When Getting What We Want Isn't Enough: A Pascal Reflection

Blaise Pascal once wrote, “It is not well to be too much at liberty. It is not well to have all we want.”

This runs against nearly everything our contemporary culture tells us. We tend to think of freedom as the removal of restraints. More choices are better than fewer choices. More money is better than less. If something stands between us and what we want, remove the obstacle.

But Pascal--a French mathematician, physicist, inventor, and religious philosopher of major significance--understood something about human nature that we sometimes forget. Limits are not always our enemies.

Years ago I wrote something similar in one of my journals: “When we get what we want, we usually get more than we bargained for.” We may want the promotion, but discover that it comes with headaches and responsibilities that we hadn't anticipated. When we go for a bigger house, we discover that we've also acquired higher taxes, more maintenance and more rooms to clean. The pursuit of unlimited choices may leave us paralyzed because we're unable to choose or decide what we want.

The old saying, “Be careful what you wish for” is a word for the wise. The expression has survived because experience keeps proving it true.

The Paradox of Limits

Nearly everything worthwhile depends upon some kind of limitation. Consider music. A piano has only 88 keys. Western music is constructed around a limited number of notes. Musical composition has rules governing harmony, rhythm and structure. Yet Bach, Beethoven, Duke Ellington and Bob Dylan somehow managed to create astonishingly different things within these limitations. The limits didn't prevent creativity. They made creativity possible.

The same is true of a football field. There are sidelines. There is a clock. There are rules about what you can and cannot do with the ball. Remove all the restrictions and you haven't created greater freedom for the players. You've destroyed the game. (Suppose, for example, that defenders could rush before the ball is snapped.)

Language works the same way. Grammar limits how we arrange words, but those limitations enable us to communicate. A sonnet has fourteen lines and a particular structure. That restriction has not prevented poets from writing beautiful sonnets. It gives them something to work against.

Could it be that life works that way, too?

Freedom From What?

We often speak about freedom without completing the sentence. Freedom from what? And perhaps more importantly: freedom for what?

There is obviously much to be said for freedom from oppression, coercion and arbitrary authority. But there is another kind of freedom that sounds attractive until we examine where it leads: freedom from obligation, responsibility and consequences. 

Marriage is an obvious example. When we marry someone, we voluntarily surrender possibilities. We make a promise that closes certain doors. That sounds restrictive because it is restrictive. But the restriction is precisely what gives the promise its meaning.

If I promise to meet you Tuesday but reserve the right to change my mind whenever something more interesting comes along, I haven't really made a promise. Commitment limits us. It also makes trust possible.

The Gift of Resistance

Some of the things we initially regard as obstacles may actually be doing us a favor. Deadlines force us to finish. After forty-five years of freelance writing I have never missed a deadline. When I was in fourth or fifth grade we were paired with other classmates to do a collaborative report for geography. The day before the report was due, my co-author notified me that he had done nothing. No research, no notes. I complained to my mom ho unfair it was, but she was smarter than me. She said I had to stay up and write the report, no matter how late it was when I finished. While working on it, I witnessed something miraculous that I've never forgotten, that I never would have seen had I not been required to finish that night.

Budgets a likewise a challenge because they force us to prioritize. When money is tight, we discover what really matters to us. 

Physical limitations force athletes to train. The difficulty of mastering an instrument makes playing it well satisfying. The resistance of the blank page forces a writer to think. What am I really trying to say? 

Even boredom may have its uses. Generations before ours didn't carry a device in their pocket capable of filling every empty moment with entertainment. They occasionally had to sit quietly. Or ponder. Or notice what was happening around them. Whether eliminating boredom through reels news clips has made us happier is another question.

Modern technology has steadily removed friction from everyday life. We can buy nearly anything without leaving home. We can watch thousands of movies without waiting for one to appear on television. We can communicate instantly with someone on the other side of the planet. And thought these are remarkable achievements, every solved problem seems to bring another problem with it. 

More Than We Bargained For

This is where Pascal's observation becomes interesting. “It is not well to have all we want.”

He isn't necessarily saying that wanting things is wrong. Nor is he suggesting poverty, hardship or oppression are somehow desirable. The deeper point concerns human nature. We aren't always particularly good at knowing what will make us happy.

A child may want all the candy he can eat, but an adult understands why that isn't a good idea. On the other hand, adulthood does not necessarily eliminate the impulse. We simply acquire more sophisticated forms of candy. 

We pursue these things believing satisfaction waits somewhere on the other side. Sometimes it does. Sometimes we arrive and discover another appetite waiting for us. In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (The Chronicles of Narnia), the White Witch seductively lures Edmund away from loyalty to Aslan and his family with what C.S. Lewis called Turkish Delight. In the story Turkish Delight becomes a metaphor for all the various temptations that lure us away from our true calling and higher self: money, recognition, possessions, pleasure, status, power, freedom from obligations.

There is always a little more money to make, another achievement to pursue, another possession to acquire, another experience we haven't had. The finish line keeps moving, and the reward of tasting more Turkish Delight propels us forward.

Perhaps that is why wisdom traditions have generally placed such emphasis on restraint. Temperance, patience, faithfulness, discipline and self-control sound old-fashioned because each involves voluntarily accepting limits.

The real bottom line is this: a person incapable of saying no to himself isn't really free. He is simply governed by his appetites.

Getting what we want isn't necessarily a bad thing. On the other hand, some doors are better left closed.

A Deeper Look at he Human Condition through the Lens of Dylan's "License to Kill"

Infidels was Bob Dylan's first album following his trilogy of Gospel infused albums, Slow Train Coming, Saved and Shot of Love. "License to Kill was the fourth track on side one. It contains some meaty, thought-provoking content along with an ambiguous chorus and title.  

After his overt Gospel period, Bob Dylan didn’t abandon moral vision, he synthesized it, weaving its threads both visibly and discreetly through the albums that followed that period.  

Songs like "License to Kill" carry a quiet, probing ethical weight, where questions of power, conscience, and human responsibility echo with biblical depth beneath the surface.

The song depicts the consequences of human arrogance, which is itself an interesting word. Arrogance is the habit of overstepping our place—assuming authority, control, or wisdom we do not truly possess. When we “arrogate power,” we act as if we are ultimate judges or masters, forgetting our limits. It’s the illusion that we can dominate outcomes, people, or even nature, as though we were accountable to no higher order.  

The “license” is symbolic: humanity acting as if it has permission to dominate, exploit, and destroy.  For me, though, it was the fourth verse and its reference to Narcissus that stimulated my curiosity to dig deeper into this song when I first heard it nearly 44 years ago.

Verse 1 begins "Man thinks ’cause he rules the earth he can do with it as he please..." Dylan opens with a sweeping indictment: humanity assumes ownership of the Earth as if we are the ultimate authority. It's the illusion of dominion, and Dylan's song is a cautionary warning. Progress without wisdom is dangerous. Because of man's pride, the seeds of our own destruction are already planted.

For years I've always found the refrain a bit curious. "Now, there’s a woman on my block // She just sit there facin’ the hill // She say who gonna take away his license to kill?"

 

She's watching, waiting, and powerless. Perhaps she represents all of us who see the havoc generated by the narrative-spinners, bomb-slingers and power brokers. With each passing stanza her question is reiterated, and it remains unanswered. 

The second stanza addresses social conditioning. Dylan shifts from “man” in general to the conspiracy of systems that shape him—education, culture, media, institutions. 

"They take him and they teach him and they groom him for life // And they set him on a path where he’s bound to get ill // Then they bury him with stars // Sell his body like they do used cars 

  

The third goes further still, the aim of propaganda:

"Now, he’s hell-bent for destruction, he’s afraid and confused // And his brain has been mismanaged with great skill // All he believes are his eyes // And his eyes, they just tell him lies"

How many times have we read and seen things online or in the media and honestly don't know what's true any more. As Mark Twain once said, "Believe half of what you see and none of what you hear." [EdNote: Guess what? Mark Twain didn't actually say that. It was Edgar Allen Poe. Or was it Ben Franklin?]

People aren't just ignorant of the truth, they're actually products (victims) of engineered misunderstanding. "And his eyes, they just tell him lies." Our perceptions are being deliberately distorted. What we see and believe may be deeply and intentionally misleading.

Preceding the last verse is a bridge that reminds those who think they are powerful, impressive and influential that they may still be playing a shallow role in a larger, misguided system. As we look at today's global chaos, one has to ask what is the endgame here? Who's really running this crazy show?

Oh we think we're so hot. Here's how Dylan puts it:

"Now he worships at an altar of a stagnant pool

And when he sees his reflection, he’s fulfilled

Oh, man is opposed to fair play

He wants it all and he wants it his way"

The reference to Narcissus is so apt. Instead of striving for something higher, man becomes his own god. When he looks in the mirror he loves what he sees.

"But there’s a woman on my block

Sitting there in a cold chill

She say who gonna take away his license to kill?"

She sees. She still asks. We still don't hear an answer.

Noblesse Oblige: Redeeming Privilege in an Age of Resentment

The United States is not just a melting pot of races and cultures, it's also a melting pot of languages and ideas. One concept we inherited (or borrowed) from the French is summed up in the expression noblesse oblige. 

In our time, the failures of Western Civilization—colonialism, inequality, exploitation—are often highlighted as though they define the whole. Yet Western Civ also gave rise to constitutional government, the rule of law, scientific inquiry, individual rights, abolition movements, and ideals of human dignity that fueled reform from within. Its greatest strength may have been self-critique—the capacity to confront injustice using its own moral vocabulary. At its best, it calls the powerful to responsibility, to service rather than domination.

The French phrase noblesse oblige literally means “nobility obligates.” It expresses the idea that those who possess privilege—whether of birth, wealth, education, or power—carry a moral responsibility toward those with less. French is a beautiful language, and the concept here is beautiful as well.

This idea emerged from the hierarchical structure of medieval and early modern France. In a feudal society, nobles enjoyed legal advantages, land ownership, and social prestige. Yet embedded within that system was an expectation: privilege was not merely to be enjoyed, but to be stewarded. A noble was expected to show courage in battle, generosity toward dependents, protection of the weak, and a certain standard of honorable conduct. Rank demanded character.

The phrase itself gained wider usage in the 17th and 18th centuries and entered English in the 19th century. In Victorian Britain and America, it became shorthand for the belief that the upper classes should lead in philanthropy, public service, and moral example. Industrial magnates who endowed libraries, universities, and hospitals sometimes saw themselves as acting under this principle. Andrew Carnegie funded a total of 2,509 libraries worldwide between 1883 and 1919, including libraries in both Duluth and Hibbing.

Critics, however, have long noted the ambiguity of noblesse oblige. At its best, it encourages stewardship, generosity, and civic responsibility. At its worst, they say it reinforces paternalism—implying that help flows downward from a superior class rather than recognizing shared dignity and mutual obligation. 

This is another example, as I noted last week, of how it's better to do the right thing for the wrong reason than to  do the wrong thing.   

Carnegie Library interior, Duluth MN

In modern democratic societies, the phrase has expanded beyond hereditary aristocracy. Today it may refer to the ethical duties of CEOs, elected officials, celebrities, or anyone whose influence exceeds that of others. The core insight remains relevant: privilege is not morally neutral. Power and advantage carry responsibility. Noblesse oblige reminds us that status is not only a benefit—it carries a burden of expectation.

There is always a price for negligence when we don’t assume responsibility for our privilege.  

What's often missing when discussing the responsibilities of privilege is how much of this attitude stems from the Bible. Jesus emphasized stewardship, charity, and accountability for the powerful. Biblical ideas like "To whom much is given, much will be required" (Luke 12:48) and Christ's example of servant leadership aligned with the notion that higher status demanded greater service.

Christianity profoundly shaped and reinforced this concept within feudal Europe, especially from the 11th–13th centuries onward. The code of chivalry—which developed in France around the late 12th century (associated with knighthood and the ideal of the chevalier)—was explicitly rooted in medieval Christian ethics. It blended warrior duties with Christian virtues: piety, protection of the weak, generosity, justice, and humility. Chivalry was never fully codified but was popularized in literature (e.g., Arthurian legends) and promoted by the Church to civilize the warrior class. 

Without Christian influence, feudal obligations might have remained more pragmatic or contractual (as in some pre-Christian warrior societies). Christianity infused them with ethical depth—turning raw power into a calling to honorable service, mercy, and protection of the weak.

These attitudes which were embedded in Old Testament Judaism didn't begin with Christianity, but they flowered there. The principle echoes throughout Scripture: from the prophets' calls for justice and care for the widow, orphan, and stranger, to the New Testament's parables of stewardship and the servant-king who washes feet rather than lords it over others. Jesus Himself is the ultimate embodiment of noblesse oblige—the divine Son who, possessing all authority, laid it down to serve and sacrifice for the least.

In our flattened, egalitarian age, the phrase can sound archaic or elitist. Yet its deeper truth endures: whatever gifts, opportunities, or positions we've been entrusted with—be they talents, resources, influence, or simply the accident of birth in a prosperous society—come with strings attached. Not strings of guilt, but of grateful obligation. The one who has received much is called to give much, not out of superiority, but out of recognition that all good things come from above and are meant to flow through us to bless others.

This is the quiet revolution at the heart of the biblical vision: true nobility isn't about hoarding privilege but about channeling it toward the common good. In a culture quick to demand rights and resent hierarchies, noblesse oblige—reclaimed through its Christian roots—challenges us to ask: What have I been given? And how will I steward it faithfully?

Perhaps that's the meditation we need today—not to reject privilege, but to redeem it. To see our advantages not as entitlements to exploit or excuses to withdraw, but as divine trusts calling us to humble, generous service. For in the end, the measure of our nobility isn't the height of our station, but the depth of our willingness to bend low for the sake of others. As Christ showed us, the greatest among us must become the servant of all—and therein lies the truest freedom and the most enduring legacy.

When Assassination Becomes Strategy: What Rise and Kill First Reveals

While doing research on another project I came across a reference to Ronen Bergman's Rise and Kill First: The Secret History of Israel’s Targeted Assassinations. (The English translation was published in 2018.) The book is purportedly a deeply researched and disturbing nonfiction history of Israel’s targeted assassinations programs carried out by its intelligence and security services (including Mossad, Shin Bet, and the IDF). Bergman draws on hundreds of interviews and thousands of previously classified documents to trace the evolution of targeted killing as a state policy from before Israel’s founding through the modern era.

The title comes from a Talmudic idea: “If someone comes to kill you, rise up and kill him first.” The book explores the ethical, political, and operational dimensions of targeted killings — from early Zionist underground groups to modern high-technology efforts against adversaries across the Middle East.

EdNote: This view stands in stark contrast to the Christian beliefs expressed by Tolstoy (most notably in The Forged Coupon) and the pacifism of George Fox and the Quakers.

The book was a New York Times bestseller and won awards for history writing, noted for its depth and narrative power.

Rise and Kill First argues that assassination became embedded in Israeli strategy because of the country’s sense of permanent existential threat. Bergman shows how targeted killings were used to disrupt militant networks, deter enemies, and compensate for Israel’s small size and lack of strategic depth. At the same time, he explores the moral, legal, and psychological costs of this approach, including blowback, cycles of retaliation, operational failures, and the toll on those ordered to carry out killings.

Rather than offering a simple defense or condemnation, Bergman presents assassination as a grim, recurring choice—sometimes tactically effective, sometimes disastrous, always ethically fraught. The result is a complex portrait of a state that has repeatedly chosen preemptive violence while struggling with the consequences of making killing routine policy.

One of the claims in Bergman's book is that “during the presidency of George W. Bush, the United States of America carried out 48 targeted killing operations, according to one estimate, and under President Barack Obama there were 353 such attacks.” These numbers were presented as an estimate, but when I sought a confirmation of these alleged facts I found that these numbers refer specifically to targeted killing operations (primarily drone strikes or other precision strikes against individuals), focused on covert/counterterrorism actions outside declared war zones like Afghanistan/Iraq battlefields (e.g., in Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia). They are not totals for all U.S. airstrikes or combat deaths.

Sources have slight variations in exact numbers, but confirm the numbers in proximity to what Bergman has stated.

The Bureau of Investigative Journalism (a key open-source monitor) reported ~57 strikes under Bush (mostly in Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia) vs. ~563 under Obama in those same areas—showing a roughly 10x increase, consistent with the book's emphasis on escalation. A New York Times review of the book cited at least 47 under Bush and 542 under Obama for Pakistan/Yemen/Somalia campaigns, very near Bergman's 48/353 figures (possibly excluding some categories or using different cutoffs). Other sources (e.g., Council on Foreign Relations) report 542 Obama-era strikes, with estimates of thousands killed (including civilians).

As Bob Dylan states in his song "Union Sundown" (Infidels, 1983), "This world is ruled by violence; but I guess that's better left unsaid." Is it a cynical view or a realistic one, that true power lies in force, not ideals like democracy. Dylan frequently highlights  harsh truths behind political facades, contrasting democratic ideals with the brutal mechanics of control, especially in the context of labor and global economics. 

If you find all these things disturbing, you're not alone.

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