Article April 14, 1997 Issue

Land mines and the power of the Word

Nathan A. Talbot

WHEN I was a youngster, I often rode my horse into the nearby hills. Other times I walked. There was a special kind of peace, walking along by myself. I could hear the quietness, even with birds chattering, rabbits darting through the bushes, a light breeze, and water running along a small creek.

I was thinking recently about those special days because of a newspaper article. It described the international debate over land mines, attempting to limit their production and find ways to clear them from populated areas after battles were long over. The point that stuck with me was how these explosives endanger present-day children at play. I remembered those carefree times when I played without the slightest danger of stepping on a land mine or picking up a little bomb, thinking it was a toy. I thought of how every child deserves to be as secure. I prayed to know God's ever-presence and power, and to understand how this presence protects children around the world today. This prayer set me to thinking about the nature of power.

At first it seemed that the innocence of a child, or anyone, could be completely vulnerable to an abuse of power, as in war or its aftermath. That one group of people could wield such power over others was so unjust. And yet if God, infinite good, is power—in fact, omnipotent—then a destructive sense of power is a distortion. It's a terrible lie about the allness and tenderness of everpresent omnipotence.

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