The Gift Nobody Wants??
The longest nights are those when tears won’t stop and pain knocks loud. When your heart is heavy and your words fall into silence. Dreams feel shattered, the future holds no value, and all the light seems to have faded. In moments like these, one question echoes over and over again: “Does God turn His face away? Does He not see the pain?” We may not say it out loud, but deep inside, we wrestle with it. Why does a good God allow pain?
In a world full of brokenness, it is easy to question God’s
love and presence. Some ask, “Is this pain because of sin?” But the question
often remains unanswered. Pain does not always come because someone did
something wrong. Many faithful people experience suffering—sometimes the worst
kind. Suffering does not discriminate. Even those closest to God are not
spared. And when it hits, it can feel like abandonment, as if God has gone
silent just when we needed Him most.
But what if pain is not the enemy? What if it’s a messenger?
A quiet, persistent voice telling us that something isn’t right? Imagine a
world where pain did not exist—no stings, no burns, no aches. Would we notice
when we were wounded? Would we know when something inside us is breaking? There
are people whose bodies cannot feel pain, and while that might sound like a
blessing, it often becomes a silent destroyer. Leprosy patients, for instance,
suffer not from the disease itself but from the loss of sensation. A foot may
burn, a finger may break, and they wouldn't know. Wounds go unnoticed and
untreated, causing permanent damage. In such cases, the inability to feel
becomes more dangerous than the pain itself.
C.S. Lewis once said, “Pain is God’s megaphone to rouse a
deaf world.” That line stayed with me. Maybe pain isn’t God punishing us but
calling us to listen. Maybe it's a sign of life, a cry for help, or even a
strange kind of grace—pointing us back to Him.
One of the most remarkable stories in the Bible is that of
Job. If there was anyone who didn’t deserve suffering, it was Job. He was
described as “blameless and upright” (Job 1:1), someone who feared God and
turned away from evil. Yet he lost everything—his wealth, his children, his
health. And in his pain, he did what many of us do: he cried out. He asked why.
But God did not explain Himself. Instead, He reminded Job who He was—Creator,
Sustainer, the One who laid the foundations of the earth. And yet, even without
a clear answer, Job found peace in God's presence. In the end, God restored
what was lost. Not because Job understood it all, but because he held on.
Faith, I’ve come to believe, is often about holding on—not
to answers, but to God Himself. Paul sought for answers, yet he got none. All
he received was to be content even in weaknesses. “For My grace is sufficient,
and My power is made perfect in weakness” was the answer he received (2 Corinthians 12:9).
I remember the first time I spoke. Having been born with a physical ailment
that hampers my ability to speak fluently or write properly, nobody thought I
would make a public speech. I spoke, and after my speech, someone came to me
and said, “Thank God for your speech. It could be God alone.” This physical
ailment had a purpose I did not understand.
Some might say God doesn’t really understand our pain. But
that’s not true. The God we follow entered into human suffering. Jesus, the Son
of God, was not spared from sorrow. He was born into poverty, misunderstood by
His own family (Mark 3:21), betrayed by His friends, and rejected by the very
people He came to save. He knew hunger, thirst, weariness, and heartbreak. And
on the cross, He cried, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” (Matthew
27:46). Jesus didn’t just teach about pain—He lived it. He embraced it. He
carried it, not because He had to, but because we do.
Jesus didn’t come to take away all our suffering. He came to
be with us in it. He came to remind us that pain is not the end. His
resurrection tells us that pain, even death, doesn’t have the final word.
Sometimes, I think about my own wounds—the physical ones
that left scars and the invisible ones I rarely speak about. There was a time
when an injury left me in deep pain, and that pain stayed with me for weeks.
The scar remains, a reminder of what happened. And yet, strangely, I am
grateful for it. Because it reminds me I survived. I could have lost so much
more. That scar, instead of being a source of shame, has become a quiet
testimony: pain did not take everything. It never does.
Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that in all things God works
for the good of those who love Him.” That doesn’t mean everything we go through
is good. But it does mean that God can use even the worst parts of our story to
bring something good from it. God may not always take the pain away, but He
never lets it go to waste.
In all this, one thing becomes clear: we were never meant to
carry pain alone. As believers, we are called to be Christ's presence in the
world. The church is not just a building or a Sunday gathering. It is a
body—His body—meant to touch the wounds of the world with healing and
compassion. We are told to “carry each other’s burdens” (Galatians 6:2), to
“weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15), to reflect the love of the One who
walks with us through the fire.
And if the church cannot be a place where the broken are
welcomed and the wounded are embraced, then what are we doing?
There are many around us who are suffering quietly, who feel
forgotten by God. Some are angry, some are confused, and some are just tired. Even if we cannot give them answers, we can still give them presence. Sometimes,
that is enough. We don’t need to explain everything. We just need to love as
Jesus loved—close, kind, and true.
Faith is not about avoiding pain; it is about finding God in
it. In fact, pain has a way of deepening our faith. It humbles us. It softens
us. It teaches us to rely not on ourselves, but on God. 1 Peter 1:7 reminds us
that “these trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as
fire tests and purifies gold.” Maybe pain isn’t meant to break us, but to
refine us. Maybe it draws us closer to the heart of God in ways comfort never
could.
When pain gets too loud, it might seem like God is silent.
But silence isn’t the same as absence. Nobody shouts when they’re sitting
beside you. In the same way, God may not thunder through the storm, but He is
near. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those
who are crushed in spirit.” When we feel forgotten, He is there. When we are
hurting, He is near. Pain may hide Him from our eyes, but never from our side.
We don’t know all the answers to the reason of the
pains, and we will not know everything in this life. Something has to remain
mystery so that we can trust the One who holds our lives—the sovereign God who
created the universe and made man in His image. It would be impossible to
understand everything. So maybe the question isn’t, “Where is God when it
hurts?” Maybe the real question is—will I trust Him even when I don’t
understand?
Inspired by Philip Yancey’s Where Is God When It Hurts?
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