In a Better World
In a Better World
The lives of two Danish families cross each other, and an extraordinary but risky friendship comes into bud. But loneliness, frailty and sorrow lie in wait.
CrossCutCritic reviewedMay 30, 2025
In a Better World
To You, Who Faced the Temptation of Revenge and Chose the Path of Forgiveness
“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” — Romans 12:21
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I. To You, Who Witnessed Injustice and Struggled with the Desire for Retribution
You saw it happen.
The shove.
The slap.
The humiliation in front of everyone.
You clenched your fists,
not out of courage,
but out of something more honest:
the raw, holy hunger to even the score.
You told yourself it was justice.
That someone had to teach them a lesson.
That forgiveness was weakness—
the kind that gets people hurt.
And maybe you were right.
Because in this world,
the ones who turn the other cheek
sometimes bleed.
And yet—
In a Better World dares to ask:
What happens to your soul
when you win that way?
Christian is not a villain.
He’s just a boy who’s already seen too much.
A boy who believes violence is the only language adults understand.
And Elias—gentle, grieving Elias—
follows him because part of him wants to believe it too.
This is your story.
If you’ve ever felt the pull of revenge,
and called it strength—
if you’ve ever chosen retaliation
not because you were cruel,
but because you were scared of being powerless again—
then you already know this ache.
And you know it is not easily silenced.
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II. The Power You Thought Would Set You Free But Didn’t
It felt good—for a moment.
The retaliation.
The strike.
The rush of knowing you could hurt someone
the way they hurt you.
It made you feel clean.
Strong.
In control again.
But it didn’t last.
Because power gained through violence
never stays with you.
It stains you.
It lives in your silence afterward,
in the way you avoid the mirror,
in the sound of your own breath
when the adrenaline fades.
And beneath it all—
you are still afraid.
That’s what In a Better World understands:
that violence doesn’t heal powerlessness.
It just passes the wound along.
Anton, the father, knows this.
He’s seen what violence does,
in a refugee camp far from home.
He’s tried to believe that turning away from revenge
is a kind of moral strength.
But even he hesitates
when the world feels too brutal for mercy.
This is not a clean debate.
It’s a crucifixion.
If you’ve ever tasted the bitter triumph of vengeance
and found yourself emptier than before—
then you already know this moment.
It is not the end of the story.
But it is where the lie begins to break.
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III. The Father Who Chose Peace and the Son Who Couldn’t Understand It
You tried to teach him.
Not with lectures,
but with restraint.
You let yourself be humiliated in front of your child—
not because you were weak,
but because you believed
that mercy could be stronger than pride.
But he didn’t see that.
He saw failure.
Saw a man who wouldn’t fight back.
Saw a world where good men are stepped on
and bad ones never pay.
You didn’t blame him.
How could you?
Even you weren’t sure your pacifism wasn’t just fear in disguise.
But still, you refused to strike.
You held the line.
You believed, or tried to believe,
that violence repaid with violence
only teaches the world to bleed more efficiently.
And your son—
your grieving, angry son—
carried a bomb in his pocket
because he didn’t yet know how else to feel safe.
This is how In a Better World confronts us:
with two generations staring into the same fire,
and coming to opposite conclusions.
If you’ve ever tried to live by grace
in a world that respects only strength—
if you’ve ever stood between your child and the abyss
and watched them step closer anyway—
then you already know this heartbreak.
It is not failure.
It is the cost of holding peace
in a world still ruled by fear.
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IV. The Moment You Could Have Chosen Destruction—And Didn’t
You held it in your hands.
The power.
The chance to return the blow,
to let someone finally feel the fear they had sown.
Everything in you wanted to do it.
Not out of cruelty—
but because it felt like justice.
The world told you it was yours to take.
That letting them go would be weakness.
That if you didn’t act, you’d always be the one left bleeding.
But you didn’t strike.
You let him go.
Not because he deserved it—
but because you no longer wanted to be the kind of person
who needed to win that way.
And in that moment,
you gave your son something he couldn’t understand yet:
a vision of strength that looked like surrender.
A glimpse of the cross
in the center of the rage.
In a Better World doesn’t glorify forgiveness.
It just shows what it costs.
Anton’s mercy is not rewarded.
His family is still broken.
His son is still angry.
But something is planted.
If you’ve ever stood at the edge of vengeance
and chosen silence instead—
not because you were afraid,
but because you were becoming someone new—
then you already know this cruciform mercy.
It doesn’t fix the world.
But it refuses to mirror its worst parts.
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V. The World That Didn’t Change But You Did
Nothing dramatic happened.
The bullies kept yelling.
The systems kept failing.
The world stayed as bruised and indifferent as ever.
But something had shifted—
in you.
In your son.
In the space between revenge and forgiveness.
He saw you.
Not as a hero.
Not as a coward.
But as a man who bore the weight of mercy
without needing anyone to understand.
And when the time came,
he chose not to destroy.
He walked away from the brink.
Not because he was sure it would fix anything—
but because he had seen you do the same.
That is how grace moves.
Not in conquest.
In quiet inheritance.
You didn’t change the world.
But you didn’t let it change you either.
And that, sometimes, is the beginning of a better one.
If you’ve ever longed for justice
but lived instead by mercy—
if you’ve ever planted peace where violence would have been easier—
then you already know this hope.
It doesn’t shout.
But it endures.
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Postscript
In a Better World is not an answer to evil.
It is a question about who we become in its presence.
It doesn’t give us heroes.
It gives us fathers who bleed quietly,
sons who rage honestly,
and a world that does not reward forgiveness.
But it also gives us a choice:
To be shaped by the wound,
or to shape something else with the pain.
This is the gospel not of glory,
but of gentleness.
Of walking away from vengeance
even when it feels like the last thing holding you together.
There is a God who sees this mercy.
Not the loud kind.
The kind that leaves no scar but your own.
And He says:
“You did not overcome the world.
But you did not let it overcome you.
That is enough.”