance we traveled.

9. My friend Stephen, the anthropologist, and I were halfway
through the 60-day Himalayan part of the trip when we reached
the high point, an 18,000-foot pass over a crest that we'd have
to traverse to reach the village of Muktinath, an ancient holy
place for pilgrims.
Six years earlier I had suffered pulmonary edema, an acute form
of altitude sickness, at 16,500 feet in the vicinity of Everest
base camp, so we were understandably concerned about what
would happen at 18,000 feet. Moreover, the Himalayas were
having their wettest spring in 20 years; hip-deep powder and ice
had already driven us off one ridge. If we failed to cross the
pass, I feared that the last half of our "once in a lifetime" trip
would be ruined.
During the late afternoon, four backpackers from New Zealand
joined us, and we spent most of the night awake anticipating the
climb. Below we could see the fires of two other parties, which
turned out to be two Swiss couples and a Japanese hiking club.
To get over the steep part of the climb before the sun melted the
steps cut in the ice, we departed at 3:30 a.m. The New
Zealanders left first, followed by Stephen and myself, our ports
and Sherpas, and then the Swiss. The Japanese lingered in their
camp. The sky was clear, and we were confident that no spring
storm would erupt the day to close the pass.
At 15,500 feet, it looked to me as if Stephen were shuffling and
staggering a bit, which are symptoms of altitude sickness. (The
initial stage of altitude sickness brings a headache and nausea.
As the condition worsens, a climber may encounter difficult
breathing, disorientation, aphasia, and paralysis.) I felt strong,
my adrenaline was flowing, but I was very concerned about my
ultimate ability to get across. A couple of our porters were also
suffering from the height and Pasang, our Sherpa sirdar
(leader), was worried.
Just after daybreak, while we rested at 15,000 feet, one of the
New Zealanders, who had gone ahead, came staggering down
toward us with a body slung across his shoulders. He dumped
the almost naked, barefoot body of an Indian holy man--a

10. Sadhu-- at my feet. He had found the pilgrim lying on the ice,
shivering and suffering from hypothermia. I cradled the Sadhu’s
head and laid him out on the rocks. The New Zealander was
angry. He wanted to get across the pass before the bright sun
melted the snow. He said "Look I’ve done what I can. You have
porters and Sherpa guides. You care for him. We’re going on!"
He turned and went back up the mountain to join his friends.
I took a carotid pulse and found that the Sadhu was still alive.
We figured he had probably visited the holy shrines at
Muktinath and was on his way home. It was fruitless to question
why he had chosen this desperately high route instead of the
safe, heavily traveled caravan route through the Kali Gandaki
gorge. Or why he was almost naked and with no shoes, or how
long he had been lying in the pass. The answers weren’t going
to solve our problem.
Stephan and the four Swiss began stripping off outer clothing
and opening their packs. The Sadhu was soon clothed from head
to foot. He was not able to walk, but he was very much alive. I
looked down the mountain and spotted below the Japanese
climbers marching up with a horse.
Without a great deal of thought, I told Stephen and Pasang that I
was concerned about withstanding the heights to come and
wanted to get over the pass. I took off after several of our
porters who had gone ahead.
On the steep part of the ascent where, if the ice steps had given
way, I would have slid down about 3,000 feet, I felt vertigo. I
stopped for a breather, allowing the Swiss to catch up with me.
I inquired about the Sadhu and Stephen. They said the Sadhu
was fine and that Stephen was just behind. I set off again for the
summit.
Stephen arrived at the summit an hour after I did. Still
exhilarated by victory, I ran down the snow slope to
congratulate him. He was suffering from altitude sickness,
walking 15 steps, then stopping, walking 15 steps, then
stopping. Pasang accompanied him all the way up. When I
reached them, Stephen glared at me and said: "How do you feel

11. about contributing to the death of a fellow man?" I did not fully
comprehend what he meant. "Is the Sadhu dead?" I inquired.
"No, replied Stephen, "but he surely will be!" After I had gone,
and the Swiss had departed not long after, Stephen had
remained with the Sadhu. When the Japanese had arrived,
Stephen asked to use their horse to transport the Sadhu down to
the hut. They had refused. He had then asked Pasang to have a
group of our porters carry the Sadhu. Pasang had resisted the
idea, saying that the porters would have to exert all their energy
to get themselves over the pass. He had thought they could not
carry a man down 1,000 feet to the hut, reclimb the slope, and
get across safely before the snow melted. Pasang had pressed
Stephen not to delay any longer.
The Sherpas had carried the Sadhu down to a rock in the sun at
about 15,00 feet and had pointed out the hut another 500 feet
below. The Japanese had given him food and drink. When they
had last seen him he was listlessly throwing rocks at the
Japanese party’s dog, which had frightened him.
We do not know if the Sadhu lived or died. For many of the
following days and evenings Stephen and I discussed and
debated our behavior toward the Sadhu. Stephen is a committed
Quaker with deep moral vision. He said "I feel that what
happened with the Sadhu is a good example of the breakdown
between the individual ethic and the corporate ethic. No one
person was willing to assume ultimate responsibility for the
Sadhu. Each was willing to do his bit just so long as it was not
too inconvenient. When it got to be a bother, everyone just
passed the buck to someone else and took off."
I defended the larger group saying "Look, we all cared. We all
stopped and gave aid and comfort. Everyone did hit bit. "The
New Zealander carried him down below the snow line. I took
his pulse and suggested we treat him for hypothermia. You and
the Swiss gave him clothing and got him warmed up. The
Japanese gave him food and water. The Sherpas carried him
down to the sun and pointed out the easy trail toward the hut.
He was well enough to throw rocks at a dog. What more could

12. we do?" "You have just described the typical affluent
Westerner's response to a problem. Throwing money--in this
case food and sweaters--at it, but not solving the fundamentals!"
Stephen retorted.
"What would satisfy you?" I said. "Here we are, a group of New
Zealanders, Swiss, Americans, and Japanese who have never
met before and who are at the apex of one of the most powerful
experiences of our lives. Some years the pass is so bad no one
gets over it. What right does an almost naked pilgrim who
chooses the wrong trail have to disrupt our lives? Even the
Sherpas had no interest in risking the trip to help him beyond a
certain point."
Stephen calmly rebutted, "I wonder what the Sherpas would
have done if the Sadhu had been a well-dressed Nepali, or what
the Japanese would have done if the Sadhu had been a well-
dressed Asian, or what you would have done, Buzz, if the Sadhu
had been a well-dressed Western woman?" "Where, in your
opinion," I asked instead, "is the limit of our responsibility in a
situation like this? We had own well-being to worry about. Our
Sherpa guides were unwilling to jeopardize us or the porters for
the Sadhu. No one else on the mountain was willing to commit
himself beyond certain self-imposed limits." Stephen said, "As
people with a Western ethical tradition, we can fulfill our
obligations in such a situation only if (1) the Sadhu dies in our
care, (2) the Sadhu demonstrates to us that he could undertake
the two-day walk down to the village, or (3) we carry the Sadhu
for two days down to the village and convince someone there to
care for him." "Leaving the Sadhu in the sun with food and
clothing, while he demonstrated hand-eye coordination by
throwing a rock at a dog, comes close to fulfilling items one and
two," I answered. "And it wouldn't have made sense to take him
to the village where the people appeared to be far less caring
than the Sherpas, so the third condition is impractical. Are you
really saying that, no matter what the implications, we should,
at the drop of a hat, have changed our entire plan?"
From Western State University – Ogden, Utah

13. Bowen McCoy�Photos by Mike Brozda
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