REFLECTION

When we open the book of Exodus, we must ask a difficult question. The Israelites were eventually delivered. They were led toward the land promised to their ancestors. Yet their deliverance took centuries. Why did they remain enslaved for so long? Where was God in the middle of that prolonged suffering?

Exodus begins by describing the weight of Israel’s affliction. Joseph, once the instrument through whom Egypt survived a devastating famine, brought his family to settle in the land. However, after a new king arose who had no knowledge of Joseph or his contributions, the Israelites became a threat in the Pharaoh’s eyes simply because they were multiplying rapidly. As a result, they were ruthlessly enslaved. Exodus 1:14 tells us that their lives were made bitter and their labor harsh.

By the time Moses encounters God at the burning bush in Exodus 3, the suffering has been long and unrelenting. God says in verse 7, “I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers and I am concerned about their suffering.” God goes on to outline the intention to deliver them. Exodus 12:40–41 describes a 430-year span connected to Israel’s time in Egypt, though not all of those years appear to have been lived under the same intensity of oppression. Yet the people of God lived and died for generations under the weight of systems that denied their humanity.

Several truths rise from this reality. First, although the Israelites suffered, they continued to hold on to their belief in God. Their faith did not shield them from oppression, but it accompanied them inside it. Second, the story invites us to consider the nature of God’s relationship to human suffering. Throughout Scripture there is a pattern. God is the One who suffers with us and the One who suffers for us.

The God who suffers with us is never absent. Even when circumstances do not immediately change, God is present in pain. Sometimes God’s work is hidden, unfolding quietly in the background. A barren woman gives birth in her old age, a weary man wrestles with God in the night, a dreamer sold into slavery rises to become second in command of an empire, a baby survives periods of infanticide and drifts in a basket and lands in a palace. These movements may be imperceptible to human eyes, yet they signal the presence of a God who remains inside and above the story even when liberation seems distant.

The God who suffers with us is described in Isaiah 53 as a Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief. The God who walks beside the oppressed led Israel as a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. An unchanging God (Hebrews 13:8) who promises to be with us always (Matthew 28:20). God who moves with the oppressed through shackles and wilderness and brings them toward a promised future.

The God who suffers for us is the God who accepts a burden that humanity could never carry. The God who provides a ram in a thicket. The God who willingly comes to Earth and dies so that we can have the life we could not secure for ourselves. The God who, in Christ, takes suffering upon Himself at the hands of created beings.

The God who suffers with us and for us stands at the center of every story in which liberation feels delayed.

There is another consideration. The God who suffers with and for us is not untouched by pain. The free will given to humanity has created a world where people can choose to burden, harm, and dominate others. Human history is filled with violence, exploitation, and systems built to maintain superiority. When we acknowledge that God is love, we also realize that there is no version of oppression where God wins. Whether it is the oppressed who suffer or the oppressor who inflicts suffering, both are God’s children. To watch either one fall is a loss to the heart of God. Knowing God’s proximity to suffering does not change the devastation of it all. In fact, while we may not be able to change the entire world, oppression also appears in smaller, everyday forms. A harsh word to a stranger. A diminishing comment to a loved one. A refusal to see the humanity in someone else because of where they were born. These are the microburdens that extinguish light one person at a time. Deliverance is not only a divine act. It is also a human calling. Liberation requires people who are willing to participate in the work with God.

It is easy to ask why God allows suffering. It is harder to ask whether suffering persists because there were not enough courageous people willing to stand against it. The challenge is not whether God is good. The question is whether we have positioned ourselves to help relieve the oppression around us or whether we have settled into criticism while expecting God to do the work alone.

God works with humanity. Sometimes liberation feels slow, and one reason may be that human beings often resist the costly work of standing with others. When we refuse to mirror God’s heart, oppression gains space to grow.

So, the deeper question is not simply why bad things happen. It is this: Am I willing to participate in the deliverance of those who are burdened, silenced, or held down? Or have I chosen the safer path of silence, or commentary that stops short of meaningful action?

God remains the One who suffers regardless of which side wins a battle. The invitation is for us to consider whether we are willing to join God in that suffering for the sake of another person’s freedom.