Holy Rebellion

Many people have felt compelled to watch videos of the Hamas attack on October 7th. But not me; I simply cannot. Yet despite doing my best to avert my eyes, I’ve stumbled across multiple descriptions of the horrors of that day. One episode that took place in Netiv HaAsara wounded me profoundly. Reading that story shook my faith, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterward. I wondered to myself over and over again: How could God allow young, innocent children to suffer in such a horrible way?

In times of tragedy, faith is a painful riddle. Does loyalty to God demand that, even in moments of grief, one must declare “His work is perfect, and all His ways are just”? Should we treat our broken-hearted questions about God as incipient heresy?

Many embrace as the religious standard the example of Abraham at the akeidah; he is a true knight of faith, pursuing God’s command despite the grief and suffering it will cause him. By this standard we are obligated to meet moments of unjust anguish with stoic resolve; afterward, we should submit to a childlike faith in God that will wipe away any lingering questions.

But there is also a very different perspective on this subject. God is constantly questioned in the Tanakh: Abraham challenges God before the destruction of Sodom, and says “Will the Judge of all the earth not pursue justice?” Moses, at the beginning of his mission to the Jewish slaves, complains to God: “O Lord, why did You bring harm upon this people?” The Book of Psalms asks why God lets the enemies of Israel “devour us like sheep.” The Tanakh contains multiple examples of God being questioned about His conduct; indeed, an entire book, Job, is devoted to this topic.

The questions continue unabated in Rabbinic literature. After some debate, the Talmud declares that one can die without sin, i.e., for no reason. (Shabbat 55b.) Another passage (Shavuot 9a) states that God brings a sin offering each month for having “diminished” the moon, a metaphor for creating a flawed and imperfect world. In other words, God Himself has to atone for failing humanity. Even more radical is a statement in the Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 19:33) that Moses convinced God to replace His initial plan of “visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children” with the rule that “Parents shall not be put to death for children, nor children be put to death for parents.” In the Midrash’s account, God admits that Moses’s standard of justice is better fitted for this world.

Yes, there is a Jewish tradition of questioning God, a holy rebellion that begins with Abraham.

This tradition offered great comfort to many Holocaust survivors. Even those who had deep faith carried within an even deeper pain; they had seen too much to stay silent. The path of unquestioning belief was no longer possible for them.

Many questioned loudly. I heard a great deal of feedback from survivors I knew when I gave sermons on faith in God; and I got the same questions even when I didn’t give a sermon.

Others were quiet rebels.  In the early years of Lincoln Square Synagogue, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin asked one member to serve as the cantor for Neilah on Yom Kippur. This man was the perfect choice: he led services regularly on Shabbat, was blessed with an exceptional voice, and was a very kind, caring, and observant Jew. Yet this member refused, year after year, without offering any explanation. Finally, one year, Rabbi Riskin pressed the man to explain why he wouldn’t accept.

The man told Rabbi Riskin: “You know I am a Holocaust survivor. When the war ended, I was very angry with God. For years, I was totally non-observant. I violated the Shabbat and ate non-kosher foods. I was really angry with God. He took everything from me – my whole family was killed by the Nazis. But that all changed when I got married and had children. Slowly but surely, I returned to observance through my children. But I must tell you that every Tisha b’Av, 20 minutes before the end of the fast, I take a drink of water. This is my war with God.”

Eating 20 minutes early on a fast day is the defiance of someone who both loves God and is furious at Him.

Despite the multiple texts attesting to the idea of holy rebellion, it still feels wrong. We are meant to stand in awe of God, our Father and our King. God’s commands serve as the compass around which we orient our lives. So how can one rationalize, let alone admire, these texts of skepticism and defiance?

An insight from Rav Yosef Bechor Shor and the Ramban offers a solution to this question. They say that the Hebrew word for wrestling, vayeavek, is based on the Hebrew word for hugging, chibuk. This linguistic explanation makes sense: Both hugging and wrestling are conducted in close proximity, with entwined hands and face-to-face familiarity. But this linguistic insight is also a psychological insight. It is apathy that is the opposite of love. Wrestling on the other hand is intimate. Even in anger, both parties grab hold of each other because they cannot let go. It is a repressed hug, a longing for a lost connection.

And the holy rebels are engaged in a wrestling match with a God.

Holy rebels speak the truth in their hearts. And that is critical because any meaningful relationship must allow both sides to express what is most important to them. They ask questions because they refuse to have a superficial relationship with God. There is little religious value in denying your feelings in order to present a picture-perfect, but phony, depiction of piety.

One such holy rebel was Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, a Chasidic Rebbe who made it his mission to defend the Jewish people before God, no matter what. One Yom Kippur, Rav Levi Yitzchak overheard the tailor in the corner of his synagogue doing a spiritual accounting before God. The tailor conceded he had done many misdeeds in the previous year. But then again, he said, so had God. In fact, God’s injustices were worse. So the tailor looked up to God and said: “God, you have done things wrong, and I have done things wrong; why don’t we just forgive each other and call it even?”.

Upon hearing the tailor’s words, Rav Levi Yitzchak couldn’t contain himself. He turned to the tailor and said: “Why did you let God off so easily?”

I wish we had Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev with us today. He could tell God that we are heartbroken. That we have suffered so much. That there is too much injustice, and we have many questions.

And that this year we can’t let Him off so easily.

Rabbi Chaim Steinmetz is the Senior Rabbi of Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun in New York.