Moral Dilemmas, Part 2

Impossible but necessary choices

The phrase “Drama is making impossible but necessary choices” is now attributed to the story guru Robert McKee, but I’d heard it before I heard of him. I’ve been repeating this maxim in every one of my screenwriting classes for the past 24 years. Making an impossible but necessary choice encapsulates the essence of moral dilemmas in storytelling. In narratives, characters often find themselves in situations where they must make morally challenging decisions, where there is no clear right or wrong answer, yet a choice must be made for the story to progress.

But in real life, impossible choices truly are impossible to make. Complexities and uncertainties interfere. Life interferes. Consider this moral dilemma:

One of the home health aides “babysitting” my aging parents-in-law (both in their 90s) hails from Ukraine. She worked tirelessly, day and night, to raise money for a bribe. Once she had saved exactly $13,000, she promptly sent it to her 30-year-old son in Kiev, who had tragically buried three close friends in the past six months. He has a wife he loves and a one-year-old daughter he adores. Naturally, he doesn’t want to die, not even for his beloved country, of which he is a chest-beating patriot. The $13,000 was intended to bribe Hungarian border patrol soldiers to gain entry into a safe haven. After two months in Hungary, they managed to obtain refugee status in Poland, where they are now safe and sound, while their homeland faces total destruction.

It’s a moral dilemma that his mother, a fierce Ukrainian patriot, refuses to acknowledge. From a patriotic standpoint, defending one's homeland from external threats is not only a duty but also a noble and honorable act. However, when her son’s life is on the line, her perspective shifts drastically. How would I feel if I were in her shoes? What would I do if I were him?

In a screenplay, my protagonist would undoubtedly sacrifice himself for his country without hesitation. And I hope that in real life, the better part of me would be able to rise to the occasion and do the same. But how can I, someone who enjoys all the benefits of a prosperous and peaceful society (at least for now), pass judgment on a young man faced with an impossible but necessary choice? Instead of discussing it with the young man’s mother, I opted to write a very short story to ease my troubled mind.

Father Michael sat in the small, dimly lit confessional booth, his left molar throbbing with a persistent ache. The scent of aged wood and incense turned his stomach, and all he wanted was to lie down. But then he heard footsteps and the creak of the booth’s door. Someone settled on the bench on the other side of the partition.

The small window slid open, revealing only a bulbous nose and a patch of gray beard. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," came a low, gravelly voice tinged with a Slavic accent. This wasn’t the usual stay-at-home dad confessing to excessive masturbation or sneaking the baby's milk, Father Michael thought as he straightened his spine.

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

"Years," the voice replied. "But my sins are recent... and grave."

Father Michael clasped his hands in his lap, listening intently as the confessor began to speak. The man shifted in his seat, his movements barely audible but filled with a tension that hinted at a vast darkness within.

"I've stolen from those who trusted me. I've lied to those who depended on me."

Father Michael’s pulse quickened as the confessions grew more sinister.

"I've committed assaults, leaving people hospitalized. I’ve poisoned pets to intimidate my neighbors.”

“Lying to a priest is sin too,” said Father Michael quietly.

“I've tampered with brakes on cars, causing deadly accidents,” continued the confessor without skipping a beat, his tone chillingly detached. “I’ve set buildings on fire and watched them burn, knowing people were inside… children."

The priest's breath caught in his throat. "You must go to the authorities," Father Michael interjected, his voice trembling. "What you have done is beyond absolution without justice."

The confessor let out a low chuckle. "You know I can't do that, Father. And you can't tell anyone. The seal of the confessional binds you."

Father Michael’s mind raced. The seal of confession was sacred, a cornerstone of his faith and duty. But the lives at stake, the future harm this man might cause—it gnawed at him, a moral dilemma tearing him apart.

"Why are you telling me this?" Father Michael asked.

The confessor leaned closer to the partition. "Because I want you to know," he said, his tone cold and unwavering. "Because I want to see what you will do with this burden."

Father Michael's hands trembled. The confessor's crimes were monstrous, and the thought of remaining silent felt like complicity.

"Do you seek forgiveness?" Father Michael asked.

There was a pause, then the confessor's voice came, softer now, almost wistful. "I don't know if I believe in forgiveness anymore. I just...needed to be heard."

He rose to leave. Father Michael heard the rustle of his clothing, the subtle creak of the bench as the man stood. "The seal is your vow, Father," he said, now eerily calm. "Break it, and you betray your faith."

Father Michael listened to the footsteps fade away, the door closing behind the confessor with a soft click. He remained in the booth, engulfed by darkness, his soul tormented by the impossible choice before him. His tooth kept throbbing as he prayed for wisdom, knowing that whatever path he chose, it would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Hours passed in the confessional, time stretching out agonizingly as Father Michael wrestled with the weight of his decision. Finally, with trembling hands and a heavy soul, Father Michael made his choice – he would uphold the sanctity of the confessional, honoring his vow and trusting in divine justice. It was a decision made not in cowardice or negligence, but in faith—faith that the divine order would prevail where human frailty faltered.

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‘til next time

ak