Early last week, I received a call from a young man in his early 30’s (we’ll call him David). Like thousands of others, David has been called into miluim (reserve duty) for long periods over the last 20 months – in fact he has done over 450 days, almost three-fourths of the war since October 7, 2023.
He has a young family, a job, and a life – all of which have been put on hold so he can assist with the protection of our land.
I was about to write that there’s nothing special about that but, of course, everything about that is extraordinary. That thousands of young men and women have abandoned their families and communities and willingly answered the call to arms is phenomenal. It belies the idea that young people are only interested in themselves and their latest gadgets – not in Israel they’re not.
Anyway, back to David. David is a religious young man, committed to a modern Orthodox way of life – Dati Leumi (National Religious) is how he would be categorized.
He called me prior to the war with Iran exploding and asked to come to see me because he was struggling with his relationship with God. He told me that he had seen things in his service that were incompatible with his understanding of a compassionate God, and wanted some spiritual guidance.
David duly came on Thursday June 12 – just a few hours before the fighting with Iran erupted.
It soon became clear that his crisis was twofold: a crisis of faith and significant symptoms of PTSD.
My wife and I – she is an experienced trauma psychotherapist – listened together to this fiercely strong, brave, and normally outgoing young man pour out his heart about his feelings around the war, his inability to relax, and the thoughts that his relationship with God was shattering, if not already broken beyond repair.
My wife addressed the psychological wounds, offering practical techniques to lower his arousal levels and recalibrate his stress responses when off duty.
A crisis of faith
AS FOR me, he was here not because I am a physician – thank God he has not been physically injured – but because I am a rabbi, a teacher, who is meant to have answers to the hard questions about faith. He trusts me and desperately wanted to preserve his fragile relationship with the Almighty.
“How can I say El Rahum ve-Hanun – ‘God, merciful and gracious’ – after what I’ve seen?” he asked, recounting horrors no one should have to witness.
His question, as old as humanity, is a valid one.
How do we praise a God who supposedly hears our cries when confronted with unspeakable violence?
I reminded David of Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks’ observation: “Faith is not certainty; it is the courage to live with uncertainty.”
In times of darkness, uncertainty can shroud our faith, and our prayers may feel like whispers in the void.
First, and perhaps most crucially, we must acknowledge the legitimacy of doubting our faith in times of such profound darkness.
I gave David “permission” to doubt, removing the extra burden of guilt he was carrying for having what he felt were heretical thoughts.
Even the Sages wrestled with doubt. The Talmud (Yoma 69b) tells us that Jeremiah and Daniel hesitated to praise God when His ways were hidden from them. Questioning is part of the human condition.
I suggested to David that, for now, instead of saying the set words in his prayers – which had been established by the Men of the Great Assembly during the early Second Temple period about 2,000 years ago – he could and should substitute the words he found troublesome with his own, expressing his bewilderment and his anger at our enemies for putting him in this situation. I told him it was OK to be angry at God, too.
Some people are able to maintain unwavering faith, echoing the prayer based on Maimonides’ 13 faith principles that all begin with “I believe with complete faith...” These individuals refuse to entertain any doubt, and while their conviction is admirable and maybe even enviable, it is a path that proves challenging for many, especially when the world is on fire.
AS CHILDREN, we were taught the concept of God being a kindly old man with a long white beard who resides up in Heaven dispensing favors – and this is appropriate at that age.
Maturity demands a deeper theology. What is God? Where is God? Why does He do what He does? These are questions many of us avoid – until life forces us to confront them head-on.
This is David’s dilemma.
David and I discussed the concept that the Hebrew infinitive for prayer is l’hitpalel. Those who know a little Hebrew grammar will recognize that this is a reflexive verb, like lehitlabesh – to dress oneself.
Prayer, then, is turned in on ourselves in a process of self reflection. When we pray, we speak to the part of ourselves which is, in fact, part of God.
What is God? God is many things, and one of them is the feeling inside of us that makes us want to do good things; the welling up of tears when we see or hear of tragedy occurring to others – not because it affects us personally but because it hurts others – that is our godliness.
I told David that when he and thousands of others dropped everything on October 7 in the middle of celebrating Simchat Torah, jumped in their cars, and raced south – that was his godliness.
Every day that he has spent protecting me and you, dear readers, that is his godliness.
I tried to show him that God is neither dead nor evil. God is there front and center in every soldier, firefighter, miluimnik (reservist) and every single person who is doing their bit to ensure that good triumphs over evil.
An hour after we finished talking, David sent me a text saying “That was amazing – it really spoke to what I am going through.”
Three hours later, it all kicked off and he was called back to his unit.
May the godliness within each of us protect the many thousands of Davids and Devorahs out there fighting for our lives and our future.
The writer is a rabbi and physician who lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya. He is a co-founder of Techelet-Inspiring Judaism.