Confusion is necessary because it is the seedbed for greater faithfulness. Uncertainty births faith. Bewilderment forces us to trust someone greater than ourselves. Perplexity causes us to think outside the box of our own strength and control. Mystery humbles us before our God. Where there is no wonder, no questions, no chaos, no confusion—there is no faith.

“Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways! For who has known the mind of the Lord, or who became His counselor? … For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be the glory forever. Amen” (Rom 11:33–34, 36). That profound doxology ends the first section of Romans, calling us to our knees in worship and praise, exalting the Lord for His majestic knowledge, transcendent omniscience, and perfect wisdom. It’s a doxology of comfort for the believer, knowing that God needs no counselor, that His judgments are always righteous, and His ways are always good.

God’s wisdom is unmatched. He knows “the end from the beginning” (Isa 46:10). He comprehends all contingencies—not only what has happened and will happen, but what could have happened in any given scenario (Jer 23:21–22). His ways are higher than our ways, His thoughts are not our thoughts (Isa 55:9). God’s knowledge is an unplumbable mystery, a bottomless ocean, an immeasurable line. Unfathomable, unattainable, unsearchable—all biblical descriptions of God’s mind. No wonder the psalmist declares, “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is too high, I cannot attain it” (Psa 139:6).

And yet what do we find to be true throughout the Christian life? That the infinite wisdom of our God—the wisdom that brings us so much comfort—is the very wisdom that leaves us in a state of so much confusion. We find ourselves perplexed by the Lord’s decisions, mystified by His decrees. Not doubting God, but unsettled, unnerved—wondering, asking, guessing, trying to make sense of a chaotic world that looks to be outside of its Creator’s control.

The wisdom that leads us to worship is the wisdom that leads us to wonder. Confused, we cry, Why Lord? A question that is often left unanswered.

Cries of Confusion

Scripture is replete with cries of confusion.

“Why do You hide Your face and consider me Your enemy?” (Job 13:24)

“Why do You stand afar off, O Lord? Why do You hide Yourself in times of trouble?” (Ps 10:1)

“Why have You rejected me … Why do You sleep, O Lord?” (Ps 44:2, 23)

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” (Ps 22:1)

I’m hearing these same questions today. Why is evil prospering? Why does it seem the Lord has forgotten me, even though I am seeking to be faithful? Why is there so much pain in my life? Why is there so much sorrow and hurt within my family? Why is there so much chaos in this world? Why Lord, why?

You Are Not Alone

If God’s wisdom has ever left you stunned, grasping for answers—if you have ever asked those why questions—you are not alone. These were the very questions Mary and Martha had been asking for the last three days as John 11:17 opens.

These two sisters are dazed and confused. Jesus’ words seemed clear, “This sickness is not to end in death” (John 11:4), but there is Lazarus, their brother, dead in a tomb. Jesus’ love seemed sure (John 11:3), but the messengers came back without Jesus by their side. For three days Mary and Martha felt alone, forsaken in their most desperate time of need, wondering, Why? Why is Jesus not here? Why did He not bring the comfort we needed? Confusion reigns. Questions fly. Why has Jesus hidden His face from us? Why has He allowed death to win? And sorrow to reign? And tears to flow? Why Lord, why?

Confused by Death

When Jesus finally arrived in Bethany, Lazarus had “already been in the tomb four days” (John 11:17). This is an important time marker that explains Mary and Martha’s confusion.

Precise time intervals are not John’s normal style. “After this” or “After these things” is how John usually progresses his story. But not here. Not now. Not when describing Lazarus’ death.

There are only three places in his Gospel where John designates specific days, and when he does, it is always for a theological purpose. The first time-stamp John includes is his description of the opening week of Jesus’ messianic ministry (John 1:29, 35, 43; 2:1). The theological significance of this time marker is to present Jesus as the incarnation of the Creator (cf. John 1:3). Like the Lord who created the world in seven days, Jesus worked for seven days, ending His week in miraculous fashion. Who is Jesus? He is the Creator who has come to bring a new creation.[1]

The last time-stamp is found during the final week of Jesus’ life. The theological significance here is to connect Jesus’ death to the Passover lamb sacrifice (John 12:1), while also showing Him to be the resurrected Son of God (John 20:1; cf. 2:20–21).

But why does John specifically note the “four day” period of Lazarus’ death—and not just once, but twice (cf. John 11:39)? What is the significance of this time-stamp? To answer that question, one needs to understand these four days in their cultural context. The theory of the day was that the soul would hover over a dead body for three days, but on the fourth day, once the body began to decompose, the soul would leave. One rabbi explained it this way, “For three days the soul hovers over the body, intending to re-enter it, but as soon as it sees its appearance change, it departs.”[2] Another rabbi wrote, “The full force of mourning lasts for three days. Why? Because for three days the shape of the face is recognizable.”[3]

John notes this “four day” period to stress the finality of Lazarus’ death and the hopelessness this family is experiencing.[4] Death has won. The King of terror reigns. The darkened tomb mocks the promise Jesus sent the sisters in v. 4, “This sickness is not to end in death.” The stone that locks the front of the cave begs the question, “How could Jesus have been so wrong?”

Up to this point, every word Jesus spoke had come to fruition; every promise He made, He fulfilled. He was always “full of truth” (John 1:14)—until now. Jesus’ promise feels hollow. His pledge, presumptuous. Didn’t the Old Testament warn about a prophet’s unfulfilled promises? “The prophet who speaks a word presumptuously in My name … that prophet shall die” (Deut 18:20, 22). It’s no wonder these sisters were confused.

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