A Complex World
I had some time off over the summer, and did what every good
Rabbi should do with some time off, and checked myself into Yeshiva.
Astonishingly it's been 18 years since I studied at the Conservative Yeshiva in
Jerusalem, it's not that I haven't done learning since then, but there is
something very special about having a run of time to pour through Rabbinic
material in detail. And that's hard to squeeze in among the other demands of a
congregational life.
The book I wanted to learn was, Meishiv Milchamah, the legal
writings of the first Chief Rabbi of the Israel Armed Forces, Shlomo Goren. You
might recognise this photo - that's Rav Goren, at the Kottel on the sixth day
of the Six Day War. Rav Goren quite literally wrote the book on how the Israeli
Army should be keep Shabbat and handle the demands of Kashrut - this is it. Meishiv
Milchama also includes sections on dealing with the status in Jewish law of the
wives of sailors, who disappeared in military service. Were it not for Goren's
interventions these women would have been left in a limbo of being neither widowed,
nor married. I enjoyed working my way through these sections, but the sections
that originally drew me to the work were ones that attempted to articulate what
it means for Israel's army to be holy. How do you balance the brutal, bloody
demands of defending a country from existential threat with a commitment to the
sanctity of all life? What is permitted in the name of self-defence either in
anticipation or as retaliation? What responsibilities does Israel's Army have
towards Palestinian non-combatants in occupied territories? And on; these are
all questions Goren Wrestles with in Meishiv Milchamah.
I want, if you will join me, to take you inside one of Rav
Goren's articles on the Lebanon War, back in the early 1980s.
In 1982 the Israeli Defence Forces invaded Lebanon, and
began a siege on its capital, Beirut, in an attempt to bring to an end attacks
on the northern Galil. Goren waded into the national debate with an article based
on an obscure demand found in Maimonides' tenth century legal code, the Mishneh
Torah. Maimonides demands that when a city is besieged an escape route must be
left for those who wish to flee.[1]
When I first heard of Goren's application of Maimonides' doctrine of the 'escape
route' to the siege of Beirut I was stunned. A siege with an escape route
seemed as much use as a bucket full of
holes. I read an article suggesting that Goren was driven by an ethical sense
that compelled him to advocate having mercy even for Israel's enemies. In fact
this was the article that inspired me to spend a summer reading Meishiv
Milchamah. I was excited to see someone, actually someone known as a
right-winger, a hawk, advocating this sort of merciful ethics.
So I went to Israel, and I got hold of the books and I read
them, and in the books I found ... that it's more complicated than that.
It turns out that when you read Goren carefully it's not so
clear that Goren is, in fact, motivated by an ethic of extending mercy towards
even your enemies. In fact he spends a great deal of time discussing the
possibility that the instruction to leave an escape route is merely, an eitzah
- a piece of advice based on a Mediaeval conception of military siege best
practice - a devar strategi - a matter of strategy - designed to weaken
the determination of the besieged population who might, if deprived of an
escape route, feel the need to fight to the bitter death. And if this is merely
eitzah - advice, a devar
strategi, then, says Goren, it's up to the Generals of the day to decide if
they want to follow this strategic advice, or other strategic advice from other
quarters.
It was a deflating moment. I was looking for some kind of
ethical beam of light to puncture the bleakness of so much that has emerged
during and since the War in Southern Lebanon. I wanted a beacon of purity to
shine into a world of military ethics I find challenging - and I thought I had
one, but on closer inspection it turned out I was mistaken. I was deflated.
And then I remembered a poster that used to hang in the
Synagogue of the Jewish Theological Seminary, where I trained for the Rabbinate.
It's an advert designed to encourage people to apply to the Seminary. In large
print is this question;
Two people are crossing a desert,
there is only enough water for one of them to make it. Who gets the water?
And then, towards the middle of the poster, in equally large
print is this comment.
There is a simple answer to every
complicated question... which is usually wrong.
And if you make it to the small print you will find out that
the question about the water is discussed in the Talmud and that if you want to
really know about what Judaism thinks should happen with this one bottle and
the two desert wanderers, you should consider studying at the Jewish
Theological Seminary.
It's an advert for a kind of Judaism prefers complex answers
to complex questions. It's an advert that suggests that simple answers are
likely to be wrong simply by dint of their simplicity. It's an advert that sums
up not so much a specific approach of the Jewish Theological Seminary, but - I
would claim - the reality of Rabbinic Judaism. Rabbinic Judaism distrusts the
simple, it is, at its very core, a journey through nuance and subtlety replete
with a deep understanding of complexity.
And in terms of my desire to find in Shlomo Goren's writings
on war a beacon of morality, it's an advert that tells me that maybe there are
no easy answers, no simple ethical solutions when it comes to war.
There is a simple answer to every
complicated question... which is usually wrong.
When we encounter religion as children - even when I first
encountered Goren - we want and we expect simples answers. Do good and get
good, say sorry and get forgiven, read a book on the morality of war and expect
to find simple morals. And now here I am - here we all are, grown up, at least
a little bit, forced to confront the reality that Judaism just like life itself,
is more complicated than that.
You may, at this point have realised, that I'm not really
giving a sermon about Israel and the complexity of defending a country
surrounded by, and even pervaded with, enemies. Or at least it's not merely
about that.
It's a sermon about what we think we are doing here as more
or less religious Jews, both praying to be sealed in the book of life, and not
really believing that there exists - up in the heavens - ledgers in which is
written whatever fate lies in store for us this year. Our religious journey is
complex, but that's OK.
It's a sermon about the world, a world where - let me return
to the subject of my sermon over Rosh Hashanah - we might want to be more
open-hearted in our welcome to refugees, but run up against complexities
because of one reason or another.
It's a sermon about our relationship with our parents, or
our children, or our work colleagues, who we would find it so much easier to
love with a full heart, if only they would do more of one thing, or less of
another. Ah these families are complex things.
It's a sermon about politics, maybe you want to support one
party, but don't like their leader, or the other, but aren't sure their
attitude towards the one issue you value more than any other is quite where you
would want it to be.
Perhaps above all this is a sermon about what it means to be
a Masorti Jew, feeling more comfortable in a place which eschews the appeal of
the simple, but wrong, in favour of a more complicated view of the world. It's
a sermon that says to those of us who can handle complexity in one area of our
life - and that is surely all of us - be more at peace with complexity
throughout a life. It's a sermon that wants us all to feel more at home in a
Jewish community that contains, and even celebrates, these tensions and
counter-tensions. It's a sermon about New London.
There is a story about a community trying to work out what
to do about one of the strange calendrical situations that come up only once
every several years. The Rabbi, who's not been so long at the shul thinks the
community should do one thing, the Cantor who's also a little on the new side
thinks the shul should do the other thing. Together they go to longest-standing
member to see what happened last time the community faced the same problem.
'Last time this happened we did what I claim we should do,' prompts the Rabbi, right?'
'No,' responds the member, 'Not right.' 'So last time this happened we did what
I claim we should do?' responds the Cantor eagerly. 'No, not that either,'
responds the member. 'Then what did happen last time?' both clergy demand,
exasperated. 'Last time this happened,' the senior member is forced to admit,
'The Rabbi and the Cantor disagreed, and we had a big old discussion about it.'
That's my kind of shul.
Have I missed out that this is a sermon about the role of
women in our services here? It's a sermon about that too.
This is a sermon about finding the nuanced, delicately
poised uneven solution more attractive than the cast-iron clear-cut one in
every part of our life.
We have a problem in this world, a problem of being seduced
by the simple. Spin-doctors insist that we - the great unwashed of a society -
are only capable of responding to the simple statements, repeated with
sufficient frequency that we come to believe them by dint of their continual
thudding against our eardrums. And they have, I'm forced to admit it, some
pretty compelling evidence on their side. But it doesn't mean I have to like
it. It doesn't mean any of us should accept it.
Particularly since so many of the failings of the world are
due to our pursuit of over simple solutions to the complexities of our lives.
The notion that a claim is better because it is simpler, or
that it becomes more persuasive simply by being repeated is one we should
reject. Instead we should ... well what exactly? This is the problem with a
world of complexity, we can find ourselves stilled, paralysed almost, and that's
no good either.
Maybe there is a way out offered by one of my most dearly treasured
verses, from the Book of Micah.
God has told you what is good and what God demands of you;
only that you should do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with your God.
I like this verse. It has its own complexities. First there
is that weasel word 'only' - as if doing any one of doing justice, loving
kindness and walking humbly with God isn't enough we are called upon to do all
three. But more than that, there are so many contradictions in the instruction.
Doing justice and being kind are often incompatible. If someone has done
something wrong, the just thing to do vigorously oppose it. The kind thing to
do is to forgive it. But there is something in this triumvirate of doing
justice, loving mercy and walking humbly that coheres as a single response.
Maybe the three legs of this verse serve as a kind of counterbalance on to the
other. When we find ourselves getting too strict and disciplined - too much
justice, maybe we should try to love kindness a little more and walk a little
more modestly. When we find ourselves walking too humbly, we should look to act
more boldly; loving more boldly and promoting more justice in the world more
vigorously. When we think we've got all the answers, we should walk a little
more humbly.
In this year to come we should take opportunities to embrace
the complexities of our life, the vibrant spectrum of colour that emerges between
the extreme polarities of a life lived in black and white.
The complex is to be welcomed. The balanced approach - do I
need a little more kindness, a little more justice, maybe a little more
humility - is the one which will mark out our lives for greater glory in the
year to come.
And as such, I commend it for us all, for a year ahead of
sweetness, health and happiness, a year of doing justice, loving kindness and
walking humbly.
Chatimah Tovah,
A good year to all,
[1]
כְּשֶׁצָּרִין עַל עִיר
לְתָפְסָהּ, אֵין מַקִּיפִין אוֹתָהּ מֵאַרְבַּע
רוּחוֹתֶיהָ אֵלָא מִשָּׁלוֹשׁ רוּחוֹתֶיהָ, וּמַנִּיחִין מָקוֹם
לַבּוֹרֵחַ, וּלְמִי שֶׁרוֹצֶה לְהִמָּלֵט עַל
נַפְשׁוֹ: שֶׁנֶּאֱמָר "וַיִּצְבְּאוּ, עַל-מִדְיָן, כַּאֲשֶׁר צִוָּה ה', אֶת-מֹשֶׁה"
(במדבר לא,ז)--מִפִּי הַשְּׁמוּעָה לָמְדוּ, שֶׁבְּכָּךְ צִוָּהוּ.
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