After my friend’s suicide, my theology was in shock
I’ve been offering my tangled knots of questions and memories as prayers.
Several years ago in my Sunday school class, during our time to share about our week, a six-year-old raised his hand. “Why did they invent guns?” he asked.
His question silenced the room. The kids stilled themselves; their eyes widened. They all knew about the recent school shooting in another part of the country. They heard the news from somewhere, despite any attempts to shelter them from the horrors. Besides, as I’ve learned over the years, children know more about our troubles than we let ourselves acknowledge.
My thoughts were jumbled by the question. I sat there stunned, trying to gather words from the chaos—to offer something helpful, something true and good. “I don’t know why people invented guns,” I said, managing to string words into a sentence. “And I wish our society didn’t have so many of them.” The fear on their faces made me wince. I took a slow breath. “All I know is that I wish we could make them all go away.” I didn’t know what else to say, so we transitioned to a time of prayer. I invited them to say their thoughts to God, or just to think them if that seemed easier—and, especially, to ask God to hold close the family and friends who miss their loved ones.
