Unveiling naked truths behind moral dilemmas

I went to see a play last week called The Naturalists, a Griffin Theatre Company show presented at the Sydney Theatre Company, and it was an unexpectedly thought-provoking piece. It skewered fake environmentalism, greenwashing, and the absurdity of performative "virtue", all while managing to be genuinely funny and engaging.

But the most intriguing, and oddly liberating thing about the play was this...

Everyone on stage was naked. Yes, completely starkers.

Three cast members started the play nude. Two more arrived, clothed but eventually joined the no-pants policy, and soon enough, there were five entirely naked people telling this story with total commitment. And after a few minutes, genuinely only a few, the nakedness stopped being startling. It wasn't titillating, scandalous, or even particularly awkward. It simply… was.

The acting was excellent, the script was tight, and before long, the nudity wasn't the headline anymore. I found myself laughing along, invested in the characters, and forgetting that no one had so much as a sock on.

What I found fabulous was the range of bodies on stage. The first naked person we saw was a woman, maybe in her sixties, with a soft, round, unapologetically lived-in body. The two men with her were middle-aged, too, possibly middle fifties. Later came two twenty-year-olds with the kind of firm bodies you'd expect from people who still have abundant collagen.

But after five minutes, age, firmness, soft bits, flat bits, pointy bits... none of it mattered. We weren't looking at bodies anymore. We were listening to people. Characters. Humans.

My friend Su said the exact same thing as we walked out: "Wasn't it funny how we forgot they were naked straight away?" If she thought it, and I thought it, chances are half the audience felt the same.

And that's what got me thinking.

How does something that is supposedly shameful or morally questionable become completely unremarkable in under five minutes?

It made me wonder: how much of what else we call "morality" is just social conditioning? A set of rules we're handed, unquestioningly, until someone (or a theatre company) gently challenges them.

Nakedness is a perfect example. We're told from childhood that the unclothed body is private, something to hide. Yet sit in a theatre for five minutes and the entire taboo dissolves like mist.

So what else is like that?

What other "moral truths" are only true because we all politely agree they are?

And what happens to those truths under pressure?

Which brings me, awkwardly but honestly, to myself.

I consider myself a moral person. But the moment I say that, I can hear the question behind it. What does being moral actually mean? And who decides?

I try to be kind. Thoughtful. Loyal. Truthful.

I have an abundance of empathy - sometimes too much, to be honest - and I genuinely care about the well-being of other human beings.

But is that morality?

Or is that just personality?

Or is it privilege?

I grew up loved, fed, sheltered, educated - all the things that make 'morality' a lot easier to practice. It's quite simple to be a good person when you're not starving, desperate, endangered, or traumatised.

So are morals flexible?

Maybe. Probably. Most likely.

I'd love to think I'm someone who would remain kind, honest, and loyal in any circumstance - but would I? Truly? If I were starving, would I steal? If my family were threatened, would I lie or worse? If I lived in chaos or poverty, would my moral compass wobble? Would it snap?

Morality seems solid until life tests it.

Then it suddenly becomes… elastic

.

And here's another uncomfortable thought: are morals just something we live with, so we can live with ourselves?

My mum used to say, "You need to be able to live with yourself," when I had to make a hard decision on my own.

Maybe that's all morality ever is. The internal standard you set so you can look in the mirror and not flinch.

But even then, who sets that standard?

You?

Your upbringing?

Your culture?

Your religion (or lack of one)?

Your community?

Your privilege?

As an atheist, I've often been asked how I know right from wrong without a god telling me. I find that baffling because I don't need divine surveillance to know I want to behave decently. I don't need the threat of hell to stop me from lying or hurting people. I simply don't want to. It's built into me somewhere... I hope.

But where did that come from? And how deep does it go?

Which brings me neatly back to The Naturalists.

If the taboo of nakedness - something we treat as morally loaded in everyday life - can evaporate in under five minutes, what does that say about the rest of our moral categories?

Are they sturdy? Or fragile?

Are they innate? Or inherited?

Are they universal? Or circumstantial?

And perhaps most interestingly:

If you can strip a taboo off as easily as shedding your clothes, is morality just another costume we wear?

That thought both unsettles me and makes me feel a little liberated. Maybe morality really isn't a fixed thing. Maybe it's alive, responsive, and contextual... something we should examine regularly rather than blindly obey.

I left the theatre amused, challenged, and strangely hopeful. Watching five naked actors made me question what I believe, why I believe it, and how much of it is truly mine.

Maybe morality is like a wardrobe, some pieces timeless, others trendy, and some we should have donated years ago.