Developing And Expanding Limits
By: Rabbi Dr. Dovid Fox
This article is a sequel to last week’s piece entitled Possible Limits, which discussed values and boundaries. In this article, I will focus on conscience and moral sensitivity.
Our sense of right and wrong, good and bad can come from several sources. Some people grow up within a culture or religion that dictates a code of conduct and a code of values. Other people have a moral sense that was spawned by their parents and family standards. And others pursue a course of philosophical study in the hope of creating a moral framework that makes sense to them or compels them or just feels right to them because it matches their existing interests. Axiology is the branch of philosophy that studies the nature, origin, and types of values so we can understand what constitutes a value and how we can make value judgments. Metaethics studies the origins of moral concepts. Social and moral philosophers have written on these topics for many centuries, as long as people have searched for some moral truth to believe in.
Some people, however, get their moral sense from what they read. They may turn to the Written Torah, or to the many classic works about a Torah perspective on the Divine, or a Torah view on proper socialization, subjective functioning, and principles of faith. One way or another, people actively devise or passively end up with a moral framework from which they operate. It may emanate from the conscience within (the psychological mechanism which the brain develops to prompt behavior or induce inhibition and guilt along a right-vs-wrong grid), or it may reflect more conscious intellectual dictates which we give ourselves as we encounter moral challenges, temptations, and opportunities. In essence, we either adhere to moral conduct because a subtle inner voice guides us, or because a clear thought impels us. When we disregard the former, we may feel guilt. When we ignore the latter, we feel frustrated with ourselves, or we argue consciously with ourselves about why we opted to veer from our standards.
As we develop as religious Jews, we might explore the origins of our moral framework. Why do we avoid certain things and do other things? What motivates and attracts us as we aim to achieve important standards and goals? If we do what is right, how do we know it’s right? And how important is it for us to do what is right? If we do what is wrong, why does that matter and how does it affect us? Do we do what is right when there are others observing us but not in the privacy of our homes? When we do something wrong, do we feel guilty or nothing at all? In other words, how much emotion is involved when we veer from the standards that we believe in? Do we regret our actions but have no residual guilty emotions?
I once had a discussion with a rosh yeshiva about what a person should experience upon being kind or helpful to others. He said that if we are on a low madreiga (unsophisticated moral stature), we treat people kindly because it feels right to us. If we are on a higher madreiga, we are nice to others because the Torah tells us to. If we are on the highest level, it only feels right to us because the Torah says it is right. His premise was that doing things because they feel right is not a Torah value. Doing things because the Torah says so, even if we do not feel one way or the other about them, is a religious accomplishment. If we then internalize them and the Torah values becomes our own value, we have succeeded at a religious level. Reflecting on his definitions, I might conclude that there is some merit in behaving in accordance to a Torah commandment or ritual even if I do not think deeply into it or have a sense of connection to it. But if my observance of said ritual or commandment includes a subjective sense or realization that I am doing what is right and this is what is important to me, I have then attained a more spiritual—rather than behavioral—allegiance to Torah. But what this would also mean is that when my motivation to be kind, or to give charity, or rescue others is because I have a strong sense that this is important and feels like the right thing to do, I am missing out on the spiritual potential, which involves doing the act because I am commanded to do it. These are points that we should reflect on.
There is a great deal of Torah to learn, and as I said earlier, many classic volumes present frameworks for us to identify and live by Torah values. We can learn about alacrity (zerizut) in doing mitzvos. We can learn about the yetzer hara, and how to conceptualize this phenomenon, which posits that there is something within us which resists truth and prompts veering from Hashem’s path. We can learn about reverence for Hashem and where it fits in with wisdom. We have classics which approach these essences as theological axioms, as interpersonal codes, as subjective insights, and as mystical constructs. There is no shortage of sources to peruse and work with. The question that remains, however, is whether the moral framework by which we live is a product of textual study or something more basic and fundamental.
As a child, did anyone speak to you about why we believe what we believe? Did you have inspiring dialogues about what is important in life and why this is so? As you look back at your development, have your basic tenets about faith and morality matured, or are your views essentially unchanged since your childhood because they have never been addressed further? As an adult, do you have inspiring discussions about refining aspects of your character or is that something people only do in therapy? When you turned to a classic work, did you first formulate questions so you could utilize the source to help you grow or did you just sit down and have a daily “mussar seder” as you blindly tried to decipher the author’s words and attempt to devise some sense of how to implement his ideas?
Learning about yourself, about the inner workings of your mind, requires more than the ability to reflect and introspect. Without concepts and definitions, we are limited as to what we can detect and understand about ourselves. By analogy, how can we ponder our internal anatomy without a proper “road map”? There is no way, without a textbook, to figure out that you have a liver, a spleen, a colon, or a hypothalamus. If you try to ponder the workings of your mind, there is no way you could discern that you have layers of consciousness, drives, needs, fears, anxieties, or other psychological conflicts. Learning about yourself requires more than written sources. I used to be a “mussar mentor” for younger students when I was an advanced beis midrash scholar. I noted that my teenaged charges could sit down to a Mesilas Yesharim, an Orchot Tzaddikim, and a range of other classic sources and study the words and ideas but not recognize that each author was using terminology differently (for example: there is little consensus on what “middos” are), or that one source was addressing behavior while still others were addressing the subjective experience or hashkafa, addressing what Jews believe, not how Jews develop their spiritual or interpersonal life. What this means is that there are limits to what we can teach ourselves about ourselves, and limits as to how we cull from written sources the essential principles that can lead us to maturity and refinement. The missing element seems to be dialogue. And by “dialogue,” I’m not referring to listening to discourses on ethics and morality (which are undoubtedly inspiring). I’m referring to one-on-one mentoring discussions with individuals about how they stand vis-à-vis their religious views and conflicts, and which aspects they should learn more about depending on the type of growth they seek.
I think about a late yeshiva friend of mine, who met me upon his return to America after decades in Eretz Yisrael. I asked him about what had inspired him during those years and he went quiet. I asked him if he had visited the Kosel, if he had been to Tzfat, if he had traveled the country to see its holy places, if the Tanach had come alive for him. I gave him a panoply of questions in the hope that I too could inhale a scent of the sacred which I was sure he had lived and breathed.
My friend said that no, as a matter of fact, he never went anywhere or saw anything inspiring. While undoubtedly, he had learned much Torah in the beis midrash, yet he had no guide, no rebbe, no mentor, and sadly, at least in my mind, he seemed no further along in his personal and interpersonal skills then when we were both teenagers years before. During the next few years, we began a dialogue and looked for ways to give some form, substance, and feeling to the many concepts which he had studied but which lay dormant in his mind, awaiting reinvigoration.
Conscience, our internal voice of right and wrong, and our sensitivity to morality and values, require inquiry and input. Like Yaakov Avinu who encountered a malach, we need to wrestle with truth in order to understand it and work persistently to seek guidance and find meaning in what we do. We cannot undertake this process in introspective isolation. Moral maturity requires the input and mentorship of those who model the values we seek to emulate and by which we hope to live.
Rabbi Dr. Dovid Fox is a forensic and clinical psychologist, and director of Chai Lifeline Crisis Services. To contact Chai Lifeline’s 24-hour crisis helpline, call 855-3-CRISIS or email [email protected]. Learn more at www.chailifeline.org/crisis.
