For myself I have been parted from my possessions, stripped of my offices, blackened in my reputation, and punished for the services I have rendered… [s]o then I may cry aloud… (Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy)

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Rom. 8:28)

In my younger days, filled with enthusiasm for theology and navigating the early stages of what some might call a “messiah complex” (a term familiar to seasoned seminarians and priests), I would have confidently answered the question, “Is life fair?” with a resounding “yes”. At the time, I believed I had a firm grasp on divine providence. I was young, healthy, and felt as though the future held limitless possibilities. Vigour and optimism, pulsed through me, even though I had already witnessed suffering. Still, I believed that my perspective aligned with the nature of God’s justice. I was also familiar with the story of Job and had reflected on his unwavering faith amid trials—a story that, despite its initial horrors, ultimately had a positive ending. The biblical narrative of the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ was, as you might expect from a young seminarian—and later an ordained clergyman—at the very heart of my worldview. But then, things began to change—slowly but surely. Not my worldview, nor my steadfast belief in divine providence, but rather how this very theology was to be practically understood and lived out beyond the seminary walls and course textbooks.

As my life became richer with experience over the years, I began to confront certain harsh realities—loss, illness, death, and the injustices that came with them—whether they affected me directly, or those close to me. At the same time, my travels exposed me to the stark economic disparities across the world. This combination of personal encounters and global contact led me to question the early assumptions I had that everything was, in fact, 'good'. In my role as a pastoral cleric, as I would then have conceived of myself, my visits to the terminally ill—especially to young people—and my weekend walkabouts through various cemeteries in Sydney, were precious opportunities to offer comfort to those grieving the passing of loved ones, some of whom had died in particularly tragic ways. Over time, this became less about offering the idea that everything was divinely planned and more about acknowledging the raw pain of loss, helping others find solace in the midst of their despair.

My self-confidence began to erode after clashes with my superiors, which eventually led to my departure from the ministry. I found myself adrift, without an identity, and at every turn, blocked from new opportunities by the Church I had once served but could never stop loving. In time, more followed—loss of valued friendships and my good reputation, (there are many ways to stand up a human being against the wall to execute them), and later the taking away of my intellectual labour, eventually, chronic illness with its every day pain. Before that, one branch of my extended family was wiped out due to disease. Was this fair? It was a question I found myself asking more and more. I must accept that, in my case, having requested to be relieved of my ministry—though there are reasons I still cannot openly share—I did also contribute to my own tribulations and for this I am alone responsible. But what about the suffering of others—those who had brought none or very little of this anguish upon themselves? People stripped of their rightful place, denied the chance to reach their potential; the seemingly undeserving rising to positions from unqualified persons, or worse, placed there through bribery or fraud. Even more heartbreaking when innocent children are ravaged by illnesses, or in other places, made to die of hunger and thirst due to economic conditions. Such suffering is not optional. Was this fair? The Scriptures themselves also seem to speak to this truth about the unfairness in life: “Under the sun, the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happens to them all” (Ecc. 9:11).

I am not here to argue for a theodicy nor delve into the famous "problem of evil," that I have tried best I could to address in my novel and in a few of my essays, but simply to ask: Is life fair?

A saint would more than likely say, “Yes, life is fair, for it is all preordained by a just and all-knowing God.” I am not a saint, of course, and as such, I can no longer make such sweeping declarations. I cannot view the world through the same lens as those enlightened souls, blessed with unwavering faith. As I approach my 70s, I have come to understand more deeply the unpredictable nature of life—its shocks, disappointments, and uncertainties. This is not to say that there are no moments of pure joy; indeed, those moments exist. But life’s duality—the intertwining of joy and sorrow—is the lesson we must learn, one that speaks to the core of our existence. There is a spurious saying attributed to the Buddha, yet it persists since it is informed with tried and true wisdom: “Pain in life is inevitable, but suffering is optional. Pain is what the world does to you, suffering is what you do to yourself by the way you think about the pain you receive.” I well understand, these are enormous enquiries to make of the human mind, it is not inconceivable that for a serious thinker, they could last a lifetime.

Let me pre-empt my few, gentle readers by saying this: life is not fair. Even so, what does this mean? My own response, which is all we can do for now, comes from a man who, though jaded, endures. Nothing more, nothing less. I have witnessed and experienced both the beauty and the harshness of being active and involved in the world. In the same way to you, for we are made from the same essential elements, or “mud” and “clay” as mythologies and religious traditions have described. I could easily quote a long list of philosophers and writers, Friedrich Nietzsche, Hannah Arendt, Primo Levi, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, for example, who have eloquently explored the inherent unfairness of life. It would be enough for now to read the chapter which features Ivan Karamazov’s well-known argument in "The Grand Inquisitor" from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. In it, the intellectual and analytical Ivan Karamazov, raises a compelling argument about the existence of suffering in a world supposedly created by a benevolent and omnipotent God—arguments that can be traced to the Russian philosopher and theologian, Vladimir Soloviev (and a close friend of Dostoevsky’s). Jesus Christ himself in the Garden of Gethsemane asks for the cup of suffering he was about to endure to be taken away from him (Lk 22:42). I will return to this pericope in a moment which has on more than one occasion saved me.

Through these brief reflections, dare I call it “flash theology”, I find a path toward self-healing, like I do with most of the humble ponderings that I share on this web site. Primarily, these reflections serve as a conversation with myself and, later, as something for my children to read. But I also hope they offer some meaning and a little solace to the occasional visitor—to a soul on its own irreplaceable journey, seeking a quiet park bench to rest for a moment. In recent months, I have been compelled to reflect on this problem even more deeply, due to personal losses and the pain endured by a family member. But, as I have shared earlier, the question of life’s fairness is one that has long weighed on me. Beyond the comfort of Scripture, particularly the Book of Psalms, I have oftentimes reflected on Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. In essence, the Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, Frankl, offers profound insight when we feel ourselves to have become overwhelmed: “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” The interesting thing here is that Elder Ephraim of Katounakia, an Athonite monk, in his own way, conveys a very similar message:

Everyone has a cross to carry. Why? Since the leader of our faith endured the cross, we will also endure it. On one hand, the cross is sweet and light, but, on the other, it can also be bitter and heavy. It depends on our will. If you bear Christ’s cross with love then it will be very light; like a sponge or a cork. But if you have a negative attitude, it becomes heavy; too heavy to lift.

And so I now return to the Lucan pericope of Christ’s passion in the Garden of Gethsemane to offer my final thoughts. On a personal note—and I believe I speak for most—there are moments in life when we feel that things are unfair. However, unless we allow ourselves to be entirely undone by these struggles, we have at least one time-tested way forward: to acknowledge the cup we did not seek and to accept it as a sign. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done” (Lk. 22:42). Here in His underserved punishment, the God-Man acknowledges both the presence of suffering and the overarching goodness of God Himself. If we endure, transformation awaits us, just as it did for Jesus Christ after Calvary, in His resurrection. This endurance in perseverance is not about resigning from life; rather, it is about recognising that, even during the most challenging of trials, there exists a path toward realising the fullness of our potential as human beings. Accepting, too, that there are many things to be grateful for, in spite of any injustice that might surround us. So, yes, life might not always be fair, but its “joyful-sorrows” are not without meaning.

Like a tree I would be blasted by wind, struck by sun and rain, and would wait with confidence; the long-desired hour of flowering and fruit would come. (Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco)

Over the years, I have come to personally understand—and have observed in the lives of others—that, in the face of pain, an unfairness done to us can often lead to unexpected rewards, and beyond all measure. In fact, there is a freedom in it, along with a unique opportunity for genuine growth, even if for most of us, this may seem paradoxical or counterintuitive. So, yes, together we can say, “Blessed are those who mourn” (Matt. 5:4). I do not pretend. Little of this is ever easy. It can be brutal to the spirit of a person, and unbearingly so at times. Is there someone whose mental anguish you can help to alleviate with a word? Have you the power to right a wrong where an unfairness has been done? Even by that one single act of kindness, souls have been saved to affect generations. It all goes too quick. We soon enough grow old. It is then that these certainties of the human condition reveal themselves to be our infallible truths. As for the suffering of the innocent, those who do not have the time, nor the means, nor the luxury that we have been blessed with, tangible hope can only touch their lives through the opening of our hearts in communion, that heroic compassion may burst through. Time and time again, it has been revealed acts of supreme generosity, to the extent of self-sacrifice, are not beyond our reach—because we are capable of the divine, Capax Dei.

Journal

Is life unfair? Yes, but what does this mean