Photo by Tadeusz Zachwieja on Unsplash
When someone we love is suffering, we want to make it make sense.
We rush in with phrases like, “At least…” or “When God closes a door…” or “Everything happens for a reason.” These are not unkind words. Most often, they’re born of good intentions—our attempts to soften someone’s pain, to shield them from the blow, or to reassure ourselves that the world still makes sense. But in doing so, we often overstep the sacred space of sorrow, offering answers at times when we just need to be present.
As Alexander Pope once warned, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
Just being present takes restraint. Periodically, I’m on the scene early in someone’s crisis. Questions often come that cannot be answered at the moment. It can be a challenge to honor those questions for what they really are—a faithful lament. “How long O Lord?” (Psalm 13).
Reaching for cold comforts
In moments of grief or struggle, anyone might fall back on the tools of other philosophies—karma, stoicism, or moralism—not because we’ve lost a bigger hope, but because we panic when things hurt too deeply.
We reach for karma when we quietly assume that life should reward the good and punish the bad. When something tragic happens, we instinctively start scanning for an explanation: What did they do wrong? Who’s to blame? Karma makes the world feel manageable, like a math problem. But the Christian story refuses that equation. The cross is proof that the most faithful person who ever lived suffered immeasurably—not because He deserved it, but because He was meeting our need.
Other times, we lapse into stoicism—that is, a posture of emotional detachment disguised as strength. We try to keep calm and carry on. Don’t be weepy. Don’t ask questions. Just accept it. But Christianity does not elevate detachment as a virtue. In fact, Scripture insists that sorrow and trust are not opposites. The shortest verse in the Bible is one of its most powerful: it tells us that God in the flesh did not numb Himself to grief, but entered it fully, alongside us.
So what do we do instead? How do we live in a world where all things are clearly not good—and still believe in a God who is?
Christianity offers a deep reservoir of comfort, but only when we draw from the right places. It begins with three core truths:
1. His Ways Are Not Our Ways
Scripture is refreshingly honest about the limits of our understanding. “My thoughts are not your thoughts,” God says through the prophet Isaiah. And that’s a comfort. Because if God were small enough to fully understand, He would not be big enough to worship. We may not know the reason for our suffering—but we are told what it isn’t: it’s not proof that we’ve been abandoned. It’s not divine payback. It’s not pointless chaos. There is mystery, yes, but not meaninglessness.
2. Jesus Wept
The Bible gives full permission for grief, anger, lament, and longing. The Psalms—Israel’s prayer book—are filled with raw cries: “My tears have been my food,” and “Why have you forsaken me?” Christianity does not ask us to pretend, to spin grief into gratitude before we’re ready, or to wrap pain in polite theological platitudes. As Churchill said, “When you’re going through hell, just keep going.” Scripture meets us there. It keeps us company in the dark.
It’s always struck me as a delayed comfort to the ages that Jesus paused in a moment of pain even when he knew he was about to take it away. At the tomb of his friend Lazarus, he bent in sorrow over the human condition. How poignant that the Author of life and joy would enter into the moment of sorrow and not wave it away the promise of tomorrow or the rationale of a silver lining.
3. Jesus Suffered—So Our Suffering Would Not Be in Vain
The cross of Christ is the clearest proof that God does not stand at a distance from suffering. He entered into it. He bore it. And through His suffering, He accomplished something no one else could: redemption. Resurrection. The promise that suffering does not have the final word. As Paul writes in Romans 8, “God works all things together for the good of those who love Him…”—not that all things are good, but that even the worst things are not wasted.
This is not a call to quick optimism. It is a call to persevering hope. It doesn’t require you to understand everything, but it invites you to trust Someone who does. Not because He gives easy answers, but because He has given Himself.
Tapping into the reservoir
When faced with a tough diagnosis, an old faithful friend of mine said to me, “No wimpy prayers.” So, I’m all for knocking on the door of heaven—even making myself a nuisance. “Ask and keep on asking,” is what Jesus literally says in Matthew 7:7. Ask expectantly, leaving the results to Him.
However, too often American Christianity seeks quick fixes in the shallow end of the pool. Sometimes we flatten faithfulness into a singular expectation of divine intervention—forgetting that while miracles are real, they are signs, not substitutes for trust. Jesus calmed the storm not because of His disciples’ faithfulness, but in spite of their fear.
God does not need us to defend Him in people’s pain with quick-fix explanations for suffering—not even with potential silver linings. He invites us to rest in Him. Not because He’s useful, but because He is worthy.
There are deeper pools in the valley. Especially there.
Leave a Reply