This Year Proves That God Exists Even in the Darkest of Times

In 1966, Richard Rubenstein, a theologian grappling with the existential aftermath of the Holocaust, shocked the Jewish world with his groundbreaking work, After Auschwitz. Casting the Holocaust as an anomaly that defied religious faith, Rubenstein challenged the very foundation of traditional Jewish belief, declaring that “God is dead.”

This provocative notion was a radical reinterpretation of the 19th-century philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s declaration that “God is dead,” a statement Nietzsche used to express the collapse of traditional values and the erosion of absolute moral certainties in the modern world, resulting from an unprecedented crisis of faith.

For Rubenstein, however, the overwhelming horrors and brutality of the Holocaust — where six million Jews, including one million children, were brutally murdered — made it impossible to believe in an all-powerful, benevolent God who intervenes in history.

Rubenstein argued that if God truly controlled the course of human events, then He must have willed the atrocities of the Holocaust — a concept Rubenstein found morally repugnant. In confronting this terrifying possibility, Rubenstein aimed to expose what he saw as the hidden, darker implications of classical Jewish theology. He believed he was stripping away comforting illusions and forcing a confrontation with the unsettling truth that, at best, God is not as we have traditionally understood Him to be.

Although, despite his radical rejection of the traditional God of history, Rubenstein, a paradoxical figure in post-Holocaust theology, never entirely abandoned the concept of the divine. He continued to wrestle with a profound sense of loss as he searched for meaning in the very mystery he had declared dead.

One traditional theologian who challenged Rubenstein’s view was Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner, a leading Orthodox thinker, who offered an entirely different perspective. Rabbi Hutner acknowledged the profound mystery of the Holocaust but insisted that it was unequivocally part of the divine plan, which we, as limited human beings, cannot fully grasp.

Rabbi Hutner spoke of the Holocaust as a form of Chevlei Mashiach — the birth pangs of the Messiah — emphasizing that Jewish suffering has always preceded periods of redemption. For him, the Holocaust was a call for Jews to deepen their faith and commitment to the Torah, even when confronted with such overwhelming tragedy, in the belief that “in the concealment itself lies the pathway to redemption.”

This contrast between Rubenstein’s and Rabbi Hutner’s approaches to the Holocaust highlights the profound tension between what is hidden and what is revealed — a theme central to Parshat Nitzavim, where Moses declares, “The hidden things (nistarot) belong to God, but the revealed (niglot) things belong to us and to our children forever” (Deut. 29:28).

This critically important statement of faith underscores the duality that defines our relationship with the divine: certain aspects of God’s will and the workings of the universe remain concealed, always beyond human comprehension, while others are revealed to us, guiding our actions and responsibilities.

This tension between the hidden and the revealed becomes even more complex when we consider that what we think of as hidden may one day be revealed, and what we perceive as revealed may ultimately prove to be beyond our understanding — hidden in a more profound sense.

In the unfolding of history, certain events or truths that seem clear and understood at one moment can later become obscured by new revelations or more profound mysteries. Conversely, the hidden may reveal itself suddenly — and when that rock is lifted, what we find underneath may shock us to the core.

This dynamic has been playing out in stark relief over the past year as we consider the events of October 7th and what has happened since. One horrific day and its aftermath have brought to light the deeply entrenched hatred against Jews and Israel that was somehow previously hidden from — or ignored by — much of the world. We simply did not know the breadth and depth of Jew hatred, and now we know.

At the same time, the full extent of how the events of that terrible day came to pass and the forces at play that allowed it to happen remain shrouded in mystery, leaving us grappling with the limits of our understanding as we try to make sense of what has been revealed and what remains concealed.

Some might react to the revelations of deep-seated animosity and antipathy towards Jews and Israel, particularly by those we thought to be considered and intelligent, in much the same way Rubenstein responded to the horrors of the Holocaust — with a profound sense of despair and disillusionment.

When the spotlight catches these dreadful sentiments and their cheerleaders, it is easy to feel overwhelmed, as if the very foundations of our moral understanding have been shaken. We could succumb to the darkness of these revelations, questioning the trust and values we once held dear.

Or, we could take a different approach and say that God has done us a great favor by arming us with previously hidden information that we now need to effectively navigate the complexities of our world. Though painful and disturbing, this knowledge is crucial if we are to find a path forward. The nistarot have evolved into niglot, and can serve as a guiding light, helping us to better understand the challenges we face so that we respond with greater clarity and purpose.

Most importantly, in the face of these revelations, we must not retreat into despair, but rather, we must rise to the challenge that these newfound niglot present. The exposure of hitherto hidden hatred and animosity is both a warning and a call to action. It reminds us that while nistarot belong to God and may remain beyond our grasp, niglot are ours, and we must confront and address them.

Let us thank God that we have been given the clarity to see the world as it truly is, without the comforting illusions that once shielded us from harsh realities. This clarity, painful as it may be, should not be seen as a burden—but rather as a source of empowerment, equipping us to act with purpose and determination. It demands that we respond—not with fear, but with faith; not with resignation, but with resolve.

As we move forward, guided by what has been revealed to us over the past few months, let us deepen our commitment to our values, strengthen our communities and Jewish identity like never before, and work untiringly to ensure that the lessons of the past and the truths of the present propel us towards a future that is better for us all.

In this way, we will transform the darkness of recent revelations into a beacon of hope, ensuring that the path we forge for ourselves is illuminated by truth, faith, and a commitment to God’s purpose that still guides us — even through the most difficult of times. God is not dead. He is very much alive.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California. 

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