An Opening to Intellectual Humility
On the way home from our family vacation in the south, we stopped at a playground in Ben-Gurion’s retirement hometown of Sede Boker. During those last moments of August a gentle breeze blew as I pushed my kids on the swings. Although I was dressed in civilian clothing, my status on active IDF reserve duty—and the fact I will soon be returning to the front—was given away by the rifle slung over my shoulder. Another father, slightly younger than me, was swinging his little girl as well. “Thank you for your service,” he said. “Unfortunately I’m not in reserves.” Chatting along, he told me that he works as an engineer in a metal products factory, and it’s important for him to note that he also contributes in his own way to the war effort. “You know, those can openers you get in the combat rations? We make those.”
I hesitated for a moment. He really did seem like a nice guy. But those can openers are indescribably lousy. They are every soldier’s nightmare from basic training and on. We get a combat ration with six or seven cans—tuna, corn, chickpeas, you name it—and just 12 minutes to chow down with a can opener that’s already mangled from the first moment you try to carve your way into the can. By the time you’re hacking away at the last one the “disposable” opener has usually snapped in half.
We continued to swing the kids a bit, and got to talking (it turns out that he had once read one of my books). But after a few seconds I could hardly contain myself—his can openers are way too awful—”You know, those can openers you mentioned, maybe they could be improved a bit.”
I hoped he would take the criticism in good spirits. I didn’t want to hurt him, of course. But I was surprised when he gave me a big smile. “Look,” he said, “for medical reasons I personally wasn’t in the army. But when I started working at this factory, and I told my brothers and friends what I do, they immediately told me that our openers break faster than cheap disposable forks. I got right on the job, and for a week worked on a plan and asked for a meeting with my manager. I showed him how, with no significant cost, we could add a little reinforcement here and a little thickening there, and we could provide our soldiers with openers that won’t fear battle with a tin can.”
He continued: The manager looked at me with a slightly tired look, he’s already a bit of an old man. – “Listen,” he said, “do you think you’re the first to notice that this opener is screwed up? Twenty years ago, when we started working with the IDF, we made a much better version that never broke. But then the top brass from the army’s Medical Corp came and said they had a problem. The soldiers keep the openers when they’re done eating so they have some spare for next time. In the meantime, they stick it in the pocket of their vests where it absorbs dirt and grime and bacteria, and then they open another can of food with it and get all types of diseases. And so we decided to build a disposable can opener. It wasn’t easy. It had to be built very precisely so that it would be strong enough to open a metal can, but weak enough to break right after the sixth or seventh use. This opener isn’t a piece of junk, it’s a work of art.”
The moral of his story resonated with me that day, as we were soon to send our eldest son off to Yeshiva High School. When we were back in the car, continuing our drive home, I confessed my fears to my teenager: It’s not the stress of school. I know you and I know you’ll be fine. The dorm life doesn’t concern me either. The guys there are all good and the staff is great. What scares me is the knowledge that you’re going to study in a beit midrash with a havruta, most likely a clever boy just like you, and together you’ll open the Gemara and come across some opinion of a Tanna or Amora that seems a little strange. And as happens sometimes, a line like “What a crazy opinion! What a bizarre interpretation!,” will come out of your mouth. Maybe you’ll even exchange a cynical smile with a hint of disdain. And I won’t be there to remind you that you don’t know everything, that your perspective, and mine, will always be partial. It’s okay for such thoughts to cross your mind for a moment. That too is part of growing up. But I ask you, precisely in moments like these, to remember the combat ration can opener, and let the idea fill you with humility.
Rabbi Avraham Stav teaches at Kollel Shaarei Zion in Yad HaRav Nissim, Jerusalem, when he is not serving in an artillery unit.