When we speak about spiritual formation, we usually focus on intentional practices: Scripture, prayer, sacrament, community, obedience. What is striking, however, is that one of the most powerful forces of formation in the Christian life is not an intentional discipline at all—and yet it is unavoidable. I am speaking of suffering.
Suffering is one of the most transformative realities in human existence, and yet it is often marginal in the literature on spiritual formation. Perhaps that is because it cannot be scheduled, controlled, or optimized. It resists technique. It comes to us unbidden. And yet, again and again, Scripture and Christian experience testify that suffering is among the primary means by which God deepens, clarifies, and reforms his people.
I have sometimes quipped—speaking informally—that suffering is “sacramental.” I do not mean that in a technical sense. I mean that suffering is a tangible, material, experiential reality through which spiritual truth is disclosed. It mediates insight. It unveils reality. In that sense, suffering functions as a kind of apocalypse—not catastrophe, but unveiling. It reveals what is true: about God, about us, and about what ultimately matters.
We must begin with a simple, unromantic observation: suffering is universal. After Adam’s fall and prior to the triumphal return of the Second Adam, suffering is inescapable. That is why the problem of suffering—the question of theodicy—reappears in every generation. Not merely because it is philosophically interesting, but because it is existentially unavoidable. Every person either knows suffering already or will.
This is one reason the book of Job is so important. Some scholars have suggested that Job may be among the earliest written books of Scripture—though this cannot be proven. What we can say is that Job stands strangely outside Israel’s normal historical markers. It is set in a kind of cosmic frame, involving heavenly councils and satanic testing, in a way that is almost unique in the canon.
Now consider the significance of this. What if one of the first acts of written revelation God gave to his people was a book about incomprehensible, inexplicable suffering? If so, the lesson is sobering and clarifying: suffering is inevitable, and God is good—but these two truths do not resolve into a neat system. Indeed, God explicitly condemns Job’s friends at the end of the book for attempting precisely that.
As Karl Barth observes in Church Dogmatics IV/3 (§70.1–2), the book of Job demonstrates that suffering cannot be fitted into a coherent explanatory scheme without distorting God himself. Barth describes the friends’ counsel as falsehood in its “classical and sublimest form”—the falsehood of piety. Their theological propositions are, in themselves, largely correct. Yet they speak these truths timelessly and clichédly, abstracted from the concrete encounter between God and the suffering man before them. As a result, their speech becomes “a counterfeit which only resembles the truth.”
The God of the friends, Barth insists, is not an active and living God but one confined within a moral system—orderly, predictable, and ultimately unfree. “But this unfree God is not the God of Job.” Consequently, Job cannot recognize himself in what they say, nor can their theology account for the man actually confronted by God in suffering. Speaking “from the standpoint of heaven,” non-historically and within a closed explanatory framework, they turn truth itself into untruth. Their "stereotyped speeches" fail because they do not deal well with the encounter between God and man in suffering.
Yet suffering is not meaningless. In Job, God “wins” his wager with Satan—Job remains faithful. But Job also learns. He learns that God is sovereign even over suffering, that divine wisdom far exceeds human comprehension, and that God is worthy of trust even when his ways appear unjust. Most strikingly, Job’s suffering leads to deeper encounter: “I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you” (Job 42:5).
This pattern recurs throughout the history of God’s people. Those who suffer in faith often testify, in retrospect, that they would not change their suffering—not because it was pleasant, but because of what God did through it. Many speak of a nearness to God during trials that they have never otherwise known.
This is not universally true. Suffering does not automatically sanctify. As Augustine insists in The City of God, what matters most is not the nature of the suffering but the nature of the sufferer—what use the suffering is put to (City of God, I.8). Suffering reveals character. It exposes what we love. It can school us for eternity (I.29), loosening our grip on temporal goods and reordering our desires.
If we want to understand suffering as formative, we must begin with Christ. Hebrews 5:8 makes the startling claim that Jesus, “though he was a Son, learned obedience through what he suffered.” This is mysterious. It does not imply moral deficiency in Christ, but it does indicate suffering’s pedagogical function.
If this is true of the Son, we should not expect another path for those who are united to him. Formation, after all, is conformity to Christ. And Hebrews makes this explicit in chapter 12, where suffering is framed as the loving discipline of a Father who treats us as sons. This discipline is “for our good, that we may share his holiness.” Formation is discipleship, and discipleship includes not only practicing the disciplines but being disciplined by God.
Paul develops this theme with remarkable clarity. In Philippians 3, he recounts the losses he has endured and declares them worth it for the surpassing value of knowing Christ. He goes further: he expresses a desire to “share in Christ’s sufferings” in order to become like him. Suffering is not incidental to Christlikeness; it is one of its primary means.
The same logic appears in Romans 8. We are heirs with Christ, Paul says, “provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.” There is a real connection here. Earlier, in Romans 5, Paul describes suffering as a process that produces endurance, character, and hope—hope grounded not in stoicism but in the love of God poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit.
Peter echoes this in 1 Peter, a letter written almost entirely under the sign of suffering. The whole letter is effectively about embracing suffering as Christians, following in the footsteps of our savior, knowing that our pattern will be his—suffering unto glory; humiliation unto vindication. Here in the opening lines Peter brings up the various “trials” which grieve us. These, he indicates, are also a form of testing—they reveal the genuineness of our faith. But this test doesn’t just reveal, it refines—resulting in praise and glory at Christ’s appearing. Suffering, biblically understood, is not merely diagnostic; it is transformative.
One of the most evident effects of suffering is its capacity to deepen a person. Those who have suffered often carry a particular gravity: their counsel bears greater weight, their compassion has greater density, and their words are fewer, but truer. By contrast, those largely untouched by suffering tend to offer counsel that may be technically correct yet existentially thin.
Why is this so? Because suffering clarifies.
Consider post-apocalyptic stories. There are many compelling examples—A Quiet Place, Children of Men, Station Eleven, The Last of Us. My favorite is The Road. To read or watch it as a father is devastating. In McCarthy’s world, civilization has collapsed. The landscape is dark and dangerous, stripped of comfort and distraction. And yet, precisely because everything extraneous has been removed, what is essential comes into sharp focus. For the unnamed protagonist—simply “the man”—every concern is subordinated to a single priority: the preservation and care of his son.
This is one of the enduring strengths of the genre. Post-apocalyptic narratives force a ruthless concentration on what matters most. They depict worlds denuded of distraction, where the fundamental questions of love, responsibility, and hope can no longer be deferred. I would argue that suffering performs a similar function in our lives. It quiets the noise. It brings ultimate concerns to the foreground. What matters now can no longer be postponed.
Scripture speaks of glory (kābôd) in terms of weight. Suffering teaches us what is weighty. It exposes first- and second-commandment failures. It reveals whether we have elevated something in creation above God, or whether we have fashioned a god according to our expectations—one who exists to secure our desired outcomes. In suffering, we discover whether we trusted God himself, or merely a version of God who guaranteed certain goods.
We are thus compelled to come to terms with the holy God who tolerates no rivals, and who yet most fully reveals himself in the suffering of the cross (John 12). Any vision of God that cannot endure the pressure of suffering is an idol—and idols must be broken.
The secular worldview insists that this world is all there is. Suffering confronts that claim with urgency. It presses eternity upon us. The Puritans understood this well. They saw suffering as a purifying reminder that we are strangers and pilgrims, loosening our attachment to this-worldly things and sharpening our desire for heaven.
Paul says it plainly: “The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed” (Rom. 8:18). Suffering, when endured in faith, teaches us to build our nest not here but in Christ, to desire the better country, the city whose builder and maker is God—where suffering will finally be no more.
If suffering is formative for the Christian life in general, it is even more so for those called to represent Christ publicly. Ministry, by its very nature, places us at the intersection of Christ and a fallen world. And that intersection is marked by suffering.
Scripture is remarkably clear on this point: those who identify with Christ should not be surprised when they suffer. In fact, we should expect it.
Jesus makes this explicit at the very beginning of the Sermon on the Mount—a text foundational for spiritual formation. In the Beatitudes, Jesus does not say if you are reviled and persecuted for my sake, but when (Matt. 5:11). Opposition is assumed. And yet, he says, we are to rejoice—not because suffering is good in itself, but because it locates us within a larger eschatological horizon: “your reward is great in heaven.”
Jesus reinforces this expectation in the Upper Room Discourse. As he prepares his disciples for life without his physical presence, he prepares them for hostility. “If the world hates you,” he says, “know that it has hated me before it hated you.” And then the clarifying principle: “A servant is not greater than his master.” Identification with Christ necessarily entails participation in his rejection.
Nowhere is this theology worked out more pastorally than in 1 Peter—a letter addressed to believers who are suffering precisely because they are Christians. Peter frames suffering not as an interruption of discipleship but as one of its primary modes.
In chapter 2, Peter describes enduring unjust suffering as a “gracious thing” in God’s sight. Why? Because it allows believers to walk in the footsteps of Christ himself. Christ “also suffered for you, leaving you an example,” entrusting himself to the one who judges justly (1 Pet. 2:19–23). Suffering, here, is not only endured; it is imitative. It conforms us to Christ’s pattern of trust and non-retaliation.
Peter presses this further in chapter 3. Christians are not to return evil for evil, but to bless those who oppose them. They are not to fear those who attack them for bearing witness to Christ. Instead, they are to honor Christ as Lord in their hearts—and, in that very context, to be ready to give a defense for the hope that is within them (3:14–15).
This is worth underscoring. The most famous apologetics proof-text in the New Testament is not about abstract argumentation. It is about embodied witness under pressure. Christian apologetics, at its core, is not merely intellectual; it is cruciform. Enduring unjust suffering with integrity puts accusers to shame—not primarily by outwitting them, but by exposing the moral and spiritual depth of Christian hope (3:16).
Peter then draws the conclusion explicitly: “Do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you.” Again, surprise is inappropriate. Suffering is expected. And yet Peter says more: “Rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed” (4:12–13). Such believers are called “blessed,” because “the Spirit of glory and of God rests upon them” (4:14).
This entire argument leads directly into Peter’s exhortation to elders in chapter 5. Shepherds, too, must expect suffering. They must entrust themselves to God, resist the devil who seeks to devour them, and remember that this pattern of suffering is shared by the whole family of God across time and place. Ministry does not exempt one from suffering; it intensifies it.
Why does Scripture place such weight on suffering in ministry? Because trusting God in suffering glorifies him before others. It displays the worth of God. The supernatural joy and comfort and peace which can withstand the worst the world can unleash.
We see this vividly in the life of Stephen. Saul—who would become Paul—was present at Stephen’s trial and execution (Acts 8:1). Luke tells us that as Stephen was violently opposed, his face appeared “like the face of an angel” (6:15). As his accusers raged, Stephen, “full of the Holy Spirit,” gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God (7:55).
Stephen bears witness not only by what he says, but by how he suffers. And as he is stoned, he prays for his executioners, echoing the prayer of Christ himself (7:60; cf. Luke 23:34). This Christlike suffering does not halt the mission of the church—it accelerates it. Those scattered by persecution go out preaching the word (Acts 8:4). Even Saul himself is eventually confronted by the risen Christ and converted (Acts 9).
Paul never forgets this. He understands his own suffering as part of the same pattern. Christ tells him from the outset that he will suffer for the sake of the name (Acts 9:16). And Paul repeatedly interprets his afflictions not as failures of ministry but as instruments of its advance. His imprisonment, he tells the Philippians, has served to advance the gospel by emboldening others to speak the word without fear (Phil. 1:12–14).
This leads Paul to make one of the most counterintuitive claims in the New Testament: suffering for Christ is a gift. “It has been granted to you,” he writes, “that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake” (Phil. 1:29). This, Paul says, is part of living a life “worthy of the gospel of Christ” (Phil. 1:27).
Ministry, then, is not conducted exclusively in favorable conditions. Faithful witness endures pressure. Suffering is not alien to that witness; it can be an occasion for some of the most profound witness. When ministers endure suffering with faith, hope, and love, they make visible the reality of the gospel they proclaim. And it is precisely this cruciform faithfulness that God so often uses to advance his kingdom.
Up to this point, we have considered suffering as something disciples should expect and endure as they represent Christ in a fallen world. But Scripture presses the question further. Suffering is not only something that happens to those who follow and represent Christ; it is something God intentionally uses—and at times even appoints—for the sake of our peculiar ministries.
Nowhere is this clearer than in the life and theology of the Apostle Paul. Paul speaks frequently of his sufferings (2 Cor. 4; 6; 11; 2 Tim. 3:10-12; etc.), but he does more than recount them. He interprets them theologically. He understands his afflictions not merely as obstacles to ministry, nor simply as the unavoidable cost of faithfulness, but as instruments through which God shaped him into the kind of minister he was called to be.
We have already noted one effect of Paul’s suffering: it emboldened others. His endurance under persecution strengthened fellow believers and advanced the gospel. But Paul also testifies that God worked directly through his afflictions to preserve the integrity of his ministry and his own spiritual health.
This comes into focus in 2 Corinthians 12, in the well-known passage concerning the “thorn in the flesh.” Paul, by his own admission, was richly gifted: an unparalleled missionary, a theological mind of exceptional depth, and a recipient of extraordinary revelations. God had entrusted much to him. And God also acted to guard him as one so gifted.
We are not told what the thorn was. What we are told is that Paul desired its removal. He prayed earnestly that God would take it away (12:8). God did not grant that request. Paul comes to understand this not as neglect or severity, but as divine wisdom: the thorn was given to keep him from becoming conceited because of the surpassing greatness of the revelations he had received (12:7).
God’s response reframes Paul’s understanding of ministry: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (12:9). The issue was not weakness itself, but how strength can obscure dependence upon God. Through this experience, Paul learns to boast—not in his gifts or successes—but in his weaknesses, “so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”
As a result, Paul adopts a distinctive ministerial posture. He embraces “weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities” so that Christ can be exalted in his ministry, in his own mind (12:10). “When I am weak,” Paul says, “then I am strong” (12:10). Through these, Christ’s power is displayed.
There is a clear pastoral lesson here for those preparing for ministry. God’s withholding of visible success or immediate fruit is not necessarily a failure of calling. It may be a form of protection and preparation. Weakness in ministry is not something to flee, nor are delays or setbacks reasons for despair. Nor should we measure our faithfulness by comparison with others. We do not yet see the whole of what God is doing—either in us or through us.
One of the wisest prayers a future minister can offer is this: Lord, do not let my platform outpace my character. A large platform received too quickly often proves spiritually dangerous. The public failures of gifted leaders who rose rapidly should caution us against equating visibility with readiness or faithfulness.
But Paul’s theology of suffering for ministry does not end with restraint. Suffering also prepares us. Prior affliction equips ministers to serve others with depth, patience, and genuine consolation. To see this, we must turn earlier in 2 Corinthians, to one of Paul’s most concentrated reflections on ministry—chapters 1 through 5—where suffering becomes not merely a personal burden, but a means through which God brings comfort, reconciliation, and life to others.
In the opening chapters of 2 Corinthians, Paul offers one of the richest expositions of faithful ministry in the New Testament. Ministry, he insists, is conducted in sincerity, not as peddlers of God’s word, but as those who speak in Christ and rely entirely upon God’s action (2:17). Ministers do not commend themselves; they depend on the Spirit who alone gives life (ch. 3). For this reason, faithful ministers renounce manipulation, refuse to tamper with the word of God, and reject every form of cunning. They proclaim Christ, not themselves (4:1–5).
Confidence in ministry, for Paul, does not arise from personal strength or visible success, but from trust that God works through ordinary means—the preached word (4:6, 13)—and through extraordinary weakness. We are, as Paul famously puts it, “jars of clay,” fragile vessels through whom God displays his surpassing power (4:7ff). Ministry is therefore conducted with an eschatological horizon in view: ministers fix their eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen; not on what is temporary, but on what is eternal (4:18; 5:1ff). All of this is ordered toward one end: that God may be glorified as people are reconciled to him.
What is especially striking, however, is how Paul begins this entire discussion of ministry. Before he speaks of integrity, proclamation, or reconciliation, he speaks of suffering and comfort. God, Paul says, comforts us in all our afflictions so that we may be able to comfort others with the very comfort we ourselves have received from him (1:4). This comfort is inseparable from participation in Christ’s sufferings (1:5). Paul goes so far as to say that his afflictions are “for your comfort and salvation,” and that even his consolation serves the same end (1:6).
In other words, Paul understands his suffering not merely as a personal trial, nor simply as the cost of apostleship, but as preparation for ministry to others. As God meets him in affliction, Paul is formed into an instrument through whom God can meet others. The grace he receives becomes the grace he mediates.
This is one of the profound reversals of the gospel. God so thoroughly overturns the curse that suffering intended for harm becomes a source of healing. The very places where the servant of Christ has been wounded become the places from which ministry most powerfully flows—if we allow Christ to meet us there. Those who have been comforted by God in their affliction become, in turn, agents of comfort, offering others the same medicine by which they themselves were healed.
Paul concludes this dense section with an eschatological frame that gathers everything together. Though we are wasting away outwardly through what he calls “momentary affliction,” we are being renewed inwardly, even now, in preparation for “an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison” (4:16–17). Suffering, then, is not the end of the story. For those in Christ, it is often the place where God is doing his deepest preparatory work—shaping ministers who are fitted not only to proclaim the gospel, but to embody it.
Your suffering is not the end. In the providence of God, it may well be a beginning.