The problem of evil (“If God is all-good and all-powerful, why is there evil and suffering in this world?”) has for good reason been called the Achilles’s heel of Christianity. I agree with various Christian authors that we actually do not have an “answer” to the problem of evil; yet, we have various truths and clues which can help us, if not solve this problem, come to accept it and ultimately put our confidence in something higher, which is the absolute sovereignty of a perfectly loving and wise God (Exhibit A of this for me is the life of Job).
Early in his book The Problem of Pain (1962), the beloved Oxford don C.S. Lewis flips the classic question of the problem of evil to show that the real problem isn’t, why is there evil in the world, but rather, in this terribly broken world full of suffering and evil, what do we do with the fact of this religion – Christianity? I think this is a good way to look at the problem, and I’ve come across this elsewhere, usually phrased to the effect of, “If there is no God and the universe is the product of a series of chance events and there is no reason to believe in an objective morality or good, why do we see so much good in the world? Why do we see kindness, and heroism, and self-sacrificial love, and indeed, so much beauty?” But I really like the way Lewis puts it. Check it out:
“To ask whether the universe as we see it looks more like the work of a wise and good Creator or the work of chance, indifference, or malevolence, is to omit from the outset all the relevant factors in the religious problem. Christianity is not the conclusion of a philosophical debate on the origins of the universe: it is a catastrophic historical event following on the long spiritual preparation of humanity which I have described. It is not a system into which we have to fit the awkward fact of pain: it is itself one of the awkward facts which have to be fitted into any system we make. In a sense, it creates, rather than solves, the problem of pain, for pain would be no problem unless, side by side with our daily experience of this painful world, we had received what we think a good assurance that ultimate reality is righteous and loving” (21).
Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind and said:
“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Dress for action like a man;
I will question you, and you make it known to me.
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?
On what were its bases sunk,
or who laid its cornerstone,
when the morning stars sang together
and all the sons of God shouted for joy?
We read Job for comfort.
I believe there is no more satisfying answer (or rather, non-answer) to the problems of suffering and evil than the one we find in Job. Here is a righteous man who suffers misery upon misery without knowing why this is happening, who wishes he’d never been born and shakes his fist at the heavens and questions God’s ways, only to be humbled by a God who comes not to tell him why he is suffering, but rather to throw his own questions at Job and silence him with the precious knowledge that God is God and he is more powerful, wise, and good than any of us can imagine. This is why we read Job for comfort – because in it we come upon the wall that faces us the end of all our agonizing questions in the face of suffering, and we find not a neat answer but a person: God himself. And this is more than enough.
G.K. Chesterton (1874-1936), the British journalist, poet, novelist, and all-around man of letters, wrote about this comfort, as well as the way God’s questions confounds the most stubborn of skeptics, in a 1929 essay titled, “The Book of Job.” (From In Defense of Sanity: The Best Essays of G.K. Chesterton (Ignatius, 2011)):
“When, at the end of the poem, God enters (somewhat abruptly), is struck the sudden and splendid note which makes the thing as great as it is. All the human beings through the story, and Job especially, have been asking questions of God. A more trivial poet would have made God enter in some sense or other in order to answer the questions. By a touch truly to be called inspired, when God enters, it is to ask a number more questions on His own account. In this drama of skepticism God Himself takes up the role of the skeptic. He does what all the great voices defending religion have always done. He does, for instance, what Socrates did. He turns rationalism against itself. He seems to say that if it comes to asking questions, He can ask some questions which will fling down and flatten out all conceivable human questioners…
“… In dealing with the arrogant asserter of doubt, it is not the right method to tell him to stop doubting. It is rather the right method to tell him to go on doubting, to doubt a little more, to doubt every day newer and wilder things in the universe, until at last, by some strange enlightenment, he may begin to doubt himself.
“… Verbally speaking the enigmas of Jehovah seem darker and more desolate than the enigmas of Job; yet Job was comfortless before the speech of Jehovah and is comforted after it. He has been told nothing, but he feels the terrible and tingling atmosphere of something which is too good to be told. The refusal of God to explain His design is itself a burning hint of His design. The riddles of God are more satisfying than the solutions of man” (97-99).
Many religious and non-religious observers have said that one remarkable trait that separates us moderns from ancient peoples is our belief that we are basically good. We’ll readily agree that “no one’s perfect,” but other than that, most of us have a fundamentally good orientation and are of a wholly different moral and psychological make-up from a Hitler, or a serial killer, or a rapist. From a religious and specifically Christian perspective, then, we have no need to be forgiven, much less “saved” from anything, since we haven’t done anything terribly bad. I would argue that this view is dangerously mistaken, however, and the excerpt below from Mike McKinley’s Passion shows this error in stark contrast to what is true. There is a place in this (so far) excellent and short book where McKinley argues that because God is perfect and holy, his anger at human oppression and injustice is completely justified and righteous; indeed, God’s wrath is “actually part of His perfection – not a suspension of it.” He then argues that if people are made in God’s image, then we would expect this righteous anger to be expressed at times by people. To illustrate this, he tells:
“A friend of mine recently told me about a time in an east Asian nation where his hosts drove him into the capital city. As they entered the city, they were confronted by a long line of young girls, lined up by the side of the road. These girls had been sold into slavery as prostitutes (often by their parents), and they would spend their lives being used and abused until they were finally cast aside when they were no longer desirable. My friend described his feelings as he saw these girls: an anger, a rage in his heart that made him feel as if his chest was going to rip in two. “…If that goes for humans, it goes for the God who made humans, too… [And here is the key part for us] But where we really run into a problem, where we really object to God’s wrath and justice, is when it comes to us. We may be happy with a God who punishes the rapists and the murderers, but we aren’t happy with a God who punishes us. But where would you draw the line? How much should He tolerate from you? How much of your pride, anger, deceit, manipulation and selfishness do you think God should overlook?… The Bible tells us where God draws the line: He demands perfection” (18-19).