Standing in the Presence of Evil

How to remain truthful and grounded when anger and fear take hold

For much of our lives, many of us in the Western world have been able to live with a quiet assumption: that the world, for all its problems, is broadly stable.

We have grown accustomed to a certain level of peace.

International travel has felt safe.

Systems have seemed reliable.

The future, while uncertain, has not felt immediately threatening.

And yet, in recent times, something has shifted.

Events have been unfolding with a rapidity and unpredictability that feels unsettling. Tensions rise. Conflicts deepen. Language hardens. And what once felt unthinkable begins to edge into the realm of possibility.

It can feel bewildering. Not only because of what we are seeing in the world—but because of what it awakens within us.

It is tempting to think of such moments as sudden or unprecedented. But more often, what we are witnessing has been forming quietly over time—unnoticed, unchallenged, or simply unexamined.

As the saying often attributed to Edmund Burke puts it, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing.” Whether or not the wording is exact, the insight carries weight. What we face now has not appeared overnight. It has, in part, been allowed to grow.

A friend remarked recently that moments of crisis do more than broadcast events—they expose us. They reveal how fragile our sense of control really is. They show us what we reach for when things feel unstable. What we trust. What we don’t. What actually holds us together—and what doesn’t.

And that, perhaps, is where the deeper question begins.

Not simply, what is happening in the world?

But, how are we to remain present to it without being shaped by it?

When the world unsettles us

One of the ways this instability expresses itself is in the intensifying outrage we now see all around us. Not without reason. There is much to provoke it.

But something more revealing is happening beneath the surface of our reactions. The longer we remain in a state of anger—even justified anger—the more it begins to shape us, quietly exposing how fragile our own inner world can be. We find ourselves speaking in the same tones, adopting the same dismissiveness, even dehumanising those we oppose.

And at that point, a disturbing question begins to surface: In reacting to what we fear, are we in danger of becoming what we hate?

In a recent reflection, I explored how anger, even when justified, can begin to take hold of us—shaping not only our reactions, but our identity. But that raises a deeper question:

If anger is not the answer, what is?

The Gospels do not leave us without a response. They give us something far more demanding—and far more hopeful. They give us Jesus. And what we see in him is not a theory, but a way of being.

Presence without possession

When we turn to the Gospels, something quite remarkable emerges. Jesus does not avoid evil. He does not stand at a safe distance from what is broken. He steps into it—into conflict, misunderstanding, hostility, and suffering. He faces manipulation, violence, betrayal, and injustice.

And yet he is never spiritually captured by it. He does not withdraw. He does not retaliate in kind. He remains present—clear, grounded, and free.

There is, too, a remarkable authority in the way he does this. It is something repeatedly noted by those around him—whether disciples, opponents, or even the demonic world, which seems at times to recognise more quickly than anyone else who he is. And yet this authority is not derived from position, force, or status. It is carried in his presence—in his words, his voice, his poise. He speaks and acts with a clarity that does not need to assert itself—there is no striving, no need to raise his voice—and yet he cannot be ignored. It is an authority that does not dominate, but reveals.

He names what is false. He challenges what is destructive. But he is never controlled by it. Evil does not set the terms of his response.

At the Cross, everything converges—violence, injustice, fear, and cruelty. And yet what emerges is not retaliation, but forgiveness. Not collapse, but self-giving love.

Evil is not answered in kind—it is allowed to spend itself without being allowed the opportunity to define what comes next.

The disciples—and us

And yet, when the crucial moment came, his closest friends could not remain. They fled. Not because they were faithless—but because they were afraid.

I recognise myself there. Faced with the reality of evil—not in theory but in its raw, disruptive form—I do not find within myself the calm strength I would like to have. I find fear, anger, and confusion.

There are times when I want to push back—to expose, to condemn, to answer force with force. And there are times when I want to retreat—to step away, to preserve some inner calm, to disengage. And if I am honest, I do not trust myself in either place.

And the Christ-like poise I glimpse in him—the capacity to remain present without being captured—can feel, at times, almost embarrassingly elusive.

The problem of anger

A writer I came across recently put it with disarming honesty: “My sustained rage… is malforming me into his image. I am becoming what I abhor.”

That is hard to hear—because it rings true.

Anger often begins as moral clarity. Something is wrong, and we recognise it. And in that moment, anger can feel like a form of engagement—as though by feeling it strongly, we are somehow responding, somehow doing something about what we see. It can give us the sense that we are not indifferent, that we care, that we are standing on the right side.

But that, too, can be deceptive. It is not easy to keep a check on those more explosive currents of anger which can surge within us, giving us a false sense of purpose—as though intensity itself were a form of faithfulness. Because anger has a trajectory. Left unchecked, it can move from clarity to hostility, from hostility to dehumanisation.

At that point, we are no longer simply opposing evil. We are beginning to mirror it.

And that is where something has gone wrong.

A personal reflection

Before going further, it may be worth acknowledging that our relationship with anger is rarely neutral. As I have been thinking about it, I have become aware that my own relationship with anger has not been straightforward.

I was brought up in a context where anger was not easily expressed, and over time I learned, perhaps without realising it, to hold it in rather than give it voice. Even now, when I feel anger strongly, I can find it difficult to express it coherently. It tends instead to turn inward—felt deeply, but rarely spoken.

At the same time, I notice how strongly I react to uncontrolled anger in others. There is something in me that recoils from it, instinctively judges it, which may say as much about my own history as it does about theirs.

I am aware, therefore, that I am not writing about anger from a neutral place. Like many of us, I am still learning what it means to recognise it, to understand it, and to allow it to be shaped into something that is neither destructive nor denied.

Perhaps many of us recognise something of this tension?

The power of fear

Alongside anger, there is another force at work: fear.

Fear is one of the most powerful tools in the arsenal of evil. It narrows our vision, distorts our judgement, and makes us reactive or withdrawn. It drives us either to strike out or to hide away.

Perhaps, at a deeper level, fear and anger are more closely connected than we often realise. What presents itself as anger is often rooted in something more vulnerable—in grief. We are angered because something we care about is threatened, damaged, or lost. Beneath the surface of outrage there is often sorrow. And if that is so, then the work is not simply to suppress anger, but to attend to what lies beneath it.

And if that is so for us, it may help us to hear differently what Scripture sometimes speaks of as the anger of God. Not as something arbitrary or volatile, but as the expression of a love that grieves over what diminishes and destroys. Even in the biblical story, there are moments where God is described as grieving deeply over the violence and brokenness of the world.

Jesus does not deny what human beings can do to one another. He speaks of it with a piercing clarity that leaves nothing hidden. But when he tells his disciples not to fear those who can harm the body, but to “fear God.”

In that light then, “Fearing God,” cannot mean being frightened of him in the way we fear those who threaten or harm us. It points instead to a reordering of our fears—a recognition that our lives are held within a deeper reality. The many things that trouble and threaten us do not disappear, but they are no longer ultimate.

In its place comes a steadier centre: a way of living no longer governed by what we fear, but by the presence of God as revealed in Christ.

Because when we look at Jesus himself, what we see is not someone who evokes fear, but someone whose presence draws people in. Again and again, people come to him—often hesitantly at first, but then with a growing sense of trust. There is something about him that reassures, that disarms, that invites. People do not want to leave him.

And when you find yourself in the presence of someone like that—someone in whom you sense truth, love, and authority held together—fear begins, almost imperceptibly, to loosen its grip. Not because the world has become less dangerous, but because something deeper has taken hold.

Perhaps, then, when Jesus speaks of “fearing God,” far from intensifying fear, he is redirecting it—away from the immediate threats that dominate our thinking, and towards the deeper reality of our lives in God, as revealed in him. Not: “Be more afraid.” But: “Do not let fear—of any kind—have the final authority over your life.”

There is, perhaps, a quiet discipline here. Not a denial of fear, but a refusal to let it take command—to let it shape our imagination, our decisions, or our sense of what is possible. It is a way of standing within fear without being governed by it.

Of course, this was not something the disciples found easy to sustain. When the full force of violence and power closed in—at Jesus’ arrest, trial, and crucifixion—they fled. The fear was overwhelming.

And yet that is not the end of the story. Something changed in them. Not through greater resolve, but through the gift of the Spirit—a presence within them that enabled them, slowly and imperfectly, to stand where before they had run.

Which may be where we find ourselves. As the writer of the First Epistle of John puts it, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.”

Perhaps this is where everything begins to turn—not in the absence of danger, but in the presence of a love far deeper than fear, which slowly and patiently begins to displace it.

As we become more aware of the depth of that love—and of God’s unwavering commitment to us—we find that certain ways of thinking and acting no longer sit easily. Not because we are trying to be virtuous, but because we begin to recognise that we cannot, in good conscience, participate in what diminishes others.

It is not a narrowing of life, but an opening into something deeper—something more whole, more alive, more true.

Lost in Translation: When explanation becomes avoidance

Even when fear begins to loosen its grip, something else can quietly slip out of alignment.

We do not withdraw.

We do not lash out.

But we explain.

One of the dangers of theology is that it can become a way of explaining suffering rather than interrupting it. We can ask, endlessly, why God allows evil, while failing to ask how it is being sustained—and whether we ourselves are, even indirectly, participating in what permits it. The question “Why does God allow this?” is not a wrong question. But it can become a distancing one—drawing our attention upward into explanation while leaving unexamined the realities before us.

Jesus does not allow us that distance.

He does not offer a theory of evil from a safe place. He moves towards those who suffer, confronts what diminishes them, and calls his followers to do the same.

The question becomes not only, “Why does God allow this?” but, “Why do we allow this—and what does faithfulness require of us here?”

Authenticity and integrity

I am increasingly aware that I do not find this balance by trying to present a better version of myself—calmer, wiser, more measured. That quickly becomes another kind of performance.

The only place where I begin to find any steadiness at all is in honesty. In allowing myself to acknowledge what is actually happening within me—the grief, the anger, the fear, the confusion—without trying to disguise it. Perhaps the place where this balance begins is not in mastering our reactions, but in becoming truthful about what is happening within us.

And perhaps this is why Jesus seems so unassailable. There is no gap in him between appearance and reality. He is not managing an image. He is simply present—utterly, truthfully present—to God, to others, and to the moment before him.

Integrity, in this sense, is everything. Integrity means allowing what we believe about love to become visible—in what we resist, what we permit, what we consume, and what we refuse to ignore.

Not integrity as moral achievement, but as wholeness—the alignment of the inner and outer life. Without that, we are easily drawn into reaction or driven into retreat. But where there is integrity—where we are not trying to project an image or defend a position—there is a steadiness that cannot easily be shaken.

When the way is not clear

There is another layer to this which I have come to recognise over time.

Even with the best will in the world, and a genuine desire to act rightly, there are many situations where the “Christlike” course is far from obvious. We are not choosing between good and evil, but between different kinds of cost.

In those moments, we are not given certainty. We are given responsibility. We have to “take a view”—to make the most honest, informed decision we can, and then live with it. And that can feel like a step into the dark.

I have certainly made choices in my life which, in hindsight, I would question. And yet even there, something has been formed—something I could not have learned any other way.

Perhaps that, too, is part of the mystery. That God’s faithfulness to us is not dependent on our always getting it right, but on our willingness to remain open, responsive, and real within whatever unfolds.

Strength in weakness

This brings me back to something deeper still.

We often assume that to face evil rightly, we must become strong—clear, decisive, unshakeable. But the New Testament points in a very different direction.

The Apostle Paul speaks of this with striking honesty. Writing to the Corinthians, he describes a “thorn in the flesh”—something persistent and unresolved that he longed to be free from. Three times he pleads with God to take it away.

But the answer he receives is not relief, but something altogether different:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

This is not a slogan. It is a lived discovery. Paul is not speaking from a place of strength regained, but from weakness that remains. And yet within that weakness, something begins to shift. Not his circumstances, but his understanding of where strength truly lies.

I have found something of this in my own life. There have been moments when I have needed to face something difficult—when it has become imperative to act—and yet I have felt anything but strong. Yet somehow, in those moments, I have found the strength to do what was required, even while feeling extraordinarily weak.

It reminds me of something I learned from my father in the last days of his life. He was desperately weak, having struggled with oesophageal cancer and no longer able to eat properly. One day it became necessary for him to move downstairs to a room where he could be better cared for and would spend his remaining days.

When he was told he needed to go down, he got out of bed. I remember asking him how he intended to manage the stairs, given how frail he was. He simply replied, “I shall just put one foot forwards and then the other.” It sounded so simple—and yet it was profoundly true.

Perhaps that is what strength in weakness looks like. Not a sudden surge of power, not a clarity that removes all doubt, but the grace to take the next step—and then the next.

It is precisely at the point where we recognise our incapacity—our inability to always see clearly or act rightly—that something else becomes possible. We stop relying on our own correctness. And we begin, slowly, to live more dependently.

Strength, it seems, is not given to us as a possession, but as a provision—for the step we are called to take.

Pursued by mercy

It is here that an ancient line from the Psalms has taken on new meaning for me:

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

Not follow at a distance—but pursue.

Which suggests that even when we step uncertainly, even when our choices are not as wise as we had hoped, we are not abandoned to the consequences.

And perhaps this is where something shifts. Because if that is true, then the paralysis that comes from needing to get everything right begins to lose its hold. We are freed—not to act perfectly, but to act faithfully. To step forward, however falteringly, rather than remain frozen by fear or uncertainty.

In that sense, the willingness to act—to take the next step, however incomplete our understanding—is often the quiet evidence of the Kingdom of God at work. Not because our action is flawless, but because it arises from trust rather than fear. God’s goodness and mercy are already in motion—meeting us, reshaping, redeeming, and drawing something life-giving even out of what feels like failure.

And it is in that movement—the simple act of stepping forward—that the possibility of change begins to emerge. Because it means that the life of faith is not a matter of getting every decision right, but of remaining in relationship with the One whose love is already at work within whatever unfolds.

Over time, as we become more aware of the depth of God’s love—and his unwavering commitment to us—we find that certain things no longer sit easily. Not because we are trying to be virtuous, but because we begin to recognise that we cannot, in good conscience, participate in what diminishes others. It is not a narrowing of life, but an opening into something deeper—something more whole, more alive, more true.

Standing

After the resurrection, when fear had scattered them, Jesus comes to his disciples not with reproach, but with a simple word: “Peace be with you.” And then, we are told, he breathes on them.

It is a quiet, almost hidden moment—but perhaps it is here that their fear begins to give way. Not through effort, but through the gift of a presence that steadies them from within.

Perhaps, then, the question is not first, “How do we confront evil?”

But, “Where am I standing?”

Am I striving to hold myself together?

Or am I learning, however falteringly, to rest in what has already been given? Because only from that place—only from that quiet, grounded integrity—can we begin to stand.

Not perfectly.

Not fearlessly.

But truthfully.

I remember, as a younger man, a friend once saying to me, “If you are on the side of right, you can fight anybody.” I saw her live that out more than once—with a striking, almost unsettling authority. There was a clarity in her that gave her courage.

That insight has stayed with me.

And yet I have come to see that the deeper question is not simply whether we are right, but where we are rooted. Because it is possible to be convinced of our own rightness and still be shaped by the very forces we oppose.

What I glimpse in Jesus—and, in time, in his disciples—is something different. Not a confidence grounded in their own certainty, but a steadiness that comes from being held within something deeper than themselves.

And in standing, we begin to discover that evil does not have the power to shape us as deeply as we feared.

Not because we are strong enough to resist it,

but because we are being held within a love that is stronger still.

by Jeremy Marks, 3rd May 2026