what actually happened, you will likely try to deny your own suffering. Understand? You might decide to get mad about it and blame yourself or others. You may try to bargain with God, offer blood sacrifices and burnt offerings or whatever. But God created death as well as life and will deny your request. You may become depressed, which is of course the active process of grieving, and that’s good, but grieving isn’t the goal. Accepting your loss is. That’s the final stage. All the other responses are normal as long as they lead you to acceptance.” He shrugged. “That’s what I used to say to people in the congregation when they lost a loved one, Joan. I hope it will help you and Doug.”
It was like getting a swimming lesson from a drowning man. The loss of a child was bad enough for any single person to bear, Joan knew. But to know it had happened to everybody was even worse. There was nobody who could comfort you. Everywhere you looked, you saw your own pain reflected in somebody else’s face.
“I think what I really want to know is why this happened.”
“You mean why God allowed this to happen. And you think I might know. Honestly, I was hoping maybe you could tell me. It’s all I’m thinking about. Any ideas?”
“No, not really,” said Joan.
“We all just want to understand. As human beings, we need to come to terms with it. The thing we have to acknowledge is not all miracles are good. Some miracles are evil. God allowed His own son to die, but it was for a reason. It was a sacrifice. Why did He allow our children to die? Maybe we were wicked and God wanted to punish us. But what did we do that was so bad? Seriously, why did God feel He had to come down and do just about the worst thing He could do?”
Joan felt compelled to answer, as the man was now glaring at her. “I don’t know, Pastor.”
“Remember how the Egyptians wouldn’t give up the Jews?”
“You mean, in the Book of Exodus?”
“Exactly. God inflicted nine plagues on the Egyptians. He turned their water into blood, and still they wouldn’t release the Hebrews. He threw hail and darkness and wild animals at them, and still they said no. Then God did a simple thing. He killed their firstborn children. The next day, they let the Jews go.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“So if we did something wrong—if this is some form of punishment—how do we get right with God again?”
Pastor Gary burst out laughing so hard that Joan took a step back. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe next time, God will come down here and tell us what He wants instead of expecting us to guess, and murdering our kids when we’ve guessed wrong.”
Joan touched her face as if he’d slapped her.
“An even bigger question has been bugging me, Joan. The question is: Why did I bother? I thought, because we worshipped Him, that He liked us. But now, after witnessing all this? Call it blasphemy, but I’mstarting to think He never really liked us. So I wonder why we wasted our time. I wonder why I bothered. My whole life is a waste.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she told him, close to tears.
“Of course you don’t know. Neither do I. We’ll just have to keep on guessing.” He dropped his cigarette into the slush at his feet and lit another. “Or stop trying altogether.”
Doug
50 hours after Herod Event
Doug drove the big U-Haul truck off the highway and onto the dirt road that led to the children’s burial ground.
The soldiers at the checkpoint waved him through. The truck rumbled over the rough ground. Inside, sixteen bodies lay cocooned in black bags.
Nine stops today. Nine homes with screaming mothers and angry fathers looking for somebody to blame. They’d decided to give up for the day after somebody took a potshot at them with a rifle from a bedroom window.
Doug nipped at his flask and shook it. Almost time for a refill. “We’re just about done here. You coming back tomorrow?”
“I don’t
It was like getting a swimming lesson from a drowning man. The loss of a child was bad enough for any single person to bear, Joan knew. But to know it had happened to everybody was even worse. There was nobody who could comfort you. Everywhere you looked, you saw your own pain reflected in somebody else’s face.
“I think what I really want to know is why this happened.”
“You mean why God allowed this to happen. And you think I might know. Honestly, I was hoping maybe you could tell me. It’s all I’m thinking about. Any ideas?”
“No, not really,” said Joan.
“We all just want to understand. As human beings, we need to come to terms with it. The thing we have to acknowledge is not all miracles are good. Some miracles are evil. God allowed His own son to die, but it was for a reason. It was a sacrifice. Why did He allow our children to die? Maybe we were wicked and God wanted to punish us. But what did we do that was so bad? Seriously, why did God feel He had to come down and do just about the worst thing He could do?”
Joan felt compelled to answer, as the man was now glaring at her. “I don’t know, Pastor.”
“Remember how the Egyptians wouldn’t give up the Jews?”
“You mean, in the Book of Exodus?”
“Exactly. God inflicted nine plagues on the Egyptians. He turned their water into blood, and still they wouldn’t release the Hebrews. He threw hail and darkness and wild animals at them, and still they said no. Then God did a simple thing. He killed their firstborn children. The next day, they let the Jews go.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“So if we did something wrong—if this is some form of punishment—how do we get right with God again?”
Pastor Gary burst out laughing so hard that Joan took a step back. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe next time, God will come down here and tell us what He wants instead of expecting us to guess, and murdering our kids when we’ve guessed wrong.”
Joan touched her face as if he’d slapped her.
“An even bigger question has been bugging me, Joan. The question is: Why did I bother? I thought, because we worshipped Him, that He liked us. But now, after witnessing all this? Call it blasphemy, but I’mstarting to think He never really liked us. So I wonder why we wasted our time. I wonder why I bothered. My whole life is a waste.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” she told him, close to tears.
“Of course you don’t know. Neither do I. We’ll just have to keep on guessing.” He dropped his cigarette into the slush at his feet and lit another. “Or stop trying altogether.”
Doug
50 hours after Herod Event
Doug drove the big U-Haul truck off the highway and onto the dirt road that led to the children’s burial ground.
The soldiers at the checkpoint waved him through. The truck rumbled over the rough ground. Inside, sixteen bodies lay cocooned in black bags.
Nine stops today. Nine homes with screaming mothers and angry fathers looking for somebody to blame. They’d decided to give up for the day after somebody took a potshot at them with a rifle from a bedroom window.
Doug nipped at his flask and shook it. Almost time for a refill. “We’re just about done here. You coming back tomorrow?”
“I don’t
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