On Apathy and Augustine

So I was told that you write the best stuff when you are in a semi-dream, sleep-deprived state. Here I am: sleep crouches at my door step and dreams are just within reach, but I’m writing instead. I write to confess, and here are some things I’ve been thinking about. I figure I might as well place them out there in cyberspace, or they won’t get said (or should I say written?).

First, I’ve been reading through Saint Augustine’s Foundations of Faith. It is a short, straight-forward, enlightening read that makes my head spin sometimes…always a good feeling. It is also causing me to examine my own faith and values; something I rarely do deliberately. This is easier said on the web than in person. My writing is a shield of sorts. I feel free with the written word, uninhibited. It is much easier to talk to a computer screen about what you’re struggling with than a person. A computer screen doesn’t react to your words.

Lately, I’ve been apathetic. I just don’t seem to care about much except that I’m not caring. It unnerves me. I’m someone who has rarely felt apathetic, so this is a bit of a new experience. I don’t like it, and I’m fighting it, but you don’t realize how hard apathy is to fight when you just don’t care. It’s a vicious cycle. At least I recognize it.

Back to Augustine. Several things that he has said have struck a chord. First he said God would not allow evil to remain in the world if good could not come from it. At first I thought that was the most stinky load of bull I’d heard in a while, but then I started chewing on it. (Ew, sorry for the gross mental image…chewing on bull).

This summer, I was faced with one camper in particular who struggled with the question: why does God allow suffering in the world? This camper’s sister was dying from infection. I had no response to her broken heart and tear stained face when she asked me, “Why is God killing my sister?” What do you say to a child when you see more pain etched into their ten-year old face than you’ve ever seen in the face of an adult? Watching a child in emotional agony shatters your heart. I saw her break before me, and I couldn’t put her back together. I held her on my lap and let her cry and I cried with her. I was not strong enough to hold either of us together, and I had no answers for her. Why would an all mighty, omnipotent God allow a child to go through this…allow evil in the world?

Now Augustine’s answer floats to the surface, “For the Omnipotent God, whom even the heathen acknowledge as the Supreme Power over all, would not allow any evil in his works, unless in his omnipotence and goodness, as the Supreme Good, he is able to bring forth good out of evil.”

Augustine’s words are still hard to digest, but they answer part of my question. Why does God allow evil in the world? Because He is able to bring forth good even out of what is corrupted. Take Joseph for example: sold into slavery by his brothers, thrown into jail, rose to second in power to the pharaoh, and saved his entire family from famine. What his brothers meant for evil, God intended for good. Crazy. It’s radical to think there is a God out there like that. On the flip side I still struggle with not being angry about the pain in the world, but I have a little hope now.

I have more stories about that camper, but I’ll save them for another post.

Another bit of wisdom from Augustine: “Every sin harms the one who commits it more than it does the one who suffers it.” Chew on that.

Finally to end this diatribe, I’ll painting a picture of how I see sin in my own life and what happens when I try to fix it. Think of this as a creative writing exercise.

I’ve been running, hiding from God. It really sucks when I realize what an idiot, IDIOT, I’ve been. God is so faithful to me, and I am so unfaithful to him. I don’t understand how I can be so stupid. My sin hangs on me like mud. My hands drip with blood, and I try to wipe it off, but what starts as a thin film on my palms soon is smeared up and down my arms. It’s thick. My skin burns with shame. I start to panic and fall to the ground, wiping my hands. They just end up covered in dirt. I rub harder and harder, dirt now sticking on my arms, on my clothes, covering me with my shame. Tears mix with blood and dirt, turning everything to sludge. I wipe my eyes, forgetting my filthy hands, spreading the mess across my face. I cough, cover my mouth, and choke on the stench that overwhelms me. Stale rust mixed with wet earth combines in a noxious mixture. Prostrate on the ground, hope dims. What will wash me clean?

Dramatic, isn’t it? There is sincerity in that though. I found the hope for the question above (What will wash me clean?) right after writing this.

Psalm 19:7, 11-14
The law of the LORD is perfect,
reviving the soul.
The statutes of the LORD are trustworthy,
making wise the simple.
…
By them is your servant warned;
in keeping them there is great reward.
Who can discern his errors?
Forgive my hidden faults.
Keep your servant also from willful sins;
may they not rule over me.
Then will I be blameless,
innocent of great transgression.
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
be pleasing in your sight,
O LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer.

This brings me to my next revelation. In verse seven it talks about the laws of the Lord reviving the soul. Another way to think about this is God’s commands set us free. It is weird to think that a law can be freeing. Aren’t we trained in our Western desire for freedom to think that entails lawlessness? On the contrary, it is when we are obeying God’s laws, that we will be most liberated because it is within those laws that we are most human. Following God’s commands will not screw your life up. It is as simple as that. That does not mean suffering does not come. My camper’s sister is still dying. It does mean, however, that by walking in his Way, we can be filled with a peace that surpasses all understanding.

That brings me to another story I saw reenacted countless times this summer as a counselor around camp fires. Children would stand before their peers and counselors, who were more like overgrown kids too, and share stories that were often hard to swallow. They would recount horrors from their lives. They would frequently end with something like, “I’m still don’t know why this happened, but God made me stronger through it and I feel closer to Him.” They could be crying, but they would say those words with a peace and assurance that left no room for doubt about their sincerity.
It still blows my mind.

To end this long strain of ponderings, here is where I’m at with my apathy. I want to want God again. Right now I’m dry, and it bothers me. My prayer and greatest comfort comes from Mark 9:24, Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.