Why, God?

When my friend Robin was dying, she asked me if I knew a priest she could talk to who would not be, as she put it, “too judgmental.” I knew the perfect man, a friend of our family, a priest conjured up out of an old black-and-white movie, the type who seemed not to exist anymore in a Catholic Church roiled by scandal. Like Father Chuck O’Malley, the New York inner-city priest played by Bing Crosby, Father Kevin O’Neil sings like an angel and plays the piano; he’s handsome, kind and funny. Most important, he has a gift. He can lighten the darkness around the dying and those close to them. When he held my unconscious brother’s hand in the hospital, the doctors were amazed that Michael’s blood pressure would noticeably drop. The only problem was Father Kevin’s reluctance to minister to the dying. It tears at him too much. He did it, though, and he and Robin became quite close. Years later, he still keeps a picture of her in his office. As we’ve seen during this tear-soaked Christmas, death takes no holiday. I asked Father Kevin, who feels the subject so deeply, if he could offer a meditation. This is what he wrote:

How does one celebrate Christmas with the fresh memory of 20 children and 7 adults ruthlessly murdered in Newtown; with the searing image from Webster of firemen rushing to save lives ensnared in a burning house by a maniac who wrote that his favorite activity was “killing people”? How can we celebrate the love of a God become flesh when God doesn’t seem to do the loving thing? If we believe, as we do, that God is all-powerful and all-knowing, why doesn’t He use this knowledge and power for good in the face of the evils that touch our lives?

The killings on the cusp of Christmas in quiet, little East Coast towns stirred a 30-year-old memory from my first months as a priest in parish ministry in Boston. I was awakened during the night and called to Brigham and Women’s Hospital because a girl of 3 had died. The family was from Peru. My Spanish was passable at best. When I arrived, the little girl’s mother was holding her lifeless body and family members encircled her.

They looked to me as I entered. Truth be told, it was the last place I wanted to be. To parents who had just lost their child, I didn’t have any words, in English or Spanish, that wouldn’t seem cheap, empty. But I stayed. I prayed. I sat with them until after sunrise, sometimes in silence, sometimes speaking, to let them know that they were not alone in their suffering and grief. The question in their hearts then, as it is in so many hearts these days, is “Why?”

The truest answer is: I don’t know. I have theological training to help me to offer some way to account for the unexplainable. But the questions linger. I remember visiting a dear friend hours before her death and reminding her that death is not the end, that we believe in the Resurrection. I asked her, “Are you there yet?” She replied, “I go back and forth.” There was nothing I wanted more than to bring out a bag of proof and say, “See? You can be absolutely confident now.” But there is no absolute bag of proof. I just stayed with her. A life of faith is often lived “back and forth” by believers and those who minister to them.

Implicit here is the question of how we look to God to act and to enter our lives. For whatever reason, certainly foreign to most of us, God has chosen to enter the world today through others, through us. We have stories of miraculous interventions, lightning-bolt moments, but far more often the God of unconditional love comes to us in human form, just as God did over 2,000 years ago.

I believe differently now than 30 years ago. First, I do not expect to have all the answers, nor do I believe that people are really looking for them. Second, I don’t look for the hand of God to stop evil. I don’t expect comfort to come from afar. I really do believe that God enters the world through us. And even though I still have the “Why?” questions, they are not so much “Why, God?” questions. We are human and mortal. We will suffer and die. But how we are with one another in that suffering and dying makes all the difference as to whether God’s presence is felt or not and whether we are comforted or not.

One true thing is this: Faith is lived in family and community, and God is experienced in family and community. We need one another to be God’s presence. When my younger brother, Brian, died suddenly at 44 years old, I was asking “Why?” and I experienced family and friends as unconditional love in the flesh. They couldn’t explain why he died. Even if they could, it wouldn’t have brought him back. Yet the many ways that people reached out to me let me know that I was not alone. They really were the presence of God to me. They held me up to preach at Brian’s funeral. They consoled me as I tried to comfort others. Suffering isolates us. Loving presence brings us back, makes us belong.

A contemporary theologian has described mercy as “entering into the chaos of another.” Christmas is really a celebration of the mercy of God who entered the chaos of our world in the person of Jesus, mercy incarnate. I have never found it easy to be with people who suffer, to enter into the chaos of others. Yet, every time I have done so, it has been a gift to me, better than the wrapped and ribboned packages. I am pulled out of myself to be love’s presence to someone else, even as they are love’s presence to me.

I will never satisfactorily answer the question “Why?” because no matter what response I give, it will always fall short. What I do know is that an unconditionally loving presence soothes broken hearts, binds up wounds, and renews us in life. This is a gift that we can all give, particularly to the suffering. When this gift is given, God’s love is present and Christmas happens daily.

The Problem of Suffering: Muslim Theological Reflections

M: "Glorified be God who is above committing evil."

A: "No, glorified be God in whose dominion nothing occurs without God's permission."

M: "Does God will that God be disobeyed?"

A: "Could God be disobeyed against God's will?"

M: "If God denies me guidance and decrees my perdition, does God commit a good or an
evil act?"

A: "If God denies you something that belongs to you, then God commits an evil act. But if God denies you something that belongs to God, then God simply singles out for God's mercy whomever God pleases."

The problem of evil, especially human suffering, exercised classical Muslim theologians as much it does Western philosophers, theologians and scientists today. The issue then was basically the same as it is now: If God is All-Good and All-Powerful, how do we explain the existence of evil? The theological school known as Mu'tazilism emphasized God's all-goodness and argued that since God is All-Good, God cannot be the source of evil. Rather, it is humans who inflict suffering on other humans, entirely on their own. In fact, the Mu'tazilites argued, beyond the original act of creation, humans are not at all dependent on God to do what they do but actually create their own acts! By contrast, the Ash'arite school emphasized God's All-Powerfulness and argued that if God did not control all the affairs of the universe, something other than God could bring about things that went against God's will. For them, whatever occurs had to occur because God willed it. Otherwise, God would be neither All-Powerful, in complete control, nor, ultimately, God.

Both schools sought to absolve God of responsibility for evil. The Mu'tazilites did this by placing evil human acts entirely outside God's power and wholly in the hands of humans (which left them to explain things like earthquakes, floods and cancer). The Ash'arites, meanwhile, argued that if God is truly the All-Powerful Owner of the universe, God must be able to do with creation as God pleases, and no one can sit in judgment over what God does with God's own "property." In fact, the Ash'arites accused the Mu'tazilites of fudging the issue by falsely privileging the human perspective on what actually constitutes good and evil. They denied that humans were the center of some objective moral universe and pointed out that every moral judgment that humans might make could be matched by an opposite judgment by other humans. In this context, human suffering might be evil from the perspective of humans. But this would be no more an objective basis for indicting God than would be the argument of plants and animals against humans for eating them!

Of course, such arguments did not satisfy everyone. The founder of the Traditionalist school once asked rhetorically: If God is wholly unconnected to evil, what role can God play in lifting it? The Maturidite school, meanwhile, went even further. Not only did its founder accept that God could create evil, he actually turned evil's existence into a proof of God's existence! According to him, had the universe come into being on its own, it would have produced nothing that jeopardized its integrity or well-being. Thus, the very existence of evil implies autonomous choice on the part of something that stands outside the system -- God. Yet, while God can, according to the Maturidites, create evil and human suffering, God cannot and does not create evil that does not ultimately serve a wise purpose.

In all of this, Muslim theologians never isolated a single attribute of God (All-Powerful, All-Good, All-Wise, All-Merciful) as the sole basis of God's actions. While Mu'tazilites privileged God's all-goodness, this was tempered by their recognition of God's wisdom, power, autonomy, patience and other attributes. Ash'arites appear stoic in privileging God's all-powerfulness, but only if they are seen as negating God's goodness, mercy, justice and other attributes. In fact, when Ash'arites speak of God's ability to do whatever God pleases, they are only speaking of what God can do. What God actually does will be based not solely on God's brute power but on the total composite of God's attributes. The same applies to Traditionalists and Maturidites.

This strikes me to be perhaps among the most important differences between classical Muslim and many modern, non-Muslim Western discussions on evil and suffering. While the latter seem to isolate a single attribute -- all-goodness, all-lovingness, all-powerfulness -- and decide the issue on that basis alone, the former simply emphasize a single attribute but cling to a more complex composite of divine "character." In this light, the mere existence of evil and suffering could not dispose of the God question. For even if every instance of human suffering could tell us something about the existence and nature of God, every instance of human happiness and well-being must tell us something of equal proof-value about the nature and existence of a complex, multifaceted Creator.

Muslim theologians summed up this dual reality in the notion of living life between the two poles of hope and fear -- hope that the irresistible choices of an all-powerful God would be ultimately tempered by mercy, compassion and love, and fear that they might not. Of course, the very notion of fear is a major problem for religious discourse today, as "organized religion" has so notoriously used it to exploit and subjugate believers. But just because one is paranoid does not mean that one is not being followed. In the end, we are all afraid, if not of God, death, and eternal damnation then of the earthly Hell of loveless objectification, disrespect and nobodyness, a fear that can subject us to régimes of fantasy and exploitation no less debilitating, and no less blasphemous, than religious tyranny and treachery.

But is theology in the end really a match for the brutalities and disappointments of life -- an earthquake, the death of a child, 9/11, the betrayal of a friend, spouse or sibling, the seemingly schizophrenic turning of one's entire society against one? In these moments, it seems to matter little whether one is a Mu'tazilite, Ash'arite, Maturidite or Traditionalist. For, while good theological answers may empower one to understand catastrophe, understanding alone is rarely enough to neutralize the pain of loss or regret. What I need here is solace and reconciliation with the fact of my creatureliness; the courage, honesty and dignity to acknowledge that I am not in control; yet the insight and fullness of soul to see in the enormity of what has happened that I am just as eligible for enormous good as I am for enormous tragedy. Here my reach is ultimately for something "outside the system," something capable of breaking all the rules, of defying the laws of probability and chance -- for me! This is the beginning of the theological impulse.

Yet, while, the theological impulse, however crude, may be the beginning of my relationship with God, it is only the beginning. And I must be careful not to mistake the menu for the meal. Whether I emphasize God's goodness or justice, God's power or wisdom, these mental abstractions will only take on concrete meaning for me in the context of my actual relationship with God. Ultimately, if the real goal of theology is to promote a living relationship with God and not simply to paint a pretty picture of God, perhaps the real value of what it has to say about evil and suffering resides not so much in how it mars or enhances idealized images of God but in how it enriches or impoverishes the human relationship with God.

For a more detailed look at Muslim theology, see my On the Boundaries of Theological Tolerance in Islam (Oxford, 2002) or, especially on suffering, my Islam and the Problem of Black Suffering (Oxford, 2009).

Satan and mystics

FOR centuries, the motif of Iblis (Satan) as a figure to be admired, rather than despised, has continued in Sufi lore and Islamic literature. Of course, Iblis also retained his place in religious belief as the damned one. The lay Muslim and the ulema point to the Quranic verses which describe the fall of Satan from the exalted position he once occupied as Azazil, the archangel, and Satan's confrontation with Adam and Eve leading to their expulsion from heaven. The Sufi resents any suggestion that his faith in the Quran is weaker than that of the maulvi. But he reads the text differently.

God formed Adam from clay and breathed into him His spirit. He ordered the angels to bow before this unique creation made of clay but with the divine spark within. All obeyed, except Iblis. He argued: “I would never prostrate myself before a mortal whom Thou has created out of clay and mould. I am better than he: Thou created me of fire and, him Thou created of clay.” Satan is banished from Paradise for his defiance, and a divine curse rests in him until Judgment Day. But he is given a respite until then so that he can tempt and test man.

The fall of the angel preceded the fall of man. Adam and Eve were asked to live in the garden where God provided for them in abundance. He denied them the produce of only one tree. Iblis tempted them to eat just that. They lost their innocence and were driven to an earthly existence carrying with them the seeds of human aggression and fratricide.

Iblis was sworn to serve as the enemy of man. The Quranic account bears a close resemblance to that in the Bible.

Dr Peter J. Awn of the Department of Religion in Columbia University was the first to explore the theme with a wealth of learning in his work Satan's Tragedy and Redemption: Iblis in Sufi Psychology (E.J. Brill, Leiden, 1983). Whitney S. Bodman, Associate Professor of Comparative Religion, Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary, discusses his work and proceeds to make his own fascinating exploration of the Quranic verses, the classic Commentaries, the writings of old mystics and modern writings including those of the poet-philosopher Iqbal. The diversity of interpretations of Iblis in modern works, he holds, “is foreshadowed in the diversity of the Quranic story itself. The Quran does not tell a simple story of Iblis but weaves a complex and suggestive narrative that allows for a range of diverse and divergent interpretations. Muslims through the ages have found within that range the opportunity to explore various nuances of the age-old issue of theodicy. The Quran indeed not only allows this exploration but also invites and encourages it.”

The mathnawis of Fariduddin Attar and Jalaluddin Rumi, one of the greatest mystic poets of all time, are rich in allusions to Iblis. In his devotion, Iblis can still hope for God's mercy. Attar wrote: “My heart was filled with His glory;/ I was a confessor of His unity./ Nevertheless, without cause, in spite of all this devotion,/ He drove me from His threshold without warning/… Since without cause I was driven away by Him,/ I can also, without cause, be called back by Him./ Since in God's actions there is no how and why, it is not right to abandon hope in God./ … Since, without cause, You bestowed the gift of existence,/ In the same way, without cause, drown me in Your generosity.”

In the Quran, God assures man that He is “closer to you than your jugular vein.” But He warns also that “truly Satan flows in man's very bloodstream”. He thrives on man's nafs, the lower soul, which leads him astray.

Satan's fate illustrates the results of pride and intellectual conceit. He revelled in logic, little realising its limitations. “He did not realise that one who bowed to Adam in accordance with God's command was truly bowing to God himself.” Rumi's lines on this failing reflect the Sufi disdain for the intellect as the sole guide in the spiritual progress of man: “He possessed intellect, but since he possessed not the passionate yearning of faith, He saw in Adam only a clay form. Even if you possess the fine points of knowledge, O worthy fellow, that will not open your two eyes to pierce the unseen.”

But, it is to Mansur Al-Hallaj, who went to the gallows declaiming that he was the Truth (God), that one must turn to discover the first elaborations of the complex tragedy surrounding the personality of lblis. For Mansur, lblis is a tragic victim. Condemned he was, but perfect in his devotion to God and preferred self-destruction to a compromise with his faith. To man, lblis is teacher no less than tempter.

Mansur devotes a whole chapter in his Tawasin to lblis. “There was no monotheist like lblis among the inhabitants of the heavens. When the essence revealed itself to him in stunning glory, he renounced even a glance at it and worshipped God in ascetic isolation…. God said to him, ‘Bow.' He replied, ‘To no other.' He said to him, ‘Even if my curse be upon you?' He cried out, ‘To no other.'”

A few centuries later, Sarmad spoke in the same vein. He was a Jewish convert to Sufism who met the same fate as Mansur. Aurangzeb ordered him to be beheaded on the steps of Jama Masjid, Delhi, where his tomb is. Sarmad wrote in one of his quatrains: “Go, learn the method of servantship from Satan: Choose one qibla and do not prostrate yourself before anything.” Satan emerges as a strikingly colourful, almost attractive, figure in Iqbal's Javid-Namah. In another poem, Iqbal has Gabriel and Iblis exchanging taunts and reproaches. Gabriel tells Iblis: “You lost the loftiest position by your denial. What prestige can angels now enjoy in the eyes of the Almighty?” Iblis retorts what a daring and stormy life he leads on earth in contrast to Gabriel's uneventful existence in heaven. The concluding lines read: “If ever you find yourself alone with God, ask Him: Who has coloured the story of Adam with his own blood? I prick the conscience of the Almighty like a thorn. You can only declaim, Oh God! Oh God!”

It is an erudite and fascinating book. Its author's summing up is perfect. “The burdens of discernment and the power of desire, even desire for God, lead mortals into a wilderness of God's own design. Although will and righteousness direct us towards the final destination, that same will and righteousness also lead us astray. Like al-Hallaj's Iblis, we cannot assume that God's command, often interpreted through human medium and contextualised in time and space, with God's will, which is eternal, are the same. The very recognition that there is a difference is the fertile soil of tragedy. We choose, discern, reason, decide, and suffer the consequences, trusting in God's mercy. While it is tempting, in the human search for the straight path, to dismiss tragedy as a failure of faith in God's good mercy, in fact, it is in the tragic that we recognise that the straight path is not well lit. We choose, and suffer the consequences. That is the path.”