Journeeman.

“We need to buy some milk, bread, and a few items. We’re running low,” came the early-evening midweek call from the kitchen to the lounge.

Jumping into the car, we made our way to Big Fresh, parked, and dutifully went about the normal stuff of the day.

It was routine—at best a slight interruption to the usual humdrum of evening life. We made our way around the familiar aisles, collecting the listed products, the usual brands, and the occasional treat that would find its way into the basket.

From the corner of my eye, a familiar face was faintly perceived—that sense of distant recognition, an echoed memory reminding you of something that mattered, some connection that had meaning from the past.

As the person came closer, also about the business of his midweek must-get purchasing, he barely noticed me—for a moment or two, at least. When clarity finally pushed away the fog of uncertainty, it all came back to me, and probably to him. Ah, Wayne. “How are you?” I began. But he simply looked at me.

I wondered if he expected me to engage, or whether he was trying to work out if I would recognise him. He had been a genuine person in his dealings with me. As a real estate agent, he had gone above duty helping my family while I was being processed by the judicial system—even going so far as to tidy up our section for sale, which we needed capital from. Lawyers’ costs are expensive.

The usual social chit-chat out of the way, Wayne asked me an insightful and deeply reflective question. His eyes fixed on mine, his facial expression now more serious as he leaned into the weight of the moment.

“Malcolm, you are a very religious man. How can you still believe in a caring God, given all the shit you’ve been through?”

I suppose the last place I expected such an existential question was an aisle filled with canned goods and other food products. But serious questions are welcome wherever they appear. In my experience, sincerity is often highest in unexpected places.

The question didn’t strike me in any particularly emotional way. After all, I hadn’t spent several years in prison without thinking about the same questions. I had asked and reflected on them countless times. How could God let you be locked up in prison for something you didn’t do? I’m not always good at reading people, but his expression stays locked in my memory still, as if only hours ago.

There was deep sadness there—a slight tearing of the eyes, his face shaking just a little with what I assume was a mix of anxiety, frustration, and care about what I had endured. It was a confronting question born out of genuine concern, and it demanded my honest attention and an authentic answer.

“Wayne,” I said, “have you ever wondered why humans can be so mean and nasty at times?”

I let that sit for a moment. His face shifted to surprise, maybe even puzzlement, unsure where I was taking the conversation.

“When locked in my prison cell—especially during the first few months of nearly twenty-two to twenty-three hours on lockdown per day—this was a question I had to wrestle with. To deny it would have been, in some sense, to deny my own humanity and the pain that embraced me behind that locked metal door.

“I remember being angry at life, angry at the injustice I felt, angry at the accuser and the system. But all that anger came back upon me. It was like throwing a boomerang at someone, only for it to return and strike you in the back of the head. Anger, when locked in isolation, has only one place to go—back to its source.”

I continued, “If there is one thing I concluded in prison, it’s this: humans can do terrible things to each other. And if God values human agency at all, then we have the capacity to pour a great deal of crap on one another.”

I spoke with him for a few minutes about my own stupidity, foolishness, and lack of competence—suggesting that what is common for one person is, philosophically, a fair assessment of the human condition at times.

Then I moved to the issue of evil: that if God is good and ethical, and if agency holds any real value, then humanity holds within it the potential for both great possibility and great harm.

“It’s part of the package,” I said, “that the divine will allows humans to choose.”

I shared with him the idea of God as a community—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—and how this union means that what impacts one, impacts all. Then I linked this to our tribalism, our shared consciousness and community, and how one group of people can rise up and destroy the world around them. We are more connected—in nature, in environment, in our interwoven lives—than we often admit. If evil exists, then hell on earth is certainly possible.

Finally, I expressed that divine sovereignty does not negate human agency or consequences. If God is good, then it may very well be part of that goodness not to override our agency, even when we use it destructively.

Minutes had passed. It was clear that the lateness of the evening didn’t favour further expansion. Both Wayne and I were tired. My answer probably did not address the emotional gravity of what he felt—the injustice, the systemic failure, the sense of God being distant. But the truth is, these existential questions are rarely understood at a purely intellectual level. And for someone like me, that is sometimes a pain in the neck.

These deep and shadowy questions arise in suffering, and their resolution comes slowly—through reflection, prayer, integrity, and experience. The scars we carry can enrich us, but only if we enter the darkness they bring. Could I answer this sincere, dear man’s question? Yes.

At least for myself, the answer had been forged. But such answers come only through flames that burn away the superficial, leaving us vulnerable for a time, until a new sacred space is created within. Suffering is a natural possibility in a world filled with individuals who allow their agency to crash upon others, sometimes with disproportionate consequences.

The way forward is not to blame the divine for the gift of agency, but to take up the responsibility that such privilege carries—and use it wisely in the world we are embedded within. People do terrible things. Their choices ripple outward. But with great privilege comes great responsibility, and agency is indeed a great privilege.