Good God! (1)

God meant nothing to me as a young boy. He was without meaning because he was incomprehensible. I acknowledged him as a concept, something philosophical, larger than myth but not quite authentic, like The Force in Star Wars. I considered him the Great Cause and everything else in the universe the necessary effect, but I wondered whether his power was purposeful, or simply an over-the-top exhibition of exhaustless strength.

At church we prayed for world peace, the end to all suffering, children everywhere, forgiveness and mercy, and strength for tomorrow. I wasn’t certain about God's attentiveness. Nothing in the world ever seemed to change for the better and no one seemed to wonder why.

At noon on Sunday God seemed slightly more real. We actually talked to him. We bowed our heads and asked his blessing on our food. In less than ten seconds the food was ready to eat, somehow perfected by this once-a-week ritual.

In the small Iowa town where I grew up, spiritual fervor is like overly strong coffee that is delicately sampled and politely ignored. Whatever fervor I had led me to question God’s goodness. I had been taught all of my young life that this God was so good and so great that he deserved to be the object of my desire forever.

I didn’t understand why things in the world were the way they were, and why he had allowed them. After all, God knew everything from eternity past to never-ending future. He saw the whole length of human history before any of it began, which meant he had already seen every evil act, human tragedy, and ounce of suffering. With all that agony and death, he had already heard every single cry for help that was ever raised toward heaven.

Why hadn’t the goodness of God prevented the creation of a world that would turn so wrong? Why hadn’t the future anguish of billions given him reason enough to change his plans? Was God really a good God? If he couldn’t interfere in this world after its creation because he lacked power, then he wasn’t really that great. And if he wouldn’t intervene because he lacked concern, then he wasn’t very good.

Human misery came in many forms. Some suffering was inexplicably horrific, like the Holocaust in Germany, the purges in Russia, and the genocides in Kampuchea, Croatia, and Rwanda. Not only was the scale of this suffering incalculable, but human free will accentuated the atrocities. Those who died were not casualties of some freak accident of nature, of impersonal, uncontrollable physical forces. They were victims of the unrestrained malevolence in the human heart, against which there appeared to be no defense, either human or divine.

Less conspicuous but just as heart-wrenching was the solitary suffering that took place in my own neighborhood as parents grieved the untimely death of their son. Clearly, the world didn’t care if a young man were impaled by a car and lay in a coma for days, hanging on to life by one shallow breath after another. The world couldn’t stop and pay attention to someone so insignificant. Yet that was precisely why his parents beseeched the God of boundless power and love to take notice of his suffering and respond personally, like any father or mother would, and bring miraculous vitality back into his body.

As we all expected, the boy’s life faded away and the parents’ anguish lingered forever. They would have to live the rest of their days with the numbing reminder that desperate prayers to God went unanswered. Aggravating their very lonely misery, long after the world forgot the boy had even existed, was the painful belief that God was neither as great nor as good as they had imagined or hoped. For all their spiritual fervor during the most anxious hours of their lives, God was silent and still.

I supposed these very parents, along with billions of people of all faiths, wondered about God as they witnessed the terrorist attacks in America on 911 that killed thousands and collapsed two of the world’s tallest buildings. Was God powerless to stop these saboteurs?

What about the Columbia space shuttle disaster? The night before the launch, the families of the crew prayed to God for divine protection, and hours later watched the incineration of their loved ones. Why had these prayers the night before made no difference in how events played out across the sky that morning?

What about the bizarre story of a tree toppling onto a car on a freeway, killing the father and mother in the front seat, while leaving unharmed the six-month old baby in the back seat? If only the car had slowed down or sped up at precisely the right moment, or if only the wind could have pushed the tree just inches one way or another, or if only the driver could have had some kind of warning, then all this suffering and death could have been avoided.

If only God had done something – even something minuscule on the grand scale to which he’s accustomed – the world would have been better for a man and a woman and their baby. But God did not intrude, and this small child must grow up in a world without a dad or a mom, and with a loss and a loneliness that will last his lifetime.

Then there was Mike, my best friend, and an appalling gauntlet.

Mike had debility in his legs, either from birth or some accident, which caused his feet to curve inward. He walked by dragging his feet and swaying from side to side. Walking was an ordeal and running a near impossibility.

On one particular junior high morning, I took my seat on the bleachers in the gym with others to await the instructor. Most of us waited quietly, but a rowdier group in the first row was enjoying a normal time of shoving and cussing.

Although Mike never dressed for class, he was required to come and watch. As soon as he stepped inside the gym and began to sway his way to where we were sitting, the rowdy group turned its attention to him. The hoots and whistles soon became a chorus of derision that was as painful as it was demeaning.

When the ridicule began, Mike’s expression was not fearful, and neither was it blank. His was the face of adolescent courage, and of a boldness that comes from ignoring frequent taunts. Whatever kindred spirit we shared, before he came into the gym, evaporated into thin air as soon as he became the object of scorn of boys who somehow were held in higher esteem by the rest of us. I had no courage to defend my friend.

In my frozen state of cowardice, where nothing could be resisted and everything could be tolerated, I watched one boy lean forward and spew out a mouthful of spit and phlegm onto the left side of Mike’s face. One other did the same before Mike sat down. Without emotion he wiped the spit away and went on with his life as though nothing had happened, but I was in shock. I had witnessed an inconceivable humiliation and then watched classmates revel in the sight. It was barbaric.

The shaming of my best friend lasted ten seconds, but its impact upon me endured for a long time. In one moment, Mike’s world turned terribly wrong. Two boys decided to use their freedom to humiliate another, and one boy decided to use his freedom to remain silent and still. Human freedom led to human suffering.

Next: Good God! Part Two