A real question. And a real answer.
Where was [God] when I was being abused? where was he when my daughter was on the streets? Where was he when my family needed him? Where was he when I was raped? WHERE WAS HE!!!?
God was there, with you, bleeding, hurting, cowering in fear, feeling the rage, taking the blows.
With you. Suffering. With you.
That’s where our God is. On the cross. Beaten. Raped. Tortured. Bleeding. Dying.
As one of us
[At this point, the person who asked the question was sitting in a Bible study in a women’s shelter, and she was angry at the pastor who said “God is here,” in the shelter, in the group. And he probably meant well. Later, someone else — a young woman who has her suffered her own horrific abuse tried to explain a little more what was happening.]
She was angry because “God is here” as her son is on the streets and her daughter is raped repeatedly and her husband abused her for 10 years and she was just horribly fucked over by life. But God was there. I understand, why would he let that happen to her? Why would God let all her family be raped and sold and murdered and abused and just LET THAT GO.
Where was God when they needed Him??
And where is he now?
This is all I’ve got. Because I don’t know why.
I don’t know why.
I can only weep with you. My tears, my sorrow, my rage — all pointless. Like so much else I do. It’s all I have.
I know there is a cross, bloody, covered in gore, and an empty tomb, a borrowed tomb, someone else’s final resting place, where he was laid. I know he was dead, but he is now alive.
And on days when it seems most pointless, on days like today when I have no hope, when I know all I am is failure and rejection, I know that tomb is empty.
He is risen.
Wounded, broken, but alive, perfect.
For me. For you. For the world that wounded him.
Touch his wounds. The wounds he let us give him. Know he’s real. Know he lives.
It’s a terrible answer. It’s all I have. It’s all the hope there is.
(The person who asked this question has since disappeared.)