Our Common Humanity
Notes from a Pandemic
Avi Sagi
Avi Sagi is a professor of philosophy at Bar-Ilan University and a Senior Research Fellow of the Kogod Research Center at the Shalom Hartman Institute.
The threat posed by Covid, or indeed any plague, is greater than that lurking in even the gravest illness. Plagues seem to evoke particularly difficult primary experiences, which pose a new challenge to consciousness: a subversion of trust in the order of the world that shakes our sense of existential safety, as the world around us becomes alien and threatening.
Human culture had already come a long way by the time it transformed a menacing world into the home where it would reside securely. At the dawn of history, the world was perceived as an array of ominous, arbitrary forces. Our existence was far from guaranteed; we had to find a way to please the gods to allow us to endure. Human life was an ongoing struggle for survival.
Religions, including the Jewish religion, assured humans that the world is ordered and organized. The psalmist excelled at expressing this religious consciousness in a hymn of thanks to God for the wondrous order of the world: “You cover it with the deep [tehom, or abyss] as with a garment” (Psalm 104:6). The abyss, the threatening chaos, is held back and the psalmist sings out in a fullness of gratitude: “O Lord, how manifold are your works! (104:24). The Jewish song of praise is complemented by the classic Greek melody, which described the world as a “cosmos,” a word denoting an orderly military camp. Order thus prevails everywhere, in a wondrous regularity that can be known and understood. Dark forces are no longer at the root of existence and no cruel arbitrary force dominates the world.
In this perception, the plague was explained as part of the world order, as a punishment for sin. The history of plagues was part of sacred history, which allowed us to determine the cause of the plague, its purpose, and, especially, how to overcome it: through repentance and fulfillment of God’s commands, which structure the order of the world.
The world became a home because humans felt safe in it — they understand it better than all other creatures because, so it was said, they represent the crowning glory of creation. As Pascal noted, “Man is but a reed, the most feeble thing in nature; but he is a thinking reed” — although the weakest, we are the only creature aware of its vulnerabilities. We became sovereign creatures not because of any physical power but because of our twin abilities to understand the world and to grasp the limits of our understanding.
For the ancients, the answer was clear — the world went wrong and the flaw is in us. The plague is a sign, a divine irruption into life due to wrong religious or moral action. They did not view nature as merely a set of laws but as a reflection of God’s might. The Creator of the world is ever-present in it and, “in his goodness, renews the act of creation every day” (from the morning prayers). Nature hangs by a thread, and human sins may cause its collapse. Thus, two actions are required at a time of plague. The first is to gather at a place where God is present — churches, mosques, synagogues, or a “city street” (Mishnah Ta’anit 2: 1) — to hear from the bearer of charismatic authority the cause of the plague and what is needed to repair it. The second is amendment following the identification of a sin or sins. The search for sin and its correction is an ancient mechanism for dealing with calamities.
TOWARD A THEOLOGY OF EVIL
“The history of plagues was part of sacred history.”
Many modern believers find it hard to accept these positions. Religious faith grants no advantage — the knowledge believers and non-believers share about the world is identical. Faith is the way believers see the world. Though it compels them (and them alone), it gives them no lead regarding life’s important questions. Modern believers may assume that plagues too are natural occurrences, not expressions of divine retribution.
If believers claim to identify the divine reasons for a plague, they are assuming they do not differ from God in their understanding of the world and, like God, can grasp the divine “rules of operation.” What, then, remains of God’s radical otherness? Eliezer Goldman, a leading contemporary Jewish thinker, put it bluntly: “For non-illusory religion, the essence of the religious position is in the sense of a contrast between the Creator and created reality and the unbridgeable distance between the human and the divine. Human reality must be accepted as it is and without illusions that we can escape it.”1
This modern attitude requires believers to take a new stand in the world. The claim that a plague is not an expression of divine wrath or punishment does not just negate the possibility that the plague is God’s work but conveys a deeper denial — the statement is meaningless since we are unable to affirm it or deny it. As humans, knowledge of God is barred to us, especially after fully grasping the meaning of the Copernican revolution set off by Kant: we can know our world but not what is beyond it. Hence, we can say nothing about the causes of the plague beyond the real causes addressed by science.
But even if human cognition is limited, and even if the divine mystery remains beyond our grasp, we do know what we must do at that time. Joseph B. Soloveitchik conveys this turnabout:
Man recognizes the world as it is and does not wish to use harmonistic formulas in order to gloss over and conceal evil … [He] is highly realistic and does not flinch from confronting evil face to face. His approach is an ethico-halakhic one, devoid of the slightest speculative-metaphysical coloration.2
In this view, the believer acts in the world with a commitment to reality as it is. The basic question that guides the believer is “what should I do and how should I act in this reality?” rather than “what should I know.” “In this dimension the center of gravity shifts from the causal and teleological aspect of evil … to its practical aspect.”
“Evil is not merely the shadow of the good.”
It is at this point that believers and non-believers meet. Atheists, who operate within an immanent context devoid of transcendence, see before them only the human and act accordingly. They do not expect redemption and do not rely on miracles. For them, rushing to help is the worthy human act. Modern religious individuals join them in this commitment to the here and now and in the demand for concrete relief of the distress and suffering confronting them.
Affirming human reality as it is means acknowledging the precedence of evil. Suggesting an explanation or a theory for the existence of evil in the world is both unnecessary and redundant. Evil is not the absence of good and, therefore, not a secondary manifestation of it. Evil exists as the expression of an imperfect human and natural reality.
A theology of evil begins from this acknowledgment, from this consciousness of evil as primary and not merely the shadow of the good. A theology of evil renounces the illusion that evil is not real and some kind of magic will make it disappear. To recognize evil is to acknowledge the disharmony of reality, indeed the absence of its basic wholeness. The central phenomena of our lives are repair, progress, and improvement — all signaling that reality, by its very nature, is incomplete.
A widespread religious stance views incompleteness as the necessary condition for the human role in the world. The theology of evil avoids this trap. If evil is not a means to something beyond it but an existing reality, can we remove it using some conceptual scheme? Can we banish a plague or a pandemic by invoking some metaphysical theory? In other words, will we explain or will we act? The theology of evil compels us to act. Soloveitchik writes:
Judaism, with its realistic approach to man and his place in the world, understood that evil cannot be blurred or camouflaged …. Evil is an undeniable fact. There is evil, there is suffering, there are hellish torments in this world. … It is impossible to overcome the hideousness of evil through philosophico-speculative thought.
THE THEOLOGY OF EVIL AND THE ETHIC OF SUFFERING
The precedence of evil and a realistic stance on the world enables the shaping of an ethic that I will call “the ethic of suffering,” which is not focused on a theodicy (from Greek theos, “god,” and dikē, “justice”) and does not ascribe immanent meaning to suffering.
This ethic requires a distinction between suffering and pain: pain is measurable and comparable, while suffering is not. Although both are subjective experiences, pain has objective characteristics. Hence, in specific circumstances such as physical injury, we can anticipate physical pain and treat it. Even if the treatment is tailored to an individual, the principles of the treatment are universal: anyone in similar conditions of pain will be similarly treated. By contrast, suffering is an inner experience, and the only way to learn about it is to be attentive and listen to the other. Sufferers are the only ones who can convey something of their experience, which remains invariably individual. Suffering cannot be “treated” by objective means; “treatment,” if available, means standing with sufferers in their suffering.
These differences show that pain is ultimately focused on the body, whereas suffering affects the whole person. Suffering may be caused by a disruption in physical activity that causes pain, but physical pain is not necessarily correlated with suffering. A spurned lover may experience unbearable suffering but its cause, rather than physical injury, is disappointment. A volcanic outburst will be painful to its victims, but the suffering from it is not contingent on the pain that it causes — we often suffer from things that cause us no physical harm. Suffering is a deep expression of evil, of the incompleteness and profound flaw of existence. An ethic of suffering reflects a clear awareness of the precedence of evil and its existential implications, conveying the noted demand for “standing with.”
Some of its fundamental elements are, first, a recognition of evil’s undeniable reality and, second, an unyielding refusal to accept this reality, a recognition that we must fight suffering. We may not defeat it completely, but we are not permitted to withdraw from the Sisyphean struggle against it. An ethic of suffering promises nothing. It gives us no serenity, harmony, or safety, and issues only one command: fight, do not surrender. It does not hinge on utopia, on the assumption that, ultimately, good will reign. The only assumption is that we must try to repair. We strive to improve, but that is not the driving impulse. We will fight even when knowing there is no hope of success because to be human means seeking rescue from evil.
“Halakhah teaches that concern for others is grounded in our common humanity.”
Third, the ethic of suffering rests on bearing absolute responsibility for the surrounding reality rather than yearning to replace it with another, more perfect one. By assuming this responsibility, we are freed from what the Polish philosopher Leszsek Kołakowski described as the theological legacy of the secular world. This legacy created a kind of “secular eschatology… a belief in the future elimination of the disparity between man’s essence and his existence.” Kołakowski points to the basic similarity between eschatology, including in its secular version, and theodicy — both represent “an attempt to find absolute justification for our life outside its limits.” Assuming absolute responsibility implies a change of consciousness — we, as humans, are in charge of regulating reality, an approach involving implications for our disposition toward ourselves and toward others.
Fourth, this ethic is directed toward the other, be it a real individual or a concrete community. An ethic of suffering is not an ethic of the concept of suffering but an ethic of actual distress. It is based on a call arising from the reality of a suffering other and not on concepts of duty or ideas about what is good and worthy. It compels actual compassion among those answering this call, where the other is present as a real being.
An ethic of suffering enables a potential link between believers and non-believers, as noted, and the differences between their worldviews become irrelevant: now there is evil, the plague threatens, and our common duty is to fight it.
Albert Camus gives moving expression to this solidarity in The Plague. In the novel, Father Paneloux searches for the cause of the plague. But his theological stance does not prevent him from standing beside Dr. Rieux to assist him in the fight against the plague. The Jesuit priest tries to convince the atheist Rieux that he is working for the salvation of humanity. Rieux rejects this: “Salvation’s much too big a word for me. I don’t aim so high. I’m concerned with man’s health, and for me his health comes first…. What I hate is death and disease. And whether you wish it or not, we’re allies, facing them and fighting them together.” This stance enables the deep intimacy between Rieux and Paneloux, who struggle against the plague with all their might. Holding the priest’s hand, Rieux says, “God Himself can’t part us now.” This is a touching moment in the struggle: in the face of evil, the believer and the atheist join hands. Their partnership prevails over religious divides.
BEING WITH THE OTHER
The religious position presented here poses a challenge to many believers. If morality, including acts of compassion, derives entirely from God’s will, what religious value can be ascribed to an act that is not derived from a divine commandment? And if we are to act in the world as if there is no God, what is the value of our faith?
Halakhah teaches that concern for others is grounded in our common humanity. I am not referring only to the principle of “in God’s image” or to the repeated injunctions to love the stranger. The example below shows how the most frequent turn to God — the blessing — derives from this immanent logic.
Jewish law prescribes a blessing on the observance of commandments touching on the relationship between humans and God. Before we put on tefillin, affix a mezuzah to the doorpost, or eat matzah on Passover, we say a blessing that includes the words, “who has sanctified us with your commandments and commanded us.” Regarding acts touching on the relationships between people, however — such as giving charity, honoring parents, and the like — we usually do not utter a blessing. We recite a blessing on the Hanukkah candles, a rabbinic commandment, but not for certain biblical commandments, such as visiting the sick. If all are God’s commandments, what justifies this difference?
Maimonides, in the twelfth century, was the first to rule that no blessing is recited on commandments touching on the relationship between humans and God. In the sixteenth century, R. Yosef Caro ruled that no blessing is recited on commandments affecting the relationship between people. Though many sages resisted his ruling, this became the practice. The underlying logic, it seems, was that the blessing for commandments between a person and God reflects the unique religious dimension of these acts, while the binding reason for commandments touching on the relationship between people is their inherent value, not God’s command.
Thus, for example, to observe the commandment of giving charity, on which no blessing is recited, wanting to give is not enough and the recipient must agree to accept. Negating the blessing conveys a deep obligation to turn to the other, to see the other’s face, the other’s claim. God commands us to turn to the other and, therefore, without the other’s cooperation, this action does not justify a blessing. Commandments between one person and another depend on the willingness of the other to respond. The other is not a mere object, an instrument for fulfilling an obligation, but a subject, just like the person performing the commandment.
Commandments between one person and another are marked by absence. They do not create a closed space comprising an acting subject, the performance of the commandment, and its object. Commandments that are conditioned by others are constituted by the presence and responsiveness of the other. The commandment is the space where a genuine encounter takes place. It summons us to place at the center the other’s needs, suffering, and desires rather than the concern to fulfill a commandment for the sake of heaven.
In other words, commandments between one person and another are dispositional; their fulfillment depends on the person’s character. Commandments mediate between two subjects — the performer and the recipient — so that the disposition is focused not only on the subject performing the commandment but also on the addressee. A disposition of compassion, mercy, and kindness obliges individuals to see themselves as claimed by the other facing them.
One who performs the commandment as an autonomous being is supposed to develop dispositions, which are suitable inner qualities. Reciting a blessing on these commandments, therefore, would negate their religious significance. Saying “who has sanctified us with your commandments and commanded us” proclaims, as it were, a barren heart, an inability to develop the quality of love, as though that person required God’s commandments to do good to the other. Such a blessing is improper, and not for nothing did the liturgy reject it.
By contrast, full responsiveness to the commandment to develop in our hearts dispositions of kindness, responsibility, and recognition of the other means giving full expression to the divine presence through our actions. It is within the immanent world, collapsing from calamity, that our humanity, and thereby also the divinity, can come forth.
RESPONSIBILITY AND KINDNESS
The pandemic is the incursion of incontrollable transcendence into our lives. Something of our trust in the world crumbles. Something in our relationship with ourselves is shaken. But beyond the experience of subverting the world order, the pandemic poses questions about our relations with ourselves, with others, and with God.
I mentioned earlier that, faced with a catastrophe, the modern believer and the non-believer might transcend themselves and recognize that suffering demands a response of kindness and help. Both adopt an ethic of suffering and decide to struggle to do good and repair as best they can. Both anchor their lives in absolute responsibility to the surrounding reality and turn to the other as a real being, as a whole and complete subject. From these dispositions, they act during the pandemic, and beyond it, for all human beings everywhere.
Is such a stance religious? The analysis of the halakhic discourse on blessings showed that indeed it is. The liturgical and halakhic reality revealed implicit and explicit options that undermine, or at least enable us to undermine, the classic dichotomy embodied in the tensions between Torah commandments and moral commandments, between Jewish particularism and human universalism, between a theology constituted around the Sinai covenant (unique to the people of Israel) and a theology founded on the creation of humankind. The liturgical tradition had its say: there is no contradiction between our common humanity and Jewish commitment.
Jewish uniqueness attains meaning and validity only if the Jew is part of the human community. Isolationist claims are voiced in the sources and, at times, even silence the mainstream tradition, but we must listen to the liturgy and the discourse it develops. The liturgy does not generate theories. It makes its voice heard through the ritual of the blessing or, in our case, it “speaks” through its silence: the human being before the Jew, for the Jew is first and foremost a human being.
Confronted with the pandemic, we may seal ourselves within our pain and suffering, engulfed in the terror enveloping our lives in darkness. We may become whining creatures, merely rowing in search of a safe shore where we will not be defeated. This terror, leeching from our lives the marrow of solidarity and empathy, may turn us into objects.
But the crisis could also prompt us to open our hearts, grow from the suffering, open up to others, see what we share and our power to reject despair, put aside what divides us, and wage a struggle against the evil outside looming above all of us. The pandemic poses a great threat, but also compels us to pose a question to ourselves: who are we and what is our connection to the other? The answer to that question will yield answers to the Jewish question and the human question both.
(Translated from the Hebrew by Hila Ratzabi, with editing by Batya Stein)
This article appears in Sources, Spring 2021
Notes
1. Eliezer Goldman, Expositions and Inquiries: Jewish Thought in Past and Present, ed. Avi Sagi and Daniel Statman (Magnes Press, 1996), 361 [Heb].
2. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, “Kol Dodi Dofek: It Is the Voice of My Beloved that Knocks” trans. Lawrence Kaplan, in Theological and Halakhic Reflections on the Holocaust, ed. Bernhard H. Rosenberg and Fred Heuman (Ktav, 1992), 55.
