It starts with the pain.

Like many of my friends, I can’t shake off Boston.  Though I’ve no real tie to the city, other than the shared human desire to see the moxie of the masses triumph over adversity, I still feel this sort of gut-clawing grief every time I think about the events that have transpired over the past week.

Like so many stories, it starts with pain.  It looks like here we yet again have a tale of a man turning to terrorism as a desperate last straw after his pain became unbearable.  He turned to religion as a salve for his wounds but the twisted darkness inside his soul only turned the scriptures into further torment, as he sought extremism as an answer to the emptiness he felt. 

What can we take from this?  Perhaps nothing.  All I can say is that perhaps there is another young soul out there aching right now, feeling his or her needs unmet by the surface nature of many people’s religious lives.  Perhaps there is another dark and twisted soul that needs unknotting, and for whatever reason is still balking under the hands of well-meaning mentors who teach at a distance.  Perhaps there is another soul lost to insomnia and loneliness, crying out by acting out instead of leaning in.

And what does our hatred do?

What are we doing?

I wish I could answer my own questions.