Terrible Meets Terrible

When I heard the announcement from America that an execution by firing squad would be livestreamed, I felt as though we had wandered into a Grimm fairy tale: the sort where someone is shut away in a tower, abandoned in a forest, or left to sweep ashes while others attend the ball.

The imagination of the Brothers Grimm was framed by the nineteenth century, a period of profound cultural change.  The Industrial Revolution transformed agrarian societies, gave rise to a new working class, reshaped family and social structures, and altered the rhythms of daily life.  It was a time of remarkable progress for many, but also a period of uncertainty and loss as people struggled to find their place within a new social order.

The Grimm tales often explore the consequences of selfishness, greed, pride, kindness, and generosity.  While the moral universe of their tales can appear simplistic, the stories can provoke reflection on human choices and formation of character.  They invite readers to consider what it means to act rightly in a complicated world.

In our own cultural consciousness, we know that people have the capacity to do terrible things.  We know the person sentenced to death committed a terrible crime.  We know that those responsible for the attacks on Israeli kibbutzim committed terrible acts.  Sadly, we are witness to too many examples of violence and cruelty.  Nothing should diminish the suffering of victims or lessen the gravity of the harm that violence inflicts.  But does terrible have to be met with terrible?

The Grimm stories are filled with characters whose lives are difficult.  They experience suffering, fear and loss.  They face danger, uncertainty, and hardship.  They are often overlooked, misunderstood or punished despite their goodness.  Yet in most cases darkness does not simply meet darkness.  Rather, the stories reflect an imagination where courage, mercy, wisdom or perseverance break a dark cycle.  Their terrible is met with transformation.

In a recent article, the theologian Tomáš Halík observed that ‘every age needs the Gospel to enter anew into the flesh of human history – into its language, experiences, wounds and hopes.’ (What Europe can offer the global Church – The Tablet, 19 September, 2026).  The wounds of our own age are deep and complex.  Violence, economic hardship and a harsh political narrative can feel overwhelming.  The imagination behind the message of peace proclaimed by Pope Leo and other church leaders may look a little feeble in the face of the enormity of a world seemingly captive to conflict on so many fronts.

As we follow the rhythm of the liturgical year the People of God are invited into the imagination of an ancient world-view.  We may wonder how this Gospel message from long ago can speak into the hopes and anxieties of our age.  As we approach the end of the liturgical year, we are deep in Matthew’s Gospel.  This weekend we are plunged into the particular way that questions are posed in the ancient Mediterranean culture.

It is a communication style where questions are used as a challenge to honour.  The carefully constructed question put to Jesus by the Pharisees reveals less about taxation than it does about the identity and wisdom of Jesus himself.  What stands out is not the question but the response.  Jesus refuses the false choice placed before him.  Instead, he offers a “both-and” answer: “Repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God” (Mt 22:21).

The Gospel provides a counterpoint to the second reading from the first letter of St Paul to the Thessalonians.  We can imagine what it must have been like for our early ancestors in faith – the longing for the return of Jesus and the challenge of maintaining a spirit of hope in the meantime.  How were they to live?  It is into this uncertainty that St Paul speaks with words of appreciation and love.  The work of faith in action, love and perseverance in hope is commended (1Thess 1:3).

On the recently commemorated 800th anniversary of St Francis, Pope Leo observed that “the charism of St. Francis continues to bear fruit even today, after eight centuries.  This is attested to, not only by the great and vibrant Franciscan family but also by the many gifts that his spiritual legacy bestows upon the people of God.”  St Francis’s religious imagination invites us into a world of peace, care for creation and respect of all living things.

St Francis in following the Gospel reminds us that in a world tempted to answer violence with violence, resentment with resentment and fear with fear, there is another path.  Like the best of the Grimm stories, it does not ignore suffering or deny evil.  Rather, it insists that darkness need not have the final word.  Faith can become action, love can become perseverance, and hope can become the force that breaks the cycle.

This is the Christian imagination: that what is terrible can be transformed.  We know this because the terror of the Cross was transformed through the new life of Resurrection.  And we know from our own experiences of loss and suffering that the darkness of the night always gives way to a dawn of new light – it might take awhile, but eventually the light breaks through.

This is the big imagination of the Christian: that the God of life is always at work, inspiring grace from suffering and renewal from what seems lost.

May God have mercy on us.  May the God of peace transform the hearts of all that we may become instruments of God’s peace.

Let us not be dispirited, for this is the world of blessing that brings the imagination of the Gospel to life, and in this world terrible is not met with terrible.

By Cathy Jenkins