There are certain questions that do not arise from curiosity, but from collision. They are not born in classrooms or debates, but in moments when life presses hard against the soul and refuses to explain itself.
These questions surface when loss interrupts routine, when suffering enters without invitation, when prayer feels unanswered and silence stretches longer than comfort allows.
Why does God allow evil?
It is a question that has never belonged exclusively to skeptics. It belongs just as deeply to believers. Faith does not exempt us from asking it; in many ways, faith intensifies the ache behind it. Those who trust God most deeply are often the ones who struggle hardest when the world seems to contradict what they believe about Him.
The question is asked in hospital rooms and at gravesides. It is whispered in the middle of the night when sleep will not come. It is carried quietly by people who continue to worship even while their hearts are breaking. And it is often asked without words, simply felt as a weight that settles somewhere between belief and pain.
Scripture does not shy away from this question. In fact, it preserves it.
The Psalms are filled with cries of confusion and protest.
The prophets speak honestly about injustice and delay.
Job gives voice to suffering with an intensity that still unsettles readers thousands of years later.
Even Jesus, hanging on the cross, speaks the language of abandonment:
“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
That cry matters. It tells us that the question of suffering is not rebellion against God. It is not a failure of faith. It is part of the human condition, and God does not forbid it. He allows it to be spoken — even by His own Son.
What troubles us most is not simply that evil exists, but that it seems to coexist with God’s apparent restraint. We expect intervention. We expect explanation. We expect something decisive that will justify the pain we see. Instead, we are often met with quiet. And silence, when we are hurting, can feel like absence.
This is where many hearts begin to struggle. If God is good, why does He not act sooner? If He is powerful, why does He permit such suffering to continue? If He is loving, why does the world seem so indifferent to that love?
These are not shallow questions. They reach into the character of God Himself. And because they do, the answers cannot be shallow either.
The Bible never presents evil as imaginary or insignificant. It is described as a force that corrupts, destroys, and deceives. Creation itself, Paul tells us, groans under its weight. Bodies fail. Relationships fracture. Justice falters. Even our best efforts are often compromised by motives we barely understand.
Yet Scripture is equally clear about something else: evil is not original. It is not eternal. It is not sovereign. It does not explain the world; it distorts it. It does not create; it corrupts. It feeds on what God has made and twists it away from its intended purpose.
That distinction is critical. If evil were ultimate, despair would be logical. If suffering were the final truth about reality, hope would be dishonest. But the biblical story insists that evil is an intruder, not a ruler. It is present, but it is not in control.
From the opening chapters of Genesis, the world is described as good — created in harmony, sustained by relationship, ordered by love. Evil enters not as part of God’s design, but as a rupture within it. The fall fractures not only human hearts, but the fabric of creation itself. From that moment forward, the world carries a tension it was never meant to bear.
And still, God does not abandon it.
This is where the discussion often goes astray. We attempt to solve evil as though it were a puzzle to be decoded. We look for explanations that will neatly resolve the tension. But suffering is not a math problem. It is not answered by logic alone. It is answered, if at all, by presence.
The Bible does not give us a philosophical system that explains evil. It gives us a story. And at the center of that story stands a cross.
Before Scripture ever invites us to analyze why God allows suffering, it asks us to look at what God has done with it. The cross does not immediately remove the question, but it reframes it completely. It shifts the conversation from abstraction to incarnation, from theory to flesh and blood.
At Calvary, God does not stand above human pain explaining it. He steps into it. He does not offer immunity from suffering; He shares it. He does not silence the cry of anguish; He speaks it Himself.
This changes the entire conversation.
Because if God is willing to suffer, then suffering can no longer be used as proof of His indifference. If God bears wounds, then pain is no longer evidence of His absence. The cross confronts us with a deeper truth: the question is not whether God allows suffering, but whether He has entered it.
And once we see that, the question of evil begins to lose its power to accuse. It still hurts. It still confuses. But it no longer stands unanswered.
That is where this message begins —
not with speculation or debate,
but with a quiet, steady look at the place where suffering and love met, and love did not withdraw.
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Scripture presents evil not as a theoretical problem but as a lived reality. It is woven into the daily experience of humanity in ways that are both obvious and subtle. It appears in violence and injustice, but also in quieter forms — in fear, selfishness, resentment, and despair. The Bible never minimizes its presence. It names it honestly and traces its effects carefully.
Yet, Scripture is equally clear that evil is not self-existent. It does not stand alongside God as an equal power. Evil has no creative capacity of its own. It distorts what already exists. It feeds on what is good and bends it inward. Sin is not a new substance; it is a misdirection of desire. Death is not a force that gives life; it is the interruption of it.
This distinction matters because it reframes the question. The issue is not whether God created evil, but how evil emerged within a good creation. Scripture places the origin of evil not in God’s character, but in the misuse of freedom. Love that is real requires choice. Obedience that is forced is not obedience at all. Relationship that is programmed is not relationship.
God created beings capable of love, and therefore capable of rejection. That risk was not a flaw in His design; it was the cost of meaningful relationship. Without freedom, there could be no trust. Without trust, there could be no love. Evil entered when freedom turned away from its source.
This does not make suffering easier, but it makes it intelligible. The world is not broken because God is careless, but because creation has stepped outside its alignment with Him. The harmony of Eden gave way to dissonance, and that dissonance reverberates through every layer of existence. Nature itself reflects the fracture. Bodies decay. Systems fail. Relationships strain. Nothing functions quite as it should.
What troubles many people is not simply that evil exists, but that God allows it to continue. Why not intervene decisively? Why not end the story early? Scripture suggests that God’s restraint is not weakness, but mercy. Immediate judgment would eliminate evil, but it would also eliminate the possibility of redemption. Patience creates space for repentance. Delay allows grace to work.
The Bible consistently portrays God as slow to anger and rich in mercy. That slowness is often misinterpreted as indifference. But Scripture insists otherwise. God is attentive. He sees injustice. He hears cries. He remembers suffering. His apparent silence is not absence, but purpose.
This is most clearly seen in the way God responds to evil not with destruction, but with incarnation. Rather than erasing a broken world, He enters it. Rather than standing apart from suffering, He draws near to it. The coming of Christ is God’s answer to the problem of evil, not in explanation, but in presence.
Jesus does not arrive insulated from pain. He steps fully into human vulnerability. He experiences hunger, fatigue, misunderstanding, and betrayal. He is acquainted with grief long before He reaches the cross. His life is marked by compassion precisely because He shares the conditions He seeks to heal.
When Christ confronts evil, He does not mirror it. He does not respond to violence with violence or hatred with hatred. He absorbs hostility without returning it. His power is revealed not in domination, but in endurance. This is deeply unsettling to a world accustomed to strength defined by control.
The cross becomes the ultimate demonstration of this truth. Evil does what it always does — it lies, accuses, condemns, and destroys. It uses religious authority, political power, and public opinion to eliminate what it cannot control. And yet, in the very act of crucifying Christ, evil exposes its own emptiness.
The cross reveals evil’s limits. It can wound, but it cannot redeem. It can kill, but it cannot restore. It can silence voices, but it cannot erase truth. In placing Christ on the cross, evil reaches its fullest expression — and simultaneously its end.
God’s response to evil is not denial or avoidance, but self-giving love. This is the reality that begins to reshape the question. The problem of evil is not answered by abstract reasoning, but by the willingness of God to bear its weight.
The cross stands as the quiet declaration that evil will not have the final word. It is permitted for a time, but it is not allowed to define reality. Love, not suffering, is the deepest truth of the universe. And that truth is revealed not in power displayed, but in sacrifice embraced.
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The cross not only exposes the nature of evil; it reveals the heart of God.
What appears, at first glance, to be the collapse of goodness is in fact the quiet unveiling of divine intention. Scripture is careful to tell us that the suffering of Christ was not accidental, nor merely the result of human cruelty. It was foreseen, yet not forced; embraced, yet not celebrated. The cross stands at the intersection of human rebellion and divine love, where God chooses to meet evil without becoming it.
This matters because many struggle not simply with the presence of suffering, but with the fear that God must somehow approve of it. The cross denies that fear. It shows that God does not endorse evil; He confronts it. He does not excuse sin; He bears its consequence.
At Calvary, justice and mercy do not cancel each other. They converge. The seriousness of sin is acknowledged fully, and the value of the sinner is affirmed completely.
Evil often convinces us that strength lies in control. It tells us that power is proven through domination, that survival depends on superiority, that victory belongs to those who strike first and hardest. The cross undermines that entire narrative. Jesus does not resist arrest. He does not call angels to His defense. He does not bargain for His life. Instead, He entrusts Himself to the Father and absorbs the violence directed toward Him.
This is not weakness. It is a different kind of strength — one that refuses to perpetuate the cycle it seeks to end. Evil feeds on retaliation. It multiplies through fear and resentment. Love interrupts that cycle by refusing to return harm for harm. In this way, the cross becomes the place where evil exhausts itself. It can wound the body, but it cannot corrupt love. It can kill the innocent, but it cannot erase truth.
The gospel writers are deliberate in how they describe the crucifixion. Jesus is not portrayed as a helpless victim, but as a willing participant. He lays down His life. He forgives while being wronged. He remains faithful while being abandoned. Even in suffering, He acts. His words from the cross are not cries of despair, but expressions of trust, mercy, and completion.
When Jesus says, “Father, forgive them,” He is not minimizing the injustice. He is naming it and refusing to let it define Him. When He says, “It is finished,” He is not surrendering to death, but declaring that death’s authority has reached its limit. The cross marks the moment when evil does its worst and, in doing so, reveals its inability to win.
This reframes how we understand God’s patience with evil in the world.
What appears to us as delay is, in Scripture, the space in which redemption unfolds. God’s restraint is not indifference. It is the same restraint we see in Christ — the willingness to endure suffering rather than eliminate the possibility of repentance. Judgment is not abandoned; it is postponed in order to save.
This is why the cross cannot be reduced to a transaction alone. It is not merely a legal exchange, though it includes justice. It is a revelation of character. God is showing the universe who He is and how He governs. He rules not by fear, but by faithfulness. He conquers not by force, but by faithfulness to love.
The resurrection confirms this truth. The cross would remain tragic without it. But the empty tomb reveals that the path of self-giving love is not only righteous; it is victorious. The scars remain, but they are no longer wounds. They are witnesses. They testify that suffering can be endured without surrendering to hatred, and that loss can be transformed without being denied.
For those who suffer, this does not erase pain. The cross never trivializes grief. It sanctifies it. It assures us that suffering is seen, borne, and ultimately overcome. The risen Christ does not return without memory. He returns bearing the marks of what He endured. This tells us that God does not forget our wounds. He redeems them.
In this light, the question of evil begins to shift.
It is no longer simply a question of why God allows suffering, but how God responds to it. The cross answers that question with presence, faithfulness, and self-giving love. Evil cannot explain this response. It cannot account for a God who chooses to suffer rather than dominate, who chooses mercy rather than retaliation, who chooses restoration rather than revenge.
This is why the cross stands at the center of Christian faith.
It does not solve every mystery, but it settles the most important one.
It tells us that whatever evil may do, it will not have the final word. Love will.
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If the cross reveals how God confronts evil, it also reshapes how we are invited to live in a world where evil still operates.
The Christian faith does not deny the ongoing presence of suffering, nor does it promise a life untouched by pain. Instead, it offers a way of living within brokenness that is neither naïve nor defeated.
It teaches us how to endure without becoming hardened,
how to hope without pretending,
and how to trust without full resolution.
One of the quiet truths Scripture teaches is that God often works redemption not by removing suffering immediately, but by transforming the person who walks through it. This is not a sentimental idea. It is a difficult one. It means that faith is not proven by escape, but by perseverance. The believer is not spared the valley, but is accompanied through it.
This is why the New Testament consistently connects suffering with formation. Paul speaks of tribulation producing patience, patience producing character, and character producing hope. These are not automatic outcomes. They are relational ones. They emerge not because suffering is good, but because God is present within it. Without that presence, suffering only diminishes. With it, suffering can refine.
The cross stands as the ultimate assurance of that presence. Christ does not merely sympathize with human pain; He has lived it. He knows hunger, exhaustion, betrayal, injustice, and loss. This gives weight to the promise that God is near to the brokenhearted. It is not a poetic statement. It is a testimony grounded in experience.
This nearness changes how we interpret God’s silence. Silence is often mistaken for absence, but Scripture suggests another possibility. Silence may be the space in which faith matures. It may be the place where trust is deepened beyond dependence on explanation. The cross itself is framed by silence — hours where heaven does not speak, yet redemption is unfolding.
For believers, this means that unanswered questions do not signal abandonment. They may instead mark the boundaries of what can be known at a given moment.
Faith does not require that every tension be resolved.
It requires that we entrust ourselves to the One who has already demonstrated His faithfulness.
This is where the Christian response to evil becomes distinct. We are not called to deny reality or suppress grief. Lament is a biblical practice. Tears are not a lack of faith. Jesus Himself wept. The difference lies in where lament is directed. It is offered not into emptiness, but into relationship.
The cross invites us to bring our confusion, anger, and sorrow into the presence of God rather than away from Him. It assures us that these expressions do not disqualify us. They draw us closer. When Christ cried out in anguish, He still addressed God as “My God.” Even in pain, relationship remained intact.
This perspective also guards us from becoming cynical. Evil has a way of hardening the heart. Prolonged exposure to suffering can lead to withdrawal, bitterness, or apathy. The cross resists that hardening. It keeps compassion alive by reminding us that love is costly and worth the cost.
To follow Christ, then, is not to escape suffering, but to refuse to let suffering define us. It is to live with open hands in a wounded world, trusting that God is still at work even when outcomes are unclear. It is to believe that redemption often occurs quietly, beneath the surface, long before it becomes visible.
This has implications for how we treat others. If God meets evil with mercy, then we are called to resist the impulse to respond with judgment alone. This does not mean ignoring injustice or excusing harm. It means remembering that restoration is always God’s ultimate aim. The cross holds justice and mercy together without dissolving either.
In practical terms, this means that the Christian life is marked by patience. We wait for healing that has not yet come. We pray for answers that remain incomplete. We trust promises whose fulfillment lies beyond our lifetime. This waiting is not passive resignation. It is active hope.
Hope, in Scripture, is not optimism. It is confidence grounded in God’s character. The resurrection secures that confidence. It assures us that the path of self-giving love leads not to annihilation, but to life. What appears lost is not wasted. What is broken is not beyond restoration.
As we live between the cross and the renewal of all things, we are sustained by this assurance. Evil may persist for a time, but it is already defeated. Its power is temporary. Its reach is limited. It cannot undo what God has accomplished.
This allows us to live faithfully even when circumstances remain unresolved. We do not have to understand everything to remain committed. We do not have to see the end to trust the One who holds it. The cross stands as the enduring reminder that God’s purposes are larger than our present pain and more enduring than the forces that oppose them.
In this way, the question of evil no longer governs the believer’s life. It remains a question, but not a controlling one. The cross re-centers our focus, reminding us that God has already acted decisively in history. Whatever remains unanswered is held within that greater truth.
--- Conclusion
We come, at last, to where Scripture always leads us—not to a final explanation, but to a final trust.
The question of evil does not dissolve neatly.
It lingers, because life in this world is unfinished.
Pain still intrudes.
Loss still arrives without warning.
Faith still walks through shadows where certainty cannot follow.
Yet something decisive has already occurred.
The cross stands behind every unanswered question like a fixed point on the horizon. It does not shout. It does not argue. It simply remains. And in remaining, it tells us that God has already entered the deepest places we fear to go. Whatever suffering may still unfold, it unfolds in a world where God has borne suffering Himself.
This changes the weight of the question. Evil still wounds, but it no longer accuses God of indifference. The cross answers that accusation silently but completely. It tells us that God’s love is not theoretical. It has been tested, pierced, and proven. It has endured what evil can do and emerged faithful.
For the believer, this does not mean that faith eliminates grief. It means that grief is no longer endured alone. The God we trust is not one who merely observes pain, but one who has shared it. When we kneel in confusion or sorrow, we kneel before a Savior whose hands still bear the marks of nails.
This is why Scripture speaks of hope even in the presence of suffering. Hope is not denial. It is not pretending that wounds do not hurt. Hope is confidence that pain does not define reality. The resurrection assures us that what appears final is not final, and what seems lost is not lost forever.
The Christian life, then, is not a life free from questions. It is a life anchored amid them. We learn to live faithfully without full resolution, trusting the character of God more than the clarity of circumstances. We learn to walk by faith, not by sight, because sight is limited to the present moment, while faith rests in God’s enduring purposes.
This perspective guards us from despair on one side and cynicism on the other. Despair insists that suffering is meaningless. Cynicism insists that love is naïve. The cross rejects both. It declares that suffering can be redeemed and that love is stronger than death.
One day, Scripture promises, the question of evil will finally fall silent. Not because it was ignored, but because it was answered fully. God will wipe away every tear. Death will be no more. The wounds of this world will be healed. And the only scars left in the universe will be the ones on the hands of Christ—eternal reminders of love’s victory.
Until that day, we live with confidence rooted not in explanation, but in presence. We trust a God who has shown us who He is when the cost was highest. We follow a Savior who did not turn away from suffering, but transformed it.
So when the question arises again—and it will—when pain presses close and answers feel distant, we return to the cross. Not to analyze it, but to remember it. There, love met evil and did not retreat. There, suffering was taken up into redemption. There, God showed us that even in a broken world, He is faithful.
The question evil cannot answer is not why suffering exists, but how love endures.
The cross stands as the answer—quiet, sufficient, and unshakable.
