Though it has been two weeks since that awful morning in Blacksburg, I am not ready, completely, to turn my thoughts away. I still see anguished young faces revealing in their eyes and from their lips their deep sense of violation and, when they learned that a fellow student had been responsible, betrayal. Young men and women for whom a test score or paper due had seemed all-consuming learned in a heartbeat how utterly unimportant those things are in the ultimate sense.
And, though I know little about them, I have spent a lot of time trying to feel what must be in the hearts of the slayer's parents. In addition to the grief of losing a son, the sense of responsibility and shame must be overwhelming. I can imagine how they must recall in their son's life vivid behavioral signals they now recognize were warning signs. In my mind, I have listened to them rehearse a litany of “what ifs” and “if onlys.” How their hearts must break for the other parents
And, while my soul is still being stirred by grief, I cannot be oblivious to the pain of 33 other families whose fathers, sons and husbands have died in Iraq on and since April 16. (As of this writing, thankfully no military women have died in Iraq during this time frame). Neither am I unmindful of the slaughter of hundreds of Iraqis; and even beyond them in other places and ways thousands of others. Clearly, there is enough grief to go around.
But we cannot camp permanently in the morass of mourning. By this time, grieving families, still mourning losses they could never have imagined sustaining, have buried sons and daughters and husbands and daddies. Irresolutely, perhaps, they have already begun the unthinkable task of facing the future without those familiar faces around them.
Classes at Tech have resumed (sort of) and students once more can be seen hiking across the Drillfield bearing their book-bag burdens. In lecture halls, professorial voices, edged with personal pain, take up the syllabus schedule where they were interrupted and I suspect that somewhere a sophomore, having sacrificed sleep for study, succumbs at last to slumber and nods off in class.
Even nature continues its silent surge into spring unabated. Grass has greened, buds have matured to full leaf, and song birds, unaware of the tragedy, have the audacity to fill the air with their music as antidote to gunfire. Life goes on. For all but 33 who were part of the Tech family, life goes on. We cannot hold it back even if we were determined to.
This is not to say, however, that life has returned to normal. For those who were there that day, normal has been redefined. They lost more than friends on April 16. They also lost the sense of insulation from evil. They feel vulnerable.
Though we know it is not true, we human beings need to embrace the illusion that we can be safe. In truth, we have eliminated many of the most potent threats to life. We rely on inoculations, checkups, traffic laws, security systems and in some cases gated communities to keep us safe. We send our kids to a respected university in the quiet hills of a Virginia burg to keep them from harm.
But, evil catches them even there.
It is right, of course, to desire safety and security. It is right to push for legislation designed to help protect citizens from each other. We can and should make the world safer for everybody. But even if we should be successful at prohibiting the sale of guns, no congress or parliament has power to banish evil from the human heart or insanity from the human mind. Evil will find a way to do its work, but perhaps we can limit its effects.
What shall we do? Live in despair and fear? Do we look always over our shoulders surveying with suspicious eyes anyone who looks different or keeps to themselves? Do we build walls to keep threats out? Unfortunately, some will choose this.
Christians understand, however, that while we can prevent some things, evil and its consequences cannot be expelled from life here. If even Jesus was subjected to the ravages of evil and the evil one, we certainly should not expect to escape. We, and those around us, will be beset during our time on earth by every conceivable kind of tragedy. We suffer the effects of sin and the fall.
But there is good news, Christian. There is gospel to declare. A time is coming when evil will have had its day. The era affected by the fall will come to a close. In that day goodness will prevail. Nothing will happen that shouldn't. Nothing that shouldn't happen will. It's called heaven. Not here. Not now. But it's coming.
The longer I live, the more value I see in the motto of a Baptist college in Missouri, William Jewell: Deo Fisus Labora — “Trust in God and work.” As we trust in God for our ultimate protection and security from eternal harm, let us work to make this world a safer and better place.
As we pray to be delivered from evil, let us also work to limit its impact and the suffering it causes.
And, when suffering comes, let us keep doing what we did on April 16. We were there, Virginia Baptists, when the wounds were fresh and deep. We prayed, we cried, we hugged, we listened, we shared hope, we wept with those who wept and we mourned with those who mourned. We were the hands of Christ through which he bound wounded hearts and the eyes of Christ through which his tears fell.
My mind and heart still grieve; but bad news does not have the final word.