Every morning, I sit down to write code. There’s a quiet thrill in watching a chaotic idea transform into something structured, functional, and alive. When a program runs smoothly—no errors, no crashes—it feels like a small miracle. But the world outside my IDE isn’t so tidy. Some bugs don’t live in code; they fester in hearts, minds, and societies. And those are the hardest to debug. We’re at a crossroads, a moment that demands we pay attention. Not long ago, a man who built his life on asking questions, challenging assumptions, and sparking debate was murdered. He wasn’t armed. He wasn’t inciting violence. He was just speaking—using words to probe the world’s contradictions. And yet, instead of mourning, some people celebrated. They cheered his death like it was a touchdown in a game they’d already won. Pause and let that sink in. What does it mean when we rejoice over the silencing of a voice? What does it say about us when we treat truth-tellers like threats?
This isn’t just a glitch in the system. It’s a corruption in the source code of our culture. If we shrug, scroll past, or join the laughter, we’re signing off on a malicious update—one that rewrites our values to normalize cruelty. But we don’t have to accept that patch. We can reject it. We can debug the system. And we must, because history shows us what happens when we don’t.
A Pattern as Old as Time
This isn’t new. The story of light meeting darkness is woven into the fabric of human history. Abel, the son of Adam, was killed by his brother Cain—not for any crime, but for offering his worship to God (Genesis 4:1-8). Prophets like Jeremiah were mocked, beaten, and imprisoned for speaking truths their societies didn’t want to hear. The apostles of Christ faced whips, chains, and execution for preaching love and redemption. Joseph Smith, who restored a faith that challenged the status quo, was gunned down in a jail in Carthage, Illinois, in 1844. John F. Kennedy, with his vision of a freer world, was assassinated in 1963. Martin Luther King Jr., who dared to dream of equality, was cut down in 1968. And at the heart of it all, Jesus Christ Himself was crucified—not for violence, but for teaching love, faith, and truth. The pattern is unmistakable: those who carry light into darkness almost always face resistance. Sometimes it’s mockery. Sometimes it’s exclusion. And sometimes, it’s violence. Evil believes that by silencing the messenger, it can kill the message. But it’s wrong. Truth doesn’t die with the one who speaks it. If anything, it burns brighter. The blood of martyrs, as the early Christian writer Tertullian said, is the seed of the Church. Ideas, like well-written code, don’t vanish when the terminal closes—they spread, iterate, and endure.
The Lie of Silence
Here’s the hard truth: staying silent is not neutral. Evil thrives in the gaps where good people say nothing. It’s like ignoring a compiler warning in your code. You might think, “It’s just a warning, it’ll probably be fine.” But those warnings pile up, and soon enough, the whole system crashes. Silence is how corruption spreads—how cruelty becomes normal, how lies become truth. When we hear coworkers, friends, or strangers mocking a tragedy or cheering violence, we can’t just nod and move on. That’s not a minor bug; that’s a system failure. But speaking up doesn’t mean shouting or fighting. It can be as simple as saying, “That’s not okay.” It can be a question: “Why would you laugh at someone’s death?” It can be a quiet refusal to join the chorus of cynicism. One voice, one moment of courage, can shift the room. Studies in social psychology, like those by Solomon Asch in the 1950s, show that even a single dissenting voice can break the pressure to conform. When one person stands up, others find the courage to follow. Your voice matters more than you think.
The Power of Joy
Here’s something evil doesn’t expect: joy. Darkness wants us to cower, to despair, to believe the world is too broken to fix. But when we smile, when we laugh, when we keep building despite the weight of the world, we’re sending a message: you don’t get to write the ending. Joy isn’t denial—it’s defiance. It’s the refusal to let cruelty define us.
Think of Desmond Tutu during South Africa’s apartheid era. Facing a brutal regime, he didn’t just fight with words—he fought with warmth, humor, and an unshakable belief in a better future. His joy disarmed oppressors and inspired millions. Or consider the early Christians, who sang hymns in prison cells (Acts 16:25). Their joy wasn’t weakness; it was a weapon. It proved that no chain could bind their hope. In programming terms, joy is like optimizing your code for resilience. It’s not about ignoring errors—it’s about building a system that keeps running, no matter what crashes around it. Every time you choose kindness over cruelty, hope over cynicism, or creation over destruction, you’re writing a line of code in a better program.
Repentance: Rewriting the Code
Let’s be clear: people aren’t irredeemable. Even those who celebrate darkness can change. Even those who commit evil can turn back. God’s door is always open, and grace is always possible. But repentance isn’t a one-word apology. It’s a process. It’s work. It’s like debugging a broken program—you don’t just comment out the bad code and call it a day. You analyze the error, rewrite the logic, test it rigorously, and maintain it over time. True repentance requires action: making amends, seeking forgiveness, and proving through a changed life that the bug is gone. This matters because it reminds us not to write anyone off. The person laughing at violence today might be tomorrow’s advocate for truth—if they’re challenged, if they’re shown a better way. That’s part of carrying the light: seeing the potential for redemption, even in the darkest places.
What We’re Called to Do
So where does this leave us? Right here, right now, in a world that’s messy and broken but not beyond repair. We’re not bystanders. We’re not here to hide or wait for better times. We’re here to act, to build, to shine. In programming, a single line of code doesn’t look like much. It’s just a string of characters. But combine enough lines, and you’ve got an application that can change the world. Our actions work the same way. One stand for truth, one act of courage, one refusal to join in cruelty—it adds up. Across thousands, millions of people, it becomes a movement.
Here are some practical ways to start:
- Speak Up: When you hear someone mocking or trivializing evil, don’t stay silent. A simple, “That’s not right,” can shift the conversation. It’s like adding a breakpoint to debug bad behavior.
- Build Something Good: Create—whether it’s art, code, a kind gesture, or a community. Creation is the opposite of destruction. It’s light in action.
- Stay Joyful: Choose hope, humor, and kindness, even when it’s hard. It’s not about ignoring pain—it’s about proving that pain doesn’t win.
- Learn from History: Read about those who stood for truth—prophets, reformers, leaders. Their stories remind us that the light endures. Start with figures like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who resisted Nazi evil with faith and courage.
- Pray and Reflect: If faith is part of your life, ask for strength to stand firm. If not, take time to clarify your values. What kind of world do you want to build?
The Light Wins
The world can feel dark. But darkness only makes the light more visible. The prophets, apostles, and dreamers who came before us didn’t quit because the world was hard. They stood their ground, even when it cost them everything. Their voices still echo—because truth doesn’t die. It’s like a well-written program: once it’s out there, it runs forever. We were born for this moment—not to shrink back, not to blend in, but to live boldly. To speak truth. To create beauty. To laugh in the face of despair. Nothing frustrates darkness more than people who keep smiling as they carry the light. So let’s do it. Let’s stand, speak, build, and laugh. Let’s write the code for a better world, one line at a time.
The Author of this story already wrote the ending. Spoiler alert: the light wins. Until then, let’s keep coding.
