"I had a doctor once who was an atheist. Did I ever tell you about
him?"
No.
"This doctor, he liked to jab me and my beliefs. He used to schedule my
appointments deliberately on Saturdays, so I would have to call the receptionist
and explain why, because of my religion, that wouldn't work."
Nice guy, I said.
"Anyhow, one day, I read in the paper that his brother had died. So I made
a condolence call."
After the way he treated you?
"In this job," the Reb said, "you don't retaliate."
I laughed.
"So I go to his house, and he sees me. I can tell he is upset. I tell him I
am sorry for his loss. And he says, with an angry face, 'I envy you.'
"'Why do you envy me?' I said.
"'Because when you lose someone you love, you can curse God. You can yell.
You can blame Him. You can demand to know why. But I don't believe in God. I'm a
doctor! And I couldn't help my brother!'
"He was near tears. 'Who do I blame?' he kept asking me. 'There is no God.
I can only blame myself.'"
The Reb's face tightened, as if in pain.
"That," he said, softly, "is a terrible self-indictment."
Worse than an unanswered prayer?
"Oh yes. It is far more comforting to think God listened and said no, than
to think that nobody's out there."