Washington, D.C. isn't used to the kind of sub-freezing weather we've had this winter. I can't wait to scamper home after work, where my warm house, teenage daughters, two happy dogs, and husband are waiting for me. As I emerge from the Metro, I see a homeless, addicted woman begging at the top of the escalator. She is not wearing a coat or gloves. It is dark and sleety drizzle is coming down.
For a very long time, almost my entire adult life, I did not believe in a good God because of suffering and mental illness and torture and genocide and homeless people with frozen hands. It happens that my life has been greatly blessed – or, rather, greatly lucky. I had a good family, a good education, good health, and meaningful, valuable work to do. But I strongly believed there was no integrity to believing in God if one had my life. Who wouldn't be grateful? The real difficulty for me was the apparent absence of a loving Lord from the lives of the suffering, the despised, ...1