The Mystery of Suffering

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A world-renowned psychiatrist considers faith, free-will and the human need for answers

“If a person will have on the skin of his flesh . . . a tzaraas affliction.”
  —   Lev. 13:2

The affliction of tzaraas is the only condition which the Torah attributes to a specific sin: Loshon hara (gossip). ''Beware of a tzaraas affliction. Remember what G-d did to Miriam'' (Deuteronomy 24:8-9). This refers to Miriam's unjust criticism of Moses (Numbers 12:10).

Our people have experienced suffering in its many forms, as a nation as well as individually. Every so often, someone suggests a reason for suffering. This is presumptuous, because while there may be various reasons for suffering, they are largely unknown to us.

The question of why things happen has been instrumental in advancing human knowledge. Many scientific discoveries have resulted from man's attempt to understand and explain things. Whether an apple did or did not fall on Isaac Newton's head, something aroused his curiosity as to why things fell to the ground, and so he investigated and formulated the Law of Gravity. Life-saving penicillin was discovered because of Fleming's curiosity as to why there was no bacterial growth around the mold on the petri dish. It is only natural for people to be curious why things happen.

Curiosity is one thing. Obstinacy in insisting that every question must have an answer that we can understand is something else. Perhaps we feel that not being able to find an answer is an insult to our competence. There is nothing wrong with realizing our human limitations. There are many things that are unknown, and even if we see the unknown as a challenge and try to investigate it, we should realize that we may not be able to know everything.

There are things in Judaism about which our knowledge is limited or even nonexistant. For example, we believe that G-d has infinite foresight and knows the future. We also believe that a person has the freedom of choice to do right or wrong. This raises a question that has been discussed by many theologians: If G-d knows what I am going to do tomorrow, how can I have free choice? I cannot do anything other than what G-d knew I was going to do.

Maimonides says that the reason we see this as a conflict is because we equate G-d's knowledge with our own. If we have certain knowledge of what is going to happen, it cannot happen differently. However, G-d's knowledge is totally different than ours, and His knowledge does not conflict with free will. What is G-d's knowledge like? That we cannot possibly know, because G-d's knowledge is inseparable from Him. Just as we cannot have an understanding of G-d, we cannot have an understanding of His knowledge (Hilchos Teshuvah 5:5). Ravad criticizes Maimonides for raising a question to which he cannot give a logical answer. But Maimonides's position is that it is perfectly proper to have insoluble mysteries. We do not have to have a concrete answer to everything. We must learn to live with mystery, with the unknowable.

CONCEDING LIMITATIONS
There are many things that we must accept as facts and proceed from there. For example, when oxygen and hydrogen combine in a specific ratio, they form water. That is a natural phenomenon. Why they form water rather than another compound is unknown. However, we accept this fact and see what useful applications we can derive from this fact.

Throughout history, we have observed the fact that there is suffering in the world. We have sought to explain it, particularly why the innocent suffer and why bad things happen to good people. The theme of the Book of Job is the mystery of the suffering of good people.

The Talmud says that Moses' request of G-d, ''Let me know Your ways'' (Exodus 33:13) was to understand why the righteous suffer, but G-d denied him this knowledge (Berachos 7a). The Talmud says that it was Moses who wrote the Book of Job, wherein several explanations are offered, but all are rebutted.

It would be most presumptuous for us to try to understand something that escaped Moses' understanding.

Yet many of our ethicists have investigated the question of suffering. I believe that they were not in search of an explanation. They obviously did not try to grasp something that was beyond the grasp of Moses. The reason for suffering is known only to G-d. All we can do is try to derive some useful lesson from suffering. While we may not be able to know why there is suffering, we may be able to see how we can benefit from this perplexing phenomenon.

Rabbi Baruch Ber Lebowitz (1870-1940) was engaged in a Torah discussion with Rabbi Chaim of Brisk, and he remarked, ''Why does the Torah say this?'' Rabbi Chaim corrected him.

''We may not ask why the Torah says something. That is G-d's wisdom and is beyond our ability to understand. We can only ask, 'What can we derive from what the Torah says?' ''

Although I profess to have emunah (faith), and when I suffered losses I recited the appropriate blessing, Blessed be the Judge of Truth, I could not avoid feeling that it was an intellectual expression. I was in pain, and I felt otherwise in my heart.

Oh, if G-d would only let me operate the world! All children would be born healthy, without physical or mental defects. There would be no leukemia or cancer. People would be healthy until they reached the end of their allotted time on earth.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PAIN AND SUFFERING
The Talmud says that the righteous suffer in this world in order to increase their reward in the Eternal World. We find different attitudes toward suffering in the Talmud. Rabbi Eliezer welcomed his suffering, calling his pains ''my friends'' (Bava Metziah 84b). On the other hand, Rabbi Elazar said, ''I do not want the suffering and I do not want its reward'' (Berachos 5b). This was not a rejection of suffering but was in response to the question whether he wished to suffer.

There is a difference between pain and suffering. People who have been given morphine for severe pain, if questioned carefully, may say, ''The sensation is still there, but it doesn't bother me.'' Suffering may be an interpretation of pain rather than a sensation on its own.

Inasmuch as there is no decisive Halachah (Jewish legal ruling) on this issue, I favor the latter position. I have a very low pain threshold, and I find even a toothache intolerable. I am not even interested in knowing why my tooth hurts. That is for the dentist to know. I just want relief.

As a psychiatrist, people come to me with their problems, some of which are heart-rending. I am happy when I can do something to relieve their distress, but I am most frustrated when I am powerless to do so. I suffer along with them, and as you may surmise, I do not handle suffering well.

Sometimes I identify with my great-grandfather, Rebbe Motele of Hornosteipel. He was a chassidic rebbe to whom many people came to unburden themselves of their misery. One day, after absorbing many tales of woe from the people who sought his blessing to extricate them from their plights, he abruptly tore open his shirt, bared his chest and exclaimed, ''Master of the universe! Look into my heart. I cannot take any more.''

Ah! But I am not Rebbe Motele. He genuinely cared for others. I care for myself.

In my last year of medical school, I received a call late one night from a hospital, because a patient requested a rabbi. I found a distraught women standing over an incubator. Her infant had been born with what was at that time an irreparable heart defect. Her baby was going to die.

Tearfully, she turned toward me and said, ''Why, rabbi, why?'' I stood there in utter silence, crying along with her. I said a brief prayer with her and left. The words of Moses came to my mind, when he complained to G-d that his efforts to have Pharaoh free the Israelites resulted in aggravating their suffering. ''Why did You do evil to this people? Why did You send me?'' (Exodus 5:22). If Moses could complain, so may we.

The following morning I told my father about this experience. He said, ''Was your frustration due to the woman's pain, or because you were unable to help her?'' He was right. One of the reasons I had left the rabbinate for medicine was because I felt I could do more for people as a doctor than as a rabbi. Now I was both, and in spite of having the tools of the two greatest healing professions, I was totally impotent. I could not handle the assault to my ego. I am sure that Moses and Rebbe Motele genuinely cared for others and shared their pain, whereas I was caring primarily for myself and was nursing my wounded ego.