As a child, I always teared up as the Lassie theme song opened each weekly episode. Today, I tear up each time I hear stories or see images from Ukraine. I long for the days when I cried for Timmy and Lassie, who, in spite of 25 minutes of conflict and danger, would ultimately find safety and comfort in the final minutes of each episode. This is the beauty of a fictional television program where a happy ending can be guaranteed. Not so with life. And certainly not so with war.
The images bombard us daily: a 40-mile convoy of Russian supply vehicles pushing its way towards Kyiv; train plaforms crowded with women and children waiting to be taken across the border to safety; shells of bombed buildings and remnants of vehicles abandoned on streets; Ukranian ex-pats returning to fight for their country; volunteers from neighboring countries waiting to welcome Ukranian refugees with blankets, hot food, and hugs. The news stories profile courage and loss from those who are fleeing and those who are staying.
As this tragedy unfolds and as Volodymyr Zelenskyy pleads NATO to enact a no-fly zone over Ukraine, consider the repeated response. No, because we can’t risk a potential World War III. No, because we believe that taking this action would result in even more death and destruction. No, because Ukraine is not a NATO ally. Although I’m painfully aware of the political and moral complexity of this issue and the real risk of taking any action that may further enrage and embolden Vladamir Putin, I’m also painfully aware of how I might feel if I were a Ukranian who saw my country, my home, and my life slipping away with each passing hour. I can only imagine how I might feel as I considered arguments that may appear utilitarian, at best, and indifferent, at worst.
When we justify the morally right action to be one that produces the most good, this is generally regarded as utiltarianism. That is, according to the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, [i]n the language of utilitarians, we should choose the option that “maximizes utility,” i.e. that action or policy that produces the largest amount of good. Many of you may remember the life boat or bomb shelter exercises from psychology or sociology courses. You’re given a list with descriptions of a small group of individuals and a particular scenario. The world is being destroyed (by war, by environmental catastrophe, etc.), and you have a lifeboat that will take you away from destruction to a place where you can potentially start over, build a new life and possibly a new world. Your life boat, however, will hold only 12 people. Whom do you choose to save? Or a nuclear attack is imminent, and your bomb shelter can only hold 15 people, the last people on earth, the last hope for beginning again in the aftermath of disaster. Whom do you choose to save? The purpose of the entire exercise was to examine how you chose the individuals responsible for beginning again and populating the earth, the individuals most worthy of being saved.
Conversations were often heated and went something like this: Of course, you must keep the physician. He may be 78-years-old and suffer from a heart condition, but he has invaluable medical expertise and experience. No, absolutely not! You can’t afford to keep anyone that old with health problems, even if he is a doctor! You can’t possibly justify choosing him and leaving a healthy 20-year-old male behind just because he isn’t medically trained. Choices were most often made from and encouraged by utility: who will potentially offer the most good for the greatest number of people?
These hypothetical exercises bothered me then, but they pale in comparison to today’s real-life scenario of whom-to-save. I watch the news and find myself thinking: Will the world really stand by and watch Russia destroy an entire nation? Will we sacrifice one nation for the greater good? As I said before, I understand the moral weight of this issue and our responses to it. There are no easy answers. There are no actions that don’t carry considerable risks and tragic consequences. As much as I can try to imagine what the Ukranian people and its leaders are feeling, I also try to imagine what NATO leaders are feeling as they consider what to do–and what not to do. It goes without saying that I would not want to be in their positions and pray for their wisdom.
As a Christian, I find that I’m often plagued and confused by the whole notion of utility. In the Parable of the Lost Sheep, when a shepherd with a flock of 100 sheep loses a single sheep, he leaves the 99 to search for it. Utility would dictate that the shepherd stay with the flock, ensuring safety for the greatest number of sheep. Yet, Jesus relays the incredible worth of one lost sheep, the immeasurable value of one sinner, lost but now found. Time and again, Christ reminds me of this as he stops to minister to or heal one person in a crowd, an action that invariably frustrates his disciples who are intent to get on with the real work for the greater good. Time after time, he demonstrates the worth of a single, flawed and broken human being. In light of Christ’s words and actions, I admit that I’m truly struggling as I enter this Lenten season. As a Christian, how should I regard utility towards the Ukrainian crisis? Towards any such crisis?
Polish professor and economist Jakub Bozydar Wisniewski has written that the phrase for the greater good always precedes the greatest evil. I suspect that there are many, like me, who question if this is always true. Still, I wonder what Wisniewski is thinking as he watches thousands of Ukranian refugees pour into his country across a border which may increasingly seem to be a tenuous line between safety and destruction, good and evil. I wonder if he waits in fear for that border to close, leaving the remaining Ukranian survivors imprisoned in their Russian-occupied homeland. I wonder if he struggles with NATO’s pledge to militarily defend all of its members (but not Ukraine) even when the threat of nuclear war is imminent. I wonder if he’s puzzled by the apparent greater good paradox: we justify not taking military action in Ukraine for the greater good, but we pledge to take military action to defend our NATO allies–also for the greater good.
As always, I don’t profess to have answers, and I’m not rushing to advise NATO leaders on the best course of action. I’ve blessedly lived my life without much real threat of nuclear war. There’s no price I can ever put on this safety. But my gratitude must live alongside my anguish, and the moral tension between the two is especially palpable these days. I kneel in my own Gethsemane praying that the cup may be taken–from Ukraine and the world–but trusting ultimately that not my will but Yours be done.
