Dr Paul Allen

I’ve recently had conversations with younger Christian friends who have been reeling from experiences and observations of confounding evil. As a man more than double the age of the friends I have in mind, I can vouch that comprehending what appears to be senseless evil doesn’t get easier the longer you live. Perhaps that sounds discouraging, especially since I remember, as a younger Christian, hoping I’d have greater wisdom in my golden years. After all, isn’t sagacity part of “the splendour of . . . grey hair” (Proverbs 20:29)? I hope this is true of me. But as I grow older, I’m discovering that the more significant part of wisdom isn’t accumulating a more excellent knowledge of good and evil so much as learning how to deal more faithfully with my deficit of such knowledge. So, if I have any wisdom worth imparting to Christians struggling with incomprehensible evil, it lies in cultivating the spiritual discipline of handing back the fruit. Problem of Evil Theologians and philosophers

Lyne Wallace In simple words, John gives us an important observation about the morning of the resurrection. “…It was still dark…” As always with John the words operate on two levels. Yes, it was before dawn so it was dark. John, however, was not referring to the limited number of lumens peering over the horizon. The time of day is only a servant to his greater point. The world was dark not because the sun had yet to peer over the horizon. John is not trying to describe the ordinary. The world was dark because the power of evil had if just for a moment, won the day or so it seemed. The Light of the World was extinguished, and, for all Mary Magdalene knew, that fact remained unchanged. She most likely suspected it to forever remain unchanged. Mary was beside herself in grief. Her eyes, swollen by hours of wailing, were unable to see clearly. Her wailing had drowned out both extraordinary and familiar voices. John 20 -  Mary and Jesus She watched in disbelieving horror as the soldiers tie

On the last day of his vacation, Rob Moll leaned in to kiss his wife, Clarissa, before heading out for a hike in Mount Rainier National Park. “Have fun,” she whispered. “I will,” Rob said. He never returned.  On July 19, 2019, Rob Moll fell to his death on that mountain. Clarissa was left to raise four children alone. She writes, “All of the life we loved together vanished in a moment.” In the three years since Clarissa has walked honestly with Christ and pointed fellow sufferers to the hope that is both here and now as well as for heaven. In her book Beyond the Darkness: A Gentle Guide for Living with Grief and Thriving After Loss, Clarissa Moll offers the bereaved much-needed empathy and seeks to show them and those who would walk beside them how grieving souls can flourish after loss. Sorrow is a dark and painful road. You don’t need to walk it alone. The Bible says that “God is near to the brokenhearted,” but what does that look like when you’re lost in the darkness of agonizing gr

Cynicism among Christians appears as a collection of negative attitudes and expectations. Those attitudes may be directed toward ourselves or others, the church, conversions, gospel progress, growth in sanctification, and even toward God himself. A clear biblical example appears in Malachi: “It is vain to serve God. What is the profit of our keeping his charge or of walking as in mourning before the Lord of hosts?” (Malachi 3:14). But cynicism may be a deep attitude of heart or mind, even if it is not spoken out loud. Cynicism today, as at any time, contradicts the three vital signs of Christianity according to Paul: faith in Jesus Christ, love for all the saints, and hope as we await the return of Christ (1 Corinthians 13:13; 1 Thessalonians 1:2–3; Colossians 1:3–6). The general cure for cynicism is to cultivate and increase our faith in Christ, our love for God’s people, and our firm hope in the return of Christ. Alongside that general cure, however, God has given us many specific cu

When I suffer, I become certain of two things: 1. God exists, and 2. he is a traitor. I didn’t always believe that. I accumulated experiences with God. In every unpleasant moment, in every tragedy, in every moment of confusion, a light and deceptive hand turns my mind’s gaze Godward: “He did this.” “He should have stopped this.” “He wants you to think you can be happy, . . . but he’s a mischief maker. A  traitor .” If we can’t identify those arguments in our hearts, they’ll own our thoughts, emotions, and actions. They will drive us as we process pain. Very easily, even subconsciously, we learn that God is a traitor. I could be happy or I could be heartbroken. I’m heartbroken. God is in control. God said he loved me. One of these things cannot be true. Therefore , I trust him a little less now. Multiply that times a thousand losses, pains, or failures, and we can easily descend into a betrayed and victimized theology: God is a traitor. During grief — during a bre