Agents of Agency

Dehumanization is all too easy. And as we talked about last week, it can be extremely destructive. I believe that a majority of the world’s problems could be solved if we all truly and consistently acknowledged the fact that every person is a person just as valuable as any other. People are people. It’s simple, but it’s not easy to practice day in and day out.

If dehumanization is the root of so many of our problems, what can we do about it? What does humanization—or, as is sometimes necessary, rehumanization—look like? How do we get past the tendency to treat others as “less than” and truly see them for the people they are?

That’s not an easy question to answer. And to be honest, I don’t have a perfect, comprehensive response myself. What I do have are some ideas for ways that we can practice humanization in our daily lives based on lessons from my own life. These insights were hard-earned over a good deal of time and through much failure at treating people the way they deserve to be treated. I’d like to share one of those lessons with you today, and I hope you find it helpful.

The concept of agency is a complex one, but at its root, it refers to a person’s ability to act and make decisions for themselves. Their capacity to have an effect on the world around them. Their potential to exert influence over their life and circumstances. A person’s agency is the trait that makes them an active agent in their own life and in the world as a whole. It may seem basic, but it’s a fundamental part of being human.

Far too often, we treat other people as objects rather than subjects. We act like they are passive props or, at the very best, supporting characters in the story of our lives. (We, of course, are the heroes in this scenario.) What we fail to recognize is that each and every person is the subject of their own experience, the main character in their own story, the active agent in their own life. And when we live without this recognition, we deprive others of their agency.

This has happened in gruesomely blatant ways. Slavery, of course, is a way that millions of African Americans and others were stripped of their agency in the past. Throughout history, women have traditionally been treated as inferior to men, often even as property. This, too, is an example of agency being taken away from a human being. When poor people weren’t allowed to vote, Native Americans were forced to flee the lands of their ancestors, and American citizens of Japanese descent were forced into internment camps during World War II, the agency of these individuals was attacked and limited to the point of seeming debilitation.

Though we’ve become more subtle about it, we still chip away at people’s agency today. Racism and sexism remain rampant in the policies and rhetoric of our country. The experiences of sexual abuse survivors are denied and downplayed in public discourse. Children go to school in fear of violence. Homeless people are dying in our streets. Mass incarceration has swallowed up countless individuals (predominantly people of color) who could and should be contributing to greater society, but instead, they’ve had that option taken away. They’ve had their agency stripped from them, and they’re treated as less than human.

These are mostly systemic issues, but we do it on a personal level, too. Every time we make someone feel like they aren’t good enough, like they’re “less than.“ Or evaluate someone without taking the time to get to know them. Or bring someone down in our quest to get ahead. When we do these things, we are holding people back from being their best selves. We’re taking away their agency.

If we are to be compassionate people and to have a net positive influence on this world, we must become agents of agency. We must affirm the agency of our fellow human beings and help those who have had their agency taken away from them find it once again.

That means giving people room to thrive. For someone to have fully agency, they must exist in an environment that does not limit them based on any preexisting characteristic they may have, whether it be sex, race, gender, able-bodiedness or anything else. We don’t know what it’s like to live in a world like that, but I do believe that we can create one by destroying any system, entity, or idea that perpetuates discrimination and bias. That won’t be easy, but if we truly want to support the agency of others, we must try.

It also means respecting the choices that people make. The world is far too full of prescriptive voices telling people what they should do, who they should be, how they should look and act. What if we let people decide these things for themselves? It’s not our responsibility to judge every single decision a person makes or to force our ideas onto others. Of course, if someone is causing harm to others or not living up to what they claim to believe, we can and should call them out on it. But if a person is simply trying to follow their own path to fulfillment, who are we to tell them they’re wrong? Agency means respecting someone enough to accept the choices they make.

And it means lifting people up as they exercise their agency. How much different would the world be if, instead of pretending that life is a zero-sum game that we must win, we instead saw it as a cooperative effort toward common goals? What if we supported one another as we each pursued our own good and the good of the world? Wouldn’t that be nice? We can start creating that reality right here, right now, by empowering one another and affirming the uniqueness, wholeness, and sufficiency of every single person around us.

There are a lot of elements that go into treating each other as human beings, and I can’t wait to get into all of them. But I think that agency is an important starting point. We are each agents, subjects, humans. And we each deserve to be treated as such. May it be so in our lives today and every day.

Jacob’s Family: A Case Study in Dehumanization

I have a mantra: People are people. I’ve adopted this statement as my mantra because it’s a fact that I constantly need to be reminded of. And I have tried to make it a key focus of my writing on this blog. Only when we truly internalize and live out this truth are we able to practice compassion towards ourselves, others, and the world.

That’s why I’m troubled by a phenomenon I see often in the world around me, and sometimes even in my own life. It’s called dehumanization, the treatment of a fellow human being as less than a person. It happens in many different ways, some of which I would like to dive into sooner or later. But this week, rather than deal with instances of this issue in our world today, I’d like to look at a story from scripture that illustrates the problem I’m trying to address.

The Bible is an ancient book, and as such, it does not directly answer every modern question we bring to it. But the Bible is also an inspired, living book, and so it does offer us timeless truths and principles that we can apply to the issues that come up in our day and time. This story from Genesis 29 is culturally far removed from where we find ourselves today. It makes some assumptions and deals with some problems that do not exist in our society, and those can be jarring. But it also speaks into a timeless struggle that faces every person in every time and place: How are we to value and to treat our fellow human beings?

I can’t think of any story that exemplifies the destructive nature of dehumanization better than the story of Jacob and the way he came to be married. Let’s look into that story today.

Dehumanization is destructive.

Our story starts off with Jacob fleeing his family under questionable circumstances. We won’t get into all of those today, but let’s just say that he did some things he’d rather forget. While traveling through the wilderness, Jacob stumbles upon some friendly relatives and decides to live with them. He settles down in the house of his uncle Laban and gets a job tending to his sheep.

Of course, Jacob isn’t expected to work for free, and this is where the first instance of dehumanization comes in. Instead of asking for money or land in exchange for his labor, Jacob makes a deal with Laban that he will work seven years in exchange for Laban’s younger daughter Rachel. He doesn’t want to earn Laban’s respect or blessing; no, he wants to earn and own Rachel. And in case you think Rachel’s father was put off by this proposition, here’s his response from Genesis 29.19: “It is better that I give her to you than that I should give her to any other man” (CSB, emphasis added).

What we read in this story is two men bartering for ownership of a human being. That is dehumanization manifested in the clearest, most heinous way possible. Jacob and Laban do not treat Rachel like a human being. (They don’t even bother to ask her opinion on the matter.) They treat her like a piece of property that can be transferred from one owner to another. They treat her like a sub-human, and that is wrong.

Some might say, “Hold up. This story occurs in a time in place when women were universally treated as property. It was a part of their culture, and there was no way around it. You’re being unfair by forcing your modern understanding of morality on an ancient story.” And it’s true that this story came out of a culture that did not consider women to be fully human on the same level as men. Like us, Jacob, Laban, and the writer of this story were limited by their cultural context.

But if the Bible teaches us anything, it’s that God isn’t limited by the things we are. He sees things differently. He sees us differently. And he’s constantly calling us to see things the way he does. The very first chapter of Genesis teaches us that God created human beings in his own image, and from that story we learn that all human beings should be treated equally and considered innately valuable.

People are people. God teaches us that, and we are each called to know and practice it. Jacob should have practiced it, too, but he chose not to. He chose to dehumanize another person, and the consequences were drastic.

We fast forward seven years, and Jacob decides it’s time to claim what he believes to be rightfully his. He tells Laban to throw him a wedding, which he does. They throw a big party, and at the end of the night, it’s time for Jacob and Rachel to become husband and wife.

Except, Laban has a different idea. You see, Rachel is his younger daughter, and he can’t stand the idea of her getting married before his older daughter Leah. So even though Jacob isn’t interested in marrying/owning her, Laban pulls a switch-a-roo and gives Leah to Jacob instead.

You don’t even want to me to go into how Jacob could sleep with Leah thinking she was Rachel. Regardless, he wakes up the next morning and realizes what has happened: Laban tricked him. So he goes to his father-in-law and expresses his frustration, but Laban doesn’t see what the problem is. He’s fulfilled his side of the deal, giving Jacob his daughter in exchange for seven years of work. He’s even thrown in a bonus, sending his slave Zilpah to go and serve the newlyweds in their home. (This, of course, is slavery, another horrific form of dehumanization.) From a financial standpoint—and this was a financial transaction, after all—Jacob is coming out ahead.

But Jacob still isn’t happy. He wants Rachel, the daughter he’s been promised. So he agrees to work another seven years in exchange for her hand. After those seven years pass, Jacob marries Rachel and even gets another slave named Bilhah, who’s tasked with serving Rachel. This story has the opposite of a fairy tale ending: “So Jacob went in to Rachel also, and he loved Rachel more than Leah, and served Laban for another seven years“ (Genesis 29.30).

Do you see the pattern here? These men are treating women not like human beings, but like objects. They have no say in what’s going on. Their feelings aren’t even considered. They’re just being passed back and forth between two men until both feel like they’ve gotten a good deal. And the end result is that Leah and Rachel, who’ve been compared to each other their whole lives, are now married to a man they haven’t chosen and who favors one of them over the other. Does that sound like a healthy family situation to you? Spoiler alert: The problems don’t end there.

Dehumanization is a vicious cycle.

Consider the story thus far from Leah’s point of view. She’s grown up in her father’s house constantly being told that she isn’t beautiful like her sister. (Scripture says that her “eyes were weak” [Genesis 29.17], whatever that means.) Then, on the night of what’s meant to be her sister’s wedding, Leah is forced by her father to marry and sleep with a man she has not chosen in an act of betrayal against both Jacob, now her husband, and Rachel, her sister. Could she have done differently? Maybe, if she had known she had a choice. But when a person spends their whole life being treated as less than human, it’s hard not to internalize that view and eventually learn to be helpless.

It’s hard to imagine that Leah wouldn’t come to love Jacob over their seven years of marriage. The story is clear that she at least wants to please him and have a relationship with him. But from the very start, Leah has to share her husband’s time and affection (if she gets any at all) with her sister. Because for seven years, Leah watches Jacob work, knowing that he is not going to be paid with money but with Rachel’s hand in marriage. She brings him water, makes him meals, washes his clothes, and tends to his needs knowing all along that soon, Rachel will be living in the house with them. Soon, Rachel will be Jacob’s wife. And where will that leave her?

In a culture where fertility means everything, it is considered an act of God’s grace that Leah is able to bear children. She may not have been her husband’s first choice, but she is the first to give him a son. Multiple sons, actually. And she uses the names of her children to express her displeasure with her life. She names her first three children Reuben, saying, “Because the Lord has looked upon my affliction” (vv. 32); Simeon, saying, “Because the Lord has heard that I am hated” (vv. 33); and Levi, saying, “Now this time my husband will be attached to me” (vv. 34).

For their whole lives, these men’s names—their very identities—will be defined by the sorrows of their mother. This, too, is an act of dehumanization. Leah treats them as extensions and expressions of her suffering rather than as human beings in their own right.

It’s hard to blame Leah for naming her children the way she does. And she does name her fourth son Judah, proclaiming, “This time I will praise the Lord” (vv. 35). But the names of her oldest sons show that the dehumanization Leah has experienced is now a cycle that she carries on to the next generation. And this cycle carries on.

In the next chapter, Rachel, angry that she is not able to produce children with Jacob, commits her own act of dehumanization. She orders her slave Bilhah to sleep with Jacob in her place and produce children. Bilhah, who has up to this point been treated as nothing more than a piece of property, now becomes a baby-making machine and a pawn in Rachel’s battle against her sister. Rachel takes Bilhah’s baby boys away from her and names them Dan, saying, “God has judged me,” (vv. 6) and Naphtali, saying, “With many wrestlings I have wrestled with my sister and have prevailed” (vv. 8). More dehumanization.

And so it goes. Leah mirrors Rachel and gives her slave Zilpah to Jacob as a wife. She’s already competing with two other women. Why not add another one? At least she’ll be on Leah’s side. Zilpah produces two more children, whom Leah takes away and gives names that celebrate her seeming victory.

Perhaps in the most ironic twist of the whole story, Jacob eventually becomes the victim of the very cycle of dehumanization that he started. Leah wants to sleep with Jacob, but it’s Rachel’s turn. So Leah offers Rachel some food in exchange for Jacob’s bed that night, and Rachel accepts. Jacob worked seven years for Rachel, and she sells him out for a meal! Leah tells Jacob like it is: “You must come in to me, for I have hired you with my son’s mandrakes” (vv. 16).

Just as Rachel and Leah had a price in Jacob’s eyes, so he now has a price in theirs. And so the dehumanization continues. As a result of their night together, Leah has another son and names him Issachar, saying “God has given me my wages” (vv. 18). This entire family is built on the idea that a person’s value is based on what they have to offer, not on their creation in the very image of God. This view of personhood and the disastrous effect it has on everyone in its path is the inevitable result of unchecked dehumanization.

Jacob’s sin of dehumanization is carried on in the lives of his children. He teaches them not to value women by ordering them to stand by silently as their sister Dinah is raped by a ruler of the land (Genesis 34). Rachel does eventually have two sons, Joseph and Benjamin, who of course become their father’s favorites. Joseph’s brothers get sick of him one day and sell him into Egyptian slavery, literally auctioning their brother off as property (Genesis 37). And Judah leaves his daughter-in-law Tamar to die in shame and poverty after the death of her first two husbands (Genesis 38). She’s forced to disguise herself and trick Judah into imprengating her to get him to take care of her. (Yes, that really is in the Bible.)

Are you starting to see how these acts of dehumanization can spiral out of control? It all started with Jacob treating Rachel like a piece of property, and it ended here: hearts broken, relationships in tatters, lives destroyed. But praise God, dehumanization doesn’t have to have the last word.

The cycle can be broken.

The story of Jacob’s family in Genesis ends with Joseph. He understands the devastating effects of dehumanization. He’s seen the way his aunt Leah walks around feeling like she’s worth nothing. He’s seen the jealousy in his brother’s eyes as he receives the favoritism that he never asked for. He’s cried as his own brothers tie him up and send him off to Egypt as a slave in exchange for a few measly coins.

Even in Egypt, Joseph feels the sting of dehumanization. After being bought by Potiphar, he catches of the eye of the master’s wife (Genesis 39). She turns Joseph into her sex object. She harasses him and then accuses him of attempted rape when he refuses to engage her propositions. As a result, Joseph is thrown into prison. An innocent young man turned slave turned prisoner, all because he’s been treated as less than human by those around him.

Somehow, Joseph carries on. He actually thrives in prison. And through a set of bizarre, serendipitous circumstances, Jospeh finds himself in a position of political power (Genesis 40). In fact, he’s second-in-command of all of Egypt! And as he sits on his throne ruling over a nation that he’s saved from the brink of famine, who else would come along asking for help but his jealous, back-stabbing brothers?

This is Joseph’s chance. His brothers don’t recognize him. They’ve told their father that he’s dead, and over the years, they’ve probably come to believe it themselves. In this moment, Joseph has the power to do to them precisely what they did to him when he was a kid: He can devalue them, mistreat them, make them feel like less than human. This is his opportunity to dehumanize them any way he pleases.

But Joseph chooses a different path. He does not allow the cycle continue with him. Instead, he breaks it.

Through tears, Joseph reveals his true identity to his brothers. He forgives them for what they’ve done to him. He sends for his father and moves his entire family to Egypt so that they can all be together (Genesis 45). Jacob is reunited with his beloved son and dies finally having his family at peace for the first time ever. And in the end, Joseph is able to say to his brothers, “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good…” (Genesis 50.20, emphasis added).

That’s redemption. That’s humanity at it’s best. That’s the grace of God flowing down through a willing servant and repairing generations’ worth of damage through dehumanization. And that, my friends, is beautiful.

We live in a world that teaches us not to value those around us. We see the destructive cycle of dehumanization all around us, and we’ve all participated in it at some point. But the beauty of the gospel is that we don’t have to be a part of the cycle anymore. We can value each other and all human life. We can break the cycle of dehumanization and redeem everything that’s been done in its name. It starts with us; it starts today. Will you be a part?

Hoops

Our engagement has been a whole new experience for me and Katherine. It’s been a time of fun and excitement as we plan our wedding and our life together, of course. It’s also been a time to learn about ourselves, about each other, and about the way we interact. And it’s been a time of developing our bond and our relationships with each other’s families.

But lately, it’s felt like a time of waiting. A practice in patience. It’s been a time of filling out paperwork, waiting for approvals, and calling customer service for the hundredth time. In the midst of consolidating everything and setting ourselves up for future success, we’ve had to jump through a lot of hoops.

In the moment, these hoops are really frustrating. They seem unnecessary, and it’s stressful not knowing if everything’s going to work out the way we want it to. Sometimes, it’s enough to make us want to give up on the whole endeavor. Maybe you’ve been there, too. But in the midst of all of these hoops we’ve been jumping through, I’ve tried to remind myself of a few things that I find helpful.

The hoops are there for a reason.

This is a tough one. But when I start to get frustrated, I have to remind myself that the systems causing me trouble are set up by real people trying to deal with real problems. Do all of these steps make sense to me personally? No, not always. But when I practice a little bit of compassion and try to see it from the other side’s point of view, I can at least acknowledge that their intentions are good.

Hoops are set up as protections. They’re meant to keep me and others from being taken advantage of by those with bad motives. Sure, it can be annoying to fill out more paperwork or try to remember a password I haven’t used in years. But if I didn’t have to jump through those hoops, then nobody else would, either. And if I’m being honest, I don’t really want that.

I’m not saying that every system is perfect. Sometimes, restrictions are put in place unnecessarily or on much too wide a scale. But for the most part, when I look at the logic behind the system, I can usually see why it’s set up the way it is, and it’s almost always to my benefit, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

The hoops won’t last forever.

Sitting on hold or waiting in line for 30 minutes can feel like an eternity. No one enjoys it. But, as we’ve talked about on this blog before, nothing lasts forever. When I’m feeling annoyed by the amount of time it takes to get through a hoop, I have to remind myself that this, too, shall pass.

That recognition doesn’t necessarily make the waiting any easier. And it still feels like a huge waste of time in the moment. But I always find it helpful to keep in mind that there is an end to it all. Eventually, we’ll get the final mark of approval, and the whole thing will be over. And then, it will all be worth it because…

The hoops get you where you want to go.

Anything worth having is worth working for. Sometimes, that work is a series of hoops that we have to jump through. But the reason we jump through the hoops is because there’s always something worthwhile at the end. Maybe it’s a house or another year of driving legally or a lower phone bill. (I’ve been working on all three of these lately.) For you, it may be something different. But no matter what, there’s a reason for the hoops you’re jumping through, and that reason is worth the effort.

Life in the 21st century can often feel like a long series of paperwork, lines, and phone calls spent on hold. And sometimes, it is. But those hoops have a purpose, they don’t last forever, and we jump through them because they eventually get us where we want to go. Once we’re through them all, we’re free to enjoy the things we’ve worked for with those we love. And isn’t that what we all want anyway?

It’s not a perfect system, but it’s worth it. And that’s why I don’t sweat the hoops too much. Hopefully with these things in mind, you won’t have to sweat them, either.

Lessons from Beebo

Last Friday night, Richard Russell (known to friends as “Beebo”) finished his shift loading luggage onto and off of commercial planes at the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. Instead of going home, though, he headed to the maintenance area. He used a tractor to push a plane onto the tarmac, then boarded the plane and took off. After about an hour of flying around, conversing with air traffic control, and attempting to do tricks, Richard crashed the plane on an island not far from the airport and tragically died.

Needless to say, his family is devastated. In their own words, they say they are “stunned and heartbroken” by what happened. They describe Richard as a “warm, compassionate man” as well as “a faithful husband, a loving son, and a good friend.” He and his wife were dedicated members of their church, and friends describe Richard as a funny, kind, and happy guy.

The reasoning behind Richard’s actions is unclear. Authorities have deemed his death a suicide, but it isn’t quite so straightforward. He seemed to have a fascination with flight, based on the way he talked about his work and the skill he portrayed while piloting the plane. There’s reason to believe that he may have been unhappy with his work conditions and pay. He certainly wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, though the question remains whether or not he intended to harm himself.

Even mid-flight, Richard himself seemed to be trying to come up with an explanation for what he was doing. “Minimum wage, we’ll chalk it up to that,” he said. “Maybe that will grease some gears a little bit with the higher-ups.” Later on, after performing a loop, Richard was encouraged by traffic control to land the plane. “I don’t know! I don’t want to,” he replied. “I was kind of hoping that was going to be it. You know?” Between expressions of exhilaration over flying the plane and what could be interpreted as a wish to die, Richard also considered what this could mean for his future. Jail time? A job as a pilot? At least some part of him could picture life after this event.

It’s hard to imagine Richard’s state of mind during this incident. The tone of his statements ranged from dark to excited to downright incoherent. But in a moment of particular clarity, he said something that seems to reflect the man that his friends and family knew him to be: "I’ve got a lot of people that care about me, and it’s going to disappoint them to hear that I did this. I would like to apologize to each and every one of them. Just a broken guy; got a few screws loose, I guess. Never really knew it until now."

Just a broken guy. He had a few screws loose. And he never knew it until he was thousands of feet in the air piloting a stolen plane to his death.

---

I’m going to be honest: I have no idea what to do with the story of Richard Russell. All I know is that I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since I read about it last weekend. My heart is broken for Richard, for his friends and family, and for the community devastated by this tragic event. I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for all of them.

When something terrible like this happens, it’s my tendency to look for a clear, simple, straightforward explanation. I want to know why. For some reason, I think that if I can wrap my head around the situation, maybe I’ll feel better.

But here’s the thing: There is no clear, straightforward explanation for what happened. Richard didn’t leave behind a note or a manifesto. He didn’t make a last-minute confession about his motives. He didn’t give us a simple explanation because, honestly, he didn’t have one. Even he didn’t fully understand what was going on. Richard was a victim just like his family, his friends, his community, and all of us who were affected by it.

This is a senseless tragedy; that is, it makes no sense. And even if there were some way to understand it, that wouldn’t change anything. Richard’s still gone. No amount of information or clarity can bring him back. There is no true resolution for something like this, and that’s something I have to accept.

Giving up on trying to understand a tragedy doesn’t mean I give up on finding meaning in it, though. I don’t believe that anything we experience in this life, no matter how senseless, has to be meaningless. There’s no way to undo what’s been done, but there are ways to redeem it. And redeem it we must.

Here’s the only thing I can take away from the story of Richard Russell: What happened to him is awful, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility for any of us. If it can happen to a good, beloved, seemingly happy guy like him, it can happen to anyone. We are each just a few bad experiences away from losing control and making a snap decision that changes our lives and the lives of our loved ones. And while that may be a scary thing to recognize, it also gives us perspective on what truly matters.

Take care of yourselves. If you’re feeling like you need some help, reach out. There is someone—probably multiple someones—on this planet who loves you, who can’t do life without you, and who wants to be there for you. All you have to do is express that you are in need. Please, if you are hurting, let someone know.

Be good to one another. If you know someone who’s hurting, take a little extra time to check on them. You aren’t being overbearing; you’re being kind. And you never know when your simple question, “How are you doing today?” could change a person’s life forever. We have more of an impact on those around us than we could ever possibly understand. Let’s use that power for good.

Cherish every single thing. This life is precious, and it’s fleeting. Every person, every experience, every moment that we get on this earth is a gift, and we ought to treat them as such. It’s hard to remember sometimes, but there is nothing ordinary in this life. If you look hard enough, you’ll see the remarkable everywhere. So find it, recognize it, and cherish it as much as you possibly can.

Richard Russell will be remembered for the tragic way his life ended, but that’s not all there is to his story. He was a good man who lived a good life and left behind a family who loves him dearly. We mourn his loss, but his death need not be in vain. We can redeem it.

We can learn from his experience. We can do better than we have. We can live our lives with the fulfillment and contentment that Richard sought. And we can help others do the same. If we do so, we can create a world in which no one has to go through what he did, and in that way, we will honor him.

Our All-Powerful God

This weekend, I attended a young adult retreat where the central topic was apologetics, and I was reminded yet again why apologetics is not the field for me. There was one discussion that really got me thinking, though. As usually happens at these sorts of events, the question of evil came up. It’s the most relevant and difficult topic in apologetics, and it always, always gets brought up.

The speaker framed the question this way: How can God be both all-powerful and all good?

Thinking about the question of evil like this piqued my interest. I’ve addressed the topic in a previous blog post, and I still stand by the answer I laid out there. But hearing the question asked this way led me to a different approach, and I’d like to share it with you. Here it is:

Maybe it’s time for us to admit that God isn’t all-powerful.

I understand that’s a bold, controversial statement, and I hope you don’t misunderstand me. I’m not attacking the nature of God here, or even the traditional Christian understanding of God as being omnipotent (that is, possessing ultimate power). I just think that we sometimes get so caught up in theological abstractions that we forget to actually look at the living God we serve. And that’s when we get ourselves into trouble.

The “all-powerful v. all good” question is an example of that. We’ve been preaching the doctrine of omnipotence for so long that we’ve forgotten what it’s all about, or we’ve at least allowed it to become misrepresented to those outside the faith. The common understanding of this doctrine is that it means that God can do whatever he wants. And if God can do whatever he wants but chooses not to stop something evil from happening, then it only makes sense that God is at least in some sense responsible for the evil itself. That’s the theological corner we’ve backed ourselves into.

But in reality, omnipotence refers to the nature of God, not to the way he interacts with the world. Sure, God in his nature possesses all power and the ability to do anything he likes, but that’s not the way he’s chosen to be in relation to his creation. Because in the very act of creating the world and giving free will to humanity, God was choosing to give up his omnipotence for something he deemed better: the potential of a loving relationship with his creation.

Here’s how that works: As we all know, love cannot be forced. Robots cannot love, because love requires choice. In order for love to be real and a true relationship to be established between persons, each party must have the option to say no. That’s the only way the, “Yes,” has any value.

God knew this before he created the world, back when he was able to practice his omnipotence fully. And he very well could have created a planet full of mindless drones to praise him for all of time. But that’s not what he wanted. He wanted to take the loving relationship that already existed within the Trinity and extend it. God wanted to love someone and be loved by someone outside himself, and so he made a choice.

God chose to give humanity free will. And in doing so, he gave up a good deal of his power. Now, he can’t force us to do anything. He can’t force us to love him. He can’t force us to love each other. He can’t force us to do good. Because if he did, it wouldn’t mean anything. It would all be for nothing.

And as we’ve discussed before, when we use the free will we’ve been given to rebel against God and his will, there are natural consequences, and we call those consequences “evil.” Could God have potentially made a world without those consequences? Sure, but then we wouldn’t really have free will. If one’s choices have no consequence, how can one be truly considered free?

Far too often, we downplay the sacrifice that God made just in the act of creating us. In order to do so, he had to set aside a part of his nature. He had to willingly limit himself and his power in order to give us a chance to have a relationship with him. And now, he works through and relies on us—us!—to accomplish his purposes in the world.

In creating us, God took a risk.

In creating us, God made himself vulnerable to pain, disappointment, and rejection.

In creating us, God gave up his total omnipotence. And if that isn’t one of the greatest acts of love in all of history, I don’t know what is.

God is all-powerful in the cosmic, eternal, big-picture sense. But in the particular, present, minute circumstances that we find ourselves in, God is limited by his own choice. Could he break his own rules, revoke our free will, and take away our suffering? Sure, God could do anything. He is God, after all. But he won’t, because he loves us and wants more than anything to be in relationship with us, a relationship that requires we have free will.

We know that this limitation of God’s power is only for a time. Even in light of human free will, he is still working history towards his perfect plan for its end. He’s powerful enough to do that. And in the end, God will once again rule fully omnipotent over a perfect universe. Only this time, we’ll be there, surrendered completely to his will for all of time. He’ll be his full self, and we’ll be all that he created us to be.

But for now, we live in an imperfect world ruled by a God who is waiting for us to turn towards him. So when people ask, “How can God be all-powerful and all good?” we can simply answer, “He isn’t all-powerful, at least not in the way you’re thinking. At least not yet.” Then we have an opportunity to share the immense love of God and the way it manifested in our creation, his self-limitation, and ultimately in our salvation by Jesus Christ. And that sounds like a pretty good answer to the question of evil to me.