Easy Faith?

Posted on December 30, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

On Christmas day I had a lively, though-provoking theological discussion with one of my best friends, a man who possesses a keen intellect and a good heart. He is an agnostic, I am a Christian, and this difference in belief leads to many late night debates. We respect one another, so there is no hint of rancor or accusation.

We discussed the nature of free will, which is something that always makes my head hurt. If all things work for God’s good, then how does sin affect outcomes? How does evil work for good? Mankind is doomed to sin because it is inherent to our nature. God knows we will sin, when we will do so, and how that works out for us in the end. In my extensive experience with sin, short term bliss leads to pain at some point. How does this serve the greater plan? I have no idea.

I told my friend “Everything happens for a reason, and sometimes the reason is that we make dumb choices.Yet even these bad decisions transform into good in the end. Maybe not for us, though. There are infinite choices, and a myriad of outcomes… some are better than others within our own lifetimes.”

My friend wasn’t buying it. “What about a greater scale, then? Let’s take Hitler, for example. How does Hitler’s existence work for the greater good? The death of six million of God’s chosen people, along with Americans, Russians, English, French, Japanese and Germans? Explain that to me, please.”

“Well,” I replied, stalling, “Hitler chose to be evil. He murdered millions, which was clearly contrary to the will of God. The suffering Hitler unleashed will reverberate for centuries. But on a grander scale than that, perhaps there was a reason we cannot perceive.”

“Nonsense.”

“Sometimes we miss the forest for the trees. We are too close to a thing to see the truth in it.”

“We’re not talking about trees. We’re talking about living, breathing people. Women and children. The truth is they died.”

“There were better possible outcomes,” I said, feeling the hollowness of the answer. “But in the end…”

“I wish I had your easy faith,” said my good friend.

“Easy faith?”

“It looks that way to me. You retreat into your faith when logic fails.” True.

Hebrews 11:1 says “faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Faith is the cornerstone of Christianity. Without it, nothing else matters. We trust because we must. Because without that leap of faith, the world feels gray and mean, drained of color and life. Faith itself defies logical thinking. Yet our propensity for faith is as great as our vulnerability to evil.

We are the race of Mozart, Shakespeare, Rembrandt and Einstein. Creativity flows through our veins, itself a kind of faith, a force which propels us to seek the truth beyond what we see before us. Faith is a reward in itself, for it makes the world a brighter place.

Faith is not easy.

Clashes of faith have been a bane of mankind’s existence, and I think God’s least favorite words are “Holy War.” Faith should not be a weapon, and when it is used as such, it makes the world darker and harder for those of us who cling to our beliefs in the face of hardship and doubt and the rampant evil in this place.

My friend is right, though. I do retreat into my faith. I remember the connection I have felt with the creator, moments that I cannot explain in any other way. I’ve seen miracles. I’ve watched the sun rise over the Rocky Mountains, felt the kiss of joy on an endless blue ocean, and witnessed my sons born into this world. Faith is a singing feeling in my chest, a smile in my soul, and when it is strong, it is glorious.

I stumble and fall too often and my steps are not sure, my path unclear, and I lose my way in the forest. The truth surrounds me though, and just because I cannot see a thing does not make it less real. When the darkness presses in upon me, it is then I need my faith the most. Perhaps for me, having faith is indeed easier than living bereft of hope.

Know Your Enemy

Posted on December 17, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

The world is reeling In the wake of terror attacks in Pakistan, Canada, and Australia. The slaughter of more than 130 children at a school in Peshawar is evil incarnate, and it is impossible to see the images of those small coffins without feeling rage and sadness. These terrorists systematically slaughtered kids in a school. It will happen again until this brand of extreme Islam is stamped out. This enemy is relentless and hungry, and there is nothing but evil in him. Bring on the waterboarding.

When the Taliban took over in Afghanistan, there was little outcry around the world. I recall watching a few stories on the news about them at the time. It wasn’t until 9-11 that we started paying attention here in the United States. More than a decade later, we are still engaging these evil sons of bitches. They receive funding from a global network of “charities,” as well as weapons and training from nations. Pakistan itself divides the Taliban into separate categories, with the “good Taliban” waging jihad outside their own borders.

I keep hearing about the moderate, decent Muslims around the world who insist that Islam is a peaceful religion. This may be true in theory but it is most certainly not true in practice. ISIS is spreading like a virulent disease, sweeping through Syria and Iraq, lopping off heads, raping and killing with wanton abandon. Where are the voices of protest from the streets of Jerusalem, the cries of outrage in Tehran? When will we see edicts from a group of the most influential clerics calling for war against these dangerous killers which threaten to plunge the world into darkness? The west cannot wage this war alone.

Other religions have their share of blood on their hands. Christianity has been perverted to wage war and commit atrocities. The Inquisition was terrible, and the Crusades stained countless battlefields with blood. Even now, there are nut-case extremist people who call themselves Christians who say awful things, advocate violence, and make other people of faith look evil by association. Here’s the thing, though. Other Christians jump all over these fringe crazies, ostracize them and isolate them. Whether you are Catholic or not, it’s hard to say that the Pope is an evil, violent man who is pushing for war.

Islam needs to come together to reclaim their religion. They need to say, “enough is enough, these terrorists do not represent our beliefs, and here is why…” And they need to act upon it. Stop funding these extremists, cease giving safe haven to terror groups, put the Imams in jail who are brainwashing kids to strap bombs to themselves. So far, though, the world has seen little in the way of Islam policing itself. There is too much resentment of the west, too much distaste for Christians, years of bottled up anger seething beneath the surface of placid smiles.

Only light can drive out the darkness. Only love can defeat hate. When I see videos of an innocent reporter getting his head sawed off, when I see these little children covered in blood, I admit I feel hate rising in me. I don’t want it, but it’s there. I try not to make generalizations, I try to keep an open mind and believe that most people are decent and kind. If these terror groups hope to instill fear, I believe they are failing. They instill hate. They want a religious war, and in the end, they will have it, dragging the world into it with them, consuming our humanity.

I hold my young boys tight, and when I see them playing Army together, sometimes I have tears in my eyes because I fear what they will be doing in ten years. I fear that this war will be upon us, and my boys will be carrying real assault rifles and keeping their heads down because darkness has already won.

Prayers from the cave…

Posted on September 30, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I recently spent two weeks in Nashville, where I spent time with old friends, played music, and caught up on the years we’ve missed. I attended a function hosted by my publisher, and got to meet many fellow authors, and I made some new friends. It was a wonderful time, a period of self reflection, hope, and sentimentality all at once, and I learned a tremendous amount. The most important part of the trip, though, happened on the way home, somewhere between Valdosta Georgia and the Florida state line.

I’ve struggled for the last year or so with my faith. It’s almost funny, because one of the central conflicts in my first two books revolves around the battle between faith and doubt as darkness closes in. My own internal war ended up mirroring some of the strife I’ve put my characters through; my characters dealt with this better than I did personally, and when I wrote those books, I believed I’d put that particular struggle behind me. I was wrong. I’ve been embattled on a variety of fronts for the last year, and it took a hard toll upon my soul until it reached a point where I began to question that which I knew to be true. I wondered where God was, and I went so far as to question the validity of His promises, to wonder about His goodness. Heresy, I know, and wrong-headed, but I don’t think I’m alone in this kind of battlefield. Somehow, I’d managed to succumb to a sense of hopelessness, and I’d put myself in a cave.

A man bereft of hope is like body without bones; there is nothing to hold him upright and together. I’d become that guy, without really knowing it, without seeing a way out. And when that happens, the instinct is to retreat, to become defensive and withdrawn, to cast blame and doubt around with careless abandon. We isolate ourselves, which only makes things worse.I felt very much like an Object of Wrath, ignoring in my own mind the second part of that very important verse in Ephesians.

So, driving through the hills of Alabama, the long stretches of construction south of Atlanta along I-75, I had plenty of time to think. Mostly, I listened to music on Spotify, and I reflected on the new friends I’d made and the old friends I’d reconnected with. Right around Valdosta, my phone died, and the music ended. I couldn’t find anything to listen to, so I hit the “seek” button on the truck radio, and I heard Dr. David Jerimiah begin to speak.

It was a sermon titled Praying From the Cave, based around Psalm 142. David (the king, not the preacher) was in a cave, running from Saul. He was depressed, isolated to the point that other men did not care if he lived or died. Yet within that dark place, David cried out to God, thanking him and praising him, laying his burdens at God’s feet, recognizing his own pain, and turning to God for refuge.

About ten minutes into the sermon, something happened.

I’ve had times where I felt God’s presence, singing in church with hand held high, a joyful noise on my lips and a connection to the Creator, like an electric thrum of peace and rightness. I’ve been touched by a sermon or a verse, and felt convicted, nudged, and I’ve had verses jump out at me as though they were highlighted in bright yellow.

This thing that happened somewhere in Georgia was different; God hit me in the head with a ball bat. I was driving down the road with tears on my face, broken. Facing myself and my doubt, my mistakes and delusions and bitterness. God slayed me, and I was shattered. I prayed then, and I could almost see a darkness, like ashes swirling in the wind, leaving from my chest. It sounds nuts, but there was a palpable, physical sensation of great weight being lifted, immediately followed by hope and joy.

I thought I’d cried out to God before, and I’ve been on my knees. But there was something in me left then, some element of reserve or doubt or perhaps pride which prevented the profound kind of healing I so desperately craved. I understood that God had been right there with me all along. That no matter what happens, I’m still a part of his plan, and that even though it may not seem so at the time, in the end, all things do work for His good. I’d forgotten that my hope lies with Jesus, and everything else is really the small stuff. I’d neglected certain things and ignored certain truths. These things were made clear to me in an instant. I’ve got some work to do, but I’m not alone, and I never was.

Somewhere in Georgia, I reconnected with my best friend, the most important friend I’ll ever have; he was beside me all along.

Ephesians 2:3-5

“We were by nature objects of wrath. Because of his great love for us, but God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive in Christ even when we were dead in transgressions. It is by grace you have been saved.”

Psalm 142:6-8

“Listen to my cry, for I am in desperate need; rescue me from those who pursue me, for they are too strong for me. Set me free from my prison, that I may raise your name. Then the righteous will gather around me because of your goodness to me.”

To Simply Be… A writer looks at fifty

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

I’ve struggled for decades to be happy. It’s a character flaw, and while sometimes I believe this makes me a better writer, I think at the end of the day, at the end of a lifetime, it means I’ve missed much, moments of contentment when I could simply be. I’ve been poor, and raged against the poverty, and let chances slip away. I’ve been fairly well off, and then there was always something else… the desire to have children, the yearning for recognition and success at another level. Always living with the feeling I’m missing some vital piece, which if I could obtain, would make me whole at last, make me smile down deep in my soul.

Maybe with the recognition of it, I can change on a fundamental level, but this flaw runs deep. I am blessed with wonderful children, and when I walked home alone from the bus stop a few minutes ago, the sun bright and the air cool, missing my boys already, I began to reflect on this thing within me. How it will feel in the not so distant future to be me.

When the swing set is silent and rusted and I am grey, when the patter of little feet no longer graces my life and the light in my eyes grows dim and I have those memories and pictures, what is it I will recall? How will I feel on those mornings, drinking a cup of coffee at my desk and staring at a computer screen and bleeding onto the page, remembering the things I should have paid better attention to in those fleeting moments, the things that matter. Trying to get the memory right.

My five year old coming to me with a Bernstein Bears book for his bed time story, happy and shining with pure love for me, a love I can never deserve because it is so true. Holding my baby, his head in the palm of my had because he is no longer than my forearm, dancing around the living room at three o’clock in the morning with him to sooth him back to sleep while Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons plays on the radio, and I am sleep deprived and worried about getting to work on time the next morning, but still dancing, still infused with a sense of wonder at this life I hold in my hands. My boys, the oldest ten now, decked out in army gear, complete with helmets, load bearing vests, holsters and assault rifles, running around the house shooting the attacking Russian zombie horde. In a year or two, he’ll be too old for that, and I miss it already.

Walking through the woods as a family, a tiny hand in mine, questions about the trees and wildlife, and the sunlight filtering through the canopy of Live Oaks and Spanish Moss and the air fresh and cool and golden. Such joy, such fleeting perfection.

Christmas morning, together with grandparents, all still with us now, the excitement electric in the air to see what Santa brought, toys and paper flying all over the floor beneath the tree, laughter sweet music. But was exhausted, stressed about money, tired of long days working in the cold and the rain, and I did not let that music in me the way I should have, not in a way that fills the soul. Looking back on it, it fills me and brings tears to my eyes, but when it was happening, I did not appreciate it enough.

There will always be another thing. A better job, a nicer car, keeping the lights on, selling more books, writing a masterpiece, drama with jerks, stormy weather, and bad traffic. Somewhere along the way, even the joy of writing itself has been dampened by the need to promote, to sell, to succeed. I resolve to do my part, but I am sure I can’t do it alone.

I’ve got a God-shaped hole, and the only way to find true, lasting happiness is to fill that with Him. Unless I do that, the world will forever be bereft of its proper color, faded and less vibrant.

When I look back years from now, I want to remember things as they were, not as I wish they had been. I’ve still got a chance at happiness, and it’s time I start living.

The End of Times… War and Rumors of War

Posted on September 7, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

Mankind has always possessed a morbid fascination with the apocalypse. From the Biblical Flood and Mayan calendar to modern day science fiction, civilizations have been aware and intrigued, sometimes terrified, by their impending doom. In fiction, this is entertaining, but the reality is more chilling. Societal collapse has been a recurrent theme in our history, and perhaps this is one of the reasons we are drawn to books like The Stand and television shows like The Walking Dead.
For many Christians, the End of Times means the rise of the Anti Christ, Armageddon, and the return of Jesus. Christians have been looking toward the heavens for about two thousand years now, wondering if this is it.

Sad ruins remain to remind us that the world as we know it is far from eternal. Entire cultures in the Pacific rose and fell, and disappeared. The mighty Mayans are gone, the Roman Empire fell, sacked and destroyed from within. Yet, even those breakdowns did not lead to the destruction of the human race. Life went on.

Only in the last sixty years, the blink of an eye in terms of history, has mankind developed the ability to cause its own extinction. While in the past, a meteor strike, super-volcano, or a blast from a star light years away could have erased us from the planet, we now can do it ourselves with the push of a button.

A global nuclear war is one obvious way this could happen. To put this in perspective, consider that Russia and the United States possess thousands of nuclear weapons. Russian weapons are dirtier and their largest nukes are more powerful than those in the United States’ arsenal, but it’s irrelevant. The tipping point for a nuclear winter is roughly one hundred explosions, according to the most recent science. There has been debate over the years on this topic, with some estimates coming in at only thirty or forty simultaneous explosions causing the planet to go cold. If thousands of these weapons were launched, that’s the end of us. The atmosphere is choked with radioactive ash, obstructing sunlight, the temperature falls, plants die, and there is no more food. The animals die, and homo sapiens perish right along with the rest of them.

In the last sixty years, we have also decided to come up with other, creative weapons of extinction. Biological weapons could do the job just as well as nuclear bombs. Our scientists tinker with viruses, which actually alter DNA, finding ways to make these things more deadly. A genetically altered virus could end our species. We’re looking at the worst outbreak of Ebola, a virus as scary as its name, which according to Dr. Tom Frieden, the Director for the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, “is the world’s first Ebola epidemic, and it’s spiraling out of control. It’s bad now, and it’s going to get worse in the very near future. There is still a window of opportunity to tamp it down, but that window is closing. We really have to act now.”

Against this backdrop, we now have the greatest level of danger in the world we’ve seen since World War II, with Russia poised to trigger a global war over the Ukraine, and Vladimir Putin on the throne and his finger on the button, not the kind of man to face in the ultimate game of chicken. Because, he’s the guy that doesn’t swerve at the last minute. Then of course, there is the militant, insane, ISIS movement which is spreading like the black plague, a tide of evil which is consuming countries torn by war. The radicals are willing to stop at nothing, bereft of the slightest shred of morality or human decency, killing innocents without remorse or hesitation, and seeming to relish every shot Shia, every cut throat.

In Gaza, Israel sends in armored vehicles to stop rocket attacks on civilians, and levels schools, homes, and lives. Israel is defending itself against attack, against those who use children as human shields in order to gain support from around the world. Hamas WANTS to provoke Israel into these attacks. It’s Terror 101. Israel becomes more isolated from the rest of the world, increasingly vulnerable to attack from neighbors who have invaded time and time again. Israel also has nuclear weapons, and while they will never confirm this, everybody knows. If Israel is attacked, and it’s really just a matter of time, they will use these weapons if it looks like the war is lost. It’s called the Sampson Option, and it is chilling.

The Old and New Testament in the Bible lay out some things which have come to pass that are irrefutable, though seemed highly unlikely. Israel, it was foretold, would cease to exist, and it’s people would be scattered. That happened more than once. The temple would be torn down. The Romans did that. Israel would become a nation again. This seemed impossible, yet in 1948 Israel was again a nation. One of the last important pieces of scriptural prophecy is the rebuilding of the Temple. There are plans underway now in Jerusalem to do just that.

Whether one believes in the prophecy or not, those things did happen. The book or Revelation, the last and scariest book of the Bible, is rife with images and verses open to debate, with the scrolls and seals being opened, the four horsemen of the apocalypse coming, and death on a pale horse riding to doom mankind.

These may not be the end of times, and perhaps humanity will figure out a way to become better, alter its essential warlike nature and selfishness and transcend the hatred we wield like a sword. At no time in all of human history, though, has the end seemed quite so imminent or possible.

Sneak Peek, Angels of Wrath series

Posted on July 8, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

Angel of The Fall will be released in 2015 from Permuted Press, the first novel in a spin-off trilogy from the first Wrath series. I’m going to be very busy!

The main character, Malack, is an actual angel of the Lord, a deeply flawed character who desperately wants to see mankind avoid its own inevitable destruction. In the first novel, Mal tries to stop the next world war the world will come to call The Fall, while he remembers his long path through history. He has been a warrior, a recluse, and a monk. He struggles to understand his own destiny.

Here’s a sneak peek…

Chapter One

Past

The first death hurt the most. He was only an hour old when he died, and he did not know his nature yet. His demise was preceded by the worst thing he would ever see, the worst thing anyone could see.

Malack opened his eyes for the first time on a sun scorched rocky hillside to blinding light and the sound of hammering and cheering and wailing. He wore tattered robes and a scruffy beard, with sandals on his feet. He possessed no memories, no sense of context as he trudged up that hill toward the sounds.

Where am I? Who Am I?

He knew how to walk and form thoughts, though he did not yet understand how he knew these things. It was hot, and somehow he comprehended this, the knowledge of hot and cold. He wondered how, and puzzled how he knew enough to wonder.

He picked his way in the direction of the commotion. A walled city sprawled behind him. Smoke snaked from chimneys, armored soldiers glittered in the harsh light, and the air tasted wrong and despaired. More cheering up the hill.

With each step, Mal felt purpose and awareness building in his chest. It was a terrible fury and fear, urgency mixed with anguish. He quickened his pace, ignoring smashed shins and toes, reckless with the need to act. He did not know why he felt these things, only that there was no denying the impulse.

He crested the hill. One rise away, three men hung nailed to wooden crosses. Mal was too far away to make out the details, though over the next two thousand years he would relive every one. The taste of the rock, the scent of his own sweat, and the cries of the crowd would be with him for millenia. His heart hammered and his head throbbed and the crowd roared. He felt something akin to hunger, a kind of pressure pent up in his chest demanding release.
He sprinted up the opposite slope, not knowing precisely what do do, but certain of the need to strike and defend.

And then there were Roman soldiers.

“Where do you think you’re going, Jew?”

Mal understood the words, though he did not ponder this because he had no time.

“Make them stop,” Mal gasped. His voice felt as wrong as the air and the light.

The soldier smashed Malack in the stomach with an angry fist, followed by a kick to the face. He dragged Mal up the hill by the hair.

“I hate Jews,” the soldier said. “Troublemakers.”

“Ugh,” Mal coughed at the second blow. He’d never been struck before. He did not know how to strike back, so he took it. He hurt, and this, like everything else, was new to him. The soldiers beat him with casual vigor, in no particular hurry. They chuckled while Mal crawled forward, blinded by blood, his face caked with tiny pebbles. He clawed in the direction of the next hill, fingernails torn and raw. He felt a sharp blow to the back of his skull, and his vision blurred and narrowed to a dark tunnel.

“So much for your king,” one of them said.

A soldier yanked Malack by the hair, pulling him up to his knees, and forcing to watch a spear pierce of of the men nailed to a cross. The crowd erupted in a cacophony of cries, euphoria and despair at war on the wind.

Mal raged and trembled and something tore in his soul, and he felt an electric connection to a weeping, convulsing universe. Then there was hot steel on his throat, and that was the first time Malack died.

Malack would spend centuries struggling to understand that a hero is not necessarily the hero of his own life. Throughout his many lives, he would battle his own demons of anger and guilt, along with very real demons who walked the earth. His path was long, rocky, and mean. He would be a monk and a recluse, but above all, a warrior. It would be over two thousand years before he would have the answers he craved.

Chapter Two
present

“This interview is being recorded,” said the American in a tired suit. Sweat stains peeked from around his armpits as he bent to pick up a manila envelope, which he dropped loudly onto the desk.

“You have no rights. You gave up your rights when you decided to become a terrorist. You may call me John. If you cooperate with me, things will go better for you. Now. State your name.”

“I have had many names. You may call me Mal.”

Clad in an orange jumpsuit and shackled to a steel chair at his wrists and ankles, Mal smiled serenely. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and his beard was unkempt; his body ached from the repeated beatings delivered by the Saudi Secret Police. They were seated across from one another at a desk in the center of a sad concrete room illuminated by a single harsh light bulb. Mal shifted his heavily muscled frame in an awkward attempt to both convey his earnestness and also relieve the pressure on his lower back.

“I have nothing to hide,” he said. He’s a low level CIA operative, most likely. Maybe NSA.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” John said. Malack chuckled at that.

“Does this amuse you?” John asked tersely, raising his eyebrows.

“You hate this posting don’t you?” Mal shook his head slowly. “Tell me. Was it politics that landed you here or did you do something truly incompetent? It must be one or the other.”

Mal was reasonably certain that he was still in Quatif, located in the northern part of the Eastern Saudi Arabian province. Heat hung in the city in a way that got into your pores and then multiplied. It lingered like a stain upon the land, hovering just beyond the next breath and refused to be banished by nightfall. It was unrelenting. The locals here were as hostile to the westerners as the climate.

“See, you’re something of an enigma,” John said. “You are not on any watch lists. In fact, you seem to not exist. Your skills and lack of history smack of a state intelligence agency. You work for someone. Who? Are you with the Israelis? Massad?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Malack replied.

“Why did you attack the Prince?”

“Because he’s been funding terrorists right under your nose. Believe it or not, I’m on your side.”

“The Saudis are our allies. Your attack did nothing but destabilize the region.”

Mal laughed. “A bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“Who do you work for?”

“I work for no man, no government.”

The interrogator who said his name was John produced a plastic case with several syringes inside. “First we’ll try this, give you some time to think. Then we’ll get more creative. You know how these things go, Mal. You might as well accept the fact you’ll never see the light of day again.

“Why don’t you just execute me?” That would make things easier.

“Despite the rumors, we don’t work that way.” John stuck a needle into Mal’s bicep, cocking his head, an almost friendly look on his face. “Sweet dreams,” he said.

Angry with God….

Posted on May 15, 2014 by Sean T. Smith

One of my favorite movie scenes is from Forest Gump, when Lt. Dan rages from the crow’s nest of his shrimp boat in the middle of a hurricane, shaking his fist at the heavens. Feeling betrayed by God, the universe, and life comes naturally to us, I think. It certainly does for me.

A central tenet of Christianity is the acceptance of God’s supremacy, and that in the end “all things work according to the good.” When looking at hurricanes, genocides, and war, it is impossible for me to understand how these can be good. I can’t wrap my head around it, because it seems unjust. I grapple with these things on an intellectual level, but in the end I retreat into a leap of faith, admitting that a power as vast as God must be, there is no possible way I can understand the infinite permutations of destiny, the colorful threads connecting a universe larger than my puny mind can comprehend. When it’s personal, though, is when it becomes dangerous for me. My faith is not strong enough.

I recognize the futility of it. I understand there is no arguing with God, and that nothing good can possibly come of the attempt. And still I’m guilty of it. I look around at things, and I say to myself, “that’s not fair. Why?” It is ultimately a selfish emotion, at its root, even if it is couched in compassion. What I’m truly saying is “Why Me?” Which is absurd, human, and a bit pathetic.

I had a discussion recently with a Godly man, a much wiser one than I. I told him I was feeling rankled with God. ” Yes, I’ve made some big mistakes, made some dumb decisions, I said. I’m trying hard to rely on God, and I’m not seeing any improvements. In fact, things are getting worse.”

“I see,” he said, nodding his head. “So you’re angry with God because of things you did, and now you’re upset because He’s not fixing things as quickly as you like? Did I get that right.”

I had to sheepishly agree with him, and recognizing that made me feel a bit better. There are consequences. Perhaps it’s not God’s role to make those go away.

I’m working at focusing on the good, seeking out the light, and infusing my life with a greater sense of gratitude, for anger is a poison in our veins, a killing toxin. A life bereft of hope is tragic and lonely. I’m lowering my fist.

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