Where is God today in Iraq?
It was this question that haunted me for a few months after I visited the "House of Terror" in Budapest last February. The museum is housed in the former headquarters of the Nazi, and later the Communist, secret police. It was the scene of terror, torture and executions. Once the iron doors shut behind me, a wave of anguish and despair started to engulf me, much as it had engulfed the prisoners who walked up and down the stairs of that place of evil.
Our grim visit ended in the basement. The elevator’s descent to the basement was long enough for us to view a video of a guard dispassionately explaining the hanging “ceremony.” My young host, actually a student of mine, took me from one torture cell to another. In each one, he described in detail each method and tool of torture exhibited there. He then patiently told me the story of each victim whose pictures hung in one of the cells.
During this haunting visit, my mind and my heart were engaged in a fierce interior debate–arguments and counter arguments shot back and forth. This debate ended when I was shown a cell where prisoners were submerged in filthy water for days on end. It was then that I could no longer suppress the cry, “Where is God?’”
The question that I always tried to keep at the back of my mind—a question that will undoubtedly vex anyone who has been brought up to believe in the Good God—suddenly became a burning question. It was at that moment that I heard a gentle voice whispering a clear answer: “I was there! No one entered that cell without my accompanying them. I still bear the marks of the cross.”
I remember being filled then with so much peace and gratitude to my God—who is not only almighty, but who himself experienced the deepest pain and fear that can ever grip a human heart. What’s more, Jesus is not only the one who has suffered most, he also knows what it means to see the pain in the eyes of loved ones whose silent pain can sometimes be harder to bear than one’s own physical suffering. Only he could fathom the pain that was piercing his Mother’s heart while she watched her only and innocent child being crucified. Only he can fathom the pain of seeing his beloved Christian brothers and sisters tortured and executed today.
It would take more than ten pages to describe the school of suffering my family—like so many Iraqi families—have been through. My father died two decades ago, leaving behind a beautiful widow of 28 and four little girls. My paternal grandmother saw her house destroyed twice. On both the paternal and maternal sides, my grandmothers and two young uncles died shortly after each other. Thanks to my family’s great faith, however, which I could literally touch with my own hands, I could always trace the defaced and vague marks left behind by the Good God as a sign of his presence.
It was that beautiful and simple faith that was challenged in Hungary and again in the past few weeks. But my family was right again: God sends suffering only to those whom he trusts, because he needs people to help him carry his heavy cross.
My family has always felt privileged that God has chosen us and shown us his mercy and favor. It was thanks to my “unlettered” paternal grandmother that I came to learn that God never tempts or tests anyone beyond his ability. It was the same intelligent and courageous woman who, when she saw our home in rubbles, eulogized over it and shed tears for 15 minutes, after which she stood up and said, “All the material things are mere dirt of our hands, Blessed be God for ever!” I learned about this episode from my mother who had accompanied her and who was deeply impressed by her faith. My grandmother never mentioned a word about that house. She neither complained nor cursed anyone for its destruction.
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