Why Does God Let All This Bad Stuff Happen… and Other “Stupid” Questions? - The Problem of Evil

People are looking for excuses not to attend church. They throw up all kinds of illogical reasons why they shouldn’t have to. By the way, “throw up” is an oddly appropriate phrase. They’ve got better things to do with their time and money. Let’s look at a few examples of some of their so-called justifications.

Now, before we dive in, let’s talk about that title. Calling these questions “stupid” is a bit like calling a Marine drill sergeant “cuddly.” It’s intentionally provocative. During my Air Force days, we were told that there were no stupid questions, only stupid mistakes that come from not asking. And that’s the truth. These questions aren’t stupid because the people asking them are unintelligent, far from it. They are often deeply felt, painful, and born from genuine confusion. They’re “stupid” in the sense that they’re usually used as roadblocks, as final answers to slam the door on faith when they should be the very starting point of a deeper investigation. They’re the questions we ask when we’re looking at the world through a keyhole and trying to describe the entire mansion.

So, let’s take a good, honest look at some of these classic church-dodging, faith-questioning zingers. We’ll kick the tires, see what they’re made of, and maybe find out they’re not the impenetrable fortresses we thought they were.

"The church just wants your money." Ah, the classic. This one usually comes with a mental image of a slick-haired televangelist in a shiny suit, weeping into a silk handkerchief while begging for money to fuel his private jet. And let’s be brutally honest: some people have certainly given this accusation legs. The headlines are real. But using those unfortunate examples to write off the entire Church is like judging all of music by that one guy who massacres a classic song at karaoke night. It’s a flawed sample size.

Yes, the church talks about money. It also talks about your time, your talents, your leftover casserole for the potluck, and your willingness to volunteer in the nursery with two dozen screaming toddlers. The church, you see, doesn’t just want your money; it wants you. It wants your involvement, your heart, and your commitment. The money part is just one piece of that.

The Bible is surprisingly upfront about giving. The Old Testament talks about the tithe—a “tenth”—as a principle of worship. Malachi 3:10 says, “Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house.” This wasn’t a heavenly shakedown. It was a tangible way for people to put God first, to trust that He would provide for their other ninety percent, and to support the work of the temple, which was the center of their community. What clarified it all for me was when I realized that God allowed me to keep 90% of His money.

But the New Testament reframes it beautifully. In 2 Corinthians 9:7, Paul writes, “Each of you should give what you have decided in your heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.” There’s the key: “a cheerful giver.” It’s not a bill or a tax. It’s a joyful response to the grace God has already given us. It’s an act of worship, not a transaction. That money keeps the lights on, sure, but it also funds the food pantry that feeds the hungry family down the street. It supports the missionary digging wells in a parched village overseas. It provides counseling for the couple whose marriage is on the rocks. It’s not about building a golden palace; it’s about fueling the engine of ministry. When you see it as an investment in changing lives, it stops feeling like a payment.

"Look at all the wrongdoings and hypocrites in the church." This is a heavy one, and it’s a valid one. The Crusades. The Inquisition. Current scandals. Moral failures. The list of the Church’s foul-ups is long and well-documented. And on a personal level, we’ve all known them: the deacon who gossips, the worship leader with a temper, the person who’s pious on Sunday and ruthless on Monday. It’s easy to look at all that and say, “If that’s what a Christian is, ‘include me out,’” as Samuel Goldwyn famously said.

But here’s the thing: the church was never meant to be a museum for perfect saints. It’s a hospital for broken sinners. Pointing out that there are sick people in a hospital isn’t a scandal; it’s the whole point of the hospital. The Bible itself is shockingly honest about the flaws of its heroes. David was an adulterer and a murderer. Peter, the rock on whom the church was to be built, denied Jesus three times. Paul, who wrote half of the New Testament, began his career as an overzealous persecutor of early Christians. The Bible is a book about flawed people being used by a perfect God.

Jesus had more scathing words for hypocrites than for anyone else. In Matthew 7:5, He says, “You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” He was on to them from the start. Think about this one. He knew Judas would betray him, yet he still washed his filthy feet.

The standard for Christianity was never the guy in the next pew or the long-haired teenager slouching against the back wall of the sanctuary. The standard is Jesus Christ. He is the only perfect one. If we take our eyes off Him and fixate on the failures of His followers, we will always, always be disappointed. It’s like refusing to go to the concert because you heard the roadie is a jerk. The roadie isn’t the one you came to see. Don’t let the failures of men and women close your eyes to the perfection and grace of God. The church is full of hypocrites, and thank God for that—it means there’s room for the rest of us. As the saying goes, "for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23). That verse applies just as much inside the sanctuary as it does outside.

"Why does God allow war, disease, and suffering, especially in children?" We’ve now arrived at the elephant in the room. It’s a big one! This isn’t a question you can dismiss with a clever analogy. This is the one that keeps people up at night. It’s the cry of a parent in a pediatric cancer ward, the scream of a victim in a war-torn country. That's the problem with evil. If God is all-powerful and all-good, why is the world so full of pain?

There are no easy, bumper-sticker answers here. Anyone who gives you one is selling something. However, the Bible does provide a framework for understanding it. The story begins in a perfect garden, Eden. In that garden, God gave humanity the most powerful and dangerous gift imaginable: free will. The choice to love Him or to reject Him. Without that choice, love is meaningless. You can program a robot to say, “I love you,” but it’s just code. Real love requires the freedom not to love.

And we, humanity, chose to walk away. The story of the Fall in Genesis 3 is the story of us choosing our own way, and in doing so, we broke the world. We introduced sin, and with it came a cascade of consequences: decay, violence, greed, hatred, and death. War isn't God's fault; it's a product of human ambition and sin. Much of the disease in the world is a direct or indirect result of living in a creation that the Apostle Paul said is “groaning as in the pains of childbirth” (Romans 8:22). The world is not as it was meant to be. We are living in the long, tragic aftermath of a rebellion.

But that doesn’t make it any easier when you see a child suffering. That’s the emotional core of the question, and it’s where intellectual arguments fail. We can’t possibly comprehend the whole picture from our vantage point. It’s like an ant on a single thread of a massive, intricate Persian rug, trying to understand the grand design. All the ant sees is a confusing, bumpy thread. It can’t see the masterpiece.

This is where the Christian story offers something profoundly different. God did not remain a distant, detached observer of our suffering. He entered into it. In the person of Jesus Christ, God Himself experienced betrayal, injustice, poverty, mockery, and one of the most brutal forms of execution ever devised. The cross is God’s answer to suffering. It doesn’t explain every instance of pain, but it shows us that God is not immune to it. He is with us in it. He understands. Jesus wept.

He never promised a life free from trouble. He promised the opposite: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). The ultimate promise isn’t a pain-free life now, but a perfect restoration later. The final word is not suffering, but Revelation 21:4: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” That is the hope we cling to when nothing else makes sense.

"Aren't there other ways to get to heaven?" In our modern, pluralistic world, this question feels like common sense. It seems arrogant and narrow-minded to claim one faith has it all right. The popular idea is that all religions are merely different paths up the same mountain. It’s a lovely sentiment. It’s also logically and theologically incoherent if you actually examine the paths.

Saying all religions are the same is like saying a polka, a symphony, and a rock anthem are all the same because they use musical notes. They are fundamentally different in their structure, their message, and their destination. Buddhism teaches that the self is an illusion, and the goal is to extinguish desire. Islam teaches submission to Allah's law as a means to earn paradise. Hinduism involves a cycle of reincarnation based on the concept of karma.

Christianity’s claim is utterly unique and, frankly, scandalous. It’s not about what we do to reach God. It’s about what God did to reach us. Every other religious system is based on human effort—a ladder we must climb through good works, meditation, or adherence to rules. Christianity says the ladder is broken, and we can’t fix it. Instead, God came down to us.

This is why the words of Jesus in John 14:6 are so pivotal: “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” He didn’t say, “I am a way.” He claimed exclusive identity. The author C.S. Lewis famously argued that a man who said the things Jesus said could not be a mere "good moral teacher." He was either a liar, a lunatic, or He was exactly who He claimed to be: the Lord.

This isn’t about Christians being better than anyone else. It’s the opposite. The core of the faith is admitting you can’t save yourself. As Ephesians 2:8-9 says, “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.” The Christian claim isn’t an arrogant declaration of our righteousness, but a humble acceptance of a gift we could never earn. The claim is exclusive, but the invitation is radically inclusive: it is for everyone willing to accept it.

So, these questions. They’re good questions. They’re hard questions. But they are not dead ends. They are doorways. Instead of using them as excuses to stay away, let them be the very things that drive you to seek real answers. Don’t settle for the caricature of the church or the soundbite version of faith. Go to the source. Read the Gospels for yourself. Talk to a Christian you trust. Wrestle with it. Because the answers aren't ultimately found in a perfect church, a pain-free world, or a philosophical argument. They're found in a person, Jesus, the Christ. And He's still waiting with your answers.