By Barrett Holman Leak
SAN DIEGO — I have watched the brutal war between Israel and Hamas, the fight over antisemitism that has embroiled the American Jewish community, and the unfolding of the devastating and racist war on African Americans that was fiercely launched this year.
I also have been hearing a lot lately in our San Diego Jewish community that people are asking themselves “Where is God?” and “Is God mute?”
This feeling of divine absence is not new to the Jewish experience. Indeed, as I have reflected on this question and studied texts and rabbinic commentaries, I’ve been reflecting on moments when God’s voice seemed to recede, leaving humanity to grapple with overwhelming suffering and uncertainty.
In the Torah, a shift in God’s communication after the Golden Calf, from direct interaction to more mediated guidance, makes me ponder if our struggles deepen faith when the divine feels less overt. Similarly, Moses’ inability to enter the Promised Land reveals God’s inscrutable sovereignty, reminding us divine plans transcend human comprehension. The Book of Job further explores this perceived silence, suggesting that God’s answers to suffering may be about divine majesty, not direct explanations. Ultimately, these moments teach that a perceived divine silence often points to a call for deeper human responsibility, reflection, and faith in the face of the unexplainable.
There is a poignant Talmudic story that speaks directly to the consequences of human “silence” leading to a perceived divine withdrawal: the tale of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza. The Sages of the Talmud pinpoint this narrative as the primary cause for the destruction of the Second Temple, which we remember on Tisha B’Av.
The story recounts a wealthy man mistakenly inviting his enemy, Bar Kamtza, to a feast. When the host realized the error, he publicly humiliated Bar Kamtza, expelling him despite desperate pleas to save face. Crucially, many rabbis and sages were present at that feast. They witnessed the profound humiliation but remained silent; they did not intervene or protest the host’s cruel and rigid behavior. Bar Kamtza, feeling utterly shamed and abandoned by the Jewish leaders, then went to the Roman Emperor and falsely accused the Jews of rebellion, leading to the Temple’s destruction.
The story has a profound connection to the idea of God’s “muteness.” The Talmud explicitly states the Second Temple was destroyed due to sinat chinam—baseless hatred. In this context, God’s “silence” or allowing of the destruction wasn’t an arbitrary act, but a consequence of our own internal failings. When human beings, especially those with moral authority, choose to be silent in the face of cruelty, disunity, and rigid interpretation of law over compassion, it’s as if God withdraws. The Divine Presence cannot fully reside where baseless hatred and moral inaction prevail. The silence of the Sages at that feast wasn’t God’s muteness, but theirs, and it led to catastrophic results.
It implies that when we fail to speak up, to show compassion, to bridge divides, we create the conditions for a perceived divine absence.
In our current moment, this particular lesson from Kamtza and Bar Kamtza feels acutely relevant. The silence of God feels amplified by the cacophony of human suffering and digital discourse. Trauma, depression, and anger are not just felt; they are constantly broadcast and consumed through social media, creating an echo chamber of distress. As a Jew, I’m caught in this maelstrom of fear, grief, and often, profound disunity, echoing the sinat chinam that destroyed the Temple. The rapid-fire updates, the graphic images, the accusations and counter-accusations online—they all contribute to a sense of being overwhelmed, making it difficult to find a grounding, spiritual perspective.
Daily, I am disturbed and amazed at the murderous calls to obliterate Israel and kills Jews, as well as the unprovoked murders of American Jews and harassment of Jews at school, work or play. This relentless online engagement often blurs the lines between a theological understanding of the conflict and a purely ethnic defense. Like many others, reeling from a dramatic surge in antisemitism globally, I find myself instinctively reacting to defend my people as a group under threat. Is the defense of Jews against antisemitism seen as a fulfillment of God’s will, or simply as a necessary, secular act of self-preservation for an endangered people?
As an African American living in Black skin, I am navigating a storm that non-African Americans don’t fully perceive or acknowledge. Dismantling DEI initiatives, under the guise of “meritocracy” reveals that the conversations about race, equity, and historical disadvantage are unwelcome. This is an attempt to erase the lived experiences of African Americans, to deny the existence of systemic barriers emanating from American slavery and Jim Crow, and to silence the call for true equality. It is profound invalidation, as it dismantles the right of African Americans to be seen, heard, and valued. It is injustice and immoral. Those who support the dismantling are engaging in immorality and injustice.
The concept of God, of a divine purpose or intervention, can recede in the face of such raw, immediate danger.
So, for me, the answer is a complex intertwining of both, but the immediate impulse often leans towards the tangible, the human-driven defense, fueled by deep-seated historical trauma and a sense of abandonment. I’ve noticed how constant social media posting, while sometimes an outlet for expressing pain or solidarity, has often also become a performative act of defense, inadvertently overshadowing deeper spiritual reflection. And sometimes, perhaps, contributing to the very disunity that the Kamtza story warns against.
So, what do these moments, both ancient and modern, teach about navigating this crisis?
It is our human failure to hear the echoes of divine commandment in the cries of the vulnerable. It is our willingness to be immoral and unjust if we think it will save us in the moment. It is in these moments that our capacity for rachamim (compassion) and chesed (loving-kindness) are most urgently required.
First, God’s perceived “silence” is often a shift in communication, calling humanity to deeper responsibility and faith. It compels us to step back from social media’s immediate emotional pull and listen more intently to conscience, justice, and the needs of others.
Second, that periods of perceived divine silence often act as catalysts for human action, inviting us to fill the void with ethical striving and moral courage, channeling anger and trauma into constructive healing within and between communities; this is precisely why I engage in bridge-building work between the African American and American Jewish communities.
Third, God’s seeming muteness is a profound call to empathy and unity, as Israel’s trauma, hostages being held by Hamas, Jewish divisions, suffering in Gaza and the systemic harms against African American communities are human-made crises, not a crisis of God’s silence.
It is our human silence in the face of injustice and immorality that should concern us.
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Barrett Holman Leak is a freelance writer based in San Diego.