I have just finished reading Lonesome Dove.  It is an amazing story, beautifully crafted, vividly detailed.  It explores the beauty and brutality of life and the kindness and cruelty of the people who inhabit it.

Set in the American West, following a group of cowboys herding from Texas to Montana, Larry McMurtry skillfully rotates perspective among the characters as the tale unfolds.  It is brilliantly done.

It is the fatalism of the novel which impacted me most though.  The regular deaths, the cruel treatment of key characters, the fears and failings of ordinary and extraordinary people.  Woodrow Call, a natural leader of men who gives his life over to doing right, is challenged at the last that he has never been right.  It unsettles him and the  futility of his own life is joined to the hopelessness of so many others.  He is unable to do the single most important thing he has ever needed to do.

It is this sense of futility that resounds so deeply at the moment.  The sense that nothing really matters, nothing you do makes any real difference.  The sense that we count for nothing.  That our lives have no meaning.  That we have failed.

It seems to me that this fear is a common human experience.  Yet we struggle to face it.  It is too hard.

But it’s there.  Unchanging.  Unrelenting.  Is there any purpose or meaning to our lives?  For all we achieve, have we ultimately failed?

We need to engage in this conversation, to recognise and understand the fears that haunt so many people.  Christians have hope and purpose.  Life is not futile.  We have a different narrative to tell.

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