George Whitenburg died last month. Either he built a hugely successful law practice, raised a baseball team of kids in an industrially harmonious house, and well after retirement age had cancer, had cancer and one chemo treatment, died and is worm dirt in north Texas.
Or the God who permeated his existence, Who influenced his decisions and shaped his fierce persona to fight for the underdogs that came to him took him home to heaven rather than watch him waste away here.
Either all of George’s intellect and passion were attenuated neuronal pathways, slight changes in psychoparmaceutical chemistries and all his accumulated wisdom and genius, all his loves and memories are as good as ash — and when all who knew him are dust his entire existence will mire in meaninglessness.
Or that Lion all of us came to love, who rather than waste away walked off with the Creator who built him, and died for him, and has now resurrected him or holds him asleep until the resurrection.
I am coming to believe that one reason I am a believer is that I can’t abide the astonishing waste of an atheist’s hopelessness in the face of death.