Stéphane Godbout on finding God, at the worst of times, between silence and hope
There are moments when historical faith is shattered by the reality of life and death. Faced with scenes of violence and destruction, with the agony of innocent victims, one question cannot be avoided: where is God? How can we believe in His existence, His goodness, or even His effectiveness when humanity plunges into horror?
Today, this question comes back with force as we hear about the war and the suffering inflicted on the Palestinian people in Gaza. Entire families are being wiped out, children are dying under the rubble, and people are trapped in an endless war. It is difficult, if not impossible, to find a credible theological explanation for God's inaction. As in Auschwitz or Srebrenica in the past, many cannot help but ask themselves: Does God really exist? And if He does exist, why is He there watching the massacres without doing anything?
The scandal of evil and the collapse of easy answers
Theology has long sought to explain God's actions and power despite evil. Efforts have been made to demonstrate that suffering is a mystery, a test, a part of God's plan, or the result of human freedom. But confronted with victims' cries, such answers often seem obscene. How can you tell a mother who lost her child in the destruction that it's all part of a greater plan? How can you tell a people who were decimated that there is a secret purpose to their suffering?
The Holocaust has already made such rationalizations untenable. Some Auschwitz survivors even asserted that they saw their God die in the camps. Rabbi Richard Rubenstein even claimed that the concept of a providential God became obsolete after Auschwitz. Others, such as Hans Jonas, developed a totally different image of God: no longer a sovereign ruler over all, but a creator who renounced omnipotence when creating the world and can now only suffer with his creatures as they face the evil that afflicts them.
Today, confronted with the situation in Gaza, we face the same dilemmas. Ready-made religious or ideological explanations ring hollow. The enigma of evil remains, and with it the question concerning God.
We tend to think that God is either distant or not there. After all, why didn't God stop mass murders if He is all-powerful and good? This question can be found right in the Psalms: “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13:2). It is the thread that runs through scripture, from Job's anguish to Jesus on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34).
These cries of lamentation are already an act of faith: they recognize that our belief in God is not assurance but struggle, a journey. Some theologians teach us that faith does not allow us to close our eyes before evil, but instead gives us boldness to confront our inner rebellion and doubt of God's presence. Perhaps true faith blossoms where illusions give way, where we stop trying to defend God and instead simply call upon Him—even if it feels like crying out in the desert.
Theologians such as Jürgen Moltmann and Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggest that one way to see God is not as the Almighty who operates the levers of history, but as a companion who suffers with us. Ours is the crucified God, who chooses to stand alongside human beings until the end. And if this is the case, we find that the question is no longer, “Where is God?” but rather, “Where can we find God in all this suffering?”
I cannot find the God of love in well-crafted ideological or theological explanations. I find God in the faces of victims, in acts of solidarity, in small acts of resistance in the midst of chaos. That is where I see Him. Thus, God works in another way, by inspiring women and men who refuse to give in to hate, who demonstrate an alternative humanity that is loving, strong, and engaged in doing good.
A faith for today
For my part, I no longer believe in a God who ensures the ordering of the world, nor in a God who “sends” disasters to teach us lessons. But I keep the faith, faith in a God who stands with the broken, who weeps with them, and who asks us to be His hands and His voice.
This, of course, also involves a sense of responsibility and a spirit of service. If God does not “do it for us,” then it is up to us to do it. As for where God is (in Gaza or elsewhere), we can ask ourselves: “Where am I? What am I doing to ensure that evil does not have the last word? How do I keep from being silent or indifferent?”
Yet God's silence is deafening. We cannot avoid it. Sometimes it is a wound, a seed of doubt in the very soil of my faith. But this silence can also be perceived as a space safeguarded for human freedom. God does not use force. Is it possible that he uses human vulnerability, our weaknesses and our miseries to reveal himself? This is no comfort to us in our misfortunes. But it can prevent us from confusing God with the idols of power and violence.
Perhaps believing today is less about believing in a God who stops evil, and more about believing in a God who calls us to say no to evil while acting for the advent of good. This does not mean waiting for some grand intervention, but rather perceiving a discreet, inward presence, hidden in the dark of night. It may be a glimmer of hope, a light at the end of the tunnel of violence and hatred.
Ultimately, the only faith possible after Auschwitz and Gaza is a wounded faith. A faith that has the courage to doubt, that dares to question God, and that is not afraid to confront Him in the face of horror. A faith that does not seek certainties, but persists nonetheless—because it senses God's presence there, in the lamentation and the searching. He is not a universal and all-powerful solution, but He is part of the equation, that of light, courage, and hope.
And so, in circumstances that seem hopeless and dark, my Christian hope boils down to this: at the very heart of unfolding evil, there is a resisting power of life that can help us to maintain hope, to rise up, to act, to rise again.
—Stéphane Godbout is Designated Lay Minister at Église Unie Sainte-Adèle.
The views contained within these blogs are personal and do not necessarily reflect those of The United Church of Canada.