Over the weekend, multiple acts of violence unfolded across different parts of the world. A shooting at Bondi Beach in Sydney injured several people and prompted a large police response. At Brown University, another shooting led to an emergency lockdown as authorities worked to secure the campus. In Los Angeles, filmmaker Rob Reiner and his wife Michelle were found dead in their home, with police investigating the case as a homicide. As the news spread, social media and news feeds filled with reports, statements and public expressions of grief.
When violent events occur in quick succession, they can be difficult to absorb. Each incident carries its own details, victims and unanswered questions, yet together they create a sense of accumulation — one tragedy followed immediately by another. For many, the result is a familiar mix of sorrow, anger and fear, alongside the persistent question of how to respond.
The losses are not abstract. People were harmed. Families were left grieving. Communities were disrupted in an instant. These events are reminders of the fragility of life and the reality of suffering that continues to surface, regardless of geography or circumstance.
Scripture does not avoid this reality. From its earliest pages, it acknowledges a world marked by brokenness and loss. Pain is not an anomaly in the human story. It is part of it. But it is not the conclusion.
The natural response to violence is emotional and immediate. Sadness. Anger. Fear. Sometimes even the desire for vengeance. Those reactions are human, and they are not wrong. When lives are taken and families are shattered, grief does not arrive politely or rationally. It comes in waves, often without warning.
Yet while politics, ideology and mental health are frequently named in the aftermath of violence, they do not fully explain the ache people feel when tragedy strikes. At the core is a deeper truth Christians have wrestled with for centuries: the world is not as it should be. The Bible names this condition plainly. Creation itself is fractured. Human freedom, when misused, has devastating consequences. Evil is real, and it wounds indiscriminately.
That reality raises a question that surfaces every time violence dominates the headlines: Where was God?
For many, that question is not theoretical. It is personal. Why didn’t God stop the gunman? Why didn’t He intervene before lives were lost? Why does suffering continue, even when people pray for protection and peace?
Scripture does not offer easy answers. What it offers instead is a picture of a God who does not remain distant from pain. Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even knowing resurrection was coming. He entered human suffering fully, not to explain it away but to bear it. The Christian story does not deny grief. It meets it head-on.
C.S. Lewis once reflected on this tension with unsettling honesty:
“For He seems to do nothing of Himself which He can possibly delegate to His creatures. He commands us to do slowly and blunderingly what He could do perfectly and in the twinkling of an eye. He allows us to neglect what He would have us do, or to fail… We are not mere recipients or spectators. We are either privileged to share in the game or compelled to collaborate in the work, ‘to wield our little tridents.’ Is this amazing process simply Creation going on before our eyes? This is how God makes something — indeed, makes gods — out of nothing.”
Lewis’ words are both hopeful and unsettling. They suggest that God has chosen not to control the world through force, but to work through people instead. That choice gives humanity dignity and responsibility. It also means human actions can cause real harm. Freedom, when misused, leaves scars.
For those who believe in a sovereign God, this reality can feel unbearable. But the Christian response to suffering is not passive acceptance or spiritual detachment. It is participation. God’s presence is not absent in moments of grief. It is often found in how people respond to them.
That shifts the question. Not only Where was God? but also Where are we?
When tragedy strikes, God’s design has always been that His people would move toward suffering rather than away from it. Comforting the grieving. Caring for the wounded. Refusing to let violence harden hearts into cynicism or apathy. The church was never meant to be a spectator in a broken world.
This does not require pretending fear does not exist. Fear is a natural response to evil. But fear is not meant to be the final word. The Gospel calls Christians to live as people shaped by hope, even when circumstances offer little of it. Not optimism. Hope — the kind that chooses love and faithfulness when outcomes remain uncertain.
That hope looks practical. It looks like meals delivered quietly. Churches opening their doors to those shaken by violence. Communities choosing compassion over retreat. It looks like people refusing to let grief turn into isolation.
The Christian story holds onto a future where all things will be made new, where mourning and death no longer have the final say. Until that day comes, the calling remains.
Go outside. Love people deeply. Give generously without keeping score. When the world feels unbearably heavy, do not surrender to despair. Be present. Be faithful. Be light.
