Where is God in an Unsafe World?
I started writing this blog post about seeking God in an unsafe world before receiving the devastating news about the murder of the six young Israeli hostages. The truth is that I’ve been wondering how to find God in the midst of disaster pretty close to my whole life. The recent news brings a particular urgency to the question, but I have been exploring this particular iteration of it since October 7th when my synagogue started adding Psalm 121 to the morning prayers.
Psalm 121 is a beautiful psalm. It begins with the well-known verse, “I lift my eyes to the mountains. From where will my help come?” God will help, the psalmist reassures us. God is our protective shade, the stability of our steps. God faithfully watches over us, day and night, coming and going. In fact, the word “shomer,” “to watch over, safeguard, protect,” occurs six times in eight verses. No harm will come to you, the psalm promises, because God will take care of you. In many communities, as in mine, this psalm is recited during times of distress.
These are indeed distressing times and as another psalm laments, ad ana, there is no sign of the suffering letting up. But Psalm 121 doesn’t actually comfort me. Instead, it confronts me with cognitive dissonance. It is just patently false to say that we are protected and safeguarded. Grievous harm has befallen us; our lives and our hearts are shattered. Indeed, we humans continue to perpetrate harm on one another in countless ways. So what is the psalm talking about? Where is the Guardian, the One who is supposed to protect and shelter us?
When these questions arise, I turn to a prayer written by Etty Hillesum. Etty was a complicated, extremely human, Jewish 20-something in Amsterdam who wrote a diary between 1941-1943, certainly times of great distress. Amazingly, she experienced a spiritual awakening during those years, which nourished her and enabled her to support others until she was murdered in Auschwitz in November, 1943. On July 12, 1942, she recorded this prayer in her diary:
[O]ne thing is becoming increasingly clear to me: that You cannot help us, that we must help You to help ourselves. And that is all we can manage these days and also all that really matters: that we safeguard that little piece of You, God, in ourselves. And perhaps in others as well. Alas, there doesn't seem to be much You Yourself can do about our circumstances, about our lives. Neither do I hold You responsible. You cannot help us, but we must help You and defend Your dwelling place inside us to the last. […] I am beginning to feel a little more peaceful, God, thanks to this conversation with You. I shall have many more conversations with You. You are sure to go through lean times with me now and then, when my faith weakens a little, but believe me, I shall always labor for You and remain faithful to You and I shall never drive You from my presence.
What an extraordinary prayer, and what a remarkable reversal of what safeguarding can mean. I also find that Etty’s prayer gives me language for how I might experience prayer in these times of distress: as a kind of internal architecture that safeguards (there’s that word!) the “little piece of God” in me. What does that mean? I don’t always know exactly, but I do know that, like Etty, when I pray, I begin to feel both more peaceful and fortified. I can turn back to the magnificent poetry of Psalm 121, the mountains, the unfaltering step, the protective shade, and yes, the promises, and feel more ready to do the best I can for another day, even with my broken heart.
No, the world is not safe and has never been so. But maybe there is help after all.