When God Finally Stops Evil… He Might Just Start With You.

A message to the Self-Righteous.

There is a venomous boldness in the human heart that dares to look upon the shattered world and raise a fist at the heavens. It is the voice that says, “If I were God, I would stop this. I would never allow that. I would be better than Him.” It is not the cry of grief—it is the accusation of arrogance. And it often comes, not from the innocent, but from the same mouths that lie without flinching, gossip without remorse, and deceive without shame. They demand that God answer for His silence, but refuse to answer for their own. They call God unjust for allowing a child to be harmed, while ignoring that they themselves have committed a thousand small betrayals with the same free will they condemn. And what they do not realize—what they are blind to in their righteous rage—is that the same divine restraint that allowed that horrific act is the very restraint that has kept them from being struck down in their own guilt.

Because in God’s eyes, the ledger doesn’t scale by social disgust. There is no courtroom in heaven where the liar sits above the murderer. There is no ranking system for iniquity. All sin is poison. All rebellion is treason. And every act of it—no matter how small by human standards—is punishable by death in the light of His holiness. The same God who grieves the rape of a child is the same God who grieves the deceit of a tongue, the corruption of a motive, the idolatry of a heart. And so when you say, “Why didn’t God stop him?” you are also asking, “Why didn’t God stop me?” But you don’t see it that way, do you? Because you’ve drawn a line—one where you stand on the side of justice and God stands accused. You think your sins are lesser. You think you are better. You think your evil is explainable, excusable, forgettable. But evil does not bow to your comfort, and God does not grade on a curve. Sin is not measured by how it feels. It is measured by how it offends the eternal.

So when you dare to say, “If I were God, I would intervene,” you are standing on the edge of a blade you don’t even see. Because if God were to act on your command—if He were to truly rise up and strike down all wickedness—you would not escape that judgment. You would be the first to fall. You, the accuser. You, the deceiver. You, who lie to yourself more than you lie to others. You, who hide behind good intentions and rehearse moral superiority in the mirror of your own ego. The day God finally intervenes is not a day of applause—it is a day of reckoning. And it begins at the house of those who thought themselves righteous. When fire falls, it doesn’t ask for your opinion. It consumes whatever is flammable. And unless the blood of the Lamb marks your door, it will not pass over you.

This is the terrifying beauty of justice: that it is not delayed because God is indifferent, but because He is patient. That He waits, not out of weakness, but out of mercy. That every breath you take while mocking Him is another chance to repent. But His patience is not infinite. His restraint is not surrender. And when His judgment comes, it will be perfect, immediate, and eternal. The predator will answer. The abuser will face the wrath they escaped in this life. But so will the proud. So will the self-righteous. So will those who spent their lives calling for justice without ever examining their own reflection. You cannot call for fire and expect to be spared when it arrives.

The same reason why God did not stop that horror is the same reason He did not stop you from lying, from hating, from wounding others with your words. Because He gave you the dignity of will—the terrifying, beautiful, sovereign burden of choice. And He will hold you accountable for what you did with it. You think you’re different from the one who committed the atrocity. But in God’s courtroom, you are both guilty. Different crimes. Same verdict. Same sentence. Death. And unless that death has already been carried out on your behalf by the Messiah—unless your sin was nailed to the cross and buried in the tomb—you will carry it into eternity with you. Because justice is not negotiable. It is not partial. It is not delayed forever.

So the next time you rise up in indignation and ask, “Why didn’t God stop evil?”—make sure you are not standing in it. Because when He does rise, when He does draw the sword, when He does shut the door once and for all… He just might start with you. You—who are guilty.