The Holocaust during which over six million people were murdered for no other reason than being Jewish. The decades of slavery in which human beings were owned, beaten, raped, and often permanently separated from their families for no other reason than the color of their skin. The fact that in both cases (the Holocaust and slavery) many of the perpetrators called themselves “Christian.” The attacks by Hamas. The retaliatory devastation in Gaza. And the fact that most of the victims were innocent and neither understood nor desired conflict. The ongoing brutality against Ukraine. The cruel face of poverty grinning on skeletal children in Sudan, Haiti, and Mali as they die from lack of food. The ethos of avarice in our own country that celebrates indescribable excesses while increasing numbers of people have no idea how to cope with increasing inflation. The once robust and active friend whose body is wasting away due to cancer. The new widow and her children sitting with shocked, ashen faces during the funeral service for one who they called “sweetheart” or “daddy” until a tragic accident less than a week ago. The business that fails. Or the marriage. Or the friendship. Or the cherished dream.
How do we interpret tragedy, especially if we hold onto a belief in a loving Creator? There’s a theological word for it: Theodicy. In terms made popular by Rabbi Harold Kushner’s famous book, theodicy is basically wrestling with the question Why Do Bad Things Happen to Good People? It is as old as Job and includes related questions like, “Why do presumably good people do bad things at the expense of other people?,” and “Why do basically good people ignore or refuse to address bad things that hurt other people?” A fundamental question, of course, is the one we began with: How do we interpret tragedy, particularly if we believe in a kind and loving God?
Clearly in a single blog I cannot provide an answer to a question that theologians and philosophers have struggled with in aeternum? The best I can do is to more or less “think out loud” (in this case, “think in print”) about it. In the end, these are simply my thoughts – and others may not agree – and most others will continue to ponder.
My first response as a theological thinker is that we have been granted life in this mortal sphere, but not promised perfection. That, we are told, is to come later. In short, this place is not heaven. It is an often beautiful and exhilarating but sometimes marred and heartbreaking place. As we sometimes hear, “Life happens.” For better and worse, that is true. Reasonable questions are: “How did something like this occur?,” and “What role did we play in it?” Perhaps a more urgent question is: “Now that this tragedy has occurred, what can I do about it – both to help and heal those who are bruised and battered and to keep a similar tragedy from occurring again?” Consider, e.g., the rising tides of fascism globally. It has been less than a hundred years since we observed what that leads to. People in most developed nations do still possess the powers of voice and vote to prevent it from happening again. Remember the words of George Santayana: “Those who fail to learn the lessons of history are condemned to repeat them.” We can learn those lessons and steer the ship in a moral direction. Or, consider the realities of food insecurity (18 million Americans go to bed hungry every night, and 757 million do globally) or homelessness (775,000 Americans have no place to sleep, approximately 150,000 of whom are children). “Why is that the case?” is not the question. Instead, the question is: “What can we do about it?” When tragedy of any sort occurs, “Why?” (though an inevitable question) never changes anything. “What can I do?” is always the key to replacing pain with consolation, despair with hope. Whatever has us alarmed at the moment, just remember: None of us can do everything, but all of us can do something. Contribute to a food bank. Write a check to a homeless shelter. Visit in a nursing center. Tutor a child. Phone a friend who is suffering. In spite of your calendar, be present for someone who needs a shoulder to lean on lest they fall.
And, the theological part? The question “Why did God let this happen?” changes nothing. “What do I make of God in light of this calamity or affliction?” does change my ability to cope and move forward. Do I interpret God as the enemy who caused my pain or as the ally who will help me survive and, hopefully, overcome it? Elijah cried out in abject fear from Mount Horeb. David cried out in guilt after the whole debacle with Uriah and Bathsheba. Paul cried out in loneliness and anxiety from a prison cell. Jesus knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane “in agony,” the story says, where “his sweat fell to the ground like drops of blood” (from which we get the term, “sweating blood”). Each was facing uncertainty and the threat of emotional and/or physical trauma. Each had the opportunity to say, “God, why would you let this happen?” But each, instead, found the strength to cope by simply praying, “God, be with me.” That’s the theological promise. As already noted, this earth, for all its wonder and beauty, is not heaven – and sometimes can be hellish. But, in the midst of that there comes a Voice whispering, “I will be with you always.” When taken seriously, those words contain the promise of a Presence that somehow sooner or later brings peace. Whatever we’re up against at any given moment, we do not have to battle that Goliath alone.
A Presence that brings peace … That is what you have been promised, no matter what you may be facing. But with the promise comes a challenge: Others, too, are facing incredible pain, injustice, suffering, fear. If you find the peaceful Presence in your own life, you’re asked to be a conduit through whom other sufferers may find it, too. At the end of the day, maybe the best way to survive our own pain is by helping someone else who is hurting.