the preceding image is licensed for reuse under Creative Commons by El_Enigma
I feel like I’m cheating when I draw on old content, but the unfathomable tragedy in Haiti has me thinking about past events that challenged my faith in a compassionate, omnipotent god. My faith took some time to die, but one comparatively tiny catastrophe (only in terms of numbers, not in immediate human impact) dealt the coup de grace. I’m reposting this and another short essay because it will be new to most of you, and it may provide some comfort or commiseration if you struggle like I do when I confront the reality of human suffering, especially on such scale:
When I was in Salt Lake City a few years back, five little girls trapped themselves in the trunk of a car on a hot summer day and perished. What really troubled me was the timeline of events surrounding this horrible tragedy. The mother watching the children realized within a short period of time that the children were missing, and hopped into the same car to drive around looking for them. I know that that mother was praying hard to find them. Why didn’t God answer her prayers and prompt her to find the children while there was still a chance to save them? What good is God if he/she can’t help you and your children in a crisis like that?
This is probably more of an emotional argument than a rational one, but it is a powerful one. I know my feelings are shared by many others out there. I mark this event as the point of my conversion to atheism. I know that worse tragedies occur in this world every minute. I’ve heard a number of religious apologies explaining how the death and torture of innocents fits into god’s plan. I can even argue in favor of a godly perspective pretty well. I find them hard to swallow, but I am willing to listen to more.
In spite of all my rationalism, I pray daily for the safety and peace of my children. Just in case::
Originally posted as “loss”, on July 23, 2001. (edited for reposting)
I no longer pray for my children. I do what I can to prepare them for the world, and to keep them safe, but one wonders how many parents in Port au Prince prayed daily for the safety of their children. I have replaced this frantic, irrational but completely understandable desire to influence events beyond my control to acceptance/resignation that I cannot keep the earth from shaking at random, and gratitude for each day I have to spend with my children. This acceptance is a thread that winds through a more recent post, which I also presented at the Sunstone 2008 This I Believe session.
I believe in the power of storytelling. Specifically, I believe that I have the ability to shape my relationship to the universe and insert beauty into my world through the life narrative I co-opt and create.
Once upon a time, on a lovely spring morning, a young farm boy went into the woods to pray. He fought off the devil and spoke with shining heavenly personages. He returned a prophet.
When I heard this story as a teen investigator, I was thrilled to insert myself into Joseph Smith’s grand vision. My life had a beginning in God’s presence as the child of a Heavenly Mother and Father, a middle in the struggle of this mortal existence, and with every good choice—receiving baptism and the priesthood, serving a mission, getting married in the temple, bringing up children in the Gospel, I was writing my way to a glorious conclusion.
Then came a series of crises. Five little girls suffocated in the trunk of a car as a mother drove it through the neighborhood, praying desperately to find them. Tsunamis drowned and earthquakes crushed hundreds of thousands more. Random nature reigned, and God retreated, tearing the pages of his story out of my hands.
This story of an absent, deadbeat heavenly dad dominated my life for several years.
I can’t remember whose death was involved–it might have been a relative, or the body of an animal we discovered outside. All I know is that my little son and daughter had met death in one of its dark forms, and as their father I had to shield them from the full force of that encounter.
I was tempted to fall back on old Mormon tale that we can live forever in God’s presence with those who are dear to us, but it wasn’t mine to tell anymore. Did I have anything to offer?
Then it came pouring out from me. I explained that when we die, our bodies return to the earth. All the bits decompose, feeding other life, which in turn feed other life. We are part of an ancient cycle of nourishment that sustained countless generations of species upon this unique life-rich planet. I continued, telling them that the elements which make up our bodies—carbon, oxygen, nitrogen and more—were formed in the furnaces of stellar forges and that mighty supernova scatter this life-bearing seed throughout the universe. Drawing inspiration from Carl Sagan, I told them that we were made of star stuff, and that long after we died our material might return to the stars to burn brightly in someone’s night sky.
When I was done, my children sat with eyes wide and began peppering me with questions. Sometimes, when my own sense of mortality strikes, I remember this telling and feel that I am still part of a grand story full of wonder and glory–a tiny, insignificant part, to be sure, and the ending is perhaps messier and bleaker than some would like, but it’s my story—and as I weave it into other narratives, it fills my life with beauty and purpose.
Originally posted as “This I Believe,” on August 9, 2008.
We’re all we’ve got, folks, and we’re in this story together. If you want to rise above this feeling of powerlessness in the wake of the earthquake in Haiti, one of my favorite charities, Oxfam, already has a strong presence in Haiti and is working to provide clean water, one of the first important post-earthquake needs. Please consider donating.
the preceding image is licensed for reuse under Creative Commons by El_Enigma
