What About Suffering and Evil?
The Problem We Cannot Ignore
Suffering has a way of demanding our attention. It interrupts life without warning, upends our sense of fairness, and forces us to ask questions we might otherwise avoid.
Why is this happening?
Where is God in this?
How can a loving God allow such pain?
These aren’t just intellectual dilemmas; they are raw, deeply personal struggles that have haunted every generation. They echo through the cries of Job, through Jesus’ words on the cross, and through our own whispered prayers in the dark.
The Book of Job is one of the most ancient attempts to grapple with suffering, and it refuses to offer easy answers. Job was blameless, yet his life was torn apart—his wealth disappeared, his children died, and his body was covered in sores. His friends sat with him at first, silent in the face of his grief. But when they finally spoke, they offered the usual explanations: Job, you must have done something wrong. Maybe this is punishment. Maybe if you repent, things will get better.
But Job refused their logic. He knew he had done nothing to deserve such agony. And so, he demanded answers—not from them, but from God Himself.
When God finally responded, it wasn’t with a neat explanation. Instead, He challenged Job’s entire framework of understanding.
"Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand." (Job 38:4)
It wasn’t the answer Job was looking for. God didn’t explain why suffering happens. Instead, He reminded Job of something deeper—that there is a vastness to creation, a mystery that human minds cannot fully comprehend. Job had been demanding a justification, but God offered him something else: an invitation to trust.
What’s even more unsettling is that God took responsibility for Job’s suffering.
"Have you considered my servant Job?" God says to Satan. "He still maintains his integrity, though you incited me against him to ruin him without any reason." (Job 2:3)
God does not say, Satan did this, or Job deserved this. Instead, He acknowledges that He allowed it—for reasons beyond Job’s understanding.
That’s a troubling idea for most of us. It means that suffering is not just the result of human sin or the devil’s schemes. It is something God Himself permits. And if that’s true, then we have to ask—why?
God Created Everything, Including Evil
Many Christians struggle with the idea that God is responsible for suffering. We like to blame the devil, to separate evil from God’s creation, as if something outside of Him is working against Him. But Scripture does not allow for that division.
In Isaiah 45:7, God declares:
“I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the Lord, do all these things.”
God created everything—including evil, suffering, and even Satan himself. The devil is not an independent force outside of God’s control. He is a created being, subject to the will of his Creator.
This is reinforced in Colossians 1:16-17, where Paul says:
"For in Him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through Him and for Him."
There is no cosmic battle between equals. God is supreme. Nothing exists apart from Him—including the very forces we label as “evil.”
But why? Why would God create something that could bring pain and suffering into the world?
Because perhaps without suffering, without struggle, without opposition, transformation would not be possible.
The Pattern of Transformation
If we step back and look at the broader picture of Scripture, a pattern emerges—one that is repeated over and over again. It is the rhythm of death and resurrection, loss and renewal, suffering and transformation.
Jesus spoke of this mystery when He said, "Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit." (John 12:24)
Paul echoed the same truth when he wrote, "We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." (Romans 5:3-4)
James even went so far as to say that we should consider suffering “pure joy” because of what it produces in us (James 1:2-4).
These statements can feel dismissive in the face of real pain—until we understand what they are really saying. They aren’t telling us to pretend suffering is good. They are telling us that suffering, or even the evil that we endure, is never wasted. It is the pathway by which we are changed, refined, and ultimately made new.
Jesus Himself followed this pattern—not just in His death and resurrection, but in His whole approach to life. He didn’t avoid suffering. He didn’t fight back. Instead, He surrendered to it, trusting that God would bring life out of death.
And He did.
Necessary Suffering and Sacred Wounds
There is a kind of suffering that we bring on ourselves through poor choices. Indeed, God does not need to punish sin but it does have its own consequences. But there is another kind of suffering—necessary suffering—that is woven into the fabric of life itself. It is the kind of suffering that strips away illusions, breaks our ego, and opens us up to something greater.
Necessary suffering is what Jesus endured. It’s what Paul endured. It’s what every person who has ever grown in wisdom and compassion has endured.
Richard Rohr describes it this way:
"If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it."
We see this everywhere. People who do not deal with their wounds end up inflicting those wounds on others—parents who were hurt in childhood unintentionally passing that pain to their children, broken relationships breeding more brokenness, entire societies living in cycles of oppression and revenge.
But when we embrace our suffering and allow God to transform it, something powerful happens. Our wounds become sacred.
Jesus, after His resurrection, still bore His wounds. He did not erase them. When He appeared to Thomas, He invited him to touch the scars in His hands and side.
"Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe." (John 20:27)
His wounds were not just reminders of His pain. They became the evidence of His love, the proof of His resurrection, the very means by which others were healed.
This is what happens to us when we allow God to redeem our suffering. Our wounds become more than just our own pain—they become the very thing that allows us to help others who suffer in the same way.
This is why survivors of abuse often become the most powerful advocates for others.
Why those who have endured deep grief are the ones who can sit with others in their sorrow.
Why those who have faced addiction often become the best sponsors and mentors for others walking the same road.
In these moments, our suffering is no longer just something we endured. It has become a sacred wound, a source of healing for others.
This is what it means to be a wounded healer.
The Failure of "Fighting Evil"
Many Christian traditions, especially within evangelical and Catholic circles, emphasize fighting evil—as if we are engaged in some great spiritual battle. The idea is that we must take up arms, spiritually speaking, and defeat “the enemy.”
But this raises an uncomfortable question: How do you fight something you cannot see?
If we believe suffering is the result of the devil, then how do we battle such a force? If we believe evil is a force in the world, then how do we resist something so overwhelming?
Jesus never told us to fight evil. Instead, He told us to stand firm and trust in God’s deliverance. In the Lord’s Prayer, He taught us to pray:
"Deliver us from evil." (Matthew 6:13)
Not, "Teach us to fight," but, "Deliver us."
Even Paul, who speaks of spiritual warfare, doesn’t tell us to attack. He tells us to stand firm.
"Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong." (1 Corinthians 16:13)
If spiritual battle was the key to overcoming evil, then surely Jesus would have called His followers warriors. But He didn’t. He called them sheep—a creature that requires constant care, protection, and guidance.
In John 10, right after saying that the devil comes to steal, kill, and destroy, Jesus does not tell us to fight back. Instead, He paints an entirely different picture:
"I am the Good Shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep." (John 10:11)
Sheep do not fight. They do not defend themselves. They rely entirely on the goodness of the Shepherd.
This is the shocking reality of the Gospel: Our security is not in our ability to fight, but in our willingness to trust. Jesus, our Shepherd, already won the battle by laying down His life.
The cross was not a battle Jesus fought—it was an act of surrender, trusting that God would bring resurrection on the other side.
And He did.
The World, the Flesh, and the Devil
Richard Rohr explains that evil operates on three levels:
The World – The systems, institutions, and cultural forces that normalize evil.
The Flesh – The egoic self, obsessed with power, control, and superiority.
The Devil – The invisible spiritual force that deceives, accuses, and divides.
Most Christian traditions focus on “the flesh”—policing personal morality—while ignoring "the world", the corrupt systems that perpetuate injustice. But Scripture speaks more about "the world" than individual sin.
Paul warns:
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” (Romans 12:2)
Jesus openly condemned religious corruption, economic injustice, and hypocrisy—not personal sins like drinking or swearing. Yet, we often participate in systemic evil without realizing it:
We condemn greed and gluttony, yet glorify wealth accumulation at the expense of others.
We denounce murder, yet justify war and violence.
We judge individuals, yet ignore injustice built into society.
This is "the world"—the system we are born into, the cultural assumptions we never question.
The flesh is not just bodily temptation—it is the false self that craves power, security, and control. It leads us to build our own kingdom instead of trusting in God's.
Paul describes this struggle:
"I do not do what I want, but what I hate, I do." (Romans 7:15)
The flesh tells us we can save ourselves, but Jesus says:
“Whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.” (Matthew 10:39)
Real life comes not through control, but through surrender.
Jesus describes the devil as:
“A liar and the father of lies.” (John 8:44)
His greatest weapon is not demonic possession that needs to be cast out, but deception.
He twists truth, fuels fear and accusation, and convinces us that evil is good and good is evil.
This is why Jesus rebuked Peter—not because Peter was evil, but because he was thinking like the world:
“Get behind me, Satan! You do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns.” (Matthew 16:23)
Evil does not always look monstrous. Sometimes it looks like good people justifying corruption, violence, and power.
These forces—the world, the flesh, and the devil—work together:
The world tempts us to conform.
The flesh seeks control.
The devil whispers lies.
Jesus calls us to a different way: resist the world, crucify the flesh, and resist and stand firm against the devil’s deception.
This is why Christianity is not just about morality—it’s about waking up and having the eyes to see and the ears to hear.
Because evil is not just bad choices—it is the entire system we unknowingly support. And only by renewing our minds can we begin to see the truth.
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, authorities, and the powers of this dark world.” (Ephesians 6:12)
The world says, Win.
The flesh says, Control.
The devil says, Blame.
But Jesus says, die to yourself, let go, and you will live.
The Scapegoating Mechanism
One of the ways we try to make sense of suffering is by finding someone to blame. This is an ancient pattern, deeply ingrained in human societies.
In Leviticus 16, the Israelites practiced a ritual where a goat—the scapegoat—was symbolically loaded with the sins of the people and sent into the wilderness to die. This ritual gave the people a sense of relief, as if their guilt had been removed.
French philosopher René Girard identified this pattern as foundational to all human societies. When societies experience turmoil, they instinctively look for someone to blame.
The Salem Witch Trials blamed innocent women for misfortunes.
The Holocaust scapegoated Jews for economic and social problems.
The Civil Rights era exposed how entire systems of oppression relied on blaming minorities.
We see this same pattern in religion:
Some churches blame LGBTQ+ people for moral decline.
Others scapegoat secular society for declining faith and church attendance.
Still others scapegoat other denominations as “false Christians.”
But Jesus exposed and dismantled the scapegoating mechanism. He became the ultimate scapegoat.
"Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!" (John 1:29)
Jesus was accused, condemned, and executed—not because He was guilty, but because humanity needed someone to blame.
Instead of resisting, He absorbed the violence and forgave.
"Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." (Luke 23:34)
His death revealed the lie—scapegoating doesn’t work. It only perpetuates violence and division.
The Call to Trust
Perhaps the hardest thing to accept is that God allows suffering and evil. Not just passively, but in a way that is somehow part of the divine process of transformation.
Scripture never denies that suffering is hard. It never asks us to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Instead, the Bible is filled with laments, cries of confusion, and even anger toward God.
Job, after losing everything, demanded answers:
"I cry out to you, God, but you do not answer; I stand up, but you merely look at me." (Job 30:20)
David, the man after God's own heart, cried out in despair:
"How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?" (Psalm 13:1)
Even Jesus Himself—God in the flesh—felt abandoned on the cross:
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Matthew 27:46)
These passages remind us that lament is holy. It is not a lack of faith—it is an act of faith. To cry out to God is to acknowledge that He is the One responsible.
And He is.
Job realized this when he said:
"Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?" (Job 2:10)
Paul wrestled with this mystery as well. He spoke of his “thorn in the flesh”—which he called “a messenger of Satan”—but instead of removing it, God told him:
"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:9)
At some point, we must make a choice. Do we hold onto our pain, demanding answers that may never come? Or do we surrender to the mystery—trusting that one day, we will understand?
One day, we will look back, probably with laughter and amusement, and see what we could not understand in the moment.
"One day, we will look at Satan and say, ‘Is this the one who made the earth tremble?’" (Isaiah 14:16) Jesus said, "You don't understand now what I am doing, but someday you will." (John 13:7)
The message of Job, of Jesus, of Paul, of the entire Bible is this: Trust.
Like Job, we will never fully understand the mystery of why God allows suffering and evil. But we can trust that:
Suffering has meaning.
Evil will be redeemed.
If things are not yet made right, then this is not yet the end.
And until then, we are allowed to weep, to question, to cry out.
Because faith is not pretending to understand—faith is trusting in the One who does.
