Is of God: Joy, Suffering, and the Interplay of Contrasts

ISIT 2.1 (2018) 83–104 Interreligious Studies and Intercultural Theology (print) ISSN 2397-3471 https://doi.org/10.1558/isit.32682 Interreligious Studies and Intercultural Theology (online) ISSN 2397-348X

All is of God: Joy, Suffering, and the Interplay of Contrasts

Jon Paul Sydnor

Emmanuel College, Boston

[email protected]

Abstract This essay elaborates a constructive, comparative, nondual theodicy for the Christian tradition based on the Hindu Vaiṣṇava tradition. According to the Indologist Henrich Zimmer, in Vaiṣṇavism everything is an emanation of Viṣṇu, therefore everything is of Viṣṇu. All apparent opposites are inherently divine and implicitly complementary. Good and bad, joy and suffering, pain and pleasure are not conflicting dualities; they are interdependent qualities that increase one another’s being. The Hindu myth of Samudra Manthan, or the Churning of the Ocean, exemplifies Vaiṣṇava nondualism. In that story, gods and demons—seeming opposites—cooperate in order to extract the nectar of immortality from an ocean of milk. If “opposites” are interdependent, hence complementary, then they are not “opposites” but mutually amplifying contrasts. Given this phenomenology, and applying it to the Christian tradition, a benevolent God who desires full vitality for her creatures would have to create pain, suffering, darkness, and death in order to intensify their correlates. Love would demand their creation, because love would want abundant life for all. In this aesthetic theodicy, the interplay of all contrasts results from the love of a life-giving God.

Keywords theodicy, comparative theology, Vaiṣṇavism, mythology, suffering

I am the Lord, and there is no other; besides me there is no god. I arm you, though you do not know me, so that they may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is no one besides me; I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness, I make weal and create woe; I the Lord do all these things. (Isaiah 45: 5–7)

We don’t have to minimize either suffering or uncertainty. Our love for truth can help protect us from ourselves and from worshipping an untrue god that can’t survive the trial of this world. Let our faith too be nailed regularly to the cross of this world. Any faith that dies there was dead to begin with. What is resurrected is Life. (Kent Annan, After Shock)

Figure 1: Christian Science Plaza, Boston. Credit: Author. Disclaimer Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I am certainly a fool for broaching the subject of theodicy, but at the same time, I will deny rushing in. I enter the cave of theodicy reluctantly, out of a sense of obligation. A paradox has long perplexed theistic human beings: sensing the divine love yet seeing human suffering. Caught within this existential vise, we have sought an intellectual escape in the form of theodicy—justifying the ways of God to humankind.1 Theodicy—the intellectual attempt to reconcile a loving Creator with a suffering creation—is not for those who are currently undergoing affliction. For them, we can only offer our own tears: “weep with the weeping,” Paul advised (Romans 12: 15). Those who are suffering will interpret any justification of God as an intellectual evasion of compassion. To speak of theodicy when your neighbour is suffering abandons them to their suffering. Theodicy is incompatible with a ministry of presence; it will only curse the suffering with deeper loneliness (Wolterstorff 1987, 34). 1 I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer whose comments and suggestions significantly improved this article.

Introduction We should not, cannot, yet must attempt theodicy. We should not attempt theodicy because it does not help the suffering and may even harm them. We cannot succeed at theodicy, because the answers never suffice—the best theodicy is the least wrong theodicy. Yet we must offer a theodicy, because human beings are the species that asks “Why?” This bold questioning may be one of our greatest glories. We dare to ask questions that we cannot answer. Incessantly asking “Why?” has produced science, asking “Why do things happen?” It has produced philosophy, asking “Why are we here?” It has produced psychology, asking “Why do we act the way we do?” And it has produced theology, asking “Why do we sense a God within and beyond our universe?” Because human beings are the species that asks “Why?” we must ask why this loving God, whom we sense, sustains such a trying universe, which we feel. Embarking upon theodicy, we implicitly ask if our universe is comprehensible, and we risk the possibility that it may not be (Hick 1966, 371). The resulting conversation is only for those who are not currently suffering, at least not any more than usual. It is for those who want to make sense of life and are willing to fail. By the grace of God, even in this failure we may find some peace. Wrestling with theodicy now will at least save us from beginning the process—distraught, frantic, and desperate—when suffering strikes. In this way, theodicy may be pastoral; that is, helpful to us in our existential situation, both as individuals and as communities. It cannot answer the unanswerable questions, but maybe it can inoculate us against the doubt that accompanies tragedy. And, if we wrestle long enough, we may even outgrow the questions. What follows is an aesthetic theodicy, an explanation of suffering with reference to the quality of human experience and the intensity of divine benevolence. I write as a progressive, Protestant Christian, comparative theologian, and pastor. As a progressive Protestant, I will avoid theories that describe suffering as God’s punishment of human beings for sin. When suffering becomes affliction, when it is distributed unevenly, it can no longer be the proportionate punishment of a just God. As a comparative theologian, I look beyond (as well as within) the Christian tradition for theological stimulation. Comparison broadens the conversation, presents new possibilities of religious being, and questions what we consider obvious. It produces new and better questions, which may even produce new and better answers. As a pastor, I will always evaluate those answers based on their application

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 86 Jon Paul Sydnor to congregational life. Answers that quicken, inspire, and heal will be preferred to answers that do not. God wants us to have more life. In order to do so, we must question the conventions that bind us and choose the answers that animate us.

Figure 2: Barbed Wired Through Wood. Credit: Max Pixel.

Hindu myth as Hindu nondualism Advaita, or nondualism, is an important concept in Hinduism. Different thinkers explicate nondualism in different ways, but all agree that it rejects atomism. Atomism asserts separation—entities are independent, self-sustaining, and inherently existing. They do not rely on one another for their being; they are dual. The concept of advaita, on the other hand, asserts inseparability. Reality has one Source, and is one with that Source, which unifies all reality, rendering it nondual (Rāmānuja §1.9, 12). Not all Hinduism is nondual. Madhva, for example, proposed Dvaita (Dual) Vedānta, an interpretation of the Hindu scriptures that distinguishes the Creator and creation. However, the two most intellectually prominent schools of Vedānta propose a nondual interpretation of the Creator/creation relationship. Advaita (Nondual) Vedānta, most notably articulated by Śaṅkara, teaches that Brahman and the universe are ultimately identical. Viśiṣṭādvaita (Qualified Nondual) Vedānta, most notably articulated by Rāmānuja, teaches that Brahman, individual souls, and the psychophysical universe are of one divine substance, but appearing in different modes with different characteristics. Therefore, nondualism is only one possible interpretative approach in Hinduism, and there are several forms of

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 All is of God 87 nondualism. For our purposes, nondualism entails the complementarity of seeming opposites, all of which share their origin in God. Indeed, God creates and sustains seeming opposites, which are actually mutually amplifying contrasts. For a narrative example of nondual complementarity, Hindu mythology offers the myth of Samudra Manthan, or the Churning of the Ocean. This story is also known as Kūrma Avatāra, or the Tortoise Avatar of Lord Viṣṇu. In this myth, a holy man’s curse has weakened the gods, who are now losing their battles with the demons. For help the gods go to Viṣṇu, who advises them to obtain the nectar of immortality, or amṛta. Problematically, the nectar lies at the bottom of a vast ocean of milk. The gods can only obtain it by churning the ocean with the mountain Mandara, using the serpent king Vasuki as a rope (Wilson 1895, 70–81). (Nota bene: while multiple versions of this story appear in Hindu mythology, we will rely primarily on that of the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, then turn to Henrich Zimmer’s interpretation thereof in Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization.) The enervated gods are a bit nonplussed at this challenge, and ask Viṣṇu how they’re supposed to meet it. He suggests that they turn to their cousins and enemies, the demons, for assistance. The gods naturally worry that if the demons help, then the demons will get the ambrosia. But Viṣṇu assures them that, if they do not covet the contents of the ocean that appear during its churning, and if they can remain calm even if the asuras (demons) attempt to steal the nectar, then Viṣṇu will assure the gods of its possession. So, the gods secure the help of their cousins the demons. They dig up Mount Mandara and begin to carry it to the ocean. Unfortunately, the gods are so weak that the mountain crushes many of them, prompting a rescue effort by Viṣṇu and his mount, Garuḍa. Intervening further, Viṣṇu promises Vasuki his share of the nectar and that the mountain won’t harm him, so Vasuki agrees to serve as the churning rope. Then the gods and demons begin to churn. Alas, unsupported Mount Mandara immediately begins to sink to the bottom of the ocean, so Viṣṇu turns into a giant tortoise (kūrma) and supports it on his back while the gods and demons churn. To the dismay of all, the ocean first releases a poisonous gas, suffocating and killing many gods and demons. For help the gods now turn to Śiva, who volunteers to drink all the poison out of the ocean in order to protect the gods. Once the nectar arises, the demons immediately seize it for themselves and begin fighting over it. Following Viṣṇu’s command, the gods do not attempt to retrieve

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 88 Jon Paul Sydnor it. Pleased, Viṣṇu notes that the nectar has divided the asuras, and he promises the devas that he will give it to them. He assumes his female form as Mohinī, entrances the demons with her beauty, and secures the nectar from them. Then, she distributes it to the gods, leaving none for the demons. Realizing that they have been tricked, the demons attack the gods but are defeated by their newly energized cousins and enemies. Once the gods re-establish their sovereignty, Brahmā has them negotiate for peace with their cousins and vanquished enemies, the demons (Wilson 1895, 70–81).

Figure 3: Kurma Avatar. Credit: Wikimedia Commons.

Nondual interpretation of the myth The myth of Samudra Manthan, The Churning of the Ocean, speaks as only a myth can. It appeals to our intuition and creative imagination, while refusing to be manipulated as propositional doctrine. Like all myth, it lies beyond the reach of law and logic; it feeds our subconscious with story rather than stimulating our intellect with ideas. In this way, myth attempts to make us spontaneously wiser. As a story, the myth resists fixed signification—a single, exhaustive interpretation—which would only sterilize it. Instead, it seeks to produce skilful, intuitive action within the infinite situational plenum of existence, a plenum that defies the blind application of unbending rules. For this reason, we comment on the myth at our peril—to probe its philosophical implications may obscure its narrative power (Zimmer 1946, 40–42). Nevertheless, the myth of Samudra Manthan has enormous potential for existential translation. Even if a myth is irreducible to its philosophical implications and theological interpretations, they may amplify our experience of the myth. Hence, while I would deny the reducibility of a myth to its philosophical implications, I will assert

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 All is of God 89 the usefulness of various philosophical translations of any myth. They are not what the myth is, but they are a legitimate expression of the myth’s inexhaustible meaning (Jaspers and Bultmann 1958, 19–20). Indeed, some Hindu scholars describe Samudra Manthan itself as an allegory for the act of interpretation. As the gods must churn the ocean to elicit its riches, so we must churn a text to elicit its meaning. Readily available meanings are superficial. The true meaning—the salutary, transformative meaning, the meaning that changes us for the better—lies within the depths of the myth, and only struggle can secure it. Coveting the meaning, claiming it prematurely, or priding oneself on its possession will eviscerate its power. Only persevering study, meditation, and debate can receive the sacred gift (Edelmann 2013, 438–440). Interpreting the myth of Samudra Manthan, we may first note that there is a supreme God, and that supreme God is intimately participatory in the drama of unfolding historical existence. God as Viṣṇu is concerned, not aloof or uncaring. Although God seems able to resolve all difficulties effortlessly, God leaves room for the actions of other beings to have meaning and consequence. God’s activity assists but does not displace that of his deputies. They may be lesser beings, but their actions do not have lesser significance. Second, a curse upon the gods has deprived them of their vitality and power. They are now fatigued and listless, so much so that they are losing battles with their cousins the asuras. The gods’ enfeeblement demands a remedy. The situation endangers the universe itself. For this reason, God steps in to suggest a fix: secure theamṛta , the elixir of life. The gods—at least these lesser gods—do not appear to be immortal yet, since the demons are slaughtering them. The elixir will grant them renewed power, and immortality as well. Here, the most interesting part of the story arises as plurality produces vitality. In order to secure the elixir, the gods and demons must work together. Vitality is summoned by the cooperation of gods and demons—good and bad, cosmos and chaos—who churn the ocean together. Vitality is summoned with the assistance of nature, personified by Vasuki the serpent king. Vitality is summoned with the assistance of insensate matter, personified by Mount Mandara. And vitality is summoned with the approval and guidance of God as Viṣṇu, who is concerned that his devotees flourish. All elements of existence cooperate to energize the gods. Yet vitality does not come without a cost. As the gods and demons churn the ocean in their quest for the elixir a poison is released,

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 90 Jon Paul Sydnor suffocating both. They can only survive this milk-borne toxic event with the help of another powerful God, Śiva, who suffers the poison for them. Śiva cleanses the ocean of milk—the symbol of life—of its toxicity. Now, it can offer its potency. As the ocean yields her wealth the gods keep their promise to Viṣṇu. They do not covet the riches, but wait patiently for the elixir. When the elixir appears, and the demons try to steal it for themselves, fighting over it with one another, the gods do not enter the fray. Instead, they remain calm and trust Viṣṇu. Trust in God, expressed as calm detachment and freedom from greed, is the only way to receive the divinely promised vitality. Those who thirst for it (in this case, the demons) may appear to receive the boon, but they will soon lose it, to their great dismay. Appearing in his female form as Mohinī, Viṣṇu civilizes the demons, then tricks them into giving her the elixir and turns it over to the gods. Revitalized, the gods can now battle the demons and win—until advised to negotiate for peace by Brahmā. For who knows what life would be like without their cousins and enemies? Indeed, who knows when they might need their enemies again?

Figure 4: Mutuality. Credit: Stephen Fitzgerald. http://sfitzgeraldfineart.com/index.asp

Let us summarize our interpretation of the myth: God desires vitality for all subjects, and utilizes gods and demons, good and bad, the powers of creation and the powers of destruction, to secure that vitality. By way of consequence, mutually amplifying contrasts are essential to the fullness of being. Nondual Vaiṣṇavism Since difference amplifies being, polarities such as life/death, light/ darkness, and joy/suffering should be understood as complementary contrasts, not conflicting dualities. They are not separate, reified realities. They are not thesis and antithesis, nor are they ontologically set upon the annihilation of the other. Instead, in the complementary dualism that we are considering, they are more like interdependent polarities. Indeed, in Indian thought (as we are interpreting it) they are not even dual; they are nondual (advaita). Although Viṣṇu sustains these contrasts, the negative poles do not sully him. Different thinkers resolve this paradox in different ways. Rāmānuja, for example, insists that Viṣṇu is pure and untouched by any evil (pāpa). Evil here refers to all the negative qualities that souls bound in karma experience, such as pain, fear, and doubt. The perfectly undefiled (amalatva) and all-knowing (sarvajña) Viṣṇu could never suffer in this way (Sydnor 2012, 92–95). Other explanations of suffering, such as human ignorance, ethical freedom, and beginning- less karma, absolve Viṣṇu of implication in the negative realm, while also sharing the authority of tradition (Clooney 1989, 530–548). Thus, Heinrich Zimmer’s interpretation of the myth, which implicates Viṣṇu in the negative realm by asserting the necessity of the negative for the fullness of the positive, is only one possible interpretation, though well corroborated within the tradition (O’Flaherty 1976, 46–49). For our purposes, we will distinguish nondualism from monism. Monism asserts that all things are ultimately the same thing, so all difference is illusion. Nondualism asserts that all things are interrelated hence interdependent, deriving their existence from God and, by the determination of God, one another. Difference is real, so plurality truly exists. But all difference is united into one shimmering web of divine interbeing, so unity truly exists (Rāmānuja, The Śrī Bhāshya §1.1.2.2, 261). Reality is many yet one, diverse yet united, different yet related (Sydnor 2016, 29–31). Such complementarity holds promise for theodicy—at least to the extent that anything holds promise for theodicy. In much Hindu mythology, this complementarity is divinely ordained.

For example, in The Laws of Manu the Lord explicitly creates dualities: “in order to differentiate conduct, [the Lord] differentiated right from wrong, then he bound creatures to the contrasts: joy and suffering, etc.” (Laws of Manu §1.26, 6 author’s translation, adapted from Olivelle and Doniger). God rejects pure unity in favour of calculated diversity. The One chooses to become the Many while remaining the One (Taittiriya Upaniṣad 2.6.1). God, as the source of all phenomena, does not create metaphysical opposition. Instead, he creates experiential amplification. Like the colours on a canvas, ordained difference cooperates to generate everyday abundance (O’Flaherty 1976, 49). Likewise, in the myth of Samudra Manthan, all is of Viṣṇu. Energies that contest with one another are synergies that amplify one another. Creation and destruction, evolution and dissolution, cosmos and chaos are of an essence. Opposites are united by their divine source and justified by their divine function (Zimmer 1946, 46). Evil does not exist in itself or for itself, but only to serve the greater good of vitality. For this reason, the holy in Hinduism can manifest itself in both benign and terrifying forms: the mother Goddess Devī can appear as fanged, blood drinking Kalī. Śiva can appear as Bhairava (“Frightful”), his demonic, destructive, yet protective form. And, most relevant to our discussion, Viṣṇu can appear as Narasiṃha—his half-man, half-lion form—who disembowels the demon Hiraṇyakaśipu on his lap. Moreover, Hindu mythology generally asserts the interdependence of moral polarities by asserting the consanguinity of devas (gods) and asuras (demons). They are not separate species, tribes, or even families—they are cousins. In the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad (§1.3.1), both gods and demons are sons of the creator Prajapati. In Viṣṇu Purāṇa §3.17, the gods are absolutely flummoxed when the demons begin to observe Vedic precepts, fulfill their sacred duties, and practice religious penance—in other words, when the demons begin to do what the gods do. Gaining power through virtue, the demons become invincible, forcing the gods to seek assistance from Viṣṇu. Even then, Viṣṇu only defeats the demons by deluding them into non-Vedic practices: he becomes the Buddha, who rejects the Vedas, animal sacrifice, and the caste system. The demons follow willingly, forsaking true religion, thereby allowing their destruction (§3.18). In the Mahābhārata (§12.8.28) Arjuna asks, “Do the gods prosper without killing their kinsmen, the demons?” (O’Flaherty 60). Elsewhere, the Mahābhārata declares that enmity is innate to gods and demons because they are brothers (§12.8.28, §5.98.180. See O’Flaherty 1976, 57–62).

Virtue is only possible when vice is an option. Viṣṇu creates gods and demons so that free beings can cultivate moral excellence within the balance of the universe. Paradoxically, evil is necessary and desirable, yet must be overcome. Only thus does the self experience increase within a universe of possibilities. Metaphysical tension is a gift from God, who sustains the complementary polarities that sentient beings negotiate and through which they become wise (O’Flaherty 1976, 378– 379). In addition to sustaining mutually amplifying contrasts, Viṣṇu can also appear as Viśvarūpa (“universal form”), the original source of all such difference. In this manifestation Viṣṇu reveals his sovereignty over all the forces in the universe. Gods and demons, good and evil, creation and destruction, joy and suffering, life and death all serve the one supreme Viṣṇu, because all are of the one supreme Viṣṇu. The clashing forces of this-worldly life merge into their harmonious source, the terrifying and beneficent personal God (Zimmer 1946, 124–125). Generally, those who see Viṣṇu in his universal form beg him to take on a more manageable aspect. For instance, in chapter 11 of the Bhagavad Gītā the warrior Arjuna asks to see Viṣṇu’s true form, which is his Universal Form. Viṣṇu (here, in his avatār as Kṛṣṇa) reveals the cosmic sweep of his being—infinite arms, infinite heads, without beginning or end, exceeding even the universe, face ablaze, blindingly brilliant, worshipped by all, feared by all, granting life, yet consuming creatures in his gaping maw—dreaming, destroying, and engaging in intimate conversation with a devotee. Overwhelmed, Arjuna begs Viṣṇu to return to his conventional appearance: “I rejoice that I have seen what has never before been seen, but my mind is unhinged with fear. O god, show me that other form again. Be merciful, lord of gods, home of the world! I need to see you as you were before: crowned, with a club, and holding a discus. O thousand-armed one, whose material form is the universe, assume your four-armed shape” (Johnson 1994, 52). Unlike Arjuna, when the accomplished sage Nārada sees Viṣṇu as Viśvarūpa, he simply bows in gratitude. To see reality as it is requires wisdom and preparation. The wise know that the contrasts of existence emanate from a shared, divine source, even as that divine source transcends them, and offers shelter from the maelstrom of polarities that he himself has created. Only personal devotion to Viṣṇu can redeem us within (not from) this fluent play of synergies. That is, recognizing the divine origin of negation empowers us to accept negation as a gracious aspect of experience. Then, we can live within

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 94 Jon Paul Sydnor the balance, serenely. Just as a symphony can offer no consonance without dissonance, life can offer no joy without suffering. Yet, just as a challenging symphony will struggle with tonal instability and heightened harmonic tension, then resolve itself in a harmonic conclusion, so our own struggles will end in the benevolent repose of God (Zimmer 1946, 136). Everything in our lives—guilt and forgiveness, failure and success, cruelty and kindness—everything is an expression of divine energy. What we experience is Viṣṇu manifest, the negative providing background to the positive. Whether we interpret wisely or not, our experience is Viṣṇu’s grace (Zimmer 1946, 207).

Figure 5: Chennakesava Temple in Belur, Karnataka. Credit: Author.

Nondual Christian phenomenology Nondual Vaiṣṇavism suggests that all is of Viṣṇu, who desires for us a vitality that demands difference. We can discern the value of vitality in Christian thinkers as well, particularly in the work of Friedrich Schleiermacher, who commends absolute vitality as a defining characteristic of God (§51.2, 291–292). For Schleiermacher, God’s absolute vitality is closely linked to God’s absolute causality— all that is, is of God. He applies this insight to the Christian doctrine of creation. Historically, the early Church formulated the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo—that God created the universe from nothing—to assert the absolute power of God. Unlike Plato’s demiurge, God did not create the universe out of pre-existing, uncooperative matter. God created the universe out of nothingness in an exercise of complete freedom. Therefore, all that is, is as God wills it. The Creator creates under no ontological constraints (Schleiermacher 2016 §41.1, 224).

Although God was under no ontological constraints in the creation of the universe, God’s free imagination discerned the richest possible existence for us—the interdependence of dissimilar experiences (Schleiermacher 2016 §5.3, 31–33). The infinite divine wisdom saw that a universe of pure joy could never offer such intense joy as a universe of joy and suffering. A universe of pure love could never offer such intense love as a universe of love and hate. Similar experiential opportunities exist for pleasure and pain, hope and fear, life and death, creation and destruction. We may trust that, as an expression of God’s love for us, the material world is fundamentally good (Schleiermacher 2016 §59 Postscript, 350–355). In other words, desiring for us the most vitality possible, God has placed us within a universe of interdependent, mutually amplifying contrasts. Here, we not only survive physically, we also grow spiritually, presented with the opportunity for ever increasing God-consciousness (Schleiermacher 2016 §59.1, 345–348). Perhaps this aesthetic decision expresses God’s own internal relatedness, in which the three persons of the Trinity receive their fullness from one another. Creation bears the stamp of God’s being (Zizioulas 1985, 87–88), as increase-through- relation generates divine, human, and cosmic beatitude. In this view anything that exists independently exists insufficiently. Only difference fosters experiential bounty, even as negative qualities cause tribulation. God prioritizes challenge over ease; God wants our lives to be meaning-laden, not comfort-dulled. God is not neutral with regard to the contrasts, however. The negative aspects of the universe exist only to serve the positive aspects. They amplify, hence are ancillary to, all that makes life good and holy. And they drive us toward the healing offered by God (Schleiermacher 2016 §76.1, 278-280). Moreover, our moral navigation of these contrasts grants our life consequence. What we do matters. Made in the image of God, we can create, and create freely. We are free to create joy or suffering for our neighbour, we can become agents of hope or despair, we can grant pleasure or inflict pain. Our lives and our decisions have import, which they would lack in a monochromatic universe (Moltmann 1993b, 40–42). This dangerous abundance blesses human thought, feeling, and action with significance, so much significance that we call it holiness. To be holy is to bear both beauty and consequence. The holiness of life charges moral deliberation, charitable action, and political struggle with meaning. Our primary question should not be, “why is there suffering?” But rather: “how can we alleviate suffering?” The

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 96 Jon Paul Sydnor most holy response to the reality of suffering is the alleviation of it. Through this ministry, we can become co-redeemers of creation, with the Creator (Southgate 2002, 820). The alleviation of suffering grants unexpected joy. In a “perfect” world, we could never be heroic or sacrificially loving. But in this broken world we can work to heal, which is to save (Fiddes 2007, 1). Love becomes the trademark practice of faith in a suffering world. And through the practice of love we all of us, both as individuals and as community, experience increase. When God mapped the affective universe, she assigned it a great variety of features. In this cartography of difference it matters where we go. There are dead ends and wide vistas, unfriendly terrains and fertile hills, streams for drinking and raging rivers to cross. There is love and hate, hope and despair, disappointment and celebration. We risk the Wilderness as we seek the Promised Land, where the Creator invites us to the consummation of her creation. Along the way we ask: what heals? These questions have great import in a textured, topographical universe characterized by a vast range of contrasting affects.

Figure 6: Jacob Wrestling with the Angel by Gustav Dore. Credit: Wikicommons. For those with a sense for the divine, even tribulation can reveal a love underlying the universe, to which the universe is imperfectly transparent. This love discloses itself only in intimations. It will offer no proof to the sceptical, but it will offer inspiration to the receptive

(Southgate 2014, 796–797). Those receptive to such intimations will naturally gather to express God’s grace to one another and our suffering world (Hall 1986, 140–142). During times of great trial, people of faith experience God, and God-centered communities, as helpful. They experience the Creator as loving, even as they experience the creation as enigmatic—beautiful yet tragic, alive yet deadly, providential yet threatening. They choose to live within this paradox, for the inhabitation of paradox offers the most vitality. They then wrestle with the questions, as Israel must wrestle with God (Genesis 32: 22–32). Incarnation as divine ratification and celebration In the myth of Samudra Manthan, Viṣṇu plays the role of divine mediator. As the source of both good and evil, he is primarily interested in restoring the balance between the two when evil begins to get the upper hand. On these occasions, he descends into history in the form of an avatār, returns the universe to its equilibrium, then ascends back to his heavenly state (Zimmer 1946, 88). Christianity offers numerous doctrines of salvation, but none of them asserts that Jesus came to restore the balance of the universe, as in Vaiṣṇavism. Nevertheless, Samudra Manthan provides a stimulating comparison that allows us to enliven our interpretation of the New Testament. This enlivened interpretation may better address the existential situation of 21st century humankind, thereby reinvigorating the religious power of the myth. And if the New Testament myth is reinvigorated, then the New Testament faith will be reinvigorated (Bultmann 1961, 10–11). In what follows, we will reinterpret the Christian narrative of incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection in accordance with the aesthetic theodicy presented above. This reinterpretation will accord with the agapic nondualism pervading that theodicy: God’s love for us overcomes the duality between all contrasts, uniting being into one seamless whole. Even Roman nails cannot tear the divine fabric, since God defeats death with life. In this incarnational doctrine of salvation, God became human as God always intended. From the moment that God conceives creation, God chooses to enter creation. The Artist must celebrate her art; the Playwright must perform her play (Moltmann 1989, 84). Yet this Creative is no smarmy, shallow romantic. Instead, she acknowledges our exposure to the soaring and searing spectrum of experience that she sustains. She knows that we are susceptible to an inexhaustible range of events and their resultant feelings, yet she affirms the varieties of embodied experience by undergoing embodied experience (Annan 2011, 56–57).

But if God is to celebrate her creation, then she must do so unconditionally. She must become fully human, vulnerable to the prodigious expanse of events, sensations, emotions, and thoughts that she loves into being. God, having chosen to amplify joy through suffering, and pleasure through pain, affirms this decision by subjecting Herself to the very contrasts that She has created. She must delight, and She must sorrow (Wolterstorff 1987, 89–90). Crucially, the Hebrew scriptures testify to Emmanuel, “God with us” (Isaiah 7: 8 and 8: 7). The incarnation of God in Christ is the flawless consequence of this sentiment. Entirely open to the ebb and flow of earthly life, Jesus will turn water into wine at a wedding (John 2: 1–11) and will weep over the death of a friend (John 11: 35).

Figure 7: The Nativity by Gari Melchers. Credit: University of Mary Washington.

Crucifixion as an expression of absolute participation Unlike the Vaiṣṇava avatār, Jesus’ fleshly form is meek. Jesus is not the master of embodied life; he is subject to embodied life. He inhabits what we inhabit—the plain fact of human suffering and the intimated assurance of a loving God. He symbolizes divine vulnerability to the

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 All is of God 99 agony and the ecstasy, but also to the unresolvable paradox of faith embodied in the words Jesus cries from the cross: “my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15: 34). He simultaneously acknowledges the presence of God and the absence of God. He accuses God of abandonment, demands of God a defence, yet dies before receiving one, perhaps because God has no adequate answer. Crucifixion is an incomprehensibly “grotesque and gratuitous” act. The Romans created it to terrorize subjugated peoples. This torturous execution was public, prolonged, and political, reducing the victim to a political symbol of the Empire’s power over (Crossan 1994, 124–127). Theologically, the crucifixion of Jesus testifies to the unholy within the universe, useless suffering that freedom produces but God abhors. In a challenge to our thesis, something emerges in creation that is alien to Godself. God did not intend the unholy, but God allows it out of respect for our moral consequence. Crucially, God suffers from this demonic fault in reality. God in Christ undergoes demonic alienation from God through crucifixion (Fiddes 2013, 6–7). In other words, freedom is of God, but the results of freedom may not be. Faced with a choice between freedom and suffering, God has chosen to preserve freedom. We may wish it otherwise, but God has prioritized vitality over security (Hick 1966, 291). Yet, God does not make these choices at a distance. In the incarnation, we see that God has entered creation as unconditional celebrant. On the cross, we see that God has entered creation as absolute participant. No part of the divine person is protected from the dangers of embodiment. God in Jesus is perfectly open to the mutually amplifying contrasts of embodied life. And God is perfectly subject to the grotesque and gratuitous suffering that God rejects but freedom allows. God is completely here; God is fully human. For the cosmic Artist in a position of creative responsibility, authentic love necessarily results in vulnerable suffering. Incarnation necessitates crucifixion. Grotesque and gratuitous suffering may not be from God, but God has taken it into the Godhead. So now, it is of God (Moltmann 1993a, 270–274). Resurrection as a declaration of divine decision Crucifixion alone would repudiate the divine will and intent. For God to suffer alongside us is insufficient. Doctrinally, theodicy presumes eschatology; human suffering demands divine healing. Crucifixion offends God, who responds to it with resurrection (Hodgson and King 1985, 217–219).

Figure 8: Golgotha by Ilya Repin. Credit: Princeton University Art Museum. As noted above, God is not neutral with regard to creation; God has chosen faith, hope, love, joy, and peace. In the Hindu myth of Samudra Manthan, Viṣṇu sustains the demons to assist the gods. Both are needed, but one is preferred. Mythologically, we infer that God magnifies blessings through contrasts. In so doing, God vastly enriches our feeling for life. Now, our decisions are significant; they affect people, who signify God (Chāndogya Upaniṣad 6.8.7, Genesis 1: 27). And our decisions are consequential; they produce varying outcomes of varying qualities. In a purely joyful universe, our decisions could only produce joy. They would not change the nature of the universe, and

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2018 All is of God 101 they would not affect anyone, so they would be meaningless. Unable to help or harm, we ourselves would be of no import, mere shades in a blank-walled pleasure palace. Existential vitality demands ontological texture, and the choice of the living God is to be absolutely alive (Schleiermacher 2016, §51.2, 292). Made in God’s image, we are offered God’s vitality. Since the divine option is for life over death, the crucifixion must yield to the resurrection; suffering must yield to joy. The emotional fabric of the universe is woven in different colours, some of which are ugly, others of which are beautiful. But the overall pattern is one of grace, even when that pattern is invisible to our downcast eyes. At any one moment we may not be able to see the overarching magnificence of the weaver’s creation, but time will move us onward, granting perspective. The overall pattern always holds. In the end, the resurrection assures us that God chooses joy, and that we will one day see the grandeur of the whole, and the Artist’s perfect love woven into the warp and woof of this trying universe.

Figure 9: The Resurrection by Pierro della Francesca.Credit: Wikicommons.

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