This I Believe: Truth is an Odd Number

Photo by Johannes Krupinski on Unsplash

“Be cool to the pizza dude.”

Twenty years ago NPR produced a series called “This I Believe.” In each short episode, someone described their conviction that something mattered. There were hundreds, and I must have heard many. As time passed, only one stayed with me: “I believe in failure.” Yes. Failure can be useful. We can learn from it, and often it’s a sign that we have walked courageously into uncertain territory. To avoid failure, avoid risk; but a life without risk is narrow.

Recently I became curious about all the episodes I’ve forgotten. I found two books containing hundreds of the episodes. Browsing the table of contents was a pleasure. The writers believed in listening; in jazz; in restlessness, in mysteries, in reading, and  the rule of law. One of the most charming is called “Be cool to the pizza dude.” The writer lets a delivery driver cut her off in traffic, and calls it an exercise in humility, forgiveness, and empathy; her courtesy honors hard work.

Reading these essays made me wonder what my own would be like. That took me to a deeper, less sunny, place. “I believe in  . . . “ a lot of things. But what first came to mind was truth. I believe in telling the truth.

My own beliefs took me to a deeper, less sunny, place.

A few minutes’ reflection took me deeper. Philosopher Linda Zagzebski reminds us that honesty requires more than avoiding lies:  “An honest person is careful with the truth.” She searches critically for the truth, and conveys it with care.

Here’s the truth I’ve found: The world is complex, both morally and practically; rock-solid certainty is rare. And yet we must act. Philosophers have written a lot on the issue. Aristotle warned those tempted by absolute skepticism that it would allow them to say nothing and do nothing, except waggle their fingers. In other words, the uncertainty in the world must be acknowledged, but we must also find a way to live with it. As of  course we do; we weigh our options, decide, and move on.

These convictions live in my mind as two historic, heartfelt outcries. First, Oliver Cromwell’s “I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, consider that you might be wrong.” (“In the name of all that is sacred,” for the 21^stcentury?) Then Martin Luther’s “Here I stand; I can do no other. Their long ago causes (political and religious) do not speak to me. Their principles do.

Recently I’ve come across a short, cryptic, phrase, that also works for me. In a wildly inventive satirical novel the phrase “The truth is an odd number” occurs randomly. It’s never explained; I don’t know what the author meant. For me, though, it captures the conviction that the world is complicated, that complete certainty is rarely available. To stretch the metaphor: My beliefs rarely have the smoothness of an even number. There is always an unfinished edge, always more to explore.

And so, I believe in making thought-out decisions and yet keeping our minds open.

Many factors can make us reach conclusions too soon. I wrote a few weeks ago about the narrow left-to-right line we use to represent American politics. The image is misleading, and encourages an us-versus-them mentality: If they’re in favor of something, we have to be against it.

War and the atrocities of others

War has a similar effect. In World War II both sides bombed cities, which is a war crime. Because Germany and Japan lost, and their evil was larger, misdeeds by the Allies were never fully addressed. We are a little clearer about Vietnam, but prefer not to think about it. (As a refresher, I recommend watching “The Fog of War.”)

In the Middle East right now, each side uses the other’s evil to justify its own. Hamas defended its October 7 attack as the only possible response to decades of Israeli oppression. It gives the same reason for embedding itself in hospitals, schools, and apartment buildings, thus ensuring the deaths of thousands of its own people.

In response, Israel routinely violates rules of war: Its killing is massively disproportionate; its blockage of food, water, and medical aid calamitous.

War and the “othering” of others

“As far as we are concerned, [the detainees] are all terrorists,”said the commander of an Israeli prison where Palestinian prisoners are systematically tortured. I am reminded again of my own country’s  crimes, of Abu Ghraib and of the CIA’s “black sites after 9/11.

Hamas massacred an Israeli community with an important history of peace activism. Their dedication didn’t matter; they were all Jewish Israelis, and so considered legitimate targets.

Here at home, I too often hear “Jews” used when “the pro-Israel lobby” should be said. I t_­oo often hear “Arab” or “Muslim” used when Hamas or Hezbollah should be.

War blinds us to the humanity of our enemies and to our own wrongdoing. When a war finally ends, we can sometimes see more clearly. The essential question about the Middle East is about how to end the carnage. I have no answers. But billions of dollars, along with fierce energy and thought, have been used for killing. Let’s turn these resources toward peacemakng.

In the welter of questions and accusations, of “what if” and “what now,”  I have several convictions.

This I believe:

That no one’s atrocities justify those of others.

Whether or not the intentions of the two parties are equally evil, the impact of those intentions can be wildly different. (Israel, geographically a sliver of land, feels existentially threatened.)

And this I know:

That in the conflict in the Middle East, now and for decades past, Palestinians have overwhelmingly borne the brunt of the suffering.

Truth is an odd number.

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