Sam Nadler found answers about God and the Holocaust

My name is Shmuel Eleazer Ben Moshe Nadler.

I grew up in New York City, so you’ll have to pardon me—I’m still learning English. Growing up, I had a lot of questions. How could we believe in a good God who allowed the horror of the Holocaust to happen to our people?

The rabbi, a very dear, sweet, and gentle man, told me, “Shmuel, the only thing I can tell you is what I tell myself: He who believes cannot question, and he who questions cannot truly believe.”

That didn’t help me at all. I went from appearing very religious as a child to becoming quite rebellious.

Vietnam and the Search for Meaning

I was a mapmaker for the U.S. Army in Vietnam during the Battle of Tet. We were under relentless attack. The horrors of war were everywhere. Either you were on drugs, or you were drunk.

My unit commander thought he was John Wayne—he carried Scotch in his canteen and drank it constantly. He passed out just before the battle began. Some of the sergeants were so overwhelmed with fear they broke down crying in the bunkers.

They say there are no atheists in foxholes. Even though I was convinced there was no God and believed religion was nothing more than the opiate of the people, the horrors of war made me more willing to listen to anything resembling good news.

One day, the chaplain came by. All he said was, “I’m getting out of here. Good luck to you—some of you won’t be here in the morning.”

I thought, This is a religious person?

We were constantly under attack. One night, new troops were brought through for deployment. They had no shelter, so I asked the officer in charge, “Let them sleep in the barn. At least it gives them some protection.”

He refused. “They don’t have clearance to sleep in the barn with the maps.”

The next morning, all that remained of those soldiers was puddles of blood. That was war.

Lost in Darkness

After the war, I became, to put it politely, an unregistered pharmacist—a drug dealer. I wasn’t particularly kosher.

While in San Francisco, I ran into people boldly proclaiming this Messiah Jesus on the streets. They smiled too much. It was unsettling. No one should be that happy.

One night, one of them had the nerve to tell me I needed to believe in Jesus.

I was offended. How could they ask me to join the side of our enemy?

Then he told me he was Jewish.

My heart broke for him. A Jew who believes in Jesus? This has to be the dumbest Jew who ever lived.

Still, he invited me to a Bible study. I thought maybe it was like an archaeological exhibit where they all looked at an ancient book from different angles. I figured I’d go—for entertainment, to laugh at them.

When I got there, I saw an ordinary group of people. Each one had their own Bible, taking it all very seriously. Do they think these are love letters from God?

That night, they were studying Isaiah 53.

In traditional Judaism, we don’t study Isaiah 53—it’s skipped over by the rabbis.

They asked me for my opinion on who I thought the prophet was talking about.

I skimmed the text:

“All we like sheep have gone astray; each one has turned to his own way, but Hashem has laid on him the iniquity of us all…”

“He was cut off from the land of the living for the transgression of my people…”

“Yet he will divide the spoils with the strong…”

Wait a minute. If he was cut off, how is he dividing spoils? That means… he came back to life?

Suddenly, it was clear.

This passage is talking about… you-know-who.

No! It couldn’t be. Nothing in life is supposed to be this clear.

I was convinced these tricky, sneaky Christians had slipped part of their Bible into my Bible.

So when they asked me, “Who do you think this passage is talking about?” I lied.

“I don’t know. No one can figure this out.”

They looked so disappointed. Then they said, “We’ll be praying for you.”

I scoffed. Fat chance. What kind of God answers prayers for someone like me? Where was He in the Holocaust?

The Moment That Changed Everything

Yet, over time, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Could this really be our Messiah?

I didn’t like that thought.

“Okay, God. If You have a Messiah for us, fine. Just let it be someone other than Jesus!”

I was living in a dark place—literally and spiritually. Drugs, emptiness, darkness.

Then one night, something strange happened. It became clear in my mind: Drugs were opening me up to the spirit, but the wrong spirit.

There was a spiritual battle for my soul.

And I was on the losing side.

I dropped to my knees and cried out, “Jesus, save me!”

The next morning, I knew my life had changed.

I wasn’t sure about all the details, but something in my heart told me: Jesus is Lord. He is our Messiah.

Now What?

I had no idea what to do next.

There was a restaurant with pictures of Jesus on the wall. I figured, Maybe that means the people there believe in him.

I walked in. It was early in the morning. The manager was opening up.

I walked up to him and said, “Hey, listen—Jesus saved me last night. What do I do now?”

He looked at me and said, “I don’t know. You want breakfast?”

That wasn’t helpful.

Then I remembered that Bible study. I didn’t think they’d remember me, but I called them up anyway.

“My name is Sam Nadler. I came to your Bible thing a long time ago. Listen—Jesus saved me last night. What do I do now?”

They were so happy.

They had been praying for me every day.

A New Perspective

Today, when people ask me, “How can you believe in God after the Holocaust?” I tell them this:

“In all our afflictions, He was afflicted.”

To be His people means to be His raw nerve endings in a broken world.

God mourns over our suffering. He weeps over the Holocaust.

But I know this:

Our Messiah loved the unlovable. He forgave the unforgivable. Yet, He Himself suffered a horrific, evil, torturous death by crucifixion.

He understands the pain of the Holocaust.

He knows what it’s like to go through your own personal Holocaust.

And He is the only one who can bring true healing.