My Letter to Habakkuk

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To my dearest pen pal, Habbakuk:

First, let me say, no one remembers the prophets who did not deliver on the goods.

Your predictions came true.

And, 2500+ years later, you are still remembered.

Do you remember Lenny, that guy?

Kept going around Judea telling people “the goats will lay down in green pastures,” and, then, remember? It started raining bananas!

OMG. That was hilarious.

No one, and I mean no one, remembers Lenny.

Habs, what I’m saying is that I don’t think you should take your designation as the eighth of the twelve minor prophets as a grade or reflection of your worth.

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Well, you were right.

The people didn’t go toward radical love.

The people of your time, they just kept doing their brazen wickedness. And, like you predicted, God brought the Babylonians to punish them—destroying Solomon’s temple in Jerusalem and exiling the Jewish leadership to Babylon.

If I were you, I imagine I would feel a bit vindicated.

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Let me tell you a little bit about how things turned out two and a half millenia later.

About 50 years after you witnessed the destruction of the temple, it was rebuilt thanks to a great guy named Cyrus. (Spoiler alert: that second temple got destroyed, too—but not for about 500 years.)

Nobody in my time knows the etymological origins or meaning of your name. Does it have anything to do with “embrace”? (That’s our best guess.)

You wrote the only book in the Bible that takes the form of a dialogue between a person and God. (It inspired me to write letters to you.)

You fit in a very small list of Biblical characters—Abraham, Moses, Jacob, Job, Jonah, and Sarah—who openly argue with God. You question God’s sense of justice. You ask God—about whom many are freaked out and wouldn’t offer a critique—if God really thinks any of us should be satisfied with the “Have faith” response to evil.

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Habs, I don’t think of myself as a prophet, but I see some similarities with you.

I, too, think people should give up their wicked ways and love first and love more. I too am afraid of—to use a phrase of yours—ruthless and impetuous forces.

I have a question: how did you not get upset?

I thought, “how hard could it be to invite people into love—people who insist that love is exactly what they want?”

It should be simple.

Like handing water to someone who says they’re dying of thirst.

But does that happen? No!

I hold out the cup, and they curse and tell me they aren’t thirsty.

They speak passionately about filling the world with love, yet cling tightly to their small, familiar hatreds—those quick hits of righteousness that feel like power but cost them tenderness.

I try to tell them: loving another begins with loving yourself. And loving yourself is impossible without letting your heart turn outward and loving others.

“Love yourself. Love another,” I say.

“I can’t do both,” they say.

“So do one.”

“I don’t want to do either.”

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Habby, I look forward to your response.

And, if you see Lenny before I do, tell him I say “hi.”

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