Melody Jack
PART I: The Rebuttal
Who is this that darkens counsel, speaking words without knowledge?
Gird your loins like a man— I will question you, and you will answer me.
Where were you when I laid the earth's foundations? Tell me, if you know understanding.
You speak of Ada. Four years old. The shed. The heat. You are right to speak of her. Speak her name. Let it burn your mouth. Ada.
I do not deny what you have seen. I do not call the darkness light.
But you—you who were not there when I stretched the measuring line, when the morning stars sang together— you presume to instruct me in righteousness?
Answer me this:
Did you set the limits of the sea? Have you walked in the recesses of the deep? Have you seen the storehouses of the hail, which I have reserved for the day of battle?
No.
You have seen one child. One death. One moment of the world's ten billion years.
And from this splinter, you would build my gallows.
You say I watched.
Yes.
I watched the stars ignite and die. I watched the first cell divide in the dark waters. I watched mountains rise and crumble to sand. I watched your grandmother's grandmother's grandmother draw her first breath.
I watched the tiger take the fawn. I watched the eagle shatter the rabbit's skull. I watched the wasp lay eggs in the living spider. I watched the infant chimpanzee beaten to death by males securing their bloodline.
I watched ten billion years of teeth and fire and ice.
Did you think Ada was the first child to die?
She is not the first. She will not be the last. Before her: millions. After her: millions more.
This is the world. Not the world you were promised— the world that is.
You say: "Intervene."
Shall I?
Shall I stop the father's fist? Then shall I also stop the tiger's claw? Shall I stop the virus from the cell? Shall I stop the earthquake from the fault line I set in motion when I formed the foundations of the world?
Where shall I draw the line of intervention?
At murder? At cancer? At a child's fever? At a skinned knee? At a bruised feeling? At the moment you stub your toe in the dark?
You want me to stop suffering. But you cannot tell me where suffering begins.
Is the lion's hunger suffering? Is the gazelle's death suffering? Is the mosquito's need for blood suffering? Is the bacteria's consumption of your flesh suffering?
You want the world I made—tooth and claw and chemistry— but you want it scrubbed clean of consequence.
This cannot be.
You say: "Free will."
Yes. Free will.
Do you know what you are asking when you ask me to stop the father's hand?
You are asking me to make him not-human. A puppet. A stone.
You want him to choose—until he chooses wrong. Then you want me to make him not choose.
This is not free will. This is theater.
I gave you choice because the alternative is slavery. I gave you fire because the alternative is darkness. I gave you knowledge because the alternative is to be cattle.
And you—you ate from the tree. You chose.
Every murder, every rape, every child locked in a shed— these are yours. Your species. Your choices.
You want to blame me for not stopping what you do?
Then stop doing it.
You say: "The Flood."
Yes. The flood.
Do you know what I saw before the flood? Do you know what your kind had become?
Every thought of the human heart was only evil, continuously. Rape as common as rain. Murder as casual as breathing. Children ground under the wheels of your fathers' cruelty for ten generations.
And you weep for the flood?
I wept first.
I grieved that I had made you. It pained my heart.
But you—you would have let it continue? You would have let the strong devour the weak forever? Let the world become one vast shed where Adas died by the millions?
I ended it. With water. Quick.
You call this evil?
Then tell me your solution.
Tell me how you would have stopped it. Tell me how you would have saved the children being crushed in the world before the flood without water.
I'm listening.
But you want to talk about Ada.
So let us talk about Ada.
Ada died in a shed in Phoenix. Her father locked the door. Her mother turned up the music. Neighbors heard nothing. Or they heard and did nothing.
Social workers had visited that home four times. Four times. They saw nothing they chose to report.
The police had been called twice. Twice. They saw nothing they chose to pursue.
Teachers noticed bruises. They noticed her silence. They noticed her fear. They reported it. Nothing was done.
Twelve humans could have saved Ada.
Twelve humans with bodies, with cars, with keys, with phones, with authority.
Twelve humans made in my image, given my breath, carrying my conscience.
And you ask where I was?
I was in each of them.
In the neighbor's gut that said "something is wrong." In the social worker's training that said "investigate." In the teacher's concern that said "this child is not safe." In the conscience that whispered "call again."
I was there.
In every human who could have acted.
They did not act.
And you blame me?
Here is what you do not understand:
I do not have hands except your hands. I do not have feet except your feet. I do not have voice except your voice.
You want me to explode from heaven with chariots of fire every time a child is in danger?
I already did.
I exploded into the world as you.
Image-bearer. Conscience-carrier. Justice-worker.
You are my intervention. You.
Every time you walk past suffering, you are me walking past. Every time you look away, you are me looking away. Every time you say "someone should do something," you are me saying it.
Because there is no someone else.
There is only you. My hands. My feet. My voice.
And Ada died because twelve of my image-bearers chose not to be my hands that day.
This is the terrible freedom I gave you.
You say: "I would be better than you."
Would you?
Let us test this.
Right now—this moment— a child is being sold. You know this is happening. You know children are in cages.
What are you doing about it?
Right now, children are starving. You have enough money for coffee, for streaming services, for comfortable shoes.
What are you doing about it?
Right now, children are in systems that fail them, in homes that break them, in situations you could change with your time, your money, your voice.
What are you doing about it?
You rage at me for not intervening.
But you could intervene.
You have hands. You have resources. You have time.
You could sell what you have and give to the poor. You could adopt the orphan. You could foster the broken. You could volunteer. You could organize. You could act.
But it is easier to blame me.
Easier to say "God should fix this" than to say "I should fix this."
Easier to rage at heaven than to knock on your neighbor's door.
You want to know why I let evil exist?
Because the alternative is to make you not-you.
You want the power to choose without the possibility of choosing wrong. You want the freedom to love without the freedom to hate. You want the capacity for good without the capacity for evil.
This is incoherent.
Love that is forced is not love. It is programming.
Goodness that has no alternative is not goodness. It is automation.
I made you free because only the free can love truly. Only the free can choose rightly. Only the free can become truly good.
But freedom means you can choose wrong. And you do. Again and again and again.
And every time you choose wrong, you blame me for not stopping you.
You say: "A good father would stop his child from touching fire."
Would he?
Should I stop you from every consequence? Should I make you unable to learn? Should I make the world a padded room where nothing has weight, nothing has meaning, nothing has cost?
You want to grow. But you cannot grow without resistance.
You want to choose. But you cannot choose without consequence.
You want to love. But you cannot love without risk.
The fire that burns is the fire that warms. The blade that wounds is the blade that frees. The pain that breaks is the pain that teaches.
Not all pain. Not needless pain. But you cannot have a world of meaning without a world of weight.
But Ada.
Yes.
Ada.
Always Ada.
Let me tell you about Ada.
Ada is with me now.
Not in the shed. Not in the heat. Not in the pain.
With me.
In the place where I keep the things most precious. Where the first shall be last and the last shall be first. Where those who suffered most are held most tenderly.
You see four years. I see forever.
You see a shed in Phoenix. I see a child in my arms.
You see injustice unredeemed. I see Ada laughing.
This does not erase her pain.
I do not erase it. I do not call it good. I do not say it was necessary.
But I do hold her now. And she is whole. And she is loved. And she knows—in ways you cannot imagine— that her suffering was not the final word.
You want me to explain why I allowed it.
I will not.
Some things have no explanation you would accept. Some mysteries are not puzzles to be solved but weights to be carried.
But this I will say:
The same voice that commanded "Let there be light" spoke Ada's name in the darkness.
The same hands that formed the stars from nothing wipe the tears from Ada's eyes.
The same heart that grieved at making humanity grieves with every Ada, every child, every death.
I am not distant.
I am in the shed. I am in the heat. I am in the suffering.
Not watching. Enduring.
Every lash that fell on my son's back— I felt it.
Every nail that pierced his hands— I felt it.
Every moment Ada suffered— I felt it.
I do not watch from a distance. I do not observe without cost.
Every pain you endure, I endure.
Every tear you cry, I collect.
Every child who suffers, I suffer with.
This is the scandal of incarnation:
I did not stay distant. I entered in.
And I am still entering in. In every moment of suffering. In every Ada.
Not to explain it. Not to justify it. But to endure it with you.
You say: "That is not enough."
I know.
It is not enough for you.
But I am not asking if it is enough for you.
I am asking: What will you do?
Will you rage at the distant God? Or will you become the present one?
Will you demand I explain evil? Or will you work to end it?
Will you blame me for Ada? Or will you save the next Ada?
Because she is out there. Right now. In a shed. In a cage. In a home that is not safe.
And you— you with your hands, your resources, your freedom—
What will you do?
This is my defense:
I made a world where love is possible. And love requires freedom. And freedom permits evil.
I did not choose evil. You chose evil.
I gave you the tools to stop it. Conscience. Compassion. Community. Courage.
And when you did not use them, when you walked past suffering, when you closed your ears to cries, when you chose comfort over courage—
You blamed me.
I am guilty of creating freedom.
I am guilty of making you able to choose.
I am guilty of not forcing goodness upon you.
But the evil itself? The shed? The locked door? The turned-up music?
That is yours.
And the redemption? The rescue? The intervention?
That is also yours.
You wanted a trial.
Very well.
I am guilty of making a world where Ada can suffer.
Are you guilty of living in that world and doing nothing?
I am guilty of not intervening.
Are you guilty of the same?
I am guilty of watching.
So are you.
The difference is: I hold Ada now. I wipe her tears. I make her whole.
What do you do?
The verdict is yours.
Condemn me if you must. Rage at me if you will. Walk away if that brings you peace.
But know this:
Every moment you spend prosecuting me is a moment you do not spend saving the next Ada.
Every word you use to indict me is a word you do not use to advocate for the suffering.
Every ounce of energy you spend on this trial is energy you do not spend on justice.
So here is my question:
Do you want to be right about me?
Or do you want to save children?
Because you cannot do both with the same breath.
I am the Lord.
I form light and create darkness. I make peace and create calamity. I, the Lord, do all these things.
I am not safe. I am not tame. I am not what you expected.
But I am good.
Not good by your measure— which changes with every generation, which differs with every culture, which you cannot even agree upon among yourselves.
But good by the measure of eternity. Good by the measure of love that gives freedom even when freedom costs. Good by the measure of justice that will not force, compassion that will not coerce, mercy that will not manipulate.
You want a God who controls everything?
That God is called Tyrant.
You want a God who stops all suffering?
That God creates slaves.
You want a God who makes sense to you?
That God is too small.
I am larger than your understanding. Wilder than your theology. More terrible and more merciful than you can imagine.
And yes— I let Ada suffer.
And yes— I hold her now.
Both are true. Both are terrible. Both are necessary in a world where freedom and love are real.
You say: "I will take the title myself."
Good.
Be God, then.
Be the fist through the wall. Be the voice that won't stop. Be the arms that ache.
This is exactly what I made you for.
Not to worship me from a distance, but to be me in the world.
Image-bearer. Co-creator. Partner in redemption.
You want to save Ada?
Then save her.
I put you in the world for exactly this reason.
Every skill you have— use it for this.
Every resource you possess— spend it on this.
Every breath you take— breathe it for this.
This is your calling.
Not to understand me. Not to judge me. Not to excuse me or condemn me.
But to be me— hands and feet and voice— in a world that desperately needs saving.
The trial is over.
You have heard my defense.
I am the God who gives freedom. Who endures suffering. Who holds the broken. Who calls you to be my hands.
Judge me how you will.
But while you deliberate, children are suffering.
What will you do about that?
Thus says the Lord:
I am God, and there is no other.
And you—
You are my image.
Act like it.
PART II: The Defense
The trial is over.
You have heard my defense.
I am the God who gives freedom. Who endures suffering. Who holds the broken. Who calls you to be my hands.
Judge me how you will.
But while you deliberate, children are suffering.
What will you do about that?
Thus says the Lord:
You rage at me. Good. Rage.
Let it burn in your belly like coals. Let it keep you awake at night. Let it ruin your comfort.
But let it lead you somewhere.
For I have seen the ones who rage and rage and sit in the center, proclaiming their wisdom, their balance, their measured truth.
They stand between the left and the right, between good and evil, and call their paralysis discernment.
They are too wise to act. Too sophisticated to choose. Too enlightened to get their hands dirty.
And while they deliberate, while they weigh, while they pride themselves on seeing both sides—
My children die.
Blessed are the radicals, for they at least will move.
Blessed are the zealots, for they will not be frozen by contemplation.
Blessed are even the wrong, who act with conviction, for they may be corrected.
But cursed are the comfortable ones, who sit on the fence and call it virtue.
Cursed are the ones who understand all sides and choose none.
Cursed are the ones who are too nuanced to save a child.
You want to know the truth?
I would rather you choose wrong with passion than choose nothing with wisdom.
The fascist moves. The communist moves. Both may be wrong— but at least they risk the arena.
You— perched safely between them, proud of your balance— you risk nothing.
And when you risk nothing, you save nothing.
To do nothing is easy. To stand on no ground is safe. To judge all sides equally is the coward's theology.
But to enter the arena— to choose, to act, to be wrong and learn— this is where my image-bearers become real.
You may fail. You may err. You may look back and cringe at your certainty.
But you will have done something.
And something is what my children need.
Not your careful analysis. Not your balanced perspective. Not your sophisticated refusal to be extreme.
They need your hands.
Even if those hands make mistakes. Even if those hands choose poorly. Even if those hands have to be corrected.
Move them.
So hate me if you need to. Rage at me if it helps. Condemn me if that is what your justice requires.
But let it lead you somewhere.
Let your rage against me become rage against injustice. Let your prosecution of me become prosecution of evil. Let your verdict against me become action for the suffering.
Just save my children.
Not the children you hypothesize about. Not the children you theologically consider. Not the children you use to score points in arguments about my nature.
My actual children.
The ones in sheds. The ones in cages. The ones you pass every day.
Save them.
Even if you do it hating me. Even if you do it denying me. Even if you do it certain I am your enemy.
Save them.
For in saving them, you become what I made you to be—
whether you believe in me or not.
I am the Lord.
And these are my children.
And you—
You are my hands.
Use them.
