Christianity is supposed to be psychological crutch for the weak.
People are supposed to turn to God for answers in their suffering. He is supposed to give the easy answers, and a way to avoid any sort of hardship in life.
It’s why when awful things happen, people turn to Christians and ask, “where is your God now?” Like He has the answers. Like that’s why we are Christians – because there we have found the answers.
Maybe that’s the case for some people but it’s not for me.
If I wanted real answers to the problem of evil, I wouldn’t be a Christian.
I’d be a Buddhist and say suffering is all an illusion, or a Hindu and say it’s all karma, or a Muslim and say it’s all God’s will, or an Atheist and say it’s all genetically determined or culturally constructed and that there’s no meaning to it anyway.
All of the above have some truth in them. Sometimes suffering is an illusion caused by inordinate attachments, sometimes it is karma and exactly what we had coming to us, sometimes it is God’s will and we should just submit to it without question, sometimes it is simply inherited from our genes or our culture and sometimes, it is utterly senseless.
But none of them is enough. So I turn to this Christian God but rather than finding an answer or even another piece of the piece, I find silence.
It’s the silence of a dead man on a cross.
I ask what He is doing there and how this is supposed to help and is God just a masochist now and is this supposed to comfort me?
But there is only silence in response.
It doesn’t make sense to me that the death of one man should have this sacred power to redeem death and wipe away every tear. How is that supposed to make sense? How is that supposed to make things better? But there is silence to those questions too.
And sometimes it feels like God is watching all this crap – and is He silent? Does He care?
And yet, I keep coming back to Him.
To the silence of the Cross and the God who suffers with us.
Christianity doesn’t give answers in the face of suffering, it gives a face to suffering.
The face of one who was despised, ridiculed, abandoned, condemned, beaten and killed; whose pierced hands takes my mine and even though He doesn’t give me all the answers, He is there.
The face of Jesus.
I don’t know if that’s enough and if it is, how it is enough.
But He’s there.