Moral Ambiguity

Many years ago, I was privileged to teach in a supplemental high school for Jewish teens. One of my favorite classes was Modern Responsa. I saw this as an opportunity to both refine their critical thinking skills and to demonstrate how Judaism adapts over time.

I began with what I thought was an easy challenge: kitniyot (some of the foods forbidden to Ashkenazi Jews during Passover). This gave me the opportunity to teach them how Rabbis from different strands of Judaism might approach a question. Then, once they felt confident in their abilities, I challenged them. We looked at the use of data from the torture of medical experimentation done by Nazi doctors in concentration camps. Can we use immorally derived information to save a life in the present? Or is the data so tainted that it is immoral to use it, even to save a life?

The students really struggled. I admit, that was my intention. They desperately wanted a good answer, one that didn’t make them uncomfortable. One said to me, “No matter what I think, I know I’m right AND I know I’m wrong.” They flip-flopped between answers, arguing every point of view. They demanded to know what the Rabbis thought. They struggled. This was not the nuance of kitniyot for them. This was moral ambiguity, and it hurt.

I think of these kids often today. In my work with clergy, I listen to the struggle with moral ambiguity all the time. How do I love a country I think is doing bad things? How to I respond to the exchange of prisoners, even murderers, for hostages? Do I shop at stores that have turned their backs of DEI initiatives? How do I love my congregants, even my children whose political beliefs horrify me?

This space of moral ambiguity is profoundly uncomfortable. Nuance is easier; it allows me to recognize that the world is complicated and challenging. I can recognize the need to hold two ideas at once. Moral ambiguity demands that I am at odds with myself. I believe concepts that are inconsistent. I can’t trust myself to make the right decision – or maybe any decision at all.

The Bavli teaches us that “these and those are the words of the Living God.” If God can be confused, can’t we?

How do we walk in the world when we are burdened by moral ambiguity? When we can’t even trust ourselves?

Some pundits don’t struggle. They believe that they see a consistent truth. But my Jewish faith demands that I look deeply into the issues of my day – the poverty I see in big cities, the wholesale firings of public servants who keep me safe, rhetoric against immigrants, the suffering of hostages and their families, war.

This is especially difficult for clergy, educators and other Jewish professionals. What position can they take on moral issues when they are struggling? Our clergy want to lead us, but they are without clear answers. And how we want them to tell us what to think. Is it acceptable to be sad at the resumption of war in Gaza, or do we acknowledge that Hamas has been rebuilding tunnels during the six-week ceasefire? It is uncomfortable to feel or think both. Do we demonstrate at Tesla dealerships? Do we celebrate the arrest of anti-Israel demonstrators or do we see this as a witch hunt, stifling free speech?

This is a time of deep moral ambiguity. Many of us are thinking long and hard about moral obligation – about what it means to have enough when others don’t, about the limitations of what I can do. I have a dear friend who does lots of work with the refugee community. Every time I’m with her, I leave feeling that I’m not doing enough to make the world a better place. What does it mean that I can spend $25 for Shmurer Matzoh and other people go hungry? Am I obligated to join every demonstration? Object to every infraction? Does my Jewish faith demand that I protect every stranger? How do we open our homes to all who are hungry?

For our leaders, these questions are multiplied. They are our teachers. They struggle with their own ambivalence and questions – even as we demand that they tell us the correct path.

As I read what I have written, I am struck by the sheer number of question marks. I am so unsure – what I must do, what I can do. We would all be better off, I think, if we allowed ourselves the difficult space of uncertainty. It’s painful and it’s real. The questions we face are vast and challenging. The answers, as my student taught me, are always right AND wrong. And our leaders are unsure, just like the rest of us.