BitterSweetLife

I’m not going to pretend that I’m insecure about the truth. I know the truth will make out ok, with or without my kind wishes for its survival. Perhaps it’s embarrassing or unfortunate, but reality has a way of asserting itself. So I can’t make myself act as if I’m on edge. Truth exists, and we can rail at it or get angry, but I don’t see the point in apologizing for it.

For what it’s worth, regarding what I’m about to say, I am sorry. I’m also sorry that gravity works and that marriage takes work. I can be sorry for any number of unchangeable realities but my remorse is somewhat beside the point.

Suppose you saw a crime take place with your own eyes. You saw the killing blow, witnessed its effects, watched the murder weapon driven home. You were horrified, but denial was irrelevant. Calling the murder an “unfortunate accident” held no power to make you or anyone else feel better about it. Refusing to talk about it couldn’t remove the scenes imprinted on your eyelids. Let’s say you saw a murder. In a sense, I did. I saw the killer and I saw the victim and they were us. We’d killed off our one chance for freedom: Simple obedience and clean desire lay there bleeding on a plot of ground, once a garden, now a busy street.

I look around, and the victims and perps are everywhere. The strange thing is, we all fall in both camps. Statistically, the evidence is undeniable—freedom is being violently put down on every side. We inveigle our neighbor and deceive ourselves. We kill and lie and cheat and wonder why. The newspapers investigate the crime scene every day.

People treat sin like it is a four-letter word, but we need to be more careful with our spelling. Or we need to become more comfortable with our truth-telling. When you are diagnosing a broken system—in this case the human heart—accuracy in terms is vital. We may as well start the assessment at ground zero.

We’ve all seen the murder with our own eyes and there is no getting around it. It’s the crime without borders, perpetrated worldwide. Call it ‘disordered desire’ or call it pride. Childlike trust in God took the hit and now we’re taking the ride.