Well, after class this [past] weekend, I've learned two things. The first is that Dr. Fortner objects to my changing career paths. He said, "This isn't because of what some idiot male said, is it? Because I'd like to apologize on behalf of my entire gender."

I'm going to go ahead with the plans for a BA in psychology at least. I can't look that many years ahead right now, anyway. I'll just keep thinking and learning and see what happens.

This weekend was great, though. We had good discussion about whether the prophets were in their laments and complaints laying the problem of evil at the doorstep of God -- i.e. whether they were blaming him.

Not to say that evil isn't the result of the actions of sinful men (for the most part -- and even if we can't trace it to a specific action, we lay it all on the head of Adam. "Children have cancer because Adam and Eve rebelled," that sort of thing...). Theodicy, the righteousness of God on trial, is thematically enormous in the old testament (and in Paul's writings in the new, but we tend to read them with Christian glasses on).

Anyway, I started writing this post... Sunday? Maybe Monday, but I think I got distracted. A lot has happened since then. A lot that brings to bear the questions of theodicy.

Philip Yancey tried to answer the question in his various books, among them Disappointment with God. And he did an excellent job - but since then, I've heard from Job on the issue.

Actually, his name's not Job. He's a man who attends SVCC, but his story is the same heaviness.

He and his wife had a perfect life: two beautiful sons, a nice home, good jobs, an active church life and a strong marriage with strong faith. It seemed there was a hedge around him. He though of it, though probably not explicitly, as his 'deal' with God. "God, you keep doing your thing - protect my wife, my children, our interests, our wellbeing, our spiritual lives, our endeavors - and I'll do mine: be a Christian father, husband, active church member, faithful Christian, cheerful giver, good example." And for a long time, that's how things went.

He and his wife had a perfect life. They began to think of expanding their family and soon were expecting their third child. It seemed like the perfect pregnancy, no real problems. When the baby was born, he was beautiful: red hair, soft skin, ten fingers, ten toes. Perfect. Except something inside didn't connect, something wasn't right.

The baby couldn't breathe on his own and his body didn't perform naturally many involuntary actions. The doctors put him on life support, telling the parents it would be days, maybe weeks before he could go home. The doctors could find no physiological reason for the disconnect. It didn't make sense; they didn't know what caused his condition or how to cure it. They couldn't even pinpoint what, exactly, his condition was.

Weeks soon became months. It became clear their son wouldn't be coming home.

The first time this couple held their newborn baby without a tangle of wires or through a gloved barrier was his last day. They disconnected the life support and sat and rocked their newborn as he died.

Their sorrow was intense, but they had a strong love for God and for each other. They had supportive families and a loving church home. They were devastated, but they survived faith, family and marriage intact. Several months went by and they began to wonder about the possibility of having another child. Their doctors assured them they'd be fine. They were young, healthy and should have no problem; what happened with this baby was like lightning: unpredictable and of miniscule likelihood to happen again. They didn't even know what had happened; it was a fluke.

This wasn't good enough. The couple brought their concerns to God. They prayed, the church prayed, everyone prayed. They couple prayed that if they could have another child, God would let it happen, but they were afraid of the heartache if anything else went wrong and asked God to circumvent their desire for another child if something like this could happen again.

The couple conceived quickly; they seemed to have their answer. Things seemed to be fine. At the first ultrasound, the doctor was concerned. He noticed some of the abnormalities that he'd seen last time and had written off. And this baby wasn't breathing much, even in the womb. It became apparent that this child had the same problem, only far more severe.

Doctors began to talk to the couple about their 'options.' Termination. "For us, there were no 'options.' My wife was committed to carrying this baby to term." And so, against the advice of the doctors, the pregnancy proceeded.

The prayers then became pleas for healing. "God, you're the God of miracles. Move in such a way that the doctors have no explanation except for your power. Heal him." And they went in to every appointment, every checkup and every ultrasound after that with the expectation that God would do it, that the doctors would scratch their heads, puzzled, and inform them that the deformity had vanished.

But it didn't happen. Each time, the news was the same.

Soon, his wife delivered their son. He looked perfect: red hair, soft skin, ten fingers, ten toes. But something didn't connect. He couldn't breathe and his body couldn't perform most of the involuntary actions it should do automatically. So that day, in that same room where they'd set almost a year before, in the same chair, they rocked their son as he died.

All he could do was ask God, "why?"

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This modern Job spoke one Sunday night. He couldn't understand. Hadn't he prayed? Hadn't he been a good father, a good husband, a good Christian? Hadn't he done his part? Why, then, was God falling down on his? What kind of "father" is God, anyway?

Why.

He realized, eventually, that he didn't care why. Knowing why wouldn't make it hurt any less.

The man began to think of his two, living sons. When he taught one of them to ride a bike, the inevitable happened: his son fell. It hurt; he cried.

He didn't turn to his father and question his parenting skills. He didn't run up and kick him in the shins or scream in his face, asking where his father had been and why he'd let him fall. Instead, he ran to his father for comfort, for healing. "Because my son and I don't have an 'agreement.' We have a relationship."

That's when he realized all the "why's" in the world and all the answers to them wouldn't make a difference. What he wanted was not to know "why." What he wanted was for his father to pick him up, to clean him off, to comfort and to heal him.

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It's not wrong to ask why. It just may not be what we need afterall.