Let us consider some of the implications of this distinction between the character of the Hebrew slaves and that of Moses, the prince of the Hebrews. Moses felt fear, of course. One need only remember that at the burning bush, he responds to God’s behest that he confront the Egyptians by asking, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh?”⁸ In his fear of the Egyptian king-god, he is not so different from other men. What sets him apart from the Hebrew slaves is not the absence of fear in his soul, but the ability of his spirit to maintain its consistency in the face of this fear. Thus when we examine the behavior of the Hebrews, we see clearly how their beliefs and loyalties are changed by the onset of fear, which renders them more servile and solicitous of the power that is the source of this fear (“You have made us abhorrent in Pharaoh’s eyes, and in his servants’ eyes”); more prone to abandoning principles and interests previously of great importance to them in order to avoid punishment or other unpleasantness (“Would it not be better for us to return to Egypt?”); and more inclined to justify their behavior with absurd arguments they themselves would likely have rejected days or even minutes earlier (“All the people we saw there were men of great stature”). But in Moses, we see something very different: A man who, when confronted by a superior power, feels no need—or at least successfully resists the need—to accommodate himself to it by adopting its will as his own; or to respond by flailing futilely at it as a result of a foolish inflation of his abilities in his own eyes. His bearing and composure remain much as they were, as do the principles that move him. Although the world has changed and the road grown harsh, he is still the same person he was.

In the Hebrew vernacular, such an individual is said to have tzura, that is, “shape” or “form,” and in fact it helps to think of a man of character as one whose spirit retains its shape, is not “bent out of shape,” by adversity or duress, defeat or victory. And as an approximation, this definition of character will serve us well: Character is that quality which permits an individual to maintain his prior bearing and commitments under conditions of duress.

To this point, I have described character without specific reference to its moral implications. But one does not have to look farther than the most familiar kinds of human association to see why character is rightly understood as an elementary moral virtue. Consider the extended work of joint construction that constitutes the life of a family, for example, or a business enterprise. These are associations in which individuals work together over a period of many years, even a lifetime, to achieve a common purpose. A man and woman marry, and thereby establish an association for the common purpose of raising children; a businessman establishes a corporation with a few colleagues for the common purpose of manufacturing a new product; and so on. These long associations are immensely advantageous, but they are established at the cost of an implicit vulnerability. We can always be harmed most easily by those who are familiar to us, by a husband or wife, or by a business partner. They know what would hurt us most, of course; and they are close enough to take advantage of this knowledge. But more than this—they are the foundation, walls, and roof of our lives. We rely on them, every day, for their sympathy, assistance, judgment, protection, and allegiance, and with the passage of time this reliance only grows: Children are born, responsibilities are divided, investments are made, and debts incurred. The superstructure built upon our association grows, and with it our vulnerability to any change in the individuals upon whom we have come to rely.

If we examine these long associations carefully—and others like them, such as educational institutions, religious associations, competitive athletic teams, military units, and so forth—we find that in every case, they are established on the basis of an unspoken premise: That it is possible to rely on those who share a common effort with us, even under conditions of hardship. In other words, every common cause presupposes character.

Every association involves a different set of undertakings, of course. What is implicitly promised to one’s parents is not the same as what is implicitly promised to one’s business associates; and neither of these is identical to what is promised to one’s countrymen. But in each case, we can identify the demands of character by placing ourselves in the position of one who learns, under difficult circumstances, that he can no longer depend on an individual he had supposed to be made of a more solid material. Think of the woman whose husband is so distressed over the loss of a job that he can no longer function as a father to his children; or of a soldier whose commander, so brilliant in training, evidences signs of terror in the midst of battle. Both see the bulwark of their lives grow unsteady, as the individuals upon whom they have relied become disfigured before their eyes. Neither the husband nor the officer can reasonably be considered bad men, since they have presumably ceased to be in control of their actions. But there is no difficulty in concluding that they are worthless men, individuals of poor character who are deformed by adversity, and so cannot be relied upon when they are needed most. And this, too, is a moral category—as is evident from the fate of the Hebrew slaves, whose lack of character consigned them to forty years of wandering in the wilderness, mere spectators in a life truly lived only by others.

 

Every human association, if it is to persist and attain its purposes in the face of adversity, depends on individuals capable of maintaining their commitments under duress. In this sense, the association is like any other instrument. Like a hammer or a chain, it becomes worthless the moment any part of it begins to deform under the strain of events. Thus the family can no longer serve its purpose of sheltering and educating children once disputes between the parents break into the open; a business enterprise cannot survive if the partner entrusted with the books alters them out of consideration for his own financial needs; a military formation collapses once the soldiers begin to suspect that each of them cares only for his own survival. For this reason every human association, if it does not perish, eventually begins to become conscious of the need for character, and to develop methods of inculcating it in its members.

But of all forms of human association, it is the nation and the state that have the greatest need for individuals of character.⁹ Nowhere else is there a demand for individuals of character in such great numbers; nowhere else is there so consistently the need for these individuals to be able to endure every kind of physical and psychological violence without significant distortion in their original commitments. In its diplomacy, in its military and police actions, and in the operations of its organs of law and taxation, the state achieves its purposes under duress; and on each of these fronts and others, it can succeed only to the degree that it operates through persons who can maintain their bearing and commitments under the most trying circumstances. An official assigned to enforce the laws, or an officer in command of soldiers, or a statesman enduring the displeasure of foreign contacts built over long years—all stand under excruciating pressure to relent in their pursuit of state policy, acceding instead to a course that is, for them personally, more comfortable or more profitable. Unless they are of strong character, the official will soon begin to shape the laws so as best to suit his political or financial interests; the officer will seek to preserve his own life and that of his men at the expense of the nation’s ability to wage war; and the statesman will quietly give away his country’s independence in exchange for the applause of foreign dignitaries. In each case, to hold firm is to maintain the integrity of the state, while every failure of character brings the state that much closer to dissolution.¹⁰

This, then, is the challenge that the national state lays down before a people that wishes for independence: Produce ten thousand men of superb character for your cause, not once but in every generation. This alone can secure your independence. This alone can sustain it.

Now this is a formidable challenge even for the greatest of nations. It is not obvious that diplomacy or war, or any of the hardships commonly associated with statecraft, poses a greater difficulty than does this fundamental educational challenge. Indeed, this may well be the central political problem of the state: How can character be made to appear with such frequency in a citizenry, one generation after the next?

No institution creates so extraordinary a demand for character as does the independent state, and it is precisely for this reason that the key to developing the character of a people is to be found in the effort to establish and maintain such a state. The affairs of the state are inextricably bound up with matters of life and death; they are suffused with the threat of defeat and destruction, which is sometimes nearer, sometimes more remote, but always tangible. And constant contact with this threat has its effect on political and military men, educators and religious figures, who, witnessing the unmistakable needs of the state with their own eyes, slowly but surely begin to invest their efforts in establishing methods and traditions of instilling character in the young.