Faith in the Face of Suffering: Wrestling with the Question That Won’t Go Away

Steam rises from my cup as I stare into the quiet of the morning. The world hasn’t fully woken up yet, but my thoughts have already started their familiar spiral.

It’s the same question, the same frustration.

If God is good, why does suffering exist?

I’ve asked it before. A hundred times, in a hundred different ways. And I know I’m not alone. Theologians, philosophers, and everyday people have wrestled with this for centuries, but no explanation feels complete. Some say suffering is a test, others call it the price of free will. Then there are those who insist that pain has a purpose, that God allows it for reasons beyond human understanding.

I want to believe that. I really do.

But then I think about the workers who toil under exploitative conditions, the families displaced by war, and those who cry out for help only to be met with silence. I think about the kind souls who spend their lives doing good, only to be met with tragedy. If there’s a lesson in all of this, I struggle to see it.

And yet, I’m reminded of a story about St. Augustine walking along the beach, tormented by a mystery he couldn’t grasp. As he walked, he saw a child playing by the shore, running back and forth between the waves and a hole in the sand.

“What are you doing?” Augustine asked.

The child looked up and said, “I’m trying to fit the entire ocean into this hole.”

Augustine smiled and told the child it was impossible. The ocean was too vast, too deep. The child simply looked at him and said, “And so it is with you, trying to fit the mystery of God into your small mind.”

Then the child disappeared.

I take another sip of coffee, letting that story settle. Maybe that’s the answer—or at least part of it. Maybe the reason suffering never makes sense is because it was never meant to. Maybe it’s too vast, too deep, too beyond the limits of human understanding.

And yet, despite my frustration, I still have faith.

Not blind faith. Not the kind that pretends suffering isn’t real or shrugs it off with a simple “God has a plan.” No, my faith is raw. Tired. Full of unanswered questions. But it’s still here, sitting with me as I take another sip of coffee, refusing to let go.

Maybe that’s enough.

For now.

The Core Question: Why Does God Allow Suffering?

The story of St. Augustine lingers in my mind as I set my cup down. The ocean, the hole in the sand, the child’s quiet, impossible task—it feels uncomfortably familiar.

Because isn’t that what I’m doing, too?

Trying to pour the weight of all human suffering into something small enough to understand. Trying to find an answer that fits neatly, one that makes everything make sense. But the problem with suffering is that it doesn’t fit. It spills over, floods everything, refuses to be contained.

Theologians have tried. Philosophers have tried. Some argue that suffering is necessary, that it serves a higher purpose we can’t always see. Others claim it’s the unavoidable price of free will. And then there’s the unsettling thought that maybe suffering just is—a consequence of an imperfect world, one that even God does not always intervene in.

None of these answers fully satisfy.

If suffering has a purpose, why does it often seem meaningless? If free will explains evil, what about suffering that no one chooses? If God allows pain for a greater reason, why does that reason feel so painfully out of reach?

I don’t expect to solve this today. Maybe not ever.

But if faith is worth holding on to, then this question is worth sitting with. Even if the answer remains just beyond the shore.

Free Will: A Blessing and a Curse

Free will—this is where most people start when trying to justify suffering. It’s one of the most common explanations, the idea that God gave us the ability to choose, and with that choice came the possibility of both good and evil.

And in theory, that makes sense.

If love is to mean anything, it has to be chosen. If kindness is to be real, it can’t be forced. A world without free will might be free of suffering, but it would also be empty of everything that makes life meaningful.

But then I think about the suffering no one chooses.

A farmer losing his land to corporate interests. A whistleblower punished for telling the truth. The ones who scream for help and hear nothing but silence. Where does free will fit into that? Did they choose this?

Some say suffering is simply the cost of human freedom, that if God intervened in every act of evil, there would be no true autonomy. But that raises another question—where does God draw the line? If He can stop some evil but allows other suffering to continue, what does that say about Him? Does He watch and weep, or does He remain distant, unmoved?

And then there’s another layer to this—one that makes this question even more unsettling.

What if free will isn’t as free as we think?

Neuroscientists like Benjamin Libet have argued that our brains begin making decisions before we’re even aware of them. That what we call “free will” might just be a well-disguised chain reaction of biological processes. If that’s true, what does it say about responsibility? About justice? About the very foundation of moral choice?

Maybe St. Augustine was right. Maybe I’m trying to fit something too vast into something too small.

But that doesn’t make the question go away.

The Nature of Evil: Where Does It Come From?

If free will explains some suffering, it doesn’t explain all of it.

It doesn’t explain why entire communities are uprooted by violence. It doesn’t explain why a person spends years behind bars for a crime they didn’t commit. It doesn’t explain why people sometimes do things so unspeakable that even the idea of free will feel like a hollow excuse.

Evil takes many forms. Some of it is personal—the kind of evil that comes from human choices, from greed, cruelty, or indifference. Some of it is impersonal—floods that swallow entire villages, illnesses that tear through families. And then there’s the kind of evil that religious traditions have long called supernatural, the idea that there is something beyond human corruption at work in the world.

The Bible never shies away from evil. It tells of Cain killing Abel out of jealousy. It tells of Jezebel having Naboth executed so she could take his vineyard. These weren’t accidents. They were choices. The kind of evil that makes you wonder how a human heart can turn so dark.

But then there are the horrors that no human hand controls.

A wildfire that reduces homes to ash. A protester who disappears without a trace. The kind of suffering that leaves people standing in the wreckage, asking the same question I am: Why?

Some say it’s simply the brokenness of the world, the consequence of living in a creation that isn’t perfect. Others believe suffering has a purpose, that even the worst tragedies can somehow lead to something good. Then there are those who argue that evil exists not because God allows it, but because He doesn’t always intervene. That His power may not work the way we assume it does.

The problem is, none of these answers make the suffering itself easier to bear.

And that’s what makes evil so difficult to understand. It isn’t just a question of where it comes from. It’s a question of why it’s allowed to stay.

Is God Truly Omnipotent? Or Is He Limited?

If God is all-powerful, why doesn’t He stop suffering?

This question haunts every discussion about evil. It lingers in hospital rooms, in disaster zones, in the quiet moments after tragedy strikes. It’s the question that makes some lose faith altogether.

For centuries, believers have answered with some version of: God allows suffering for reasons beyond human understanding. But what if the real answer is something we don’t like? What if God isn’t intervening—not because He chooses not to, but because He can’t?

That idea makes people uncomfortable. It challenges everything we’ve been taught about God’s power. But some theologians argue that omnipotence isn’t what we think it is.

One view, called Essential Kenosis, suggests that God has voluntarily limited His power to allow free will. He doesn’t step in to stop evil because to do so would contradict the freedom He gave creation. Others take it further, saying that God isn’t in complete control of the universe at all—that He is present, but not always directing events.

Then there’s Open Theism, which argues that God does not fully know the future, that He experiences time along with us. That He watches suffering unfold not from a place of detached knowledge, but in real-time, feeling its weight just as we do.

And then there’s the possibility that God is in control, but His ways are simply beyond our comprehension. That His decisions don’t always align with what we think is right.

None of these explanations sit easily with me.

If God is limited, then what does that say about faith? If He isn’t, then why does He allow so much to happen unchecked?

Maybe St. Augustine’s story echoes here too. Maybe I’m trying to fit something too vast into something too small.

Or maybe—just maybe—this is one of those questions that doesn’t have an answer.

At least not one I’ll ever understand.

How Different Religions Explain Suffering

If there’s one thing all religions seem to agree on, it’s that suffering is unavoidable. But beyond that, the explanations begin to diverge.

In Christianity, suffering is often linked to original sin, the idea that humanity’s rebellion against God introduced pain and death into the world. Some Christians believe suffering is a test of faith, a way to draw closer to God. Others see it as a mystery—one that only makes sense in the light of eternity. Irenaean Theodicy takes a different approach, arguing that suffering is part of “soul-making,” a necessary process for moral and spiritual growth.

In Islam, suffering is viewed as a test from Allah, a means of purification and spiritual refinement. Hardship is not necessarily a punishment but an opportunity to prove faith and perseverance. The Mu'tazilah Theodicy, a school of Islamic thought, emphasizes God’s justice, arguing that suffering arises from human free will or natural causes, not divine cruelty.

In Hinduism and Buddhism, suffering is tied to karma, the law of cause and effect. Every action has consequences, whether in this life or the next. Buddhism takes this further, teaching that suffering comes from attachment—our inability to accept impermanence. The path to ending suffering lies in detaching from worldly desires and attaining enlightenment.

In Chinese traditions, suffering is seen as an imbalance between Yin and Yang, the two fundamental forces of the universe. Health, luck, and prosperity all depend on maintaining harmony between these opposing elements.

In Judaism, suffering is often seen as a test, a call to repentance, or a consequence of living in a flawed world. Unlike other traditions that attempt to justify suffering, some Jewish scholars reject theodicy altogether, focusing instead on human responsibility—what can be done to relieve suffering rather than explaining why it happens.

Then there are the more philosophical theodicies, attempts to reconcile suffering with belief in a just God. Leibniz’s “Best of All Possible Worlds” Theodicy argues that despite its flaws, creation is the best it could possibly be. The Karma Theodicy suggests that suffering isn’t arbitrary but follows a system of justice across lifetimes. Contrast Theodicy claims that we need suffering to recognize goodness, that without pain, we wouldn’t understand joy.

I read through all of these explanations, and I find myself both fascinated and frustrated. Every religion, every philosophy, every system of thought has tried to make sense of suffering, yet none of them erase the fact that it still exists.

Maybe it all comes back to what that child on the beach told St. Augustine. Maybe I’m trying to fit the ocean into a hole in the sand.

But I can’t stop trying.

The Role of Evil in Society

Some suffering is personal—an illness, a tragedy, a betrayal. But some suffering is much bigger than that.

Some suffering isn’t just about individuals making bad choices. It’s about entire systems built on cruelty. It’s about mob mentality, where people who might never commit evil alone are swept up in collective violence. It’s about societies that normalize oppression, entire cultures that justify suffering as if it were inevitable.

History is filled with examples.

Religious wars. Genocides. Slavery. Injustice disguised as law, oppression masquerading as order. Some of the worst evils in history weren’t the work of a single villain—they were carried out by nations, institutions, even ordinary people who convinced themselves that evil was necessary.

Philosophers call this eschatological antagonism—the idea that religious or ideological beliefs can divide the world into us and them. The righteous and the wicked. The chosen and the condemned. It’s the kind of thinking that turns people against each other, that turns faith into a weapon. It’s the kind of thinking that allows symbolic violence—where words, laws, and traditions are used to justify suffering without ever laying a hand on anyone.

And this isn’t just history.

It’s happening now.

It happens when governments justify cruelty in the name of security. When people are stripped of their dignity because of their race, religion, or background. When suffering is dismissed as a natural part of life instead of something that can be prevented.

Some argue that this kind of evil is the worst kind—the kind that isn’t seen as evil at all. The kind that becomes normal. The kind that makes people stop asking questions.

But I can’t stop asking.

Because if we only think of evil as something that happens between individuals, we ignore the suffering that entire societies create. And if we believe that suffering is meant to be, we let injustice keep existing when it doesn’t have to.

Maybe God allows evil. Maybe He doesn’t.

But we do.

And that might be the most uncomfortable truth of all.

Finding Meaning in Suffering

If suffering can’t be avoided, does that mean it has meaning? Or are we just trying to convince ourselves that pain isn’t pointless?

Some say suffering is where we find growth. That pain makes us stronger, more compassionate, more aware of what really matters. That without it, we wouldn’t develop resilience, empathy, or wisdom. It’s the core idea behind Irenaean Theodicy—that suffering is part of the soul’s journey toward something greater.

Others take it further. Christian theology often teaches that suffering isn’t just about personal growth—it’s redemptive. That pain can bring people closer to God, just as Christ suffered on the cross.

Then there are those who reject this idea entirely. Jewish anti-theodicy refuses to justify suffering at all, insisting that instead of finding meaning in suffering, we should work to prevent it. Some believe suffering is simply random, that trying to force a reason onto it is an illusion—a coping mechanism to make reality less unbearable.

And maybe they’re right.

I think about the people I’ve known who have suffered and found meaning in it. And I think about those who have suffered and found nothing but loss.

I think about the ones who became stronger. And the ones who never recovered.

Both exist. Both are real.

Maybe suffering doesn’t come with built-in meaning. Maybe it doesn’t transform everyone. Maybe it just is. And maybe the only meaning it has is the one we choose to give it.

For some, that meaning is faith. For others, it’s action. And for some, the only meaning they can find is survival itself.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it has to be.

Conclusion: Living with the Tension

After all the reading, the reflection, the questioning, I still don’t have an answer.

Maybe I never will.

Suffering exists. It always has. And no matter how much I try to make sense of it, the explanations never fully satisfy. Maybe St. Augustine was right—maybe I’m trying to fit the ocean into a hole in the sand.

But even knowing that doesn’t make the question go away.

Some find comfort in believing that suffering has a purpose, that every pain serves a greater good. Others reject that entirely, refusing to justify what feels unjustifiable. Some hold onto faith, trusting that what we can’t understand now will make sense in the end. And some let go of faith altogether, convinced that no loving God would allow a world like this to exist.

I don’t have certainty. But I still have faith.

Not the kind that demands easy answers. Not the kind that ignores suffering or tries to explain it away. My faith is restless, frustrated, full of unanswered questions. But it’s still here.

And maybe, in a world like this, that’s enough.

For now.