Martin Luther King Jr. did not believe suffering was good. He believed something narrower and harder: God can bring good out of suffering that already exists when people meet it the way Christ met his, directly, lovingly and without violence. Mika Edmondson, who holds a doctorate in systematic theology and wrote his dissertation on this part of King’s thought, calls it King’s redemptive suffering theodicy. Its consequence was practical. It made faith a reason to move.
That answer corrects two popular pictures of King at once. One treats him as a civil rights icon whose religion was background music. The other assumes his talk of redemptive suffering told oppressed people to accept their pain quietly. Edmondson’s account of where the idea came from, and how it worked inside the movement, undoes both.
Was King’s faith the engine or the decoration?
Start with how King understood himself. He earned his doctorate in systematic theology at Boston University. Most people, Edmondson observes, picture him as an ethicist, an activist or a social icon, and he was certainly an activist. But King thought of himself first as a pastor and theologian, and in Edmondson’s words “everything he did was deeply theological and deeply biblical.”
That ordering changes how the history reads. If the theology came first, then nonviolence grew out of a conviction about God and the cross that went looking for a public shape, and the Bible verses were its source rather than its costume. Edmondson sums up King’s legacy as “the legacy of love,” a cross-centered, gospel-grounded demand of love applied in the social sphere. Love in this sense is an obligation that follows a believer out of the sanctuary and into the street.
The first chapter: a question asked in chains
King did not invent redemptive suffering. Edmondson places him at a late point in a much older line of reflection, and the line begins with a question.
The question is the classic problem of evil. God is good, so God would not want us to suffer. God is powerful, so God could prevent or intervene in our suffering. And yet we suffer. A theodicy is any attempt to hold those three together honestly.
For Black Christians in America, the question began, in Edmondson’s telling, in the belly of the slave ships, where people had to ask how and why a good and powerful God would allow them to be there. He describes a tradition of grappling with that question running more than 250 years. Its first carriers were “enslaved people without the benefit of formal theological education,” and yet they “wrestled deeply with the hardest questions and the hardest contradictions of life,” and came out with responses he calls amazing.
The earliest evidence he points to is song. He tells readers to get a book of spirituals and read them as theology, because the Black church tradition is “a tradition that has been forged in the crucible of oppression and suffering.” His example is the spiritual that asks whether the Lord who delivered Daniel will deliver every man. The singer knows God rescued Daniel and the Hebrew boys, and the singer is still in bondage. The song carries that tension straight to God and leaves it there, unresolved.
Out of that tradition came the conviction Edmondson defines this way: redemptive suffering theodicy affirms that “God is able to bring about God’s good purposes through faithful engagement with suffering.” Evil, sin, death and suffering do not have the final say. God’s grace, promises and victory do. Edmondson credits that faith with carrying Black Christians through slavery, then Jim Crow, the lynching tree and segregation. That is the sequence the source actually gives: an era-by-era inheritance, passed down long before King gave it a name and a method.
The Scripture the tradition stood on
Edmondson reads this tradition as rooted in the Bible’s own storyline, beginning in Genesis. After the fall, God speaks to the serpent: “And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel” (Genesis 3:15). Many Christians have read this as the first announcement of the gospel, a promised seed who will undo what the serpent did. Reading it as a pointer to Christ is an interpretation made in light of the whole Bible, and Edmondson frames it that way, as a promise that grows clearer as revelation progresses.
He locates the root of what he calls racialized sin in the next chapter. When God asks Cain where his brother is, Cain answers, “I know not: Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4:9). Edmondson treats that refusal as a heart confession that resurfaces whenever people hate and exploit one another. This matters for King’s theodicy because it identifies much of the world’s suffering as inflicted by people. Inflicted suffering raises a second question beyond why God permits it: how should the sufferer answer the one inflicting it?
The turning point: three ways to answer a mob
King’s answer came from Gethsemane. When the arresting party came for Jesus, three responses appeared in one garden.
Peter fought. John records that “Simon Peter having a sword drew it, and smote the high priest’s servant, and cut off his right ear” (John 18:10). The rest fled: “Then all the disciples forsook him, and fled” (Matthew 26:56). Edmondson names these as violent retaliation and passive acquiescence. They look like opposites, yet each one abandons the work of engaging the suffering faithfully.
Jesus took a different path. “Jesus actually shows another way,” Edmondson says. “He shows a third way.” He describes it as “not violent retaliation, not passive acquiescence, but actually nonviolent direct action.” Jesus stays, and he forbids the sword: “Put up again thy sword into his place: for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword” (Matthew 26:52). Then he walks forward into what is coming.
Edmondson says King “got hold of this revelation” and was gripped by it, and what King took from the garden was a method: engage suffering “to the glory of God,” directly and lovingly, with courage, seeking the redemption and reconciliation even of the opponent. The source does not date when King first drew this lesson, and it would be false precision to assign one. What it establishes is the order of the ideas: an inherited theodicy, then a reading of Gethsemane that turned it into a public strategy.
A careful reader should also notice the interpretive step. The Gospels describe how Jesus responded to his own arrest. Turning that scene into a pattern for a social movement is application, and Christians can weigh how far it extends. What the text settles is that Jesus refused the sword at the moment it seemed most justified.
Conviction and hard arithmetic
King’s nonviolence was also a sober reading of the situation. In Edmondson’s reconstruction, King judged that if oppressed Black Americans took up arms, the other side “had more guns than we did,” and armed revolt “is only gonna lead to more violence.” Edmondson explicitly sets this against the call to armed resistance associated with Malcolm X. He adds a spiritual dimension: the powers and principalities the movement opposed would win if it answered them in a simply violent way.
The movement could neither fight that way nor retreat. It had to go the third way. Faith and prudence pointed in the same direction here, which matters for anyone who assumes biblical conviction requires ignoring reality. King’s reading of the cross and his reading of the odds reinforced each other.
The objection: doesn’t this make people passive?
The strongest challenge comes from black humanism, and its most serious representative in this debate is the scholar Anthony Pinn. His book Why, Lord? chronicles the Black redemptive suffering tradition and argues hard against it. Edmondson states Pinn’s core objection in a sentence: “If we are waiting on God to do something for us, then we will not do anything for ourselves.” Pinn also holds that the tradition cultivates a dangerous martyr mentality and in a certain way glorifies the violence done to the sufferer. King is one of his central examples.
Edmondson, who even had his own book reviewed by Pinn as series editor so that Pinn could recognize himself in it, insists on fairness: “I wanna have a charitable assessment of folks that I’m arguing with.” He extends the same charity to Ta-Nehisi Coates, conceding that “oftentimes unbelievers can still give you an accurate assessment of the problem.”
The objection has real force. Language about redemptive suffering can be preached as counsel to endure quietly, and Pinn’s critique targets exactly that possibility. Any honest answer has to show what this theology actually produced in a particular case.
What the movement’s record shows
Edmondson answers first from history. The civil rights movement was grounded in the church, empowered by its faith and steered by a theology rooted in the cross. If redemptive suffering produced passivity, the movement it fueled should have shrunk back. In his judgment, “that kind of belief historically speaking has not induced acquiescence. It’s actually propelled activism, and it sustained young people who put themselves in harm’s way for our freedoms.” More concretely: “It didn’t cause them to decide to shrink back and go home in the face of Bull Connor’s fire hoses and attack dogs.”
This is an argument about a record, and its reach has limits. It shows how the movement used the idea. It does not prove that every sermon about suffering in every church pushed people toward action. Still, the shape of the reply is sound: Pinn’s claim predicts a pattern of behavior, and Edmondson tests it against the people who held the belief and marched.
He then answers theologically by naming the misreading at the center of the debate. People hear “redemptive suffering” and, in his words, “they think that what King is saying is that suffering itself is a good.” King’s claim was that “engagement with the suffering that already exists can be a good” when it is done faithfully. A theology that blessed suffering would tell people to accept it. King’s theology blessed faithful engagement, so it sent people toward suffering to confront it and, by God’s grace, to turn it toward redemption, including the redemption of the oppressor.
Why hope beyond this world kept people in it
Edmondson’s last reply goes to what the humanist alternative leaves behind. If the meaning is in the struggle itself, a people’s identity becomes “fundamentally rooted and grounded in our own oppression.” Put bluntly, “we don’t have meaning beyond oppression.”
Christians, he argues, need an eschatology, a hope that reaches past this world, and that hope drives them deeper into the present. His image is the pilgrim: “the thing about being a pilgrim is that your actions today are taken in light of your destination tomorrow.” The destination is the reason the pilgrim keeps walking.
What King added, and what stayed the same
Following the sequence Edmondson gives, the enslaved singers asked whether God would deliver. Generations under Jim Crow held on to the conviction that God’s victory, and the suffering, would have the last word. King gave that conviction precise theological form, anchored it in Gethsemane and the cross, and turned it into a public method. His contribution answered the question of what the faithful should do while they wait for deliverance: engage.
The refusal to call suffering good stayed constant. As Edmondson reads them, the songs and King’s theology alike name oppression as evil that God can overrule. That also sets a boundary for anyone applying the idea now. It makes no promise that pain will end on a schedule, and it never asks anyone to remain under harm to prove their faith. It claims that suffering already present, met with Christlike courage, is not wasted in God’s hands.
For readers who want to trace the tradition themselves, Edmondson’s suggestions follow the same arc: a book of spirituals, Howard Thurman, King’s own writings through the King Papers Project at Stanford or The Essential Writings of Martin Luther King Jr., Pinn’s Why, Lord? for the critique, and his own The Power of Unearned Suffering. Read in that order, they show a faith that grew from lament into strategy, and that kept people walking because it gave the walking a destination.