How awful that day will be!
None will be like it.
It will be a time of trouble for Jacob,
but he will be saved out of it.

Salvation is not easy. Just as Israel was surrounded by her enemies, so we as Christians are surrounded by sinful and worldly things we must extricate ourselves from. Indeed, we have partaken in those things and their removal from our lives is very painful. This is seen in verse eleven:

‘I am with you and will save you,’
declares the Lord.
‘Though I completely destroy all the nations
among which I scatter you,
I will not completely destroy you.
I will discipline you but only with justice;
I will not let you go entirely unpunished.‘

Again we see the combination of salvation and punishment. Yet no matter how extensive the hurt or pain, the Lord is greater than what we face. Verses 12-15 describe the pain of an “incurable” wound and the shame of many sins. After this description, verse 17 continues without hesitation:

‘But I will restore you to health
and heal your wounds,’
declares the Lord,
‘because you are called an outcast,
Zion for whom no one cares.’

God can cure the incurable wound. Even though our sins “are more than the hairs of my head” (Psalm 40:12), God can number those hairs (Matthew 10:30) and will forgive every sin. God’s salvation and healing is not easy. In fact, submitting to God’s will hurts because it defies our human desires. But we can rest assured that the Lord loves us and will never stop fighting for us:

The fierce anger of the Lord will not turn back
until he has executed and accomplished
the intentions of his mind.
In the latter days you will understand this.

The first clue to this response lies in the very fact that Wiesenthal asks of the reader: “What would you have done?” This question is rooted in the problem of inter-human conflict. By remaining silent, Wiesenthal helped to prolong such a conflict between the Nazis and the Jews and, consequently, between the SS soldier and himself. It is not in human nature, as God created it, to seek conflict. From the earliest Biblical accounts, when Adam and Eve hid from God to avoid confrontation (Genesis 3:8), humans have felt the anguish that discord brings. This is not to deny that humans, as fallen creatures, voluntarily bring conflict into the world. It is to say, however, that those who create or prolong conflict are painfully aware of their decisions. He who has done nothing wrong has no regrets.

Care must be taken when applying this principle to Wiesenthal’s situation. Defining those who have regrets as wrongdoers could easily be misconstrued to accuse Wiesenthal himself of sinning by remaining silent. The answer to this is found in the Sermon on the Mount, where Christ did not condemn those who failed to seek peace, yet called the peacemakers blessed (Matthew 5:9). Wiesenthal committed no wrong by remaining silent, yet he did not seek the ideal. He maintained the status quo when the status quo was clearly unacceptable; remaining silent offered no progress towards the end of conflict. This is why Wiesenthal found himself questioning whether or not his decision was correct.

There are those who would raise the objection that the magnitude of the conflict between humans with which Wiesenthal was faced prevented any individual from progressing toward its solution. To the Christian, however, there can be no gradations of sin. Every human—Nazi or Jew, Christian or atheist—has sinned (Romans 3:23) and is morally equal. This idea can be incredibly difficult to accept in light of the horrendous atrocities committed by the Nazis, yet it is a prerequisite for forgiveness. In the face of dehumanizing evil, it enables both the perpetrator and the victim to once again become human. It is impossible for a victim to truly forgive someone he or she perceives to be on a different moral plane from his or herself. Thus, the establishment of moral equality leads to the possibility of forgiveness.

Others would argue, as Josek in The Sunflower does, that the difference between the individual and the group prohibits the individual from granting forgiveness for the group. If such is the case, it would have been morally impossible for Wiesenthal to grant forgiveness to the soldier. Wiesenthal himself, however, addresses this very argument when he speaks of the German nation. He tells the soldier’s mother that “no German can shrug off the responsibility. Even if he has no personal guilt, he must share the shame of it” (93). Similarly, no Jew could shrug off the burden which the Holocaust laid upon the Jews. The very fact that they were Jewish made individual Jews responsible to answer those questions which society is compelled to ask the victims of such atrocities.

This linkage between the individual and the group gives rise to the other side of the moral dilemma: the intra-human struggle. Despite all attempts to deny it, every individual is inextricably linked with the society of which he or she is a member. The dying SS soldier understood this when he sought forgiveness; if he was only responsible for his own actions, then he could only be forgiven by those he had wronged. By seeking absolution from any Jew, he showed his understanding of the collective nature of the sin he was party to. Thus, his membership in the SS created an internal struggle between his personal beliefs and those beliefs propagated by the group.

Wiesenthal also struggled to reconcile his individuality with the identity of the Jewish group to which he belonged. When this internal struggle collided with the inter-human conflict between Jews and Nazis, Wiesenthal found himself at an impasse. His experiences in the concentration camp, where “God [was] on leave” (8), came face to face with the responsibility to act as a member of the group.

In moral dilemmas such as that faced by Wiesenthal, there are always multiple courses of action available, including the choice to remain silent. Yet forgiveness is the only option which addresses both the inter-human conflict and intra-human struggle found in such a dilemma. Forgiveness makes clear the victim’s desire to end the conflict, restores the victim and perpetrator to the same moral level, recognizes the linkage between individual and group, and gives the individual the ability to speak for the group. No other option—whether it be to refuse to forgive or to remain silent—is able to address each of these issues.

If the individual thus makes the choice to forgive, the only remaining question is where he or she draws the strength to forgive. The answer is again found in the belief system which underlies the decision. For the Christian, the ability to forgive cannot be drawn from human strength because all humans are on the same moral plane. Humanity must therefore turn to a higher power to find forgiveness, as written in the Psalms: “If you, O Lord, kept a record of sins, O Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness; therefore you are feared” (Psalm 130:4). Christ’s atoning death enables Christians to extend this forgiveness to all who surround them in this world.

My answer to Wiesenthal’s question is to forgive. I choose forgiveness because only forgiveness can sufficiently address both the inter-human conflict and the intra-human struggle found in the dilemma. And I choose forgiveness by drawing on God’s power and love demonstrated through Christ’s death on the cross for all humanity.

This essay was written for my Senior Seminar in response to the question posed by Simon Wiesenthal at the end of his book The Sunflower. I may eventually redraft it in response to the professor’s critiques or your comments here. If so, I’ll probably post it again in the Writings section of the website.

One of the hard things about being an adult is that there is no one to punish you. Of course, in some areas of life this isn’t true. If you murder someone, the law will take over and punish you. I’m talking instead about those many areas of our lives that the law doesn’t legislate.

Specifically, I’m talking about those actions that violate our moral creeds yet go unpunished. I’m talking about sin.

In his infinite wisdom, God answered our sin with his grace and mercy at the death of Christ. And grace it undoubtedly is, because I know full well that the wages of sin are death. Yet grace so often seems to fail me because I refuse to learn from my failures.

Is it that the sin is supposed to be punishment enough? Or is the punishment the chasm between me and God created by sin? Somehow nothing seems to fit. I find myself wanting someone to simply hit me when I commit a sin, so I know that I’ve done wrong.

Grace begins to seem impractical. What good does grace do me if my behavior doesn’t change?I suppose there is a reason the apostle Paul wrote “by grace… through faith.” I realize the need for grace, even if I can’t understand the sense in it. I must never disparage God’s grace in my life, so I’ll have to depend on God for the faith.