How can a good God stand by and permit suffering? If God is love, then how is it that children are abused, molested and raped? If God is all powerful, why did he allow “x” to occur? These are some of the toughest questions we can ask or be asked because the answers are equally tough.
Many questions may be answered quite easily. Should I read the Bible? Yes. Can God forgive me for aborting my child? Yes. Should I honor my parents? Yes. And the list goes on.
Other questions aren’t so easy, but are still quite simple. What is God’s will for my life? His will is that you be saved by faith in Jesus Christ, be Spirit-filled, and be sanctified. Now, these three things are stated quite simply, but lived out only with difficulty.
Let’s try an even tougher question or scenario. A man asks an elder why his marriage is in turmoil. The answer is quite clear to the elder: your marriage is in shambles because you have abdicated your role as spiritual leader in your family and are indulging in sinful practices. This answer is indeed true, but if not spoken in an attitude and expression of love, then the man may embrace open rebellion, or resentment, or anger, hatred and bitterness. And so we find that not only is the question’s answer tough, one must also be deeply discerning and Spirit-led in presenting a response.
Now let’s return to the top of the page with a more difficult counseling situation. A young man has begun attending a small congregation of believers. He has been developing friendships with some of the men. One night, after finishing a meal in one of the men’s homes, he looks as though he bears some great weight. The man of the house asks the younger man what’s on his mind. The young man begins to speak of his childhood. And as he tells the following story he becomes increasing agitated and tearful until he ends with shouted questions as he smashes a plate with his fist:
“My father used to beat me as a kid. At first it wasn’t too bad, he’d just spank us some or whatever. Then he started gettin stuff like his belt or a golf club, you know, whatever was closest to grab. He would even make me and my little sister stand in the livin room and he’d throw his empty cans and bottles at us for fun. I also remember him hittin my momma a bunch and yellin all the time. When he’d take us to church he’d always lie about how we got our cuts and bruises. And he always used to smile a whole lot and shake hands real big with other fellas and it never made any sense to me. I used to pray to God that he’d make it all better, but he never did.
It’s been thirteen years now since I saw him. The last night I saw him, he had just finished beatin my mom. He hurt her so bad that she can’t see no more in her left eye and can’t talk no more because he crushed her throat choking her. He dropped her when she passed out and that’s what saved her from being killed. Then he went into his room with his bottle. I heard a gun shot and that’s the last I saw him.
And now I’ve been here with you guys for a few months; they said Jesus was the answer, so I came. And here all of you are singing and living on like everything is great and wonderful! You talk about God’s love and grace and all this stuff. But what the hell do you know? It ain’t fair! What did me and my sister ever do? What did my momma ever do to wind up like this? How come God let all that happen? How come he let my old man get away with it all? Why did God let him pull the trigger without me ever being big enough to hit him and spit in his face? How come I never got to make him bleed and fear and hurt like he did us? If God is who you say, then HOW THE HELL DID HE LET THIS HAPPEN? WHERE WAS GOD WHEN I NEEDED HIM?!?!”
How do you answer these questions? How do you help this man? Or the girl who was abducted from her freshman dorm parking lot and raped in the back of a van? Or the woman who was molested as a child? How do you even begin to answer these people’s questions?
Wrong way:
I can come out with doctrinal, theological guns blazing, firing off truth left, right, and center. I could ask this man who he thinks he is to require of God an explanation. I could tell this young man that his perspective is obviously wrong. I could ask him who he thinks he is to accuse God of wrong. I could say a thousand things that would be theologically correct and absolutely wrong, even sinful, of me to say in that moment of his anguish.
A better way:
He has just smashed a plate and his fist is bleeding. My wife is a lovely daughter of God who happened to have been abused as a child. I look over to my wife and she is teary-eyed and smiling. I ask her please, to go grab a bandage and a glass of iced water. And as she is out of the room I look at my friend and wait for him to finish weeping as I pray that the Spirit would guide my tongue now as much as he ever has done. He finally looks up at me, his eyes still screaming, “Why!” My wife returns and he reluctantly allows her to bandage his hand. He sips the water and is now calming down. I say very honestly to him that I don’t fully know what it’s like to have been through anything like that. I tell him that my wife was abused by her father when she was young and the man lifts his eyes to meet her gaze. It is a piercing, a fierce and loving look in her eyes. And his face softens ever so slightly. He looks back to me. I say quite naturally that there are things in this world that are terrible, that should never happen. And I admit that I really don’t understand a lot when it comes to answering questions like this. I tell him that I truly hate that he has suffered in this way.
And as I am speaking I remember the night my wife, then girlfriend, told me of what her father had done. I remember the violent hatred that coursed through my veins. I remember how it took years for my hatred of her father to turn to compassion and forgiveness and even love. I remember how the thing that was pivotal for me was coming to see Christ clearly. I remember learning how I had lived so many years of my life thinking that I was the penultimate. I remember learning that God’s glory was a big deal and that it was central to who he is. I remember the first time I perceived sin in a way that was even infinitesimally similar to how Christ and God regard sin.
I recall all these things in a fraction of a second. And as I look at this man before me I think of all the things I could say to him. I think to myself that this young man doesn’t understand sin. He doesn’t really understand the Gospel. I think that he believes God owes him something; he believes he deserves good things and nothing bad should come to him. And I dismiss all these thoughts as quickly as they emerge because I know that in this moment he needs merciful truth, he needs kind truth, he needs compassionate truth. He does not need righteous indignation. He does not need me to correct his egocentric views with my pharisaical doctrine.
I clear my throat. I’ve had enough experience in my life with saying the wrong thing or saying the right thing in the wrong way, thus making it entirely wrong. I open my mouth and say that I love him. I’m honest with him and admit that it’s tough to swallow the things our congregational family holds to be true about God and Christ and Scripture and suffering. I tell him that even though it may mean little or nothing for me to tell him that I love him, it is true nonetheless. I tell him that I’m glad he’s angry. I tell him that I’m glad he is screaming and demanding answers instead of numbing and drowning himself in alcohol as I once did. I tell him that if he would like to, that I would love to spend even more time with him and have him in my home even more. I commit to him that I will walk by his side as long as he is under this cloud of darkness and doubt. I tell him that I will introduce him to some of the other people in our church who have been victims and have unjustly suffered at the hands of evil men. I tell him that I will share with him what little I have learned from Scripture and that I will study to learn even more for the sake of helping him. I tell him that I count every plate he smashes in my home as a blessing, a gift of his raw, honest and sincere heart to me, when so many others have hidden themselves and slowly killed their own hearts.
I ask if he would mind if I prayed just now. He nods his head and so I pray as honest and un-preaching a prayer as I know how; it’s a short prayer, but it’s real. And then I ask if he would like some ice cream and brownies. My wife has been smiling this whole time and rises to go prepare the dessert. The young man begins to fumble out an apology and expresses that he’ll replace the plate. I kindly cut him short and ask him to follow me; I have something I’d like to show him.
We go upstairs into the master bathroom and I pull back a painting to reveal a large hole in the wall. I step to the other wall and do the same thing, revealing another hole. He looks a little puzzled. I tell him that real life comes out one way or another and that the holes in the wall will remain to the end as a reminder of just how tough questions can get. He looks at my fist to see if there are any scars. I shake my head and smile. His look is puzzled once more. I tell him that it was my wife’s fists who made these holes and not my own. I tell him that the only way I survived alcoholism was because of God’s mercy through her. Her horrific childhood made her tough, but it also made her fiercely tender. She understood my sin long before I did. It was her anger at sin and it’s offense to God, and not anger at me or even at her father, that put those two holes in our walls. I’m not saying we should go around putting holes in walls or breaking plates, but sometimes, in this Christian life, things aren’t always what we think or would like to think.
If she hadn’t endured what she had as a young girl, I would likely be dead and would likely have killed others in the process. I can’t erase what your father did. I can’t give you some catchy mantra to chant in front of a mirror to make it all better. I can say that my wife endured something horrid so that later she could save my life. And I can tell you that right now she is downstairs thanking God that she knows what you went through and that she can tell you you’re not alone and God can heal you. And tonight as she and I fall asleep, she will thank the Father that he brought her through all that so that years later she would know exactly how to pray for you. I tell him that I don’t know “Why God,” but that someday, he may find himself in my wife’s shoes, able to help someone else who has been hurt and suffered just as he.
We go back downstairs. My wife has just set the dessert out. He takes a bite of brownie and ice cream, smiles, and comments that it’s probably the sweetest a brownie has ever tasted. After we finish, I send him home to rest. The next day I call him to see how he’s is doing.
The way you answer these questions is to go from acquaintance to friendship and then from friendship to brotherhood and sisterhood. You spend hours in prayer, on your knees, before the throne. You search the Scriptures and beg the Spirit to give you wisdom. You pray fervently for the salvation and healing of your brother or sister. You commit to working just as hard as they do in seeking the face of the Lord.
Why does God permit suffering? God permits suffering because he IS GOOD and he IS LOVING. God allows and ordains great tragedy so that we may begin to understand how terrible sin is and how great an affront it is to his holiness and glory.
God is sovereign and God is love. This is how we begin to seek the answers to the tough questions. We humble ourselves under the hand of the Lord, that in his good timing we may be lifted up to understand more of his ways.
