Jonan Pilet
Last December, I had the privilege of giving a talk at Houghton University titled Fiddling While Rome Burns: The Significance of Stories in a World on Fire. It was an opportunity to wrestle with a question that plagues many writers, artists, and thinkers: does any of this matter? In the face of global crises, suffering, and uncertainty, why do we create? Why do we tell stories? Now, I have the opportunity to bring these thoughts to a new audience through the Houghton Star, and in doing so, I aim to give some hope to students who are trying to build meaningful lives in a world that often feels like it’s unraveling.
The World is on Fire
The truth is, it’s hard to ignore the weight of the world. Every day, we are bombarded with news of escalating conflicts, economic turmoil, environmental disasters, and political division. AI is advancing at breakneck speed, threatening job security. The coffee is weak. The world feels unstable, chaotic, and at times, downright terrifying.
Meanwhile, life continues. I sit at my desk, trying to write a story—a story that may never be read by anyone but me. My son plays down the hall, unaware of the world’s problems. I am not solving global conflicts. I am not fixing the economy. I am not even making the coffee stronger. I am just writing.
And that, sometimes, feels like a failure.
The Guilt of Creation
I suspect many students here at Houghton feel a similar tension. You are working hard toward a degree, preparing for a future that feels increasingly uncertain. You are investing in education, in creativity, in growth—but for what? What if the world you’re preparing for doesn’t look the way you expected? What if, in the grand scheme of things, your efforts seem small or insignificant?
As a Christian writer, I struggle with another guilt. In the face of eternity, why do I write? Shouldn’t I be doing something more practical, more impactful? Why bother adorning the foyer of eternity when the walls themselves are crumbling?
But then, I think about my wife, who—despite constantly browsing Zillow for better homes—still insists on repainting our guest room. Life doesn’t stop. Creation doesn’t stop. And maybe that, in itself, is a kind of resistance.
Creation as Defiance
C.S. Lewis, in The Weight of Glory, speaks directly to this dilemma. He acknowledges that “plausible reasons have never been lacking for putting off all merely cultural activities until some imminent danger has been averted or some crying injustice put right.” And yet, humanity continues to create. We write stories. We paint. We compose music. Not as distractions, but as declarations.
I have come to believe that telling stories in the midst of crisis is not an act of indifference—it is an act of defiance. It is a way of saying that the world, with all its chaos and destruction, does not win. Stories connect us. They break through the isolation of our own minds and remind us that we are not alone. They show us that others have walked through darkness before us and found their way.
So, to the students of Houghton: I know many of you are carrying the weight of uncertainty. The future can feel overwhelming, and it may seem like the practical response is to put aside your creative passions, your dreams, and your hopes in order to focus on sheer survival. But I urge you—don’t stop creating. Don’t stop investing in the things that bring meaning to life, even if they seem small in the grand scheme of things. Because they aren’t small. They are acts of resistance against despair. ★