The Transfiguration of “Why”: Trust, Suffering, and Divine Revelation

Within the Christian life, few experiences are as universal and as theologically complex as suffering. The question of why arises not only as a philosophical inquiry but as an existential cry embedded within the lived experience of the believer. This reflection seeks to reframe that question through Scripture and the theological tradition, proposing that the movement from “why” to trust is central to a properly relational understanding of faith.

The Cry of the Soul in Affliction

In the midst of affliction, when the soul is pressed beneath the weight of trial, the human heart instinctively turns toward God with the question why. It is not merely an intellectual inquiry, but a deeply embodied cry where sorrow swells into the chest, breath becomes labored, and composure gives way to a kind of interior trembling. In such moments, one finds oneself suspended between endurance and exhaustion, striving daily to persevere while simultaneously wrestling with the seeming prohibition against questioning, having been formed by the assurance that “all things work together for good to those who love God” (Romans 8:28).

Yet Scripture does not silence the question; it reframes it.

Reframing Suffering: The Man Born Blind (John 9)

I am drawn, in these moments, to the account of the man born blind in the Gospel of John 9. Significantly, it is not the man himself who raises the question, but those around him: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (John 9:2). Their inquiry reveals a deeply ingrained assumption that suffering must be the direct consequence of personal or inherited sin, that affliction is to be explained through guilt.

But Christ interrupts this logic with a profound reorientation: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but that the works of God should be revealed in him” (John 9:3). Here, suffering is neither dismissed nor simplistically explained; rather, it is transfigured. The question of causality – why did this happen? – is displaced by a question of manifestation — what might God reveal through this? This interpretive shift is echoed in the patristic tradition.

St. John Chrysostom, commenting on this passage, emphasizes that Christ does not deny suffering but redirects its meaning toward divine purpose, revealing that affliction may become the very arena in which God’s glory is manifested, not as abstract consolation, but as concrete transformation.

The Human Inclination Toward Misinterpreting Suffering

Why, then, is it that the human imagination so readily inclines toward suspicion and negation? Why do we presume that what is painful must also be meaningless, or worse, purely punitive? Perhaps it is because, as Scripture testifies, “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick” (Jeremiah 17:9). In our own corruption, we project fragmentation onto the world, struggling to conceive that divine grace might be at work precisely within what appears broken.

And yet, the Gospel invites us into a deeper vision, one in which suffering is not denied, but neither is it final. It becomes, mysteriously, a locus of divine activity. The blindness of the man is not merely a condition to be pitied, but a site in which the glory of God is disclosed, concretely, in healing, in revelation, and in encounter.

Thus, the Christian is not called to suppress the cry of why, but to allow it to be purified, transformed from an accusation into a posture of openness. For even within the obscurity of trial, there remains the quiet, abiding possibility that what is being wrought is revelation: that the works of God, though often hidden, are nevertheless being made manifest.

Understandably, the vulnerability of the heart, as it submits in openness to God’s faithfulness, is itself a trial. It requires not only faith, but trust.

This reorientation from causality to manifestation demands a deeper examination of what Scripture means by “faith.”

Reconsidering Faith: Pistis as Trust

The term, commonly rendered as “faith” or “belief” in the New Testament and other early Christian writings, is pistis in Greek and fides in Latin. Both carry a rich semantic range: while they may denote “belief,” they are more fundamentally oriented toward “trust,” “faithfulness,” “trustworthiness,” and even “entrustedness.” As Teresa Morgan argues in her seminal work Roman Faith and Christian Faith, pistis in the Greco-Roman and early Christian context is fundamentally relational, denoting not merely belief, but a network of trust, loyalty, and mutual commitment. Faith, therefore, is not reducible to internal conviction, but is inherently participatory and communal. Thus, faith is the yielding of the whole person into a lived relationship of fidelity. This nuance is deeply significant for how faith is understood and embodied within the life of the Church.

What emerges within this contextual discourse is the centrality of “trust” as a constitutive and relational reality, one that is fully realized within communion: the relationship between God and humanity, and humanity within the ecclesial body. Trust, therefore, is not an abstract or isolated interior state, but an active participation in relational life. This understanding resonates deeply within the liturgical theology of Alexander Schmemann, who situates faith as an entrance into the life of the Church, where trust is cultivated through participation in the Eucharistic and communal life of the Body. In this sense, trust is not merely exercised; it is formed. It is formed, tested, and deepened within the very fabric of communion.

Accordingly, trust must be more deeply apprehended as something upon which one leans existentially, especially in moments of uncertainty, suffering, and spiritual obscurity.

Scripture consistently gestures toward this relational and covenantal dimension of trust. The bond between Jonathan and David (1 Samuel 18:1–5) reveals a trust rooted in self-giving love and mutual fidelity. The story of Ruth and Naomi (Ruth 1) manifests a steadfast trust that persists even amid loss, displacement, and the unknown. Moreover, Christ Himself articulates the restoration of trust within the ecclesial community in Matthew 18:15–17, outlining a process that is at once pastoral, relational, and communal:

“Moreover if your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone. If he hears you, you have gained your brother. 16 But if he will not hear, take with you one or two more, that ‘by the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established.’ 17 And if he refuses to hear them, tell it to the church. But if he refuses even to hear the church, let him be to you like a heathen and a tax collector.”

This passage reveals that trust is neither assumed nor static; it is dynamic, vulnerable, and in need of continual restoration. The Church, therefore, is not merely the context in which trust exists, but the very means through which it is healed, sustained, and brought to maturity. Here, trust is not assumed as static, but is understood as something that can be wounded, pursued, and, by grace, restored within the life of the Body.

The Transfiguration of the Question “Why”

Within this framework, the act of asking “why” ought not to be dismissed or demonized, as though inquiry itself were a sign of deficient faith. Rather, it is the disposition of the soul beneath the question that is decisive. Ultimately, the Christian life does not eliminate the question of “why,” but transfigures it. Within the life of the Church, and through the language of pistis, the believer is invited to move beyond the demand for explanation toward the cultivation of trust. This trust is not blind, nor is it passive; it is a lived, relational fidelity that emerges within communion with God and with His Body. In this way, suffering is neither denied nor glorified in itself, but becomes, mysteriously, a site of encounter, wherein the works of God are revealed and the believer is invited to participate in their unfolding.

When rooted in despair, the question may close the self inward; yet when transfigured into hopefulness, it becomes a movement toward God. It becomes an expression of longing for the revelation of divine glory, for the discernment of meaning, and for participation in what God is bringing forth. In this sense, the question “why” can become, when rightly oriented, an entry into deeper trust, wherein the believer seeks not merely answers, but communion, and not merely explanation, but transformation.