Human suffering, whether one's own or that of others, has long been a central issue in theology; certainly for as long as there have been written records of human thoughts about the divine, that has been the case. Nowhere does the question of human suffering and Providence come into clearer focus than in the Holocaust. For school my son recently had to read Elie Wiesel's description of his experience of the Holocaust in his 1960 book, Night. My son was really moved by it and asked me to read it. I read it over two days and was deeply moved by it too. After reading it I found I wanted to think through it a bit more by writing out some of my impressions of a scene that was particularly powerful. So here are some of my thoughts.
A little over halfway through the book, Wiesel describes the celebration of the new year on the eve of Rosh Hashanah, as thousands of Jews gathered in silence in the assembly area of a concentration camp. As the officiant prayed and ten thousand Jews responded in unison, Wiesel shares with the reader his inner monologue of rebellion against God. He was appalled that God should allow God's people to suffer and be tortured and killed (even babies and children), and that these people would still praise the "Name of the Eternal." Of the many powerful and emotional scenes he describes through his measured prose, to me the glimpse of his inner life and conflict during this worship service was one of the most moving. Of his non-participation in the prayers of that service, he wrote:
"Once, New Year's Day had dominated my life. I knew that my sins grieved the Eternal; I implored his forgiveness. Once, I had believed profoundly that upon one solitary deed of mine, one solitary prayer, depended the salvation of the world.
"This day I had ceased to plead. I was no longer capable of lamentation. On the contrary, I felt very strong. I was the accuser, God the accused. My eyes were open and I was alone--terribly alone in a world without God and without man. Without love or mercy. I had ceased to be anything but ashes, yet I felt myself to be stronger than the Almighty, to whom my life had been tied for so long. I stood amid that praying congregation, observing it like a stranger" (Night, 64-65)
Naturally, I hesitate to compare my own struggle with God to anything like that of Wiesel or anyone who has gone through such unfathomable suffering. Nevertheless, there are those significant aspects of universal human experience that allow readers in another time and another place to relate, on some level, to an account as harrowing as his. So although I cannot enter into the pain of the unspeakable devastation that was inflicted upon the Jews during the holocaust, there are two element's of Wiesel's experience to which I found I could relate. On the one hand, I have known a similar kind of complete devotion to the faith in which I was raised, wherein which I "believed profoundly" about the cosmic importance of my own devotion; where the religion of my youth "dominated my life." In this, I think, I was not unlike Wiesel before his life took the unimaginable turn it took during his 15th year.
On the other hand, through my own experiences and my own coming to grips with how God does or does not work within the world, through my own doubts and through my eyes being "opened" to face harsh realities, I have known the feeling Wiesel describes of being a spectator, a stranger even, as others participated fully in acts of worship that could no longer hold the same meaning for me. While Wiesel's faith changed profoundly in an instant, mine has taken years to develop to the place where I could honestly and openly question God. I believe this questioning to be good and right; it is at the very least, authentic. But for me the process has been very uncomfortable, painful even, as necessary as it is.
Wiesel's life and mine are worlds apart in so very many ways. But I am grateful that he found the courage and strength to put his story into print. Aside from the powerful reminder of the atrocities of genocide that his book offers, he was able to put into words thoughts, feelings, and ideas that were for me, to a large extent, unformed. Through his confession, I could see a glimpse of myself. His words resonated with my own experience of faith and doubt and growth in the midst of pain, and gave me a way of framing that which I had not been able to adequately express.
At several places in the volume, Wiesel returns to this theme of questioning God and losing hope in the face of the harsh reality of the concentration camps. If time allows, I may explore others of these in the weeks ahead. Unless my son gives me another impromptu reading assignment.
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