• "My God is Burning"
    My God was burning. Vivid red and yellow was my place of worship, outlined against the bleak night sky like an inverse silhouette. The flames had a strange, attractive appeal. I was drawn to the heat, the blisteringly uncontrollable blaze of my synagogue, or what was once a synagogue. I walked inside.

    My God was burning. Up above the altar, nearly bathed in fire that was creeping, snaking its way up His open arms with sickening speed. Those welcoming arms, now dangerous and capable of harming me with a simple touch. His skin was fire, His fire was cancerous, invasive, but I did not look away; I did not brush away tears. I did not resent Him. This was not His doing.

    My God was burning as I walked to him. Broken timbers fell around me. Ashes rained down into my wide, staring eyes. Broken glass sliced through the air. Screams and sobbing, pleas and mocking filled my ears. I didn't stop.

    My God was burning, flames licking the father of my religion, the figurehead of my entire life at the synagogue, eating away at His wooden body and glossy eyes. A heated wax tear trailed down His charring face to splash insignificantly on the ruined tiles to be forgotten. I fell to my knees in prayer.

    My God was burning, all because of the Nazis. Jewish villages ransacked, Jewish stores looted, Jewish synagogues set ablaze, Jewish blood spilt… As if our blood is so different from theirs'. As if our Jewish blood was diluted, less than satisfactory. As if the only proper place for Jewish blood was the sewer, the streets of their town, the face and clothes of their daughters… Such as the case of my parents. The crimson stains tainting my young face and delicate dress not of my own, but my parents, shed for me but without my permission or consent.

    My God was burning, and maybe for His children's sake, but He was too late for my mother and father. Too late to slow the armies. Too late to divert the bullets aimed at their hearts. Too late to stop the conquest, the pillaging, and the unnecessary snuffing-out of innocent lives! Too late to even save himself! But I could not hate Him. This was not His doing.

    My God was burning because no one had said otherwise. No one had opposed these murderers and said to stop. No one had stood up for my synagogue. And no one had stood up for my parents… Would anyone stand up for me?

    My God was burning, no longer handsome and exerting a familiar warmth, but a black and red and yellow, misshapen mass radiating my confusion, my frustration, my sorrow… My mind was made up, even though I didn't give myself many options otherwise when I stepped inside a crumbling building full of broken glass and burning timbers. I prayed more fervently.

    My God was burning, and I was burning with him.