How is there suffering when God is supposed to be loving?

You are not alone in asking this question, which is one of the most profound and challenging dilemmas in theology. It’s a question that has persisted through generations, provoking much reflection and debate. Today though, the issue feels even more pressing, as media outlets constantly flood us with images and stories of suffering from around the globe. Whether it’s conflicts, natural disasters, or human-made tragedies, suffering is an inescapable part of our world. How then, can we reconcile this reality with the idea of a loving God?

It’s a question that Lynda asked herself as she grappled with the impact of a tragic disaster that left many dead and injured. During a church service, the lyrics of a song based on the Book of Job prompted her to ponder whether God directed such events. She wrestled with the idea of a God who controls everything but concluded that much human suffering often results from our freedom and choices, rather than divine intervention. But while God doesn’t cause suffering, He is present in it. Lynda finds comfort in the words of Jesus in Matthew 28:20, a promise of God’s unwavering presence, even when life is at its bleakest.

Sally suggests that there might not be a definitive answer to why suffering exists but agrees that it is important to understand the reality of God’s presence amid our pain. Reflecting on her own experience of illness, suffering did not equate to the absence of God but was rather an opportunity to experience His presence more profoundly. She recounts how listening to an audio Bible during her recovery became a lifeline, teaching her that God was not distant in her suffering but intimately present. This presence provided a sense of trust and comfort, allowing her to feel assured that God would be with her through whatever lay ahead.

Here we find the idea that suffering can be a pathway to finding the true nature of God, a perspective from which we discover that love is not about preventing pain but transforming it. Helen explores this paradox and describes that love and suffering most powerfully intersect at the cross, where the ultimate act of love took place amid profound suffering. In her reflection, Helen emphasizes that God’s love is not an abstract concept but an active force present during our trials. She explains how this is a theme that echoes throughout the Bible, particularly in Psalm 23, where God promises to walk with us through the darkest valleys, and in Romans 8:38-39 where we are told that nothing “will be able to separate us from the love of God”.

The Bible also declares the world was never intended to be a place of suffering, but that the reality is that we live in a broken world that lies between the goodness of creation (Genesis) and the promised future of a new heaven and earth without pain (Revelation). In this “space between”, love finds us, sustains us, and transforms our experiences of suffering. She uses a poignant image from C.S. Lewis’s The Magician’s Nephew to illustrate this beautifully. Aslan, the great Lion, bends down to listen to a young boy’s plea, showing tears in His eyes that reflect a deep understanding and empathy for human grief. God’s love is not distant or detached, but rather it is an intimate, empathetic presence that weeps with us, acknowledging our pain while offering hope and transformation.

Ultimately, the question of how a loving God allows suffering might not have a simple or complete answer. Yet, through the stories and reflections shared, we gain insight into how people experience God’s love and presence amid their suffering. This love doesn’t always prevent pain but transforms it, offering hope, comfort, and meaning. This perspective invites us to see suffering not as a contradiction to God’s love but as an opportunity to experience the depth of that love in new and profound ways. Through faith, we find a God who doesn’t merely observe our suffering from afar but bends down to weep with us and walk alongside us, offering hope and transformation amidst our trials.