Ruined Souls

They often call it being creative.

If you're a gifted writer, speaker, builder, or if you can shape things with your hands, you're considered creative. If you work with colors, introduce a useful perspective when solving problems, or if you generally help to make the world a better place in some small way, you're creative.

I'm convinced that every human soul has the potential for great creativity. God generously distributed this quality among the human population to increase our joy in life. Creativity can change an empty and dull life into an explosion of art or style or new inventions or solutions to common problems.

The skill itself, and the willingness to devote hours, days, even years to developing that skill, comes from God -- from His gracious Spirit that gives good gifts to all people. We can read about this in the Bible, in the OT book of Exodus. There the Lord brought certain people together to create something very special, almost heavenly, in the "tabernacle" or tent of meeting.

In every society and in every community there are people who take positive steps to make the world a little better. And there's always plenty of need, on every level.

People everywhere need to be helped, encouraged, inspired, prompted, provoked -- even directed, from time to time. All of us need to be reminded of truth now and then.

God uses many good things to stimulate the heart, to activate the brain, to lift up the spirit. The earth is filled with good things: green grass, amber shifting sands, blue skies, great clouds, swaying trees, the sounds of wind and rain, the call of a bird, not to mention sunsets and sunrises, the stars at night, a simple rainbow or spectacular lightning in a summer storm.

But not all people want to enjoy or share good things. There are people who only complain, only hurt others, only destroy, always taking, but never giving. They are ruined souls, hollow lives that never think, say, do anything good.

Every society and every community also has ruined souls. They murder, rob banks, rape women and children, vandalize other people's property, and take pleasure in the loss or ruin of other people. They take pleasure in evil but hate and fear the light of day.

Such ruined souls actually attack the good that others do. They hide in the shadows for someone -- anyone at all -- to do or say something worthwhile. Then they leap out and attack it, trying to spoil it, wanting to ruin it in some way, or maybe just to leave their soiled mark on it. They love the smell of burning and decay. They revel in ashes and ruin. They rejoice only in the death and destruction of all that is beautiful and good.

And they can be anywhere. They might be a school principal, even a teacher, or a religious leader. They may pass themselves off as a fellow artist, a writer, a news reporter, or a politician (remember McCarthy?).

If you've ever set out to do some good or beautiful thing, then you've probably been attacked by an empty, ruined soul. They cannot abide a decent word or deed. They must try to bring it down.

Maybe something very wrong has happened to these poor creatures. And rather than recover, they simply try to bring the whole world down into their own level of ruin. Unable to produce anything good, they exist only to denounce and pervert what others do. They live to destroy.

Can they be helped? Of course they can. Anyone and everyone can be saved from darkness and despair. Spiritually speaking, all of us are ruined souls until we meet and embrace Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord. But we must all choose to let go of the dark evil that fills our twisted hearts.

Only when we're willing to lay down the darkness, the hatred, the wrongness of heart, can we make room inside for the free gift of God. God's perfect light in Jesus Christ waits to fill us with newness of life: a new spirit, a new heart, and a genuine laughter that springs from joy -- instead of a shrieking glee that rejoices only in evil and more ruin.

Thinking of these things, I wrote a story some while back. Maybe it'll help to illustrate what I mean. It's the story of Old Snuff.


Old Snuff

I met a strange man while on the way into town the other day. I'd taken the path through the hills, as I like to be able to see the rolling landscape from the hilltops. As I came near the woods, I saw him.

Dressed in drab gray clothing, he seemed out of place on such a bright summer morning. He shuffled along, hanging close to the shadows, slipping behind a tree whenever he saw anyone approaching. He saw me and tried to hide, but I stopped and waited. When he remained hidden, I called to him.

"I've already seen you," I said, "So you may as well come out. Why are you sneaking around on a morning like this? Who are you?"

He finally peeked from behind the tree, and then he edged out a little, reluctant to leave the protection of the large sycamore and be fully in the open. He may have been tall, but he appeared bent, somehow, and looked very frail. I stepped closer, to get a better look at his face.

It was the strangest thing, but even in the direct sunlight, his face looked to be in shadow, and the features were indistinct. The eyes and nose and mouth kept shifting or changing, blurring from shape to shape. I began to think my eyesight was failing.

I told him my name and waited, but he made no reply.

"Who are you?" I finally asked again.

"Snuff," he said. But it was a rasping whisper and I wasn't sure I'd heard anything at all. So I asked him again and he repeated his name in a frail and quiet voice. "Snuff."

His face and hands were smeared with black. The smell of smoke was all around him, and as I looked closer at his clothing, I could see that it was not a solid color but many smudges of various shades of gray and dark brown and black. It was like billowing smoke might look if it suddenly froze. I guessed that he must be stained from some fire. I asked him if he'd been in a fire.

"Several," he said, his eyes darting back and forth along the path. And then after a long pause, he added, "Many. Many fires." The words seemed to choke out of him, as though his throat was thoroughly parched or scarred. I offered him some water from the skin I carried. He looked longingly at it but then declined to drink.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "Do you live in a village nearby?" I couldn't remember seeing him before, but since he was so secretive, I may have simply not noticed.

"Away," he said. "Always away." And he looked back down the path behind him again, as though he thought someone might be after him. Apparently being satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he almost smiled and said, "Going west this time."

"Oh really? Do you have family in the west?" I asked. But he shook his head.

"Nothing for me there. Just away" he managed to rasp. And then he looked both ways along the pathway again.

And so the conversation went. I would use several pointed questions to pry out some tiny bit of information, and he would whisper his terse answers while always looking along the path to see if anyone approached.

But his appearance and behavior were not the oddest things about Snuff. No, the strangest thing was his occupation. I asked him if he was a tradesman, perhaps a builder. He shook his head, indicating that he built nothing. I asked if he were a craftsman, maybe a shoemaker. But he said no. So finally I had to ask him very directly again what he did, what his life was devoted to.

"Burn," he said, his throat cracking at the word. Bringing his hands suddenly together, he hissed, "Snuff burns things."

I couldn't imagine how anyone could make a living burning things, so I asked him to explain what he meant. Did he manage the fires for some large city, to get rid of trash?

"No, not like that," he said. "Burn good things." And his eyes took on a wild look, an expression like a mixture of terror and uncontrolled delight. I was already baffled by Snuff's strange appearance and behavior. But now I was even more astonished.

"But why?" I asked. "Why would anyone want to burn good things?" I was so taken by the utter strangeness of this fellow that I almost missed his response when it came.

Glancing quickly this way and then that, along the path, Snuff came a little closer, seeming eager to share his strange secret with someone. The harsh odor of old and new smoke surrounded me, almost choking me. I think I may have taken a step backward.

For the first time, Snuff looked directly at me, his eyes searching my face for understanding. He said, "Snuff cannot build. Cannot make things good. Cannot improve what others do well." He paused while glancing again back along the way he had come, and then forward up the path.

Then he said, "So I burns things. I make fire. The others build good things and make good things. And then I come and burn what I find. I take what others make with their hands and I make fire and smoke. I burns things."

I just stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying, trying to make sense of the words and the awful ideas. He stood there for a while, looking into my face, and then he turned away. He must have seen my confusion, my dismay, my disgust. He turned and went back to shuffling on his way.

I was still staring, still not believing what I had heard, when his whispered words drifted back to me on the morning breeze. His back was to me as he resumed his journey along the path. But his faint whisper caught my ears as he repeated to himself, again and again, "I burns things. That's what I do."

Jim Sutton