Against All Odds

I remember reading an interview with Edward Teller, proud father of the H-bomb, in which he ridiculed the logic of a disarmament movement, saying it made as much sense as clamoring to freeze or reverse time itself. His glib, self-styled realism is thin disguise for a desperate sense of historical inevitability. The bomb is glorified with a metaphysical birthright: the one which is and so forever shall be.

Some, in the service of community and the disarmament movement, make it their business to read diligently the scientific trade journals and the reams of congressional testimony. They trace technological timelines, charting the trends and calculating the point-of-no-return date for first-strike capability. They publish dire warnings, count the days and machines, and accordingly set the hands of the infernal clock closer to midnight. Some of them, I know, suffer dark moods and are subject to seizures of deep depression.

Me too. Sometimes that clock hand goes to my heart like a cold, sharp knife, taking away my breath and, momentarily, paralyzing me. I want to weep, but often cannot. I want to run or sleep, and sometimes do.

Nevertheless (let my thoughts turn on that word) I take renewed heart and hope. Here's why. History is more than meets the eye, far more than projectable trends. God, against all odds, has gotten into the mix and is at work, mostly hidden and underground, but often breaking out unexpectedly. So says the biblical witness. And I am willing to stake my life on such good news.

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