When religious people encounter suffering or experience loss, a question they often ask is ‘where is God?’ ‘Where is God when my world seems to be collapsing all around me?’
We see this in the scriptures. In the psalms, for example, the repeated cry of the people is for God not to forget their plight, nor to remain hidden from them. We see this also in our first reading from Isaiah. The prophet, echoing the complaints of the people says, ‘My plight is hidden from the Lord and my cause has passed out of God’s notice’.
And we see it in our own lives. I remember a few years ago, in the aftermath of the Asian tsunami, when more than 250 000 people died after the enormous wave hit low lying coastal communities in places like Indonesia and Thailand, hearing people ask ‘where is God?’ And ‘how can we believe in a God of love when such things happen?’
Such questions are natural for us to ask, and lots of responses have been given, some more useful than others. But another question, which I think is equally relevant, often asked, in the face of anguish or despair, is ‘who is God?’ ‘What is this God I believe in?’ For the experience of tragedy can cause us to rethink what we believe about God.
I was reminded of this in a book I read recently. Some will recall the story of a plane that crashed in the Andes, between Argentina and Chile, back in 1972. On board were members of the ‘Old Christians’ Uruguayan rugby club and their supporters. Twenty-five people survived the initial impact, and only sixteen made it to safety. For 72 days they kept themselves alive in the mountains by melting snow and eating their dead.
The book was written by one of the survivors, one of two men, who trekked their way through the snow and the ice in search of help. But it’s not only a story of courage and survival; it is also a deeply theological book. Confronted with dehydration and death, it raises questions I am sure most of us have asked at some point in our lives: ‘how can we make sense of God when the world we have known suddenly is turned upside down?’
I want to read to you a couple of short excerpts from this book.
The first recalls a conversation between the author, Nando Parrado, and a young man called Arturo; a man, described as different to the rest, with strong opinions on matters of politics and religion, and who died several weeks after the initial crash.
‘Like most of the other survivors, I had been raised a traditional Catholic…Talking with Arturo, however, forced me to confront my religious beliefs, and to examine principles and values I had never questioned…
‘[i]t fascinated me that despite all his religious skepticism, he was a very spiritual person, who sensed my anger at God, and urged me not to turn away from Him because of our suffering.
“What good is God to us?” I replied. “Why would He let my mother and sister die so senselessly? If He loves us so much, why does He leave us here to suffer?”
“You are angry at the God you were taught to believe in as a child,” Arturo answered. “The God who is supposed to watch over you and protect you, who answers your prayers and forgives your sins… The true God lies beyond our comprehension. We can’t understand His will; He can’t be explained in a book. He didn’t abandon us and He will not save us. He has nothing to do with our being here. God does not change. He simply is. I don’t pray to God for forgiveness or favours, I only pray to be closer to Him, and when I pray, I fill my heart with love.”’
And the second excerpt comes from towards the end of the book, where Nando speaks of feeling something larger than himself in the mountains, something he prefers not to describe as a personal presence of God, but as ‘a silence, a wholeness, an awe-inspiring simplicity’; a presence he still feels when his mind quiets and he really pays attention.
‘Now I understand that to be certain – about God, about anything – is impossible… In those unforgettable conversations I had with Arturo as he lay dying, he told me the best way to find faith was by having the courage to doubt… I still pray the prayers I learned as a child… but I don’t imagine a wise, heavenly father listening patiently on the other end of the line. Instead, I imagine love, an ocean of love, the very source of love, and I imagine myself merging with it. I open myself to it; I try to direct that tide of love towards the people who are close to me… In the mountains, it was love that kept me connected to the world of the living… I relied upon the trust I felt in my love for my father and my future, and that trust led me home. Since then, it has led me to a deeper understanding of who I am and what it means to be human. Now I am convinced that if there is something divine in the universe, the only way I will find it is through the love I feel for my family and my friends, and through the simple wonder of being alive… my duty is to fill my time on earth with as much life as possible, to become a little more human every day, and to understand that we only become human when we love.’
It is easy to be disturbed or challenged by Nando’s words. But I can’t help thinking how much of what he says resonates with what I believe about God, and with the life I see in Jesus Christ. Jesus, in his own day, challenged the way people saw God. In his life, in his teaching, in his crucifixion, he demonstrated what it is to be alive, what it is to be in touch with the source of life, and to have one’s being so open to love, so open to life, that nothing, not even suffering and despair and death, could destroy it.
Of course, I don’t agree with everything Nando says. I think the Christian faith he questions is too small; a faith not given the opportunity to mature. But perhaps this is more a criticism of those, like me, responsible for articulating the essence of what faith is all about, the desire to be in touch with life itself, than a criticism of what he says.
What he says about stilling the mind, being attentive to the beauty of the world, and of opening ourselves to the source of love, is part of what we seek to do each week when we gather in this place. The liturgy is a form of breathing; as we share in its rhythm, we breathe in the life of God, the love of God, and breathe out all that gets in its way.
This is a lesson Nando learnt on a mountain. Isaiah speaks of it, when he writes ‘but those who look to the Lord (or wait for the Lord) will win new strength, they will grow wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will march on and never grow faint.’ And Jesus practices it as he slips away from the crowds to spend time alone with the one he called ‘Father’.
Where is God? The answer is ‘here’. God is not absent. God is not watching us from afar. God is close to us; all around us. And if we open our eyes, we will see Him too.
And who or what is God? Or if we ask this question from a different angle, what is it to be human? We find the answer to these questions through the act of loving others, and by learning to be attentive to our world; through the ‘simple wonder of being alive.’
‘“Breath. Breath again”, Nando writes. “With every breath, you are alive.” After all these years, this is still the best advice I can give you: savour your existence. Live every moment. Do not waste a breath.’

A sermon preached in St Alban’s Anglican Church, Eastbourne, on 8th February 2009, by the Ven. Damon Plimmer.