A Personal Perspective on the Problem of Evil
How God Brings Good Out of Tragic Loss
[This article was first published on Memorial Day, 2004 in response to an article in the Washington Post Magazine.]
Luther and Warhol
Martin Luther once wrote that “a theologian is born by living, nay dying and being damned, not by thinking, reading, or speculating.” Andy Warhol is often quoted as saying that “everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.” What do these two quotes have to do with each other? Simply that the truth of them both has been profoundly driven home to me this Memorial Day.
(Cover Photograph by Doug Mindell – Hand-coloring by Tim Thrasher)
Cover Copyright © 2004, Washington Post Magazine. Used by Permission.
First, let me give you a brief account of my—or more precisely, my family’s—fifteen minutes of fame. The cover of this week’s Washington Post Magazine features a photograph of a young World War II soldier in uniform, along with a black-and-white snapshot of a young woman with her infant son. The title reads, “The Soldier in My Attic: A yellowed paper discovered in the rafters after 60 years leads to a forgotten hero, his lost son and the meaning of sacrifice.” That “forgotten hero” is my grandfather. His “lost son” is my father. And the woman in the snapshot who loved them both is my grandmother.
It’s not every day you get a reporter for the Washington Post piecing together your family history for you, but that is precisely what happened in our case, and the blessing it has been will be felt long after our fifteen minutes of fame are over. Peter Perl, a reporter who has lived in the Washington D.C. area for years, went into his attic one afternoon to measure it for new insulation. In the process, he discovered a tattered cardboard cylinder containing the personal effects and Purple Heart certificate of Second Lieutenant George Charles Oertel Jr., a soldier killed in World War II. Curious to find out who this soldier was, Mr. Perl embarked on a process of discovery which has helped to fill in some of the blanks in my family’s history and to acquaint my dad with the biological father who died when he was just six months old.
I would, of course, encourage everyone to read the aforementioned article, not merely because it concerns my family, but because it is a powerfully written and fitting Memorial Day tribute to the soldiers who have sacrificed—and who continue to sacrifice—everything for the cause of freedom.
By now it should be clear why I quoted Warhol’s comment about everyone enjoying fifteen minutes of fame, but Luther’s enigmatic statement about a theologian “dying and being damned” may take a little more explaining. I understand Luther to mean by this that a true theology must be worked out in the context of real life and refined in the crucible of facing death and its aftermath. Theology cannot merely be done by means of scholarly research and philosophical speculation, because it deals with questions of life, death, and the hope of salvation. The true theologian is one who can apply his theology to life, and whose life informs his theology.
My grandfather’s brief life and tragic death raise an important theological question: how could a good God allow such a promising young life to be cut short? It is a question we ask whenever we witness tragic loss, senseless suffering, or random catastrophe. If God is perfectly good and all-powerful, why does he permit such evils to take place? Theologians and philosophers refer to this question as the “problem of evil,” and it has puzzled mankind since the beginning of time. Assuming, however, that Luther was on to something, let’s use this real-life tragedy as a test-case for understanding the problem of evil. Can we make sense of such a senseless loss? Can we possibly see God’s hand in the midst of it?
A Tragic Loss
My grandfather’s brief life was one of tremendous promise, as I think anyone who reads the Washington Post article would agree. First, there was the promise of his individual potential. A gifted athlete, he had dreams of a professional baseball career after he returned from the war. As a soldier, he appears to have distinguished himself, going from enlisted man to Second Lieutenant during his training, and receiving the Combat Infantryman Badge for “exemplary conduct in action against the enemy.” As a young man, he was apparently deeply religious, very close to his family, and devoted to his young wife.
This last character trait brings us to another area of promise in this young man’s life: the promise of his family legacy. George Oertel Jr. had met and married Gabrielle Louise Hopping, the nineteen-year-old daughter of Brigadier General Andrew Hopping, while back home on leave. They got pregnant right away, and he was shipped out just before George Oertel III, my father, was born. Father and son never saw each other except in photographs, never got to toss the baseball George Jr. was so adept with, never got to live together as a family.
George Jr. was cut down by German artillery fire in an Italian village when my father was still a baby. His wife was a widow at the age of twenty, and she and my dad went to live with her parents for a couple of years. Eventually, she met and married Allen Lang, who adopted my father and changed his name to George Charles Lang.
It’s a Wonderful Death?
For all the reasons listed above, my grandfather’s death was a tragic loss that makes little sense. This loss is compounded when you consider that he was just one of many millions of young soldiers and civilians whose lives were lost in that epic war. But what if that war had never happened? What if my grandfather had been allowed to grow old with his new wife and son? Asking these questions is a little like It’s a Wonderful Life in reverse, but it’s an exercise that will help us come to terms with the “problem of evil” in a way that no logical syllogism could ever accomplish.
If World War II had never happened, if Adolf Hitler had been content with murdering his political rivals in Germany rather than embarking on a course of world conquest, it’s uncertain whether George Oertel Jr. would ever have met, much less married, Gabrielle Louise Hopping. Theirs was a whirlwind, war-time romance, and if it hadn’t been for that war, my father might never have been conceived. For that matter, if it weren’t for World War I, my grandmother likewise might never have been conceived, since she was the daughter of an American doughboy who married a French woman, my great-grandmother “Dee-Dee” (so called because my dad couldn’t pronounce Gabrielle). In a very real sense, I owe my life to the two costliest, most devastating wars in history.
Now, suppose my grandfather had survived the war and returned home. If that had happened, it is doubtful my father and his family would ever have moved to Florida. My grandfather’s family lived in the D.C. area, and he likely would have done the same. Even if he would have decided to move his family elsewhere, what are the chances he would have taken them to the small town of Winter Haven, Florida, where my father met my mother? My father moved there because that was the home of his adoptive father, Allen Lang. Had my grandfather lived, I might never have been born, my wife would be married to someone else, and my four beautiful children [now five] would never have come into this world. When that artillery shell exploded on July 11, 1944, it tragically ended a promising young life, but it also set into motion a chain of events for which I cannot help but be thankful.
Was it good that my grandfather was killed a few short months before his twenty-fifth birthday? Absolutely not. But can it be said that God has used that tragic event for His good purposes? I’d like to think it can. I’m not so sure my presence in the world can be considered an unqualified good. I’m certainly not a better man than the one whose blood runs through my veins. But when I look into the faces of David, Caleb, Bethany, and Alexa [and now also Josiah], I know that God has used my grandfather’s death to make the world a better place. My grandfather gave his life to stop fascism, and God has used his death to bring about new and wonderful life.
It’s Not Always So Easy
It’s admittedly not always so easy to see how God uses tragic events for His good purposes. My grandfather was cut down in his youth, but not before he had conceived a son who in turn has had two children and seven grandchildren [soon to be nine when my sister has her fourth child later this year]. There were countless other soldiers who died without leaving any descendants behind. Where is the good that came out of their deaths? Or what about my nephew, Chad, who developed leukemia at age four and died just weeks before his ninth birthday? Where is the good in that tragic loss? What about the thousands who died in the World Trade Center and Pentagon on what would have been Chad’s twelfth birthday? How has God used that horrific event for good?
We may never know, or see, the countless ways God brings good out of evil, gain out of loss, or blessing out of tragedy. Yet we have two sources of assurance that God always intends for good what man and his fallen world have intended for evil (Genesis 50:20). First, we have the example of the cross: how the salvation of many was accomplished through the greatest evil the world has ever known. Second, we have the assurance of God’s Word, which tells us that “God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28, NASB). We may not always see how, but we have no reason to doubt that God will be true to this promise. The cross of Christ, and the empty tomb, should be all the evidence we need. And if we look closely at those tragedies which touch our own lives, we may just catch a glimpse of God’s good purposes in them, and find reason to give thanks even in the midst of our tears.
Eighteen Years Her Man
After eighteen years, I dared to call myself a man.
I was headed off to college, to learn and understand
The world I thought I held in the palm of my own hand.
Just eighteen years of age, and I thought myself a man.
Now eighteen years have passed since I first called myself her man,
And the wonder that she is I still long to understand.
My grip had proven weak until she offered me her hand,
And without her by my side I would be merely half a man.
These last eighteen years have been far better than the first.
Although we’ve known our share of “for better” and “for worse,”
I still gaze into her eyes and feel my heart about to burst.
Eighteen years have passed and I’m now eighteen years more hers.
My eighteen-year-old follies have all slipped away like sand:
I know the world cannot reside in my poor failing hands.
Yet my world stays in orbit like a golden circling band
Around she who after eighteen years still loves me as her man.
The Lesson of the LEGO TV Remote
Never play games with a man’s TV remote.
This morning Jo Jo, our three-year-old, came into our bedroom with a little stack of LEGOs. Proudly announcing that this was his “channel changer,” he pointed it at the TV and began pressing it with his thumb. Intending to play along, I grabbed the real TV remote and began turning the TV on and off each time he pressed his toy remote. My wife looked over, smiled, and said to me, “You’re such a fun dad!”
Alas, it was fun until I explained to Jo Jo that his “channel changer” didn’t really control the TV; that I had been controlling it with the real “channel changer.” He got mildly frustrated with me and decided to hide my remote behind the curtain so he could be sure I wasn’t repeating the trick. Then he stood in front of the TV for several minutes pressing his LEGO remote. When it didn’t work he asked me to fix his remote so that it would work again. I explained the impossibility of that to him, then stepped out of the room for a minute. Moments later, I heard the TV come on, so I knew he had now begun using the real remote and finding that it worked.
When I came back in the room, a disappointed little boy brought me his LEGO remote and said, “Daddy, I don’t want this channel changer any more. It’s broken!”
I’ve learned my lesson. It is apparently unwise ever to play games with another man’s TV remote! Some things are just too close to our hearts.
As funny as this little scenario is, Jo Jo’s disappointment at not really being in control was real. It made me wonder how many times this same scenario is played out between us grownups and our heavenly Father.
The older I get, the more I come to realize how little in life I really have control over. Most of us tackle life with the expectation that if we work hard, use our talents, and behave responsibly we can be healthy, wealthy, wise, and happy. Yet if we’re honest with ourselves, we know that all our plans can easily be derailed by an unexpected illness, an accident, the foolish decisions and evil actions of other people, economic forces beyond our control, changes in the weather, and those huge natural disasters we usually describe as “acts of God.” How many of our personal triumphs and crowning achievements really amount to us benefitting from the gracious hand of God in ordering those circumstances we cannot control?
It is as if we’re pressing the buttons on our LEGO remotes while God stands behind us pressing the buttons on His real one. When we see the TV come on we think, “Look what I did!” We don’t realize that God is the one who is really in control, and that we should be expressing our gratitude to Him. The American revolutionaries who managed to defeat the most powerful nation on earth often spoke of the gracious hand of Divine Providence in fighting on their behalf, and when you consider how many of their victories depended on favorable weather and historical accidents it is easy to see why. Somehow when we face less overwhelming obstacles we find it easy to forget the hand of Providence and assume our LEGO remotes are working.
Proverbs 16:9 reminds us who is really in control:
A man’s heart plans his way, but the LORD determines his steps.
We do well to remember that His “channel changer” is the only one that works.
You Never Know What Impact You Can Have
During yesterday morning’s sermon, the preacher mentioned the late Dr. Roger Nicole, a brilliant French Swiss theologian whose scholarly accomplishments are too many for me to name. If Dr. Nicole ever reflected on his impact on the world, he might have looked to his many writings, the many students he taught, the churches he served, the sermons he preached, and the various other public activities he engaged in. He might also have looked to his influence over those with whom he had a private relationship: his family, his friends, and his colleagues. In such moments of reflection, however, Dr. Nicole would have been completely unaware of the profound impact he had on me.
Like so many others, I was once a student of Dr. Nicole’s. He taught the very first seminary course I ever took: a three- or four-week class called “Theological Foundations.” That was the only class I ever took with him. It was a great class, and it helped strengthen some of my theological positions, but it didn’t really convince me of anything I had not already come to believe through my own reading of the Bible. It was meant to be a foundational introduction to theological education, but it was soon replaced with another introductory course taught by a different professor. I doubt Dr. Nicole would have regarded that class as anything particularly noteworthy or exceptional.
Yet for me, it was the perfect class taught at the perfect time by the perfect man for the job. I had been a Religion major at a secular university, so I entered seminary a little battle-weary and professor-wary. I knew going in that my university professors would be teaching things antithetical to my own beliefs, but I willingly entered that crucible in order to have my faith refined. In the end, I found that my professors’ actual arguments were not that difficult to refute. The far more difficult challenge was dealing with The Sneer—that look of disdain some of them would give whenever a student dared to disagree with them. I saw other students succumb to The Sneer because they just couldn’t stand to have their professors look at them like they were stupid—and their faith became shipwrecked as a result.
Now, I was not terribly worried about whether my professors thought I was stupid—I knew to expect it going in. Even so, it can be exhausting facing The Sneer again and again for years on end. It can become a “root of bitterness” (Hebrews 12:15) that grows into a kind of anti-intellectualism. One begins to grow suspicious of anything scholarly or intellectual because of the arrogance of those who adopt The Sneer. By the time I graduated, Paul’s statement that “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up” (1 Corinthians 8:1) seemed to me to mean that the life of the mind was diametrically opposed to the love of God.
Enter Dr. Nicole, who addressed each student as “Brozer” or “Seester” in a way that seemed absolutely genuine. Dr. Nicole was teaching some theological subjects which are often hotly contested, and there was one student in the class who strongly held an opposing viewpoint. As the class wore on, this student raised objections and challenging questions with ever-increasing hostility. I knew Dr. Nicole had heard those same objections a thousand times before, and if he had been one of my college professors he would have pulled out The Sneer and squashed that student like a bug. Instead, he would act as if this was the first time he had ever heard that objection raised, and he would say something like, “Well, Brozer, you raise an excellent point, but I think you’ll find …” It was at that point that he would very lovingly dismantle that student’s arguments—all the while affirming that the student should not be the least bit embarrassed for making them.
This, for me, was something new: a brilliant man whose brilliance was exceeded only by his gentleness, respect, and Christ-like love for others. Dr. Nicole restored by belief that one need not reject the life of the mind in order to cultivate a love for God. Rather, the more one pursues knowledge, the more one needs to be pursuing the love of Christ. Apart from the love of Christ, knowledge does indeed puff up. Yet bathed in Christ’s love, a deeper knowledge can become profitable for building others up in the faith.
Dr. Nicole could not have known that he was having such a profound impact on a student who sat there quietly watching his Christ-like disposition, and I never had occasion to tell him. I am, however, deeply grateful to have sat under a man in whom no sneer could be detected. His conduct in that class has had a ripple effect in my life that Dr. Nicole himself could not see on this side of heaven.
That should encourage all of us who wonder if we’re having any kind of influence for Christ in the world. Whether our impact is plain to see or we labor in relative obscurity, our faithfulness to demonstrate the love of Christ to others is sure to have a ripple effect we may never see on this side of heaven. Yet who knows? Perhaps in God’s economy those unseen ripples will prove to be the most profound impact we have in this world.
The Lang Gang’s 2011 Christmas Letter
“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners”
—1 Timothy 3:15
Dear Friends,
In February of this year, Lisa and I traveled to Israel for a whirlwind tour of places we had previously only read about in the pages of the Bible. (Lisa’s mom went above and beyond by staying with “the gang” for two weeks.) When we returned home, I began writing a series of meditations in an attempt to process everything we had seen and experienced. The result is a 31-day devotional called Feet to Follow, Eyes to See which I hope to have published soon. This Christmas, I’d like to share with you the meditation I wrote about our visit to Bethlehem:
Cross Purposes
Ever seen a Christmas card depiction of Bethlehem? It is usually portrayed as a quaint little cluster of mud-brick buildings—most flat-roofed, but a few with graceful domes—surrounded by green fields dotted with grazing sheep. If it is shown at night, those domed roofs are silhouetted against a clear sky, brilliantly lit by the natal star. We imagine Bethlehem to be a peaceful place. We sing about Jesus’ birth on a silent, holy night. We’re so enamored with this fantasy of a peaceful nativity, that even when we imagine the baby Jesus waking to the sound of lowing cattle, we tell ourselves, “No crying he makes.”
A visit to modern Bethlehem presents you with quite a different picture. The area around Manger Square is noisy and chaotic, with Muslim street vendors hawking cheap jewelry and touristy kitsch. You bustle past them to arrive at the Church of the Nativity, which preserves the traditional location of Jesus’ birthplace. The building itself is a bewildering compound made up of two churches—one controlled by the Greek Orthodox and the other by the Roman Catholics. The Grotto of the Nativity is located beneath the Greek Orthodox basilica.
Entering the grotto was an exercise in holding one’s ground as countless pilgrims tried to squeeze into the narrow doorway. I must confess I was more focused on preventing a pushy French couple from shouldering their way past us than I was on contemplating the birth of my Savior.
The Star in the Grotto of the Nativity
The floor and walls of the original cave are completely covered with marble and stone. A silver star marks the spot where Mary is believed to have given birth to Jesus, and pilgrims crowd in to press their hands or lips against it. In order to enable the members of our tour group to snap unobstructed photos of it, we acted as blockers for each other, holding back the other pilgrims until each of us had taken a turn. I imagine they had to be thinking, “Who do these pushy Americans think they are?”
Of course, we were only there a few moments. We yielded the floor and were carried out of the Grotto by the inexorable flow of humanity.
Visitors who expect Bethlehem to be idyllic and pastoral are sure to be disappointed by the relative chaos of the place. All the people there are seemingly at cross-purposes with each other. Different religious groups control different areas of the site. Some Christians are there to venerate a spot they regard as sacred. Others merely want to visit the place where Jesus entered the world. Some Muslims want to profit from the tourism Jesus brings. Others want to assert the supremacy of Islam. Then there are the political tensions of this Palestinian area of Israel.
Modern Bethlehem is a far cry from what we see on Christmas cards, but it may be far closer to the Bethlehem into which Jesus was born. That Bethlehem was crowded with Jews who had traveled there to take part in a Roman census. Some of the local residents would have been thrilled at all the extra business, while others would have resented the disruption to their daily lives and the constant reminders of Roman supremacy. The Romans meanwhile, wanted to keep the peace and further their careers among a people who despised them. Mary and Joseph just wanted a place to have their baby. As it is today, first-century Bethlehem was all bustle and cross-purposes.
Jesus also arrived in Bethlehem with cross purposes: He “came into the world to save sinners” (1 Timothy 1:15), drawing them to Himself by being lifted up on the cross (John 12:32–33). Shortly before His crucifixion, Jesus made it clear He had been born for that hour:
The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. I assure you: Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains by itself. But if it dies, it produces a large crop. … Now My soul is troubled. What should I say—Father, save Me from this hour? But that is why I came to this hour. Father, glorify Your name! (John 12:23–24, 27–28)
Our Christmas card mythology presents us with a tranquil Bethlehem and a joyous nativity, but Christ’s birth foreshadows His cross. The death He died so that we might live is the reason we rejoice in His birth. Worship Him today for accomplishing His cross purposes for you.
While Lisa and I enjoyed every moment of our time in Israel, our greatest joy was returning home to our children. Whether your Christmas this year is as idyllic as a Christmas card Bethlehem, or as chaotic as the real one, we pray that you will cherish your family and worship your Savior.
Love,
The Lang Gang
David, Lisa, David, Caleb, Bethany, Alexa, and “Jo Jo”
What Makes it Okay to Brag in a Christmas Letter?
Every year at Christmastime, we receive cards and letters from dear friends, family members, and people about whom I have to ask my wife, “How do we know these people again?” I’m sure you get them too. In the days before blogs and social media, cards and letters were how people kept up with each other, and the mailing of these things became somewhat obligatory around major holidays like Christmas. It’s a nice tradition, and I would argue that it’s still more fun to get something in the mail than it is to receive a push notification about someone else’s Facebook status. Yet there is also a darker side to this holiday custom: some people use it as an excuse to brag, and to do so quite shamelessly.
I figure it started innocently enough, with parents writing letters to grandparents telling them how much the kids had grown and what they were up to; but at some point, this sort of catching up turned toxic. Now people seem to think it okay to send letters which could reasonably be subtitled, “Christmas with the Perfects.” You know the kind of letter I mean: one which details Mr. Perfect’s business successes, each child’s athletic victories and extracurricular activities, and Mrs. Perfect’s ability to balance a million responsibilities while still finding time to knit sweaters for needy children in Outer Mongolia. Oh, and there’s usually a paragraph or two detailing the latest family vacation to Europe or Hawaii.
It’s not that there’s anything necessarily wrong with sharing good news or counting one’s blessings. I’ve read a few letters which manage to do that in an entertaining and heartwarming way. Unfortunately, the vast majority of Christmas letters simply read like an exaggerated résumé. They don’t give a real picture of the character of a family, but a carefully Photoshopped one in which every blemish has been removed. The net effect is to make people who are well aware of their own blemishes feel downright inferior.
Having read far too many “Christmas with the Perfects” letters, I’m determined never to write such a letter myself. Instead, I try to write a Christmas letter which reads more like a devotional than a yearly catalog of my family’s accomplishments. When I talk about my family, I try to give an honest glimpse into what life with the “Lang Gang” is really like. I would much rather share a funny story or two than boast about something we’ve done. After all, the best thing about my family is not the amount of time we spend atop some award podium, but the love we share and the Lord we serve. He’s the only “Perfect” worth bragging about—especially in a Christmas letter.
Where’s the Sentimental Music?
Last night, after I got our two-year-old to sleep, I came downstairs to find my wife watching the movie Marley and Me. It was near the end of the movie, when the family dog, Marley, is showing signs of age and infirmity. His owner knows that Marley does not have much time left, so he takes Marley for a walk through the Pennsylvania countryside. When Marley gets tired, they stop and sit on a hilltop so the dog can rest a moment. As man and dog sit looking out over a peaceful vista, the movie soundtrack becomes touching and sentimental. It’s a signal to movie watchers to pay attention to a special moment—a moment of tenderness, intimacy, and deep emotion.
As I sat there watching that scene, I found myself thinking it would be nice if such sentimental music would play whenever we experience those kinds of tender moments in real life. Perhaps if a soundtrack kicked in whenever we had an opportunity to really connect with someone, we would pay closer attention to those moments, remembering to zoom in for an extreme close-up, gazing at our loved ones with a flattering soft-diffuse filter. Hollywood uses those kinds of effects to manufacture emotion and indicate pivotal moments, but we receive no such signals in our daily lives. We simply have to pay attention, and when we get the opportunity to connect with a spouse, a child, a friend, or a family member, we need to slow down and savor the moment. We need to look them in the eyes, listen to their words, and realize that such moments don’t necessarily come along every day.
Or do they, and we simply miss them because we don’t hear the soundtrack?
Is It Wrong to Be Happy at Christmas?
I love Christmastime. When the house is all decorated and lit up, it has a warm and magical feel. We play Christmas music almost continually, and when it’s not playing, at least someone in the family is singing some carol or other. We cycle through a bunch of Christmas movies, from the deeply moving Nativity to the wacky and irreverently sweet Elf to classic favorites like Miracle on 34th Street and It’s a Wonderful Life. At every turn, we are reminded how blessed we are to have Christ as our Savior, and how blessed we are to have each other. Personally, I tend to go through the month of December in a state of quiet euphoria, knowing that mine truly is a “wonderful life.”
Yet I’ve also experienced enough of the flip side of Christmas to know that not everyone is euphoric at this time of year. There were years before I met Lisa when Christmas was marred by loneliness or the sadness of a recent breakup. Then there was the Christmas after our nephew, Chad, died of leukemia. His death left a gaping hole which was even more keenly felt at Christmas, and even though the years have dulled that pain, it never fully goes away. Those experiences of loss at Christmas have helped me realize that some Christmas greetings are spoken through clenched teeth and muffled sobs.
Knowing that, I almost feel guilty for being as happy as I am at Christmas. My heart is so incredibly full, and I want to voice my joy and gratitude. Yet I don’t want to rub salt in someone else’s wounds by being too vocal in counting my blessings. Is it wrong to be happy at Christmas? Is it insensitive to say with Mary that the Lord “has done great things for me?” (Luke 1:49).
My favorite movie portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge is that of Alistair Sim, done way back in the 1940s or ’50s. Sim brilliantly captures Scrooge’s extreme ugliness before his redemption as well as his absolute giddiness after it. After Scrooge has apologized to Bob Cratchitt and promised to help him and his family, he scowls and says to himself, “I don’t deserve to be so happy!” Then he breaks into another wide grin and chuckles, “I just can’t help it!”
I understand how Scrooge felt. Sinful man that I am, I know I don’t deserve to be so happy. I know there are better men out there who have to deal with difficult situations and hard providences they didn’t bring upon themselves. I know people who feel the pain of divorce, abandonment, loneliness, sickness, and devastating loss at this time which is supposed to be joyous. I also know that I just can’t help the joy I feel this Christmas.
Is it wrong to be happy at Christmas? If it is, I’m afraid I don’t want to be right.
Becoming One with Another
The Bible says that when a man marries a woman, the two become one (Genesis 2:24). I have been blessed to be one with a woman who completes me, and who makes me far more than I am by myself. When I’m away from home, as I am now, I therefore feel that I am less than one. When I was away on a trip a couple years ago, I woke in the wee hours of the morning and wrote the following poem. It expresses what I’m feeling now, as I look forward to returning home after a week away:
Away from Home
Away from home, I am half myself;
For the better half of me lies home waiting.
She is my smile, my crown, my shelter, and my life.
Apart from her, I live a half-life—
Like a shade passing nameless through the world of men.
Away from home, I am half myself;
For the better half of me lies home waiting.
Away from home, I am less than half myself—
The missing piece in a picturesque puzzle.
Apart from my children, I am an irregular shape,
All angled edges and twisted sides.
Only when joined with each of them does my life take shape.
Only when joined with all of them is the picture of my life complete.
Away from home, I am less than half myself—
The missing piece in a picturesque puzzle.
Away from home, I am a fraction of a fraction.
Numbers unevenly divided, I am the remainder which does not fit.
Apart from those I love, I am incomplete—
A sentence fragment with nothing much to say.
Apart from those I love, I am a stranger to myself:
A nameless figure passing through an uneventful history.
How I long to be home again, where every problem has a solution,
every sentence has a meaning, and my life has a purpose.
Away from home, I am half myself…
Less than half…
A fraction of a fraction.
Struggling to Use Your Superpower
Does having a superpower mean life is easy? On the contrary, it means a life of struggle. Every superhero, no matter how invincible, runs into an enemy or situation which pushes him to the limits of his power. On this blog, I’ve compared the ability to write to a superpower, because it can be used in a variety of situations to help others and to change the world. Yet like any superpower, the ability to string words together often leads to a life of struggle.
On his blog dedicated to the craft of writing, Jeff Goins asked whether or not writing is hard. It’s not that the physical act of writing is hard: you simply sit at a keyboard and type. Rather, it is the mental, emotional, and spiritual aspects of writing which make it so difficult at times.
The Mental Struggle
My favorite superhero is Batman. He is a normal man whose super-heroism results not from some exceptional power, but from his own courage, determination, and ingenuity. Batman is smart. Whenever the other, more powerful members of the Justice League are powerless to deal with a crisis, Batman is the one with the quiet confidence and mental clarity to devise a solution.
Sometimes having exceptional abilities can be a real liability. Superman is so used to being able to smash his way to success that he can become uncertain when those powers are not enough. Batman, on the other hand, always has to get by on his own wits and determination.
It’s the same for writing. There are people who seem naturally gifted at stringing words together, but those writers often become crippled when the words don’t come easily. Every writer has moments of doubt and uncertainty. Are my words powerful enough? Am I making myself clear? Am I really saying anything that hasn’t been said before? It is the writer who can push through this uncertainty to get something down on paper who ultimately ends up changing the world.
If you don’t know what to write, write something. Even if you throw it out later, the act of writing itself can help you focus your thoughts and arrive at a solution. Even Batman’s initial plans usually fail, but he learns from his mistakes and ultimately triumphs.
The Emotional Struggle
My son Caleb’s favorite superhero is Spider-man. Spider-man is smart like Batman, as well as being blessed with a variety of superpowers. Yet Spider-man is often emotionally conflicted. He struggles with the fact that some people question his motives or blame him for the unintended consequences of his actions. He also worries that the people he loves will be hurt by his poor choices.
Like Spider-man, every writer faces an emotional struggle. Will other people like what I write? Will they think I’m clever, or stupid? Will they call me a hack? It is that fear of being misunderstood that leads many writers to give up before they start, or to keep what they write to themselves. But what good is a superpower if it doesn’t benefit anyone?
Spider-man inevitably pushes through his emotional turmoil to do the right thing. You’ll need to push through yours to do the write thing. (Hmmm, will you think that pun was clever or corny? Maybe I should change it … oh, never mind!)
The Spiritual Struggle
Every superhero struggles to keep his or her secret identity secret, but a writer can’t hide behind a mask. A writer can’t even hide behind a pseudonym. The writer must inevitably bare his or her own soul in the process of writing. It can feel like standing in front of a crowd naked, or perhaps wearing brightly colored spandex. Writing makes you vulnerable in a way that goes beyond the mere risk of embarrassment. If you bare your soul on paper, and others don’t like what you write, it can feel a little like being rejected by someone who really knows you well. It is this fear of rejection which is perhaps the greatest struggle a writer must face.
That’s why it’s so important for a writer to tap into the source of his superpower. Without a source of inspiration, without a motivation higher than our own need to be liked, we can find it easy to hold back, play it safe, and stop short of writing with real power.
So is writing hard? You bet it is. But if we can work through our mental, emotional, and spiritual struggles, we can use our superpower to make a real difference in the world. Remember, heroism comes not in the mere exercise of a superpower, but in the superhero’s triumph in the face of a momentous struggle.
Question: Which of these struggles do you find most challenging?
