A Lesson In Faith From The Amish

It was excruciating to read some of the words that Charles Carl Roberts left behind, along with lubricating gel, following his execution of innocent Amish schoolgirls. He wrote of hating himself and God, of "unimaginable emptiness," of molestation, and of getting even, as if somehow his widow and children, along with the rest of us, should find in these phrases a credible explanation for acts so despicable as to defy even the best of our theologies.

Immersed in unspeakable loss, and further accosted by people for whom God's absence and impotence seem more palpable than God's presence and power, the Amish families most impacted by the horrors that Roberts perpetrated on their loved ones seem also to be the ones least affected by them, spiritually. What we have been hearing from these gentle people, from the very first hours following the murders and the suicide, centers on a single word: forgiveness. One Amish grandfather was overheard putting it this way: "We must not think evil of this man." I can only hope that I would be that kind of grandfather in terrible circumstances like those that he and his own family had to face.

But right now, I am failing this test of faith, and I think that others may be also, while feeling rotten about not measuring up. To put it bluntly, there is nothing in my most charitable imaginings about this contemptible human being's deficient genes, up-bringing, bad breaks, or personal losses that in any way mitigates the unfathomably evil nature of what he chose to do in that Amish schoolhouse. Boiled down to the spiritual essentials, I can't seem to get past it. I know I should get past it. And I truly believe that by the grace of God I will get past it. But at this moment, Satan is winning.

Off-center as my faith may be, however, it is not yet so contaminated by disgust and moral outrage that I cannot keep clearly in mind just whose hour it has been for the past few days. The Satan who has been winning is not an omnipotent, malignant force that took possession of Charles Carl Roberts, but only the great deceiver, who kept whispering in his ear --- and in ours--- the most monstrous lie of all, that there is something, finally, that can separate any of us from the love of God in Jesus Christ. That there are people who do not bear the image of God in their souls. That all things are not working for good after all. That in the final analysis, the Amish are merely sweet, naïve, wrong-headed people who give the lie to any hope that the meek truly will inherit the earth.

Well, Lord of the Flies, I know that you are taking great delight in my having been knocked off my pins over the suffering of these families. But here is something that you may not know about me, because you clearly do not get it about the Amish. I hear them, and I hear them well, when they tell me, and all of the rest of us --- you, too --- to love every enemy, to do well by those who stalk us, to leave judgment in the hands of the Creator alone, to counter evil with good, and in every way and at all times, above all, to forgive.

Your problem, Beelzebub, is that you never got over being a creature rather than being the Creator yourself. And you have never given God a break since. He's only one God, you know. Not even He can make another one, no matter how much you and the Charles Roberts of the world keep complaining about it, and taking it out especially on the truly innocent among us who know their place before God, accept and like it, and are grateful to occupy it even for just a little while.

It used to give me trouble trying to understand how Jesus could ever have considered his burden in life to be light, especially light enough so that he could carry everyone else's. Then, I finally began to figure out that it had everything to do with his message and his life of forgiveness. He never seemed to be burdened with resentments and demands, or with the melancholy that so often comes from holding them in. Given the relatively high incidence of depression in many Amish communities, it is probably fair to say that they are a people willing to risk being forgiving toward those who hurt them even before they can get all of their own anger out. Some have tried to call this a psychiatric disorder. To me, it is courage.