The Holocaust - A Christian Perspective
Rebecca Clancy
Genesis 12:1-4 Romans 5:1-5
When I was fifteen years old, my parents took me to Paris. I remember discovering behind Notre Dame Cathedral a small memorial to the Holocaust. The memorial was simple and understated, but it conveyed something to me very powerfully. I was too young at the time to analyze or articulate my powerful response to the memorial. I only know I was shaken. Looking back at the experience from adulthood, I think the memorial caused me to experience for the first time in my life a sense of God forsakenness.
Since that time, World War II has been an absorbing interest of mine. By the time I was in college, I was already an inveterate reader in the field. I read chiefly from the vantage point of secular history, focusing my attention on the question of causation – What caused the war and then the Holocaust? Getting to the bottom of that question turned out to be a monumental undertaking; for the causes, I learned, were extremely various and complex. Predominately, of course, it was Adolph Hitler – but he played upon a number of conditions and factors, like World War I and the Treaty of Versailles, like the world depression of 1929, like Christian Antisemitism that was so quickly and easily transmuted into racial Antisemitism.
My early studies of the war were very influential in the shaping of my perspective, and they taught me a great deal. I learned about human nature and human corruptibility. I laid to rest or at least severely delimited any hope of human moral progress. I leaned that collective human privation is a dangerous tinder box, especially when it come into contact with the wrong spark, and Adolph Hitler was the wrong spark. I learned the truth of Jefferson’s words that eternal vigilance is the price of freedom.
But for all my efforts, I was finally left unsatisfied. I think it’s because, despite all I learned about the war, I never got at the underlying question, the question that made the war so compelling to me in the first place, and the question of God forsakenness. So I turned next to the field of theology. Initially after the Holocaust, when hard evidence of what had happened began to trickle out, there was no theological response, only a sort of horrified gasp. But by the 1970’s the nascent field of Holocaust Studies emerged within theology, and scholars, particularly Jewish scholars, began to ask hard and painful theological questions of the Holocaust. One question they asked had to do with the covenant. Is there in the wake of the Holocaust still a covenant between God and humanity? Was there ever a covenant between God and humanity?
In the book of Genesis, God initiates the covenant with Israel. God calls to Abraham, “Go from your country and your kindred to the land I will show you. I will make of you a great nation.… I will bless you and make your name great so that you will be a blessing...” From this moment forward, Israel’s raison d’être, her self-identity, her self-understanding, were bound up in God’s covenantal promises to her. To most theologians, however, in the wake of the Holocaust, talk of God’s promises, God’s covenant, sounded like cruel platitudes. One theologian even insisted that all theology must now begin and end in Auschwitz. This is of course extreme, and carries with it deliberate shock value, but the point I think is sound. Theology now must take stock of the Holocaust. Theologians, both Jewish and Christian, have the right to wonder about the covenant. Is there a covenant?
Not surprisingly, many theologians have concluded no, the Holocaust proves to anyone with eyes and ears that there is no covenant. The Holocaust cannot be absorbed into Jewish salvation history, or Christian salvation history which is based upon identical promises. There may be a God, these theologians say, but nothing is as we were given to think or hope. It's time to grow up now. It’s time to face reality. God, if he is there, is not there for us. We must denude ourselves of all illusions and delusions about God. We must rely upon ourselves, protect ourselves, and live as though God does not exist.
This posture has always struck me as a posture of sad, bitter resignation borne of profound disillusionment. It, however, at least did not close the door entirely upon God. Other theologians in response to the Holocaust have done just that. They assert that, despite all of our wishful thinking, despite all the stock we’ve place in him, it’s time to face the fact that there is no God - no pattern, no purpose, no meaning. We must now jettison all talk or thought about God. But one of the ironic by-products of this is that it gives Hitler the final word. He did after all annihilate two thirds of European Jewry. Without God, Hitler’s achievement, while it did not succeed as fully as he hoped, is decisive; his cause triumphant.
Emile Fachenheim, a great Jewish theologian and philosopher, saw the problem here. He said, “We are forbidden to deny or despair of God, however much we may have to contend with Him or with belief in Him. We are forbidden to despair of our world…lest we help to make it a meaningless place in which God is dead or irrelevant and everything is permitted. To abandon God in response to Hitler’s victory at Auschwitz would be to hand Hitler yet another posthumous victory.”
Emile Fachenheim saw the impasse – either you abandon God and Hitler wins, or you cling to a God who allowed it to happen. Fachenheim opted for the latter. But we still must ask ourselves how do we speak of, have faith in, and proclaim a God who loves us and cares for us without making a mockery of the victims of the Holocaust? What about their forsakenness, which is humanity’s forsakenness? My studies got me this far but no further until I discovered in the apostle Paul the closest thing I’ve ever found to an answer. It’s not a complete answer to be sure, because as Paul well knew, we don’t have the complete context. We see in a mirror dimly. We groan inwardly awaiting redemption.
Paul said that before Jesus came we lived in the time of the law. The law was good, and represented God’s programmatic will for humanity, but the law was deficient. For one thing, we couldn’t keep it. For another, Paul knew the law had no power to save us, to redeem us, to make us right with God.
God’s act in Jesus signaled the end of time of the law, and ushered in a new age in which we are saved by God’s grace bestowed in love for us through the life, death, and resurrection of his son Jesus. This is the time in which we now find ourselves, but the hardship, the tension is that although in Jesus we see God’ triumph, we are yet in an in-between time. He has come, but is yet to come. Our final redemption is still a thing of the future. But it is precisely because of our in-between status that we may keep looking forward, and what we look forward to is based upon what God has revealed to us in Jesus.
In Jesus, God reveals his intentions toward humanity. In the Jesus story, like in Nazi German, we see humanity at its worst. Jesus came to teach us, to heal us, to love us, to save us, but we knew him not. We betrayed him; we humiliated him; and we hung him on a cross until shattered and broken we drove him to God forsakenness: “My God, my God, why hast thou foresaken me?” Jesus lived God forsakenness. But God’s act in Jesus screams that forsakenness is not the final word; that Hitler is not the final word, because God responded to human evil and the forsakenness it engenders, by raising Jesus up. God responded by Jesus’ promise from the other side of forsakenness that he would be with us till the end of the age. He responded by sending his spirit to sustain and inspire us to live faithfully, while we look forward in this in-between time to God’s final act of redemption.
In this we now have our hope. It is not a naïve hope, untempered by the cruel realities of human existence, nor should it be. We have no right to naivety, but nor do we have a right to denial or despair. God’s act in Jesus beckons us forward in hope. Why is there suffering? Why must it happen? I accept now hat these things I will never know. But do now that the resurrection flouts the worst this world can do, and demands with Paul that we hope against hope, holding out for a better way. Amen.
Rebecca Clancy
Romans 8:25 Waiting on the Lord Many years ago, almost too many to count, I had the opportunity to study the Old Testament at the University of Edinburgh. That means that I had the opportunity to live in Scotland for a time -- so I am here to tell you that there is more to Scottish culture than kilts and bagpipes. There is the Scottish national dish -- Haggis to be precise. In case you’re unfamiliar with Haggis, it is made from the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep. They pack them into the sheep’s stomach, toss in a little oatmeal, and boil it. I only tried it once. Once was enough. Then there’s the Scottish national flower – the thistle. You see thistles everywhere -- on flags, coats of armor, dishware. They were once even featured on the currency. I would have thought that heather would have been a better contender for the Scottish national flower -- it is everywhere, and it’s much less prickly -- but no one consulted me. Then there’s the Scottish national poet, Bobby Burns. Burns wrote in Old Scottish. I actually picked up quite a bit of Old Scottish during my time in Edinburgh. I pride myself that I can recite much of his poetry by heart. Old Scottish is unintelligible to the modern ear, but the Scots still love him. I used to walk past the Scottish National Gallery of Art on the way to class. You could peer in the front door and see the famed portrait of him. If you’re unacquainted with his work, he wrote, To a Mouse. To a Louse. And, I kid you not, Address to a Haggis. And then, of course, there’s Greyfriars Bobby. I guess you could call Greyfriars Bobby the Scottish national dog. Grayfriers Bobby was a good Scottish breed -- the Skye Terrior. He and his master were inseparable, and after his master’s untimely death, Greyfriars Bobby remained at his master’s graveside -- day in and day out -- for 14 years, until he himself died. Greyfriars Bobby is a testament of devotion and loyalty not just to the Scottish, but to everyone. A statue of Greyfriars Bobby stands in the heart of town. At the funeral of his master, when the casket was being lowered into its final resting place, Greyfriars Bobby gave way to grief. He whined, whimpered and pawed at the grave. Beyond his grief, however, Greyfriars Bobby settled into a daily routine. Every day, when the 1:00 gun was fired, a man by the name of William Dow, who had befriended Grayfriers Bobby, picked him up at the cemetery. They strolled together to a local coffee shop, where Grayfriers Bobby ate his daily meal. After a bit of socializing, they strolled back to the cemetery. Greyfriars Bobby settled back onto his master’s gravesite and watched the sunset. There were attempts to lure Greyfriars Bobby away from his master’s graveside, especially in inclement weather, but they were fruitless. Greyfrirs Bobby refused to leave. Greyfriars Bobby is all the proof I need that dogs go to heaven. Do you really think that he when arrived at the Pearly Gates to be reunited with his master, Peter, who Jesus entrusted with the keys to bound and to loose, turned him away on the grounds that he was a dog? That makes no sense to me. And I’m sure it made no sense to Peter. There’s a lesson we can learn this morning from Greyfriars Bobby. And lest you register skepticism that there’s a lesson we can learn from dogs -- this is the whole point of the book of Ruth – that we can learn lessons in unexpected places. Ruth was a despised foreigner. She was feared. She was suspected. She was accused. Yet there were lessons that the people of Israel learned from her. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. At least that’s what the Bible proclaims. And it’s not just Ruth. It’s Ruth, yes. But it’s also the Good Samaritan; it’s the Magi, it's the Roman Centurion, it’s the Canaanite woman, it’s the Ninevites, it’s the Ethiopian eunich, it’s Cornelius. And if the Bible hits you over the head with something that many times, and you still refuse to accept it, you’re just being stubborn. There are lessons we can learn in unexpected places. And the more unexpected the place, the more important the lesson. Sure, there’s a lesson we can learn from Greyfriars Bobby about loyalty and devotion, but there’s also a lesson we can learn from him about waiting for someone. Because if you think about it, we are all waiting for someone. Every one of us. It could be someone who is angry with us – someone who holds a grudge against us, someone who dislikes us, someone from whom we are estranged. It could be someone who is stationed at a far-flung corner of the earth -- someone who is called to serve and sacrifice, someone who has placed himself in harm’s way, someone we may never see again. It could be someone who has fallen prey to an addiction – someone who is facing an uphill battle, someone who has made strides only to fall back, someone whose potential and possibility are under siege. And it could be, like with Greyfriars Bobby, someone that we lost – someone who is irreplaceable, someone who enriched and defined our lives, someone who spared us from loneliness and aimlessness. We are all waiting for someone. And so, we can learn a lesson from Greyfriars Bobby, and it is this. Yes, for a time we grieve their absence. We weep. We mourn. We despair, even. We do all these things…for a time. But then we must get back to the business of living. As Langston Hughes reminds us, Life is for the living. We must get back to the business of living – of caring for others, of speaking the truth, of practicing fairness, of sacrificing for others, of sharing our abundance, of striving for peace – of doing the best we can to prove, day by day, that we have heard the upward call of Jesus Christ. While all the while we are waiting for someone. But here’s the thing. We don’t wait in vain. Because we wait, ultimately, through Jesus Christ -- so we wait for our eternal home in heaven where those for whom we wait are waiting for us. And we will know that joyous reunion that Greyfriars Bobby and his master now know. Amen.
John 20:1-18 But why? Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? There is, of course, the easy answer. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb because, arriving at the tomb, she discovered that Jesus’ body had been stolen. But that’s the easy answer. Easy answers are, as often as not, simplifications; and simplifications are, as often as not, distortions. So, let us look beyond the easy answer and ask again, Why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? Mary was one of those people whom nature had favored. And nature does play favorites -- that much is undeniable. Mary was tenacious, discerning, steadfast, spontaneous, courageous – not to mention brimming with natural affections. Yes, she was one of those people whom nature had favored, but sometimes that is not enough. Mary had a bad start in life, and that tends to temper even nature’s most generous gifts. When Jesus first encountered Mary, she was not of sound spirit. She was afflicted and tormented. But Jesus performed a miracle that recalled her to life. She became his passionate and devoted follower. It would seem that her past was behind her. Like with so many others Jesus encountered, Mary had been lost and now was found. But this only led her to the foot of his cross. She had endured the entire spectacle. Dark men – petty, jealous, and scheming -- closed in on him. They subjected him to a farce of a trial, and this only as a formality. They intended to see him executed from the very beginning. The disciples, for their part, panicked and scattered. What if they were next to be targeted? But not Mary. She abided with him those endless hours as he hung on the cross right through to his death agony. She watched from a distance as Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposed his body from the cross and laid it in a tomb. Mary was shattered. She was traumatized. She was devastated. She was forced to endure the unthinkable – the death of one deeply beloved, and to malicious violence. But Mary was not entirely bereft. She still had his body. She could cleanse and anoint it, bestow upon it what loving care she could. And going forward she could become that person – the one who visits the graveside, the one who keeps memories alive, the one whose tears are never exhausted. In time she would achieve a sort of notoriety for it, but it’s the kind of notoriety no one wants. But she arrived at his tomb only to discover that his body had been stolen. So why did Mary stand weeping outside the tomb? She stood weeping outside the tomb because she had hit rock bottom. I have never hit rock bottom. If dread keeps it at bay, dread has done that much for me. But I have seen others who have. It’s a terrible thing to witness, much less to experience. A kind of derangement takes hold. They aren’t recognizable. They aren’t themselves. This is why Mary couldn’t add up two and two. She peered into the tomb and saw two angels robed in white raiment. Why are you weeping? They asked. Now they didn’t ask because they wanted to hear her theory about the graverobbers. This was not the sense of their question. Woman, why are you weeping? They were asking to convey that there was nothing to weep about. And it was the same thing when the resurrected Jesus asked the same question. Woman, why are you weeping? There’s nothing to weep about. I am alive. I am here. I am with you. Dry your tears. But Mary had hit rock bottom, so it didn’t add up. But then Jesus said something. Something cataclysmic. Something earth shattering. Something beyond description and explanation. And something right under our noses. If there’s one trait we all share, one thing we are all good at, one thing we are all GREAT at, it’s not seeing what’s right under our noses. Jesus called her by name. Mary! he said. And suddenly the truth broke in on her. Dimly, but at the same time, and paradoxically, with crystal clarity. She knew. She knew how we know most deeply – in our bones, in our guts, in our hearts. This man so beloved by her – her teacher, healer, leader, friend….he was much more than that. He was the one that time could not bind, the one that darkness could not thwart. He was the one over whom death had no dominion. He was the one she declared him to be. He was the Lord. And he called her by name . Rock bottom? There was no rock bottom. There was only hope, consolation, meaning, purpose, direction, relief, and rejoicing. From his height to her depth, he called her by name. Rock bottom? She now had good news to proclaim, and she proclaimed it for all she was worth. Friends in Christ, her good news is our good news. No matter what you’ve done, what you are doing, or what you will do. No matter how low you fall. No matter how deep you sink. No matter how bad you’re stuck. His deliverance has your name on it. His triumph has your name on it. His love has your name on it. So let us call him by name – Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
I Samuel 16:4-5 Matthew 5:9 To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It was because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And let’s not pretend that it doesn’t. The hold outs among us might stick their chests out and assert that conflict has no effect on them -- that they are immune from conflict. But personally, I’m a bit skeptical. As I’ve mentioned before, in my various vocations and avocations, I have been subjected to psychological tests. And not just a few of them. And one of the areas that is tested is how you react to conflict – whether you are conflict tolerant or conflict intolerant. According to the tests, I am conflict tolerant, as conflict tolerant as one can be. According to the tests, there is nothing that makes me more comfortable, and more relaxed, and more at ease than conflict. Conflict? Bring it on. There’s nothing I relish more. At least according to the tests. But why is it that in the face of conflict, I become preoccupied. I can’t get it off my mind. I become sleepless. I toss and turn at night. And I feel an enormous sense of relief when the conflict is resolved. So, in my own experience at least, conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And that leads us back to our Old Testament Lesson. Talk about conflict! But to understand it, we must back up a bit. In fact, we must back up quite a bit. We all know that Moses received the Ten Commandments atop Mt. Sinai. We all know that with the Ten Commandments in hand, Moses wandered with the people in the wilderness for forty years toward the Promised Land. But we might not all know what happened next. What happened next is that Moses died. Moses was succeeded by Joshua, who conquered the Promised land. And after that? The people settled onto the Promised Land. Since the people were comprised of twelve tribes they settled into the Promised Land accordingly. Each tribe deployed itself on a parcel of land. And they all lived happily ever after. Or not. Problems emerged in short order. The tribes did not get along. Surprise, surprise, the strong tribes picked on the weak ones. Why is it that at all times, and in all places, the strong pick on the weak? But that’s another question. Bottom line, there was disunity among the tribes. Beyond that, they were twelve tribes who each deployed itself on a parcel of land. But they were surrounded by enemies, enemies that had not been wandering around in the wilderness for the past 40 years. Enemies who were trained to fight. So, the people were threatened from within and from without. The closest thing that they had to a leader was Samuel, so they demanded of Samuel a king, a king to unify them and protect them from their enemies. Samuel listened to their demand and anointed King Saul. King Saul was the man of the hour. He was a standout. He stood head and shoulders above all others, was strikingly handsome, and teamed with charisma. He was clearly meant to be. So once again, they all lived happily ever after. Or not. There was something wrong with Saul. Now sometimes when there is something wrong with someone it’s obvious, it’s easy to name – as in the case with addiction, or physically abuse, or mental illness. But sometimes it’s not obvious. Ask twelve scholars what was wrong with Saul, you’ll get twelve different answers. For whatever reason, he proved not to be the stuff of it. He had some fatal flaw. Was it his temper? Was it his jealousy? Was it his paranoia? Was it his anger? Was it his desperation? Because all those things can prove to be fatal flaws. In that last analysis, it doesn’t matter what was wrong with King Saul – simply that there was something wrong with him. Predictably, those closest to him saw it first. But no one else was inclined to believe them. They believed what they wanted to believe, what was easiest to believe. And this is how it goes. The ones closest see it first, and no one is inclined to believe them. Moveover, they didn’t want to face the fact that King Saul was one big false start. But King Saul had some fatal flaw. And fatal flaws are fatal. King Saul deteriorated. It became increasingly difficult to deny. Conflict was brewing. It was not yet open conflict. Soon it would be and in terms too horrific to describe. But rumors were circulating. The atmosphere became charged, and not in a good way. Not one knew just how the thing would play out, but everyone sensed that it would not end well. And that brings us to our Old Testament Lesson. Samuel arrived in Bethlehem, unannounced, unexpected -- in full vestment and with full retinue. What did he want? Why did he single them out? What had they done wrong? Was he there to exact vengeance? In a spark would they all be dead? To set the scene for our Old Testament lesson -- Tension was rife. Anxiety was rife. Dread was rife. And why? It is because there was conflict, and conflict produces tension. Conflict produces anxiety. Conflict produces dread. And so, the people approached Samuel with a question. It was the right question. It was the key question. It was the decisive question. It was this question: Do you come in peace? If you remember one thing about this passage, if you remember one thing about the whole book of Samuel, remember this question. Do you come in peace? Because the people’s question to Samuel is the people’s question to us. Do we come in peace? In the face of conflict do we come in peace? Do we come in peace, or do we come bearing blame for things for which we know we are full well complicit? Do we come in peace, or do we come exacting retribution demanding an eye for an eye? Do we come in peace, or do we come rehearsing old grievances, resentments, jealousies, and grudges? Do we come in peace, or do we come pressing our advantage -- power up, poised to defeat? Because the people’s question to us is also Christ’s question to us? Do we come in peace? Have we gone that extra mile for the one who has burdened us? Have we turned the other cheek? Have we declined to let the sun set on our anger? Have we made peace with our accusers? Do we come in peace? For Christ declares that the peacemakers would be blest, and that through them, but only through them, would his kingdom grow. Amen.
