R
rfulks
Guest
I recently read Night, a well-known memoir by Elie Wiesel, written in the early 1960s and describing his experience as a young Romanian Jew sent to Auschwitz in WW2 and subsequently Buchenwald. His mother and sister were gassed at Auschwitz, and his father eventually succumbed to disease. He was a devout Jew before his time in the camps, and he seems to lose his faith during his suffering. I don’t know if he ever regained that faith. This book made me question my own faith as a Catholic, for more than one reason. I would appreciate any comments.
- First, the book describes in good detail the devout Jewish faith that Wiesel (and others) held before, and to some extent during, their time in the concentration camps. These Jews seemed to be very good and humble people. They did not follow Christianity. How should we, as Catholics, interpret the presence in our world of very good people of different religious beliefs? This seems like a silly question, but it really is not. If Christianity is the One True Religion, and it must be if Christ really was God Incarnate, and He died for our sins (whatever that means), rose from the dead, etc, then everyone else in the world adhering to some other religious belief must be, basically, wrong. Are these devout Jews (or Hindus, Muslims, animists, Buddhists…) wasting their time? If acceptance of Christ as our Savior is a requisite for eternal salvation, then should we expect that these non-Christians will not be admitted to Heaven if they persist in their errant beliefs? After dying the most horrific of deaths in the gas chamber at Auschwitz, are we to believe that Wiesel’s mother, say, was not sent to eternal reward and peace but rather to Hell or Purgatory to continue her suffering, simply because she was born into a Jewish family? I can’t accept that idea, but to reject it seems to reject whatever special grace that we are taught to believe comes with being a faithful Christian. Extending the idea further, what about otherwise good people who are born into agnostic or atheistic families, and live their lives adhering to those beliefs; should they be blamed and punished because they never felt the compulsion to pray or attend church, etc?
- Of course, the more obvious faith-challenging aspect of the book is the simple fact of Auschwitz and the fact that six million people could be exterminated in the most horrific way possible. What kind of God would allow such horrendous suffering to occur? Why should anyone be expected to endure such torture in life and others, such as myself, be given a life of plenty? The most agonizing thing that I have had to recently endure was indecision about the size of the HDTV that I wanted to buy. To be a Jew in Romania in 1944, or a street urchin in Haiti in 2010, or a 10 year old with incurable bone cancer anytime, is to live a life of incomparable suffering when contrasted with the lives of most of the rest of us. This isn’t fair. Why should some suffer and some be blessed?
- I know that the answer to the “why did Auschwitz happen” question has something to do with free will and the presence of evil in the world, and that the horrible Nazis chose to do evil things, with the implication that the rest of us, good people, would have chosen to do the good and right thing. Reading Night, I imagined myself as the good Nazi camp guard, giving extra soup to the Jews, maybe helping them escape, etc. In reality though, if I had been born in Bavaria in 1918 - probably as a Catholic- and influenced growing up by the anti-semitism and Nazi propraganda rampant at the time, I can imagine myself enlisting with pride in the SS and being sent to guard at Auschwitz and doing my very best to be the top guard there, entirely indifferent to the suffering of the Jews underfoot. If I was a little unhinged because of psychopathology or maybe abuse as a child, I can imagine myself being an especially cruel SS camp guard. My point is that free choice or free will seems to depend very heavily on circumstance, to the point that I am not even sure where choice enters the equation. The American version of me born in 1970 views the Holocaust with complete and utter revulsion; the imaginary Bavarian version of me born in 1918 could have been a willing participant. How should we view moral culpability, then?