DECEMBER 8 • 2022 | 57
imprecisely, to mean a moral
problem, a difficult ethical
decision.
But a dilemma is not simply a
conflict. There are many moral
conflicts. May we perform an
abortion to save the life of the
mother? Should we obey a
parent when he or she asks us
to do something forbidden in
Jewish law? May we desecrate
the Shabbat to extend the life of
a terminally ill patient?
These questions have answers.
There is a right course of action
and a wrong one. Two duties
conflict and we have meta-hala-
chic principles to tell us which
takes priority. There are some
systems in which all moral
conflicts are of this kind. There
is always a decision procedure
and thus a determinate answer
to the question, “What should
I do?”
A dilemma, however, is a
situation in which there is no
right answer. It arises in cases
of conflict between right and
right, or between wrong and
wrong — where, whatever we
do, we are doing something
that in other circumstances we
ought not to do.
The Talmud Yerushalmi
(Terumot 8) describes one such
case, where a fugitive from the
Romans, Ulla bar Koshev, takes
refuge in the town of Lod. The
Romans surround the town,
saying: Hand over the fugitive
or we will kill you all. Rabbi
Yehoshua ben Levi persuades
the fugitive to give himself up.
This is a complex case, much
discussed in Jewish law, but it is
one in which both alternatives
are tragic. Rabbi Yehoshua
ben Levi acts in accordance
with halachah, but the prophet
Eliyahu asks him: “Is this the
way of the pious? [Vezu mishnat
haHasidim]”
Moral dilemmas are situa-
tions in which doing the right
thing is not the end of the
matter. The conflict may be
inherently tragic. Jacob, in this
parshah, finds himself trapped
in such a conflict: on the one
hand, he ought not allow him-
self to be killed; on the other, he
ought not kill someone else; but
he must do one or the other.
The fact that one principle
(self-defense) overrides another
(the prohibition against killing)
does not mean that, faced with
such a choice, he is without
qualms, especially given the
fact that Esau is his twin broth-
er. Despite their differences,
they grew up together. They
were kin. This intensifies the
dilemma yet more. Sometimes
being moral means that one
experiences distress at having to
make such a choice. Doing the
right thing may mean that one
does not feel remorse or guilt,
but one still feels regret or grief
about the action that needs to
be taken.
A moral system which
leaves room for the existence
of dilemmas is one that does
not attempt to eliminate the
complexities of the moral life.
In a conflict between two rights
or two wrongs, there may be a
proper way to act — the lesser
of two evils, or the greater of
two goods — but this does not
cancel out all emotional pain. A
righteous individual may some-
times be one who is capable of
distress even while knowing
that they have acted correctly.
What the Midrash is telling us
is that Judaism recognizes the
existence of dilemmas. Despite
the intricacy of Jewish law and
its meta-halachic principles
for deciding which of two
duties takes priority, we may
still be faced with situations in
which there is an ineliminable
cause for distress. It was Jacob’s
greatness that he was capable
of moral anxiety even at the
prospect of doing something
entirely justified, namely
defending his life at the cost of
his brother’s.
This characteristic — distress
at violence and potential blood-
shed even when undertaken in
self-defense — has stayed with
the Jewish people ever since.
One of the most remarkable
phenomena in modern history
was the reaction of Israeli sol-
diers after the Six-Day War in
1967. In the weeks preceding
the war, few Jews anywhere
in the world were unaware
that Israel and its people faced
terrifying danger. Troops —
Egyptian, Syrian, Jordanian
— were massing on all its
borders. Israel was surrounded
by enemies who had sworn to
drive its people into the sea.
And yet, it won one of the most
stunning military victories of
all time. The sense of relief was
overwhelming, as was the exhil-
aration at the reunification of
Jerusalem and the fact that Jews
could now pray (as they had
been unable to do for 19 years)
at the Western Wall. Even the
most secular Israelis admitted
to feeling intense religious emo-
tion at what they knew was a
historic triumph.
Yet, in the months after the
war, as conversations took
place throughout Israel, it
became clear that the mood
among those who had taken
part in the war was anything
but triumphal. It was somber,
reflective, even anguished. That
year, the Hebrew University in
Jerusalem gave an honorary
doctorate to Yitzhak Rabin,
chief of staff during the war.
During his speech of accep-
tance, he said:
“We find more and more a
strange phenomenon among
our fighters. Their joy is incom-
plete, and more than a small
portion of sorrow and shock
prevails in their festivities, and
there are those who abstain
from celebration. The warriors
in the front lines saw with their
own eyes not only the glory of
victory but the price of victory:
their comrades who fell beside
them bleeding, and I know that
even the terrible price which
our enemies paid touched the
hearts of many of our men. It
may be that the Jewish people
has never learned or accus-
tomed itself to feel the triumph
of conquest and victory, and
therefore we receive it with
mixed feelings.
”
These mixed feelings were
born thousands of years earlier,
when Jacob, father of the Jewish
people, experienced not only
the physical fear of defeat but
the moral distress of victory.
Only those who are capable of
feeling both, can defend their
bodies without endangering
their souls.
POINTS FOR DISCUSSION
• Do you think Jacob’s fear about Esau at the
beginning of our parshah is justified? Would Esau
be justified if he did feel that way?
• Would Jacob have been justified if he had killed
Esau?
• Do you believe it is ever ethically right to kill? If so,
when?
• What impact do you think killing can have, even
when morally justified, on a person emotionally and
spiritually?
• What lessons do you think soldiers in an army could
learn from this week’s parshah?