God is Not a Monster

Why the Sydney Tragedy Was Not "God’s Plan"

I have spoken about the following already in my weekly column in our newsletter, but I would like to expand my ideas about this week’s parashat in the light of the terror attack in Sydney for a moment.

When we read the news this week, something broke. It was not just the heartbreaking loss of life in Sydney; it was the shattering of our illusion of order. We navigate our days with a silent, necessary contract with the universe: we assume that if we are vigilant, if we are good, if we are careful, we will be safe. Violence that erupts in ordinary places, a beach or a synagogue, tears that contract to pieces.

It leaves us feeling exposed. It leaves us asking where God is in the chaos.

It is a question that challenges our reading of Parashat Mikeitz. On the surface, the story of Joseph is the ultimate narrative of order. It is a story of perfect timing. Pharaoh dreams; the cupbearer remembers; Joseph is summoned. In the span of a few verses, the prisoner becomes the Prime Minister. As we read on, Joseph himself will later articulate a theology of perfect providence, telling his brothers that their actions were merely instruments in a divine plan to save lives.

 We are often tempted to reach for this theology when tragedy strikes. We hear people say that "everything happens for a reason" or that "God has a plan." It is a comforting thought because it suggests that someone is in control. It suggests that the suffering is not random, but a necessary chapter in a story with a happy ending.

But at the end of a week like this, such a theology feels not only hollow but morally dangerous. If the terror in Sydney is part of a divine plan, then God is cruel. If the death of innocents is a necessary plot point for some future redemption, we are right to return the ticket.

We cannot worship a Puppeteer who sacrifices human beings on the altar of a "mysterious will."

To find a deeper, more honest Progressive Jewish response, we must look closer at the text we read this morning. We must look at Joseph before he offers his polished theology. In Genesis chapter 42, Joseph is not a sage; he is a man intoxicated by the power to finally control his own story.

Let us be clear: Joseph is no terrorist. He is a victim of profound trauma who has finally gained the power to ensure he is never hurt again. His actions are not driven by a desire to destroy, but by a desperate need to engineer a specific outcome.

When his brothers arrive in Egypt, Joseph holds all the cards. He recognises them, but they do not recognise him. He creates an elaborate theatre of manipulation. He accuses them of being spies. He imprisons them. He binds Shimeon before their eyes. He is writing a script, and he is forcing his brothers to play their parts. Joseph is trying to play God because he believes that through power and fear, he can force the world to finally be right.

But then something changes, the mask slips.

At the end of our first scroll reading, in verse 18, Joseph releases them from prison.

 He stands before the men who sold him and says five words that change the path of the story: Et HaElohim ani yarei — "I fear God."

This is the pivot point. To fear God is to acknowledge that you are not God.

In that moment, Joseph realises the limits of his script. He realises that he cannot manipulate people into goodness. He cannot control the past, and he cannot force the future. He is subject to a moral law that is higher than his Egyptian throne. He stops playing the puppeteer and starts acting as a moral agent. He sends them back with food. He offers them a path, but he leaves the choice to them.

This is where we find our answer to the darkness of this week.

We are not characters in a pre-written script. The terrorists in Sydney were not agents of God’s will; they were agents of human evil. They chose to destroy, which is the ultimate rejection of the Divine. We must be firm in our theology: God does not want evil. God does not "use" tragedy to teach us lessons or "permit" suffering to further a secret agenda.

God’s vision for this world is one of unyielding justice and radical peace. It is a vision where every life is treated as an image of the Divine. Terror can never be an expression of the divine plan because terror is the opposite of God.

 The "pit" of violence is not dug by the Divine; it is dug by human cruelty. We must stop looking for God in the design of the tragedy and start looking for God in our absolute refusal to accept it.

This Shabbat is Shabbat Chanukah. The coincidence of the calendar brings us the festival of lights at the very moment we feel the encroaching darkness. Chanukah offers us a counter-narrative to the logic of terror. Terror relies on "might" and "power" to dictate a script of suspicion and hatred. It seeks to make us feel small and helpless in the face of chaos.

But the lights of the Chanukkiah tell a different story. Resilience is not a passive waiting for the next chapter of the "plan." Resilience is an active rebellion against despair. It is the decision to light a candle, knowing full well that a single flame cannot eliminate all the darkness in the world. We light it anyway. We light it because the flame itself is a declaration that the darkness does not have the final word. By lighting that flame, we stop being characters in someone else’s script and start being authors of our own moral response.

We cannot control the chaos that others inflict upon the world. We are not the playwrights of history. Like Joseph, we must eventually admit that we are not in control of the macrocosm. But we are in control of our response.

We can choose, as Joseph finally did, to act with humanity rather than manipulation. We can choose to be people who "fear God" — people who recognise the infinite value of every life and the moral imperative to protect it.

Let us not offer cheap consolations that explain away the pain. The pain is real. The loss is real. There is no secret reason for it. But there is a response to it.

The challenge of this Shabbat is to reject the paralysis of despair. We do not justify the suffering, but we do determine what comes next. 

May this Shabbat bring comfort to all who are grieving, and may it strengthen our resolve to build a world where safety is not a miracle, but a birthright.

Shabbat Shalom.