Introduction
As the number of people who do not believe in God continues to grow globally (Voas, 2025; Kasselstrand et al, 2023), it is increasingly important to understand the altruistic values and pro-sociality of such people, especially given the widespread prejudice that godlessness and goodness don’t or can’t go together (Spiegel, 2010). Indeed, numerous studies have found that one of the strongest stereotypes regarding atheists is their supposed immorality (Stahl, 2021; Gervais et al, 2017; Mudd et al, 2015; Cook et al, 2015; Gervais, 2014; Wright and Nichols, 2014; Edgell et al 2006; Jenks, 1987). As Will Gervais’s (2014) findings reveal, many people “intuitively judged a wide variety of immoral acts (e.g., serial murder, consensual incest, necrobestiality, cannibalism) as representative of atheists, but not of…other religious, ethnic, and cultural groups.” Simpson and Rios (2017) concur, documenting how this negative association of atheism with immorality is “pervasive worldwide.”
Concomitantly, there is a large body of research linking religiosity with moral behavior such as volunteering and altruism (Bennet and Einolf, 2017; Son and Wilson, 2012; Vezino and Crompton, 2012), with many studies reporting that religious people are more likely to help others than non-religious people (Wiepkingm et al, 2014; Musick and Wilson, 2008; Becker and Dhingra, 2001). While some scholars have empirically challenged/problematized this correlation (Speed and Edgell, 2023; Frost and Edgell, 2017), and others have raised sharp and insightful critiques of the finding that pro-sociality is higher among the religious than the secular (Storm, 2015; Galen, 2012), the fact remains that many people associate religiosity with altruism, whether or not such an association is warranted (Pessi, 2011; Norenzayan and Shariff, 2008).
Given these common and widely-held assumptions – the linking of atheism with immorality and the related association of religiosity with altruism – it makes sense that scholars have paid very little attention to nonbelievers in God who do, in fact, engage in altruism Frost and Edgell, 2017; Galen, 2015).
Thus, there remains a notable lacuna concerning the charitable activities and altruistic commitments of atheists and agnostics. Much of the existing scholarship has centered on religious affiliation as a key predictor of philanthropic engagement, thereby reinforcing a theocentric framework that neglects secular expressions of altruism (Putnam & Campbell, 2010; Regnerus, Smith, & Sikkink, 1998). As Zuckerman (2014) observes, “nonreligious people are often perceived as morally suspect or civically disengaged, yet such assumptions are rarely subjected to rigorous empirical scrutiny” (p. 3). This oversight not only perpetuates stereotypes about secular individuals but also obscures the pluralistic nature of moral reasoning and prosocial motivation in contemporary society. Moreover, studies that do acknowledge secular altruism often do so incidentally or through comparative frames that privilege religious explanations (Stark & Finke, 2000), thereby failing to explore the unique social contexts and ethical orientations that inform non-theistic charitable behavior. Consequently, research is needed to critically examine various dimensions of secular altruism and to broaden the conceptual boundaries of pro-sociality beyond religious limits. We seek to address this lacuna by focusing on altruistic, pro-social nonbelievers: their motivations, values, reflections, and experiences.
Both altruism and pro-social behavior are related but distinct concepts: altruism refers to actions undertaken with the primary motivation of benefiting others, often at a cost to oneself, without expectation of personal gain (Batson, 2011), while pro-social behavior encompasses a broader range of actions intended to help or benefit others, including those driven by self-interest, social norms, or reputational concerns (Eisenberg et al., 2015).
Mixed Findings
Most information we have on secular pro-sociality and atheistic altruism is quantitative in nature. And as mentioned above, the findings are mixed. Some have found evidence suggesting that nonbelievers are less charitable than religious believers (e.g., Thornton and Helms, 2012; Johnson, 2013; Son and Wilson, 2012; Brooks 2006). However, others have found that secular people are actually not less charitable than their religious peers. Frost and Edgell (2017) found that “the nonreligious are… not any less likely than the religious to volunteer for neighborhood and block associations, local and national political groups, or hobby and interest groups. In fact…atheists are more likely to volunteer for hobby and interest groups than are the religious. Indeed, atheists and agnostics “value civic engagement and volunteer for many social and political groups at similar or higher rates as do religious individuals.” Speed and Edgell (2023), in a study of Canadians, found that atheists were more likely to volunteer than religious individuals that have low church attendance rates but were less likely when compared to frequent attenders, and that the difference in rates of volunteering between atheists and religious people “was driven by the latter’s volunteering in a religious context, not in the broader community. The results suggest that atheists likely have fewer opportunities to volunteer but are similarly inclined to volunteer.” Putnam and Campbell (2010) found that while church-attending Americans donate more time and money to charitable causes than non-church-attending Americans, belief in God doesn’t have the same effect; people who believe in God but are not members of a religious congregation do not donate time or money in higher than average amounts and people who don’t believe in God, but are members of a religious congregation — for whatever reason – do; see also Son and Wilson (2012) for further explication of this dynamic. Finally, Hallin et al (2024) had Americans, Swedes, and Egyptians play the “Dictator Game” in which participants, in multiple rounds, decided how much money to keep for themselves and how much to give to three other players; they found that religious people were more generous compared to non-religious people, but only when information about the other players’ religious affiliation was available, but not when it wasn’t. That is, if religious people are more generous, this mainly occurs when they are giving to others parochially, within their same religious group (see also Galen, 2017; Cragun, 2013; Rozin, et al, 1999).
Atheistic Values in Action
The qualitative research presented here is not intended to weigh in on or settle the divergent findings above. Rather, its goal is simply to add to the inchoate but growing body of knowledge concerning the values, morals, and ethical worldviews of contemporary secular people (Galen, 2018; Baggett, 2019; Speed, et al, 2024; Speed et al, 2018; Lee, 2015; Zuckerman, 2014), especially those who eschew belief in God (Speed et al, 2024; Abbott and Anaya, 2022; Smith, 2013; Schnell and Keenan, 2011; Beit-Hallahmi, 2007). Existing research in this area tends to focus on what nonbelievers happen to say, write, or express in terms of their values and beliefs when asked to declare such matters in a survey or interview – but rarely are these articulated values connected to how nonbelievers actually live them out; that is, how they “walk the walk.” Thus, to the best of our knowledge, no study drawing on in-depth interviews of nonbelievers has yet examined their actual, active altruistic engagement in the world.
In seeking to gain insight into both the sentiments as well as actions and lived experiences of altruistic nonbelievers, we sought out individuals who could be considered as atheistic in orientation as possible. We therefore interviewed individuals who: 1) do not believe in God, 2) were raised by people who did not believe in God, and 3) grew up in a society where atheism was a majority orientation. First, lack of belief in God was obviously needed to consider someone a nonbeliever. Second, we wanted nonbelievers who were themselves raised by nonbelievers, so as to exclude or strongly limit the possibility of theistic parental socialization. Third, we wanted these individuals to also be from a strongly secular and highly atheistic society, so as to further limit the possibility of wider religious or theistic cultural influences on them. We were able to find such individuals in Estonia (Remmel and Friedenthal, 2020; Remmel, 2024).
Estonian Atheism
As Zuckerman, Galen, and Pasquale (2016) have argued, it is helpful to differentiate between societies that have experienced organic secularization versus those that have experienced coercive secularization. In the former, religion weakens or evaporates freely in democratic societies that do not penalize or persecute religion, while in the latter, religion is actively oppressed and religious people are persecuted by the state. Estonia, a small Northern European country on the Baltic Sea with a population of approximately 1.4 million, has experienced both: coercive secularization under the Soviet occupiers, which started in 1940, and then organic secularization after achieving post-Soviet independence in 1991 (Remmel, 2016, 2015). Unlike many former Soviet-occupied nations that saw an uptick in religiosity after the fall of the USSR (Hormel, 2010; Krindatch, 2006; Froese, 2004), Estonia saw no such religious revival. To the contrary, religious belief has continued to decline since the days of the Soviet occupation, so that today Estonia is one of the most atheistic nations in the world (Remmel, 2024), with a majority of individuals there lacking a belief in God (Kasselstrand, Zuckerman, and Cragun, 2023).
Evidence of Estonia’s predominantly secular, non-theistic culture includes: a 2009 International Gallup survey which found Estonia to be the least religious country in the world (Crabtree and Pelham, 2009); Statistics Estonia reported that in 2011, 54% of Estonians lacked any personal religiosity, a percentage that had risen to 58% in 2021; a 2017 Pew study which found that 56% of Estonian adults did not believe in God. Remmel (2017) reports that only 17% of Estonians claim that religion is important in their life; almost 90% never talk about religion with their friends or family; about 80% never think about religion; 75% never pray. When it comes to key Christian beliefs on the afterlife, only 14% believe in heaven and 12% believe in hell. Remmel, who has studied irreligion in Estonia extensively, additionally documents how religion and theism are so rare, marginal, and insignificant in contemporary Estonia, that most people there are simply indifferent to such matters and don’t even have much to say about it. As he explains:
When my interviewees talk about religion, what is most striking is their grasping for words—they often go silent or mumble while trying to describe feelings, thoughts, or opinions, compensating this with gesticulation. Furthermore…many students were even puzzled by the meaning of the word “religion,” and their answers reflected their distance from the concept. As a result, they rarely appear to acknowledge religion in their everyday life…Lack of contact with religion was one of the central findings during my interviews: many participants claimed to have met religious people only one or two times in their entire life (Remmel, 2017).
Altruism
Like any broad term meant to capture a combination of both intention and behavior, altruism is a widely debated concept with multiple meanings (Pfattheicher et al, 2022; Clavien and Chapuisat, 2013; Kerr, et al, 2004). Indeed, there are numerous typologies and taxonomies of altruism, and they vary from academic field to academic field. For instance, within certain circles of Biological Theory (Zwick and Fletcher, 2014), differences can be made between kin altruism, group altruism, human species altruism, and sentience altruism; within areas of Economic Psychology (Khalil, 2004), distinctions can be made between “egoistic,” “egocentric,” and “altercentric” forms of altruism; within Social Psychology (Feigin, et al 2014), there are contrast between normative or autonomous altruism and arousal-reduction vs. negative state relief models; still others (Clavien and Chapuisat, 2013) broadly distinguish between psychological altruism (the motivation to improve others’ interests and welfare), reproductive altruism (increasing others’ chances of survival and reproduction at the actor’s expense) behavioral altruism (bearing some cost in the interest of others), and preference altruism (a preference for others’ interests).
To present, discuss, and navigate this semantical, classificatory, and typological landscape is well beyond the confines of this paper. We do not intend to enter any philosophical, bio-evolutionary, or social-psychological debates surrounding the meaning or usage of the world “altruism.” Rather, we simply wish to shed light on nonbelieving individuals and their pro-social behaviors that we consider to be altruistic, which, in the words of Piliavin and Charng (1990) entails “acting with the goal of benefiting others.” Whether such behavior makes the altruistically acting person feel good about themselves as a result of their efforts (Smith, 1980; Haski-Leventhal, 2009) is irrelevant to our usage of the term altruism, which we understand to mean pro-social, intentional behavior which seeks to help other sentient beings, alleviate their suffering, or increase their well-being.
All of the individuals that we interviewed for this study engaged in some form of altruism voluntarily, without getting paid for their actions, and without expecting any direct, in-kind reciprocal favors, gifts, donations, or other such payback from those they were helping.
Participants
All seventeen interviewees for this study were Estonian and had spent most of their lives living in Estonia, although some were living outside of Estonia at the time of their interview. Of the seventeen, 9 were women and 8 were men. Seven were between the ages of 30–39; eight were between the ages of 40–49; and two were between the ages of 50–59. Ten grew up in one of Estonia’s largest cities, while seven grew up in a smaller town or village with fewer than 15,000 residents. In terms of educational attainment, all had some level of post secondary education. As their highest level of education, 1 had begun two unfinished college degrees, 1 went to trade school for business management, 1 had a B.S. degree, 6 had B.A.s., 4 had masters degrees, and 4 had PhDs. In terms of marital status and family life, 6 were married, 5 were in long term partnerships, 1 was divorced, 1 was widowed, 3 were unmarried with no mention of a partner, and 1 did not disclose marital status. 9 individuals said they had children, and 8 did not.
Just over half of the seventeen people were involved in one specific kind of altruistic activity, while just under half were engaged in more than one. The various types of altruistic endeavors they engaged in included:
Organizing and coordinating material aid to be sent to those affected by the war in Ukraine
Working with children with special needs
Serving as a volunteer on a local fire brigade
Frequent donating of blood
Offering various kinds of classes, from science to sports, to students of varying ages
Protecting local fish from poachers
Fighting for the civil and legal rights of LGBTQ+ Estonians
Serving in volunteer national defense unit
Leading various kinds of secular youth groups
Rescuing injured animals in the wild
Sheltering abused animals and abandoned dogs
Helping Ukrainian refugees resettle and adapt
Serving as a medic in a women’s defense unit
Fundraising for children’s hospitals
Helping at orphanages
Weekly visiting with elderly people who are living alone
Raising money for cancer patients
Working with homeless children
Volunteering at a high school Science Olympiad
Methods
Employing a non-judgmental, non-probability, purposive sampling method, participants for this study were selected based on these three characteristics: being a nonbeliever in God, having been raised by nonbelievers, and growing up in a predominantly secular, atheistic society. We primarily relied on snowball sampling, in which potential informants were recommended to us by those already interviewed. As such, ours is a convenience sample and not generalizable to the wider Estonian or global-atheistic populations.
We initially found interviewees by asking an Estonian colleague to mention our study on social media. This led to the first batch of volunteers, who, after being interviewed via Zoom, recommended others that we could reach out to for additional interviews. Those interviewees, in turn, recommended others. All interviews were conducted in English on Zoom and video and audio recorded, with the consent of the participants. Two required the assistance of a translator, one of whom spoke very little English, so all of her quotes were translated from Estonian by said translator. Most interviews lasted approximately one hour, with some slightly less and others lasting a bit longer. After each interview, transcripts were made, read, and coded using an in vivo practice (Strauss, 1987). In terms of our analysis, we employed a traditional thematic approach (Guest et al, 2012): the process began with the transcribing the recorded interviews verbatim, followed by our reading of the transcripts to deepen our familiarity with the responses. We then coded the transcripts using both inductive and deductive approaches, searching for expected themes and patterns as well as being open to and highlighting those that emerged unexpectedly, without our prompting. We also did our best to maintain a reflexive stance, checking our own biases and assumptions that might influence our interpretation.
Finally, all interviewees quoted in this article were given Estonian pseudonyms, so as to increase confidentiality.
Self-Identification
While all participants were nonbelievers who did not maintain any religious faith or engage in any religious practices, many shied away from the atheist label; one participant identified as “pagan,” one as “Christian,” one as “non-religious,” and the remaining seven avoided giving any specific label when asked to self-identify. Of those who did call themselves atheist, they often expressed hesitancy and voiced concern with how the term could be interpreted. For example, of those who were reluctant to self-label as “atheist,” Vaino, age 34, expressed his worries well. When asked whether he would call himself an atheist, he explained:
I generally don’t really use that word because, like, I don’t consider myself a militant atheist because – because I was studying also in the [University Name] in the theology department, as a nonreligious person. So it also meant that I had a lot of friends who were in some way involved with religion. Some of them were becoming a priest, basically, so because I had a lot of friends like that, I never wanted to demean them so – and they were very understanding of my positions also, so I had very fruitful conversations with them.
When asked if he would embrace the label in a more private context, outside of a theology department, or if it was simply asked in an anonymous survey or something of the sort, his answer changed:
I would probably say I’m an atheist. But, at the same time – I’m sort of like – yeah, yeah. I probably would say I’m an atheist.
Vaino’s perception that public identification as an atheist could be possibly offensive or antagonistic was shared and reiterated by Kaspar’s (age 44) description of the label atheist as a “loaded term” and Hardi’s (age 38) belief that an atheist must be “anti” religion. Such negative connotations with the label “atheist” were coupled with a general ambivalence towards religious labels altogether.
Participants’ reluctance to self-identify as atheist – even though they lacked a personal belief in God – aligns well with what others have found. For example, Stewart (2016) has reported that the American Mosaic Project’s Boundaries in the American Mosaic (BAM) survey of Americans found 4% identifying as an atheist, but over 13% claiming to not believe in God or a higher power. In this instance, many more Americans lack a belief in God (and are thus functionally atheistic in orientation) than Americans who explicitly self-label as atheist. Similarly, Gervais and Najle (2017) cite a PEW study which reveals a similar disparity: 3% of Americans identify as atheist, but 11% claim to not believe in God. Greeley (2003) found the same dynamic in Europe at the end of the 20th century: in Bulgaria, 40% did not believe in God but only 17% identified as atheist; 38% of Slovenians did not believe in God but only 17% identified as atheist; 20% of Austrians did not believe in God, but only 6% identified as atheist, 43% of the Dutch did not believe in God but only 17% identified as atheist; 54% of Czechs did not believe in God but only 20% identified as atheist– and so on. Thus, the reluctance for some Estonian non-believers to adopt the label of atheist comes as no surprise.
Interestingly, most interviewees were, frankly, rather unused to being asked for such self- identification. Roland, age 43, expressed this bewilderment well:
To be honest, I don’t even know what’s the difference between atheist, agnostic or nonreligious. So for me, like anything goes, like, I don’t care. But if I – if I have to say I’m – I say I’m atheist, so, yeah…
When asked if he would call himself an atheist, Aksel (age 34) said:
Yeah, I would label so. Yeah, in…in…in my upbringing and in pretty much everyone’s upbringing, it – it was so God-free that no one actually put – even thought about putting labels to themselves, you know. And, but, yeah…definitely I’m not religious, I’m not agnostic, I’m pretty, pretty, pretty much atheist.
Like Roland and Aksel, many other respondents gave the distinct impression that they were thinking through the question – and their answers – as they spoke. That is, they had no automatic, well-rehearsed religious identification embedded into their identity, ready to proclaim. Their social worlds did not seem to require one.
This lack of a personal, ready-held, easily articulated religious or non-religious label is distinct from other highly secular European nations, such as those in Scandinavia – where people, even if they don’t believe in or participate in religion, will still perfunctorily identify as “Christian” (Taira, 2017; Kasselstrand, 2015; Demerath, 2000). That is, while some Estonians don’t necessarily employ the label of atheist – which is similar to what is found in other highly secularized populations – they also don’t automatically identify as “Christian,” which is unusual, and possibly unique.
Life Without Religion
To get a deeper sense of their nonbelieving identity amidst such a secular culture, we asked our respondents if religion ever came up in their daily life, and if not, how they then navigated their existence without religion (Manning, 2019; Baggett, 2019). They all explained that, in their society, religion hardly ever comes up at all, even in the face of mortality, tragedy, or various important moments of transition or change in life. Indeed, every single respondent reflected on how religion simply was not a frame of reference, form of discourse, or area of thought in their lives, even if they happened to have had a distant religious relative, or even if they had ever been curious about religion themselves at some point in life.
Grete, age 44, tried to articulate how religion is treated in Estonia – indifferently (Quack and Schuh, 2017) – with the following relevant anecdote:
We had one Catholic preacher, Father Philip. When he came to Estonia it was in the early ‘90s, and he was so surprised that when he told somebody that he is Catholic, then Estonians’ reply was like – okay…it was like, I said, “I had coffee for breakfast, and Estonian said, like, I had tea.” So what? It was like he was so surprised that people were so indifferent about religion.
She went on to explain that in her experience:
Most Estonians, when they are asked – when you – when was the last time they thought about religion or how to define themselves in religion, it was on my way to America, because there are people who usually ask: are you religious, and what religion? And then it’s like: which am I – agnostic, atheist, which one? So it’s like debate on your plane to America. It’s like, which one, which one? Decide – decide quickly.”
The sense that religion simply does not come up much in Estonia, and when it does it is treated as rather trivial or insignificant, was a consistent theme among interviewees.
As Aksel explained:
Well in…in…in primary school, I knew only one person who was religious…God, God – was well – God exists only in jokes, or as a tool of humor, or something like this.
When asked if religion ever comes up in his social world, Roland said:
If you ask then I think I can’t even say whether my friends are either agnostic or atheist or believers. I have no idea. The topic – the topic just doesn’t come up.
Anton, age 32, responded to the same question:
Sometimes when we are drinking a beer or two, or vodka or something like this, then we are making some kind of jokes about the religion. So yeah, and sometimes we are discussing about Muslims, but yeah, mainly those topic are so five minutes talk or something like this, not anything deep.
As Lehte, age 46, explained when asked if any of her friends are religious (through the help of a translator):
Like, it’s kind of difficult to say, because, yeah, people here don’t always talk about that all that much.
While the specifics of experiences vary—some people do casually chat with friends about religion on occasion, while for others it’s a non-topic—- the near total absence of religion as a cultural force was remarkably consistent.
Given such a deeply secular social environment, it is unsurprising that many respondents – when asked questions such as “Why be a good person if there is no God?” or “If there is no God, isn’t life meaningless?” – responded by taking issue with the very premise of such questions; they were affronted or bewildered by the assumption that belief in a god makes people good or provides life meaning.
On Being Good and Living Well
Typical is Arvi, age 42, who said rather ironically:
This is quite a damp answer, but if only your fear of God makes you not doing bad things, then you’re not a good person at all. Yeah, and I don’t know, I don’t need, like, a punishment in afterlife, and I steal something, then I get punished in real life… It’s, [Earthly] punishment is good enough for me. No need for heavenly one.
When asked what he would say to people in the U.S. who believe society would lack goodness and thus fall apart without religion, Henry, age 36, took a similar tone:
Well, I don’t see chaos when I look outside the window, so I guess everything worked out here.
In addition to such slightly glib responses, there were also many thoughtful, slightly halting reflections on what it means to live a nonreligious life, and how respondents would describe their own personal philosophies when it comes to living well. A few respondents emphasized how life without religion can give meaning because you must treat it as your only life, and make the absolute most of it. As Hilja, age 34, put it:
Perhaps it even gives more meaning to this life that we have, if we just one life. And if there would be, I think it would be point – more pointless then – if you would, if this would be just something temporary, that we will have to cross, and then it would be like heaven or something. And so, so, this having just one life is more meaningful.
Many struggled to clearly articulate what exactly it means to be good, or why one should strive to be good. Aksel expressed some of that struggle, but also reflected on how religion would not help him. He also reflected the common sentiment that being good often comes down to behaving as one would wish others to behave, so that the world is a little better of a place:
Why would I be a good person for God? That’s— for me – it makes even less sense. You know, I, I try to be a good person, or at least law-abiding citizen for the society to work. If I don’t be, if I don’t follow the rules, if others don’t follow the rules, then, well, then we would all experience hell, but hell on Earth.
Irma, age 50, gave a particularly articulate answer, explaining her view on why people are good, after responding to the question with laughter:
There’s so many different religions in the world. Some religions don’t even have a God, and they are very nice people. The world is full of very nice people who have, I think it’s sort of payback thing, that if you yourself have experienced that somebody helped you in a very difficult situation, you – you pass it on. It’s a natural thing. It’s the way that humanity is stuck to or is glued together, that we are there for each other, and we share experiences, and people who have been through some mental difficulties, illnesses and get cured, they help others in the same situation because they feel that it’s the gift of getting cured or becoming well. They pass it on. So it’s a natural thing. It’s nothing to do with a religion. It’s just something to do with being human. And I think it’s very much having this experience that somebody helped you, that you pass on. I believe it’s like that, because my own experience, I started giving, since I have experienced that, some people have been there for me in difficult situations and opened their house and their hearts for me without being Christian, but just being nice people who see that they are very much, they are better off than me, and they find it natural to help someone who is not that well off.
To Irma, as well as to our other interviewees, while being good or finding meaning were complicated puzzles with no straightforward answers, religion simply did not factor into each individual’s journey to put the pieces together.
Expressing Their Values
Given that altruistic endeavors are assumed to be linked to personal values (Bekkers, 2007; Bardi and Schwartz, 2003), we asked our respondents about theirs. Notably, when asked directly how they would describe the values that guide them, many struggled to respond, meeting the question with awkward laughter and pithy phrases like “the values of a normal human being” or being a “decent person.”
Pilvi was one of the people who struggled the most, saying:
Yeah, you should send that question before I’ve thought about it. [laughs]… It’s hard to say like that. So it’s like asking: what’s the point of living?
However, when the interviewer took a different approach, asking what values she wished to pass on to her children, she could offer a clearer answer:
Kind and compassion. So work– you have to do – but hard working, usually Estonians are hardworking and many are too hard working. They work themselves to death. So that’s not good. Kind to other people, because if we don’t care about others, so what’s the point to living? So you’re not alone in the world.
Many other respondents followed this pattern of struggling to voice specific values at first. This is not necessarily a result of their being nonreligious; many individuals – whether secular or religious — often have an intuitive sense of their values but struggle to verbalize them in clear and coherent terms when asked. Indeed, studies in moral psychology indicate that while people may act in accordance with certain ethical principles, they frequently lack the explicit language to define or justify these principles when prompted (Haidt, 2001; Haidt, Bjorklund, & Murphy, 2000).
Interviewees were able to articulate their values better, and provide clearer responses, when we asked about values in relation to their children [e.g., “what values do you try to develop in your children?”] or their own upbringing [e.g., “what sorts of values do you recall learning as a child?”]. Common responses to such inquiries stressed kindness and good citizenship, with 7 people stressing helping others, and 3 others citing the golden rule of “treating others how you want to be treated,” or the karmic notion that “what goes around comes around.”
Taimi gave one particularly useful example of how she wishes to embody these sorts of values when it comes to parenting:
One time I was shopping and I went up to this senior citizen. This was a lady, maybe 80 years – and she was looking some product like, very closely – like what is written there. And I went up to her and offered my help. And she said, “Yes, could you please read me what is written there?” And I read it. And a few months later, my 6-year old, went to an elderly gentleman. He was also like – he couldn’t open this freezer’s door or something. And she went to offer her, offer her help, and her help was kind of appreciated, and she could help him…I remember that because I really liked it, and I could see that my work is kind of paying off.
Other values stated multiple times by various respondents included: open-mindedness, honesty, freedom of personal choice, fairness, empathy, skepticism of dogma, and hard-work.
When asked where their values came from, most interviewers cited upbringing and/or parental guidance, while a few spoke of other influences in their lives. For example, Monika’s belief that she got her values not from her parents, but “from books definitely – I read a lot of books at a very young age.”
A few people also viewed their values as being somewhat innate or “common sense.” And again, many respondents struggled to give specific responses or examples.
Kaspar’s (age 44) effort captures some of this initial uncertainty, along with the common explanations given:
“Hmm, well, that’s – it’s a pretty deep question. So I think, I think there is – it may have, okay…the the very origin – it might be related to how we were raised, like me and my siblings. So, there was this notion of helping out each other, and also, like, whenever any of our relatives was having a hard time, then, yeah, I – I remember…I remember my mom taking a really active role in – in terms of helping out. So I think they say that if you, if you have an opportunity, and you, and you have the means, then, yeah, use some of it to…to help someone. It was probably like one of, one of the values that you, that you get as a child when you grow up. So, so that might be – that might be one aspect of it. But, but there is probably also, well, you, you do get some – just good feeling inside yourself that, hey, I’m…I’m doing something that is good. I’m a good person. I feel good about myself. So it is – there is also this, somehow, somehow selfish aspect to it.
This out loud thinking through of the question – as exhibited by Kaspar above – was quite common when it came to all questions posed about values, and speaks to the infrequency with which interviewees encounter such questions.
Why Engage in Altruistic Behavior
Respondents provided a variety of reasons for why they initially began their charity/volunteer work, from loneliness, to newfound free time, to changing political conditions (specifically the Russian invasion of Ukraine), to the encouragement of a beloved teacher, to a desire to give back to a community that had previously served them.
For Henri, age 36, being a firefighter was kind of a childhood dream, but he was never qualified to become a professional, on account of being a poor swimmer. So, when he had a period of unemployment in 2019 and saw a volunteer firefighter position posted on Facebook, he signed up. Through that volunteer group, he later became involved with supplying Ukrainian fighters and refugees with material aid.
Birgit, age 48, had always been a lover of animals, but it was not until she hit a rabbit kit while mowing grass that she began volunteering with an Estonian animal protection NGO. “I decided to join it because I didn’t wanted to take this bad karma to the next life, so I wanted to do it in this life.” Like Henri, Birgit has continued with her volunteering for years now, and animal welfare engagement has become her primary occupation.
These two anecdotes give a sense of the diversity and seeming randomness of what initially prompted interviewees’ altruism, but they also give a sense of a common theme: belief that altruistic engagement would enrich the respondents’ lives. Monika expressed this desire for enrichment quite poignantly, when she explained how she got involved in volunteering to be an elderly person’s companion by reading an article in a newspaper about elderly people being lonely:
Well, I thought I have some spare time when I’m unemployed. So, why not? And, yeah, I mean, the article where this connection came from was very, like, moving. It was – it had – I guess, about two, I think it was about two disabled people living in some kind of a care facility, who found each other and so on. So, there was – the article itself was not advertising for the volunteering, per se. It was just like, in the end, it was like, if you want to, you know, voluntarily give companionship to somebody, please sign up. When I read the thing, the newspaper article, I actually kinda felt that I’m, I’m the lonely one, too. I mean, I’ve been in different countries. I don’t have much social contacts where all my friends have moved on with their life. I mean, I was away several years. So, so yeah, I didn’t actually have that much of, like, social things to do.
For Monika, the opportunity to volunteer was an opportunity to add meaning and social connection to her life, and boost her own self esteem. Once her visits kicked off, she described them as:
I think it was more on the good side – was definitely not, like, more depressing. I mean, she, [the elderly woman she was a companion to] she was quite negative and complaining at first and like, kind of negating like, didn’t want to do anything. But once we kind of had developed some connection, then…then it was alright, then she was already, like, looking forward to it.
Another common motivator reported was that the individuals simply felt good about their work, and better about themselves, because they were “doing the right thing,” “giving back,” and/or being “helpful” or “useful.”
Some viewed “giving back” quite literally, as they volunteered in areas where they themselves had once been assisted. Kaspar, who organizes science and math Olympiads for high school students, said:
So, I used to participate myself when I was in high school, and so it’s – it’s sort of a thing. I’m, I’m trying to give back.
Lehte, a 46-year old woman who provides horseback riding lessons for disabled people, mainly children, explained her personal connection to the work in Estonia. As her translator put it in English:
[Lehte] was saying, saying that, yeah, she had, okay, okay…she basically had a physical disability herself when she was a small child, and that her mom did lots of things for her and… ok uh, and, and that’s where she got the the initial experience of what it was like to, what to not have the same abilities. And then, yeah, and, and it’s from that gained, like empathy that now, you got your, your stable and horses, and then you, you started offering that to, to other children, and that was, like, 16 years ago.
It is perhaps intuitive that such a personal connection would make respondents feel drawn to altruistic work that benefitted the demographic they themselves once fell in. However, many other respondents without such an obvious connection to their work still felt this urge to give, or be of service.
Anete is a 46-year old woman who fundraises for a nonprofit working in children’s hospitals, volunteers as a “language mentor” and has taught Estonian in past years, and donates blood regularly. Her framing embodied a typical response:
I mean, for me, it was just, like, you know, if I can do something for others, and if it’s okay for me, I have the time, I have the energy, then why wouldn’t I do that? I mean, it’s just like, you know, for me, there is no question.
She went on to explain:
I just feel really good about myself when, you know, I managed to give something and not get anything in return…I’m sorry I want to tell another story! Years ago when donating blood they gave you like a, you know, some chocolates or some like coffee mugs or something you know in return like a little thank, you know, that you came there you gave your blood and stuff like that. I never wanted to take anything because to me that was like no – I’m doing it for free. I don’t want to get anything. There was one time when one of the employees actually was running up to me. She was screaming, “you have to take it. You have to take it!” I was running away, saying “I don’t want – I don’t want it.” Actually, now they have changed their procedures so that you can also donate the chocolates.
Anete well-articulated the pleasure and self-worth that many of the interviewees gained from their altruism, a reward clearly more meaningful to her than some free chocolate. Almost every respondent voiced some version of positive feelings ignited by volunteering or participating in charity, even if their statements were less expansive, such as Roland, who explained his feelings about his fish conservation efforts with a simple: “proud as f*ck”.
Hardi also expanded upon the worthwhile nature of his altruism, and how the ability to impact people’s lives in a very tangible way makes him feel:
And that’s the thing, I mean, just one blood donation can change a person’s life, and it changes a person’s life. Someone else can get – can live – because you just, you know, sat there for 10 minutes and gave a little bit of yourself away, which you’re not going to notice, you know, maybe for a day you notice it, but it doesn’t do anything to you, literally. However, someone else, you’re literally changing their life with that. If you do it enough times, you know, you’re going to save a life. So, I mean, it’s worth it, just doing the bare minimum.
On top of such personal satisfaction at helping other people, respondents were also motivated by a desire to change society for the better. From aiding the war effort in Ukraine, to giving to children’s charities, many altruistic efforts were aimed at creating a fairer, happier, or safer world. Anton, who donates to an organization supporting orphans, had this to say about his reasoning:
I’m just going to donate for the [children]. Because they are mostly, I believe, I don’t know, actually, but they are, like, 10-years old or 8-years old, and they don’t have any parents, so maybe my donation helping something to get better…And hopefully they are going to the university in the future and giving something back to the community.
Pilvi, a 58-year old woman who leads a local youth group, expressed similar sentiments regarding investing in the youth:
Yes, because it’s, like, for everybody’s benefit. So, you don’t do it only for yourself, especially when you work with children, so you see how they develop. And I have leaded the children group for the 10 years. So in that 10 years, some are growing up like adults already, and you see how beautiful they came out. So that’s important.
Both Anton and Pilvi feel that their work has the potential to better their communities, and Vaino, when discussing his involvement in various youth organizations, expressed that goal even more directly:
I think in my head, it’s kind of a logical structure that when we want that, when, when I want that people in my country are well educated, to have a good country, to have a good life, then you kind of have to do it. Like, I said, I’m, in a way, I’m kind of egotistical, also in that sense that I think I know certain things that – that we have to do. It’s kind of a very big self-belief. I think it’s a very strong self-belief. I have, I have kind of, I can be kind of bipolar at moments where I have a huge self-belief in the things that I do, and the next moment I hate everything that I’ve done so far, and then I need someone to build me up again. But thankfully, I have a lot of good people around me to help me build – build me up again. So, I think it’s, it’s this, it’s this need that, to have a good life, we need a lot of good people, and you have to – if you don’t do it – and you let…and then maybe no one will do it, so you kind of have to, you kind of have to do it. Yes, that’s it.
These descriptions of improvements in self-esteem, feelings of accomplishment, sense of giving back, and desires to improve society, all heavily contributed both to the motivation behind initial involvement in altruistic behavior and to the rewards derived from ongoing altruism. The other major reward described was that of social fulfillment; a majority of interviewees described the personal and social relationships they have built as one of the most positive facets of their experience. For example, Henri, Birgit, Monika, Pilvi, Irma (age 50), Arvi (42), and Taimi (age 47) all spoke of communities they had developed around their volunteer work, providing various articulations of the importance of social connection. Irma explained:
It’s very important that I enjoy the company of the other people…and that the work is well organized…If it’s not – if I feel that I don’t fit into the company – there’s no good chemistry to the people, I usually just stop. I give it a chance, I work half a year – if it didn’t work out, I just stop and find something else.
Grete, a 44 year-old woman involved in LGBT organizing, also emphasized the joy one can get out of organizing:
The best thing was always, still is, the community to people, and most of my LGBT friends are from that time or that period of my involvement there, and it was just yeah fun. It was yeah that all the people and like, yeah, different people who volunteered, and that was the fun part.
Some interviewees also mentioned the more negative side of their altruistic engagement, citing experiences working with difficult people, emotional exhaustion and burnout, feeling underappreciated at times, and experiencing self-pressure and guilt.
When asked about such negatives to his altruistic work, Hardi said:
I’d say there’s this, as I said, it’s like the self-composure. I’m pushing myself towards it. So there’s a certain element of shame towards it as well when I get lazy at some point and I don’t do something that I promise to myself that I do. Or, for example, two weeks ago I was in COVID. It’s been already two months since my last blood donation, but I’m not allowed to donate yet because of the recent covid event. So it’s kind of bothering me that I got sick with covid. It’s, you know, it’s, it’s, I have this, I would say, almost obsessive feeling to work inside me that is annoying. In a way that I’m not. I’m not doing everything I should.
He then added:
Otherwise, What’s wrong with altruism?…If it doesn’t hurt you, and if you’re learning anything in the process, if you’re getting better at it as well at the same time, you’re benefiting in a way from it as well. I don’t see anything to complain.
All respondents who expressed any complaints or difficulties were united in the feeling that the positives vastly outweigh the negatives, and that they would continue their altruistic work into the future.
Discussion
In his overview of lived secularity/non-religion in Estonia, Remmel (2024) differentiates between older Estonians who are not religious today but at least had substantial contact with religion while growing up prior to the 1960s, and middle-aged and younger Estonians, who are nonreligious today and have had no contact with religion due to “the almost non-existent visibility of religion over the last 60 years.” For such Estonians, “religion played no role in their development and their exposure to religion during their lives was very limited…so that they lacked knowledge, vocabulary, and experience of religion.” Our interviewees definitely fall in this latter cohort. For these seventeen Estonian nonbelievers, religion is so weak and marginal in their culture that they seldom think about it, don’t maintain personal labels to identify themselves in terms of their irreligiosity, and certainly don’t associate their moral values with a religious worldview. Given such a degree of secularity, their helping others has nothing to do with religious faith or religious involvement; of the men and women interviewed for this study, none engaged in altruistic activities because they believe it is what God expects of them, or because they think it might please God, or because they hope it will get them into heaven, or because their church provides opportunities for such engagement. Nor do they do so because of any church-sponsored initiatives, faith-based opportunities, religious movements, or the influence of religious relatives or friends. Rather, they all engage in altruistic activities because of strictly secular, this-worldly, personal reasons, such as: it feels good to help others, it feels right to “give back,” it provides for social opportunities and communal engagement, and it is seen as helping to make the world a better place. The responses of our interviewees are peppered with motivations and actions rooted in compassion, something uncovered by others, such as Saslow et al (2012), who found that the prosociality of less religious individuals was driven more directly by compassion for those who suffer – more so than it was a motivation for religious individuals. Others have reported similar findings (Didyoung et al, 2013).
Clearly, those who do not believe in God – even those who have been raised by nonbelievers and live in a predominantly atheistic society – can and do engage in altruism and pro-sociality. While this may be an obvious assertion to those living outside of the United States, within America, it isn’t so taken for granted, given that the notion that atheists are intrinsically immoral and antisocial is so pervasive (Klug, 2023).
Most of the individuals we interviewed were miffed by the very question of why they engage in altruistic activities. Their responses to this line of questioning tended to be limited, succinct, and mostly along the lines of “isn’t it obvious?” That is, they see their own motivation to help others as a result of the natural, basic conditions of human life (Schwartz and Bilsky, 1987), such as our bio-evolutionary past as social animals, our human nature, how we were raised, the experiences we have, and the kind of world we would like to live in.
Additionally, most of our interviewees had a difficult time naming or articulating the most important values in their lives. This seemed to be the case not because they are without such values – their altruistic activities prove otherwise – but rather, because they are not accustomed or used to having to ever name, explain, or describe them (Sayer, 2011). That is, they do not find themselves ever having to cite or specify the values that permeate their daily lives – neither to themselves or others – in an explicit or direct fashion. For them, to be a good person or live a meaningful life are certainly informed by certain values, but they are taken for granted, vague, and nebulous. However, when interviewees are asked what values they would like to pass on to their children – or see exhibited in their children – explicit values such as being kind, helping others, hard-working, being honest, treating people the way you would want to be treated, come readily to the fore.
Evidence of pro-social and altruistic behavior among secular, non-religious, nonbelieving, or atheistic individuals challenges the assumption that religiosity is a sole, unique, or primary driver of such behavior. Our findings comport with others who suggest that nonbelievers are motivated by humanistic and ethical principles, such as a commitment to social justice, empathy, and communal responsibility, rather than supernatural or divine imperatives (Galen, 2017). Like Voas and Chaves (2016), we also find that non-religious individuals can readily seek alternative means of contributing to the common good beyond the religious sphere of life.
Finally, all our informants find their altruistic activities rewarding, which is a well-known and common result of volunteering (Meier and Stutzer, 2008; Piliavin and Siegel, 2015).
In their research comparing religious and secular Canadians, Speed and Edgell (2023) note that no one hands out pamphlets or tracts on how to live life as an atheist. Thus, “much of the construction of an atheist identity has ‘bottom-up’ elements.” As such, atheists must often create their own sense of meaning and individual purpose (Frost, 2019; Baggett, 2019; Schnell and Keenan, 2011), and this is especially true in highly secularized societies such as Estonia, where religion not only has no monopolizing voice on existential meaning making, the construction of morality, or the inspiring of altruism, but barely even an echo of a voice. It is hoped that the findings here spur additional investigations into forms, motivations, and experiences of altruism among nonbelievers, especially amidst those societies experiencing the most advanced degrees of secularization (Cragun and Smith, 2024; Gifford, 2019; Wilkins-Laflamme, 2015; Crockett and Voas, 2006; Halman, and Draulans, 2006).
Competing Interests
The authors have no competing interests to declare.