By Joshua Arnold

Catastrophic flooding in central Texas this weekend claimed the lives of at least 78 people, including at least 28 children. Following approximately a foot of rain in hill country, the Guadalupe River rose 26 feet in just 45 minutes, surprising vacationers and summer camps along its banks. At Camp Mystic, a Christian all-girls camp, 27 campers and counselors perished, including the camp director. Each death is a tale of heartbreaking tragedy, a dissonant screech that derails the melody of life, which leaves the survivors on the brink of a precipice asking — why?

For the most part, the answers are neither easy nor satisfying, but pursuing them anyway can broaden our understanding and deepen our faith, thereby bringing good out of grief. To find understanding, Christians turn to the Bible because we believe it is the revealed word of God, containing divine truth and wisdom that is unmixed with error. Thus, Scripture must be the launch point for our inquiry.

So, why did the deadly Texas floods happen?

At the most general level, every death is the result of sin. Paul offers comments on the theological significance Fall, “sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned” (Romans 5:12, see Genesis 2:17, 3:22). Mankind’s sin has far-reaching painful consequences, such that “the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth” under God’s judgment (Romans 8:22). Even deaths from natural disasters like floods are the result of sin; God destroyed the ancient world with floodwaters because “the wickedness of man was great in the earth” (Genesis 6:5, 17, see 2 Peter 2:5).

However, the general link between sin and death does not entail the principle that each individual death is the result of grave individual sins. In fact, Jesus specifically denies such a precise link between sins and physical death on at least two occasions. In Luke 13:2-5, Jesus declares that victims of mass tragedies were no worse sinners than anyone else, adding, “but unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.” In John 9:3, Jesus declared that a man’s blindness from birth did not result from any sin, “but that the works of God might be displayed in him.”

Jesus’s comment points to a more particular answer to explain tragedies like flood deaths: God’s sovereign providence. This is a weighty and complex theme in which our analysis is incomplete at best. If we could sound the depth of God’s providence, haul it on the examination table, or place it under the microscope, it would not be sovereign. But God is God, and we are not, and the difference between us is not one of degree but of kind. “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts,” reveals the Lord (Isaiah 55:9).

But some aspects of God’s providence he has revealed in his word. We know from his word that God’s providence is good, merciful, and unknowable.

Scripture testifies that God works good purposes even out of actions that man intends for evil. Joseph tells his brothers, “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive” (Genesis 50:20). Paul turns this principle into a guarantee for believers, “for those who love God all things work together for good” (Romans 8:28). By all things, Paul certainly includes the hazards he lists soon afterward, “tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword” (Romans 8:35). Even these things God uses for good.

Next, God’s providence is merciful. As Jesus reminded his hearers in Luke 13, the marvel is not that some people die tragically, but that God has not already wiped out everyone who rebels against him — that is, everyone. The fact that anyone is saved from his wrath “depends not on human will or exertion, but on God, who has mercy” (Romans 9:16). Even at the flood, God established his mercy in his covenant “that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of the flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth” (Genesis 9:11). The sign of this covenant is the “bow” in the clouds, a weapon of war that is pointed not towards earth, but towards heaven itself.

Yet we must also consider the reality that God’s providence is unknowable. There are exceptions (Joseph, for instance), but the sovereign king of the universe is under no obligation to explain his purposes to us. Thus, Paul responds, “who are you, O man, to answer back to God? Will what is molded say to its molder, ‘Why have you made me like this?’” (Romans 9:20). Amid all Job’s trials and questioning, the righteous man gained greater understanding, but Scripture never says that God ever revealed to Job the heavenly scene (Job 1-2) that provoked his trails.

If that leaves us with more questions than answers, that is why following God requires faith, “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). Confronting these unanswered questions amid unassuaged suffering is an introduction to the biblical category of lament, a type of suffering prayer that dominates the Psalms, defines the entire book of Lamentations, and is sprinkled liberally through the prophets. Lament involves bringing our complaints to God, applying scriptural truth to our suffering, calling on him to act, and reaffirming his promises (see Mark Vroegop’s “Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy”).

Lament is not only for those who have personally experienced tragedy. One mark of Christian love is the ability to “weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15). Christians should make a practice of mourning with the sorrowful — a message all believers must take to heart. This may seem surprising, perhaps a tad distasteful, but Jesus promises, “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” (Matthew 5:4).

A millennia earlier, David echoed the same principle, in a psalm that the White House Faith Office picked up and quoted in response to the Texas floods, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

Perhaps those enduring great personal tragedy will find these reflections to be little comfort, a stinging ointment on their still-fresh wounds. Your gentle and lowly shepherd sees and knows. But that stinging ointment may still be the best medicine.

In 1873, after his four daughters drowned in a trans-Atlantic voyage, Chicago businessman Horatio Spafford penned the words, “When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul.’” We may feel powerless or lack answers, but we can still trust in God’s character, even when our grief is in flood.

Joshua Arnold is a senior writer at The Washington Stand.