There Is Still Goodness Here

A reflection on noticing grace when the world feels dark

There is something peculiar about being awake in the middle of the night.

Maybe you know the feeling. The house is quiet, everyone else seems to be sleeping, and whatever worries you managed to keep in perspective during the daylight hours suddenly seem much larger. A concern about someone you love becomes fear. A problem without an obvious solution becomes a catastrophe. The uncertainty you carried reasonably well at three in the afternoon becomes almost unbearable at three in the morning.

I have spent enough nights awake to know that darkness can play tricks on us. It can make us believe that what we see in that moment is all there is.

I think the same thing can happen to us spiritually.

There is plenty in our world to trouble us. We see violence and war. We watch people treat one another with astonishing cruelty. We encounter loneliness, sickness, grief, division, poverty, and suffering. Our phones can deliver more tragedy to us before breakfast than most of our ancestors would have encountered in months. If we are not careful, we can begin to believe that darkness is the truest thing about the world.

But darkness has a peculiar property: it makes even the smallest light easier to see.

And there is still so much light.

The trouble is that goodness is usually quieter than evil.

We hear about the act of violence, but rarely about the nurse who stays a few minutes longer because a frightened patient needs someone beside them. We hear about division and hatred, but not about the neighbor who quietly checks on the person living alone next door. We hear about scandal and betrayal, but rarely about the millions of ordinary promises that people faithfully keep every single day.

All around us, people are feeding children, teaching classrooms, visiting the sick, caring for aging parents, tending gardens, delivering meals, forgiving old wounds, sitting beside hospital beds, making phone calls to lonely friends, showing up for work, saying their prayers, and loving people when loving them is difficult.

None of that makes the terrible things less terrible.

It simply means that the terrible things are not the whole truth.

That distinction matters for Christians because our faith is not built on the belief that everything will always be fine. Christianity is not optimism dressed up in religious language. Our faith does not ask us to close our eyes to suffering or pretend that pain does not hurt.

At the very center of our faith is a cross.

We worship a God who knows betrayal, abandonment, injustice, grief, suffering, and death. On Good Friday, Christians do not look away from the darkness. We stare directly into it.

But we do so knowing that Friday is not the end of the story.

Resurrection is God’s great declaration that darkness is real, but it is never ultimate. Death is real, but it does not get the final word. Suffering is real, but suffering cannot cancel love. The tomb is real, but by the grace of God, even tombs can become places from which new life emerges.

Perhaps that is why Jesus so often asks us to pay attention to small things.

A mustard seed. A little yeast hidden in flour. A lamp placed on a stand. A widow’s tiny offering. A few loaves and fishes placed into his hands.

The Kingdom of God does not always arrive with trumpets. Sometimes grace is so ordinary that we can walk right past it.

Maybe part of our Christian vocation in a difficult world is simply to become better at noticing it.

Notice the person who quietly does something kind when no one is watching. Notice the friend who keeps showing up. Notice the person who makes somebody laugh on a terrible day. Notice the volunteer who does something week after week without recognition. Notice the child who shares. Notice the stranger who holds the door. Notice the person who remembers to ask, “How are you?” and then actually waits for the answer.

These things will never make the evening news.

But perhaps they are evidence of something much more important.

There is still goodness here.

There is still love here.

God is still here.

And perhaps we can make noticing these things a small spiritual discipline this week. Look deliberately for evidence of grace. Thank someone for something they probably think nobody notices. Call someone who may be lonely. Offer kindness where it is unexpected. Tell someone you love them. Say your prayers. Keep a promise.

And then become some of the evidence yourself.

Because when the world feels particularly dark, Christians do not have to pretend that it isn’t. We simply remember what we proclaim every Easter: darkness has never been able to extinguish the light.

So look for the light.

Give thanks for the light.

And then, by the grace of God, go add a little more light yourself.

Pax et Bonum!

Fr. Ben