Beyond the limit
Don't ask yourself a difficult question unless you are prepared to answer it. I found that out last week in preparation for a discussion of the Torah portion at my synagogue. Last Shabbat's double portion was Behar-Behukotai. Included in these chapters from Leviticus is talk of temple tithes and sacrifices. They would eventually prove a springboard for medieval sage Maimonides to discuss, in his Mishne Torah, the limits on generosity. That is, how much is a Jew expected to give to tzedaka before it is "too much"?
Maimonides takes the by-now familiar tack that only "pious fools" give so much to charity that they make themselves dependent on others. "Rather," he writes, "whoever wishes to expend his money in good deeds should disburse no more than one fifth."
Depending how you read it (or how much you give), Maimonides' advice sets either a limit or a goal. (One tenth is the traditional tithe.) Either way, Maimonides' words are comforting to those tortured by the possibility that they are not doing enough.
But what if we turned the question around? Does our responsibility change when we know that whatever luxury we allow ourselves – indeed, any expenditure we make beyond what economists call "marginal utility" – could have been put to saving the life or health of another? That is the exceedingly uncomfortable question the Princeton-based ethicist Peter Singer has been asking, in global poverty forums and the pages of The New York Times Magazine. Can we really limit our generosity in the face of overwhelming need?
Singer asks his question using the parable of the Drowning Child. If you saw a child drowning in a pond, would you risk ruining your new suit and shoes in order to save him? Most people would answer yes. But if you knew a child was starving or ravaged by disease in another part of the world, would you risk those same clothes – or their dollar equivalent – to save him? Most of us would also answer yes. Most of us have donated to charity money that could well have gone to another suit or pair of shoes.
But Singer keeps pressing. What about that other suit, and another child? And another? On what moral basis can you justify spending on anything beyond your basic needs when you could save a child's life? (And trust him – kids are dying. He quotes a UNICEF figure that "more than 10 million children die every year – about 30,000 per day – from avoidable, poverty-related causes.")
Some might reply with the "fair share" argument – one person alone can't be expected to save all the world's children; Maimonides realistically puts limits on the temptation to think one can. Singer challenges the "fair share" argument with a variation on his parable. Suppose more than one kid was drowning, and you were the only one among a crowd on the shore who dives in to help. Would you stop after one kid, demanding that others do their "fair share"? And if they didn't, would you let the other kids drown?
At this point, Singer's readers' discomfort turns to pique. Who is Singer to preach? Isn't this the same "ethicist" whose views on animal rights often seem indistinguishable from eugenics? And admittedly, I don't know how Singer, whose grandparents were killed in the Holocaust, reconciles his "a man is a dog is a pig is a monkey" morality with views on global poverty that assume what in Jewish tradition is known as tzelem Elokim – that is, that all human lives have equal and infinite value.
Others want to know about his lifestyle: How many suits? How many shoes? What's he doing at Princeton, knowing his salary comes out of astronomical tuition fees? (Singer says he gives about 25 percent of his earnings to anti-poverty NGOs, adding, "I don't claim that this is as much as I should give.")
And yet none of that matters if his challenge is legitimate. And I don't think I'd be as uncomfortable as he makes me if it weren't.
There are other objections to Singer's parable. Unlike Maimonides, who understands that humans have other needs besides food, clothing, and shelter, Singer doesn't account for human nature. (Although, he might counter, what is religion if not an effort to mediate between human nature and the ideal?)
Don't we best help the poor by feeding an economy that creates jobs – for the tailor who makes the suit, for the man who sells him the cloth, for the woman who picks the cotton, for the farmer who plants the seed? (Perhaps, he writes, but the poorest 10 percent of the world's population lack either the resources or infrastructure to participate in, or benefit from, the global economy.)
How do we know our charity dollars won't end up in the hands of corrupt governments or outlaws? (Responds Singer: "Providing that aid isn't actually counterproductive, even relatively inefficient assistance is likely to do more to advance human well-being than luxury spending by the wealthy.")
Singer the theorist takes his ideas to their logical extreme. Singer the realist accepts the "fair share" argument, worried that setting a higher standard than that may discourage people who would otherwise give. His real-world proposal is that the rich can and should give more. He has calculated that the top 10 percent of Americans in terms of wealth could increase their donations to over $400 billion – without sacrificing what most of us would consider an affluent lifestyle. (In 2005, total U.S. charitable donations, including individuals, foundations, bequests, and corporations, amounted to just over $240 billion.) That $400 billion is more than six times what would be required to meet the UN's Millennium Development Goals, which include halving the proportion of people who suffer from hunger, reducing by two-thirds the mortality rate of children under five years old, and halving the proportion of people without access to safe drinking water.
This only scratches the surface of Singer's views on giving and the serious objections of his critics. But even a flawed or unrealistic argument is valuable if it shakes us out of our assumptions. The Jewish way of giving has served the poor well. It honors the dignity of the giver and the needs of the recipient.
But Singer is writing philosophy for a time of unimaginable affluence and unrelenting poverty. He is challenging each of us to take the plunge.
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