Some people who have avoided death in a plane crash by missing a flight, whether through being delayed or being denied boarding, say with great conviction: “God was with me.” But for those who seek comprehensive explanations for such things, the obvious question is: why was God with them and not with those who perished?
This moment in history brings faith in God to the forefront, much like during Noah’s flood. It seems inevitable that God’s name was both the first and last on people’s lips at that time. When I heard of the MH17 flight catastrophe, I knew the tragedy would prompt more questions about God than about those responsible for the deaths. We learned a Russian-made missile had struck the plane, but it was clear that humanity would aim countless missiles of blame at God, a barrage unlikely to cease anytime soon. Why is it that God becomes the subject of inquiry only during disasters, whether natural or human-made?
For some, God is seen as a cosmic terrorist. He could have prevented such tragedies but didn’t. He had the power to act but chose not to. Yet, if we look more closely, we humans also had the power to prevent this. We could have refrained from killing those parents and children, from plunging so many into mourning and anger, but instead, we did the opposite. I’m reminded of Jesus’s words about first removing the plank in one’s eye before trying remove the speck in another’s eye.
Even in the accusations leveled at God I can’t help but see veiled evidence of a strong and pointed faith. Put differently, would we judge God so harshly if we didn’t believe He is good (yet behaves unjustly), powerful (but refuses to intervene), or all-knowing (but seems indifferent)? If we instead thought of Him as cruel, vengeful, sadistic, and unfeeling, would anyone be surprised by such catastrophes? Isn’t it remarkable that throughout history, those who believed in a malevolent God offered him sacrifices, while those who believe in a loving and good God curse Him?
The standard by which we judge God is our understanding of Him as good, powerful, and loving. This conception—the law under which God is scrutinized in the darkness of catastrophes—has proven remarkably consistent throughout history. It seems embedded in our collective conscience, dating back to the first instance when God revealed Himself as good and loving. While circumstances and even the natural world undergo dramatic change before our eyes, this image of a benevolent and loving God remains an enduring presence. Whether we accuse Him or defend Him, we all start from the same premise: He ought to be good, powerful, and loving.
From the time when God walked with the human in the cool of the day, something about ourselves has also remained etched in our souls. Despite the tolling of endless funeral bells, mankind continues to carry the thought of eternity within the heart—a notion untouched by the billions of deaths that have occurred over millennia. Indeed, these two monumental truths of creation—the image of a good and loving God and that of the human carrying the thought of eternity in their soul—stand unshaken by time or circumstance. And for that, we give glory to God.
One crucial aspect that often escapes our reasoning, though not our experience, is the reality of sin. As G.K. Chesterton once remarked, sin is the one doctrine of religion that can be empirically proven. Despite its pervasive corruption of our entire existence, we persist in judging God as if the world remains unchanged from the time before sin entered it. But this dramatic transformation cannot be ignored. Sin is here—in all its myriad forms and expressions. It resides within us and manifests through us. It was sin, not the Russians, the Ukrainians, or any individual, that claimed the lives of the 295 passengers aboard flight MH17.
Human beings without sin are “very good”—just as God created them. Everything that deviates from this “very good” standard is a consequence of sin’s intrusion. Since sin entered the world, humans are no longer humans; they have become sinful human beings.
Only of one person could it still be said, “Behold the Man.” That Man told us that God loved the world (John 3:16), that the Father Himself loves us, that God is love. It is because of the image of God revealed by Jesus that humanity now judges God. Jesus, the Witness of God, declared, “I have brought you glory on earth…I have revealed you to those whom you gave me out of the world” (John 17:4, 6)—“the compassionate and gracious God…maintaining love to thousands” (Exodus 34:6-7). He is the One judged today.
In an article on The Independent’s website, Stefano Hatfield posed the question: “Which God leads people to blow so many?” While some may interpret this as a rhetorical question, it is laden with significance. You cannot judge God fairly without acknowledging the existence and influence of another god—the one the Bible calls “the god of this age.”
In Jesus’s parable of the wheat and the tares as found in Matthew 13, the labourers, upon discovering weeds among the wheat, asked, “Sir, didn’t you sow good seed in your field?” There was no suggestion that the heavenly Sower had planted the tares, but neither was their existence denied. The question remained: “Where then did the weeds come from?” Under the authority of God’s Word, made flesh, Jesus answered plainly: “An enemy did this.”
To claim, as Stefano Hatfield does, that religion offers no satisfying answer to this tragedy is a valid and logical conclusion—if one refers to a religion that purports to have an explanation for everything. But if even God Himself did not promise explanations for all things, how could anyone or anything else provide them? Any religion that claims to do so should not be mistaken for God, who openly declared, “I have much more to say to you, more than you can now bear” (John 16:12).
Perhaps the most perplexing question for those seeking a complete explanation is this: Why do some people, who fail to make it to their flight for any number of reasons, later say with deep conviction, “God was with me,” upon realising they avoided death? Why was God with them and not with those who perished?
Deciphering why one is taken and the other one is left is not our responsibility, nor is it an explanation we are obligated to provide. Even Job, who so desperately sought an answer to his suffering, received none. Instead, God offered him the assurance of His love and the certainty that He was neither distant nor indifferent to what was happening in Job’s life. This assurance proved so compelling to Job that, instead of continuing to demand an explanation, he declared, “I put my hand over my mouth.”
Who God is to you matters profoundly when you feel the impulse to judge Him. It matters what you know about Him, and in this regard, nothing can substitute for the influence of a personal encounter with Him. Job expressed it best: “My ears had heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you.” With that, he no longer had any questions. He repented of his questioning in the face of God’s love and majesty.
In the light of his suffering, Job had believed many things about God. But ultimately, he realised that what he truly lacked was knowing God intimately—knowing Him well enough to say, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”
Recently, I received a text from my daughter, Elena, quoting a line from one of Joyce Meyer’s sermons: “Instead of saying, ‘Why do bad things happen to good people?’ we should ask, ‘What happens to good people when bad things happen to them?'”
