How I Stopped Hating People

This is a continuation of last week’s post, “How I started hating people.” If you didn’t read it, you will struggle to comprehend the meaning of this post, life, the universe, etc. Remedy that here.

When we last left our hero (Since this is my blog, that's me. Yay, me!) I was alone with my thoughts, overcome with the certainty that the root evil in all people overwhelms any potential good.

Then, while I was running headlong toward cynicism, two encounters brought me to a sudden halt. They were unexpected, and I’m grateful for them.

Encounter 1

The day after evacuating my house, I got a call from the enemy, my adversary—the CBS national news. The newscaster’s opening comments did little to abate my derision. Undershooting my age by four years, she gushed at the story of this 20 year old boy (the aww cute factor of “boy” set my teeth on edge) who had single-handedly saved his home. She wanted an interview for the following morning’s national news channel.

Without a moment’s hesitation I declined. It’s embarrassing, but I savored this opportunity to “stick it to the man.” I swirled it in my mouth like expensive wine (or expensive coffee, for you teetotalers). Never have the words “no thanks” made me feel so powerful.

Unexpectedly, the newscaster’s response was humane, compassionate even. “I completely understand,” she said. “If you don’t feel comfortable talking about your experience, it’s okay. What you’ve been through was horrific, and I don’t want to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

So there it was. I acted out of cynicism, and my enemy’s compassion trumped it. Convinced that newscasters were inhumane, I responded with callousness and was put to shame when my villain proved more human than my heroic self.

Encounter 2

The fourth of July, a week after evacuating, I went with a couple friends to Mount Saint Francis, a parish near my house with beautiful groves of trees and rock. We went there to escape, to find a measure of peace in the midst of a trial, and after an hour walking the labyrinth and meditating on God we all felt better.

As we were driving toward the exit, someone hollered at us. I spotted a middle-aged woman stamping toward my car and rolled down the window.

“Do you have reason to be here?” she asked gruffly.

“We were just walking the labyrinth,” I said.

“No,” she said. “You are not allowed to be here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling my newfound sense of peace, the one that had poked its head into view like a timid animal, retreat back into darker territory. How quickly my blockades returned! But they were not quite quick enough, and I could feel old wounds split with new injuries.

Cynicism, my new ally, rushed to defend me. Not even among nuns and monks will you find kindness.

“This is not okay,” the woman continued. Her eyes were angry, and she spurted more accusations in a frenzied tone, ending with, “Do you know how close the fire came to this place?”

“Yes,” I said, “I live right up that way.” I pointed toward the charred mountain.

The change in her countenance was immediate. Lines on her brow softened to accommodate concern, and her voice took on a motherly tone.

“Is your home okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Some smoke damage, but it’s still standing.”

“Oh, thank God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry with you. It’s just that we’ve had—” She decided against excuse and again apologized, her tone softly pleading. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you came here. Stay as long as you need to find peace. Come back again. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” I said quietly. Those open wounds, so vulnerable to an unexpected sting, were also vulnerable to unexpected healing, and I tried not to start crying. On a day when I was beginning to wonder if goodness was a sham, this woman’s kindness and humility brought new hope.

We left St Francis, quiet.

And what now? Maybe cynicism isn’t as trustworthy a counselor as I thought. Maybe all those lurking shadows are not as substantive as I believed. But am I to believe that everyone is a secret Mother Theresa, waiting for an opportunity to shine? Is every Darth Vader a father figure in disguise?

This morning, a 24 year old—a man my age—went into a movie theater an hour north of my house and shot over fifty people, killing twelve.

Is this man just misunderstood? Should I ignore the heinous crimes he committed, insisting that deep down he’s “a good guy caught in a bad situation?”

What is the cure for cynicism? If every person is ultimately depraved apart from God, as I believe to be true, then how can I justify an optimistic worldview?

I’ll investigate these questions, and more, in a concluding post coming in a few days.

(I honestly only meant to write one post on this subject, but I don’t want to cheapen the complexity of it by arriving at an easy conclusion. If you’re still reading and not bored, please bear with me for one more post. Not to toot my own horn, but I think it’s the best of the three—like the first Matrix. Or a girl who’s prettier than her two sisters.)