by Daniel Gauss
While teaching English at a Yeshiva in the Bronx, I was surprised one day to become part of a theological thought experiment so creative and meaningful that it has stayed with me ever since. After recently learning that the universe may “die” much sooner than previously thought, I recalled that moment as it offered metaphorical depth and poignancy to a scientific truth.
One day, a rabbi came to speak to our teaching staff. I was touched when he singled me out with a friendly gesture, a small, personal act of welcome from a community that had warmly embraced me, and I was happy to be a part of, even though I came from a different religious background.
He said, genuinely smiling widely, “I heard this guy here is quite a mensch! Yes? No?” To my relief my kind and supportive colleagues smiled at me and nodded their heads. “So he’s a good guy? I heard the kids like him. OK.”
The rabbi continued, “Now here’s my question. If I were to put Dan, this good guy, in Antarctica, in a hut with food and water, but no life, no life at all, not even a cockroach, nothing alive for miles around, nothing living that Dan could see, so Dan would be completely isolated, would he still be good?”
It was a clever setup. Most nodded. Some said, “Yeah, of course he would. He’s good, period, wherever he is.” But the rabbi, still smiling, said, “Well, if you think about it, you can’t be ‘good, period’. Goodness without someone to be good to isn’t goodness.”
Then he offered a startling analogy: this, he said, was God’s condition before “creation.” Only with others, with creation, with humanity, could God be good. Goodness needs relationship. Without humanity, God was not good, and God needed to be good. God had just been itching to be good. Read more »
Just as the frigid February evening air is stirred by the imams calling out the azan from all over the valley on Monday evening —Hiya al salah—hiya al falah— “come towards worship—come towards salvation”— Rahima pulls a cigarette out from her pack of Drinas; sticks it between her lips; lights it; dials 5555 and calls a Zuti taxi to her apartment—one of the many cab companies in Sarajevo which arrive at the door a minute after being called. She puts on her coat, an oversized olive color, man’s raincoat with a corduroy collar. She double checks the pockets for her pack of Drinas and the 3 convertible marks in loose change for the fare. All set, she leaves her one room apartment. The cab arrives and she gets in to its smoke filled interior. A sevdah’s ululating blues plays on FM 89.9 Radio Zid for the short ride just down the hill to the hospital.