Why "Everything Happens for a Reason" Isn't Comfort—It's Avoidance

I used to say it all the time. It was my go-to phrase when someone came to me with loss, with grief, with pain that I did not understand. A loved one dies, and someone says: "Well, everything happens for a reason." A job is lost, a marriage ends, a dream dies, and someone says: "God has a plan. Everything happens for a reason."

I said it because it sounded spiritual. I said it because it implied that God was in control, that the pain was not random, that there was a purpose behind the suffering. I thought I was offering comfort. I thought I was pointing to God's sovereignty. I thought I was being helpful.

But I was not being helpful. I was being harmful. I was dismissing the very real pain that people were experiencing. I was telling them that their grief was excessive, that their anger was unwarranted, that their tears were unnecessary. I was telling them to stop feeling what they were feeling.

I do not say it anymore. And I want to tell you why.

The Problem With Purpose

When someone is in pain, what they need is not someone to explain the purpose. What they need is not someone to decode the will of God. What they need is someone to sit with them in their pain, to witness their grief, to acknowledge their loss.

But the phrase "everything happens for a reason" does the opposite. It dismisses the pain. It says: "Your pain is not valid. There is a reason for this. You should not feel what you are feeling. The reason should be enough." It tells them that their grief is excessive, that their mourning is unwarranted.

Let me give you an example. Someone's parent dies, a parent they loved deeply, a parent who was their anchor. They are devastated. They come to you and share their pain. And you say: "Everything happens for a reason. God has a plan."

You are not helping. You are dismissing. You are telling them that their grief is excessive, that they should not feel what they are feeling, that the death had a purpose so they should be quiet.

What they need is not someone to explain the reason. What they need is someone to say: "This is devastating. I am so sorry. Tell me about your parent. Tell me what you are feeling. I will stay with you in this." They need their pain to be witnessed before it can begin to heal.

Notice what God does not say. He does not say "the Lord is near to those who understand the reason." He does not say "the Lord is near to those who see the purpose." He says near to the brokenhearted. He saves those who are crushed in spirit. The brokenness comes first. The saving comes after.

If God is near to the brokenhearted, who are we to tell them to stop being broken? If God saves those who are crushed in spirit, who are we to tell them they should not be crushed?

What the Phrase Actually Does

Let me tell you what I hear when someone says "everything happens for a reason" to me. I hear: "I do not want to sit in this with you. I do not understand your pain, and I do not want to try. I am going to explain your pain away instead of sitting with you in it. Your pain is inconvenient, so I am going to make it smaller."

That is not what they mean. I know that. They mean well. They want to help. They want to point to God's sovereignty. But that is what their words communicate when I am in grief, when I am angry, when I am facing a loss I do not understand.

What I hear is: "I am going to leave now. Handle this yourself. Believe the reason or pretend with me." That is not comfort. That is abandonment dressed in spiritual language.

The phrase "everything happens for a reason" takes the weight off of the speaker and puts it back on the one who is grieving. It says: "I will not sit here. I am leaving. You figure out the reason, or pretend you have figured it out, and either way I am done."

This is not what love looks like. Love stays. Love sits. Love says: "I do not understand this, but I am not leaving. We will figure this out together, even if we never figure it out."

The False Comfort of Purpose

There is a false comfort in purpose. There is a false comfort in believing that things happen for a reason. It makes the chaos feel smaller. It makes the loss feel purposeful. It makes the pain feel like it has meaning.

But here is the problem: knowing the reason does not take away the pain. Believing that God has a purpose does not make the suffering feel better. Understanding the why does not heal the what.

Job lost everything. His children, his wealth, his health. And when he asked why, God did not give him a reason. God did not explain. God did not say: "This is why." God simply showed up in the whirlwind and said: "I am God. You are not. I do not owe you an explanation."

Job was not given the reason. Job was given presence. And that was enough. That was more than enough. Because presence is what we need, not explanation. Presence is what heals, not reason.

When we say "everything happens for a reason," we are implying that knowing the reason will help. But it will not. What helps is presence. What helps is someone staying. What helps is being accompanied in the darkness.

God did not explain the reason to Job. God did not decode His purposes. God simply reminded Job that He is God and Job is not. The things that happen are beyond our understanding. The reasons are beyond our sight. And that is okay. That is not a problem to be solved. It is a mystery to be trusted.

But here is the thing: even if we do not know the reason, even if we never understand the purpose, even if the mystery remains a mystery, presence is still enough. We do not need the reason to heal. We need presence to heal. We need someone to stay.

The Harm of Explaining Away Pain

I want to name something that is rarely talked about. When we say "everything happens for a reason" and it lands wrong, we are not just being unhelpful. We are actually doing harm. We are teaching people that their pain is not valid, that they should not feel what they are feeling, that their grief is excessive.

This is how we create people who cannot feel their feelings. This is how we create people who override their grief with faith, who fake their peace, who pretend they are okay when they are not. This is how we create people who are disconnected from their own hearts.

We do not mean to cause harm. We are trying to help. We are trying to point to God's sovereignty. We are trying to offer comfort. But the help is actually harm when it invalidates the very experience they need to go through.

Think about what happens in the person receiving those words. They are already carrying a heavy thing, a loss that is pressing down on their chest, a grief that is hard to breathe through. Now, on top of that weight, they have to manage our need to explain. They have to pretend to understand the reason. They have to fake a faith they do not have.

None of this leads to healing. All of it leads to disconnection. Disconnection from their own feelings. Disconnection from the people who are trying to help. Disconnection from the healing they need.

What they need is someone who will sit with them in the not knowing. Someone who will say: "I do not understand this either. But I am here. We will not know together."

What We Are Actually Saying About God

When we say "everything happens for a reason," we are not just dismissing the person. We are also misrepresenting God. We are saying that God causes suffering for purposes, that He uses pain as a tool, that He orchestrates loss for His glory.

But that is not how God works. God does not cause the suffering. The suffering is a result of a broken world, a world fractured by sin, a world that is groaning for redemption. God does not send the cancer. God does not cause the accident. God does not orchestrate the loss.

What God does is enter the suffering. What God does is walk through the valley. What God does is weep at the grave and raise the dead and heal the broken and comfort the grieving. God does not cause the pain. God enters the pain.

When we say "everything happens for a reason," we are making God the author of suffering. We are putting Him on the throne of purpose, the one who causes pain for reasons. But that is not the God of the Bible. The God of the Bible is the one who enters, who saves, who redeems, who weeps.

Notice what God is and what God is not. He is slow to anger. He is filled with unfailing love. He forgives. But He does not leave the guilty unpunished. The punishment is not the same as causing suffering. The punishment is about justice, not about orchestrating pain.

The idea that God causes suffering for purposes is a distortion of His character. It makes Him smaller than He is, crueler than He is. It makes Him a cosmic puppeteer instead of a loving Father.

God does not need a reason for our suffering. He is not using our pain for His purposes. He is not testing us or teaching us or pruning us through suffering. He is simply with us in it. That is enough. That has to be enough.

The True Comfort of Presence

So what do we say? If we cannot say "everything happens for a reason," what is left? Let me offer some things we can actually offer with integrity:

"I am so sorry. This is devastating." This acknowledges the reality of the pain without trying to explain it. It says: "I see this as devastating. I will not minimize it. I will not make it smaller."

"I do not understand why this happened. I am here." This is honest. It does not pretend to have answers that we do not have. It says: "I am here, even in the not knowing."

"Tell me about them. Tell me what you are feeling." This is an invitation. It says: "I want to understand. I am not in a hurry to fix it. I want to hear your story."

"Can I sit with you?" This is presence. It does not try to explain. It does not try to fix. It simply says: "I am here. You do not have to carry this alone."

"I wish I had words, but I don't. I love you." This is honest. It does not pretend to have wisdom. It simply says: "I love you. That is what I have."

Notice none of these offer false comfort. None of them explain the reason. Instead, they acknowledge the pain, they offer presence, they invite the person to share more, they stay.

This is what love looks like. Love says: "I do not understand this, but I am here. I will stay. Even when it is hard. Even when I do not know what to say. I am still here."

The Invitation to Stay

We are invited to something better than false comfort. We are invited to presence. We are invited to stay in the hard thing with the person who is going through it, to sit in the not knowing without trying to explain, to walk beside them without trying to speed them up.

This kind of presence builds faith. Not faith in purposes, but faith in being accompanied. It says: "You do not have to go through this alone. I am here. Even when I do not understand. Even when I do not have answers."

When we stop trying to explain the pain, we free people to grieve fully, to feel their feelings without apology, to be human in process. We free them to question, to be angry, to not understand. We free them to be broken, which is the first step to being healed.

This is the better way. It costs us more. It requires us to stay when staying is hard, to sit when sitting is all we have to offer, to be present when presence is all we can give. But it produces something that explanations never can: connection, healing, real help.

Let us be people who stay. Let us be people who sit. Let us be people who say "I do not know why" instead of "everything happens for a reason." Let us be people who are present in the hard things, who do not leave, who do not explain away, who simply stay.

The law of Christ is to carry burdens, not to explain them away with spiritual platitudes. The law of Christ is presence, not purpose. The law of Christ is "I will carry some of this with you," not "everything happens for a reason."