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A couple of weeks ago, 5 year old Samantha
Runnion was snatched off the street in front of her mother's house
by a beast dressed in human skin. The news reports that he had her
alive for several hours before he strangled her (one cannot imagine
her experience). Then he placed her by the side of a remote road
less than an hour's drive from where I live - placed in such a way
that it reduced the man who found her to hysterics (I heard the
911 recording). A couple of days ago they held her funeral where
a picture was taken of her mother over her coffin with an expression
on her face not to be borne (but still published on the front page
of the LA Times - such are our times).
Now, the question must be asked, Where was
God? By this, I mean the Judeo-Christian God we find in the Bible
- the God who numbers each hair on our heads and sees the fall of
a sparrow. The God we find in Jesus who called the little children
to come to him, and of whom I sang as a child that he "loves the
little children of the world." Where was He when this unutterable
act occurred? I've given it some thought and come up with a few
answers:
1. He was on vacation.
2. He does love us and wishes he could
intervene, but for some reason cannot. Maybe he's too weak, or
he's constructed reality in such a way that, say, causing Alejandro
Avila's car to have a blow-out or run out of gas there on the
condo road would be cheating.
3. He's really indifferent to our suffering.
4. He's evil.
5. It's a mystery.
This all brings to mind Ivan Karamosov in
Dostoyevsky's novel, "The Brothers Karamosov." He, too, confronted
the terrible mystery of children who have been victimized by adults.
He says, in part, that after the day of judgment when all is revealed
and set right...
"You see, it's quite possible, if I'm still
alive or am resurrected on the day the mother embraces her child's
murderer, that I may join them all in their praises and shout with
them, 'You were right'; but as of now, I do not want to join them.
And while there is still time, I want to dissociate myself from
it all; I have no wish to be a part of their eternal harmony. It's
not worth one single tear of the martyred little girl who beat her
breast with her tiny fist, shedding her innocent tears and praying
to 'sweet Jesus' to rescue her in the stinking outhouse. It's not
worth it, because that tear will have remained unatoned for. And
those tears must be atoned for; otherwise there can be no harmony.
But what could atone for those tears? How is it possible to atone
for them?"
He has more to say and I recommend it (especially
the chapter, "The Grand Inquistor"). However, I don't have the stamina
to type it all.
But the question hasn't been answered: Where
was God? Religions have been constructed to answer this question,
of course, and have various answers, none of them particularly useful,
I think. I don't believe there is an answer, really, unless you
count the Cross of Christ. Maybe when we accuse God, and point the
finger in accusation at Him, He will point, in turn, to the undeserved
agony of the innocent on the Cross. It's an existential matter,
I think, and not fully capable of being verbalized or formulated
or dogmatized. Of course, it doesn't really answer the question
for Samantha: it didn't provide her any succor when that demon jammed
himself into her or put his hands around her throat. Can those acts
and her suffering be wiped out in Eternity? Can they be atoned for
through the sufferings of God on the Cross?
How is it that we can bear it, day after
day, going about our business: eating, dressing, working, making
love, having fun. T.S. Eliot said "mankind cannot bear very much
reality," so we go into denial mode. It didn't happen to me or mine;
it's just so much TV, more of the daily round of tragedy and evil
to which we've become accustomed (alas for us). And yet that child
lay on the hard ground in that manner, dead for who knows how many
hours with only God for company (if He exists or cares). (This also
brings to mind Matthew Sheppard, hung on the crossbars of the fence,
dying and alone.)
Oddly, I'm not depressed about it. Perhaps,
after so many Samantha's I, like you, have become innured to it.
But I'm still puzzled. The mystery of evil is black and inpenetrable,
and we see as in a glass, darkly. But I'm put together in such a
way that I must grapple with the mystery. I believe in the loving
God, and yet He has seen fit to construct me with a sense of empathy
which I'd rather do without. So I wrestle with Him like Jacob in
the tent, and seek an answer.
The only answer I can come to is no answer
at all. The only thing I can think of is to suffer in solidarity
with Samantha and her mother as Christ did with all of us. The next
step is God's.
louis
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