April 28, 2007 | 10 Iyar 5767 

It has now been nearly two-weeks since the horrific murder of thirty-two people occurred on the campus of Virginia Tech University. For a week or more the media saturated us with images of the killer, Cho Seung–Hui. We heard about his background and his peculiar ways, as described by former college suite mates. We watched video of the sickening ravings of a young man consumed by anger. From every possible angle, in the media and elsewhere, the question, “What drove Cho Seung-Hui to do what he did?” was the one people sought to answer…“How could he have done it? As if any of us, no matter what our level of psychological expertise; could ever arrive at an answer that would be satisfying.

Why did Cho Seung-Hui kill thirty-two innocent people, including academics well-recognized in their disciplines and others, mostly young people, whose rich potential was nearly boundless? No answer could ever be satisfying because, of course, no rational mind could accept it!

Inevitably, the story of the Virginia Tech tragedy has receded and fallen off the front page of the newspapers and the nightly news broadcasts. Classes and other on-campus activities resumed this week. But another question one also considered briefly in the media and then set aside, beckons our continuing consideration. Last Saturday morning you may have read an article in the Atlanta Journal Constitution entitled, “I Don’t Have All the Answers.” That article framed a question that I am sure was repeated over and over again in newspapers throughout the country, in places of worship and in many households. “Where was God amidst the horrors of Virginia Tech on April 16?”

The question is, of course, a timeless one. Within the Jewish community, many have asked it in the wake of profound communal tragedy… as in “Where was God during the Holocaust?”

Today the question also arises in response to natural tragedies experienced by whole communities – a tsunami, an earthquake or flood – “Where is God?”

Individuals, including, I am sure, some number of us sitting here today, ask that same question in the wake of personal loss or upheaval. After a death of a loved one, in the midst of a family crisis or simply whenever life mightily challenges them. “Where is God?”  “Why did it happen?”  “Why must I suffer?” Sometimes when people ask those questions, they truly mean them to be understood in that way… as questions.

To them, the responses of Rabbis Yitz Greenberg and Hillel Norry that appeared in last Saturday’s AJC article are most appropriate.

Essentially their responses were quite similar to each other. Rabbi Green was asked what theological statement could be made in the wake of the Holocaust? His response (and I quote) was, “After Auschwitz, faith means that there are times when faith is overcome.”

Rabbi Norry was asked to respond theologically to what had occurred at Virginia Tech. He said, “What are you going to say? Theology must stand silent. There are some things which you cannot explain away.”

Rabbis Greenberg and Norry are right.

To one who truly seeks an answer to the question of “where was God in this time of tragedy?” there is no satisfactory answer. Theological humility dictates that I not even seek to respond to that question as I might to the question, “Where was your wife when it happened?” But most often, in a manner that Rabbi Harold Kushner helped many of us to realize through his best-selling book, When Bad Things Happen to [Good] People, the question, “Where was God in this tragedy?” is not really a question. Rather, it is a cry that seeks not rational response, but rather a healing touch.

When we recognize the question about God’s whereabouts in that manner, we will also recognize a worthy response in this morning’s Torah reading. At the outset of Parshat Acharei-Mot God speaks to Moses: “Tell your brother Aaron that he is not to come at will into the holiest section of the Tabernacle behind the curtain, in front of the cover that is upon the Ark, lest he die; for I appear in the cloud over the cover” (Lv. 16:2).

The instruction seems harsh. The warning is framed in frightening ways. But remember their context.  The Torah itself, in the preceding verse, links this divine admonition to the deaths of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. Just two weeks ago in Parshat Shemini we read about these two young men who offered “Alien fire” in the Tabernacle and were summarily executed, according to the Torah, by God.

The inexplicable deaths of two young men, spirited leaders of the Israelite community – sudden and significant tragedy. Where was God?  Well, if we understand the Torah literally, God was the executioner!

But in the words of admonition to Aaron that God shares with Moses in today’s Torah reading, specifically the words, “I appear in the cloud over the cover,” Rabbi Meir Shapira, once head of the Sages of the Lublin Yeshiva, found hope and healing. He said that those words, “I appear in the cloud over the cover,” were directed toward Aaron amidst his confusion, consuming grief and doubts.

By extension, Rabbi Shapira says, those words are shared with all of us who doubt or cry out in times of needs. “I appear in the cloud over the cover” – understand these words in poetic fashion.  They convey an image; not a literal truth. God is “in the cloud” – God is shrouded.

Whatever the nature of the purest, most clear, most powerful manifestation of God, we mere mortals can never hope to experience it. It is too powerful, it is beyond our ability to comprehend or experience. Use whatever language you prefer. It just isn’t possible because “God is in the cloud” – the fullest experience of the divine is not given to us. But that does not mean any experience of the divine is beyond us. All faith traditions, Judaism included, speak about and often offer prescriptive directions about how to experience God’s presence.

Where was God after the sudden deaths of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu? Where was God in the Holocaust? Where was God at Columbine and at Virginia Tech?’

And where is God in the moments of suffering we experience during our lives? The answer lies not in the response to the question, but in the response of people after the tragedy. Namely when people, those who have been affected by the tragedy and those who would reach out to them, metaphorically “peel back the cover” to reveal whatever the bereaved or the beleaguered may experience of God in the cloud.”

Remember what Rabbi Harold Kushner [wrote] – the question of “why” (and I might add “where?”) is not really a “cry of woe.” When those who have suffered tragedy can find the means to move forward, however slowly, and we reach out to them in healing ways, both we and they bring back the cover and reveal a presence of God that can nurture hope in the future. What do you suppose it meant to the Virginia Tech community when they learned about American states and communities that declared days of mourning? How do you suppose the people of Blackburg, Virginia, and the Virginia Tech campus felt as they saw an entire major league baseball team don Virginia Tech baseball caps, and glimpsed the video clips of college campus rallies around the United States at which students chanted, “We are Hokies. We are Virginia Tech?”

Acts of solidarity help to heal. For people of faith, they peel back the cover of immense tragedy to reveal the healing presence of God made manifest in those who care. Yes, for most of us, if we are fortunate, the world is a good place and our lives are truly blessed most of the time. But at any given time, we know people, family members, and friends, perhaps professional colleagues who suffer because of a personal loss or other upheaval in their lives. For them, this moment is hopeless and without any calming sense of God’s presence.

But God is there in the cloud over the cover, and when we are there to provide the healing acts – a visit, a reassuring word, a note, a meal, whatever the appropriate approach might be – we help to remove that cover to reveal a presence that can eventually bring hope. The deaths of Aaron’s sons stunned him into sheer silence for a time, but eventually he moved forward.

The families directly affected by the Virginia Tech murders and perhaps others may still sit in stunned silence, too. But, as others within their communities reach out to them in basic and simple ways, they, like Aaron, will heal and move forward albeit in a manner that will reflect the memory of what they have lost. Amidst tragedy, both collective and personal, let us act to provide healing and hope to those who are in need. And as we do so, may we and they gain a glimpse of the Holy One, the source of all healing.

Amen.