[I got the idea for this sermon from an interview of Kenneth Feinberg by Steven J. Dubner on the podcast Freakonomics (of which I am a regular listener). You can listen to the podcast here.]
Last week, on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, we observed the seventeenth anniversary of 9/11, when 19 terrorists hijacked four airplanes and crashed them into the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Nearly 3000 people were killed and more than 6000 were injured.
Almost immediately after the attacks, the airline industry started lobbying Congress. It worried that the victims would bring lawsuits that would bog them down in court for years. Congress worried that lawsuits would cause Americans to lose faith in air transportation and stop flying, which could have devastating effects on the country. It quickly began drafting a law to limit the airlines’ liabilities. But that meant victims’ family members, as well as those who were injured, would be restricted in their abilities to seek compensation.
At the last minute, Congress added a provision to address this concern. They created the September 11th Victim Compensation Fund of 2001, to which eligible persons could apply in exchange for foregoing all rights to sue. The American people would collectively pay damages to the victims of 9/11.
On September 22, 2011, just eleven days after the towers fell, the Air Transportation Safety and System Stabilization Act passed and was signed into law by President Bush.
The Act required the Attorney General to appoint a Special Master, who would be granted sole authority over the entire program. The Special Master would be responsible for developing procedures by which family members and injured persons could apply for compensation. He would have to develop a formula for determining award amounts. He would also determine the total amount of money that the fund would distribute. No distinctions whatsoever were to be made between citizens and non-citizens, including victims who were undocumented.
In effect, Congress gave the Special Master a blank check with which to compensate the victims and family members of 9/11. Short of being fired by the Attorney General, there would be no oversight and no review.
No program like it had ever existed.
Attorney General John Ashcroft turned to a lawyer by the name of Ken Feinberg. Feinberg was a Democrat, having worked for Senator Ted Kennedy early in his career. Feinberg also had prior experience serving as a mediator for victim compensation funds.
Although a Democrat. Feinberg was well-respected and liked across the aisle. Perhaps most importantly, he could be easily jettisoned if things did not go well politically.
Feinberg turned out to have been the perfect choice to serve as Special Master. He demonstrated wisdom and sensitivity for the victims and their families. He took his role as fiduciary for the American people seriously, and he considered the precedent that his decisions would set. After closing the compensation fund three years later, Ken Feinberg wrote a book called What is Life Worth? in which he describes his experiences.
Consider the difficult position into which Feinberg was placed. In administering the 9/11 Victim Compensation Fund, he found himself in the unenviable position of having to determine how much the lives of thousands of human beings were worth—in dollars. He would have to weigh the relative merits of competing claims and decide whose death would be compensated with more and whose would be compensated with less.
It would have been far easier to simply state: “a life is a life. We are all equal in the eyes of God,” and allocate identical amounts for each victim.
But, in its hastiness, Congress ruled that the awards needed to be based on economic loss, that is to say, current and future anticipated earnings. That meant that the family of a bond trader who earned $20 million annually would receive a greater payout than a firefighter, police officer, or soldier, not to mention a busboy who earned $20 thousand per year.
So Feinberg went to his Rabbi for advice. It was not so helpful. His Rabbi acknowledged that 9/11 was unique. There were no ready-made answers contained in the Torah or Jewish wisdom. “I alone had the ultimate responsibility of determining each award,” Feinberg wrote,
based largely on a prediction of what the victim would have earned had he or she survived. It was a job that called for the wisdom of Solomon, the technical skill of H&R Block, and the insight of a mystic with a crystal ball. I was supposed to peer into that crystal ball, consider the ebbs and flows that made up a stranger’s life, and translate all of this into dollars and cents. (87)
Reactions by victims’ family members were all over the place, as one might imagine. There was tremendous distrust of the program at first, and of Feinberg in particular, who became the public face of the U.S. government’s response to the families.
This program became the primary way that the American people would acknowledge the families’ losses in the first few years after 9/11. It was inevitable that these payouts would be perceived as determinations of the worth of a person’s life in the eyes of the public.
But money cannot bring closure. Feinberg tried hard to emphasize that the purpose of the fund was to meet financial need, and not to value the moral worth of the victims. But in creating this fund, Congress set up a dynamic which encouraged people to translate the value of their loved ones in dollars. That perception was difficult to overcome.
Feinberg knew that the families’ emotions were raw, and that they would need time and space to vent. At the beginning of the process, he personally led public meetings, strongly encouraging all family members to attend.
He and his office personally tracked down the relatives of every single victim, in the US and abroad. That included eleven undocumented workers, whose foreign relatives were especially difficult to locate. He made himself available for one on one meetings with anyone who desired, at any stage in the process. In two years, Feinberg personally met with over 900 families.
In those meetings, they told him stories about their loved ones. They expressed anger and sadness. They wanted to know why it happened, and why their loved ones had to die. Some expressed faith. Others shared their loss of faith.
Of course, every family had a story to explain why their loved one was unique, and why their death deserved greater compensation. After all, if money is the measure of a life’s worth, I would be disrespecting my loved one’s memory if I did not argue for more.
How can the pain and suffering of two different people be compared? Is the loss more difficult for a spouse who enjoyed thirty years with another person, or for a newlywed who had an entire lifetime taken away?
Should the family of a firefighter who died saving the lives of dozens of other people be worth more than that of a secretary, or a chef, or a lawyer? Should age be a determining factor? What about the more than 60 widows who were pregnant with a child who would never know their father? Is that worth more?
In the end, Feinberg decided that he would not distinguish. Each victim would get $250,000 for pain and suffering, and each surviving spouse or dependent would receive $100,000.
Nevertheless, he encouraged families to talk about their loved ones, inviting them to share what was special and unique. This program could help serve as witness to their grief. It was an important step in reframing the program and helping families begin to move on.
Senator Kennedy advised Feinberg “to make sure that 15% of the families don’t receive 85% of the taxpayers’ money.” While the awards could not be identical, they also did not have to be proportional to income. Feinberg could nudge low amounts upwards, and nudge higher amounts downwards—and he did.
He developed a formula to determine awards, and further reserved the ability to make adjustments in special cases.
In the end, ninety seven percent of all eligible families entered the program. Spouses and dependents of 2,880 victims received almost six billion dollars in tax-free compensation. The median award was just under 1.7 million dollars, and the maximum award was 7.1 million dollars.
2,682 of those who were injured received more than one billion dollars in compensation.
When the fund was closed at the end of 2004, it was considered to have been a tremendous success. The families were appreciative of Ken Feinberg and his team. The compensation they received did not bring their loved ones back, but did help them to piece their lives back together and begin to move on. It was not so much the money that did that, but the respect and dignity that was afforded to each individual life.
Judaism has many teachings about the extraordinary worth of an individual human life. The earliest law code, the Mishnah (Sanhedrin 4:3), imparts this lesson as early as the second century.
Therefore, Adam was created by himself, to teach us that whoever destroys a single life is considered by Scripture to have destroyed the whole world, and whoever saves a single life is considered by Scripture to have saved the whole world.
The context of this teaching is important. It is a short speech that is delivered to witnesses in a murder trial before they present their testimony. It is supposed to warn them of the importance of testifying truthfully, as the accused’s fate will be determined by their words.
Each human being must be considered to be like Adam, the first human, from whom all of humanity descended. “Choose life,” the Torah instructs us. Life is of such enormous value that, with just three exceptions, we are commanded to violate every mitzvah in the Torah to save it. In Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, we learn that a person is an olam katan, a small world, a microcosm of heaven and earth itself.
To quote a certain credit card company, a human life is “priceless.”
Valuing a life in dollars and cents is cold and arbitrary. But we tend to do exactly that. Think about the expression, “So and so is worth x amount of dollars.” Or a company. Apple recently became worth more than one trillion dollars. I hope we can agree that a person’s real value, and even a corporation’s real value, should not be determined by income or wealth.
To do so would seem to go against everything that Judaism teaches us.
But, in other contexts, Judaism does value human life in shekels. In ancient times one of the ways in which a Jew could express gratitude or hope to God, would be to proclaim a vow. A vow is essentially a promise to deliver something specific of value to the Temple.
In making a vow, I might dedicate a field, a particular animal, or the income that someone will earn over a period of time. Or, I could dedicate a person—either myself or a member of my household.
If I dedicate an animal, I am obligated to bring that specific animal to the priest. No substitutions are permitted. So if I offer a person, must that person be sacrificed, or sent to work in the Temple for the rest of his or her life? How do I dedicate a person to God?
The Torah establishes that to fulfill a vow for a human being, I must pay that person’s value, in shekels, to the Temple treasury.
The exact value is determined by the priest, and is based on the ability of the vower to pay. But there is a minimum and a maximum. The minimum, according to the Mishnah, is 1 shekel of silver. That is about $9 in today’s money, at current silver rates.
The Torah lists the maximum amounts, based on age and gender. Adult males between twenty and sixty are worth 50 shekels of silver. Females are worth 30. And so on for children, babies and elders.
The only factor that can be used is personal wealth. The Mishnah specifically states that the maximum assessment of 50 selas (the replacement for the shekel) would be identical for the finest looking and the ugliest person in Israel. (Arachin 3:1)
This formula is not so dissimilar to the formula that Ken Feinberg used. Values based on wealth, with minimum and maximum caps.
What is a life worth?
Since none of our riches will come with us, what can serve as the true measure of a person’s value?
The High Holidays bring the question of our life’s value to the forefront of our consciousness. It is nowhere better expressed than in the prayer Unetaneh Tokef in our mahzor.
This prayer, which is really an allegory, takes place in a courtroom. God is never mentioned directly by name, but presides as Judge, Prosecutor, Expert, and Witness. Each of us is the plaintiff, with our actions serving as evidence and the fate of our lives hanging in the balance. Every deed, public and private, remembered and forgotten, is entered into the record.
The shofar sounds, and the allegory shifts. Now we are sheep passing before the Shepherd, one by one. The Shepherd examines each one of us, counting and inspecting, and determining our fate for the year ahead.
Who will live, who will die. Who by fire, who by water. Who will be impoverished. Who will be made rich. Who will be brought low, and who will be raised up.
The results are not shared with us. But that is not all. Read the prayer closely. There is no causal relationship between the verdict and the sentence. We emerge from the courtroom in suspense, with our destinies hanging.
Unetaneh Tokef captures the fragility of our existence. There is no appeal for the Judge to change the verdict, nor for the Shepherd to alter the decree. The imperfect world we live in does not work that way. Despite the illusion of control, we know that so much of our lives are determined by forces outside of our control.
In the year ahead, it is certain that each one of us will experience disappointment and loss, joy and success. At some point, may it be many years from now, each of us can be certain that we will face the end of our own life.
While terrifying, this allegory invigorates. It tells us that every action, in every moment, matters. Every deed in the Book of Remembrance is a record of our impact on the universe.
So what is a life worth? From one perspective, almost nothing. One of the prayers after Unetaneh Tokef compares a human being to: a broken shard, withering grass, a shriveled flower, a passing shadow, a fading cloud, a fleeting breeze, scattered dust, and a dream that flies away. In the vastness of the universe, we are almost nothing.
But each of us is also an olam katan, a microcosm of that same universe, with a spark of divinity hidden inside our hearts.
The knowledge that there will be a reckoning makes life matter.
The value of the lives of the 9/11 victims could not be measured by any dollar amount. It is measured by the deeds they performed in the time they were allotted; the love they shared; the people they helped; the mistakes they made; the husbands, wives, children, brothers, sisters, parents and friends they left behind; the communities they enriched; the traditions they passed down; the beauty they paused to acknowledge; and the growth and learning they experienced each day that they were blessed to be alive. The lives of those who died rescuing others are valued by those whom they saved.
The same is true for all of us. Unfortunately, that is a lesson that we too often learn at the end.
What is life worth? It is worth what we decide to make it worth.
Rabbi Harold Kushner once told the story of a man who, at the end of a full life, dies and suddenly finds himself standing at the end of a long line that leads to two doors — and there is an usher.
“Move along,” says the usher. “Keep the line moving. Choose a door and walk through.”
Looking ahead, the man sees, at the very end, one door marked “Heaven” and the other marked “Hell.”
Gradually, the man proceeds up the line. He observes that most people, without hesitation, walk confidently to the door marked Heaven, open it, and enter. For every person whose turn arrives, someone new joins the back of the line.
Eventually, the man finds himself up front. This is his chance to ask the question that has been burning inside. “Wait a minute. Where’s the Last Judgment? Where am I told if I was a good person or a bad person? Where are all my deeds weighed and measured?”
The usher looks at him and says, “You know, I don’t know where that story ever got started. We don’t do that here. We’ve never done that here. We don’t have the staff to do that here. I mean, look, you’ve got ten thousand people showing up every minute. I’m supposed to sit here with everyone and go over his whole life? We’d never get anywhere. Now move along. You’re holding up the line. Choose a door and walk through.”
“You mean I really have to choose?”
“Yes. Now pick one already.”
Heaven. What would that mean? All would be wiped away — the acts of cowardice, the mistakes and regrets. But also the agonized moral choices, the moments of courage, the times he chose the more difficult path.
Hell. That would bring judgment and accusation. It would mean risking punishment. Can he face that? Will his merits outweigh his misdeeds?
“Come on. We don’t have all day,” complains the usher, tapping his foot.
Taking a deep breath, the man says to himself, “I want my life to have mattered,” and walks through the door marked “Hell,” ready to be judged.