What is the evidential problem of evil?

Unlike the logical problem of evil, which claims God's existence and evil are outright contradictory, the evidential problem of evil makes a more modest but still serious claim: given the scale, intensity, and apparent randomness of suffering in the world, God's existence seems improbable, even if not strictly impossible. This is the version most philosophers take seriously today, since the logical version is now widely regarded as unsuccessful.

The philosopher William Rowe framed this influentially by pointing to instances of what he called 'pointless suffering'—cases where, as far as we can tell, no greater good results from the suffering, which seems to count as evidence against an all-good, all-powerful God who would presumably prevent suffering that serves no purpose.

Rowe's example involved a fawn dying slowly and painfully in a forest fire, suffering that no human being ever witnesses or benefits from in any discernible way. If God exists, the argument goes, he would prevent such suffering unless it served some greater purpose. Since we cannot identify any purpose in cases like this, it becomes evidence, though not proof, that no such God exists.

This version of the argument is harder to answer than the logical problem, because it doesn't require an airtight contradiction—only that the sheer weight of seemingly pointless suffering makes theism less likely than it would otherwise be.

It's worth pausing on an irony here too: the very revulsion we feel at 'pointless' suffering, the sense that a fawn's lonely death in a forest fire is genuinely tragic and not merely neutral, itself requires a moral framework in which suffering actually matters. A universe governed by nothing but blind physical process has no particular reason to care whether a fawn suffers or not; matter in motion doesn't intrinsically object to pain. That we do object, deeply and instinctively, is itself more at home in a universe with a good Creator who cares about suffering than in one without any transcendent moral center at all.

The central Christian response is what philosophers call 'skeptical theism'—not skepticism about God, but healthy skepticism about our own ability to judge what an infinite, all-wise God could or could not have good reasons for. Just because we cannot see a purpose for a given instance of suffering does not mean no purpose exists; it may simply mean we are not in a position to see it, the way a young child cannot grasp why a parent allows a painful surgery.

Scripture repeatedly affirms this gap between finite and infinite understanding: 'my thoughts are not your thoughts... my ways [are] higher than your ways' (Isaiah 55:8-9). Our inability to identify a reason is simply not the same as proof that no reason exists.

The evidential problem loses much of its force when we remember that Scripture repeatedly shows God working redemptive purposes through evil that looked, at the time, utterly pointless. Joseph's years of slavery and imprisonment seemed senseless in the moment; only later could he say, 'You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good... the saving of many lives' (Genesis 50:20).

Even more, the crucifixion of Jesus looked, to onlookers that Friday, like the ultimate pointless tragedy—an innocent man tortured and killed. Yet it became the very means of salvation for the world (Acts 2:23-24). If God has a demonstrated pattern of bringing redemptive purpose out of apparently senseless evil, it gives real grounds for trusting he can do the same with suffering whose purpose we cannot presently see.

It's worth being honest: the evidential problem of evil is not fully resolved by any tidy formula, and Christians should resist offering glib answers to someone in the middle of genuine anguish. Job never received a specific explanation for his suffering; he received an encounter with God's wisdom and power that led him to trust even without full understanding (Job 42:1-3).

This models something important: faith does not require having every 'why' answered. It requires trusting a God whose character has already been demonstrated—supremely at the cross, where he proved the lengths he'd go to redeem suffering rather than merely explain it.

Some of the most trusted voices on this subject are not detached philosophers but people who suffered enormously and wrote about it honestly. The psalmists repeatedly cried out, 'How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?' (Psalm 13:1), refusing to pretend their pain wasn't real, yet the same psalms almost always end in renewed trust rather than abandoned faith. Their example matters because it shows that wrestling honestly with the evidential problem of evil and continuing to trust God are not mutually exclusive; in fact, Scripture seems to expect both together.

This pattern offers a model for anyone facing seemingly senseless suffering today. You don't have to pretend the pain makes sense to keep trusting the God who has proven, at the cross, exactly how seriously he takes suffering and exactly how far he'll go to ultimately defeat it.

The evidential problem of evil is a genuinely serious challenge, and Christians should engage it honestly rather than dismissively. But 'I cannot see the reason' is a very different claim from 'there is no reason,' and given God's proven pattern of working good even through apparent senselessness, trust remains reasonable even in the dark.

Paul's confidence was not that every individual evil made obvious sense, but that God works 'in all things... for the good of those who love him' (Romans 8:28)—a promise about the whole unfolding story, not a guarantee that every chapter would be immediately explicable.