A Confession in Times of War

As most of the world, I was appalled by the brutality of the attacks which took place on October 7 in Israel. The deliberate targeting and cold-blooded killing and maiming of unarmed civilians is not only a heinous crime but a crime the execution of which seems to forestall the very possibility of recognizing a common humanity between us. The brutality of the attacks, the sheer disregard they show for the value and sanctity of human life, seems to undermine the very foundations on which any mutual recognition could take place. But if we cannot preserve our humanity without recognizing it also in the other, how are we to relate to the humanity of people capable of unspeakable violence? Before we attempt to answer this question, it might be profitable to reflect upon our own evil.

Facing the Reality of our Brokenness

To confess is not simply to admit one’s wrongdoings but to confront the limits of one’s finitude in the light of the infinite mystery of God. It is the exercise of seeing one’s own faults through God’s merciful eyes. We discern our wickedness by contrast with the pure goodness of God. And His goodness is present in us as our capacity to love and forgive. To know God is not only to love Him but to be united with Him in His love for us.

One traditional view holds that evil is a form of ignorance. As it is never sought as an end in itself but always conceived as a means to some perceived good, evil can be thought of as a form of ignorance regarding either the good itself, or the means of achieving it. But considered in light of our contemporary notions of knowledge and ignorance, this answer will appear unsatisfactory; it is just too evident how often we do things knowing full well we shouldn’t.

If evil is a form of ignorance, it is not simply the mere lack of understanding, but a narrowing of consciousness, something like the tunnel vision one experiences when feeling intense pain. For evil is, in a sense, a reaction to suffering. More precisely, it is the attempt to escape from suffering by asserting oneself over that which is perceived as its cause. Henry Nowen puts it thus: “The fearful denial of our losses leads to an increasing desire to control our own and other people’s lives.” To which he then adds “And it is here that most power struggles are rooted.” This denial can reach such intensity that it may lead, as with the most murderous of modern ideologies, to a desire to control reality itself. But to confront our wickedness, it is not enough that we recognize this: we must face the woundedness that lies at its root. This wound is the precariousness of our existence, the reality of our sufferings, our losses, our frailty, our flaws, and imperfections, in short, our finitude.

As Bonhoeffer explains, “As you judge so shall you be judged” (Mt. 7:2) is not a threat meant to frighten anyone, but an accurate expression of the dynamics of existence in the in-between of dividedness and unity. When we condemn this world as evil, we alienate ourselves from God’s love for us. And if we let ourselves be defined by our faults and imperfections, we become divided against ourselves. It is only when we recognize God as the ultimate source and reality of our coming-to-being that our brokenness can be restored to wholeness in Him. Through His mercy we discover who we really are. For how could we bear to face ourselves save for the assurance that our faults do not hold ultimate authority over us? To forgive is to recognize that our brokenness is grounded in a mystery that transcends it. In forgiving and being forgiven we discover that we are not reducible to our faults, that even “if our hearts condemn us, God is greater than our hearts.” (1 Jn. 3:20) So unless we can face our suffering with the unconditional acceptance of the open-ended, imperfect nature of our lives, we will be divided against ourselves and against each other. When Thomas Merton wrote that “the root of war is fear,” it was this fear he was referring to: the fear of facing the reality of our brokenness.

Seeing Through the Brokenness

Be that as it may, war can be forced upon us whether we want it to or not. And if, individually, one can resort to pacifism, it is hardly an option when it comes to protecting our loved ones. There is one thing, however, we should not forget: that our wars are not God’s wars. Even when we are right, and our enemies are wrong — or so it seems — there is an ultimate sense in which all is forgiven. For God is forgiveness, God is reconciliation. Our enemies are not God’s enemies, for all enmity against God is one-sided. But universal Love is not nihilism. It does not erase the distinction between good and evil. It simply denies its ultimacy by revealing that existence is grounded in that which is beyond the difference. God is unity without distinction; He loves the sinner just as much as the saint.

To recognize this is not to say that we are all always equally wrong, as if the equitable distribution of blame were the equivalent of truth. But simply that perhaps we should take all judgments with a grain of salt, not because they are necessarily wrong, but because our judgments are not the ultimate measure of what’s real, for God is greater than our judgments. Here I am confronted with my limit: God is greater. This gives me pause. And this pause is the opening through which I gaze at that which lies beyond my judgment.

I have begun by saying that confession is the exercise of confronting the reality of our limitations by confronting the limitless reality of God. Now I am confronted with another person, someone capable of unspeakable cruelty, and in the light of my own insufficiency, he is no longer reducible to the judgment I make of him. This is our wound, the torn in the flesh. Recognizing this is the price we must pay for preserving our sanity. Love does not abolish whatever truth may be contained in our judgments, but it subjects them to a higher order of reality, which is whole, indivisible, and thus, beyond all judgment. So as we fight our battles, let us pause to contemplate, in the mystery of all that is lost and broken, the infinite mercy that alone can make us whole, beyond our capacity of understanding it.

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