SUFFERING MAKES US ASK “WHY”?
Why, God?
The question is my constant companion in the dark. Questions in suffering are immediate and reflexive. Why comes in nights stalked by memories and days when every path not taken seems smoother than my own.
Suffering – when it is long enough and dark enough – inevitably erupts into whys. And sometimes, when that question echoes back at us, we think we are abandoned. When the question gnaws at our hearts, we think our faith has failed.
Yet, Jesus asked that question on the cross: my god, my god, why have you forsaken me?[1]Mark 15:33
We grasp for explanations in the dark that will splint our brokenness. We want purpose we can measure. Because maybe if we could put our suffering on a scale, we could bear it. Asking why is an attempt to console our suffering.[2]Weil, Simone, Gravity and Grace, Routledge, 112 We will stumble under pain but we will buckle under senseless devastation.[3]Frankl Maybe if could understand it, we could peer above the shadows and decide that our suffering is worth the reward. We would be braver if we could see to the other side.
We want our pain to matter
The truth, though, is that platitudes salt our words more often than answers. We tell ourselves that God will not give us more than we can handle. That we need to do our best so God will do the rest. That following God will mean healthy marriages, and families, and children, and lives. Playing Job’s friends to our own souls.
Because floods and fires and quakes do not always have silver linings. God does not always restore the fortunes of Job. Not on this side.
And there is another side.
But an abstract promise of eventual good is not enough when we are broken and hemorrhaging hope. And even when we get the promise right – which was never a silver lining, but that in the totality of our lives, He will knit turn even the darkest evil in on itself to make us like him[4]Romans 8:28 – it does not always stop the bleeding.
The best explanations can feel unresponsive to our personal hell.
answers do not silence pain
When the bottom falls out and we don’t know which way is up, philosophy can feel distant. Theology can seem cold when grief consumes our hearts. It is one thing to ponder suffering with the luxury of curiosity and time and solid ground. It is something else entirely to try and throw our arms around pain from within its grip.
Which is why we need to reckon in the light. We need to wrestle with evil before darkness falls. To remind our hearts that night is not the only vantage point we will ever occupy and that time will unfold new perspectives. That we only ever understand by degree.
But we also need to reckon in the dark. Because perspectives outside of pain are as inadequate as those within it. Some of the maps we follow in the day will be useless in the night. It may be true that we can’t see anything properly when our eyes are blurred with tears,[5]C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain but it is also true that there are some things that can only become visible through tears.[6]see, for example, Lewis, A Grief Observed
Jesus wept before he raised Lazarus.[7]John 11:35 And on the cross, Jesus asked why from the center of God’s will.
Even though he knew. With ultimate purpose in mind. Knowing the reason for his suffering. Assured of the redemptive end.[8]Hebrews 12:2
Perfect trust did not silence the questions
Answers didn’t allow him to bypass agony.
The cross reminds us that a soul sweating blood does not mean we are abandoned. It reminds us that we need God’s presence more than his explanations.
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Jesus Meets Our Questions with his Presence
The cross reminds us that a soul sweating blood does not mean we are abandoned.[9]Luke 22:44 It reminds us that we need God’s presence more than his explanations. Jesus’ cry is a testament to his understanding. That when we are consumed by questions and answers feel hollow; when we are desperate for purpose and pain feels senseless, there is a Jesus we only meet in our whys.
There is a Jesus we only see through tear blurred eyes. And a Jesus we only hear when we hear him scream into the void with us. His cry of dereliction means that ours will always be muted. It will always be an echo. And unlike his cry, ours will never be alone.
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