God No Longer Blesses War: Ask the Children

Writing a column is like sitting atop a large hill, looking down lovingly—and angrily—at the surrounding world, embracing it in a moral perspective and sharing your analysis of what you see. Primarily, this means telling people what’s wrong.

Today, as I climbed up the hill—this is called research—something felt different, troubling. Where I used to feel enthusiasm, I felt hollow: bereft of self-confidence and certainty. I’ve been writing a weekly column for nearly half of my life, first at a local paper in Chicago for 10 years, then the current column, syndicated until recently by the Chicago Tribune, for the last 27 years. What’s going on here?

I was no longer atop that hill. Suddenly I had nothing to say. The doubt I was feeling—that I had anything relevant and valuable to add to our collective grasp of the world—overwhelmed me.

I had decided to write about what I almost always write about... war. Both current and eternal. Indeed, I had begun scrolling the internet, looking for provocative points of view. I googled the words “terrorism vs. waging war,” seeking to learn what I already knew: that the “official” world has declared a distinction between the two terms as definite as the distinction between “evil” and “good.”

Perhaps the flow of pain I felt was the realization that opposing war in relative safety is too easy. It’s not enough.

My first pop-up response was an AI Overview: “Terrorism and waging war differ fundamentally in their targets, legal frameworks, and combatants. Terrorism targets civilians to induce fear for political or ideological goals. Waging war is typically an armed conflict between states or organized groups, where lawful combatants target military objectives.”

Of course, of course. Terrorists represent evil, plain and simple. They kill real people, always for selfish reasons. But war is official. It’s state-sponsored and legal. It’s registered with God, for God’s sake. And while there’s always an evil side—the enemy—the winners, the good guys, are simply doing what they must. Civilization couldn’t have evolved without it. And that’s how we organize history: from one war to the next. This is the official understanding, which we’re spoon-fed as we grow up.

I see beyond this official certainty and have devoted my life to dismantling it. But the AI Overview explanation, seemingly such an easy target for my ruthless analysis, had an unexpected effect. I felt stabbed with a sense of depression so sharp I could hardly move, let alone write. All I could do was go back to bed, cover my head with my pillow, I wanted to hide.

But the emotional pain didn’t stop. It continued piercing me. I got back up. I saw no relief. I was terrified that old age had set in. Oh my God, am I too old to write anymore (a month and a half away from age 80)? I was ready to give up, blow the column off... spend the rest of the day secretly crying.

Instead, I started writing—cluelessly. I had no idea where my words might go. I was no longer atop a hill. I didn’t know where I was. But an awareness started clutching me. What if I were under the rubble right now? What if I had I just learned that my daughter is 12 years old again and the girls’ school she attended in Iran—in Minab—had just been bombed by an American plane?

A hole had suddenly opened in my life. No, those imaginings aren’t real—not for me—but they are for some of us. Perhaps the flow of pain I felt was the realization that opposing war in relative safety is too easy. It’s not enough. And beyond the realization is simply a dark emptiness. I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t even cry.

All I can do, right now, is reach deeper into my soul, to bless every human I encounter, and to publicly share the largest cry I can make for change. The cry tears loose from a poem I wrote a decade ago, which I also shared in a column I sent out last December. It’s called “The Gods Get in Touch with Their Feminine Side:”

I stroke the unknown,
the dark silence, the
soul of a mother. I
pray, if that’s what
prayer is: to stir the certainties of
pride and flag and brittle
God, to stir
the hollow lost.
I pray open
the big craters
and trenches of
obedience and manhood.
Now is the time
to cherish the apple,
to touch the wound and love even
the turned cheeks and bullet tips,
to swaddle anew
the helpless future
and know
and not know
what happens next.