Here is a short Midrash (commentary) taken from a portion in the Pentateuch: “A king once entered a city and all the inhabitants came out to applaud him. Their acclamation pleased him so much that he said to them: “Tomorrow I will erect various kinds of baths for you, Tomorrow I will provide you with a water-conduit.” He went away to sleep, but never rose again. Where is he or his promise? But with the Holy One, blessed be He, it is otherwise; because He is a God who lives and reigns forever.” King’s Unfulfilled Promises – Tanhuma, 3rd century, Lev R 26:1
The above story comments on the nature of human fallibility. What a miserable life we would lead if as a consequence of this there was no-one we dared to trust! Yet, who can blame such a person especially those who have been wounded within the deepest realms of betrayal?
King David experienced the same thing which he laments in a song of worship:
“If it were just an enemy sneering at me, I could take it. If it were just someone who has always hated me, treating me like dirt, I’d simply hide away. But it is you! A man like me, my old friend, my companion. We enjoyed sweet conversation, walking together in the house of God among the pressing crowds.” (Psalm 55:12-14)
The situation for David was devastating, but in the end he was able to conclude with the following words:
“But for my part, [Adonai,] I put my trust in you.”
The opening story goes beyond the implied importance of learning discernment regarding the extent to which we should trust others from social or professional day-to-day interactions to family and close friendships. It begins by giving us the knowledge that even the very best of humanity is fallible amongst those with the noblest of intentions, but leaves us with the confidence that God never fails, and His word is 100% reliable!
In both our Divine and human relationships, God seeks to redeem every shortcoming and turn it into something precious; but it comes at a cost. The combination of His magnificent and infinite compassion, faithfulness and patience, takes the raw material, that formless lump of clay, and fashions it into something of infinite beauty! There are no limitations in the realm of God for those who yield themselves to Him!
Forgiveness and trust are unlikely bed-fellows These qualities are combined in the following true account of an American GI in the aftermath of World War 2, on his return train trip after visiting Dachau concentration camp. It illustrates the many dilemmas we must face such as subjective judgments, prejudices and pitfalls that can stifle trust and cause us to stumble into the darkest pit of bitterness, distrust and unforgiveness.
“Until now I had not been aware of the compartment’s other passenger. Slowly my eyes focused on a blond, blue-eyed Aryan! I wanted to spit and run. The thought of sharing a tiny compartment with one of the ‘Master Race’ was more than I could bear. Yet, as my gaze dropped from his face I saw that he was only a pathetic remnant of a man. Instead of arms, a set of hooks protruded awkwardly from his shirt sleeves and his creaseless trousers gave evidence of artificial legs. He was nothing but a torso and a head.
The man was writhing in pain as he tried to adjust one of the artificial legs. The hooks kept slipping as he poked and prodded, trying to straighten that grotesquely bent limb, dangling like a broken puppet. I sat stiffly, arms folded defiantly across my chest.
‘Suffer, you blond Nazi!’ I thought. ‘Whatever pain you feel is nothing compared to what your people inflicted upon mine!’
We sat facing each other. The Aryan and the Jew . . . the persecuted and the persecutor . . . the German and the GI . . . the uniform of the occupation and the empty sleeves and trouser legs of the defeated . . . the vanquished and the victor.
Suddenly compassion moved me, defying reason, even will, and I found myself standing beside him. He looked up at my uniform, his brow creased with pain, his eyes cautious at first, then smiling gratefully as I bent over him. He showed me how to adjust his leg and I gripped the false limb with both hands, suppressing an involuntary shudder as it felt strange and lifeless through the cloth of his trousers. An impulse to yank and twist and hear him scream flashed through my mind, but gently, careful not to inflict any more pain, I slowly turned the wooden projection into the proper position and heard him sigh deeply
with relief.
I turned to walk away, but his hook tugged at my sleeve. His voice was strained.
‘Please—sit and speak with me.’
I heard myself answer, ‘Yes, yes of course,’ and we both smiled and displayed cigarettes at the same time.
‘Please, I insist.’ He mouthed each English word carefully.
‘Oh, no, have one of mine.’ We looked at each other and laughed, then compromised by accepting each other’s offer. I held my pack to his mouth so he could grasp the cigarette with his lips.
We smoked in silence. Then he spoke:
‘You have been in Germany long, no?’
‘About eight months,’ I answered, and told him where I was stationed.
‘What do you think of Deutschland?’
‘It is very beautiful,’ I replied, sensing even as I spoke a love welling up within me for its culture and history, its antiquated formality, its language and spirit, and yes, its tragedy and shame. Even the texture of its soil—all had reached out and captured my soul.
studied the face opposite me carefully, looking for signs of cruelty and barbarism. There were none. He was merely a man’s face. Suddenly the unspeakable pity of it all nearly overwhelmed me. We were two atoms brought together in a moment of time, two humans caught up in an inhuman century. In that instant the truth dawned: Katz, except for the accident of birth, the caprice of time and place, you might have been born a German Aryan. It could have been you stoking people into the ovens.
shuddered and looked long into his blue eyes.
‘I have been to Dachau,’ I said quietly.
‘Ach!’ The cold metal of his hook reached out and touched the back of my hand, trying in a fingerless way to express the inexpressible. His blue eyes scanned my Jewish features.
‘Der Krieg. Der Krieg.’ (‘Never again. Never!’)
I saw moisture gathering in his eyes as he stammered, seeking a word.
‘My brother!’
