Suffering as a Test of Faith: An Allegory of Despair and Hope

Why do we suffer? Is suffering merely an accident of existence, or does it serve a deeper purpose? In moments of despair, faith often becomes our last refuge—a fragile yet powerful force that sustains us when nothing else can. The Existential Reprieve is a thought-provoking allegory that explores the tension between pain, justice, and hope. Through the lens of a courtroom drama, the story delves into humanity’s innate longing for relief, even when suffering is said to forge strength and wisdom.

In religious and philosophical traditions, suffering is often framed as a test of faith —a challenge that refines the soul. But what happens when faith wavers? When the burden feels too great? This allegory invites us to question the nature of justice, prayer, and endurance in the face of unrelenting hardship. Whether viewed through a spiritual lens or as a meditation on human resilience, this story will resonate with anyone seeking meaning in their struggles.

"It says here you mostly fool around on the computer."

The stenographer at the front of the court, her hands on a miniature machine, inaudibly massaged this information into a snakelike tongue of paper. 

"Appeals for Existential Reprieve are reviewed three times a year," said the judge, "fall, winter, and spring—by order of need. Right now, the list is out that door." He pointed the tip of his pen like a laser at the back of the room. "What year did you get sick?"

I said it had been just before 2008.

"We've got people who've been on the list since 2008. We've got a man who had his thumbs screwed to boards by his own political party. The guy can light a cigarette with his feet."

"Truth is stranger than fiction," said the stenographer.

He turned the form over. "Then we've got a woman who went skydiving on her 50th birthday and ended up getting sucked into the engine of a jet." 

"You couldn't pay me to jump out of a plane," said the stenographer.

"Volenti non fit injuria," the judge replied. "And as you know, of course," he continued in a solemn voice, "Mr. C is dying."

"He's not dying," I said, referring to my mentor, "he believes he's going to get well."

The judge, who was on a roll with naming disasters, went on listing other horrendous catastrophes: families who had lost children in a recent viral outbreak, a gambler who had detonated a bomb in a busy train station, and a U.S. sports team doctor who had tortured his victims with acid. 

The magistrate held a paper partly off the desk while aiming a pen at it. He was explaining something unintelligibly about the form he was about to read from. I imagined being able to eat French fries. 

The judge paused before reading the first question. 

My hands squeezed a woman's neck. I strangled the woman's white throat until the fat wrinkled out over the ends of the finger bones and into the concave spaces of the hands and fought my grasp. 

A slightly wan courtroom audience was already seated behind a low wooden barricade. 

"Good morning, everyone," said the judge with the memorandum in his hand. "On the record in the matter of civil 13-241134. So, Miss Johnson, would you like to appeal for an Existential Reprieve? You are seeking a metaphysical injunction with no alleged tortfeasor?" 

"Yes," I said, "I'd like to enjoy my life." 

"We've been hearing that quite a bit lately. We're at high tide right now as far as human existence goes. It's been a hectic season, and your mentor has cancer."

"I know, but I'd still like to appeal. I'm about to turn thirty, and I've been sick a long time." 

The judge looked up from the paper. He was wearing black reading glasses. "Are both your parents still living?"

"Yes."

"Any siblings currently deceased?"

"No."

"Do you, at this time, possess any stocks, bonds, trust funds, mutual funds, corporations, or diamond mines?"

"I have a car, but the doors don't lock."

"How many years would you estimate that you've been miserable, unhappy, depressed, terrorized, grieving, or anguished? One to three? Three to five? Or Five or more?" 

"Five or more." 

The judge called for the evidence. My mother handed the three bundles to the bailiff, who handed them up to the judge: two open shoeboxes of prescriptions and supplements, a grey plastic box file stuffed with medical receipts, and an envelope of photos from medical trips to Washington, Missouri, Georgia, Florida, Nevada, and Santa Fe, New Mexico.

"That's just the tip of the iceberg," my mother announced to the courtroom. 

After the physical and documentary evidence had been reviewed, the judge asked to hear the deposition from the doctor. A television screen wheeled forward on a squeaking cart. In a pre-recorded video, the doctor appeared on the screen from a high-rise in Florida and introduced himself. 

A door outside the courtroom thudded closed. Outside the building, people were pushing up and down the railing along the stairs, meeting in the parking lot, and checking their phones. The recording ended, and the cart was wheeled back into place. Someone cleared their throat. 

The magistrate scribbled a note at the bottom of the paper. "And how would you like to make your case?" He looked up. "Would you like to make your argument now?" 

"Yes, I would." I stood up. Someone in the hall laughed. 

"Well, Your Honor, I don't think I should have to suffer. And I think I can prove it. I think I can prove why no one should have to suffer. I want you to imagine something. Imagine a perfect world. Imagine a world in which there is no pain. Earthquakes and fires happen, but they don't injure anyone. Let me ask you, what's wrong with that world?" I paused for effect. 

"Nothing. Maybe, of course, there could be light suffering, like small mosquitos or getting a cold, but that would only make us appreciate everything more and increase our happiness." 

"Are you finished?" asked the judge.

"Yes, I am."

"Thank you for that thought-provoking idea. You've certainly chosen a very academic course of argument. And I am sorry you must go through this at such a young age. We want you to get out there and live your life. I hope it will happen tomorrow. That, of course, is not necessarily up to the court. We can't guarantee you'll get what you're asking for, but we can offer you a fair and impartial hearing." 

"If you choose to reject someone, why do you do it?"

"The action for a Reprieve reasonably considers the total sum of injuries and losses sustained in the past and the reasonable probability of possible anguish into the potential future. Ultimately, however, these situations are carefully designed. The court provides an alleviation service in certain cases, but generally speaking, we try not to interfere. You have your whole life ahead of you. In many cases, we find that suffering leads to glory."

"If you aren't really supposed to help people, then why do you ask them to bother making an appeal at all?"

"You may be wondering whether there are grounds for palliation in your case. We exist as a filter, a sieve through which many thousands of cases, and eventually millions, are strained. Sometimes, every once in a while, one case sticks in the bottom of our sieve or net. We pluck that case out and help that person. And, in a manner of speaking, nearly everyone receives a reprieve, whether they file or not. I mean, organically. I'm sure you know people yourself who have gotten well or found a job, or what have you. But if I were just to hand you the palliation because you ask for it, I'm sure you realize that would be special pleading." 

The judge went on: "Alternatively, if you're in a bad place, if you're not able to wait for a ruling or your situation declines, you can always file with UNTOLD, the Unnatural Termination of Life Department." 

"We don't want anything like that," said my mother. 

The judge picked up a small blue paper book from the desktop and showed it. "Did you happen to pick up one of these? Stay right there," he ordered. His black robes began to billow as if filling with air from underneath. His ballooning mass rose up and out of the seat until six inches of space were visible between the hem of the robes and the top of the desk. 

He sailed over the desk toward us and then glided down one aisle to the back of the room, where the blue books were stacked by the door in a magazine rack. He handed one to each of us. A drawing of an official seal was printed on the cover. Above the seal, in curving type, it said Justice. Below this, in a mirror image, was the User Guide to Services.

Now, the judge was handling the turn around the corner of his desk and read aloud from a back portion of the blue book. "'Article 11b Paragraph 3,333 Section 11: Alleviatory and palliative adjudications or pro-tempore-termination in circumstances occasioned by natural or non-natural agents shall obtain only under conditions deemed sufficient and germane: sufficient insofar as they guarantee alleviation, and germane insofar as they are appropriate to it.'"

"I want you to be as objective as possible," he continued. "Things are not as ordinary as they seem. You've heard the phrase 'delayed gratification.' You're in a first-order negative, second-order positive situation right now." He held his hands out to one side like steps. "So Level One is bad. You're having a hard time. But the next order, the next level, Level Two, is good. Something bad now, but out of it sprouts something amazing, and ultimately, in the end, a Level Three, Level Four, Level Five—a whole world of events that otherwise would never have been possible. Or would you prefer a first-order positive, second-order negative situation?"

I felt like saying I would prefer a no-order-negative situation, a life with no horrible levels at all.

"If right now, right this minute, you could look down and see everything from beginning to end, from this very moment to the end of your life and beyond, I promise you wouldn't want to change a thing. Remember Thoreau: the mills of Justice grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small."

"If it's all going to be even in the end, it seems simpler just to give everyone a pleasant life up front." 

"It would be simpler, but it might not be as good. One more thing: what would you like to do if we let you off?"

I looked at my mother. "She wants to write," my mother said.

The stenographer pressed the words into paper. "If you are ready," said the magistrate, "I'd like now to move into final arguments.

"I was not ready; I hovered over an ocean. The ocean dropped endlessly over a thin horizon. 

I would have to make my case a second time. The judge spoke finishing words from across the high desk: "In time, the shock your life has given you will pass. We cannot do anything about the shock. Years from now, when you are better, you will forget all of this and go out and live your life as a normal person who does not hold on to any horror or panic. You'll be able to go out and live your life normally." 

"Thank you," I said.

"And now, whenever you are ready, you may please proceed." 

I stood up again and looked around the room. My heart attacked my ribs. "Ladies and gentlemen of the courtroom, I'm about to turn thirty, and I've been sick a long time. I used to have a wonderful life. But no matter how hard I try, I repeatedly live the same day. I get older, but my life stays the same. 

You said that something that was better than I could imagine would come out of this. If I could fly up and see everything, I would know how this will end, how eternity will go, and why all of this has happened. The truth is, I can't argue with that. No one can argue with that, can they? 

No one can question eternal beauty, joy, or honor or say that a more extraordinary personal character doesn't outweigh a worse character. As justifications go, that's decisive, and I won't try to overturn it. But even though you've told me this is for my and the world's benefit, I still want to get out. With all due respect, there's one thing you said that I can argue with. You said that if I knew exactly what I was getting in exchange for my suffering, I wouldn't try to change a thing. From my perspective, that's not true. 

It's not true. I'm a human being. So, even if you were to show me the benefits of my suffering in great, elaborate detail, even if you could show me a map of my own future and beyond it and the future of the world and point out every landmark, I would still want to get out. 

Not only that, if things were bad enough, I might still go on asking, even if it meant forfeiting all the good that was about to come. If your pain was bad enough, wouldn't you try to stop it, regardless of what you knew? If someone were sticking you into a meat grinder, wouldn't you try to stop it, even if you still knew how everything would turn out? 

You've plugged all your explanations into me, and I'm still unsatisfied. I still want to get free. I want to live, and if there's any way to get out that's for the best, I will keep asking for it. It's not that I don't understand. I understand, but I'm not an equation someone can solve for the answer. You could type all your reasons into a computer, and the computer would add them and say, 'Yes, Sir, your inference is valid. Your justification is satisfactory. Proceed with the torture.' 

You could upload a file and get a perfect submission. Tell a computer everything will be all right, and the computer will listen. But I'm not a computer, and I can't be consoled. Not completely. I'm tired, so I will keep asking and knocking because if I keep asking, eventually, someone will answer.