My Teddy, this is a response to your “Why does a merciful God allow this to happen?” in the face of Wes’s ALS diagnosis. We did some of this in philosophy class in 1970, but we have both matured since then, and have confronted many versions of the problem of evil or pain. I prefer “the mystery of evil or pain” since suffering is so interwoven in human experience that it does not admit of a definitive conclusion, much less solution, as other philosophical problems might. We can’t treat it at arm’s length. And even with a few good insights, we are reduced to varying states of incapacity at our next encounter with serious suffering. Insight does not adequately protect us against physical, psychological, or moral pain. Still, certain habits of thought, or thoughts along certain lines of reasoning, may support us in calmer moments. They may sustain a growing version of faith not unworthy of a rational human being.
So here we go. First, some language analysis. Our concept “God” requires some serious unpacking or deconstructing. What do we mean by “God?” (This analysis will also shed light on “merciful” and “allow” in your original question.) An analogy may prove helpful at the start. You “allow” your children to go through difficult ordeals, without fear of being branded an uncaring parent, in order that they may grow and take greater responsibility for their choices and character formation. The services you render your patients have improved over the years partially because of the mistakes you and other doctors have made, not to mention the painstaking research in the field. Each generation is grist for the next generation’s mill, like it or not. We may think we can imagine a better world in which this is not the case—one in which sacrifice and suffering are not the rule of progress—but it would not be a space-time world in which the predictable laws of physics and chemistry and psychology reign, much to the benefit of all inhabitants and all generations. “God’s heart goes out to all generations,” says the scripture. All the children of the earth are important. Our great, great, great grandparents and our great, great, great grandchildren included, none of whom we personally know. And everyone else’s as well. This being grist for others’ mills keeps us connected, growing, and humble, three major benefits of our suffering. And death . . . the death of one generation makes it possible for the next generation to occupy this limited space and have a shot at life, their turn at contributing to the progress of the species and, to be sure, a shot at personal happiness.
You might say the last paragraph dealt with macro analysis of the problem (or mystery) of suffering, a more objective approach. But with the introduction of the concept of “personal happiness,” we enter into micro analysis, the more subjective plane. When we lie in bed thinking about the illness of a child, the loss of a job, the end of a marriage, we are often judging things according to the way they impinge on our happiness or at least our comfort. We want things to stay manageable, within our control, and in keeping with our sense of what will make us and those we love happy. Our prayers are said in keeping with that sense. And the God to whom they are said is addressed when we don’t seem to be able to control the variables. We pray when we are out of control. And like children, we feel unloved or unanswered if things don’t go our way. But God has many children, as was said in the macro analysis, and here in the micro world, it is hard to feel that God’s heart must go out to all generations. The good order of things must not be sacrificed for the satisfaction of our subjective need and exemption from that order. And how often have we discovered that what we thought was best for us was not, in matter of fact. This is not to disparage our personal needs and prayers, but only to see them in their more social setting where they get their ultimate meaning for the happiness of all. No one is more important than any other one, but all are more important than any one. (This last statement needs much clarification, but I will let it stand for the moment.) The subjective or micro world may be foundational to our motivation to act, but the social or macro world gives structure to the meaning and value of those acts. We must learn to bow to the order that benefits us all, even at the cost to personal needs and wishes we are prone to see as more important in our myopic micro moments. Things are constantly changing, and we crave permanence (except when we want things to change; to be sure, we want things both ways, and always according to the way we want things at the moment). And we want a God who supports our cravings. Any God worthy of the name cannot support us in that way, even as that God compassionates our situation, according to the scriptures of the different religions. What God does do, at least in the Christian scripture, is promise to be with us in our suffering. To support us through it. The life of Christ and the saints in all the traditions is proof of the keeping of that promise. May we be open to that presence which supports and encourages, even in the face of intense suffering.
Another way of making sense out of this mystery is to understand the middle road to be taken between attachment and detachment in this space-time order. There is a balance needed between the micro tendency to be overly attached to our wants and needs and the macro tendency to be overly detached. We don’t want to be a martyr when we can’t get what we want (“Oh woe is me! Look what I am asked to sacrifice!), nor do we want to be a murderer (“Not a problem; nothing really matters in this changing world anyway”). We are asked to care and not care at the same time, a balancing act related to the central paradox of Christianity: if you would save your life, lose it! Like I said, this balancing act keeps us connected to one another, growing, and humble, i.e., sharing the limited time and space with our contemporaries and descendants, and simultaneously pushing and bowing to the boundaries set for us and them. As an example of this latter point, take a wise athlete or singer. The wise athlete knows just how far to push his weightlifting, as does the singer know how high to sing. You can only push the boundary so far without injury to the muscle. “I would like to be a heavy weight, but I am in the light weight category; I would like to be a soprano, but I am in the mezzo range.” This is humility: knowing how far to go, and going no farther.
A personal story related to this balance. When I served funeral Masses as an altar boy, I would be holding a candle next to the coffin and looking at the mourners in the front pews. “One day I will be sitting in those pews with my father or mother in the coffin,” I thought. Forty years later when my father was dying of cancer, I remember thinking that I couldn’t rightly pray that he be healed and stay with us since I didn’t know what was best for him or us. All I knew for sure was what I wanted, what I was comfortable with, what I was used to. It was not wrong to want this, but it was not certainly what was best for my father and mother and family. I continued to pray for what was best (macro), even as I held to the pleasure of his company (micro). And then when I stood over his coffin with my little daughter in my arms, I vividly remember thinking: death isn’t the mystery; it’s clear why things die in this space-time universe (treated above in macro section). The mystery is life! That my father lived at all, and that he was so good and loving to us—that is the real mystery, not that he has died. The non-necessity of my father and his offspring filled me with gratitude at that moment much more than the sadness of having to say goodbye to his physical presence. Are we to take existence and its many nourishing forms for granted? And then when we are denied a particularly pleasing form, e.g., your friend Wes (soon, or in time), we are shocked. We seem to forget that things are constantly coming and going. The forms of life are constantly changing. The fact of life is what we are to celebrate. Ben and Ryan in the photo: a moment in time to be cherished. But that moment changed when the camera clicked and their arms came down from one another’s shoulders. And the forms continue to change for them and for us every moment since. “We have no lasting home here,” says St. Paul. And the Hindus and Buddhists and Stoics before him. Maybe we have a lasting home elsewhere; some of those same folks say so. In any event, we are “called” to make the best of our situation. These thoughts are intended to help in that direction.
Finally, Jesus tells us in his prayer to ask for our daily bread. The Hebrew scriptures speak of two types of bread. When we pray the Lord’s prayer, we always intend the sweet bread, the bread of consolations. To be sure, that is a very nourishing bread. But there is another bread the scripture speaks of: a bitter bread, the bread of sorrows. This bread is no less nourishing, but not in keeping with our natural inclinations. Like children, we prefer the sweet to the bitter. But growth means eating the bread that is given: bitter or sweet, take and eat! If we resist the bitter bread, we will go away hungry on certain days, weeks, months, years of our life. This is not good for our journey. In fact, when we begin to make the eating of the bitter as much a habit as eating the sweet, we are on the road to true human health and happiness and wisdom. Some (the mystics) even get to the point where it is all just bread—to be eaten, and by which to be nourished. And some few (the saints) get to the point where . . . wait for it . . . it is all sweet! Sweet, because it is given, because it is in the order of things, because it is God’s will.
Praying for you and yours always, Teddy, that you and we may all come to what is true in our thoughts, desires, words, actions, omissions, and habits, believing as I do, after Christ, that the truth will set us free. Free from undue anxiety and sadness, and render us receptive to a fitting trust and joy in this very unnecessary existence of ours. Wes and his family I lift up daily. Peace, Teddy, and love always from your Feco