If you are at all familiar with the horrific waves of violence that swept through the Balkans in the late 1990s, you have undoubtedly heard the name of Radovan Karadzic. Recently, upon being convicted by the International Crime Court of the massacre of 8,000 Muslim men and boys at Srebrenica in Bosnia, he turned to his lawyer and said, "I am astonished."
     To the very end of the trial, Karadzic demonstrated no remorse or regret for what he had done. In fact, he acted as if it had never happened.  Srebrenica, he often remarked, was a "fiction."  Karadzic's heart was one of utter indifference to justice and pain.
     Yet to those who knew him, even to the diplomats with whom he interacted, Karadzic was the most gracious of hosts, a man of thoroughgoing courtesy and conviviality.  He appeared to be a person who would do anything for his guests.
     Much ink has been poured about the perfidy of the human heart.  Unfortunately, much of it is true.  Even if we do not behave like Karadzic, we are in truth far darker than we imagine.  Beneath our veneers of civility, horror lurks.  Yet we rarely see it.  Why would we want to?  Though we are good, magnificent creatures made in the image of God, we are capable of acts of singularly overwhelming violence and pain.
     Why is this?  Psychologically, we label it a neurosis.  Theologically, we call it sin. Either way, we see, again, that finitude has limits, powerful and unbridgeable limits. While we may well be able to save the world from our acts of degradation, we in no way will ever save ourselves from who we are.  Our moral compass simply isn't large enough.
     We may not be a Karadzic, but we--all of us--who, because we live in a divinely endowed universe, remain in tremendous moral need.
     We all need Jesus, we all need God.