Radically Happy

Sequel to Solving Theodicy (in 27 words)

Have Leibniz start his Confession [redemptive response] with a dream he had, where a silent Luther walks him behind Christ from Gethsemane to Golgotha, and ends by asking a single question: Where is the goodness of God?

ChatGPT Prompt

1. The Dream

I had a dream.

Martin Luther stood
before me, silent.
He did not argue, nor thunder with his pen.
Instead, he took me by the sleeve, and led me into a night garden.

There, beneath shadowed olive trees, I saw Christ in Gethsemane,
trembling, bleeding, asking His Father if the cup might pass.
And still He rose, to drink it.

Luther pressed me forward. We followed Him as soldiers bound His hands,
as friends forsook Him, as judges mocked Him.
We climbed the hill where crosses scarred the sky.
And there He hung, naked, abandoned, forsaken by men and — so it
seemed — by God.

I, who once claimed that this world is the best of all possible worlds,
stood mute.
What harmony was here?
What privation could explain this agony?
What reason could justify the dereliction of the Son of God?

At Golgotha, Luther still spoke
not a word.
He only looked at me, and then at the crucified Christ.

And in that gaze was a question that shattered all my systems:

Where is the goodness of God?

---

2. The Note

I awoke in my chamber, breathless.
The dream still clung to me: the garden, the trial, the cross, and the
silent monk who had shown me more than any disputation could.

Upon the floor, I saw a folded paper, slipped beneath my door.
No hand had signed it.
I opened it and read these twenty-seven words:

• Everything that is good
  — glorifies God.
• Everything that is evil
  — can be grieved.
• Everything that is grieved
  — can be redeemed.
• Everything that is redeemed
  — glorifies God more.

Had I been wrong to seek the “greatest good,” as though it were a number
to be maximized, a harmony to be calculated?
For here was no equation, but a mystery:
That God’s goodness is not the measure by which He is judged,
but the glory revealed when evil is borne, grieved, and redeemed.

I had written once of privations and of reasons sufficient.
But on the cross, there is no privation—only horror.
No reason sufficient—only grief.
And yet, from that grief, redemption rises.
From that redemption, glory shines.

And yet, from that grief, redemption rises.
From that redemption, glory shines.

Perhaps the question is not, “Where is the goodness of God?“
but rather, “How does God glorify Himself through the wounds of the
Lamb?“

I confess: my philosophy cannot answer.
But the crucified Christ can.

I confess: my philosophy cannot answer.
But the crucified Christ can.

---

3. The Horror of My Own Evil

As I sat with that silent note, another grief welled up in me.
Not only the world’s evils—but my own.

Had I not prided myself in reason, even when reason made excuses for
suffering?
Had I not dulled my conscience with words like privation and
necessity, so that I might defend God while refusing to weep with
man?
My sin was not merely error, but arrogance.

Had I not dulled my conscience with words like privation and
necessity,
so that I might defend God while refusing to weep with
man?

And then—terrifying and yet tender—I saw it.
The same Christ I had followed in my dream turned His face toward me.
Upon His shoulders was not only the world’s misery, but mine.
My pride, my coldness, my clever evasions—driven into His flesh with
every nail.

I shuddered at the horror of it.
Yet He did not cast it back upon me.
He bore it.
And as He bore it, even that was redeemed.

O dreadful wonder: that God glorifies Himself not only by redeeming the
evils I despise,
but even by redeeming the evil I have done.

So I say it now without pretense:
My system is broken.
My goodness is hollow.
My reason is vanity.

So I say it now without pretense:
My system is broken.
My goodness is hollow.
My reason is vanity.

But Christ—Christ is sufficient.
And if He can redeem me, then surely He can redeem the world.

---

4. Prayer

O Lord of glory,
who chose not the wisdom of philosophers,
nor the power of princes,
but the weakness of the cross—

Have mercy on me.

I confess the vanity of my reason,
the pride of my pen,
the coldness of my heart.

Let not my cleverness stand between You and my soul.
Strip me of every harmony I tried to compose,
until only the cry of Christ remains:
It is finished.

Teach me to grieve what I once explained away.
Teach me to love what I once analyzed.
Teach me to see, in my own evil,
not the end of hope, but the beginning of redemption.

Redeem me, Lord Jesus.
Not for the glory of my arguments,
but for the glory of Your wounds.

And if all my works be forgotten,
let this prayer remain:

Glorify Yourself, even in me.

Amen.