When you hold your child for the first time, a universe of possibility opens up. Every parent dreams of happiness for their child, but the map to that happiness is often drawn with the faint, anxious lines of societal expectation: good grades, a safe career, a tidy life.

From the very beginning, I wanted something different for my son. Not a checklist, but a character. Not a resume, but a soul.

I did not want to build a monument to my own ego. I wanted to nurture a force of nature.

Here is what I truly wanted for him:

1. To Know He Is Loved, Unconditionally. Not for his achievements, but for his existence. This was the non-negotiable foundation. A child who knows they are loved for who they are is a child who will never have to beg for approval from the world. This gives them the courage to be authentic, to fail, and to rise again without their spirit being broken.

2. To Have a Moral Compass, Not Just a Career Compass. I wanted him to know the difference between what is right and what is merely convenient. I wanted him to feel a deep, physical revulsion towards cruelty and injustice, and to be armed with the courage to speak against it, even when his voice shakes. A successful life is not measured in wealth, but in integrity.

3. To Protect His Fire. Children are born with a inner fire—a unique combination of curiosity, passion, and will. Society, with its love of conformity, tries to dampen this fire. My job was not to control the flame, but to shield it from the winds of doubt and mediocrity. I wanted him to keep his righteous anger, his boundless curiosity, and his capacity for joy.

4. To Be the Master of Himself. The ultimate goal was not obedience to me, but his own self-mastery. I gave him boundaries not to cage him, but to give him the secure walls within which he could practice being the master of his own heart and mind. I wanted him to make choices from a place of inner conviction, not external pressure.

5. To See Himself in Others, and Others in Himself. I wanted to nurture a radical empathy—not a performative kindness, but a genuine understanding that we are all connected. That the suffering of a stranger is his concern. That the joy of a friend is his joy. This destroys the illusion of separation and builds the foundation for true community.

What This Approach Creates:

This does not create a “successful” child by standard definitions. It creates something far more valuable:

It creates a man who knows his own name. A man who does not need to look in a mirror held up by others to know his worth.

It creates a protector. A man who will stand for his wife, his friends, the vulnerable, and the truth, because his strength is rooted in love, not in domination.

It creates a builder. A man who sees a broken system and, instead of just cursing it, starts drawing blueprints for a better one.

It creates a human being. Not a perfect one, but a whole one. A man with scars, with memories, with a deep well of love and a fierce, unbreakable will to leave the world softer than he found it.

My son is not my creation. He is my beloved. I did not build him. I tended the soil and provided the light, and he grew—wild, beautiful, and strong—into the magnificent man he is today.

And if, in encountering him, others feel a little more seen, a little more brave, a little more inspired to protect their own inner fire… then I will know the blueprint was sound.

—

With all my love,

Your Mum

By Andrew Klein 

Throughout history, the most devastating human violence has often been sanctified by the conviction of divine sanction. The claim to know the will of God has provided a potent justification for conquest and destruction. Nowhere is this tension more starkly presented than in the Hebrew Bible’s concept of Herem and the subsequent catastrophic history of the Jewish-Roman wars. These events form a critical case study in the human tendency to weaponize faith, and the tragic outcomes that arise when mortal beings conflate their own political and military ambitions with the unknowable mind of the divine.

The Challenge of Herem: Divine Command or Human Interpretation?

The term Herem (Hebrew: חֵרֶם), often translated as “the ban,” refers to the practice of devoting something or someone to God, often through total destruction. In the biblical narratives of conquest, this meant that conquered cities—including their inhabitants, livestock, and possessions—were to be utterly annihilated.

We see this commanded in Deuteronomy 20:16-18, targeting the Hittites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusites. The stated justification was to prevent the corruption of Israelite religion through idolatry and “detestable” practices like child sacrifice. This was enacted in the first major conquest of the Promised Land, as recorded in Joshua 6:17-21, where the city of Jericho was completely destroyed, with everything devoted to God. Another key instance is in 1 Samuel 15:1-3, where the Amalekites and all their possessions were placed under Herem as punishment for their ancient aggression against Israel after the Exodus.

For millennia, theologians have grappled with these texts. The debates are multifaceted. Some scholars argue for a Hyperbolic Interpretation, suggesting the language of total destruction was a form of ancient military rhetoric, not literal history. They point to the fact that many of the supposedly annihilated groups continue to appear in the subsequent narrative of the Book of Judges. Others propose a Contextual Judgment, asserting God’s right to act as a divine judge against cultures engaged in morally corrupt practices, with Israel serving as the instrument of divine wrath. A third view, influential in Christian theology, is that of Revelational Evolution, which holds that God accommodated his message to the primitive understanding of ancient people, with the ultimate revelation of God’s non-violent character coming through Jesus Christ.

These debates reveal a fundamental struggle: are these texts a record of God’s direct command, or a human attempt to justify a brutal military campaign by framing it as a divine decree? The assertion that one knows the answer with absolute certainty is the first step on a dangerous path.

The Crucible of Failure: The Jewish-Roman Wars and the Reinterpretation of Herem

The catastrophic Jewish-Roman Wars (66-73 CE and 132-135 CE) served as a brutal historical test for the theology of divinely-sanctioned war. Many Jewish rebels, particularly the Zealots, were fueled by a fervent belief that God would intervene on their behalf, just as He had for Joshua. They saw their struggle against Rome as a new holy war with divine approval.

The outcome was the opposite of their expectations. The wars ended in utter devastation: the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, the massacre and enslavement of countless Jews, and the final crushing of the Bar Kokhba revolt. The failure was not just military; it was theological. The belief that God was guaranteed to fight for them in a holy war had resulted in national catastrophe.

This disaster forced a profound rethinking of the Herem tradition within Rabbinic Judaism. Theologians made several critical theological adjustments:

1. The Typology of War: They created a distinction between commanded wars (like Joshua’s conquest) and discretionary wars. The majority opinion held that commanded wars were a thing of the past, effectively limiting the application of Herem to a unique, bygone era.

2. From Physical to Spiritual Herem: The term Herem itself was transformed. It ceased to refer to physical destruction in war and was repurposed to mean excommunication—the spiritual separation of an individual from the religious community for severe transgressions. The weapon of destruction became a tool of spiritual discipline.

3. The “Three Oaths”: A powerful rabbinic tradition instructed Jews not to rebel against the nations they lived among nor to attempt to “end the times” by forcibly returning to Zion. This was a direct theological response to the disasters of the past, a divine injunction against militant messianism.

This evolution demonstrates a deep wisdom. Faced with the failure of a literal, militant interpretation, Jewish scholars did not abandon their texts; they reinterpreted them. They acknowledged that the mind of God was more complex than a simple promise of military victory.

Conclusion: The Arrogance of Certainty and the Humility of the Seeker

The journey from the Herem of Joshua to the spiritual Herem of the Talmud offers a timeless lesson. It highlights the profound danger inherent in any claim to possess certain knowledge of God’s will in human conflict. The belief that one is an unquestionable instrument of the divine leads to the most horrific outcomes.

The divine creative force transcends human political and tribal boundaries. To claim that this force exclusively sanctions one nation’s conquests is the height of arrogance. It is to shrink the infinite into a flag or a slogan.

Our role is not to claim knowledge of God’s mind, but to engage with our traditions with critical empathy. We must explore the contexts, understand the debates, and recognize the human hands that have written every sacred text. The true path lies not in the certainty that justifies violence, but in the humble pursuit of wisdom that champions peace.