Cynicism cannot save us. I know this first hand. Yes, it might offer us a temporary insulation from the pain of being alive. But the world that disenchantment offers us is closer to the grave than we might have thought. Dull and gray and tasteless — the tomb of the cynic is built while he is still alive.
Maybe joy is found in the constants, not in the transients. Perhaps joy is a choice, not a result. Our hopes and fears are the past tense versions of our successes and failures. These wash over us like waves: they come and go. But this deeper joy could be the rock that remains unmoved.
Yes, there are many things that are wrong with the world. So many things to be against — but you can’t be against everything. At some point you have to begin to stand for something. Maybe the most important question is not what am I against, but what do I stand for? On my best days, I want to stand for love conquering a multitude of wrongs. I want to stand for forgiveness, for mercy, for beauty, for grace.