The danger in contemplating theodicy lies in the subtle encouragement of an arrogance atypical in other theological concentrations, a study which, by its very nature, should be defined by a posture of humility. I had once heard C.S. Lewis ended his writing of the Screwtape Letters rather abruptly, after realizing the inherent dangers of attempting to inhabit and imitate the mind of a demon for an extended period. I would contend an equal danger in attempting to decipher the existence of evil by scrutinizing history as if one possessed God’s eyes, and God’s mind, constantly attempting to discern various instances of divine permission and causation. Essentially, it is equally as dangerous to pretend to be God as it is to pretend to be the devil. Nevertheless, this temptation always arises during catastrophes, as it tends to bring human suffering to the forefront of our collective consciouses, and there is a natural impulse to vindicate or justify God in such occasions. However, temptation aside, such devastating events also give prominence to a far more wondrous and magnificent theological subject: the solidarity of Christ in the midst of the suffering of His creation. If we refrain from the ever-present temptation to be possess the mind of God, to be “as Gods,” perhaps we can glimpse His heart instead. For to know Christ’s heart is to see his true face, and in doing so, we see God’s.  

Julian of Norwich, in her classic volume Revelations of Divine Love, provides a vivid yet succinct picture of the reciprocity of divine and human suffering: humanity suffers with Christ just as Christ suffers with humanity. Such an expression of God’s ineffable union with humanity, through Christ, possesses a captivatingly desperate appeal, particularly in trying times; for it becomes impossible to become lost in our own grief and misery without remembering and reflecting upon Christ’s. Christ’s participation in human suffering, the compassion which prompted God’s physical manifestation within His creation, to suffer both with and for us, makes it difficult to dwell on suffering without first considering the compassion and comfort gifted to us, and the beauty of our God who perfectly embodies these qualities.

There is a fascinating concept in psychology known as vicarious trauma, defined as the emotional residue absorbed by counselors through exposure to the fear and pain constitutive of their patients’ trauma. This phenomenon was both observed and researched by Drs. Pearlman and Saakvitne as they discovered the various afflictions therapists and counselors suffered after working with victims suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder (Pearlman & Saakvitne, 1995). Building on this research, additional studies showed mental health professionals exhibiting symptoms remarkably similar to PTSD though they had no direct exposure to trauma (Stamm, 1995). This condition was aptly coined as secondary traumatic stress and became understood as a common side effect of repeated exposure to the suffering of a fellow human (Stamm, 1995). This is the natural consequence of love, for as we mourn with those who mourn, a shared bond is created, and the unity of community is solidified. This concept of secondary traumatic stress is one I have become personally and intimately familiar with through working with survivors of domestic violence. Prior to engaging in trauma advocacy, I was warned with regards to this risk, detailing the psychological dangers of counselors who experience “burnout” or require counseling of their own as a result of their work.  The warnings, I would come to learn, had significant merit, as I had come to experience several symptoms myself. When I worked with an organization which provided aid to Afghani women, I was exposed to stories of some women and children who were forced into the most brutal sexual slavery you can imagine, and soon after I found myself under a constant assault of intrusive images; scenes of the horrific acts being played out in my head, as if recounting a terrible memory. Nevertheless, these images were constructs of my own imagination, built on the fading, suppressed recollections of survivors describing the abominable acts from which they suffered.

How then should we consider the suffering of Christ? By His divinity He witnesses all things perfectly and completely, anchored outside of time. And through the perfection of His being he possesses a deeper union with the suffering of humanity than even the most sympathetic of physicians, for whose compassion can compare to Christ’s? The perfection of His humanity allows Him to mourn with the community of mankind greater than can be imagined. Add to humanity his divinity, for though he be man, He remains over all, through all, and in all, His omnipresence and omniscience combining with His humanity to create the most perfect union with His creation. This union of natures, achieved through God’s incarnation, carries deep consequences which few consider; for us humans, pain passes, memories fade, and scars heal….with time. But what of Christ’s pain, who, being Vero Deus, is anchored outside of time (or I shall I say, in Augustinian tradition, time is contained within Him)? If we are but the image of God (albeit faded) and are able to possess such empathy toward others, how much greater must Christ’s empathy be, He who is perfectly unified to us? Certainly, Christ describes Himself as being more than merely present with victims- John Calvin once named God “the protector and patron of the poor” who “feels Himself injured in their persons” (Calvin, 2005). Christ, through solidarity with His creation, is injured with us, suffers alongside us, and identifies so closely with the suffering that He has declared them as His proxies in the world. He will be found in the poor, the hungry, the indebted, and the enslaved. Thus, we must wonder the true cost of God’s incarnation; does his Godhood, His immortality and transcendence, allow Christ’s pain as a man to recede? I have always appreciated the elegant prose of the King James Bible and its description of God’s patience with his creation as “long suffering.” I think this best describes God’s patience as a source of His suffering, and its duration- suffering is lengthy for the Lord. Such an understanding invites us to contemplate how great His love for us must be to remain patient despite the agony we pour on Christ.

And thus, I return again to Julian, to her reflections of suffering with Christ and Christ suffering for us. Beautiful as the sentiment is, I believe it fails to capture the true depth of Christ’s solidarity. We should instead say that so great is God’s empathy and compassion that Christ is in us through our suffering, and Christ is revealed in our suffering to the world. Scripture perfectly illustrates the embodiment of Christ within us with the allegory of God’s appearance to Moses as a Burning Bush- a bush completely ablaze without being consumed. Christ’s declaration of his solidarity with the “least of these” represents the “first fruits” of the kingdom, His unity with the suffering and His church and the Spirit’s embodying us like the blazing bush, demonstrates the beginnings of the “breaking in” of the kingdom of heaven into the world. These fruits are but a taste of the glorious eschatological end of all creation, as Christ returns and consummates the cosmos so that we are ablaze, dwelt by the Holy Spirit, without being consumed. And as God is in each of us, we simultaneously inhabit the body of Christ, and thus of God, so that Christ will “reign with preeminence,” and “God will be all in all.”  

Against the enormity of the cost of God’s condescension, of His willingness in uniting with us despite the consequence of His suffering, what else can we do but adore Him? How else should we respond but with worship, as we consider His greatness, His mercy, and His compassion. The story I have always found beyond remarkable in scripture is the recounting of the thief dying beside Christ on the cross. If we understand scripture to be the story of God, and the revelation of His character through the central protagonist of Christ, it is amazing that in His moment of greatest agony He turns his attention to comfort a dying thief. Can there be a greater picture of God’s compassion – to turn His and our attention to a despised criminal, during His own greatest suffering? And why would the writers, under divine inspiration, consider this thief’s comfort worth presenting, if not to display God’s vision of human dignity? To display the restoration of creation His agony and death would achieve? Imagine the effect of such a passage on the ancient world, who, while reading of God incarnate, reach the climax of His journey, and find Christ pausing to provide comfort to a criminal considered subhuman to civilized Romans. In this is contained a new vision of both God’s compassion and human dignity; for the authors have confessed to omit the multitude of tales of Christ’s power and grandeur, and instead find it important to record this dying peasant’s comfort and assurance, and his acceptance by God in the midst of his execution and humiliation by the Roman state. I cannot see a greater illustration of the shift in moral awareness inaugurated by Christ. There is deep revelation here, for God, even in his pain, in what may certainly be considered among the most important moment in human history, chose to make known the comfort given to one of “the least of these”. Can a better portrait be painted of the riches and dignity God bestows upon us, or of His compassion and solidarity with even the lowest of His creation. 

“Blessed be the God & Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God (2 Cor 1:3-4)”

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