In the Christian faith, God really puts suffering front and

Host: The chapel was empty but alive — its air thick with candle smoke, quiet light, and the smell of old wood that had absorbed centuries of prayer. Outside, the rain whispered against the stained glass, tracing rivers of color down the windowpanes. The flickering flame of the altar candle trembled in the soft wind that crept beneath the heavy door.

Jeeny sat in the first pew, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. The glow from the candles painted her face in gold and shadow — fragile, yet fierce, like someone asking the world a question it had avoided too long.

Jack stood near the back, his jacket still damp, his eyes scanning the empty space — the crucifix, the pews, the silence that felt almost too sincere. His voice broke through the hush like a low chord.

Jack: “You ever notice how churches always feel heavier when it rains?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s when people remember why they were built.”

Host: She gestured toward the inscription carved into the wood above the altar, a line she had been staring at for minutes:

“In the Christian faith, God really puts suffering front and center. He doesn’t get squeamish about it.”
— Joni Eareckson Tada

Jack’s gaze followed hers. He read it under his breath, the words hanging in the air between belief and bewilderment.

Jack: “Front and center. Not exactly a sales pitch for faith, is it?”

Jeeny: “Faith was never meant to sell comfort. It was meant to hold people together when comfort left.”

Host: The rain deepened, drumming softly against the roof, steady as a heartbeat. Somewhere in the distance, thunder murmured — a sound like a warning, or a reminder.

Jack: “It’s strange. You grow up thinking God’s supposed to take suffering away. Then you read something like this — and realize He puts it on display instead.”

Jeeny: “Because hiding it doesn’t make it less real. Faith without suffering is just optimism dressed in white robes.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve made peace with pain.”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped pretending it’s optional.”

Host: Her voice carried through the chapel, soft but unflinching, like prayer said without hope of being heard — said only because it’s needed.

Jack: “You sound like Joni herself — speaking from the cross instead of about it.”

Jeeny: “She lived it, Jack. Paralyzed, and yet she never turned bitter. That’s what gets me — she didn’t see suffering as punishment, but as participation. As proximity to God.”

Jack: “That’s a hard theology to swallow.”

Jeeny: “Truth usually is.”

Host: The candle flame flickered violently, then steadied again. Jack walked closer, his footsteps echoing against the cold floor.

Jack: “You really believe God puts suffering front and center?”

Jeeny: “Look at the cross. What else would you call that? It’s not hidden behind glory; it is the glory. The story starts with birth and ends in agony — and somehow, that’s supposed to be redemption.”

Jack: “Or cruelty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Host: He sat down beside her, the bench creaking under his weight. His hands, scarred from old work, fidgeted with the edge of his coat.

Jack: “See, that’s what always bothered me about religion — the way it sanctifies pain. Makes it sound holy. I’ve seen enough of it in real life to know it just... breaks people.”

Jeeny: “It breaks what’s false in them.”

Jack: “And what about what’s good?”

Jeeny: “Good can’t be broken, Jack. Only refined.”

Host: He turned toward her, his eyes glinting under the dim light.

Jack: “So, suffering’s the forge, huh? You think God burns us to purify us?”

Jeeny: “Not burns. Sits with us in the fire. That’s the difference. Every other faith I know tries to explain pain away. Christianity just says, ‘I’ll meet you in it.’”

Jack: “So, God’s not squeamish.”

Jeeny: “No. But we are.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, this time closer. The walls seemed to hum with its weight. Jeeny looked up at the crucifix, its shadow stretching long and jagged across the marble floor.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was little, I used to think the cross was a symbol of defeat. A man dying, nailed down, forgotten. But now I think it’s the opposite — it’s the most honest thing God ever said to humanity: This is what love costs.”

Jack: “That’s not the kind of love most people want.”

Jeeny: “No. We want painless love. Easy love. The kind that doesn’t ask for blood. But real love bleeds.”

Jack: “So you think pain makes love real?”

Jeeny: “Pain reveals it. You only find out what you love when it starts to hurt.”

Host: Jack looked down, his expression softening, the mask of skepticism slipping just slightly.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s lost something.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all?”

Jack: “And you still believe?”

Jeeny: “Because believing isn’t about avoiding loss. It’s about surviving it with your soul intact.”

Host: Her words sank into the stillness, echoing faintly against the stone. Jack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a laugh — weary, disbelieving, and yet, strangely at peace.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what she meant. God doesn’t flinch at the sight of our wounds. Maybe He recognizes them as His own.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what the Incarnation means — God doesn’t just witness pain, He wears it.”

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “It’s not beautiful. It’s sacred. There’s a difference.”

Host: The rain slowed now, easing into a gentle drizzle. The chapel’s candles cast their small halos of light across the pews — fragile but defiant.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like you — who can look at suffering and still call it holy.”

Jeeny: “Don’t envy me. It took me years to realize that faith doesn’t erase pain; it gives pain purpose.”

Jack: “And without faith?”

Jeeny: “Pain’s just noise.”

Host: He sat back, his eyes fixed on the crucifix — that quiet image of agony and peace intertwined.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe God created suffering so we’d stop pretending we can fix everything ourselves?”

Jeeny: “I think He allows it so we remember what we’re made for — compassion, endurance, mercy. Suffering reminds us we belong to each other.”

Jack: “So, suffering is communion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the storm finally broke. The wind eased. The night felt washed, renewed, like a wound after cleansing.

Jeeny stood, lighting one last candle before the altar. The flame steadied quickly — strong, sure, unashamed of its own smallness.

Jeeny: “If God isn’t squeamish about suffering, then maybe we shouldn’t be either. Maybe the goal isn’t to escape it — but to carry it with grace.”

Jack: (quietly) “And that’s freedom.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that’s earned through endurance, not ease.”

Host: The two of them stood side by side before the crucifix — not as believer and skeptic, but as two people learning to live honestly with pain.

And as the final candle flickered, Joni Eareckson Tada’s words seemed to shimmer in the silence — not as a warning, but as a mercy:

that suffering is not divine punishment,
but divine participation;
that faith is not the denial of pain,
but the decision to see God in its midst;
and that the sacred truth of love
is not that it avoids wounds —
but that it stays.

Unflinching.
Unashamed.
And, like God Himself,
not squeamish.