Evoking Lament: A Theological Discussion 9781472549723, 9780567033895, 9780567033901

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Introduction Eva Harasta and Brian Brock

‘The resurrection of the church begins with lament.’1 What is striking about this claim by a Ugandan priest is not that he speaks it to a church made up of parishioners who had murdered fellow congregants, but that he also believes it is a message the Western church must hear in its situation at the start of the twenty-first century. We are beset by practical and theoretical difficulties that make it hard for us to picture Christian lament. In practice we wonder if lament is self-indulgent, that perhaps we ought to praise God even in hard times as we so easily do in good times. Is our faith marked by moments like those portrayed in the dark book of Lamentations or those psalms, like Psalm 88, that seem devoid of hope? We are not alone in this worry. Early on the church fathers emphasized God’s foreknowledge and providential care in a manner that later made lament appear as sin of presumption. The effect of the Reformation was to solidify this emphasis on God’s transcendent justice and foresight over historical affairs. The additional downplaying of ritual in religion at the Enlightenment has yielded a modern suspicion that lament is a primitive form of religious practice akin to animal sacrifice, no longer part of a modern, purified Christianity.2 The recovery of lament for a contemporary church will demand facing difficult historical and theoretical problems. Though there is a resurgence of interest in practical theologies of lament, this volume suggests that these theologies ignore crucial theoretical problems. In effect, they commend lament to the church without saying what it is. It is our contention that the practice of lament draws practical and pastoral theologians into dialogue with systematic theologians and biblical exegetes. This volume is offered by practitioners in the latter disciplines who are appreciative of the practical nature of lament. What seems clear is that lament stems from an acute experience of pain, be it physical, emotional or spiritual. Should theologians really presume to judge the pain of believers? Dietrich Bonhoeffer, for one, thought not, warning against such meddling in the private lives of believers by describing it as a last-ditch attempt 1 Emmanuel Katongole, with Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, Mirror to the Church: Resurrecting Faith after Genocide in Rwanda (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2009), 163. 2 For a history of the decline of lament in Christendom, see Richard A. Hughes, Lament, Death and Destiny (New York: Peter Lang, 2004). For a parallel account in Western Judaism, see Tod Linafelt, Surviving Lamentations: Catastrophe, Lament, and Protest in the Afterlife of a Biblical Book (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000).

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to secure theology’s (or religion’s) relevance: ‘The secrets known to a man’s valet – that is, to put it crudely, the range of his intimate life, from prayer to his sexual life – have become the hunting-ground of modern pastoral workers. In that way they resemble (though with quite different intentions) the dirtiest gutter journalists... In the one case it’s social, financial, or political blackmail and in the other, religious blackmail.’3 And yet, there are good reasons to suggest that lament remains a crucial component of the relation between God and believers. Lament prayers are a central part of the biblical prayer tradition, most prominently in the book of Psalms. Psalm 22.1 is even immortalized in the gospels of Mark and Matthew as the lament of the crucified Christ, a citation that may force us to reconsider more abstract notions of God’s supreme majesty and glory and the stoic self-control they demand of believers. Christ’s lament hints that in a trusting relationship with God, the believer ought to be able to express sorrow and pain. Not every lament is mere maudlin sentimentality or an expression of self-pity. What exactly does it mean to suggest that lament is a central part of Christian prayer? This very basic question leads, on closer inspection, into the theological complexities that are the focus of this volume. While lament has never been absent from Old Testament scholarship4 (which includes some remarkable crossdisciplinary studies5), and has enjoyed some attention from practical6 and pastoral theologians,7 discussions about lament in systematic theology have been less fertile,8

3 Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison: New Greatly Enlarged Edition, trans. Reginald Fuller, Frank Clark, John Bowden (New York: Touchstone, 1997), quoted at 344 (Letter to Eberhard Bethge, 8 July 1944). DBW 8, 509–510. 4 For a fairly recent assessment of the German situation, see Kathrin Ehlers, ‘Wege aus der Vergessenheit: Zu einem neuen Sammelband zum Thema “Klage”’, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (JBTh 16; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2001), 383–396, here: 383. 5 For instance, Nancy C. Lee’s The Singers of Lamentations: Cities Under Siege from Ur to Jerusalem to Sarajevo (Leiden: Brill, 2002) utilizes a socio-rhetorical method derived from biblical studies to understand the performance of lament in ancient and contemporary contexts. 6 From the perspectives of Catholic practical theology and psychiatry: Hartmann Hinterhuber, Manfred Scheuer and Paul van Heyster, eds, Der Mensch in seiner Klage: Anmerkungen aus Theologie und Psychiatrie (Innsbruck: Tyrolia, 2006). 7 See the special issue on lament of Living Pulpit 11.4, Oct.–Dec. 2002; Michael Jinkins In the House of the Lord: Inhabiting the Psalms of Lament (Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 1998). 8 In its issue devoted to lament, the Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie combines the interests of biblical theology and systematic theology (JBTh 16, 2001). The most recent German monograph on lament from an Old Testament perspective is Christiane de Vos, Klage als Gotteslob aus der Tiefe: Der Mensch vor Gott in den individuellen Klagepsalmen (Forschungen zum Alten Testament 2. Reihe Band 11, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005). A more practically oriented short volume of articles offers meditations on biblical texts and systematic theological essays: Jörg Barthel, Holger Eschmann and Christof Voigt, eds, Das Leiden und die Gottesliebe: Beiträge zur Frage der Theodizee (Göttingen: Edition Ruprecht, 2006).



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despite the rediscovery of lament in Anglophone scholarship that has been under way for some time in both secular9 and theological10 contexts. In this volume we aim to suggest why lament is an essential theme in theological ethics and dogmatics. Theological reflection on prayer functions like a lens for all other claims about the human–divine relationship. Because the establishment of sound criteria for Christian lament has consequences for theology as a whole, lament must be properly accounted for within a systematic account of prayer. More precisely, the criteria a theologian proposes for lament reveal the foundations of his or her theology and test their contextual suppleness. Lament, then, leads the theologian into that most difficult of intellectual tasks, the thinking of the point of contact between our theories about faith and its practice. In so doing it presents a challenge to the tendency of systematic theology to avoid reflection on its cultural embeddedness. How we pray, that most proximate of faith’s practices, is intimately intertwined with our traditioning and personal experience, and is a response to the challenges presented in one’s cultural, social and political situation. Given these many conceptual and cultural cross-currents, modern theologians find themselves in a zone of inspiring confusion about the ‘commonsense’ meaning of lament – especially in cross-cultural dialogue! In this respect, we believe this volume is especially important in being derived from personal and written exchanges between German and Anglophone authors. In examining the different presuppositions each bring to the table we hope to help readers to rethink their own contexts and beliefs, while allowing differences between contexts to complement each other fruitfully. It is worth briefly noting some of the main differences of the presuppositions framing the discussion of lament in the present volume. In the development of English-speaking cultures, lament has a long association with the passionate expression of intimate and personal pain, is not primarily oriented to rectifying the outer situation, and is most strongly associated with grieving a death. The prominence of laments, or elegies, in the surviving corpus of Old English poetry speaks of the cultural importance of expressing a common sorrow, such as the losses occasioned a community by invasions of foreigners. Though the precise meaning of the term lament has become increasingly obscure 9 James M. Wilce, Crying Shame: Metaculture, Modernity, and the Exaggerated Death of Lament (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009). 10 For an example of this discussion within English-speaking practical theology, before its intensification by the attack on the World Trade Center, see Kathleen D. Billmann and Daniel L. Migliore, Rachel’s Cry: Prayer of Lament and Rebirth of Hope (Cleveland: United Church Press, 1999). To see how this discourse was reshaped by 9/11, and in dialogue with biblical scholars, see Sally A. Brown, Patrick Miller, ‘Introduction’, in Brown/Miller (eds), Lament: Reclaiming Practices in Pulpit, Pew, and Public Square (Louisville: Westminster Press, 2007), xiii–xix, reference to the attack: xiii–xiv); and Brian Webster and David Beach, ‘The Place of Lament in the Christian Life’, Bibliotheca Sacra 164 (2007), 387–402.

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in contemporary secular usage, the construction of lament as passionate expression of pain that does not seek a change of affairs seems to have passed relatively unaltered into more recent cultural forms. Margaret G. McGeachy draws an instructive parallel between Old English elegies and modern African-American blues music in their emotional tonality and political comportment. The Old English elegies speak out of the pain of poor people beset by war and counting their losses. ‘The laments do not seek to interpret or understand the invasion of heathen armies; rather, they offer a way of coping with the everyday immediacy of hardship of such an event. They speak in emotional and psychological terms in an effort to overcome despair.’11 The same, she suggests, is true of American blues music. To contemporary English speakers, the sound of blues is immediately recognizable as an expression of hardship, and is just as instinctively perceived as simultaneously psychologically uplifting and politically quiescent. This secular trajectory is mirrored by Protestant liturgical trends. The loss of biblical or even contemporary lament texts from Protestant liturgies, combined with a widespread emphasis on worship styles in which the uplifting qualities of music and worship are central, has often yielded among Christians in these traditions a debilitating inability to express suffering at all.12 It will be obvious at a glance that most of the German authors in this volume draw on a much more active account of lament, placing it in close proximity to the problem of evil. This active accent has semantic, but also cultural roots. The German term for lamenting (‘klagen’) has strong juridical and especially accusatory resonances. It can denote moaning, crying and despairing, but is also a formal complaint before a court. This secular legal usage has become the commonsense resonance of the term.13 The primary association of ‘Klage’ is therefore with accusation, whether against other humans or God. It is this adversarial relationship toward God that is presupposed in discussions of theodicy, and fits well with the juridical, or forensic, terminology that has been so prominent in German protestant theology (as opposed to the language of priestly sanctification, as in Heb. 1.9–18, or the language of economy visible in Mk 10.45). This predominance of juridical language and the conceptually central place of the problem of theodicy combine to yield a strong emphasis on the sacrosanct status 11 Margaret G. McGeachy, Lonesome Words: The Vocal Poetics of the Old English Lament and the African-American Blues Song (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2006), 5. 12 John Swinton, Raging with Compassion: Pastoral Responses to the Problem of Evil (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), ch. 5. 13 Consider the high frequency of the term ‘Klage’ in the secular semantic field of law: ‘Klage erheben’, to file suit/to sue; ‘Klageabweisung’, dismissal of charges/of legal action; ‘Klagefrist’, statute of limitations; ‘klageführend’, adjectival form for the plaintiff, the ‘Kläger’; ‘Klagegrund’, a legal cause for action; ‘Klagepunkt’, a point of legal dispute/legal charges; ‘Klageschrift’, statement of legal claim; ‘auf dem Klageweg’, an informal phrase meaning, ‘we’re going to do this through litigation’.



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of the victim’s perspective. This emphasis is grounded in German history, the Third Reich crimes and the subsequent process of coming to terms with them, which is at times also underpinned by liberation theology’s preferential option for the weak. The result of these forces is that in German-speaking theology the lamenter is primarily regarded as a victim. His or her suffering must be respected, not judged or questioned. Victims of injustice have an unassailable right to lament. But do they also have a right to accuse God for their suffering? The most acute biblical witness to this dilemma is found in Job, who suffered without giving offence. From this perspective, Job represents the most prominent biblical exemplar of the connection between lament and theodicy.14 Clearly there are different cultural sensibilities and conceptual accounts shaping how we understand what it means to face God and others in the context of suffering. These presuppositions deeply form how we pray and worship, including our views of God. Such questions can even problematize appeals to the biblical canon as arbiter. When asked to define lament, English-speaking Christians are instinctively guided by the book that bears that name, the book of Lamentations. From the book of Lamentations associations will then run to the psalms of lament, but read in the politically quiescent manner discussed above. Our German contributors, for the reasons suggested, equally instinctively turned to the book of Job as a model of the appropriate stance of accusation in faith before God. Neither a simple appeal to the canon of scripture, nor a championing of our cultural experience can resolve the question of what Christians ought to mean when they say ‘lament’. We stand before an ineradicably theological question, one of fundamental importance for the contemporary church. A systematic account of lament must, it is now clear, deal with several important conceptual questions. Is there such a thing as Christian lament? What role do accusation and psychological release play in such lament? From which biblical books ought such an account draw and why? What does such lament do to or for the lamenter? What philosophical and doctrinal conceptions might shed light on these questions? And what is the meaning and normative force of Christ’s lament? We contend that the time is ripe to address these questions. The first part of the book draws out the wide range of ways that lament can be interpreted. Rebekka A. Klein opens the discussion with a phenomenological examination of lament. She emphasizes that lament is not to be confused with suffering itself: the act of ‘responding’ is already a decisive step away from the acute experience of suffering. One may take offence at God’s toleration of suffering – the cornerstone of theodicy, or as Georg Büchner put it in his drama

14 This configuration of concerns is most apparent in the chapters by Jonas Bauer, Christian Polke, Claudia Welz, and Marius Timmann Mjaaland. Approaches to this dilemma based on theological interpretations of philosophical theodicies are proposed by Matthias Wüthrich and Martin Wendte.

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Danton’s Death: ‘the rock of atheism’ – but this does not imply taking offence at lament. Suffering confronts the sufferer with a ‘breakdown of agency’. Unable to change the adverse experience, the believer searches for a reorientation of their experience of time. This is achieved by lament – the relinquishment of agency coram Deo. Klein argues that while lament may appear to be bound to immediate circumstances, it actually reaches out towards a promised present. As an attempt to reorient oneself to the work of God, lament opens a space in experience for ‘expectation’ – indeed an expectation of the unexpected. As such, it does not grasp after something clear and definite but rather places its trust in the promise of God’s eschatological presence. Not every adverse situation may be regarded as a legitimate reason for lament, and Jonas Bauer seeks the spaces of appropriate lament. Not having designated such spaces, Bauer suggests, may even explain its lack in the German systematic theological context. This legitimacy question leads Bauer to investigate the relation between guilt and innocence in suffering. Those who are guilty ought rather repent than lament. Bauer then queries the semantic connotations of the German term for lamenting (‘klagen’) to suggest how the semantics of this term may have contributed to the tendency to link lament with the problem of evil in German theological thought. If the term for mourning is identical with the term for accusation, linking guilt and suffering seems a natural connection. To raise the spectre of our own guilt before God tends to leave lament appearing meaningless and presumptuous. And yet, lament may also be understood as the articulation of one’s helplessness in the face of one’s own guilt. This too can also evolve into an accusation of God in the face of the innocent suffering we perceive. The scandal of lament is the intertwining of guilt and suffering, an intrinsic problematic dramatically displayed in the book of Job. For Christian Polke, the randomness and frailty of the world, its contingent nature, is the origin of lament. Lament intensifies the experience of contingency by bringing it before God – putting into words the conviction that the reality of God’s justice, which is both hoped for and promised, is finally not an object at our disposal. This insight allows Polke to focus on the anthropological quality and consequences of the lamenter’s response to suffering. Lament radicalizes the question of theodicy by bringing it directly before God, so fulfilling a key human role within the divine–human relationship. In the passionate articulation of the believer’s suffering, lament points to a ‘messianic moment’ in the religious struggle with contingency. It walks unprotected into that existential storm which arises from the world’s (but especially one’s own) contingency. Lament does not seek to overcome this contingency but rather brings it before God in the hope that God might ‘deal with it’. God makes himself present through his promise, that is, by the graceful opening of the believer’s future. Lament stresses the delay element in the expectation of Christ’s parousia; it is a form of longing for God’s presence.



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The volume’s second part moves from discussion of the phenomena that trigger lament to inquire into the theological tendencies that systematically suppress lament. Lament refuses to be domesticated theoretically: it loses its sting if it is reduced to a functional role in a theological system. Viewing the theodicy question as a sophisticated means of this domestication, Matthias D. Wüthrich further investigates lament’s connection with theodicy from the perspective of dogma, distinguishing existential and theoretical levels of theodicy. On the existential level, the line between lament and the theodicy question can blur, especially in accusatory laments. But this blurring does not render theodicy the only interpretive concept available for theological reflection on lament. Indeed, lament and theodicy can and must be distinguished in our theological reflections so that the concepts of guilt, evil, sin and suffering do not disappear into a theological haze. Lament presses theological reflection towards the realization that it is impossible to take theodicy seriously if we regard it as something already ‘solved’ (or indeed, as something to be solved on the theoretical level). Karl Barth seems to offer us one way of taking theodicy with appropriate seriousness, charging God with full ontological responsibility for evil, in that only by God’s negation of evil does it obtain its specific kind of being. But God himself, suggests Barth, removes the burden of evil through Christ’s Easter victory. Christ’s resurrection is also God’s self-justification, the ultimate solution of the theodicy question: where evil is overcome, lament is defeated. Perhaps Christ himself disables lament? Martin Wendte continues this interrogation of Barth by comparing his work with that of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. He displays the diametrically opposed ways in which both undermine lament by giving it merely a functional role within their respective systems. Wendte suggests that both thinkers thereby relativize evil. One could even say they purge evil of its evilness. While Hegel sees the victory over evil located in the future, for Barth Christ has already achieved this in eternity. Wendte suggests that Hegel relativizes the sovereignty of God in a manner that strengthens the position of the lamenter by offering, protest as the leading criterion for interpreting the relationship between the world and God, and between God and God. In contrast, while Barth stresses the sovereignty of God, he ignores the lamenting individual’s own experiences. For Barth, it is obedience which forms the leading criterion for our interpretation of the relationship between the world and God, and between God and God. For Wendte, lament emerges as an irritant in systematic thought, a reminder of the world’s ‘defiance’ of this thought and God’s unassailability. Marius Timmann Mjaaland next examines the implications of radical lament for our understanding of God. In his inquiry into an account of lament that does not fall prey to these theoretical suppressions, he begins with an examination of Job, the just sufferer who laments to God until he finally receives an answer from the whirlwind. But does Job receive justice? Or is he simply reminded of his own limitations? According to Mjaaland, it is this latter perspective that Peter

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W. Zapffe picks up in his interpretation of the story of Job as an ironic take on the Old Testament’s understanding of God. Mjaaland contrasts this with Søren Kierkegaard’s concept of ‘repetition’ which pictures Job and his restoration in a totally different way: it is only by completely (and painfully) breaking through his experience of reality that Job can finally open himself up to the experience of that which is so utterly different. With this move Kierkegaard prepares the way for a radically free lament. Mjaaland finds in the work of Martin Luther an understanding of God that continues this line to take seriously lament’s deep questioning of God’s existence, while also holding fast to divine goodness, justice and love. In effect, Luther draws lament into the very being of God. With his distinction between the Deus revelatus and the Deus absconditus, Luther does not shy away from calling the unity of God into question. For Luther, in the end, it always is (and always will be) God himself who is challenged and impugned. In so doing Luther returns lament to humanity with his distinction between hiddenness and revelation in God. This ‘returned’ lament is radically open in allowing faith to call God himself into question. The third part of our volume is entitled ‘Lament for God’s sake?’ and investigates the ways in which lament may be understood as an expression of trust in God, with implications for how we understand the divine–human relationship. Claudia Welz seeks a model of lament that does not relativize it as a simple ‘transitional phenomenon’, as in Paul Ricœur’s work. Ricœur examined the completed event of lament, and so set it within an emotional cycle already on its way back towards trust, as exemplified in the figure of Job. According to Ricœur, Job finally regrets his lament against God, surrendering himself back to the trust that contradicts lament. Yet Welz notes (with Kierkegaard), that it is only ever in hindsight that lament becomes recognizable as an interim state – when caught up in the moment of suffering, we cannot judge whether lament is justifiable or not. According to Welz, in that moment of suffering each lament is immediately justified. Furthermore, if we follow Kierkegaard, we can also understand lament as grounded in trust: Job refuses to stop assailing God with his suffering; he trusts in God’s sovereignty and justice and it is this that transforms his suffering. This observation highlights the cathartic and critical potential of lament for the lamenters themselves. In her exegetical paper, Henrike Frey-Anthes also asks how lament relates to God’s justice as the founding pillar of trust in God’s reliability and goodness. In her search for an answer, she turns to the Book of Tobit. The old and righteous Tobit and his young, future daughter-in-law Sarah provide examples of how diaspora Jews ought to live in accordance with the Torah. Yet because he observes the purity laws, Tobit is blinded by sparrow droppings. For her part, Sarah suffers at the hands of the demon Ashmodai who kills each of her seven husbands on their wedding nights. Both turn in prayer to YHWH – their prayers serving a key function in the book of Tobit – and while in their laments they both wish for



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death, they still hold fast in praise to the compassion and goodness of God. In their prayerful movement from praise to lament to petition and then back again to praise, the prayers of Tobit and Sarah display the context in which lament stands with other dimensions of prayer. In so doing, the Book of Tobit refuses to resolve the question of responsibility for suffering: neither human nor God trouble with a theodicy. Rather the intention of the book lies in its stress on the occurrence of divine compassion, independent of guilt or innocence, including the guilt or innocence of God. Thus the laments of Tobit and Sarah point to the deep connection between praise and lament as an element of trust in YHWH’s compassion. Markus Öhler positions lament within the horizon of New Testament eschatological expectation. At first glance, the atmosphere of eschatological hope and trust that is typical for New Testament texts seems to exclude lament. But in his exegetical overview of New Testament Öhler finds a range of references covering the semantic field of ‘lament’. He first notes their heterogeneity before undertaking a more detailed examination of Paul’s allusions to lament, sighing and groaning (2 Cor. 4.16–5.10 and Rom. 8.18–27). In Paul’s own apostolic existence, we see a life following in the suffering of Jesus. In trusting for salvation through Christ and his hope in a good end for all creation, Paul seems particularly sensitized to the finitude, transience and need of creation. While his laments flow from his longing for the reality of Christ, this does not mean he disregards worldly reality. We see this particularly clearly in Rom. 8, where all of creation joins in the laments of all God’s children: lament here testifies to the fact that creation also shares in the hope of the faithful. Furthermore, Rom. 8 suggests that lament is absorbed into God’s own reality: it is the Spirit which represents the inexpressible sighs and groans of the faithful before God. In lament we hear the sound of believers’ hope in Christ’s future. The final part of the book follows this trace to investigate how Jesus Christ shapes and guides lament prayer. What does Christ’s saving work imply for the theology and practice of Christian lament? Stephen Lakkis begins by drawing attention to the contextuality of Christian lament. Our understandings of trust, justice and guilt are always shaped by social, economic and political conditions, and, in an important sense, we can therefore say that lament functions as a measure of the socio-economic status of believers. Since lament arises from moments of felt need, the expression of trust in God as saviour by the poor raises a question. In what sense do the wealthy, western churches have any right to lament? Lakkis moves from this provocative thesis to nuance and sharpen the question, drawing on the example of Jonah as a representative of a faith which sees itself sheltered and protected under God’s blessing. Such faith has come to assume God’s blessing applies exclusively to Israel, and so has fallen into complacency and self-satisfaction. When YHWH in his grace spares Assyria, Israel’s great enemy, what is really destroyed is Israel’s own horizon of expectation. Lakkis

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then suggests that the New Testament church found itself in a similar situation to Jonah: it interpreted its suffering as the cost of discipleship, and therefore found blessing underneath the pain. But if those who follow Christ are to be prepared for suffering even though they do not ‘deserve’ it, does this render lament impossible? It does not, but calls for a clarification of Christian lament through penitence. Brian Brock picks up this question regarding the testing of lament, using Augustine’s commentaries on the Psalms to develop a Christological hermeneutic of Christian lament. According to Augustine, each and every negative experience cannot be assumed to be a legitimate cause for Christian lament – some experiences of suffering arise from our captivity in transient nature, and thus do not correspond to faith in the Resurrected One. Yet neither is it Augustine’s (or Brock’s) intention to view the sufferings of the world with cold-hearted indifference. The alignment of our affects with Christ (itself achieved by Christ) results in an awareness of the true suffering of creation. To say that we must discern the ‘true suffering’ of creation, suggests Augustine, implies that Christian lament must be learnt. The necessary reordering of the emotions cannot, however, be a product of human effort, but stems rather from the grace of God alone. The eschatological reorientation of the faithful leads them into the passion of Christ, cutting them free from their bondage to the world. In this way the laments of the faithful are joined together with the laments of Christ’s own passion. Augustine’s usage here is eschatological, and thus he understands heresy not just as a conflict over doctrine but rather as a deficiency of Christian love: it is not for the faithful to decide who belongs to the body of Christ; instead, to properly lament they must learn of the intertwining of prayer for the sake of others and lament for one’s self. In conclusion, Brock notes the way this approach enables us critically to test modern, anthropocentric understandings of lament as it is deployed in the literature on medical ethics. Eva Harasta seeks an understanding of lament grounded in the revelation of the crucified and resurrected Christ. In order that Christ’s lament may shape that of the faithful it must be distinguished from, but also tightly connected with, theirs. Here as in all other aspects of life, to be faithful is to follow after Christ, laying claim to a relationship with God made possible only through Christ. Following Moltmann, Harasta understands the cross as a trinitarian event, but extends this insight by asking what it means for the faith of the justified sinner. She suggests that the Holy Spirit draws believers into the suffering and death of Christ, leading them into and uniting them in Christ’s own lament. This is not to forget that resurrection lies beyond the cross and reveals its salvific meaning. Thus Christ’s laments form the origin of Christian lament only together with his resurrection praises. This leads Harasta to propose two forms of Christian lament: laments of justice and laments of love. Is there a place for lament in the eschaton? To reject this possibility is to call ‘pre-eschatological’ lament into question. Harasta



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concludes her chapter by suggesting that Lament is the more sombre sister of Praise, who reminds Praise of its basis in justice and grace. At the same time, Praise is the gentler and brighter sister of Lament, which reminds her sibling of that hope out of which pain first dares to speak to the trinitarian God. We hope that this volume will provoke more multi-perspectival discussions of lament and foster a more articulate and well-balanced practice of Christian lament. That this latter point is our ultimate goal is emphasized by our title, Evoking Lament. We hope to make clear why lament can be both a spontaneous outcry and a complex, unsettling deepening of one’s whole outlook. This form of prayer both articulates the believer’s relationship to God, and is made possible and shaped by this relationship. Lament is prayer that does not resign itself to the inevitable, but expresses one’s vulnerability to the suffering in the world. Those who trust, those who believe, can bear opening up and allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Evoking Lament is not a call for pessimism, but an invitation to fully embrace being alive, and bringing all of our experiences before God. A version of this volume appeared in German as Mit Gott klagen (Neukirchener Verlag, 2008). Special thanks are due to Martina Sitling and Stephen Lakkis for their translations of several chapters, and to Daniel Shultz and Anna Schneider, who each translated a chapter. We are also grateful to Tom Kraft of T&T Clark for his enthusiastic support of this project.



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Chapter 1

The Phenomenology of Lament and the Presence of God in Time Rebekka A. Klein

Introduction This chapter investigates the theological excess of a phenomenological understanding of lament. First, it gives a description of lament emphasizing its character as a responsive and expressive phenomenon. It understands lament as a response to human suffering from evil, death or harm. It is pointed out that lament is not the same as suffering, but is responsive to the demands of suffering. Second, the chapter aims to show that suffering and lament are caused by an evil or harmful incident which is linked to a violation of temporal order in human life. Within the structure of time (past – present – future), humans orient themselves towards the future as something that can be influenced and determined by their own initiatives and actions in the past and present. Prospective attitudes, therefore, play a key role in human willingness to act. To suffer from a harmful incident, by contrast, means to be confronted with an impossibility of acting and shaping the future on one’s own. In suffering, the one who laments experiences the quandary that a positive attitude towards the future might be a mistake. Suffering is thus connected with an irreversible loss of future perspective. In a final step, the chapter brings forward the idea that a theological understanding of lament can introduce a different account of time into the horizon of human suffering and lament. Christian life differs from other ways of life in many aspects. For instance, the future is not experienced as determined by human initiative and anticipation alone. To wait for a future to come goes beyond expecting something in particular. The Christian lamenter can express this by understanding future as being open for God’s futurity. God’s futurity represents a coming event which does not follow from past or present actualities, but rather precedes them and undermines their impossibilities. This chapter suggests that humans can wait for God’s futurity, but cannot expect it. Following this line of argument, the precedence of God’s futurity over human expectation shows an excess of Christian lament. Christian lament and life orientation are not a



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necessary consequence following from the general phenomenological structure of suffering and lament, but refer to an excess in human life orientation which is symbolized in the name of God.

Lament as Expression of Suffering Lament is not an action, but a response to and an expression of human suffering. Lament is an expression of ‘something’ which has affected the human being and precedes the actualization of their own initiatives and expectations for a good life.1 The verb ‘to lament’ can be used in English as equivalent to the verbs ‘to wail’, ‘to mourn’, ‘to cry’, ‘to groan’, ‘to yell’, ‘to whine’, ‘to scream’, ‘to howl’ and ‘to weep’. The character of lament, therefore, is mainly present in negative expressive behaviours.2 Lament implies the experience of strong emotions and feelings. These emotions and feelings exceed the limits of human behaviour. The behaviour of lament transgresses the limits of intersubjective acceptance. It is marked by an excess of expressivity. This excess frees the lamenter to react in a way that is responsive to what has happened to him or her. Human beings who lament cannot express in secret what affects them because they are struck by an absence which cannot be controlled or regulated by human agency. This absence refers back to affection (Widerfahrnis) which befalls the lamenter from outside their own initiatives and actions and is a violation of their agency. The consequence of this violation of agency is that the lamenter suffers a loss of behavioural self-control. For instance, lamenting humans sometimes seem to have lost their faces.3 The effects of the incident that violates the coherence of the

1 In his study ‘Signification and Sense’ Emmanuel Levinas uses the term ‘expression’ to describe a cultural initiative which reveals the concreteness of an Other. ‘Expression’, therefore, is not expression of interiority but is beyond the subject/object distinction. It cannot be assigned to a subject. It is rather an aspect of non-intentional experience and perception. Levinas writes: ‘We are not subjects of the world and part of the world from two different points of view; in expression we are at the same time subject and part. To perceive is, by a sort of prolepsis, to receive and express at the same time. By gesture we are able to imitate the visible and kinesthetically coincide with the gesture seen; in perception our body is also the “delegate” of Being’ (emphasis in original), Emmanuel Levinas, ‘Signification and Sense’, in Emmanuel Levinas, Humanism of the Other (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 2006), 9–59, here: 16. 2 The breadth of expressive behaviour includes that the expression of lament does not always appear in concrete, visible behaviours. The visible expression of lament can be consciously interrupted (dumb lament or silent accusation) or it can be sublimated in metaphorical speech or it can be symbolized in lamentations and prayers. These are ways of dealing with suffering in a distanced manner. 3 The phenomenon of losing one’s face is, for example, pictured in Edward Munch’s painting The Scream (1893), which depicts the face of a human being distorted by the gesture of horror or terror, empty eyes and a wide open mouth. The face exhibited in the painting visualizes an experience of emotion that supersedes the limits of expression.

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sufferer’s life orientation cannot be erased, but some distance from the incident’s immediate threat may be gained. In a behaviouralist framework lament can be understood as a phenomenon integral to human life and is performed in the face of evil, death or harm. It is crucial for a phenomenological account of lament to understand it as a response to an incident that has affected the human being and threatens the realization of his or her own initiatives and expectations of a good life. It can be described as an expressive response to the suffering of oneself or others. The understanding of lament proposed in this chapter stresses that the mere emphasis on suffering would not yet give an adequate picture of what evoking lament is about. Crucial for lament and its response to suffering is that it acts on the assumption that it is impossible to find an inherent meaning or purpose in suffering. Suffering from evil, death or harm is an experience that is separated from the meaningful orders of life. Therefore, it is not suffering, but the abyss of a meaningless life that provokes and warrants lament instead of action. And this insight does actually turn the understanding of lament into a case of studying the human condition: only humans are capable of living a meaningful life and only humans can suffer so deeply when they are prevented from giving meaning to their life.4 Their suffering does not merely refer to negative meaning; it is rather to be qualified as a failure to actualize the human condition of living a meaningful life. Humans begin to lament when they have lost the capacity to give meaning to life through agency. Lament is, therefore, expressed in situations where agency is absent and life is experienced as radically passive. The phenomenological study of lament underlines that suffering has the impact of impairing and destroying the human condition. Nonetheless, lament performed in the face of a breakdown of meaningful life is not an expression of pure desperation. Rather, it is a first step to entering a new mode of successful life orientation. This new mode of life orientation involves the capacity of facing possible violations of agency while not being broken down by them. From this perspective, further analysis reveals that a proper understanding of the phenomenon of lament demands treating lament as a mode of expression. This contrasts with analyses that understand lament as a propositional attitude. The meaning of lament is not grasped by describing its expressivity as based in regularities of grammar and conventions of communication. Rather, a great deal is revealed by viewing lament as a response to the excessive experiences of suffering. It should not be reduced to a mere propositional attitude, as is done in understanding lament as 4 The mythical hero Sisyphus has to roll a heavy boulder up a hill under enormous pain. Each time he has nearly arrived at the top of the hill he loses the heavy boulder and has to start anew. He suffers from never-ending pain but does not lament as a human being would in his place. Because of this, Albert Camus offered the idea that Sisyphus should have been described as the happy man (Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus [New York: Knopf, 1955]). (I am thankful to Christian Walti for this remark on Sisyphus’s suffering without complaint.)



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speech act.5 The character of lament is not fully grasped by describing it as a communicative pattern (‘someone tells about something to someone else’). Analysis of communicative patterns provides us solely with the propositional content of a certain phenomenon and does not convey anything about its phenomenal appearance and dynamics. This will be elaborated in what follows: Lament shall be understood as the response to an event which affects human beings, violates their agency, thrusting them into suffering.

Lament as Response to Evil, Death or Harm It was suggested above that lament does not merge into immediate suffering. Rather it is a delayed and deferred reaction to what has happened to a human being. To mark the indirectness in the relatedness of lament and suffering I have proposed that lament has the phenomenological structure of ‘responsiveness’ and is signified by a responsive difference.6 By using the terms ‘response’ and ‘responsiveness’, I do not refer to the behaviour of giving an answer. Giving an answer refers to the linguistic transmission of information in correspondence to a given question. Bernhard Waldenfels has suggested a different meaning of the term ‘response’. He describes responsiveness as ‘any way of becoming involved in a demand which may announce itself in linguistic expression as well as in preor non-linguistic expressive behaviour’.7 The demand which evokes a response does not have to be ‘something’ or ‘somebody’. It can be a destructive incident, a humiliating gesture or an unforeseen accident. The responsive structure of lament can, furthermore, be distinguished from the structure of intentionality8 which constitutes the object of its relatedness. Responding to something which 5 Cf. chapter 5 ‘Lamentation between Contradiction and Obedience’ by Martin Wendte, in this volume. 6 The responsive difference refers to ‘something’ which occurs as a response to an inaccessible demand. Thus, the ‘something’ which evokes the response is not identical with the response. The response is given within the coherency and regularity of human communication about ‘something’. But if the responsiveness were to be reduced to the immanence of the regularity of communication, the trace would be obliterated and the demandingness of the inaccessible demand would be undetected in the phenomenological analysis. 7 Bernhard Waldenfels, Antwortregister (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1994), 322 [translated by R.K.]. Cf. for a theory of ‘Responsiveness’: Waldenfels, Antwortregister, 320–336. The crucial difference between a phenomenology which starts from ‘responsiveness’ and a phenomenology which starts from intentionality is that the demand which is responded to is different from an intentional correlate which is constituted and controlled by a conscious act. 8 By ‘intentionality’ I refer to a general feature of human experience, that is any experience is ‘experience of something’. Thus, intentionality presupposes that there is a correlation between an object and its givenness or presence within experience. Only when starting from the presupposition of correlation can different modes of experience be qualified as intentional or non-intentional. Cf. the German handbook of phenomenology: Holger Kaletha, ‘Intentionalität’, in Helmuth Vetter (ed.), Wörterbuch der phänomenologischen Grundbegriffe (Hamburg: Meiner, 2004), 291–297.

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evades the network of intentional relations marks the priority of something experienced as a demand.9 We can say that the lamenter responds to a demand, because they react neither to an incident at their disposal in the present nor to one that was previously expected or desired. Thus, he or she refers to an incident which is withdrawn from their own initiatives and anticipations of what was going to happen. This incident breaks into their life and destroys the facilitating conditions for present orientation. As a result, a suffering human being cannot act as agent, because important coordinates of that human being’s orientation system are destroyed. But, the human being can lament and face this situation by protesting against it. The lamenter deals with an incident that announces a demand insofar as this incident has to be responded to and cannot be denied or ignored. Such an incident happens without someone or something being responsible for it. Thus, the main effect of a demanding incident is that present life orientation cannot be successfully continued. To understand what lament responds to, we must further specify what is meant by ‘the demanding incident’. This incident must not to be understood as an incident belonging to certain type or class of incidents, but as an incident of a certain kind.10 The incident that occasions lament is of a kind that enters the human horizon of life orientation by undermining it, transforming it irreversibly, by breaking and destroying its order. Thus, the old order has to be replaced by new life orientation in lament. But before this can happen, the consequences of the harmful incident are bewailed in lament. A closer look at the temporal order of human life orientation will further clarify the relation of lament to a prior harmful incident. Let us suggest that the lamenter experiences their situation in the following way: they are confronted with the fact that something which has been expected, consciously or non-consciously, for the present or future of their life, is suddenly and unforeseeably prevented from happening. An unforeseeable incident causes suffering. It destroys the anticipation of continuity in regard to past, present and future events in life which constitutes the notion of time as their own time. The unforeseeable incident confronts the lamenter with another temporal structure in their life: a temporal structure which brings into play another experience of time that generates possibilities not originating in their own initiatives and which are 9 Emmanuel Levinas describes the priority of a demanding incident as ‘immemorial past’. Something which has affected the human being is ‘immemorial past’ in their experience insofar as it evades the classification in the phenomenal order of appearing ‘as something’ in the world. The trace which this incident leaves in experience describes a presence in absence which cannot be integrated in the past and future of my time experience. Cf. Levinas, ‘Signification and Sense’, 40. 10 The differentiation between different kinds of incident does not regard single incidents as cases taken from a class of incidents. It rather thinks of the polarizing effect of an incident: ‘An incident can primarily lead to the consequence that a certain order is tested, cemented and reproduced or it can primarily lead to the consequence that order is broken, undermined and replaced by new order’ [translated by R.K.], Bernhard Waldenfels, Phänomenologie der Aufmerksamkeit (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 2004), 35.



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not reconcilable with their own expectations for their life. They constitute a new and different time, an ‘alien’ time. The heterogeneous experience of time as both their ‘own’ time and ‘alien’ time is fundamental to the problem of orientation that the lamenter has to deal with.

Time and Human Agency We have seen that lament refers back to evil or harm that befalls human life by challenging its strategies and practices of successful and ongoing life orientation. Lament is a way of dealing with destruction and desperation particular to and decisive for human life. In many situations, lament is the only acceptable way of dealing with the tragic break-up and hopelessness that life holds ready for human beings. But at the same time engaging in lament can be misleading – especially when lament leads not to new coordinates and structures of orientation, but becomes circular. Circularity is mainly exhibited when the lamenter persists in concentrating on their own suffering, thereby repeating the experience of suffering in their memory. In consequence, lament blocks the sufferer and puts them in the position of not being able to escape from what has happened. The harmful incident and its effects increasingly determine them. On the other hand, lament may also become a first step in entering a new mode of life orientation. Essential for lament is the significance of temporal order in human life. Time is the most basic structure of orientation in human beings. They orient themselves in time insofar as they identify and resolve past and future possibilities of their life by distinguishing them from each other in the present. In remembering what has happened in the past and has shaped the present of their life, human beings become ready to anticipate what may happen in the future. Past and future possibilities in human life will be distinguished from each other by deciding whether they can be influenced or not. Accordingly, future possibilities emerge more clearly as something that can be influenced and shaped, whereas possibilities in the past are something that is withdrawn from this influence, because they have already passed over. Humans implicate the temporal order of their life in agency to gain something which is essential for a self-determined conduct of one’s own life: the possibility of awaiting the future with confidence and with creative power. ‘Past’, ‘present’ and ‘future’ can be understood as essential concepts of orientation in human life.11 The temporal sequence of events which underlies these time concepts orients human agency and is at the same time regulated by it. A human being who positions themself as present in the sequence of events qualifies events by referring to them as ‘earlier’ and ‘later’ than 11 Ingolf U. Dalferth, ‘Gott und Zeit’, in Ingolf U. Dalferth, Gedeutete Gegenwart (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 240.

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presence.12 Thus, they manage to address certain events as past, others as current, and others as events in the future. The sequence of events in time is a result of human orientation in life. A certain event is experienced as past insofar as it is perceived in the horizon of memory. It is, in contrast, experienced as future insofar as it can be admitted to the horizon of expectation in human life. Humans orient themselves to past and future events by integrating them into a temporal order of their life. This temporal order centres on human ‘presence’ in it. Every new event – such as a harmful incident which causes suffering – is valued in its relevance from the point of view of presence. Thereby, human beings seek a continuity of their past life into the future. They conduct their lives to maximize the reliability of expectations. The desire for reliability which results in attitudes towards the future can range from mere delusions to detailed calculations and precise prognoses about the development of a certain case in the future. Human anticipation of future which emanates from self-determined conduct of life comprises, however, only the smallest part of the potentials for the future. This must be especially accentuated in a theological analysis of the relation of time and agency. Not every direction or turn taken by a human life can be initiated or accounted for by human agency. Disappointment and frustration as they break open in lament, as well as unexpected happiness and surprise as they are expressed in praise and gratitude13 are for this reason respectively shaded and bright companions of human conduct of life.

Lament as Temporal Reorientation of One’s Life in the Face of Suffering Lament starts from the experience of a harmful incident as temporal event and is, therefore, essentially linked to temporal life orientation. The effectiveness as well as demandingness of the harmful incident develops within the structures of temporal orientation of human life, as has been described above. Constitutive for time experience in lament is, furthermore, the irreversible temporal distinction of ‘before’ and ‘after’ which arises in the face of the traumatizing effect of a harmful incident. Prospective attitudes ‘before’ and ‘after’ a harmful incident are 12 Cf. John E. McTaggart, ‘The Unreality of Time’, Mind 17 (1908), 456–473. McTaggart argues for the ‘unreality’ of time from a philosophical perspective by conceiving of time as a linear structure of orientation in human life. He describes how a temporal sequence of earlier and later events (B series) is qualified as past, present and future (A series) by our relationship to them. Although McTaggart adheres mainly to the question whether there could be an objective notion of time, his argument can help in pointing out that temporal order is achieved through human orientation and self-positioning in the sequence of events. 13 Cf. Eva Harasta, Lob und Bitte: Eine systematisch-theologische Untersuchung über das Gebet (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2005).



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irreversibly separated from each other. This is manifest in the impossibility of continuing one’s life as before following the incursion of evil or harm. In the face of evil or harm, the future is no longer predetermined by the actualities and possibilities that follow from past and present. Thus, lament is expressed in a situation where familiar structures of orientation tend to collapse. Time reveals itself as ‘alien’ time which cannot be reduced to the linear time sequence: possibilities of past, present and future can no longer be reasoned from each other. Accordingly, the human being whom evil, harm or death has befallen slips into a crisis of orientation. To protect or defend themselves from mere resignation, human beings lament, and show by this that they are not settled into acceptance of their situation. In the course of a struggle for reorientation, the lamenter discovers the difference between their ‘own’ time, which can be traced back to their own initiatives, and ‘alien’ time, which has its origin outside the control and influence of agency. The acknowledgment of a different notion of time is related to the insight that human beings cannot dispose of every event in their life. But this insight obtains special relevance in the experience that harmful incidents cannot simply be distanced as passed over and finished. Their destructive potentials are far more effective, and touch the experience of time as a whole because they cause an irreversible shift of life orientation. Not being able to go back beyond a certain incident implies also not being able to go on in one’s life without acknowledging the far-reaching consequences and changes that this incident has caused in one’s own present and future life. This irreversible effect is, for instance, especially articulated in the lament expressed in a time of mourning and sorrow following the death and loss of a loved one. Bereaved persons lament in the face of something which has fundamentally broken in their life and has changed it for the worse: death. Thus, they do not lament about something as if they could have an intentional relation to what has happened and are willing to construe this incident from their own abilities and capacities. This is not the way mourners refer to the death of a loved one. Rather, they lament in the face of something that is not reconcilable with their own intention and purpose for a good life. Death can be traumatizing because it effects an irreversible and abrupt break. It is experienced as absence which cannot be controlled or confined. In a time of mourning, the lamenter has to acknowledge that there are events in life that rescind a great amplitude of life possibilities; what was once possible is irrevocably lost. In the face of death, lament is a response that gives weight to what has happened and has changed one’s life. It is on the one hand an expressive gesture of powerlessness, and on the other hand an attempt to orient oneself newly in confrontation and response to this incident. New orientation becomes possible in the course of lament when humans take their leave of lost life possibilities and distance them in time. To lament implies, therefore, to search for new orienting clues allowing a proper response to what has happened without denying its demand.

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New Orientation: the Precedence of God’s Futurity in Time New orientation can arise in lament as the lamenter learns to respond to the demands of an ‘alien’ time whose effects cannot be ignored. By responding to them the lamenter is prevented from being obstructed or overridden by them. Thus, the response of lament to ‘alien’ time reveals a reality inaccessible to human agency, as well as from human foreknowledge. Lament is provoked by the disruption of structures in life orientation which have previously been taken for granted. Therefore, a meditation on lament is essential for theological thought that wishes to understand faith as a human life orientation. Theology has not to ask whether lament is justified, but how the facticity of suffering from evil, death or harm can be reoriented in lament and in the horizon of a faith. Theological reflection can show how an eschatological understanding of time may help in finding a response appropriate to suffering. When lament is regarded as part of a life which finds its orientation before God (Christian lament), its structure of orientation will be marked by an excess of human time experience. This can be shown through a few examples. The Christian lamenter treats alien influences on his or her life in the way that reorients these experiences of alienation within the horizon of faith. Faith offers symbolizations that can shape affective experiences without reducing them to violations of the agent’s self-determined conduct of life. Rather, these affective experiences come to be experienced as expressions of God’s power to influence and guide human life. Reference to God is, therefore, significant insofar as it is different from reference to human initiative and agency. God’s influence is ‘alien’ insofar as it is neither due to one’s own nor due to others’ initiatives. Thus, God’s agency and initiative is marked by a double asymmetry: it is absolutely withdrawn from the realm of human agency – both one’s own and others’ influence on one’s life – and also withdrawn from the effects of evil and harmful incidents. This double asymmetry occurring in the experience of God’s precedence in time corresponds with the asymmetrical structure of the response to the experience of suffering which is central to lament. In suffering as well as in the experience of God’s precedence, human life conduct is confronted with immanent limitation – a limitation that causes human beings to respond and to face up to this limitation. But the reference to God’s precedence at the same time allows an acknowledging and undermining of the destructive consequences of evil or harm.

The Prospective Attitude of ‘Waiting for …’ We have seen that human beings live their life guided by prospective attitudes such as expectation and anticipation of the future. This means they live ‘here and now’ but also for the possibilities of their life to come: the possibilities which will



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be given to them in the future. Imagination of future events is of such significance for human life that the complete disruption and destruction of future possibilities may be enough to destroy someone psychologically. This influence of the future on present life may be explained thus: present suffering and pain can be better borne by humans when it is limited by an expectation that one might be able to change one’s life in the future. To expect and anticipate these possibilities gives human life conduct a certain security and confidence. But as we have seen, the grounds for such confidence may be fragile when based upon one’s own initiative to shape the future. In Christian faith, the immanence of human expectation of the future is transcended by, and therefore built upon, another kind of confidence. Faith brings the possibility into play that God has revealed himself in the past and present of human time experience, and will do so as well in future.14 His presence in time opens up new and absolutely unknown future possibilities. God’s creativity and unexpected bestowal of grace can give life possibilities to humans even though everything in their life seems to run in the wrong direction. God has the power to overcome wrong orientations. But waiting for God’s creative powers to shape one’s life does not mean an expectation of them. Why? God’s creativity is unexpected in a double sense: it is not only withdrawn from what humans desire for themselves and what others wish may happen to them, but also from what seems to be lost and irreversibly destroyed as a consequence of evil, death or harm. Therefore, expectation does not accurately describe what it means to await God’s futurity. Expectation refers to a continuation of already existing life structures that may be changed for better or for worse in the future. Waiting for the futurity of God means, on the contrary, not waiting for or expecting something in particular to happen. Rather, it means waiting for something to happen which cannot be initiated or caused by any human agency. This ‘something’ is initiated and given by God’s creativity and thus precedes all human initiative. It is in this precise sense that it is ‘unexpected’, and can only be awaited as a disruption of the linear time horizon. By disruption, God’s futurity creates a time ‘in between’ human time where things may happen and events may be to come which cannot be foreseen by human beings. Waiting for God’s futurity – for a God to come – means to wait for events which originate from beyond human agency (extra nos) impinging on human conduct of life. These events have the power to overrule and overcome human initiative. From a theological perspective, they are the expression of God’s bestowal of grace and willingness to save human life. This bestowal and willingness are also crucial for the reorientation of one’s life in Christian lament. It helps to free the lamenter

14 Cf. Wolfhart Pannenberg et al., Revelation as History (New York: Macmillan, 1968).

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from the traumatizing effects of evil, death and harm. The presence of God in time can break the circular and destructive remembering of harmful incidents. Furthermore, it does not do this by reconfiguring the horizon of time yet again into a linear sequence of events. Rather, God’s presence comes into play as a future which is not relative to what has happened to someone, but is absolutely distinct from it. The distinction of one’s ‘own’ time and ‘alien’ time can yield a helpful meaning here: orientation towards an absolute future which cannot be determined by human past and present opens up a space in time that undermines a totalitarian connection of the future to the experience of suffering in the past and present. The lamenter is liberated to acknowledge that God’s futurity precedes his own experience. In consequence, it will become reasonable to trust in God instead of one’s own experience, because this helps in realizing that future is not determined by the painful events that have already happened.

Conclusions This chapter has shown how expressions of evil or harm are transformed into new life orientation in the course of Christian lament. The experience basic to lament is shaped by a specific temporal structure. Human suffering is due to the massive impact of a harmful incident which violates the prospective life orientation of a human being, their expectations, future plans, and anticipations of possible future action. The perception of an order in present, past and future events in one’s individual horizon of time is normally informed by the meaning and purpose of one’s own initiative and action. But this does not apply properly in lament, where agency is deeply violated and disrupted by suffering. Hence, the chapter has defended the thesis that suffering causes a breakdown of agency and demands a reorientation of one’s experience of time. This reorientation can begin from the insight that the future is neither determined by an agent’s own initiative or action nor by the harmful incident which has undermined agency. Rather, it can be awaited as God’s future which comes into play in lament as a double asymmetrical relationship to the future.

Chapter 2

Enquiring into the Absence of Lament A Study of the Entwining of Suffering and Guilt in Lament Jonas Bauer

Contexts of Lament Addressing lament from a systematic theological perspective focuses on suffering and on religious ways of dealing with this suffering. In recent years lament has most often been subject to exegetical inquiries into its form as speech and prayer. Interestingly enough, however, some exegetes have been calling for a systematic theological treatment of lament.1 Several decades have already passed since German biblical scholars specifically asked systematic theologians to tackle the problem of why lament has almost vanished from spiritual praxis.2 Complaints about the absence of lament have been a recurrent theme within analyses of lament and successive attempts at its rehabilitation over the past years.3 The writings of Ottmar Fuchs display a rather rare example of theological efforts to appreciate and revitalize lament.4 His advocacy for a spirituality of lament, first brought forward in his monograph Die Klage als Gebet (Lamentation as Prayer) some twenty-five years ago, has been well recognized within theological debates.5 It has not, however, succeeded in penetrating practice in churches and individual spirituality, as Fuchs and many others had hoped. If this is an accurate 1 See Bernd Janowski, Konfliktgespräche mit Gott. Eine Anthropologie der Psalmen (NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener, 2nd edn, 2006), 36. 2 See Ottmar Fuchs, Klage als Gebet. Eine theologische Besinnung am Beispiel des Psalms 22 (Munich: Kösel, 1982), 354. 3 See the anthologies of Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie [JBTh], Vol. 16, Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2001) and Gotthard Fuchs (ed.), Angesichts des Leids an Gott Glauben? Zur Theologie der Klage (Frankfurt a. M.: Knecht, 1996). 4 See e.g. Fuchs, Klage, and idem, ‘Fluch und Klage als biblische Herausforderung. Zur spirituellen und sozialen Praxis der Christen’, Bibel und Kirche 50.1/2 (1995), 64–75. 5 Almost all contributions to the anthology of Ebner, Klage, refer to the writings of Fuchs and agree with his basic intentions; see also the preface of the volume written by Fuchs und Janowski in Ebner, Klage, v–vi.

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observation, what are the reasons for this striking absence in the practice of lament? Taking into account the spirituality of lament in the psalms, it seems to be prima facie significant for theology and for religious life to know about this tradition of expressing speechless suffering within prayer. These traditions enact a relation to God resilient enough to open up a space for lament in all its dimensions – ranging from the questions ‘Why?’, ‘Why me?’ to the bitter accusation of God. Furthermore, there are important potential practical consequences: lament as shown in the psalms points to a process that may lead to praising God and to an (anticipated) fulfilment of the prayers connected to lament.6 In addition, lament is a mode of dealing with suffering that may suspend an arbitrary desire to ‘annihilate enemies’, handling the hatred towards them and easing the conflict by opening up an eschatological horizon.7 Moreover, it is in the very context of lament that one may become aware of the fact that our existence is not yet fulfilled.8 These aspects of lament have important theological implications. However, in what follows, I would like to first draw attention to the absence of lament: its contemporary non-appearance – in liturgy, individual religiosity, and mourning rituals – is of distinct methodological import. A phenomenological and hermeneutical approach to the topic cannot but relate to the contemporary religious forms of lament and its phenomena. That said, the remarkable absence of lament frustrates such an approach. In this chapter then, this absence will not merely be stated but will be taken as a methodological starting point for systematic theological reflection on lament. If this move is bypassed, an account on the contemporary relevance of lament is likely to degrade itself to a mere conjuring up of biblical traditions, or to implicit infighting between theological schools of thought.9

Is Lament Truly Absent? At first sight, empirically speaking, lament seems to be pervasive. For example, the phenomenon is popular in recent literature.10 However, the specific form of 6 See Janowski, ‘Das verborgene Angesicht Gottes: Psalm 13 als Muster eines Klageliedes des Einzelnen’, in Ebner, Klage, 52. 7 See Janowski, Angesicht, 52. 8 See Kristian Fechtner, ‘Sich nicht beruhigen lassen’, in Uta Pohl-Patalong (ed.), Seelsorge im Plural (Hamburg: Ebv, 1999), 98. 9 Both problematic tendencies are present in Oswald Bayer’s contribution to the above-mentioned anthology: see Oswald Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, in Ebner, Klage, 290–291, 301. 10 Lament is not only an extensively employed topos within modern literature, especially in the twentieth century (for an exemplary analysis see Karl J. Kuschel, ‘Ein Gleichgültiger hadert nicht. Zur



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lament as addressed to God seems to appear only on the margins of everyday life. One phenomenon at those margins is worth a closer look, since one recurrent abbreviation seems to thwart the hypothesis of lament’s absence: ‘OmG’, short for ‘Oh my God!’. However one understands this acronym, in the context of a theological study on lament as expression of suffering addressed to God, it is a strong candidate for designation as the most popular form of lament. This holds true at least for chatting rooms and SMS messages throughout our digitized world. The expression may be understood as an invocation or interjection; it may articulate indignation, or as well irony, astonishment and pain. ‘OmG’ could also be read as a quotation of a beginning of prayer.11 As a version of the latter it surely is not used in a theologically traditional sense, but it is nevertheless an address to God that is well established in speech acts in digitized forms of communication with their affinity for abbreviations.12 It seems otiose to me to develop a theology of lament on the basis of the use of this acronym, and yet this abbreviation contains an element that calls for further consideration: those three letters may connote the following: ‘I don’t know what to say’, ‘I am speechless’. In relation to ‘OmG’, a theological reflex may well take a different route, referring the discussion to the third commandment and its ban of misusing the name of God. However, we ought not too hastily adjudge whether or not this address to God is ‘in vain’ in such expressions. Defining it precisely, ‘OmG’ encodes silence in reference to the content of what is reacted to, conveying the very dimension of speechlessness generated by a prior event. If it holds true that this expression articulates astonishment, indignation or even pain while connecting it to the name of God, it touches – as unconsciously and superficially as it may well be employed – the core of lament as a speech act wrested from silence in the face of unexpected experiences and existential suffering and pain. Such an address to God is not ‘in vain’, but points to the fact that the very experience prompting the articulation of ‘OmG’ supersedes immediate human understanding. Nevertheless, the ambivalence of the term – between curiosity and pain – advices caution not to overextend its specific relevance. The term is not explicitly labelled as lament to God. As phenomenon, however, it may draw attention to two

Funktion der Anklage bei Joseph Roth und Marie Luise Kaschnitz’, in Ebner, Klage, 209–231), but lament is also very prominent in the (award-winning) writings of the laureate of the German Book Prize 2007, Julia Franck (Die Mittagsfrau) and the laureate of the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade, Saul Friedländer. 11 ‘My God’ as address may be read as a quotation of Psalm 22 for example; see also Christiane de Vos, Klage als Gotteslob aus der Tiefe (Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 2nd series, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 197–198, 208–209. 12 Additional forms that may be considered in this context are ‘Oh God’ – or the even shorter and supposedly more respectful ‘Gosh!’ for God or ‘Jeeze!’ for Jesus. On a quantitative level, it is probably still a conservative extrapolation that these kinds of expression make up for a larger amount of addresses to God (or Jesus) in everyday language.

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dimensions that are crucial to any account of lament: on the one hand, it includes the address of God after experiencing something unexpected, and on the other hand, it points to the relation of lament and silence, or speechlessness. I will leave it to further examination to investigate how far those dimensions may be integrated into a theology of lament. For now, I am going to return to our starting point, in order to advance the enquiry on why lament seems to be marginalized or even absent in contemporary culture.

Possible Reasons for the Absence of Lament Reasons for the absence of lament have been suggested implicitly and explicitly in recent studies on lament and corresponding attempts to rehabilitate it. I first want to elaborate some common elements in those explanations, and second, to focus on three of these accounts in more detail. One prominent explanation of the absence of lament emphasizes the influence of stoicism on Christianity. In this line of thought the stoic idea of perseverance became fundamental, devaluing clamant lament.13 This abrogation of lament is linked to nineteenth-century literary depictions of individual religiousness and also – in an independent development tied to theodicy questions – to the works of the church fathers.14 Bernd Janowski names additional reasons by noticing the development of the suspicion that lament was an ‘embodiment of a lachrymose attitude’ or propagating ‘blasphemy’ as accusation of God (as for Martin Luther). Within the context of modern critique on prayer by Kant (and also Schleiermacher) this devaluation of lament culminated in the allegation that lament is an attempt to manipulate God by means of plea and prayer.15 A more proximate reason for the absence of lament in contemporary times, Janowski observes, is that social factors render moderns ‘unable to mourn’.16 If only some of those reasons mentioned above hold true, it becomes evident that advocating a spirituality of lament faces some powerful opposing traditions. For these reasons offering alternative traditions and narratives may only slowly cause a change in the overall appreciation of lament. One effort in this direction

13 See for example de Vos, Klage als Gotteslob, 289. 14 See Andreas Holzem, ‘“Kriminalisierung” der Klage? Bittgebet und Klageverweigerung in der Frömmigkeitsliteratur des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Ebner, Klage, 153–181 and Ernst Dassmann, ‘Die verstummte Klage bei den Kirchenvätern’, in Ebner, Klage, 135–151. 15 Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 38, 367. (Quotations trans. by J.B.) 16 For the adoption of Alexander and Margarete Mitscherlich’s thesis, see Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 39.



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emphasizes the theological richness and the linguistic significance of the Psalms as a ‘book of genuine spirituality’ (Emmanuel Lévinas).17 Nevertheless, the question remains, whether there are additional and fundamentally systematic reasons for the absence of lament that need to be considered in order for advocacy of renewed appreciation of lament not to be in vain. In the following I analyse three accounts, or aspects, that may well be implicit in previous accounts of the disappearance of lament, but thus far have not been clearly articulated. All three will address the potential intertwining of suffering and guilt in lament. My thesis is that this interrelationship needs to be systematically accounted for in a theology of lament.

Semantic Aspects in the Lexical Field of Klage (Lament) and klagen (Lamenting) Janowski names the contemporary use of the ‘concept’ of Klage as the first reason for the absence of lament.18 According to him, the concept is either too narrow or too broad to serve a rehabilitation of biblical lament. It is too broad because it also includes Totenklage (mourning ritual) besides Not- und Leidklage (lament of suffering and pain). Its excessive breadth stems from its integrating two different aspects of time, as Totenklage refers back to life that has passed in opposition to the direction of lament to God that is primarily concerned with the future (here following Westermann). The concept is too narrow because the related terms Anklage (accusation), Sich-Beklagen (to complain [about oneself ]), and Verklagen (to sue) are each highly specific. Lament is thus related either to an ‘act addressed to an authority’, or to the ‘relationship of lament to the one that is lamenting’, or lastly to the ‘complaint addressed to an opponent’. According to Janowski, the concept is too narrow because it tears apart what belongs together. Seen from a biblical perspective these aspects were not separated but integrated, as for example in prayers of lament. It is this idea that I would like to adopt and analyse in more depth since the latter also addresses the concept and the real process of (modern) differentiation between different subsystems of society, for example between legal and political systems. In regard to our discussion, it is still up for debate how the legal usage of Klage is to be linked to the relationship between God and humans. To answer this question it is necessary to understand the concept of Klage and klagen on a historical and systematic level. However, a history of the lexical content of Klage and Anklage has not yet been written. Regarding its semantic roots, it is safe to assume a derivation from the Greek kla&zw. The verb klagen may be originally 17 See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 370. 18 See here and for the following Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 39.

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understood as schreien, rufen (to scream, to shout).19 The meaning of the noun Klage corresponds with this as Wehgeschrei (wails) but may also refer to Todtenklage (mourning ritual or dirge), Ausdruck einer Unzufriedenheit (articulation of discontent), or gerichtliche Klage (a legal charge).20 In regard to the verb, it is significant that Klagen vor Gericht (legal action in court) initially also referred to Geschrei (clamour), with which ‘one accused his opponent in order to have everyone listening to it’.21 In ordinary contemporary German usage, Klage and Anklage are associated with court processes.22 A Klage (lawsuit) initiates a civil law process whereas an Anklage (literally ‘accusation’; semantically: ‘indictment’) starts a criminal law process. The original meaning of Geschrei (clamour) is only faintly present here or may even have vanished. A similar development is observed by Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm in lament to God, or also ‘against’ God: in this, ‘the original “screaming” had become a “speaking” or articulation of suffering’.23 Thus, it is possible to differentiate gradually between the dimensions of ‘clamour’ and ‘articulated speech’ within the lexical field of Klage. In the modern development of the term, the former dimension has become insignificant or has vanished completely.24 However, the lexical inextricability of Klage with legal concepts should be taken into account on a methodological level.25 In a historical as well as a systematic perspective, it is crucial to recognize that ‘Klage’ cannot be separated from the context of Klage as a legal terminus technicus. Both as address to God and as legal action, there is a juridical connotation that has an impact on the lexical field of Klage and interacts with other meanings.26 In accord with 19 Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch 11, col. 915. 20 See Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch, cols 907–911. For Anklage (lat. accusatio) see Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch 1, col. 381. 21 Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch 11, col. 910. (Quotations trans. by J.B.) 22 French and English are more differentiated in comparison: lamentation or ‘lament’ refers to an expression of suffering; plainte or ‘complaint’, however, may connote legal action, but also relates to expressing pain, therefore echoing the ambivalence in the German lexical field of Klage; see Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch 11, cols 907–911; respectively cols 914–924. 23 Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch 11, col. 918; when this article was written lament itself had become more a ‘prolonged melancholic’ speech act than a ‘blatant claimant’, Grimm, Deutsches Wörterbuch 11, col. 917. 24 This development may already be documented in Hegel: he addresses both dimensions mentioned above but clearly prefers the deliberately articulated version of lament: Georg W.F. Hegel, Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art, vol. 1 (trans. Thomas Malcolm Knox, repr., 1998), 158–159: ‘Shrieking, whether of grief or mirth, is not music at all. Even in suffering, the sweet tone of lament must sound through the griefs and alleviate them, so that it seems to us worth while so to suffer as to understand this lament. This is the sweet melody, the song in all art’: cf. ibid., 376. 25 As regards recent theological debate, the absence of this juridical and legal aspect of lament is striking; the anthology of Ebner, for example, addresses lament at the level of literary criticism, and separates it from the classical disciplines of theology: see Ebner, Klage. 26 For the relation of ‘concept’ and ‘conception’ or ‘imagination’ behind this argument see Michael Moxter, ‘Über den Grund unseres Glaubens. Gottes Personsein aus der Perspektive systematischer



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Janowski, we may conclude that Klage has a range of referents. Nevertheless, it is important to add that those referents cannot be made wholly independent from one another. Klage as an ‘act addressed to an authority’ remains ambivalent in contemporary German usage because it may be understood as a legal action as well as an articulation of suffering to God.27 This also holds true for a syntactical analysis, as Klage addressed to God or to a legal public authority is indistinguishable as it consists of three relations in both cases: someone addresses a lament about something to someone. Another version of a threefold relation is sich beklagen über (to complain about), which is also to be considered in this context if we understand it reflexively. However, this threefold relation is not necessarily given in the verb klagen since an intransitive use (one relation) is possible as well as a transitive use (twofold relation): someone klagt (laments; one relation) or someone klagt about something or to someone (twofold relation).28 Thus, in a theological reflection on Klage as a lament to God about something, we can summarize that its threefold relation is a specific use of klagen but one that is syntactically analogous to taking legal action. Combining this with the semantic analysis, it is crucial for a theological consideration of Klage to address this entwining with juridical concepts in two directions: in relation to public law and in relation to divine law as the justice and order of the world.29

Paul Ricœur’s Advocacy for a Differentiation between Guilt and Lament Paul Ricœur offers another account of the absence of lament that directly addresses the entwinement of lament as the articulation of suffering on the one hand and of guilt as a legal and religious term on the other hand.30 We have seen that semantic analysis suggests the importance of both dimensions, the juridical aspect and the expression of suffering.

Theologie’, in Wilfried Härle/Reiner Preul (eds), Personalität Gottes (Marburger Jahrbuch Theologie XIX; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2007), 83. 27 In this regard, Janowski’s third semantic meaning of Klage as ‘complaint against an opponent’ may be understood as derivation of a Klage ‘act addressed to an authority’, since no legal action against an opponent can be done without a judging authority. 28 See Grimm, Wörterbuch, cols 914–924. 29 One reason why the spirituality of lament is absent might also be seen in the fact that today much of its semantic meaning is connected to the juridical and legal system, rendering any other form of lament superfluous. 30 See Paul Ricœur, ‘Evil: A Challenge to Philosophy and Theology’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 53 (1985), 635–650; for a further discussion of Ricœur’s contribution to lament, especially as to his exegesis of the Book of Job, see Claudia Welz’s chapter in this volume.

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Ricœur opens his argument with a critique of rationalist accounts of theodicy. According to him, such accounts are committed to definitions of consistency and empirical coherence incapable of grasping the phenomena of radical evil.31 When facing evil, there are two alternative modes of dealing with such an experience: guilt or suffering and lament. Ricœur argues that a response of guilt grapples with evil within the context of rules and laws, as well as with accusations and (un) deserved retribution. In the context of lament, however, the suffering of pain, illness and death came to the fore, in which the individual is understood as victim. Thus, we have the strand of guilt and sin on the one hand, and the strand of suffering and lament on the other. However, according to Ricœur, both strands are tightly intertwined. This is the case not only in western traditions of religious thought, but is rooted in the agent themselves: it is the experience of evil that forms the basis of this intertwining: ‘In its dialogical structure evil committed by someone finds its other half in the evil suffered by someone else. It is at this major point of intersection that the cry of lamentation is most sharp.’32 Focusing on individual experience of evil, Ricœur continues, ‘This strange experience of passivity, at the very heart of evil doing, makes us feel ourselves to be victims in the very act that makes us guilty.’33 Thus, Ricœur concludes that both the individual experience of passivity as well as intersubjective behaviour burdened with guilt that causes suffering form the basis for experiencing the intertwining of guilt and suffering. If the experience of guilt may be understood as an expression of human sin, for Ricœur it then also holds true that sin is part of the context of lament. Ricœur is intent, however, on separating lament from guilt – in spite of the intertwining of sin and lament, or guilt and suffering, as Richard A. Hughes rightly stresses in his reconstruction of Ricœur’s thought. To this end, Ricœur posited that lament is remembrance. It recalls both experiences of blessings on the one hand, and incidents of evil and victimization on the other. It commemorates the Exodus as well as the Shoa. It is in this context that Ricœur criticizes the logic of nemesis that exclusively draws on guilt and retribution, and which, contrary to lament, offers an explanation even for unexplainable incidences of evil. Thus, according to Hughes, ‘unjust, undeserved suffering’34 grounds Ricœur’s classification of lament.35

31 See Ricœur, Evil, 635–636; also see the paraphrase of Ricœur’s account in Richard A. Hughes, Lament, Death, and Destiny (Studies in Biblical Literature 68; New York: Peter Lang, 2004), 3–7, drawing on Ricœur, Evil, and Richard A. Hughes, Figuring the Sacred (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995). 32 Ricœur, Evil, 636. 33 Ricœur, Evil, 636–637; also see Hughes, Lament, 4. 34 Ricœur, Sacred, 289. 35 See Hughes, Lament, 5–6.



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Given our interest in the absence of lament, the important move in Ricœur’s argument is the claim that there are objective reasons for assuming an (inextricable) intertwining of suffering and sin, or of guilt and lament. The question of how this observation is to relate to the absence of lament deserves further attention.

The Problematization of Lament within the Old Testament Ottmar Fuchs has also proposed an explanation for the marginalization of lament in Klage als Gebet. His approach centres on the Old Testament and develops Westermann’s exegetical insights.36 In the later history of lament within the Old Testament, Fuchs observes that experiences of suffering are increasingly connected to one’s own guilt as well as to justice and retribution. Lament is thereby connected to the complex which has been described as the ‘principle of retribution’ by Christian research. A strong influence in this direction may be ascribed to deuteronomistic texts and editing stages. Fuchs states that this is not to be understood as relating mischief and sin in order to conceive of the principle of retribution as an ‘automatism of natural law’.37 This would lead to the false consequence that all suffering would need to be accepted while still praising God as righteous. However, Fuchs observes tendencies in this direction, which make lament itself problematic for those who pray.38 In later texts of prayer, Fuchs notices that ‘immediate praise oftentimes replaces the vow to praise’; subsequently he points out that ‘pleas without accusation’ gain importance in relation to ‘cries of distress’.39 In addition, if texts address one’s own guilt and possibly the social dimensions of guilt, they focus on the human capability to cause harm. In sum, Fuchs concludes that ‘lament vanishes from spiritual relationships to God, since the risk is not taken to bring an accusation’.40 It remains to be seen whether Fuchs is implicitly advocating a history of decline; however, it is systematically evident that accusation and lament towards

36 For the following reconstruction of Fuchs’ account, see idem, Klage, 341–345. 37 See Fuchs, Klage, 342. Janowski asserts that this understanding of the ‘principle of retribution’ has been the reason for research to ‘devalue divine action to subordinate relevance’ (Bernd Janowski, ‘Die Tat kehrt zum Täter zurück: Offene Fragen im Umkreis des “Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhangs”’, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 91 (1994), 256. (Quotations trans. by J.B.) 38 Fuchs is careful to speak only of ‘tendencies’ towards such a resigned attitude in lament; he points out that even in later texts elements of protest remain, if not in prayer (Ps. 44, 4 Esr.), see Fuchs, Klage, 343 fn. 170. In the time between the Testaments, 1 Book of Maccabees, Jesus Sirach and the Psalms of Solomon include (elements of) lament, see Michael Ehrmann, Klagephänomene in zwischentestamentlicher Literatur (New York: Peter Lang, 1997). 39 Fuchs, Klage, 341. 40 Fuchs, Klage, 344.

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God is aggravated if one’s own and other’s guilt are also taken into account as potential parameters for pain and suffering. If a feeling of guilt is induced in someone, he may become unsure about having an own active part in causing the suffering. Consequently, lament as accusation of God becomes problematic for the one who prays, because the cause of suffering is not clearly attributable to God. This issue is irrelevant for immediate ‘cries of distress’ arising out of acute adversity, but it has an impact on deliberate and reflected forms of speech such as texts of lament in the Old Testament.

Intermediate Conclusions on the Interrelationship of Lament and Guilt I have so far considered the close interrelationship of lament and guilt, or sin and suffering: in semantics, in experience-based or objective reasons in Ricœur, and in exegetical deliberations of Fuchs analysing texts of the Old Testament. First, the lexical field of Klage and klagen revealed that the legal and juridical meaning of klagen (which connotes guilt and retribution) cannot be differentiated from klagen in the sense of ‘addressing an authority after an experience of suffering’. We also observed an inextricable semantic intertwining of both dimensions. Second, Ricœur’s main interest is in this intertwining in the experience of evil; he consequently pointed to objective reasons for the interweaving of lament and guilt. While acknowledging this interrelationship, he tries to separate lament from the logic of guilt in order to counteract ‘the dogma of retribution’ as expression of the latter. Third, Fuchs depicted a historical development of lament within the corpus of the Old Testament, underlining an increasing component of guilt in the conception of lament. As a result lament is rendered problematic from the perspective of prayer. According to Fuchs, this process contribute to the marginalization of lament. On the basis of these three observations, the intertwining of the central concepts is to be considered as fundamental for lament to God. However, if this interrelationship is also one cause for the absence of lament to God, we must assume this intertwining to be a conditio sine qua non of a contemporary theology of lament. Hence a theology of lament needs to address the intertwining of both suffering and guilt. This necessity may serve as a criterion for evaluating approaches to a theology of lament. They are to be criticized if they either exclusively draw on suffering or deal solely with the question of guilt as they conceptualize a theology of lament to God.



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Are Suffering and Guilt Alternative Basic Principles? Within his typology or religion, Dietrich Korsch addresses the relationship of guilt and suffering, arguing that, formally considered, both may be regarded as expressing a general human Differenzerfahrung (experience of ‘difference’). Humans seek the ‘abatement and removal’ of suffering, whereas guilt demands ‘forgiveness and reconciliation’. 41 Like Ricœur, Korsch acknowledges an intertwining of suffering and guilt, since ‘suffering may stem from guilt, and may entail guilt as well as guilt may cause suffering and painful feelings’.42 However, Korsch asserts that the ‘primary approach’ is in each case different, leaving religious systems with the alternative to centre on guilt or on suffering as the expression of the general human Differenzerfahrung. As evidence for this, he argues that religious systems concentrating on either one of those basic principles cannot allow the other to gain this status as well.43 Korsch classifies Christianity as centring on guilt (and responsibility) but East Asian religions as focused on suffering.44 To support this claim, he points to the fact that in modernity a shift has taken place within religious concepts. More specifically, the key term of religion has changed from guilt to suffering, causing the reception of Eastern traditions and practices of religion into the formerly Christian-dominated West.45 In sum, this analysis opens up an alternative between suffering and guilt. Taking into account the scheme of Korsch’s argument, advocacy for lament may be understood in this context as a shift to a suffering-related theology within the Christian tradition. However, it may also be conceived as an attempt to cut across the presumed alternative. Consequently, suffering and guilt may be conceived as interwoven while both being potential versions of expressing a Differenzerfahrung. Given my line of argument, only the latter suggestion is workable. In contrast, the former alternative – that is, shifting to suffering as exclusive basic principle – does not comply with the criterion already formulated because it ignores the intertwining of suffering and guilt in lament.

41 Dietrich Korsch, ‘Religion als Lebensdeutung: Ein Beitrag zur interreligiösen Hermeneutik’, in Friederike Schönemann/Thorsten Maassen (eds), Prüft alles, und das Gute behaltet! Zum Wechselspiel von Kirchen, Religionen und säkularer Welt (In honor of Hans-Martin Barth; Frankfurt: Lembeck, 2004), 397. (Quotations trans. by J.B.) 42 Korsch, Religion, 397. 43 See Korsch, Religion, 397. 44 See Korsch, Religion, 398. Korsch concedes that ‘this typological pattern merely allows for very general questions to be asked concerning the order of religious phenomena and systems’ (ibid.). 45 See Korsch, Religion, 398.

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Korsch’s account leaves us with one question however: how may a theology of lament avoid being forced to choose suffering or guilt as its basic principle? Theological research on lament must answer the question of whether guilt is to be abandoned as the basic principle or whether it needs to aim for a subtly differentiated interrelationship between guilt and suffering in lament. In what follows, two examples of theological reasoning are examined that resonate with the question of how lament is to be understood as the expression of both suffering and guilt. In this analysis we will encounter two distinctive patterns of argumentation. Finally, in the penultimate section of this chapter, two relevant passages of the Book of Job are scrutinized, in which the juridical perspective and suffering and guilt are differentially addressed in their interrelationship.

Oswald Bayer’s Advocacy for Lament In his article ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’ (Regarding a Theology of Lament)46 Bayer begins from Christ’s lament on the cross, and consequently develops in nuce a theology of Easter night. The latter unfolds into an anthropology, eschatology, doctrine of creation and doctrine of Trinity while conceiving each locus as answered lament.47 Bayer’s thought analysis centres on the Psalms, because, as he understands lament, it is an expression of response to answered lament. How does Bayer understand this relationship in detail? He writes: ‘Although unbowed praise of God’s mercy […] will only occur in the very end of time, praise of God is nevertheless specifically presupposed in every act of lament. If God cannot be praised in any way – may it be in tears – one could not lament at all.’48 Thus, praise and lament are related to each other along the pattern of ‘already now’ and ‘not yet’, consequently making lament superfluous in the eschaton. But praise is ‘already now’ present, since otherwise we could not lament at all. If however, in the tradition of Schleiermacher, praise is conceived as a ‘prevailing mood’, the Kyrie Eleison would have to be ‘understood as “the call of the ones excluded”. If, in contrast, the “Kyrie Eleison” is not the call of the ones excluded, most of the dogmatic theologies would need to be reformulated.’49 Bayer therewith draws a parallel between lament on the one hand and guilt or sin on the other. Although Bayer does not expressly mention the aspect of guilt or sin, he construes lament as a synonym for it: justification of the sinner by God – answered with the praise of God – makes us capable of confessing our sin(s) – as lament. My thesis is that 46 47 48 49

See Oswald Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, in Ebner, Klage, 289–301. See Bayer, Theologie, 289–296. See Bayer, Theologie, 300. (Quotations trans. by J.B.) See Bayer, Theologie, 300.



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Bayer sets up this parallel: he reproaches the tradition of Schleiermacher because it could not assign a systematic role to lament, thus marginalizing it. A clear parallel to this criticism is his suggestion that the very same tradition has wrongly overlooked the sinfulness of humanity. Taking this into account, Kyrie Eleison may then be understood either as a plea for God’s mercy on the sinner or a plea for God’s mercy on the one lamenting. Thus, assuming this analysis holds true, Bayer overrides any differentiation between aspects of lament and guilt.50 Having asked whether guilt and suffering have to be conceived as alternative basic principles or as to be differentiated yet related to each other, we may now conclude that Bayer eludes this alternative between both aspects in merging them without any differentiation.

Bernd Janowski’s Anthropology of the Psalms in the Context of Lament and Gratitude Bernd Janowski develops his anthropology of the Psalms in the context of songs of lament and gratitude while focusing on individual lamentations.51 In this, it is characteristic that lament is presented as prayer addressed to God. On the level of the whole Psalter lament alternates with gratitude;52 within single Psalms lament is typically related to praise.53 Basic elements of lament are present in exemplary form in Psalm 13: the invocation of JHWH (invocatio), followed by lament and plea. Prior to the final ‘vow to praise’, the prayer expresses his trustfulness in God. A confession of guilt or innocence may also be included – though is omitted in Psalm 13.54 Lament is characterized by a threefold structure. It is articulated to or against God (possibly as accusation), is related to the person praying (‘lament about oneself’) and is concerned with one’s enemies (‘lament about enemies’).55 This threefold structure implies a relationship of self, God and man, which, according to Janowski, is the basis for assuming a ‘deep anthropological meaning of lament’.56 Consequently, he adds the dimension of gratitude (‘songs of gratitude’) in order to develop an all-embracing anthropology. To this end, he primarily draws on the Psalms but 50 For further evidence in favour of this reading of Bayer, see Bayer’s deliberation on (Christian) anthropology (Bayer, Theologie, 291–292). 51 For the following presentation of Janowski’s account I draw on idem, Konfliktgespräche. 52 Janowski lists Ps. 8, Ps. 9 and Ps. 22, in which, however, both forms occurred, see idem, Konfliktgespräche, 39–40. 53 The startling so-called ‘change of mood’ is involved in this relationship; for a discussion on this feature see Janowski, Angesicht, 43–45. 54 See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 41. 55 See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 42. 56 Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 42.

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also on texts of the New Testament.57 Janowski unfolds this anthropology in detail by following the process from life to death (as lament) and subsequently from death to life (gratitude/praise).58 However, it is striking that Janowski mentions sin and guilt as relevant topics in the first few chapters,59 but does not develop those aspects systematically throughout the whole book. As a result I can neither claim that the biblical texts treated nor Janowski’s deliberations address any juridical dimensions such as judgement, guilt or retribution.60 Nevertheless, a discussion of the inextricable intertwining of guilt and lament is missing. Guilt is not addressed as fundamental anthropological dimension. Admittedly, the biblical texts contain confessions of innocence, for example, and Janowski includes them in his deliberation, interpreting them as oaths of purification in the case of Ps. 7.4–6. To assert one’s innocence is to acquire the ‘right’ to lament; if one is guilty, however, a self-curse applies, eventuating ‘a calamitous reality that has to be borne with all its consequences’.61 It is clear that Janowski addresses the dimension of guilt but from within a traditional Christian thesis that this ‘justification of the righteous’ is – following Eberhard Jüngel – subsequently ‘superseded’ by the justification of the sinner as emphasized in the New Testament.62 In sum, Janowski’s approach does not comply with the criterion that a theology of lament must necessarily deal with a differentiated interrelation of guilt and lament. This may be a result of the texts he chooses to analyse or his interpretation of these texts. Focusing on the dimension of suffering may be appropriate for the texts; with this analysis, however, Janowski advocates a contemporary spirituality of lament that follows the language of the Psalms with regard to lament and gratitude.63 Hence, the question concerning an alternative to guilt and suffering as a basic principle is answered in a one-sided manner, and the latter is clearly preferred. As a result, resources are not made available in an adequate and decisive manner to counter the contemporary absence of lament.

The Book of Job as Source for a Contemporary Theology of Lament In this final section, two relevant passages of the Book of Job are examined to reveal a more differentiated interrelationship of lament and the juridical aspects 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, IX and 355–362. See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 1–214, esp. 40. See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 41, 51. See, for example, Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 147–150. See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 147. (Quotation trans. by J.B.) See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 141 and 141 fn. 22. See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche, 372–374.



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of suffering and guilt. Here we ask whether these passages may comply with our criterion for a contemporary theology of lament. I do not aim at a (traditional) Christian subordination of aspects of suffering to the dimension of guilt that conceives of sin as the exclusive and fundamental principle of anthropology. Rather, it is my intention to counteract the cause for the absence of lament within a theology so understood. To do so requires developing a differentiated but intertwining account of lament and guilt. Only if both dimensions are accounted for in their intertwining and in their difference may we demonstrate how a theology of lament is relevant within contemporary semantic and experiencebased meanings. Here the Book of Job is important because Job’s lament must also be understood as a legal case.64 The problem is highly dramatic insofar as God appears in a double role; God is to be seen as the addressee of lament and also its cause – as the one who is accused, he is also the judge.65

‘Therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes’, Job 42.6 Luther’s translation of this passage unambiguously inscribes a dimension of guilt into the text from a Christian perspective. It does so in regard to the last and grave words of Job to God (Job 42.1–6). It is at this point that dramatic suspense is at its climax. One may read Luther as subordinating the perspective of suffering to the perspective of guilt in the anticipation that Job would revoke his speech and his severe accusation. This would render Job guilty, as God is depicted as insinuating in his speeches. However, the verse and inter alia the meaning of the verb nicham that Luther linked with repentance demand further scrutiny. Semantic analyses demonstrate that the verb is plurivalent. It has been translated according to Luther as ‘to repent’ but may well be understood as ‘to be comforted’ in this context.66 ‘Repentance’ carries one of the basic meanings of the verb, but it refers 64 According to Jürgen Ebach, it is crucial that treatments of the Book of Job differentiate between the ‘case of Job’ as individual fate and ‘the problem of Job’ in opening up the horizon of theodicy. Such a differentiation clarifies that suffering cannot be exclusively dealt with along the lines of theodicy, but has to consider that a reflection upon suffering has (in most cases) already left the existential situation of suffering. In other words, a theory of lament – which would not be possible without suffering – is not feasible as a pristine external description, but remains bound to the individual’s experience of suffering seen from the internal perspective; see Jürgen Ebach, Streiten mit Gott: Hiob (vol. 1: Job 1–20; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 3rd edn, 2007), XI. 65 See Ebach, Streiten mit Gott, vol. 1, XII. 66 See Ina Willi-Plein, ‘Hiobs Widerruf? – Eine Untersuchung der Wurzel Mxn und ihrer Erzähltechnischen Funktion im Hiobbuch’, in Aleksander Rofé and Ya’ir Zakovitch (eds), Isaac Leo Seligmann Volume. Essays on the Bible and the Ancient World, vol. III (Non Hebrew Section; Jerusalem: Rubinstein, 1983), 286.

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less to a psychic-emotional change of mood and more to a change of attitude and thoughts.67 Only in regard to the latter does it make sense that God too is repenting.68 Thus, Jürgen Ebach translates the verse as ‘Therefore I revoke and change my attitude – in dust and ashes.’69 Ebach points out in his interpretation that the first verb ma’as and ‘dust and ashes’ also do not necessarily need to be construed as confessions of guilt and as rituals of repentance, but may well be read as the revocation of Job’s conception of the world as chaos.70 Overall, the verse seems on first sight to marginalize lament and suffering. Reconsidered, however, we encounter a semantic intertwining of comfort in suffering, repentance, revocation of concepts within lament, and guilt. Therefore, it may be argued that a relationship of lament and guilt is addressed at the climax of the Book of Job. However, how ought we to describe this relationship in detail? How do suffering and guilt relate in their difference? In order to find a basic approach to this question within the Book of Job, I would now like briefly to turn to a second passage before returning to the ending of the book.

‘For I know that my Redeemer lives’, Job 19.25 Job proclaims ‘For I know that my Redeemer lives’ in his second answer to Bildad. Different interpretations of this verse ask back in unison about the very identity of this redeemer (go’el). Is it a different one than God, possibly a defender of Job against God? Or, is this go’el God himself whom Job will see prior or after his death and who will be on his side as helper? This articulation of certitude emerges unexpectedly in his lamenting speech. In the midst of suffering and misery, Job seems to gain a perspective of hope. But to what and to whom does this hope relate? Rainer Kessler has suggested a social-historical interpretation of this verse. He explores the metaphorical speech of Job about God as redeemer within the background of the juridical go’el institution.71 This institution was established in

67 See Ebach, Streiten mit Gott: Hiob (vol. 2, Job 21–42; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2nd edn, 2005), 155. 68 See Gen. 6.6 or Jon. 3.9–10; for a discussion see Ebach, Streiten mit Gott, vol. 2, 157. For the concept of repentance in the Old Testament see Jan-Dirk Döhling, Die Rede von der Reue Gottes als Sprachraum alttestamentlicher Gotteserfahrung, Dissertation Thesis, Marburg, 2006. 69 In German: ‘Darum verwerfe ich und ändere meine Einstellung – auf Staub und Asche’; Ebach, Streiten mit Gott, vol. 2, 155. (Quotation trans. by J.B.) 70 See Ebach, Streiten mit Gott, vol. 2, 159. 71 See Rainer Kessler, ‘“Ich weiß, dass mein Erlöser lebet”: Sozialgeschichtlicher Hintergrund und theologische Bedeutung der Löser-Vorstellung in Hiob 19.25’, Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche 89 (1992), 139–158.



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reaction to a social crisis in Judah and Israel and was formulated – according to Kessler – as law in Lev. 25 shortly before the times of exile.72 It stipulated that a relative of the one being indentured is ‘redeemed’ if he is on the edge of private insolvency, thus being so poor that ‘he can no longer account autonomously for his belongings and his life’.73 Hence, the go’el institution protected individuals from being thrown helplessly on the mercy of strangers. Kessler argues that Job may only refer to the go’el institution if he really expects that God is acting as redeemer in his earthly life.74 Taking this concept of a redeemer for granted as the institution of social law, it is crucial for our context to establish the extent that aspects of this institution are readily present in the metaphorical use of go’el when it refers to God. An answer to this question will also reveal the form of Job’s personal relation to God. In his lament Job has reached the point of admitting that he ‘is ruined’ and ‘left with empty hands’.75 Moreover, he acknowledges that the one he calls is more powerful than he is himself. However, is the redeemer not coming as rescuer? With the aid of the go’el Job is not restored, but is transferred from the control of a stranger to that of a ‘relative’, of someone familiar. This may also be expressed in the words of Job 19.27: ‘I shall see him, and my eyes shall behold him – and that not as a stranger.’76 Job remains dependent and poor, but on a familiar rather than an alien figure. This insight is crucial: with his reference to a redeemer, Job cuts across the false alternatives of envisioning his relationship with God as one of a calculable exchange or as helpless dependence on an arbitrary God. Job’s calling upon God as go’el allows for a relationship with God beyond this alternative, because it represents a new way of addressing God: faith in an antecedent solidarity of kinship with God.77 How does Kessler’s interpretation possibly connect to our question about the specific way suffering and guilt are interwoven in lament? It is not my intent to inscribe a Christian understanding of sin as expression of guilt into the text and its interpretation.78 However, it is feasible to conclude as follows: it is precisely the metaphor of go’el that clarifies that Job neither wants to be nor can be God-like. God is the powerful and Job the powerless one. Job is rejecting an (alleged) hubris and admitting his misery in his lamenting; but as he does so he claims for himself the right to be ‘redeemed’.

72 See Kessler, ‘Ich weiß, dass mein Erlöser lebet’, 144. 73 Kessler, ‘Ich weiß, dass mein Erlöser lebet’, 150. (Quotations trans. by J.B.) 74 For the deliberation in detail see Kessler, ‘Ich weiß, dass mein Erlöser lebet’, 140, 145–146. 75 Kessler, ‘Ich weiß, dass mein Erlöser lebet’, 151. 76 Kessler, ‘Ich weiß, dass mein Erlöser lebet’, 151. 77 Kessler, ‘Ich weiß, dass mein Erlöser lebet’, 153. 78 In this regard, it is important to remember that Job is characterized as an exemplarily righteous person; see Job 1.1–5; 29.12–21 and chapter 31.

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Moreover, in regard to the speeches of God, it becomes evident that Job loses his trial against God and is declared guilty. But it is only his friends who insist on his guilt. In contrast, God justifies Job’s words and lament (Job 42.7). Job loses the trial, in which God appears as judge, accused and also as redeemer, but God does not define Job as a guilty inferior opponent. His lament and his claim to the social law within the go’el institution are legitimated in the encounter with God. Any guilt is abrogated prior to the so-called ‘restoration’ and before the removal of his suffering at the end of the book. In a systematic perspective, it becomes evident in this context that the situation of suffering also allows for naming guilt. In articulating one’s guilt in the context of lament, it is possible to experience God’s releasing one from guilt. In so doing, however, the lament of those suffering is explicitly neither put into question in its entitlement nor conceived as already answered by God. The removal of suffering is not fulfilled by God’s releasing from guilt – as is also the case for Job. Thus, the lament of suffering is differentiated from the dimension of guilt in its separated right and its own hope for God’s answer.

Conclusions In order to counteract the marginalization or even absence of lament, it has been suggested that it is necessary to relate suffering and guilt to one another in an account of lament. A subsequent theology of lament may conceive both dimensions as basic principles. On this basis, it is possible to correspond to the fact that lament addresses both suffering and guilt, in other words that lament is an expression of the longing for both happiness and justice – before God in regard to his promises. From this perspective, we can see reasons why contemporary theories of lament fall short in their intent to advocate it: they are one-sided if they merely relate to the dimension of suffering, or they are not differentiating enough when understanding lament in a simple analogy to a Christian concept of sin, implicitly substituting suffering for guilt as a basic principle. If lament is construed along those lines, it cannot correspond to the experience that suffering and guilt are tightly interwoven in situations of misery. Ricœur’s deliberations also dwell on this intertwining though he subsequently tries to separate the dimension of suffering from the one of guilt while drawing on the difference between guilty and innocent suffering. But does this differentiation allow for an adequate discernment of the relationship between suffering and guilt? It is in the first instance imperative to differentiate between suffering and guilt since neither is reducible to the other: not all suffering may (and ought to) be traced back to one’s own or someone else’s guilt since not every kind of suffering is caused by culpable actions. And if one’s own or someone else’s culpable action



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may have caused suffering, the removal of this very suffering is not fulfilled by dealing with the dimension of guilt (and vice versa). Therefore, it is not feasible to construe a linear relationship between suffering and guilt in lament; it is especially important to reject the understanding of the principle of retribution as an ‘automatism of natural law’. Alternatively, the examination of the Book of Job has suggested a more supple starting point for the closer determination of how suffering and guilt may be related to one another. It remains open to debate whether it is possible to differentiate precisely between guilty and innocent suffering in lament.79 This question is most relevant in the context of theories concerning lament to or against God. Agreeing to this, however, necessarily implies that one has already accepted the thesis suggested in this chapter that a theology of lament needs to address the intertwining of guilt and suffering without overriding their lasting difference.

79 For a presentation (and discussion) of this differentiation see (amongst others) Ingolf U. Dalferth, Leiden und Böses: Vom schwierigen Umgang mit Widersinnigem (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt 2006), 103–106 and Knut Berner, Theorie des Bösen: Zur Hermeneutik destruktiver Verknüpfungen (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener 2004), 100–107 and 221–224.

Chapter 3

God, lament, contingency An Essay in Fundamental Theology 1 Christian Polke In memory of Gottfried Seebaß (1937–2008)

To lament is not to whine. Important meanings are squandered when this difference is not given enough thought. Nor is lament resignation, though it must be admitted that those who lament are often not far from resignation. And yet, he who still laments, has not yet been silenced – quite the opposite: through verbalization, the lamenter is putting up a fight, refusing to fall silent in the face of injustice and evil. Thus, particularly when it comes to lament at the scene of unimaginable terror, there can be no truth to Wittgenstein’s words about God and the world: ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.’2 After all, lament is a form of revolt – maybe hopeless, sometimes frustrated, possibly even aggressive. Be that as it may, to lament also means to question one’s own self, one’s life – and finally, even God; at least that God who allegedly once said about the world as his creation: ‘And indeed, it was very good’ (Gen. 1.31). On the other hand, from a more pragmatic point of view, contingency begins precisely where the sphere of human existence and experience (in phenomenological terms, our Lebenswelt or life-world) loses its mundane character. To our life-world, the world of contingency is ‘the Other’, at least insofar as we can no longer view our world as the best of all possible worlds. Though Leibniz may have believed the world to be without life-threatening contingencies, we no longer live in such a world. Thus, the fact that we late moderns experience mere chance with ambivalent feelings comes as little surprise. In the following, I will try to relate lament and contingency to each other in order to show how the locus of lament can be understood as a crucible in which Christian religion is coming into its own. From this thesis, the idea that a reality1 For the translation from the German original I would like to thank Anna Schneider, Heidelberg (Germany) and Martina Sitling, Boston (Massachusetts). 2 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus logico-philosophicus (trans. Charles K. Ogden, New York: Cosimo, 2007 [1922]), 108.



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based discourse on God can begin only from here will be developed more extensively. Linking God, lament and contingency makes sense because they all contain an element of interruption that Johann Baptist Metz has called ‘[t]he shortest definition of religion’.3

Contingency as a Phenomenon of the Life-World and a Problem of Philosophy The ancient Greeks had no concept of contingency in the strict sense of the word. They did know blind fate or the fated lot (μοίρα) of humans (and even the gods) that might lead to a tragic end. But humanity’s fate was not solely determined by Zeus or other higher powers – texts as early as Hesiod mention the chaotic basic drives within us. The Greeks, then, clearly had an idea about the importance of the existential questions that spring from the intractability and elusiveness of human existence.4 What they did not have was a concept of contingency in terms of the fundamental metaphysical question: ‘Why does anything exist at all, rather than nothing?’ In light of this, Hans Blumenberg rightly concludes that ‘contingency […] is one of the few terms in the history of metaphysics that comes from a specifically Christian background’5. But what is the actual focus of the contingency issue? As a first differentiation, contingency can be defined either as a basic phenomenon of the life-world or as a basic problem of philosophy. Here, the use of the term ‘basic’ emphasizes that the discourse on contingency is indeed a fundamental one, dealing as it does with the element of intractability in our lives and mindsets. Let us start with the first aspect by quoting Blumenberg once again: ‘Contingency means the evaluation of reality from the perspective of necessity and that of possibility.’6 In a world of continual technological progress, this statement is connected to the observation that ‘if the given world is merely a random sample of the infinite range of possibilities […] then the facticity of the world becomes a fiercely intense driving force […] to expand, through the

3 Johann Baptist Metz, Faith in History and Society: Toward a Practical Fundamental Theology (trans. David Smith, New York: Seabury Press, 1980), 171. 4 For further discussion see Theunissen’s supple suggestion that this question arises in modernity: Michael Theunissen, Schicksal in Antike und Moderne (Schriften der Carl Friedrich von Siemens Stiftung, vol. 79, München: Carl-Friedrich-von-Siemens-Stiftung, 2004), esp. 20ff. Theunissen endeavours to reveal the motifs of guilt, fate and death in pre-Christian thought that are amenable to Christian thought without platonizing Hellenizations. 5 Hans Blumenberg, ‘Kontingenz’, RGG 3 (1959), 1793–1794, here: 1793. 6 Hans Blumenberg, ‘Lebenswelt und Technisierung unter Aspekten der Phänomenologie’, in Blumenberg (ed.), Wirklichkeiten in denen wir leben: Aufsätze und eine Rede (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1999), 7–57, here: 47.

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actualisation of the possible, through an exploitation of the full range of invention and construction, the merely factual into an internally consistent cultural world justified by necessity’.7 From this perspective, as we unmask and consequently try to overcome them, contingencies constantly add to the pool of our possibilities. They cultivate a friendly climate for pluralism and individuality, a climate which seeks to justify itself as a seemingly inevitable and commonplace by-product of technological and cultural progress. If our realities grow more and more diverse through the elimination of our preconceived notions about the inevitability of the world’s facticity, contingency is bestowed its own kind of charm and can be mastered and moulded in both playful and technical ways. Therein lies the essential promise of late modernity and its signature contingency-friendly life-worlds. On the other hand, a glance at occidental intellectual history reveals that the question of contingency in the narrow sense of the word does not appear as a conceptual principle until the High Middle Ages. This is due in part to a more differentiated definition: contingency does not represent merely a third category lodged between the impossible and the necessary – a category which would be sufficiently defined by the term potentiality. Rather, in modal logic, contingency means something that is not only possible, but indeed actual, without being necessary.8 Contingency is a form of reality that in its facticity is not necessary. Therefore, the question of contingency poses a challenge to every theory of reason whose basic idea of rationality is founded on finding sufficient or even ultimate reasons. The fact that contingency challenges not only reason, but God as well should surprise no one aware of the all-pervasive theological undercurrents of medieval and early-modern philosophy. The most prominent representative of the thematic interconnection of reason, contingency and God may be Leibniz. His entire philosophy, especially his Essais de Théodicée (1710), can be read as a unifying struggle for reason’s capacity for truth, the benevolence of contingencies and, implied in both of these thoughts, the perfection of the creator. This philosophy is developed before a backdrop of earlier approaches, which either – like nominalism – sacrifice benevolence and reason for the sake of God’s sovereign arbitrariness or – as is the case with Spinoza – intermingle reason, God and reality to a degree that completely negates phenomena such as freedom and benevolence, which are evidently tied to the existence of contingency. One may

7 Blumenberg, ‘Lebenswelt und Technisierung’, 47 (‘wenn die gegebene Welt nur ein zufälliger Ausschnitt aus dem unendlichen Spielraum des Möglichen ist ... dann wird die Faktizität der Welt zum bohrenden Antrieb ... durch Realisierung des Möglichen, durch Ausschöpfung des Spielraums der Erfindung und Konstruktion das nur Faktische auszufüllen zu einer in sich konsistenten, aus Notwendigkeit zu rechtfertigenden Kulturwelt’). 8 The basic distinction of modal logic already distinguishes between the merely possible, the contingently existing and the necessary.



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choose to regard these approaches, as well as the rationality-focused attempts of Kant and Hegel that followed them, as failures. And yet, a theology that bases its claim to rationality on reason and also wants to keep itself open to both the contingencies of the life-world and the question of God, a theology that is based on thoughtful and contested faith must meet this challenge. Speaking with Kant, its twofold task is to define the limits of reason with regard to contingent life-worlds while also taking into account the possibility of God’s reality, which is no less contingent, though in a different way.9

The Role of Religion between Containing and Intensifying the Issue of Contingency If contingency means, among other things, that the life-world is catapulted out of its secure, mundane state, then human freedom manifests itself in the capability of gaining a different perception of the world that surrounds us, and consequently of transforming it in a productive way. This process is by no means a smooth one, however – even less so in a time when our life-worlds are subject to such radical rationalization and mechanization. Here, it is precisely the failure of such endeavours that seems to demonstrate an absolute reality beyond the grasp of our linguistic and behavioural patterns. It is quite obvious, then, that increasing contingency (through sensitivity to irritations) and containing contingency (through operationalization and mechanization) are intertwined. Against the belief that technical progress as the engine of change for our lives and our world can be planned to perfection stands the proliferation of unpredictable events and constellations. Experiences of contingency must be parsed and processed even before their religious value has been established. Things that are the way they are but might have been different do not necessarily stay the way they are. Beyond these seemingly harmless forms of contingency, there are the radical intrusions and irritations that threaten the existence of humans and even of humanity itself. This is when we start to talk about evil. But the injustices and absurdities of human life that show themselves in sorrow, guilt, atrocity and death are related to circumstances in our life-worlds that are indeed contingent in the sense we established above, but cannot be eliminated by technological and cultural progress. Thirty years ago, Hermann Lübbe predicted that these ineluctable contingencies of being (e.g. birth, sickness, death) and their resistance to planning

9 Ernst Troeltsch grasped the fundamental significance of the term of contingency for theology and religious philosophy in the early twentieth century (Ernst Troeltsch, ‘Die Bedeutung des Begriffs der Kontingenz’, in idem, Gesammelte Schriften Bd. 2: Zur religiösen Lage, Ethik und Religionsphilosophie [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2nd edn, 1922], 769–778).

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would prevent the death of religion in the post-industrial age. This is his meaning when he defines religion as a coping strategy for contingency.10 At the time, Lübbe’s argument drew heavy criticism from the ranks of theologians, since its prime objective was to establish the socio-philosophical necessity of civil religion. From the perspective of religious sociology, however, this fundamental criticism misses the mark. Max Weber, in his late work Economy and Society (1921/22), points out the importance of redemption and the so-called theodicy problem for the social efficacy of religion. 11 Ideas of redemption influence human behaviour and practices, and therefore the way of life of both the individual and the collective. With the advent of strictly monotheistic religions grounded in divine transcendence and freedom as their ethical centre, there arises the problem of ‘how the extraordinary power of such a god may be reconciled with the imperfection of the world that he has created and rules over’.12 Along the lines of Weber’s thesis of the rationalizing capability of ethical monotheism, we can identify an intensification of the contingency issue, as the question of the connection between facticity and validity becomes essential in the context of ethical monotheism. In Weber’s words: ‘For the very reason that this religion provides no rational solution of the problem of theodicy, it conceals the greatest tensions between the world and god, between the actually existent and the ideal.’13 Following in Weber’s footsteps, religious sociologist Martin Riesebrodt has recently located the material core of all religious practice in the communication with supernatural powers to stave off harm and attain human salvation.14 If we regard cult as the universal practice of all religions, and conclude from this that the promise of salvation for the believer and the world are the reason and purpose of cult, then lament, for example, can be understood as a specific type of religious action. It is a practice that is aware of the contingency of weal and woe, and even of the contingency of successful religion in general, and whose mission is to cope with it. In lament, the believer articulates the horrifying endangerment of her God-given life-world, whose certainty she had taken for granted. The religious practice of lament launches itself against this endangerment and reminds God of

10 Cf. Hermann Lübbe, Religion nach der Aufklärung (Graz/Wien/Köln: Styria, 2nd edn, 1990), 149ff and 160ff. The German term is Kontingenzbewältigungspraxis. 11 Cf. Max Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2nd edn, 1978). 12 Weber, Economy and Society, 519. 13 Weber, Economy and Society, 523. For Weber, the most consistent solution to this problem cannot be found in monotheistic religions, but in the Indian doctrine of karma and its concept of justice, in which balance is achieved through the transmigration of souls and the consideration of all ethical merits (524–25). 14 Cf. Martin Riesebrodt, Cultus und Heilsversprechen. Eine Theorie der Religionen (München: C.H. Beck, 2007), esp. chapter 4 (108–135) and 5 (136–174).



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his promise of salvation, a promise that is belied by the present circumstances. The form of lament as a type of religious practice is the recitation of traditional liturgical hymns, prayers or rituals, but it can also be performed in the believer’s own words, signs and rites. In content, however, lament’s essentially defining characteristic is that it is always addressed to somebody, or possibly something. In any case, lament is a receptacle of human existence that, when its connotation is a religious one, can always be understood as an attempt of communication with supernatural powers. In lament, the lamenter looks at her own life and sees it filled with suffering, pain and evil. Carried by a sometimes desperate hope for positive change, she pleads with the superhuman (divine) powers to be heard at last. To her, lamenting seems to be her last chance of coming to terms with the contingency of human existence. From this perspective, Lübbe’s dictum of religion as a coping strategy for contingency is not so much wrong as in need of more precision. In particular, Lübbe neglects those religious practices that can only contribute to coping with unchangeable life circumstances through the intensification of the contingency problem and its soteriological and eschatological valency. These religious practices are qualified less by the actions taken towards contingency, and more by the attitude espoused towards it.

Lament and Accusation as Aspects of the Relationship between God and Man Both religious sociology and philosophy have identified the connection between negatively evaluated contingency and the question of salvation and doom, the question of God. In order to make this connection useful for Christianity, it must be subjected to a specifically biblical examination. Looking at the canon, the narrative basis of both Judaism and Christianity, a concept of religion emerges that is suspended between the poles of benediction (salvation) and damnation (doom), and also between sin and mercy. God’s relationship with humankind is embedded in this continuum. Religion as a communicative life-pattern can thus also be interpreted as an interactive pattern of struggle and lament.15 Agitatedly, 15 Westermann has pointed out the centrality of the lament motif for Old Testament faith (Claus Westermann, Elements of Old Testament Theology [trans. Douglas W. Stott; Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1982], 167–174). Lament is an essential part of the dynamics of the biblical relationship between God and human beings, or rather God’s history with mankind. Therefore, it is important to note that just as humans lament about God, God himself laments as well, that he indeed bemoans his own judgement on Israel (cf. e.g. Hos. 6.4, Jer. 12.7–13). The theological significance of lament culminates in it appearance in the so-called creed of salvific history: ‘Then we cried out to the Lord, the God of our ancestors’ (Deut. 26.7a). The fact that God answers his people’s prayers of lamentation and need is an integral part of the exodus as a constituent factor of the people of Israel. Liberation without lament is impossible, because the exodus is essentially a relational event, a marker of the shared history of YHWH and the Israelites.

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plaintively or in rebellious rage, the partners of the covenant wrestle each other. Thus Moses quarrels with YHWH on Mount Sinai (Exod. 32.7–14) and with his people at the foot of Mount Sinai (Exod. 32.15–35). Job (Job 3; 38–42) and Jonah (Jon. 4), each in their own way, argue with and complain to God about the state of his creation. On the other hand, God, too sometimes has a hard time with his people, and at times he even struggles with himself and his own decisions. Oscillating between anger and love, he brings himself to choose the latter again and again, sometimes even against his own original intentions. The religion of the Bible is a dangerous one, because both parties are hurt by it. This can clearly be seen in the biblical characters that are paradigmatic for the identification with both modes of faith: Jacob, called Israel, and Jesus, called Christ. Jacob fights until morning with God’s angel for his blessing (Gen. 32.24–32) by the banks of the Jabbok. Jesus pleads with God for his salvation in Gethsemane (Mt. 26.38–39 par.) and on the cross (Mk 15.34//Mt. 27.46), yet cannot escape his execution. In the end, they both prevail: Jacob receives his blessing and is henceforth called Israel, and Jesus is resurrected to new life after the crucifixion. And yet, their trials have left them branded: Jacob walks with a limp, and the risen Christ carries the stigmatic wounds of the cross. Such is the peculiar dialectics of salvation and doom, of blessing and curse that define the relationship between God and human beings. This means that essential elements of lament are at the heart of a faith that culminates in the cry of the crucified Christ: ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ (Mk 15.34). This desperate, but not despairing argument with God in the face of impending death and absolutely senseless suffering is lament in the biblical sense. Indeed, this lament comprises a part of the dignity of a creature, a human being made in God’s image who turns to God because the things she has heard about him are not consistent with her current experience. Lament, therefore, implies accusation. The ambiguous and sometimes even counterfactual interrelation of faith in God and life experience finds eloquent expression in the so-called lament psalms: ‘How long O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?’ (Ps. 13.1). Thus laments the praying person besieged by enemies and death. The experience of the praying lamenter correlates with the experience of God’s concealment. Surely, a believer plunged into such dire straits ought to be granted the presence and particular care of his creator! Thus, lament as a religious practice leads to a heightened perception of the contingencies of life; not only because in these lamentable situations, life seems to be without happiness or meaning, but also because they cause a life-threatening loneliness that goes beyond external facts. The heart of the matter here is not the exact analysis of the lament psalms as a literary genre or even a new interpretation of their so-called change of mood, but rather the fundamental importance of lament for the biblical concept of God and salvation. The praying person, who in her suffering questions God, challenges



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him to face her, clinging to him with defiant determination despite his abandonment. As God’s counterpart, the sufferer becomes a subject fighting for her life through lament. Thus, human lament can be understood as a galvanizing act that carries within itself the hope of transcending the contexts of suffering, death, guilt and hostility and to break new grounds for living. Looking at the collective biblical evidence, however, it would be a mistake to interpret religion as a coping strategy for contingency in the sense of an elimination of contingency, and thus to confuse bliss with happiness and fate with mercy. ‘Was Israel happy with its God? Was Jesus happy with his father? Does religion make us happy? […] Does it give us an identity? A home, a safe haven, peace with ourselves? Does it calm the fear? […] I’m sceptical. Why, then, religion? Why prayers?’16

Lament, Contingency, Salvation: Elements of a Judaeo-Christian Theodicy For the optimistic contemporaries who are friendly to religion, the theology of Johann Baptist Metz, which concluded the last paragraph, is an outrageous provocation. It has an anthropological-political subtext that must be taken into account to come to an adequate understanding of salvation in the context of lament. The objective of lament as a religious practice is salvation; it is an eminently soteriological undertaking. The existence of human suffering places theology’s claim of inviolable human dignity under close scrutiny. Looking at the theodicy question in this way invests the sufferers with theological authority, an authority that reveals the importance of the question of justice for the question of God.17 These considerations open up a different perspective, one in which salvation is viewed before the background of justice as the central issue in the relationship between God and human beings. For post-Reformation theologians, this is by no means a new concept. Likewise, the interrelation of justice and the dignity of humans created in the image of God can be found in the classical theological repertoire. But Metz’s real intention can only be determined in the differentiation between the justice God doles out to the sinner and the justice he shows towards those who suffer innocently or excessively: it is the latter on which Metz bases his soteriological concept. The contingencies of this world with negative connotations are by no means exclusively caused by sin, and thus by human beings. And even if they were, that fact would not exonerate the creator, whose 16 Johann Baptist Metz, Memoria passionis: Ein provozierendes Gedächtnis in pluralistischer Gesellschaft (Freiburg: Herder, 2006), 103. 17 Cf. Metz, Memoria passionis, 31.

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nature and will is justice, from responsibility for his creatures.18 Indeed, the problem is actually intensified if we stipulate that these creatures possess an inviolable, God-given dignity. In contrast to Hans Jonas, Dorothee Sölle or Jürgen Moltmann, Metz is not willing to mitigate the idea of divine omnipotence in the face of the world’s aporias of suffering. Therefore, his concept can be understood as a paradigmatic example of a religiously motivated intensification of the contingency issue. It is hardly surprising, then, that the central importance of prayer is the cornerstone of the anthropological underpinnings of Metz’s concept of religion. However, his approach differs considerably from other efforts in this field. To wit, he examines the linguistic form of the exclamation in order to come to an understanding of prayer that is informed by the de profundis of the Psalter and Christ’s cry on the cross. For Metz, prayer as exclamation plays an important role in fostering open communication between humans and God. By crying and wailing, the lamenter expresses her suffering to God, thereby revealing the true parousial character of being a Christian. Lament, contingency and the human need for salvation lead directly to the issue that lies at the heart of these deliberations, the issue of theodicy. Not, however, theodicy as a subtopic of dogmatics that concerns itself with reconciling God’s supposed love and omnipotence with the imperfect state of creation. Rather, theodicy as a fundamental, maybe even essential key to examining all theological statements in terms of their relevance and applicability to human life and biblical evidence. True divine justice reveals itself as such when it not only brings about the justification of the godless sinner, but also the final overcoming of senseless suffering and injustice. Could this mean that Protestant theology should take leave of its fixation on the duality of sin and mercy in the doctrine of justification? The question at least must be permitted. In any case, the idea of meaningful human suffering should be approached more carefully. The Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Lévinas, in an excellent phenomenological approach, talks about the meaninglessness of suffering, and thus about the radical challenge of theodicy as an offered solution (rather than a question!): ‘In suffering, sensibility is a vulnerability […] It is precisely an evil.’19 An evil that in turn can be only be described as pain, loneliness, meaningless, in a word: as profound absurdity. According to Lévinas, suffering can only become meaningful if the experience of another person’s meaningless suffering turns into my own ethical responsibility. In this perspective there is a radical difference between the suffering of the other, where it is unforgivable to me, solicits me and calls me, and suffering 18 As to this, cf. the astute observations of Karl Rahner, ‘Warum lässt Gott uns leiden?’, in Karl Rahner, Schriften zur Theologie, vol. XIV (Freiburg: Herder, 1980), 450–466. 19 Emmanuel Lévinas, ‘Useless Suffering’, in Emmanuel Lévinas, Entre nous: On Thinking-of-theother (trans. Michael B. Smith and Barbara Harshav, New York: Columbia UP, 2000), 92.



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in me, my own experience of suffering, whose constitutional or congenital uselessness can take on a meaning, the only one of which suffering is capable, in becoming a suffering for the suffering (inexorable though it may be) of someone else.20 The objects of Lévinas’ phenomenological, decidedly non-theological illumination can nevertheless be of use for understanding the suffering of the crucifixion as a suffering that is shared by God himself. Of course, this means leaving behind the exclusiveness of traditional metaphors for the interpretation of the events on the cross, for example of the crucifixion as substitutive atonement, of God’s innocent servant suffering for the sins of mankind. Taking up Lévinas’ ideas, we can posit that God joins his creatures in their suffering because he feels it to be his ethical responsibility towards the Other of himself (his creation), because only this shared act of suffering can fully correspond to his own nature and being in this situation.21 This way of thinking also makes sense of and justifies the idea of the powerless God. At the cross, the creator of this world reveals himself not only in his forgiving mercy, but also in his compassionate, commiserating love. Regarding the theodicy problem, it may well be possible even to see a progress compared to God’s speeches in the book of Job: as the father of Jesus Christ, YHWH himself is plunged into suffering and grief.22 Still, we must take care to refrain from using this idea for the justification of God in the face of innocent suffering. Love may overcome suffering, but its presence does not mitigate the meaninglessness of the creature’s suffering, nor does it eliminate the continuing, factual existence of lament-inspiring suffering, injustice and pain. Unfortunately, the majority of more recent attempts of coming to terms with the theodicy problem through theologies of the cross and Trinitarian theology have failed to pay adequate attention to this idea. Thus, it appears that the idea of a suffering God does little to lift the suffering person out of her own misery and despair. As stated above, the idea of compassionate, shared suffering may well make suffering somewhat meaningful. But this is most certainly not the case with suffering that radically afflicts one’s own self, suffering that reveals itself to be

20 Lévinas, ‘Useless Suffering’, 94 (italics in the original). 21 It must be noted, however, that this concept should not lead indirectly to attempts to give meaning to others’ (sc. the creatures’) meaningless suffering. The cross as the locus of God’s empathetic suffering gives meaning to Christ’s suffering as compassion for his creatures, but does not give meaning to the suffering of the creatures themselves. Maybe, then, the only meaning of suffering that is truly acceptable in Christian faith lies in the compassionate sharing of others’ suffering and therefore the participation in Christ’s compassion (as in 2 Cor. 4,7–12). The mystery of suffering and the theodicy question have thus not been made obsolete. 22 The question may be asked why the lament of the crucified Christ should not be compared to the lament of his divine father. I only mention this to point out the recurrence of all the problems of the so-called Patripassianism concept at this juncture.

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radically passive by resisting any kind of classification.23 It would be a most unhelpful theological stipulation to simply construct a difference between human and divine suffering and compassion from this fact. It does not do justice to the reality of lament, whose purpose is to give voice to the meaninglessness and absurdity of the circumstances of life. Banning lament and accusation from religious practice amounts to a denial of contingency. More succinctly: if, in a desperate bid for finding meaning in meaninglessness, the main goal in life becomes to create a synthesis from it, then neither the radical passivity of suffering nor the universality of God’s biblical promises is taken seriously. From this perspective, the only thing left is the hope that God will prove himself once more to be what he has promised: justice, peace and mercy. In the words of Walter Benjamin: ‘Only the Messiah himself consummates all history, in the sense that he alone redeems, completes, creates its relation to the Messianic.’24

God’s Ambiguous Nature, his Disputable Existence25 and the Messianic Element Disregarding the messianic element and attempting a dangerous reconciliation of God’s power and his mercy in the face of the cross does not solve the problems resulting from humanity’s lamentable state, but only defers them. We cannot hope to arrive at a solution by simply adding more elements. What is more, this cannot be a matter of qualifying major statements of Christology by obliterating the difference between Jewish and Christian concepts of faith. For that reason, ‘messianic’ must be understood as a more fundamental, temporal category framing the discourse on God. It is of essential importance to come to a more profound perception of the sufferer’s situation before God. Here, it also becomes obvious that religion can only find practical application as a coping strategy for contingency if it is acutely aware of and takes seriously the contingencies of our world. Without such an awareness of contingency, it cannot be overcome. Thoughts on God’s ambiguous nature and historical disputability feature prominently in the theology of Wolfhart Pannenberg, who approaches the issue

23 The radicality of this passivity becomes obvious in the difference between being touched by the suffering of others and being subjected to one’s own meaningless suffering, as the latter usually resists any kind of sense-making attempts. Cf. Lévinas, ‘Useless Suffering’, 94. 24 Walter Benjamin, ‘Theologico-Political Fragment’, in Walter Benjamin, Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings (trans. Edmund Jephcott, New York: Schocken Books, 1989), 312–313, here: 312. 25 The term Strittigkeit used in the German original implies both ‘ambiguity’ (in the sense of God’s ambiguous nature, as he is characterised at the same time as benevolent and wrathful) and ‘disputability’ (meaning that the very existence of a benevolent God can be challenged).



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less from an interest in solving the theodicy problem than from a historicaltheological perspective. Thus, he states that: [S]o long as creation sighs under the dominion of corruptibility and death, creatures will also complain and there will be no silencing of the accusation against the Creator by which they show that they are still unreconciled to him. In view of the misery in this world this complaint can even become a contesting of the existence of God as a loving and omnipotent Creator. Hence only the eschatological consummation of the world will bring definite proof of God’s existence and final clarification of the character of his nature and works.26 Pannenberg rightly insists on the interconnection of lament and contingency as the key to the ultimate revelation of God’s nature and existence. But his statements also show that he fails to see the fierceness of doubting God in the situation of lament, as he limits it to the cognitive aspect of atheism.27 The eschatological hope for God’s ultimate justification in the revelation of his reign is based on the hope that springs from viewing the crucifixion in the light of Easter, and thus as God’s radical self-exposure to his opposite. For Pannenberg and many others, any doubt in the statement of ‘God intended it for good’ (Gen. 50.21) that is expressed after the unambiguousness of the Easter message comes alarmingly close to sinful disbelief. But this verdict overrides the double coding (of sin and suffering) of the biblical idea of salvation and correlates every instance of human suffering with a state of sin. But surely it should be obvious that not every instance of lament and accusation of either human or divine origin is equally subject to both negativities (sin and suffering). To put it bluntly: not every instance of contested faith amounts to sinful disbelief. This last point is a central issue in the discourse on God’s ambiguity and disputability in the context of a negative theology based on messianic principles. The language of Christian symbolism is concerned with a more precise definition of God’s identity and difference regarding his first and second arrival in the person of Jesus Christ. This also intensifies the temporal significance of theological statements. The question of the delayed Parousia, which was of central importance to the first Christians, must be re-examined in the light of the aspects of what we 26 Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, vol. 3 (trans. Geoffrey Bromiley, New York/ London: Continuum International, 2004), 631. 27 A comparable situation arises out of his thoughts on the theodicy problem in the context of his doctrine of creation. He does admit that only the hope for the overcoming of suffering can inspire the creature to elaborate praise for the creator. But on the other hand, he explains transience and suffering as a consequence of the distinction between creator and creature, and thus between the infinite and the finite. Cf. Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, vol. 2 (trans. Geoffrey Bromiley, New York/ London: Continuum International, 1994), 164.

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can and cannot know about God. It can teach us that we still do not know everything about God that we are ultimately meant to know. This observation is in no way intended to challenge the central importance of salvation as the God-given reorientation of human life toward its real destiny, as it has been attested to in the story of Jesus of Nazareth as the incarnation of the gospel. From a Protestant perspective, the sufficiency of this revelation must not be doubted. But God’s ambiguity and disputability in the face of an unjust world is a different matter, regardless of whether the injustice is caused by his sinful creatures or whether he as the creator bears ultimate responsibility because it lies beyond any earthly authority. This constellation must also be examined from a Christological perspective, but even in the context of Easter, it seems impossible to give answers that go beyond sketching some trajectories. The first revelation receives its final authority only from the second revelation. Therein lies the element of Christian discourse on God that is negative for religious epistemology and messianic for religious hope. In the Apostle’s creed, the tension between creation, salvation and consummation inherent in Christian faith is expressed in the predicate of omnipotence, which is mentioned twice. The first mention occurs in connection with the invocation of the father as crucial evidence for the synthesis of power and mercy (love) in God; and in the second, Christological article of the creed, omnipotence is cited again as a characteristic of the participation of father and son. This second passage is about the consummation and final assertion of God’s all-encompassing reign at the end of days. In the metaphor of Judgement Day, we once more encounter a God who now wants to have a definitive answer about our attitude towards him. This is what is really meant when we talk about man’s final decision. But this cannot be the end of it, because it is the omnipotent father who, in Christ, has revealed to us the ‘most profound depth of his fatherly heart and his pure, unutterable love’,28 it is he who holds the creature accountable as his equal. If this is the case and if man’s creation in the imago dei actually signifies his function as cooperator dei, it must be a consequence of messianic thinking to hold God accountable for his being and his actions in the course of history, or rather in the face of some historical occurrences. I am not suggesting that eschatological judgement is the main topic of discourse between God and human beings, but it nevertheless seems to me that Christ’s messianic promise expressed in the farewell speeches – ‘On that day you will ask nothing of me’ (Jn 16.23) – is in need of further Christological and eschatological examination. This promise finds its

28 Martin Luther, ‘The Large Catechism’ (trans. James Schaaf), in Robert Kolb and Timothy J. Wengert (eds), The Book of Concord: the Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Press, 2000), 377–480, here: 439.



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fulfilment on Judgement Day.29 If the key motivation for a Christian discourse on the ultimate responsibility of human beings is combined with Horkheimer’s exhortation to refrain from triumphing over innocent victims; if the difference between God and human beings is maintained and valid even in eschatic reality (if we do not want to apply the concept of theosis) – then we need unambiguous clarity about God, at least about the mercy and justice of his actions in the history of creation, in order to protect the abundance of God’s glory that is kept from human beings indefinitely. This is why we talk about God’s self-justification in the face of the world’s history of suffering. The alternative would be to underestimate a God whose essential nature is liberation and love, even in the Exodus and during Easter. I will stop at this point. It should have become clear that a fundamental theology that is aware of God’s ambiguity and disputability must also intensify its efforts to come to terms with its apocalyptical and messianic roots inherent in Christianity. From a reformational perspective, this must not lead to a trivialization of a theologia crucis that has its basis in the sinfulness of human existence. But this theory must also be amended to open up the extremely limited view of sinful human nature to the capacity for suffering inherent in Judaeo-Christian concepts of God. If the theologia crucis is based on the idea that God’s love elevates the sinner without belittling sin30 itself, a negative theology with a messianic bent strives for God’s incomprehensibility in the hope of his mercy and beauty for humankind. In this concept, negative theology is not understood to be a theology of absolute mysticism or speculative metaphysics, but one that carries within itself the brokenness of the cross itself. One might call it a negativistic theologia crucis. Messianic faith is aware of the fact that not everything has been revealed yet, that many more good things are yet to come, and that therefore, both human and divine lament possess their own dignity. Thus, some time will pass until all doubts about God’s nature and existence in the religious life of human beings are transformed into an awareness of his true and loving presence. Until then, theological borderline figures like the Deus absconditus, who is hidden yet whose works can be seen everywhere, are necessary as indirect and distant reminders of those things that have their proper place in the existential locus of lament before God:31 to fight with God against God, to plead with God for God or, simply put, ‘Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!’ (Rev. 22.20).

29 Benedict XVI has taken up this topic – referring, among others, to the Frankfurt School – in his encyclical Spe salvi of 30 November 2007. There, he says among other things: ‘I am convinced that the question of justice constitutes the essential argument, or in any case the strongest argument, in favour of faith in eternal life’ (Benedikt XIV, Spe salvi, No. 43). The papal theologian sees Judgement Day as a sign of hope. 30 Cf. accordant formulations of Martin Luther in his Heidelberg Disputation from 1518: Martin Luther, ‘Heidelberg Disputation’ (1518), in Timothy F. Lull, William R. Russell (eds), Martin Luther’s Basic Theological Writings (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 2005), 47–61, here: 60–61 (annotation to thesis 28). 31 Cf. Eva Harasta, chapter 12 in this volume.

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Chapter 4

Lament for Naught? An Inquiry into the Suppression of Lament in Systematic Theology: On the Example of Karl Barth Matthias D. Wüthrich

Invalid Lament – Invalid Suppression of Lament Is lament not – according to a fairly prevalent theological tradition – simply a manifestation of sin in the sense of hubris, a whiny, petulant revolt of man against God, the egotistical self-distortion of man – and thus invalid, null and void, or, as Karl Barth would say, nichtig? This chapter does not undertake to answer this rather platitudinous question, although a theologically differentiated rationale of its repudiation would be far from remiss.1 Instead, I shall attempt to demonstrate how this question could have come about in the first place: which systematictheological thought patterns bring forth this verdict of unworthiness, of invalidity, or at least aid and abet the theological undermining of lament? I believe that a true appreciation of lament as a phenomenon and object of inquiry only becomes possible where theology comes to terms with these contexts. And that goes especially for systematic theology, where this appreciation is almost completely missing, as has been admonished particularly from the ranks of Old Testament scholarship. Thus, for example, states Bernd Janowski: ‘That lament is hardly given any consideration in systematic-theological reflection […] has been repeatedly noted by Old Testament scholarship in the last twenty years, without bringing about decisive change.’2 And in the same vein, systematic theologian

1 An attempt in this direction can be found in Matthias D. Wüthrich, Gott und das Nichtige: Eine Untersuchung zur Rede vom Nichtigen ausgehend von §50 der Kirchlichen Dogmatik Karl Barths (Zürich: TVZ, 2006), 344–358. (Unless specified otherwise, all quotations from German works were translated by Martina Sitling.) 2 Bernd Janowski, Konfliktgespräche mit Gott: Eine Anthropologie der Psalmen (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2003), 36.



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Oswald Bayer holds: ‘To this day, it [lament] does not represent a significant aspect of either dogmatics or ethics and has found its way into the major textbooks and dictionaries only recently.’3 Therefore, this chapter is concerned with the question of how this invalidation was brought about, or more precisely, what has caused the undermining and even suppression of lament as a phenomenon and object of inquiry in systematic theology.

On the Invalidation of the Question of Theodicy Let me start by stating the chapter’s working thesis right away: the reason for the specific suppression of lament as a phenomenon and object of inquiry in systematic theology is rooted in the systematic-theological invalidation of the theodicy question. The invalidation of the theodicy question, in turn, is caused by various forms of theodicy or theodicy-like thought patterns. This is not to say that there are no other factors in the suppression of lament; my claim, however, is that this is the main reason. Before this thesis is developed in more detail, there are three clarifications to be made: 1. The term ‘theodicy question’ (Theodizeefrage) can be negotiated on two levels: on the level of existential religious practice and on the level of (systematic) theology. Drawing this distinction is critical. But the reflections of (systematic) theology on practice must be related to the latter’s theodicy question such that the former’s reflection is affected and stimulated by that question. (This does not mean that [systematic] theology, being thus affected and stimulated, could not and should not reflect upon itself once again.) On the existential level, the line between lament and the theodicy question is blurred, as could be demonstrated on the example of individual prayers of lament. In the theological literature, this blurring is manifested in the fact that one can speak of a ‘theodicy lament’ (Theodizeeklage).4 In the thesis stated above, however, the term ‘theodicy question’ does not refer to the existential level, but to the level

3 ‘Bis heute bildet sie [sc. die Klage] keinen entscheidenden Gesichtspunkt der Dogmatik und Ethik und findet in die Begriffssystematik der massgebenden Handbücher und Lexika nur langsam Eingang.’ Oswald Bayer, ‘Klage’, RGG 4 (2001), 1391–1392, here: 1391. Looking at the study of Kathleen D. Billman/Daniel L. Migliore, Rachel’s Cry: Prayer of Lament and Rebirth of Hope (Cleveland: United Church Press, 1999), a similar development can be traced in Anglophone scholarship, cf. ibid., 7–8, 46–74. 4 Ulrich Hedinger, Wider die Versöhnung Gottes mit dem Elend: Eine Kritik des christlichen Theismus und A-Theismus (BSHST 60; Zürich: TVZ, 1972), e.g. 87, 134.

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of (systematic) theology, where it has to be distinguished from the religious practice of lament. 2. On this basis, the theodicy as question in systematic theology is invalidated not only by various forms of theodicy – i.e. by explicit attempts at formulating a theoretical justification of God in the face of evil (broadly conceived). Moreover, the theodicy question is also invalidated by theodicy-like thought patterns. The concept of theodicy-likeness or theodicy analogy (Theodizeeanalogie) also needs to be defined here. The term theodicy is modern, coined by Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz in his Essais de Théodicée (1710). 5 Using the term ‘theodicy-like’ in a historical-genetic manner represents a retrograde transfer of the modern problem of theodicy to analogous structures, for example in antiquity or the Middle Ages.6 Here, this term is defined even more broadly: it denotes all implicit attempts of a theological or philosophical justification of God in the face of evil (broadly conceived).7 3. I will not give a precise definition of the term ‘lament’ here; it should suffice to provide a summary statement that in this context, lament is to be understood as an act of silent or articulated verbal communication to God in the sense of a protest, of crying, cursing, pleading, sighing (etc.) before, with and against God, with special attention paid to the Old Testament lament prayers of the individual (e.g. Ps. 13) among a multitude of possible forms. I will now provide two examples illustrating how the invalidation of the theodicy question and the resulting suppression of lament may come about in systematic theology. This suppression is apparent in two typologies which will be introduced briefly, their finer differentiations being of no concern in this context. a) In his book Evil and the God of Love, John Hick defines the Augustinian type of theodicy, which he distinguishes from the Irenean type of theodicy, with the Augustinian type being, and having been, much more dominant in Western theology. According to Hick, the basic features of the Augustinian type of theodicy are: (i) an emphasis on the goodness of creation; (ii) the notion that evil originates in human free will, interpreted as sin,8 and that therefore human suffering must be understood as punishment for sins (actual as well as original); (iii) the notion, albeit 5 Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Essais de théodicée sur la bonté de Dieu, la liberté de l’ homme et l’ origine du mal/Die Theodizee von der Güte Gottes, der Freiheit des Men­schen und dem Ursprung des Übels (Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz: Philosophische Schriften vols II/1 and II/2; ed. and trans. Herbert Herring, Darm­stadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1985). 6 Carl-Friedrich Geyer, ‘Theodizee: Philosophisch’, TRE 23 (2002), pp. 231–237, here: 232. 7 In a similar vein: Hans Kessler, Gott und das Leid seiner Schöpfung: Nachdenkliches zur Theodizeefrage (Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2000), 13–14. 8 This thought is emphasized by John Hick less in the basic features of the Augustinian type of theodicy than in his treatise on Augustine himself. John Hick, Evil and the God of Love (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 2nd edn, 1977), 59–69, esp. 59, 62.



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crossed with the idea of eternal torment in hell, that sin is allowed by God for the sake of the higher good of salvation (felix culpa); (iv) the ontological depotentiation of evil, mainly expressed in the concept of privation (malum est privatio boni); (v) the idea of the metaphysical evil, or at least the metaphysical imperfection and weakness of creation – which then in turn is related to the possibility of sin; (vi) the attempt functionally to integrate evil into the cosmos through aesthetic contemplation.9 One may find fault with Hick’s typology in that it largely ignores the traditional concept of the devil: certainly, this first sinner, tempter and adversary par excellence, created good and then apostatized from God out of ‘free’ will, also fulfils a theodicy-like function.10 Another question is whether Hick – as helpful and serviceable as a certain degree of typologizing may be – does not force an all-too heterogeneous assortment of ideas into the mold of the Augustinian type.11 The development of the tradition is drawn more cautiously by Walter Gross and Karl-Josef Kuschel.12 The theodicy-like elements of this tradition, however, show a close proximity to Hick’s findings: Gross and Kuschel talk about an ontological depotentiation, aesthetization, moralization, individualization and pedagogization of ‘evil’ (Übel ).13 They summarise the substance of this theological line as follows: ‘Ever since Augustine, the attempt to clarify the relationship between God and evil has always been an attempt to exonerate God and incriminate man. … It was thought that God must be acquitted from all responsibility, and recourse was taken in theories of privation, permission, punishment and edification in order to deflect any question of responsibility away from God and onto man.’14 A more 9 Cf. Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 169–198, where Hick summarizes the results of his passage through the Augustinian type of theodicy (ibid., 37–168). 10 Hick only addresses this function in passing (e.g. Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 62); on the underdetermination of the devil problem: ibid., 13. 11 For Hick, the primary representatives of the Augustinian type of theodicy are Augustine himself, the Catholic reception of Augustine to the present, Jean Calvin, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz and Karl Barth (cf. Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 70–168). 12 Walter Gross/Karl-Josef Kuschel, ‘Ich schaffe Finsternis und Unheil!’ Ist Gott verantwortlich für das Übel? (Mainz: Matthias-Grünewald Verlag, 2nd edn, 1995), 60–103. 13 Gross/Kuschel, ‘Ich schaffe Finsternis und Unheil!’, 95. (The term ‘evil’ here includes malum morale and physicum as well as metaphysicum.) 14 Gross/Kuschel, ‘Ich schaffe Finsternis und Unheil!’, 197. Also cf. Hans Blumenberg, who claims that Augustine’s abandonment of gnostic ideas has made the theodicy problem overwhelming. But in Augustine’s work, God is exonarated ‘at the expense of man, for whom a new concept of freedom has been defined for the sole reason of imputing him with the full measure of an outrageous responsibility and liability.’ Hans Blumenberg, Die Legitimität der Neuzeit (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, renewed edn, 1996), 146, cf. 145–147. Also cf. Johann Baptist Metz, who gives a quite similar account of this ‘Augustinian paradigm’ (!) of dealing with the theodicy question. Johann Baptist Metz, ‘Theologie als Theo­dizee?’ in Willi Oelmüller (ed.), Theodizee – Gott vor Gericht? (München: Wilhelm Fink, 1990), pp. 103–118, here: 107ff. Whether Augustine’s intended exoneration of God actually succeeds remains doubtful, however. This can be readily seen in Augustine’s doctrine of predestination, which seems to countermand this exoneration. Also cf. Blumenberg, Die Legitimität der Neuzeit, 148, and Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 63–69, esp. 63, 66.

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detailed differentiation might have been appropriate, but this tendency towards exonerating God by incriminating man is certainly accurate. Running parallel to this tendency, there is the tendency not to take evil and man’s experience with it seriously enough, to ‘de-vilify’ (entbösen) evil.15 The tendency towards exonerating God by incriminating man systematically invalidates the existing theological right of asking the theodicy question (which would only be named so later). The dilemma of the Augustinian type of theodicy is evident: ‘The classical theories cannot achieve both of the things they want to achieve: to take seriously the experiences of human beings and to exonerate God at the same time.’16 Where this is still attempted in the twentieth century – within the context of the gruesome experiences of ‘Auschwitz’ among other factors – the traditional features of the image of God are fundamentally challenged, and the second theodicy-like thought pattern occurs. b) In rejection of Augustinian-influenced attempts to exonerate God, and also in rejection of the comprehensive theodicy models of Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, the ‘idea of the suffering God’ (These vom leidenden Gott) is established.17 This idea ties in with some central insights of recent theology in its abandonment of the metaphysical apathy axiom. But the idea of the suffering God radicalizes this abandonment so consistently that God is taken up with – at times even completely absorbed in (cf. the notion of a specific ‘death of God’)18 – his self-restraint vis-à-vis the world, his suffering relationship to it.19 Even though this idea may be developed in a multitude of ways, its theodicy-like structure is obvious: ‘Whoever strives to exonerate God from causing the catastrophes of world history must subject him to suffering, must, in a way, incapacitate him (verohnmächtigen) – and must do so from the very beginning.’20 Of course, there is a considerable price to be paid for such an attempt to exonerate God: one could ask, for example, whether it is possible that in 15 On the term of the ‘Entbösung des Bösen’ (‘devilification of evil’) cf. Odo Marquard, ‘malum: Einführung und Überblick’, HWP 5 (1980), pp. 652–656, here: 655. 16 Walter Dietrich/Christian Link, Die dunklen Seiten Gottes, vol. 2: Allmacht und Ohnmacht (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2000), 297. 17 Dietrich/Link, Die dunklen Seiten Gottes, 296; regarding the critical discussion of the concept cf. ibid., 296ff. For criticism in a similar vein cf. Gross/Kuschel, ‘Ich schaffe Finsternis und Unheil!’, 202–205, 207–208, 210–211. 18 Regarding the critical examination of ‘a-theism’ and the idea of God’s kenosis in the context of the theodicy question as early as the 1970s, cf. Hedinger, Wider die Versöhnung Gottes mit dem Elend, 58–73. 19 Cf. e.g. Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God: The Cross of Christ as the Foundation and Criticism of Christian Theology (trans. R.A. Wilson and J. Bowden, New York: Harper and Row, 1974), and on the Jewish side: Hans Jonas, Der Gottesbegriff nach Auschwitz: Eine jüdische Stimme (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1987). 20 Dietrich/Link, Die dunklen Seiten Gottes, 297, commenting on the general idea of the suffering of God.



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developing this idea human suffering could be subliminally doubled, or even eternally perpetuated.21 Furthermore, one may ask whether these attempts of exoneration do not lead to a situation where evil (broadly conceived) ‘as a theological challenge, as an inquiry into God’s creation, is made to disappear and can only manifest itself as an anthropological problem, as a problem of human beings. It is moralized and therefore underestimated.’22 In this regard, the idea of the suffering God exhibits a secret affinity with the attempts of exoneration of the Augustinian type of theodicy. From the perspective of the biblical discourse about God’s might and (redemptive) power (e.g., with reference to the Old Testament, Lk. 1.46–55), it is hardly workable to resolve the discourse of God’s suffering as one-sidedly as is the case in the idea of the suffering God outlined above. To recapitulate: in both the Augustinian type of theodicy and the idea of the suffering God, God is exonerated through the incrimination of human beings and the devilification of evil (broadly conceived), even though this mechanism may not be consistently developed theologically. These theodicy-like thought patterns necessarily imply a systematic-theological invalidation of the theodicy question and from there an undermining and ultimate suppression of lament. Both of the approaches I have outlined above exert considerable influence on modern and contemporary systematic theology in their own ways.23 It is all the more notable, then, when a theology fits into neither of these theodicy-like thought patterns. This is the case with Karl Barth’s theology (especially in its more mature form). Barth’s theological approach, which is distinctly idiosyncratic and eminently worthy of consideration, has to date not been sufficiently analysed and appreciated in this regard; therefore, a brief outline of its basic features is in order.

The Peculiar Intensification and Simultaneous Repudiation of the Theodicy Question in the Theology of Karl Barth Barth has vigorously grappled with the problem of evil and theodicy in various passages of his Church Dogmatics, but particularly so in his pugnacious paragraph on ‘God and nothingness’ (Gott und das Nichtige).24 Barth’s concept of das 21 Dietrich/Link, Die dunklen Seiten Gottes, 300. For a similar perspective, cf. Metz, ‘Theologie als Theo­dizee?’, 117. 22 Dietrich/ Link, Die dunklen Seiten Gottes, 301, emphasis in original. 23 The two theodicy-like thought patterns roughly correspond to the typologizing differentiation of ‘Christian theism’ and ‘Christian a-theism’ (and the respective theological positions) that are both accused by Hedinger of reconciling God with misery: Hedinger, Wider die Versöhnung Gottes mit dem Elend, 33–101, in summary 74–75. 24 The paragraph in question is §50 in vol. III/3, in: Karl Barth, Die Kirchliche Dogmatik, vols I/1–IV/4 (Zürich: EBZ/EVZ, 1932–1967 [abbrev.: KD]). In the following, the page numbers of this

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Nichtige, which for practical reasons will be translated here as ‘nothingness’25, corresponds to a very inclusively defined concept of evil. Hick claims that Barth’s statements regarding this subject can clearly be classified as belonging to the Augustinian type of theodicy – even though this classification is not entirely unequivocal in Hick’s study. Contrary to Hick’s classification and contrary to prevalent interpretations of the Barthian paragraph on nothingness, it is possible to demonstrate how Barth (on the basis of the transformations of his doctrine of election) transforms all of the listed features of the Augustinian type of theodicy more or less fundamentally. But in this context it will suffice to give a rough outline of the distinctly different manner in which Barth approaches the theodicy-like tendency to exonerate God by incriminating man and devilifying evil.26

Barth’s Peculiar Intensification of the Theodicy Question In his discourse on nothingness (especially in CD §50) Barth’s aim was to counteract the trivializing devilification of evil; for this is precisely the accusation Barth levies at modern theological and philosophical approaches.27 And against a long tradition (starting before Augustine) of the ontological depotentiation of evil, he maintains that nothingness is neither ‘nothing’ (nihil pure negativum) nor relative non-being.28 Indeed, Barth states that ‘we must accept the fact that in a

German edition will be provided in parentheses after the page numbers of the English translation: Church Dogmatics, vols. I/1 – IV/4, G.W. Bromiley/T.F. Torrance, eds (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1956–1969 [abbrev.: CD]). 25 Note on the translation of the term das Nichtige: For reasons of clarity, this text will conform to the official translation of the Church Dogmatics by Bromiley et al., in which Barth’s concept of das Nichtige is translated as ‘nothingness’. It must be stated, however, that this translation is far from unproblematic, as it tends to minimize the evil nature of das Nichtige as Barth understands it. The translation ‘nothingness’ may lead to the common misunderstanding that Barth’s concept of das Nichtige should be localized in the context of a meontic tradition of thought or a traditional ontology. But this understanding misses the mark, as even a brief look at the term’s usage makes obvious. True, it is not a neologism – Barth uses a coined phrase. The peculiar usage of the root nichtig- and its derivatives can be traced back all the way to Luther and to German idealism, and up to Barth’s own teacher Wilhelm Herrmann. But it is striking how Barth imbues the term das Nichtige with a wholly new and ominous significance, with a destructive, aggressive, sinister load of power, thereby making it more than obvious that he has left behind the traditional trains of thought in the determination of evil! For further discussion of the translation problem and the conceptual history of das Nichtige cf. Wüthrich, Gott und das Nichtige, 59–80, 213–215. 26 For more detailed background information on the following remarks, cf. Wüthrich, Gott und das Nichtige. 27 Thus the bottom line of the passages on theological and philosophical history in CD III/3, 312–349 (KD III/3, 355–402) (cf. also CD IV/1, 374–387 [KD IV/1, 413–427]). 28 CD III/3, 349–350 (KD III/3, 402–403).



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third way of its own nothingness “is”’; and God – ‘for whom it constitutes a problem, … takes it seriously.’29 Nothingness, in fact, is ‘an entire sinister system of elements’. 30 Accordingly, a multitude of forms can be identified in the phenomenal spectrum of nothingness, among them sin, evil, death, the devil, demons and chaos – although Barth’s concepts of these forms sometimes differ considerably from traditional determinations. To be sure, it would be a mistake completely to absolve human beings from responsibility for the activity of nothingness; but considering the polymorphy of nothingness, it is obviously just as misguided to ‘maintain that it derives solely from the activity of the creature’31 or to interpret the actuality of nothingness solely as a result of the (impossible) possibility of human sin.32 Barth does not participate in the theodicy-like, anthropological reduction of evil. Human beings cannot alone be blamed for evil (especially not with the moralizing reductionism espoused by some modern concepts)! In the light of this context, the question of how God and nothingness are interrelated is all the more pressing. Barth delineates this interrelationship in a remarkable yet problematic manner. According to Barth, God’s unwillingness, his No, his rejection and anger also have an effect and are not without a counterpart: ‘What really corresponds to that which God does not will is nothingness.’33 Thus, ‘existence and form are given to a reality sui generis.’34 Barth makes this point with the utmost clarity: ‘Only the divine non-willing can be accepted as the ground [Grund ] of its existence.’35 Both the logic of this idea and its theological validity have been subject to frequent criticism. This is not the place to delve more deeply into these discussions. One thing is quite obvious, however: locating the ground of nothingness in God’s unwillingness leads to a tremendous, radicalized incrimination of God in the face of nothingness. Barth’s discourse on nothingness, with its material transformations of traditional theological inventories of the discourse on evil, quite obviously cannot be shoehorned into Hick’s Augustinian type of theodicy – most notably, Barth clearly rejects the theodicy-like thought pattern of exonerating God by incriminating man.

29 CD III/3, 349 (KD III/3, 402). 30 CD III/3, 289 (KD III/3, 327). 31 CD III/3, 292 (KD III/3, 330). 32 In fact, a temporal-logial provenience of forms of nothingness as opposed to the form of nothingness of sin can be observed in Barth. 33 CD III/3, 352 (KD III/3, 406). 34 CD III/3, 352 (KD III/3, 406). 35 CD III/3, 353 (KD III/3, 407), cf. CD III/3, 360 (KD III/3, 416).

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Barth’s Christological ‘Theodicy’ Considering this aggravated incrimination of God, the question may be asked how Barth, at the end of his paragraph on nothingness, can not only come to the conclusion that he has successfully circumnavigated the classic theodicy question, but moreover claim to have ‘authentically answered’ the problem of nothingness? I quote the whole passage in question: We have not sought to apprehend the relationship between Creator and creature philosophically and therefore from without, but theologically and therefore from within. Hence we have not accepted the alternatives posed by an abstract and external view. Even in the general relationship between Creator and creature, even in general world-occurrence under the divine government, we have sought the problem of nothingness where it is raised in its true form and is authentically answered. It is in the mighty act of salvation in Jesus Christ as attested by Holy Scripture that the question of the reality, nature and function of this alien factor is seriously raised and seriously answered.36 It is the focus of the nothingness discourse on the event of Jesus Christ that leads Barth to consider the problem of nothingness authentically answered. In order adequately to interpret Barth’s highly speculative sounding statement about the ground of nothingness in God’s unwillingness, note its Christological context. In the final passage of CD §50, Barth attempts to relate all of his statements back to a single fulcrum: the concrete history (Geschichte37) of Jesus Christ. For Barth, this history is both the ‘noetic and ontic basis’ for (the discourse of) nothingness!38 In this passage, Barth includes in the history of Christ ‘the self-giving of the Son of God, His humiliation, incarnation and obedience unto death, even the death of the cross’.39 It is only with regard to this occurrence that one can recognize true nothingness at all – without succumbing to its empty, evil mimicry.40 Barth derives not only the noetics, but also the ontics of nothingness from Christology: If nothingness has its ontic basis in the history of Jesus Christ, then God’s negation of nothingness, his repudiation of it, must be interpreted as

36 CD III/3, 366 (KD III/3, 423), cf. CD III/3, 365–366 (KD III/3, 422–423). 37 Barth’s concept of Geschichte is usually located semantically at the intersection of ‘story’ and ‘history’. 38 CD III/3, 360 (KD III/3, 416). Barth retrospectively summarizes his discourse of §50.4, whereas §50.4 in turn can be read as a summary of §50.1–3 (cf. CD III/3, 349 [KD III/3, 402]). 39 CD III/3, 360 (KD III/3, 416). Notably, the resurrection is not mentioned in this passage; cf. conversely CD III/3, 305 (KD III/3, 346). 40 CD III/3, 302–312 (KD III/3, 342–355).



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the reason, the ground, for its existence in the first place. This may sound paradoxical. But Barth is not interested in the unde malum question (which often guides the traditional theodicies) as such. He is not looking for an autonomous ground of nothingess in God’s being beyond the history of Jesus Christ. So far, this thought has not been articulated in Barthian scholarship in this form, but it seems inevitable to me: Barth simply works on the assumption that in the story of Jesus Christ as witnessed by the Bible, this nothingness as such is simply ‘there’ and refuted by God. And because it is ‘there’, it also must (indirectly) originate from God’s healing and powerful saving decree. Barth assumes that nothingness is negated in the concrete, biblically verified history of Jesus Christ; he assumes it is refuted, overcome, defeated – and thus classifies it a posteriori as belonging to God’s eternal election. ‘Jesus is Victor’ – thus Barth triumphantly exclaims on the last pages of §50.41 In this sense it can be said that Barth (in dizzying consequence of his Christological implementation of the doctrine of providence in CD §§48–51) attempts to think the origin of nothingness from the point of view of its overcoming.42 The history of nothingness finds both its beginning and its end in the history of Jesus Christ. The controversial questions about the ontological status of nothingness must be resolved in the context of this narrative ‘pre-supposition’ (Voraus-setzung). Nothingness does not have an autonomous history beyond this history of Jesus Christ. It only becomes apparent when its defeat in Jesus Christ is also apparent. Therefore, the question about God’s justice in the face of nothingness can only be raised legitimately where it already has been ‘authentically answered’ (as Barth states in allusion to Immanuel Kant43). Barth thus approaches the theodicy problem from the background of revealed theology. God proves, he reveals his justice in the event of Jesus Christ. A justification of God before the tribunal of modern reason is impossible, as Barth demonstrates in his paradigmatic criticism of Leibniz’s theodicy.44 If one can speak of ‘theodicy’ in Barth’s work at all, then only in the sense of God’s self-justification: in ‘The Justification of Man’,45 God even justifies himself ‘as 41 CD III/3, 363–364 (KD III/3, 420–421); cf. CD III/3, 360ff. (KD III/3, 416ff); also cf. CD IV/3, 165ff (KD IV/3, 188ff). 42 This idea has already been suggested by Wilfried Joest in his dogmatics, in a short passage on nothingness: ‘He [Barth] reasons a posteriori, as it were, from the notion that God has overcome evil, and projects this notion backwards onto the question of how evil can exist in the first place.’ Wilfried Joest, Dogmatik, vol. 2: Der Weg Gottes mit dem Menschen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 4th edn, 1996), 430. 43 Cf. Immanuel Kant, ‘Über das Misslingen aller philosophischen Versuche in der Theodizee’ (Wilhelm Weischedel, ed., Immanuel Kant: Werke in sechs Bänden, vol. IV; reprint of the Darmstadt 1956ff. special edn, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1998), pp. 103–124, esp. 115–119, where Kant distinguishes between a doctrinal and an authentic theodicy. 44 CD III/3, 316–319 (KD III/3, 360–365). (In CD III/1, 388–396 [KD III/1, 446–451], Barth’s verdict remains much more positive.) 45 CD IV/1, 568 (KD IV/1, 633).

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the Creator of man, the Creator of the heavens and the earth’.46 Interestingly, Barth does not attempt to preserve the idea of the protological goodness of creation, which would exonerate God. He has abandoned this idea in his passage ‘Creation as Justification’ in CD III/1, §42.3, by basing the justification of creation on its orientation towards the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.47 This aggravated incrimination of God in Barth’s work corresponds to the serious attention he pays to the suffering of God.48 Ultimately and firstly, it is God who allows nothingness, which menaces his creation, ‘to concern and affect Himself’.49 In retrospect, a twofold dynamic emerges in Barth’s position on the subject of theodicy: compared to Hick’s Augustinian type of theodicy, Barth’s work contains an enormous, aggravated incrimination of God in the face of nothingness in the world. This incrimination, however, is almost completely suspended by the self-justification occurring in Jesus Christ.

Critical Inquiry into Barth’s Suppression of the Theodicy Question Following the above outline of Barth’s theodicy concept, it is now time to look at some of its consequences and ask some critical questions. 1. In my opinion, the problem of the Barthian theodicy concept is not that it places the burden of proof for God’s righteousness on God himself. The problem is Barth’s tendency to state that God has already given this proof to the fullest extent in Jesus Christ. That this proof continues to be given again and again is not questioned by Barth. But if this proof indeed continues to be given, then tendentially it consists of only the mediation of the insight of the proof of ‘theodicy’ in the event of Jesus Christ (in the sense of a revelation of the revelation). With regard to nothingness, this ‘theodicy’ consists of the proof that, in Jesus Christ, God Himself has suffered nothingness and defeated it, so that 46 CD IV/1, 563 (KD IV/1, 628). 47 CD III/1, 366 (KD III/1, 430). Cf. also Pannenberg, who, following Barth’s doctrine of creation, states: ‘The most serious defect of the traditional treatment of the problem of theodicy […] is that it has thought it could give a proof of the righteousness of God in his works exclusively from the standpoint of the origin of the world and its order in God’s creative work.’ Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, vol. 2 (trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 164–165. 48 Cf. e.g. CD II/2, 120–127, 162–168 (KD II/2, 129–134, 177–184) or CD III/3, 310–311, 356–357 (KD III/3, 354–355, 411–412.) or CD IV/3, 368–434 (KD IV/3, 425–499). 49 CD III/3, 362 (KD III/3, 418). Compare this with the following pointed statement in Barth’s doctrine of election: ‘[T]he fact that from all eternity God resolved to take to Himself and to bear man’s rejection is a prior justification of God in respect of the risk to which He resolved to expose man by creation – and in respect of the far greater risk to which He committed him by His permitting of the fall.’ CD II/2, 165 (KD II/2, 180), cf. also CD II/2, 122–123 (KD II/2, 135–136).



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the dominion of nothingness is already ‘destroyed’, ‘objectively defeated’, and now merely retains the significance of ‘a dangerous semblance’.50 Barth’s basic theodicy-like thought pattern – that nothingness has no autonomous history outside this history of Jesus Christ – gives rise to the critical question of whether it does not tend to result in an ahistorical reduction of the actuality of nothingness (even though Barth understands the history of Jesus Christ broadly concieved, including his prophetic activity after his death and resurrection51). Our human history with nothingness is entirely under the sway of and encompassed by the history of Jesus Christ’s victory over nothingness that has already come to pass and is conveyed prophetically. This means that we only have to exist ‘as if’ God ‘had not yet mastered it for us’.52 As an aside, it bears mentioning that there is also a sideline in Barth’s work with statements pointing into a different direction, opposing this tendency towards the ahistorical. 2. Barth’s exclusively Christocentric localization of the noetics of nothingness is accompanied by a withdrawal of the evidence of evil (broadly conceived). Regarding the noetic aspect of nothingness, Barth by no means disputes that creation ‘experiences and endures’ nothingness; but he does claim that a misinterpretation of nothingness is inevitable because it is beyond ‘natural knowledge’.53 Barth’s repudiation of any natural access to knowledge above all is evidence of a deep phenomenal truth, especially with regard to physical nothingness. Thus, for example, suffering is often more or less hidden from the mutely and dumbly suffering human being. But there are also somewhat more evident forms of suffering that painfully press to the surface of consciousness, pulsing there so violently that they absorb – and may sometimes even obliterate – the noetic endeavours of believers and scholars alike. Are those who suffer so keenly to be barred from interpreting their own suffering as a thing of nothingness, as something evil, and thereby – at least for the time being – from uttering an ultimate truth? Who outside of the situational context of interpretation would be qualified to denounce this as a misinterpretation? Moreover, doesn’t Barth deny sufferers (particularly in extra-Christian but certainly also in Christian contexts) the ability to recognize the ultimate reality of their suffering as such? Does this not swaddle all suffering in the soft cotton of illusion – even where it abrades itself on the obnoxious hardness of pain?54

50 CD III/3, 367 (KD III/3, 424). 51 Cf. esp. CD IV/3, §69. Still, we must refrain from an undifferentiated adaptation of the common complaint about Barth’s ahistoricity – this much may be said here at least. 52 CD III/3, 367 (KD III/3, 425). 53 CD III/3, 350–351 (KD III/3, 404–405). 54 Apart from this noetic brokenness of the reality of suffering, there can also be observed a concentric analogical brokenness of the reality of suffering, emerging from the event of Christ, which allows one to think of human suffering only as a correspondence to the real suffering of Christ.

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3. According to Barth, in creation there exists not only a light side (Lichtseite), but also a shadow side (Schattenseite), a positive as well as a negative aspect. The world of creatures has a shadow side, a side that is menaced at its margins by nothingness, a side that, in a sense, is adjacent to and turned towards nothingness. Within creation there is a No, there are depths, darknesses, poverty, degradation, failure, weeping, loss, mortality. True, the proportions of light and shadow may well be distributed according to a very ‘hidden justice’.55 But Barth states that creation, having been created with Jesus Christ as its centre, is also as such, in this inner, relative contradiction, in its completeness and totality, perfect and good; yes, as it will be revealed upon the return of Jesus Christ, ‘even very good’.56 Nothingness, on the other hand, has its ground only in God’s No, in his unwillingness. According to Barth, it is in no way associated with negative aspects of the good creation, which are positively willed and affirmed by God. Rather, nothingness forms the opposite par excellence to both Creator and creation. The distinction between true nothingness and the good shadow side of creation is constitutive for the doctrine of nothingness.57 In the context of the Christian tradition, Barth’s distinction leads to a fundamentally new understanding of evil (not in the sense of sin but of suffering [Übel ]): not every evil can be classified as malum physicum/naturale (or physical nothingness); there is also ‘evil’ that belongs to the shadow side of the good creation.58 The theodicy-like nature of this thought pattern is evident: God’s ‘hidden justice’ extends to the shadow side of creation too. And since the criterion of legitimate distinction between nothingness and the shadow side lies solely in the knowledge of Christ, it is in turn impossible to identify physical nothingness as physical nothingness independently of God’s self-justification in Jesus Christ. Thus, the critical inquiries suggested in chapter 2 apply here as well. How can lament – and particularly the lament of accusation – find theological legitimation if the problem of nothingness has already been ‘authentically answered’, if nothingness is only allowed to have an illusionary status, if 55 CD III/3, 297, cf. 296–297 (KD III/3, 336, cf. 336–337). 56 CD III/3, 296, cf. 295–302 (KD III/3, 336, cf. 334–342). 57 The imprecision and blurriness of Barth’s distinction between nothingness and the shadow side of creation have been pointed out in particular by Wolf Krötke, Sin and Nothingness in the Theology of Karl Barth (trans. Philip G. Ziegler, Studies in Reformed Theology and History NS10; Princeton: Princeton Theological Seminary, 2005), 29, 35ff, 43–45. 58 Wolfgang Huber has described Barth’s distinction between the shadow side of creation and nothingness as ‘one of the most important contributions of theology on the subject that in modern times has been subsumed under the concept of “theodicy”.’ Wolfgang Huber, ‘Theodizee’, in Wolfgang Huber, Konflikt und Konsens: Studien zur Ethik der Verantwortung (Mün­chen: Kaiser, 1990), 129, cf. 127ff.



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nothingness can only be recognized, even, in the light of God’s self-justification in Jesus Christ, if experiences of evil can always be interpreted as belonging to the good shadow side of creation? If human beings under the sway of Christology are denied their real misery and suffering, how can they rightfully lament before God, with God and against God? Are not their only remaining options docile silence and forced gratitude? It is hardly surprising, then, that Barth is quite unwilling to concede any theological legitimacy to lament in his interpretation of the book of Job.59 Lament as such belongs to the realm of sin; it is nichtig, a matter of nothingness. Its legitimacy is gained only ex post, in the course of Job’s justification. To be sure, there are passages in the CD (and also in earlier works) where Barth’s view towards lament is somewhat less unforgiving than in his Job exegesis, but overall, critical statements about lament clearly prevail. The intent of this argument has been to develop Barth’s theological undermining of lament within the context of his approach to the theodicy question. This undermining could just as well have been demonstrated by analysing the immanent systematic-theological structures of Barth’s concept of prayer,60 but they too could be related back to Barth’s approach to the theodicy question. Looking at Barth’s mature theology, we see the following: wherever the theodicy question is theologically invalidated by a ‘theodicy’ or by theodicy-like thought patterns, the theological legitimacy of lament is undermined as well.

Consequences for Systematic Theology I concur with Oswald Bayer that the suppression of lament affects ‘the innermost secret of Christian faith’,61 and that a closer systematic theological analysis of lament could bring to light its transformative potential for all aspects of dogmatics.62 This context must be kept in mind when, based on the discussion so

59 Cf. CD IV/3, 383–388, 398–408, 421–434, 453–461 (KD IV/3, 443–448, 459–470, 486–499, 522–531). 60 Cf. concerning this matter: Eva Harasta, Lob und Bitte: Eine systematisch-theologische Untersuchung über das Gebet (Neukirchen-Vluyn, Neukirchener, 2005), 183–232, or: Daniel L. Migliore, ‘Freedom to Pray. Karl Barth’s Theology of Prayer’, in Don E. Saliers (ed.), Prayer: Karl Barth (50th Anniversary Edition; Louisville/London: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), pp. 95–113, esp. 109ff. Cf. also Martin Wendte’s chapter in this volume, which develops Barth’s undermining of lament from a perspective of trinitarian theology (Martin Wendte, ‘Lamentation between Contradiction and Obedience’). 61 ‘das innerste Geheimnis des christlichen Glaubens’. Oswald Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (JBTh 16; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2001), pp. 289–301, here: 289. 62 Cf. also Bayer’s dogmatic outline, Oswald Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, 289–296.

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far, I give a fragmentary and selective account of some consequences of the serious consideration of lament in systematic theology: 1. It is possible to turn the previous hypothesis on its head: lament can only be legitimized in systematic theology where it is not nipped in the bud by theodicy or by theodicy-like thought patterns (and a corresponding invalidation of the theodicy question). Does the inalienable notion of accountability in systematic theology really necessitate theodicy or theodicy-like thought patterns? Is such a notion not secretly born of an unbiblical, modernist-moralist idea of God that no longer relates God and evil (broadly conceived) in such a way that the latter becomes the ‘rock of atheism’ (Fels des Atheismus) (Georg Büchner) that must be shattered apologetically? Against this moralistically reductive idea of God, systematic theology must strive to keep the theodicy question open – for the sake of the biblical openness of its idea of God! 2. In the face of this demand, there is no apparent reason not to interpret theodicy as divine theodicy, as the self-justification of God. But where this self-justification only consists of God’s justification of the sinner that has already been effected in Jesus Christ – as is the case in the work of Gerhard Ebeling63 – it leads to intolerable reductionism: first, because the theodicy question does not exclusively refer to human sin(s) and its/their consequenes – this would amount to a trivialization of the complex, interdependent phenomena of evil. And second, the salutary action of Jesus Christ has not come to an end with the singular event of the Cross and the resurrection. Our history with the crucified and resurrected Christ continues – and not only as a history of justification based on that singular event, but as Jesus Christ’s healing history – erupting ‘from ahead’ – with the entire fragile, menaced, groaning creation. God’s complete self-justification in Jesus Christ is an eschatological event, a future event that will be consummated at the Last Judgement – and only then! There is no need for a systematic theological apologia that anticipates it. 3. When the theodicy question and thus lament are taken seriously as valid theological issues, a problem arises that systematic theology has never been able to get rid of, even where – no, particularly where – it has been trying to get rid of it most fervently: the problem of natural theology. If human beings who question God’s justice, who lament before, grieve with and rail against God are to be granted that their actions are not merely fatuous acts of sin, then they must also be granted at least a low-level, vague or intuitive knowledge of God. Moreover, there is the question (which must be expanded to other religions) whether there is, apart from Christian lament, whose aim and

63 Gerhard Ebeling, Dogmatik des christlichen Glaubens, vol. 3: Der Glaube an Gott den Vollender der Welt (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1979), 509–519.



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intention is to be heard by God (and various forms of despairing Christian obscurations of this certainty of being heard [Erhörungsgewissheit]), also a ‘godless’, ‘natural’, maybe ‘anonymous’ Christian lament which – from an exterior Christian perspective – nevertheless is ‘objectively’ related to God, ‘even if subjectively it becomes prayer precisely not in this orientation towards God’:64 a form of lament that attains its own dignity in the substitutional concomitant lament of Christians and the concomitant lament of the Spirit of Christ.65 Yet another question is whether and how one’s knowledge about God changes in the process of lamenting itself. All of these questions point towards a need for clarification in systematic theology regarding noetic relationships to God in lament. 4. Taking lament seriously will also change the modus operandi of systematic theology. ‘Systematic theology in general tends to strive towards a happy ending all too hastily and fails to take seriously the dead ends of the journey with all its uncertainties; however, it takes time to take this journey in prayer, in meditation, in temptation (oratione, meditatione, tentatione).’66 Should there not be a stronger influx of narrative, iconographic, dramatic, poetic and musical elements into systematic theology, elements that would curb untimely leaps across abysses? (It goes without saying that this retardant effect cannot and should not apply to all levels of systematic theological reflection in the same manner.) Moreover, one may well ask with Bayer, with regard not only to the lament psalms but the Psalter in general, whether ‘the general movement of the psalter from lament to praise’ should not also ‘determine the general dynamics of dogmatic accountability’. 67 According to Bayer, a dogmatics that is dynamized in such a way would also have a bearing on, not least of all, the determination of the locus and function of the doctrine of the Trinity.68 Wherever systematic theology begins to reconsider basic modes of discourse on God, the doctrine of God in general, its dogmatic localization, its internal architecture and its contents are vitally affected; this is already obvious in Edmund Schlink’s works concerning doxology69 and in a different way in the work of

64 ‘auch wenn sie subjektiv gerade nicht in dieser Gottbezogenheit zum Gebet wird’. Ottmar Fuchs, ‘Unerhörte Klage über den Tod hinaus! Überlegungen zur Eschatologie der Klage’, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (JBTh 16; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2001), 347–379, here: 376–378. The Catholic Ottmar Fuchs thus responds to Oswald Bayer’s protestant-influenced approach in the case of a lament that is heard (Oswald Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, 289–301). 65 Fuchs, ‘Unerhörte Klage über den Tod hinaus!’, 377. 66 Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, 297–298. 67 Bayer, ‘Klage’, 1392. 68 Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, 299, footnote 29. 69 Edmund Schlink, Ökumenische Dogmatik: Grundzüge (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 64–65, 725–791 (esp. 739–742).

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Gerhard Ebeling with regard to prayer.70 What would a doctrine of God look like in the context of a systematic theological reflection on lament?

70 Gerhard Ebeling, Dogmatik des christlichen Glaubens, vol. 1: Prolegomena/Der Glaube an Gott den Schöpfer der Welt (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1979), 192–244.

Chapter 5

Lamentation between Contradiction and Obedience Hegel and Barth as Diametrically Opposed Brothers in the Spirit of Modernity Martin Wendte

I. Thesis When the late Barth and the late Hegel are compared to one another with respect to lamentation, they show themselves as diametrically opposed brothers in the spirit of modernity. 1 They are brothers in spirit, because both undermine lamentation, but they are in opposition to one another because they undermine it in diametrically opposed ways: Hegel avoids lamentation by contradicting it, and Barth does so through obedience. In this respect basic decisions in the organization of theology as well as aspects of the structure and content of both Barth’s and Hegel’s systems are implicated. Engaging with Hegel and Barth therefore promises to be of interest to both historical and systematic theologians. An initial clarifying theological analysis of the concept of lamentation is necessary. A lament contains at least three structural elements: someone (1) who laments something (3) to someone (2).2 Attention therefore first turns to the one who laments. In order to be the one who laments, one must be perceived in one’s relatively autonomous, historical particularity. Second, attention turns to the one

1 The ‘late Hegel’ refers to the Hegel of the system. Primary sources for this reconstruction are Georg W.F. Hegel, Philosophy of Mind: Part Three of the Encyclopaedia of the Philosophical Sciences (1830), trans. William Wallace, together with the Zusätze in Boumann’s Text (1845) trans. A.V. Miller (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), as well as Hegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of Religion, vol. 3: The Consummate Religion (Peter C. Hodgson, ed., trans. R.F. Brown, P.C. Hodgson and J.M. Stewart, Oxford: Oxford University Press 2007). The ‘late Barth’ refers to the Barth of the Church Dogmatics: Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics (Thomas F. Torrance, Geoffrey W. Bromiley, eds, London: T&T Clark, 2004ff.). In the following the Church Dogmatics is cited as ‘CD’. 2 The numbers (2) and (3) are reversed because in the original German sentence the indirect object (to someone ‘jemandem’) precedes the direct object (something ‘etwas’).

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who receives the lament. The receiver must have the power and goodness to turn to the lamenter, and he must also have previously shown his ability to do so. A lament comes from and returns to a substantiated lament.3 Third, the content of the lament must be taken seriously in its full character of resistance. Hegel and Barth are brothers in spirit in the sense that they deny lamentation its power of resistance because they present it as something that in truth is already overcome.4 Both consider the reality of the world in time from the perspective of an extensive and already realized eschatology. As a result, the resistance offered by the suffering that is experienced in our lives, the suffering that is the content of lamentation, is presented as already sublated. And both are also brothers in the spirit of modernity because both tell a relatively totalizing metanarrative which is not sufficiently opened by the experience of the world that undergirds contemporary lamentation.5 Nonetheless they do not spare themselves a tour of history, since the realization that God actualizes Godself in history unites them. As a result, each one presents his specific interpretation as the result of God’s actualization in history and each system is formed as a reconstruction of this actualization. This further commonality at the same time contains their difference: they organize the buildup of their systems in opposite ways. This opposition can be formulated in relation to five central aspects: (1) the determining moment of completion, the ‘motor’ of the actualization of God in history, is the contradiction in Hegel, but in Barth it is obedience. (2) Hegel begins with outside perspectives, then turns to the consideration of their contradictions, thus integrating further perspectives and building up an all-encompassing perspective that becomes an inside perspective. Barth, in contrast, begins with the inside perspective of theology and integrates all other perspectives into it. (3) Hegel overemphasizes the Spirit in the doctrine of God, while Barth underemphasizes it. (4) Hegel only achieves the completion of his position at the end of history, which he sees as contemporaneous with his

3 So says rightly Oswald Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (JBTh 16, Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2001), pp. 289–301. 4 CD II/2, 170–171. 5 The concept of modernity is an ‘umbrella term’ that naturally occupies so varied a territory that it will not be developed or used in a comprehensive sense here. Only the meaning alluded to above is meant in this essay (and only in this sense is the one ‘spirit’ of modernity spoken of, since ordinarily the concept would require pluralization). See Jean-Francois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge (trans. Geoffrey Bennington and Brian Massumi, Manchester: Manchester UP, 1984), xxiv. Even though Barth tries to distance himself from modernity in many respects – the question of foundations, the priority of reality over possibility, etc. – he nonetheless presents a ‘metanarrative’ and is therein modern. See also Jörg Dierken, Glaube und Lehre im modernen Protestantismus: Studien zum Verhältnis von religiösem Vollzug und theologischer Bestimmtheit bei Barth und Bultmann sowie Hegel und Schleiermacher (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 96, note 108, and note 48 in this chapter.



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own thought. Starting with Jesus Christ, Barth writes the completion of his perspective into eternity before all time in supralapsarian fashion. (5) At this point lamentation once more enters the picture, now in relation to its first and second structural moment. Hegel undercuts the second structural moment of the lament: the sovereign power of the one who receives the lament, while Barth underdetermines the first structural moment of the lament, which is the particularity of the lamenter. The interrelation between the five aspects is the following. Hegel’s determining moment of completion is the contradiction. Using the contradiction, he transfers abstract autonomy into a symmetrically constituted relation and therewith the outside perspectives, each limited, into a universally integrating inner perspective. In the immanent Trinity he dismantles the hierarchy of Father, Son, and Spirit into the symmetrical mediating activity of the three, which he names Spirit. Similarly, he transfers the historical relation between God and human in history into a symmetrical one and thus the immanent Trinity into the economic. Thus God for the first time becomes Godself, so that Hegel does not reach his final position until the end of history. Once God has become Godself, the content of the lament (the third structural moment of lamentation) remains in view only as sublated. In the same way, the symmetry between God and human dismantles the sovereignty of God (the second structural aspect of lamentation). In opposition to Hegel, Barth, inside the demarcated contours of a theological perspective, grounds the hierarchy of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the immanent Trinity and secures it in the moment of obedient completion. The economic Trinity corresponds to this structure and is thus sublated in a certain way in the immanent Trinity; important events of history are written into eternity before all time. Similarly the content of the lament (the third structural moment of lamentation) is already sublated. Since Barth’s hierarchical structure underdetermines the Spirit, the particularity of Jesus Christ is already underdeveloped in the immanent Trinity. Similarly, in the economic Trinity the historical particularity of the human is reduced. As such the particularity of the lamenter (the first structural moment of the lamentation) is underdetermined. If Hegel and Barth are as such brothers in the spirit of modernity, since both sublate the resistance of the content of the lament into a metanarrative and so undermine the third structural aspect of lamentation, then in a diametrically opposed way each underdetermines one of the other aspects of the lament as well. This sketch concludes that in relation to lamentation basic aspects of the theology and the systems of Hegel and Barth will receive further clarification on three points. First, which perspectives are included by theology: is the starting point ‘from above’ or rather such that theology is more strongly affected by the contemporary arena of battle? Second, central points of emphasis in Barth and Hegel are being debated, which at the same time present basic options in the organization of theology: should theology organize its contents in an asymmetrical

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or in a symmetrical way? Third, here perspectives emerge that organize the comparison between both positions. In the following Hegel will be presented first (II), then Barth (III). In each case aspects of the conception of the immanent Trinity, Christology, and anthropology will be presented and then summarized in relation to what they mean for lamentation.6 The comparison of Hegel with Barth appears in section III in relation to the presentation of central aspects of Barth. The final section (IV) summarizes the thesis and sketches how the contrasting weaknesses of each position can be avoided, but the strengths of each retained. Lamentation can thus be given its deserved place. As lamentation in this chapter is generally serving as a marker for the reality of the world in its resistance and particularity, it is only taken seriously when theology does not organize itself simply as a metanarrative but rather includes within its metanarrative irreducible diametrical oppositions.

II. Hegel: The Contradiction of Spirit The Immanent Trinity: God Becomes Spirit Hegel’s philosophy of religion ignores the phenomenon of lamentation. The reason only becomes apparent when central elements of his entire reconstruction of Christianity are presented, starting with the doctrine of the immanent Trinity. It is presented in the Encyclopedia as follows: It is therefore the absolute spirit, which is at first the presupposed principle, not however staying aloof and inert, but as underlying and essential power […] in this eternal sphere […] begetting himself as his son, with whom, though different, he still remains in original identity, – just as, again, this differentiation of him from the universal essence eternally supersedes itself, and, though this mediating of a self-superseding mediation, the first substance is essentially as concrete universality and subjectivity, – is the Spirit.7 Hegel begins the presentation of the immanent Trinity by considering the content of the representation of Christian community. As such he begins with God the

6 Hegel ignores lamentation in his philosophy of religion. Barth’s discussion of lament in his exegesis of Job can be put aside for the purpose of this chapter as materially marginal to our discussion. See CD IV/3, 383–388, 398–408, 421–434, 453–461, as well as Matthias Wüthrich, Gott und das Nichtige: Zur Rede vom Nichtigen ausgehend von Karl Barths KD § 50 (Zürich: TVZ, 2006), 337–340. See also the reference to the complexity of Barth’s discussion of das Nichtige (nothingness) below in note 48.



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Father and in the beginning stays completely within the limits of the theological tradition. He calls the Father the ‘absolute Spirit, which is first what is postulated’ and as such the ‘substantial power’. By ‘substance’ Hegel means an entity that understands itself as independent, as having no constitutive relations to another. The Father at first seems independent. But this impression is corrected at once: he is the ‘one who does not remain shut off’ because he ‘begets his Son’. The Son is God just as the Father is (the Father begets ‘himself as his son’). At the same time Father and Son are ‘differentiated’ and stand in a hierarchical relationship to each other because the Father begets and the Son is begotten. Then the Spirit is introduced as the ‘mediation’ between the two. That means that this determination of the Son, ‘this differentiation of him from the universal essence eternally supersedes itself’: Father and Son are not only differentiated from each other, but also essentially mediated in relation to each other. Precisely because the Father gives up his independence and begets the Son, the Son is not merely the one who is differentiated from the Father, but is also most intimately connected with him: both are perichoretically mediated. What is innovative in Hegel is that he follows the essential mediation between the Father and the Son into their determination and changes their determination accordingly. Thus it comes to the dismantling of the independence and hierarchy of Father and Son – after all, both are themselves primarily in their relation to each other. Hegel describes this as the presence of ‘the first substance essentially as concrete universality and subjectivity’. Subjectivity is the reciprocal concept of the initial substance and is determined by being itself in the mediatory movement with its other.8 Hegel calls subjectivity ‘Spirit’ and intentionally formulates it so that both the third person of the Trinity and the Trinity as a whole fall under the same concept. The third person is the truth of the other persons and at the same time of the entire Trinity, since as a moment it is a totality: the Spirit is itself in the mediatory movement with the other, which is a moment of itself. Father and Son are thus sublated into the Spirit. Hegel transfers the monarchy of the Father to that of the Spirit9 and therein the ontology of substance into a symmetrical relational ontology. At the same time he subjects himself to the suspicion of modalism due to the way he completes the picture.10 7 Hegel, Philosophy of Mind, §567, 299. 8 The doctrine of the Trinity illustrates central insights of Hegel’s system. Hegel’s programme can be understood as the self-transformation from substance to subject; see Georg W.F. Hegel, Phänomenologie des Geistes (Hans-Friedrich Wessels and Heinrich Clairmont, eds, Hamburg: Meiner, 1988), 13–14. 9 See Martin Wendte, ‘Monarchie des Geistes? Gegen den impliziten Hegelianismus in der gegenwärtigen Theologie’, NZSTh 49 (2007), 86–103. 10 See Wolfhart Pannenberg, ‘Die Subjektivität Gottes und die Trinitätslehre. Ein Beitrag zur Beziehung zwischen Karl Barth und der Philosophie Hegels’, in Wolfhart Pannenberg, Grundfragen Systematischer Theologie: Gesammelte Aufsätze, vol. 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980), 96–111.

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The motor of this development is negation, more precisely contradiction. As is often the case in Hegel’s material philosophical expositions, contradiction is not presented on its own. Nevertheless, contradiction presents the decisive moment of completion of the whole system and thus also our own position.11 In order to sketch Hegel’s idea of contradiction,12 three questions need to be answered. Where does contradiction appear? Closely connected with this: what does contradiction consist in? And what is its result? It appears in entities that understand themselves as independent, as substances. Abstract independent substances, which remain completely without mediation to another, remain completely indeterminate and therefore they are neither thinkable nor existent.13 The reason for that is that ‘omnis determinatio negatio est’:14 because every determination finds itself through negation, and therefore through mediation; abstract independent entities would be completely indeterminate. In truth these too are determinate and imply mediation with another. Contradiction thus appears in relation to abstract independent entities and is found between their explicitly asserted independence and their implicit mediation of another, which is essential to the entities for their determinate existence in the first place.15 For example: an entity is characterized by ‘immediacy’. It seems to be immediate/unmediated. In truth, however, immediacy is the negation of mediation and thus itself a form of mediation. The unmediated entity is mediated in opposition to its self-presentation. Thus it is possible to see the result of the contradiction: an entity which explicitly accepts the always already implied mediation of itself and thus attains determination.16 At the same time the entity thus achieves being and becomes what 11 This is already clear in the position he takes in Wissenschaft der Logik. It explicates the logical background of philosophical assertions. The contradiction is therein considered as one of the ‘reflexive determinations’: these are the means of explication that Hegel uses to develop the logical categories and thereby all philosophical determinations. See Georg W.F. Hegel, Wissenschaft der Logik: Die Lehre vom Wesen (1813) (Hans-Jürgen Gawoll, ed., Hamburg: Meiner, 1999), 24. 12 See Christian Iber, Metaphysik absoluter Relationalität: Eine Studie zu den ersten beiden Kapiteln von Hegels Wesenslogik (Berlin/New York: deGruyter, 1990), 441ff. 13 This is made clear in the beginning of the Wissenschaft der Logik (Georg W.F. Hegel, Wissenschaft der Logik: Die Lehre vom Sein (1812) (Hans-Jürgen Gawoll, ed., Hamburg: Meiner, 1999), 47. 14 Hegel emphasizes the importance of this idea of Leibniz (see ibid., 87) and repeatedly returns to it (for instance Hegel, Die Lehre vom Wesen, 169). 15 Thus the contradiction in Hegel follows Aristotle’s classical definition, Aristotle, Metaphysik (Horst Seidl, ed., trans. Hermann Bonitz, Hamburg: Meiner, 1978/1980), 1005b 19–20. For Hegel’s own definition, see Hegel, Die Lehre vom Wesen (see note 11), 50–51. 16 Michael Welker, ‘Barth und Hegel: Zur Erkenntnis eines methodischen Verfahrens bei Barth’, EvTh 43 (1983), 307–328 is right to the extent that Barth and Hegel in some ways make use of the same method. Both begin with statements that are only minimally determined and explicate them further so that further determination is reached. The dissimilarity that is not recognized by Welker is that the motor of further determination in Hegel is contradiction and in Barth obedience. At the same time thought and being finally coincide in Hegel, so that the changes that are called out in Hegel by the contradiction are simultaneously ontological changes. On the other hand, the further determination in Barth does not change anything in the determinant – precisely when God is concerned.



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it in truth is.17 Precisely this process of self-transferral of initial independence into a mediated movement with one’s other was shown in the presentation of the immanent Trinity. God the Father, who initially conceives himself as independent, realizes the contradiction of this position and makes his mediation known (he begets the Son), and the Son also wins over his mere differentiation from the Father. Both grasp their mediation as substantial and become through it what they in reality are: Spirit. This founding movement of the immanent Trinity, from the dismantling of independence through contradiction to the construction of symmetrical relations repeats itself in the economic Trinity. The immanent and the economic Trinity correspond in Hegel (as also in Barth). But in the latter the moment of contradiction is heightened: what until now was merely a ‘play of love with itself’,18 completes itself as the death and resurrection of God. Christology: Crossing over the Substantiality of God Hegel, like Barth, always thinks of the person and work of Jesus Christ as reciprocally mediated and thus develops his Christology soteriologically. We thus start with a sketch of sin as that which is overcome in reconciliation. Hegel introduces sin through the sinner and describes it as the finite ‘spirit, as the extreme of inherent negativity, who completes its independence till it becomes wickedness’.19 The human as finite Spirit in its mediated relation to God and world (as ‘inherent negativity’) ‘completes’ itself as evil. The human thus isolates himself from the mediated relations in which he always already is.20 This determination can be connected to the logic of contradiction that was described above: evil appears in finite spirits which stand in mediated relations with their others. It declares the independence which was initially asserted as its own identity. Thus it wilfully ignores the mediation that has always already been given. But thus it creates its own, abstract ‘contradiction’: because it assumes the appearance of simple identity as being, it contradicts its own mediation and thus its true contradiction by denying it. Salvation from evil consists in reversing the relation between identity and contradiction. Jesus Christ is precisely thus identical with his relationally constituted self, because he gives himself over to death as the material-philosophical counterpart of contradiction. The Encyclopedia summarizes as follows: 17 See Ute Guzzoni, Werden zu sich: Eine Untersuchung zu Hegels ‘Wissenschaft der Logik’ (Symposion 14, Freiburg, München: Alber, 1963). 18 Hegel, Lectures, 292. 19 Hegel, Philosophy of Mind, §568, 300. 20 See Joachim Ringleben, Hegels Theorie der Sünde: Die subjektivitäts-logische Konstruktion eines theologischen Begriffs (Berlin, New York: deGruyter, 1977), esp. 65ff.

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Under the moment of individuality as such, – subjectivity and the notion itself, in which the contrast of universal and particular has sunk to its identical ground, the place of presupposition (1) is taken by the universal substance, as actualized out of its abstraction into an individual self-consciousness. This individual, who as such is identified with the essence, – (in the Eternal sphere he is called the Son) – is transplanted into the world of time, and in him wickedness is implicitly overcome. Further, this immediate, and thus sensuous, existence of the absolutely concrete is represented as putting himself in judgment and expiring in the pain of negativity, in which he, as infinite subjectivity, keeps himself unchanged, and thus, as absolute return from that negativity as an individual unity of universal and individual essentiality, has realized his being as the Idea of the spirit, eternal, but alive and present in the world. 21 At the beginning of these comments the Trinity is not mediated in relation to humanity. It is thus ‘universal substance’ in ‘its abstraction’. Therein Jesus Christ incarnates himself and takes up ‘individual self-consciousness’ (the Son ‘is transplanted into the world of time’). Thus ‘wickedness is implicitly overcome’, since human attempts at independence (separation) from God are sublated by the movement of God to humans. But the God-human goes even further, to the final location of separation from God and human, the death of the godless.22 Therein is demonstrated what was indicated above: death is the material-philosophical counterpart of contradiction, so that Jesus Christ is identical with himself precisely in his consummation of contradiction. He ‘expires in the pain of negativity’. Three points are notable here. First, Hegel radically breaks with the axiom of apathy: in Jesus Christ, God dies.23 Second, corresponding to the logic of the contradiction, the material-philosophical consummation of the contradiction leads to a positive result. The outcome is resurrection (the ‘absolute return’) and the pouring out of Spirit, so that God appears as ‘eternal, but alive and present in the world’; ‘God dwelling in his community’.24 God and human are permanently related to each other. Third, it is decisive that mediation is written into the identity of the entity. Hierarchical and substantial relations are dismantled and rebuilt as symmetrical and subjective relations. God is no longer (as in the immanent Trinity) separated from humans, ‘universal substance’ in ‘its abstraction’ up there in heaven. He is also no longer (as seen Christologically) ‘this immediate and thus, sensuous, existence of the absolutely concrete’ that is Jesus Christ then and there, separated from humans today. Both substantial aspects of God are crossed over on the cross. God is now himself in his self-mediation in relation to his symmetrically related 21 22 23 24

Hegel, Philosophy of Mind, §569, 300. See Hegel, Lectures, 124–125. Hegel, Lectures, 323–324. Hegel, Lectures, 140.



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other, the human – God is truly ‘Spirit’.25 He has become what he in truth is. This ‘revolutionizing of the thought of God’26 now needs to be considered in relation to the humans that are affected by it.

Humans: Absolute Mediation with God as Spirit This objective totality of the divine man who is the Idea of the spirit is the implicit presupposition for the finite immediacy of the single subject. For such a subject therefore it is at first an Other, an object of contemplating vision – but the vision of implicit truth, through which witness of the spirit in him, he, on account of his immediate nature, at first characterized himself as nought and wicked. But, secondly, after the example of his truth, by means of the faith in the unity (in that example implicitly accomplished) of universal and individual essence, he is also the movement to throw off his immediacy, his natural man and self-will, to close himself in unity with that example (who is his implicit life) in the pain of negativity, and thus to know himself made one with the essential Being. Thus the Being of Beings (3) through this mediation brings about its own indwelling in self-consciousness, and is the actual presence of the essential and self-subsisting spirit who is all in all.27 Because of the self-relating of God to humans, humans overcome their sinful self-constitution and are able to relate to God. In the beginning Jesus is only ‘an Other and an object of contemplative vision’ – the Jesus of two thousand years ago – but through the ‘witness of the spirit’ he becomes truth for man, with two consequences. First man realizes that he is sinful (he determines himself as ‘nought and wicked’). Second man receives the power to overcome his sinful existence, in that he ‘throws off his immediacy, his natural man and self-will’. If man unites himself with God as Spirit, then God as Spirit ‘indwells in self-consciousness’. Both on the side of God and on the side of humanity substantiality has dismantled itself so that God, the Spirit, is found in the self-consciousness of humans and only there. The consciousness of God which lives in man is both genitivus subjectivus and genitivus objectivus. Therein the transformation of religion into philosophy completes itself. 28 Religion is characterized by the form of representation in which the one who 25 See also Hegel, Lectures, 140. 26 Falk Wagner, Metamorphosen des modernen Protestantismus (Tübingen: Mohr, 1999), 149. 27 Hegel, Philosophy of Mind, §570, 301–302. 28 Thus the discussions of Hegel’s philosophy of religion that deny the sublation of religion into philosophy are contradicted. See Andreas von Keyserlingk, Die Erhebung zum Unendlichen: Eine Untersuchung zu den spekulativ-logischen Voraussetzungen der Hegelschen Religionsphilosophie (Beiträge zur rationalen Theologie, vol. 6, Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang, 1995). Others explicitly deny that religion is sublated into philosophy in Hegel. See Günther Dellbrügger, Gemeinschaft Gottes mit den Menschen: Hegels Theorie des Kultes (Würzburg: Königshausen, 1998).

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represents, what is represented, and the content of representation are substantially separated from each other.29 Similarly, the representational content (the immanent Trinity) was separated from the thinking human in the beginning of the presentation of Christianity. In the realized relation between God and human there is no longer separation between the thinking human and the represented God. There is a contradiction between the representational content and its form as representation that is sublated in the transformation of the form of its content into the concept. The concept is the form in which philosophy is performed. The form is identifiable in two ways, both of which demonstrate why lamentation is elided in Hegel. Divine and human Spirit, in their movement from Christian religion to philosophy, have each deconstructed their own substantiality and are themselves only through each other. The divine Spirit has shown itself as benevolent and has become what it in truth is. But at the same time, the divine Spirit has forfeited the free sovereignty that would allow the human to lament it. Thus the second structural moment of lamentation is negated. But the lament is no longer necessary, not even possible, because the human, in relation to the divine Spirit, knows that the content of the lament was a necessary stage on the way to the free self-unfolding of the absolute Spirit. 30 Hegel does not depend epistemologically on revelation but rather on the negation of previous positions in order to construct new positions.31 In this way he ends with a position that finally makes all reality transparent to the concept in the material-philosophical existence of absolute Spirit. He thus transforms the outside perspectives of his metanarrative into all-encompassing inside perspectives. But in the same way the third structural moment of lamentation – the resistance of its particular reality – is elided. Barth also considers the resistance of the reality that is the object of lament as (almost completely) sublated in true reality, Jesus Christ. But he can be read as having an agenda diametrically opposed to that of Hegel, since he reaches his position through a decisive defence of the sovereign independence of God.32 Barth begins correspondingly with the revelation of God in Christ. His metanarrative thus begins with an inside perspective into which all outside perspectives are integrated.33

29 Hegel, Philosophy of Mind, §565–566, 299. 30 Hegel, Philosophy of Mind, §572, 302. Philosophy mediates itself further and finally reaches the completed self-transparency of absolute Spirit (ibid., § 577, 314–315). The historical particularity of humans is to an extent carried over into the logical transparency, so that Hegel may also be suspected of finally losing the first structural aspect of lamentation. 31 Hegel, Phänomenologie des Geistes, 61, calls this method of proceeding in a prominent place ‘self-completing scepticism’. 32 Barth himself employs this argument against Hegel (Karl Barth, Die protestantische Theologie im 19. Jahrhundert: Ihre Vorgeschichte und ihre Geschichte [Zürich: TVZ, 1947], 377). 33 See Ingolf U. Dalferth, Theology and Philosophy (New York: Wipf and Stock, 2001), 126.



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III. Barth: The Obedience of the Son The Immanent Trinity: Asymmetry between Father and Son and Pneumatological Underdetermination The immanent Trinity shows how God is ‘ours in advance’.34 Like Hegel, Barth begins with two traditionally common determinations. First, he develops the threeness in the unity (Father, Son and Spirit) through unfolding the relations of origin. The Father is ‘pure origin’,35 the Son is begotten from the origin, and the Spirit is brought forth by both. All three are equally divine, but there is a strict hierarchy, the Son is ‘subordinate’ 36 to the Father. 37 Obedience – as the consummation of the Barthian doctrine of reconciliation, its ‘indispensable basis and substance of all that follows’38 – is written into the immanent Trinity, so that the Son here ‘obeys in humility’.39 The Spirit is the relation of the Father to the Son,40 and is thus placed in a serving function and does not enter the picture as an actor himself. Second, Barth also recognizes alongside the relations of origin the perichoresis of Father, Son and Spirit.41 In contrast to Hegel, however, perichoresis is not brought into the relation of Father and Son so as to dismantle the hierarchy.42 As the Son obeys (and in no way contradicts) the Father, the hierarchy is rather confirmed. The relation remains under the aegis of the Father, so that God and the ontology as a whole have the character of ‘event’43 but, on Hegel’s terms, the substance does not unfold itself as subject. Alterity and relation are further limited by the presentation of Father, Son and Spirit as (mere) modes of being of the one being of God. Only he, and not the three modes of being, is credited with being truly personal, so that Barth can also be accused of modalism.44

34 CD I/1, 383. 35 CD I/1, 364. 36 CD I/1, 412. 37 See CD IV/1, 201–202. 38 CD IV/1, 159. 39 CD IV/1, 202. 40 CD I/1, 469. 41 CD I/1, 370. 42 See CD I/1, 396, where Barth emphasizes that perichoresis does not sublate the relations of origin. 43 See CD II/1, 264, 267, 272, 442–461. 44 CD I/1, 351; CD II/1, 267; CD IV/1, 204–205. Barth is accused of subordinationist tendencies because of his continual subordination of the Son to the Father. The further subordination of the Spirit to both leads to the accusation of binitarianism, and the singularity of personality of God leads to the accusation of modalist tendencies. See Dierken, Glaube und Lehre (see note 5), 55; on the first point, Jenson, ‘You Wonder where the Spirit Went’, Pro Ecclesia 2 (1993), 296–304, here: 296–297; on the second and third, see Markus Mühling-Schlapkohl, Gott ist Liebe: Studien zum Verständnis der Liebe als Modell des trinitarischen Redens von Gott (Marburg: Elwert, 2000), 110.

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What is certain is that the immanent Trinity is thought in hierarchical terms in Barth. As will become clear, Barth also organizes the relation between divine and human nature in Jesus Christ analogously to the relation between the persons of the Trinity (formally paralleling Hegel). The relation between God and human further corresponds to the relation between divine and human nature,45 as it is also hierarchical. To evaluate this move we must first be clear that hierarchy is not a problem as such. Hierarchy in the God–human relation can be seen as an expression of the biblical and Reformation insight that the human lives only by God’s grace, and that the freedom given in the liberation of the creature is in line with the will of the creator.46 Hierarchy only becomes problematic as a result of pneumatological underdetermination in the immanent Trinity. It is the role of the Spirit to develop particularity and freely to set this particularity in relation to other particularities. But because the Spirit does not come into view as an independent actor in the immanent Trinity, the pole that marks the underside of the hierarchy (God the Son just like Jesus as human and, correspondingly, humans in general) is not sufficiently developed in its particularity nor is it freely related to the above pole.47 In relation to lamentation the problem is exacerbated, because Barth sees the central aspects of sinfulness as already sublated. The treatment here can only cover these central aspects, not the important undercurrents of Barth’s doctrine of sin.48 These moves ground Barth’s transition to the doctrine of election. 45 See Eberhard Jüngel, Gottes Sein ist im Werden: Verantwortliche Rede vom Sein Gottes bei Karl Barth: Eine Paraphrase (Tübingen: Mohr, 1965), 35–36. 46 See Colin Gunton, ‘The Triune God and the Freedom of the Creature’, in Stephen W. Sykes, ed., Karl Barth: Centenary Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 50–55. 47 This treatment is an attempt, drawing on Colin Gunton’s insights, to develop a position that avoids the two extremes of the German debate while including the moments of truth of both. On one side is the reading found primarily in Munich, found in Trutz Rendtorff’s work and developed by Dierken, which sees Barth’s theology as a treatment of the central question in modernity, the question of autonomy. The question is answered by a doctrine of God that sees God as absolute subjectivity. The critique on this side ranges from the diagnosis of a lack of experience in Barth’s theology to the accusation that human freedom becomes impossible in principle. On the other side is the position of Wolf Krötke, who emphasizes that Barth uses the sovereignty of God precisely to ground the validity of human freedom. With Krötke we will hold that the sovereignty of God and the asymmetry in relation to humans is the condition of the possibility of thinking human freedom. However, as the Munich reading indicates, Barth’s actual presentation leads to an underdetermination of human particularity and historical experience. See Colin Gunton, ‘Salvation’, in John Webster, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Karl Barth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 143–158 and Gunton, ‘The Triune God’ (see note 46); Trutz Rendtorff, ‘Radikale Autonomie Gottes’, in idem, Theorie des Christentums (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlag, 1972), 161–181; Trutz Rendtorff, ed., Die Realisierung der Freiheit: Beiträge zur Kritik der Theologie Karl Barths (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlag 1975), Dierken, Glaube und Lehre (see note 5). On the other side, consult Wolf Krötke, ‘Gott und Mensch als “Partner”: Zur Bedeutung einer zentralen Kategorie in Karl Barths Kirchlicher Dogmatik’, ZThK Beiheft 6 (1986), 158–176, and below, section IV. 48 Barth’s doctrine of sin is more complex than I will present it here, lacking space to elaborate important and partially definitive accents subordinate to the main development. A brief reminder is that



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Concerning both epistemology and content, the ground of the doctrine of election is not human experience; it is only revelation in the person of Jesus Christ.49 The fact that God reveals Godself in Christ as God essentially is decisively confirms the doctrine of election as anchored in the immanent Trinity. God is not, however, constituted by election (that is, by his relationship to the world).50 But God did elect humans as his covenant partners, and this decision concerns his ‘innermost being, willing and nature’.51 The doctrine of election thus describes the opus internum ad extra52 and is, expressed temporally, located before all time. All of the following determinations are valid as supralapsarian; they approach God from eternity.53 This qualifies them as a ‘common denominator’54 of all of God’s relationships to the world. The doctrine of election can materially be understood as the choice of grace, as the ‘sum of the Gospel’.55 The unambiguousness of the doctrine of election considered formally matches its unambiguousness considered materially. Thus election is to be considered as a Trinitarian action: the Father elects to give up the Son for humans; the Son chooses to obey grace and to become human; and the Spirit elects that the unity of Son and Father is not torn apart.56 In this Trinitarian joining Barth first concentrates on the Christological determination: Jesus Christ is simultaneously the electing God and the elected human. 57 In the closer determination of this divine election the unambiguousness of the doctrine of election undergoes an important differentiation, as the electing God chooses for himself the rejection that in reality belongs to humans. Barth thus operates in his supralapsarian perspective with a doctrine of double predestination.58 This too results from his epistemology, since Jesus Christ reveals the being and work of God by completing the work of reconciliation in the fallen world. Similarly evil is written into the doctrine of God.59

Barth differentiates between nothingness and the shadow side of creation, grants to nothingness a cosmological dimension and thus finds the overcoming of sin limited in that some humans do not accept the reconciliation that has taken place in Jesus Christ. See Wüthrich, Gott (see note 6), 316–335. If these side aspects contradict the main argument of Barth, they also mark openings in his ‘great story.’ An interpretation that emphasized these elements more strongly could present Barth as the enemy of modernity rather than a modern thinker. 49 CD II/2, 41–44, 91. 50 CD II/2, 155. 51 CD II/2, 6. 52 Siehe CD II/2, 25. 53 Siehe CD II/2, 76, 89. 54 CD II/2, 93. 55 CD II/2, 3. 56 CD II/2, 101–102. 57 That is once more Trinitarianly determined, see CD II/2, 104–105. 58 See CD II/2, 161–162. 59 CD II/2, 169–170.

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Evil is only known in light of Jesus Christ.60 God elects it in Christ as that which he does not will.61 But he willed it as merely permitted. Only by permitting this shadow could God have humans as covenant partners because election implies rejection62 and each determination brings its negation with it. This will of God does stand in disproportion to his positive salvific will for humans. Similarly, evil appears in its nothingness only as that which has been overcome. This is true from all eternity, because God eternally elected rejection for himself and thus overcame it.63 The nothingness that we encounter in history is thus merely a simulacrum of that which is already destroyed. What remains, due to the blindness of humans,64 is the general revelation and acceptance of the overcoming of evil that has objectively taken place in Christ. Humans are written into the supralapsarian doctrine of election in Barth in three ways. Common to all determinations is what is true of Barth’s anthropology in general: it is based on the only true human, Jesus Christ, not on human experiences. First, all humans without exception are elect in the election of the human Jesus Christ.65 Second, this ‘being-elected’ is connected with double predestination, because God elects salvation for humans, while he elects himself for the rejection that belongs to humans and thus overcomes it. This overcoming is valid for all humans.66 In the order that is so established only one reaction is possible for humans: thankfulness and joy.67 That is human obedience and the expression of human autonomy. Barth says explicitly that any lament against God is unconditionally impossible68 because it would qualify reality from our own perspective, not from the perspective of Christ; thus it is an expression of human egotism.69 Lament is disobedience to the order established by God and therein it is sin.70

60 See CD III/3, 302–312. 61 See CD II/2, 170 and CD III/3, 352–354. 62 CD III/3, 351–353. Three problems result: evil becomes necessary for God and is contradictory in itself, because God must will it as that which he does not will. Second, a felix culpa theory of evil results. Third, evil is eternalized. See on this Wilfried Härle, Sein und Gnade: Die Ontologie in Karl Barths Kirchlicher Dogmatik (Berlin, New York: deGruyter, 1975), 242ff, and Dierken, Glaube und Lehre (see note 5), 78–80. 63 CD II/2, 172–173. 64 See CD III/3, 367. 65 CD II/2, 43. Barth emphasizes the close connection between anthropology and Christology by seeing all humans as elected ‘in’ rather than ‘through’ Jesus Christ (CD II/2, 116–117). 66 CD II/2, 168. 67 CD II/2, 174. 68 See CD II/2, 165–166. 69 See CD III/3, 363–364. 70 Eva Harasta comes to the same conclusion as a result of different considerations based on Barth’s understanding of prayer. See Eva Harasta, Lob und Bitte: Eine systematisch-theologische Untersuchung über das Gebet (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2005), 228.



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Barth does not locate election, which took place before all beginning, in a moment that could be located temporally before the earthly history of Jesus Christ (or of us), for two reasons.71 First, eternity is in itself eternal history and therefore event. Second, this eternal history as eternal is not only before but also over and in all earthly history and therefore takes place at each earthly moment in time. It is the mystery of every event of the world and of salvation that becomes visible and effective in the earthly Jesus Christ, that happens in him and simultaneously determines all earthly reality. But before we turn to the economic Trinity, we need to relate what has just been said to lamentation. Barth begins where Hegel ends: with a view of history, considered as a whole, in which it is simultaneously transparent as the triumph of grace.72 Barth thus presents a ‘theory of a completed ordering of reality’73 that recognizes (almost) all resistance as sublated. As in Hegel, lamentation is an impossibility in light of history as ruled by the graced election of God. In contrast to Hegel, Barth introduces the perspective that Hegel only reached at the end of history in eternity before all time. While Hegel’s God becomes only in history the symmetrical structure of relations he truly is, Barth’s God is always self-identical. The two thinkers present contradictory structures of completion: while Hegel’s God builds symmetrical relations and thus himself through contradiction, Barth secures asymmetries in the Trinity as well as between God and human (and thus the divinity of God) through obedience. Since the asymmetry carries with it the pneumatological weakness already indicated, Barth does not sufficiently develop the relative independence of the historical particularity of the human – that is, the lamenter. Therefore he does not grant contradictory and resistant human experiences sufficient room.74 It would be the work of the Holy Spirit to strengthen the particularity of human experience in history and freely connect it with Christologically determined prehistory, but Barth compounds this relation through the impersonal principle of equivalence and analogy.75 This creates a unidirectional determination of history through the prehistory (or primordial history) of Jesus Christ. Correspondingly, the doctrine of election is developed only in reference to revelation in Christ and anthropology is based only on Christology. Thus 71 See CD II/2, 181–184, and Robert Jenson, Alpha and Omega: A Study in the Theology of Karl Barth (New York: Stock and Wipf, 1963), 90ff. 72 See Wüthrich, Gott (see note 6), 273ff. for a new discussion of Gerrit Berkouwer’s Der Triumph der Gnade in der Theologie Karl Barths (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1957). 73 So Walter Sparn, ‘“Extra Internum”: Die christologische Revision der Prädestinationslehre in Karl Barths Erwählungslehre’ in Trutz Rendtorff, ed., Die Realisierung der Freiheit: Beiträge zur Kritik der Theologie Karl Barths (Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 1975), 62. 74 According to Gunton, Salvation (see note 47) Barth’s inability to grant the relative independence of historical particularity is an artefact of his pneumatological underdetermination (the work of the Spirit being the solidification of these particularities). 75 See Jenson, ‘You wonder’ (see note 44), 302.

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historical experiences of humans are not explained but replaced. Barth’s integration of external perspectives into internal perspectives does not sufficiently allow the external perspectives to speak. Thus ‘the contents and subjects of historical experience remain as such theologically anonymous’.76 The lamenter and the content of the lament do not appear sufficiently in their character of resistance. The following observations on the economic Trinity will give further contours to this Barthian picture.

Christology: God’s Divinity in Humiliation Barth treats ontology as event-ontology; thus God’s being and act are always connected. His Christology also connects statements about person, nature, work and office. First, he thinks Jesus Christ’s divine nature. As true God, Jesus Christ is credited with the munus sacerdotale and with the status exinanitionis:77 he fulfils the priestly office by humiliating himself, suffering and dying. The humiliation of God the Son in the world corresponds directly to his divinity because God the Son also submits to the Father in God’s own being. The obedience of God the Son to the Father as the mystery of the immanent Trinity expresses itself in the economic Trinity as the obediently travelled way of the Son into the far country ending at the cross.78 Reconciliation is thereby completed in five steps.79 Barth explicates the doctrine of reconciliation primarily in juridical terminology and begins with the statement that Jesus Christ appears as the judge of humanity.80 Christ appears in the place in which humanity stands and shows itself as sinner, because it is the expression of sinful arrogance to wish to judge oneself. Second, Jesus Christ is the true judge in letting himself be judged. He judges humanity by obediently taking rejection upon himself, so taking the place of the sinner whom humanity rejects.81 Third, this judgement is completed by the judge taking it upon himself. Sin, along with the judged judge on the cross, is beaten, killed, destroyed.82 Fourth, through the judgement of the 76 Sparn, ‘“Extra Internum”’ (see note 73), 74. This criticism is also offered by Martin Laube, ‘Die Unbegreiflichkeit der Sünde’, NZSTh 49 (2007), 1–23, here: 19. Wüthrich, Gott, 273–316, makes clear, however, that this acceptance of prehistory in the believing subject itself has historical contours, since CD §50 is characterized by a dramatic form of presenting nothingness. 77 CD IV/1, 79. 78 CD IV/1, 177. 79 In the following, the four developmental steps from §59.2 (CD IV, 231–259) are treated alongside the five steps from §59.3 (CD IV/1, 297–357) which are summarized as one. 80 CD IV/1, 231. 81 CD IV/1, 235–244. 82 CD IV/1, 253.



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judge, right is established, because Christ on the cross corresponds to the will of the Father.83 Finally, the resurrection is closely connected with the cross, because in both deeds ‘there is effective and expressed the Yes of the reconciling will of God’.84 Nonetheless the resurrection is a new deed, because it is the judgement of the Father on the way of Jesus Christ. Father and Son are justified therein: God the Father justifies himself by willing and completing this plan, and he justifies the Son, whose obedience is righteousness, because through judgement he establishes righteousness.85 Barth’s doctrine of reconciliation, like his doctrine of the immanent Trinity, is organized around the concept of obedience and structured by correspondences: because the Son is obedient to the Father ad intra, he can correspond to this structure ad extra, and the Father credits this event – himself as well as the Son – with righteousness. Because Barth credits the true God with the munus sacerdotale, the event of reconciliation (the overcoming of sin) is an act that takes place solely between the different modes of being of God. Because the act is structured by obedience, it is merely consistent that the deed of reconciliation – the humiliation of the true God Jesus Christ – corresponds to the divinity of God which is expounded in the doctrine of the immanent Trinity ‘and in so doing demonstrating and confirming the true deity of God’.86 Hegel pursues cross and resurrection into the divinity of God so that God (according to the mediating element of contradiction) crosses over his asymmetry over and against humanity. In diametrically opposed fashion, Barth pursues cross and resurrection into the divinity of God in such a fashion that the asymmetry of God (according to the mediating element of obedience) over against humanity rises up yet more triumphantly, yet at the same time means the exaltation of humanity.

The True Human Under the Sovereignty of God Barth develops his anthropology in correspondence with the true human existence of Jesus Christ.87 As the true human the munus regale and the status exaltationis belong to him because and in that God humiliates himself, the true human Jesus Christ is made kingly and exalted. Only God exalts: the exalted human therefore remains freely obedient to God and remains dependent on God as the recipient. 83 CD IV/1, 258. 84 CD IV/1, 309. 85 CD IV/1, 310. 86 CD IV/1, 259. 87 See CD III/2, 43; CD IV/2, 26–27 (among others) and Eberhard Jüngel, Der königliche Mensch: Eine christologische Reflexion auf die Würde des Menschen in der Theologie Karl Barths, in Eberhard Jüngel, ed., Barth-Studien (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlag, 1982), 233–245, here: 234.

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As said, this asymmetry as such is not a problem. It will turn out to be the case, however, that the pneumatological weakness of Barth leads to an underplaying of the relatively independent particularity of the human Jesus Christ. That is indicated by each of two aspects of paragraphs 64.2 and 64.3. The true human Jesus Christ is exalted in that God ‘has therefore taken up a being as man into his being as God’.88 However, God does not choose a human, but the ‘concrete possibility of the existence of a man’89 for the incarnation. Barth thus holds to the assumptio carnis, according to which the human nature of Christ is anhypostatic and has its reality and the basis of its existence only in God. The unity of the two natures of Christ is not characterized by the communicatio idiomatum but by the communicatio gratiarum, which expresses itself in the communicatio operationum.90 According to the Lutheran communicatio idiomatum all attributes and perfections of the divine nature are also ascribed to Christ’s human nature; the divinization of human nature is arguably implied. Barth’s contrasting position emphasizes that human nature continues to exist only because of the sovereignty of the grace of God,91 so that to Jesus’s humanity belongs the non posse peccare. Barth’s reconstruction of the life of Jesus is also based on the point of departure for his doctrine of the two natures: he emphasises that Jesus ‘as a man … exists analogously to the mode of existence of God’ and so ‘there is a correspondence, a parallel in the creaturely world, to the plan and purpose and work and attitude of God’:92 Jesus as human is ‘autobasileia’.93 Like God he is despised by humans, is particularly concentrated on sinners, and is a revolutionary against his conditions, above all for humans.94 The ‘yes’ happens in the words of Jesus that establish the nearness of God, but also in his deeds,95 above all in the miracles. In them, the kingdom of God becomes reality. The cross is the expression of his life until then and crowns his existence as the royal human, because here the kingdom comes to earth. 96 That becomes clear in the resurrection. It is impressive that, in Barth, the kingdom of God becomes accessible through the true human, but the price is high. The human seems to be nothing but God in action: he is exalted in such a way that he is completely dominated by God in his existence and determination.97 Thus the historical particularity of the human Jesus 88 CD IV/2, 41. 89 CD IV/2, 48. 90 See CD IV/2, 72–116. 91 CD IV/2, 90–91. 92 CD IV/2, 166. 93 CD IV/2, 198. 94 CD IV/2, 180. 95 See CD IV/2, 208–219. 96 See CD IV/2, 252. 97 See Gunton, Salvation (see note 47) and on this whole chapter Colin Gunton, The Barth Lectures (transcribed and edited by Paul Brazier; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 199–200.



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is not taken seriously enough. The narrated scenes of his life are unusually ahistorical, the temptations are almost ignored, the passion is not treated in its full depth, the ascension is only mentioned in passing. Once again, this is based on the fact that the Spirit, supposed to strengthen the position of the human Jesus in his historical particularity, remains underdetermined. The instrumental treatment of the human Jesus by God could be followed further into the ordination of all humans to God (or ordination for reconciliation in creation).98 What should have become clear is that the first structural aspect of lamentation (the human in his relatively independent historical particularity) does not come sufficiently into view. Finally, we will glance at Barth’s understanding of time in order to judge the third structural aspect of lamentation (the resistance of the content of the lament). Barth thereby arrives at pointed statements in his consideration of the munus propheticum of Jesus Christ. The basic statement about the prophetic Jesus Christ is his being as victor. Considered as a temporal statement, this means that the old eon has already passed away and only the new eon deserves the name of ‘reality’.99 Nonetheless the struggle between the two continues. But because Jesus Christ is already victorious, humanity has only to hold to his victory. In the knowledge of the now living eternal Christ we are certain of victory ‘with no doubt in respect of our being in the sphere and circle of vision of the “not yet” and the “still”’.100 Although there are subsidiary aspects of Barth’s doctrine of reconciliation that emphasize more strongly the ongoing nature of the struggle and thus grant more importance to the content of the lament,101 the basic statements correspond to what is already known from the doctrine of election: Jesus is victor, the old eon has objectively passed away. Human attention is characterized as having already achieved a certainty dominated by Jesus Christ, on whom one as only to focus. Since Jesus Christ communicates himself directly, the role of the Spirit is once more underemphasized. History is thus a history of struggle, but in truth the history of the victory of Jesus Christ. The content of the lament (the third structural element of lamentation) thus comes into view (almost) only as what has been sublated and overcome.102

98 See Dierken, Glaube und Lehre (see note 5), 91–100. 99 CD IV/3, 242–243, 246. 100 CD IV/3, 266. 101 See note 48. 102 Here I take up points of criticism of Barth that have been adopted by prominent Lutherans. See, for instance, Carl-Heinz Ratschow, Der angefochtene Glaube: Anfangs- und Grundprobleme der Dogmatik (Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 1957), 278–279.

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IV. Hegel, Barth and the tensions of Luther These remarks on Hegel and Barth have supported the initial thesis of this chapter: Hegel and Barth are brothers in the spirit of modernity in that both pay insufficient attention to the resistance of the content of the lament (the third structural aspect of lamentation) because they view the content of the lament as (mostly) overcome. They structure their metanarratives in diametrically opposed ways, driven by contradiction or obedience, and with the result that Hegel discounts the sovereignty of God over humanity (the second structural aspect of lamentation) while Barth insufficiently develops the ‘below’ in the hierarchy (the first structural aspect of lamentation). The concluding remarks do not aim at merely chiding Hegel and Barth abstractly for the absence of lament in their thought. Rather, both authors themselves provide reason for reconfiguring their systems in this direction. Hegel’s position is internally inconsistent. This thesis cannot be broadly developed here, only indicated: a position that ends in absolutely symmetrical mediation is characterized, content-wise, by complete emptiness. The theoretician who seeks to present the complete determination of all reality ends up in complete indeterminacy.103 An ultimate foundation can be sought, but never found. Thus any theory remains dependent on its preceding moment of praxis. Put in epistemological terms, reason cannot be its own basis, but remains dependent on an element of revelation.104 The way to integration of many perspectives in an all-embracing (inner) perspective cannot be concluded. In regard to the moment of mediation this means that the contradiction must always be a contradiction of something that is not itself the contradiction and that therefore is to be obeyed. The movement of contradiction therefore does not create each related element, but instead discovers the reality of an element that is contradictory. Said from the perspective of Trinitarian theology this means that for philosophical reasons it is also impossible to overcome the asymmetry of the relations of origin between Father, Son and Spirit. Similarly, aspects of the asymmetry between God and humans also remain after the cross and resurrection.105 For humanity in via the 103 See Konrad Cramer, ‘Zur formalen Struktur einer Philosophie nach Hegel, die als Kritik soll auftreten können’, in Rüdiger Bubner, Konrad Cramer, Rainer Wiehl (eds), Hermeneutik und Dialektik: Aufsätze II: Sprache und Logik, Theorie der Auslegung und Probleme der Einzelwissenschaften (FS Gadamer), (Tübingen: Mohr, 1970), 147–179, esp. 163–164. 104 Revelation is understood here in a broad sense as the showing itself of reality; see Eilert Herms, ‘Revelation’, in Eilert Herms, Offenbarung und Glaube (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 168–220. 105 This is why I rejected the radical representatives of the Munich reading of Barth. Insofar as this reading, particularly in Falk Wagner’s presentation, accuses Barth of holding to asymmetry as such, this accusation has to be rejected both for theological and philosophical reasons. See Falk Wagner, ‘Theologische Gleichschaltung: Zur Christologie bei Karl Barth’, in Trutz Rendtorff, ed., Die Realisierung der Freiheit: Beiträge zur Kritik der Theologie Karl Barths (Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 1975), 10–43.



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eschaton is not yet fully present: history, in its ambiguity and depth character, remains a non-dissoluble reality. These corrections would take the second and third structural aspects of the lament more fully into account. The structure of Barth’s thought differs from Hegel’s in that he (bracketing the temporal dimension) uses the above corrections to Hegel as building blocks for his system. Nonetheless his pneumatological underdetermination generates an asymmetry that leads to a further inconsistency that can also only be hinted at here. If theology is fully determined by God, then on the side of humanity the demand for the justification of faith in the face of common sense disappears. But therefore a position that wishes to think only based on God as ‘object’ ends formally considered in a ‘subjectivisation of faith’.106 In order to escape such subjectivism, a general metaphysics has to be developed in accord with general logical principles and then critically applied to one’s own position. 107 In epistemological terms, the indissoluble veto power of knowledge of self and world independent of revelation over and against revelatory inside perspectives has to be recognized. This is also necessary to prevent theology from being suspected as ideology. That means that obedience has to integrate contradiction108 without immediately excluding it as sin, and that sin is not only to be thought of as that which has already been overcome. Said Trinitarianly, the Spirit has to be strengthened as actor in the Trinity; thus beside the asymmetrical relations of origin a symmetrical relation of execution has to be assumed that simultaneously strengthens humans in their particularity before God.109 Here the depth perspective of history over against its transparency in the perspective of pretemporal eternity would be supplied with a hearing. Thus the first and third structural aspects of lament would be more strongly integrated. 106 So says Wolfhart Pannenberg, Systematische Theologie, vol. I (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1988), 57 (my translation). 107 Such a general metaphysics would have to accept the indissoluble character of practice, but would also have to develop a theory of categories through logical considerations. Thus an objective idealism would be defended, which for instance could be developed in relation to Schelling or Pierce. See Malte Krüger, ‘Absolut göttlich: Zu Metaphysik und Religion in Schellings Spätphilosophie’, NZSTh 49 (2007), 104–113, or Hermann Deuser, ‘Kategoriale Semiotik und Pragmatismus’, in idem, Gottesinstinkt: Semiotische Religionstheorie und Pragmatismus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 20–37. The alternative possibility of reacting to the criticism of a ‘subjectivism of faith’ and also giving perception of self and world an appropriate place outside theology would be to legitimate one’s own position additionally dialogically before others as theological discourse. This possibility can be viewed as a continuation of Barth’s theology of revelation that leads beyond Barth with Barth. The divinity of God would be diminished if it were treated only as the source of theological rather than general knowledge. See Christoph Schwöbel, ‘Theology’, in John Webster, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Karl Barth (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000), 17–36, here: 34–35. 108 Here the term ‘contradiction’ is used as discussed above in relation to the correction of Hegel. 109 See, for an attempt at such a doctrine of the Trinity, Martin Wendte, Gottmenschliche Einheit bei Hegel: Eine logische und theologische Untersuchung (Berlin/New York: deGruyter, 2007), 317–320.

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A sketch of lamentation that places it between contradiction and obedience would thus present the lamenter with his contested faith:110 he is the one addressed by the Gospel, who is precisely therein presented with the reality of the world and its whole depth.111 Driven by the Spirit, the lamenter brings the lament in its indissoluble resistance before God, in obedient trust that God will fulfil God’s promises, and in contradiction to the reality of the world and its lords as they now appear. He thus insists with God – the Deus revelatus – against God – Deus absconditus – beseeching God that he reveal himself globally as Deus revelatus. In order to reformulate the basic systematic intention of this chapter in terms of theological history, an irreducible opposition has to be inscribed in the unity of theology (which must not be given up) against the unilinearities of Barth and Hegel. Luther marks this irreducible opposition with the key words ‘law’ and ‘gospel’.112 Law presents the being-as-itself of things – it establishes what is as predetermined. The gospel is the aspect of mediation of things, the in-and-foritself existence of things that makes new entities possible. The remaining difference between Hegel and Barth is that Luther leaves law and gospel in a tension that cannot be dissolved, that in via does not allow a complete integration of one in the other. Luther is both the defender of contradictory reality and of the changing vibrancy of the Spirit – but to develop that further is the work of at least one more chapter.

110 See Ratschow, Der angefochtene Glaube (see note 102) 233ff. 111 Outsider perspectives on the resistance of the reality of the world are therein always permitted and simultaneously qualified anew theologically, just not as in Hegel and Barth in such a way that they lose their resistance, but rather so that they gain in resistance. 112 In this chapter I follow the remarks of Jörg Baur, ‘Luther und die Philosophie’, in idem, Luther und seine klassischen Erben: Theologische Aufsätze und Forschungen (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 13–28.

Chapter 6

The Fractured Unity of God Lament as a Challenge to the Very Nature of God Marius Timmann Mjaaland

What does lament say about God? What is so troubling about a sufferer’s cry? Is it trust or mistrust, faith or doubt, hope or despair? It is all these things – and all of them at once. The concept of God is rarely challenged so fundamentally as in despairing laments and accusations. And not only the ancients cried to God and accused him; even more typically so do the moderns and the postmoderns. The sharpest critique of religion is precisely the one which accuses God while simultaneously and secretly searching for him, as evidenced in Nietzsche’s proclamation, ‘God is dead!’, or in Dostoyevsky’s description of Ivan’s accusations against the Grand Inquisitor. In lament, the utter brokenness of human existence expresses itself as an open question towards God, calling God into question, denying him, but also placing one’s hopes in God with cries and with groans. In the face of radical lament every theodicy is found wanting because the justice and goodness of God fundamentally contradicts the sufferer’s own experience. This chapter will begin with some critical remarks regarding the classical problem of theodicy, and will then move on to the Book of Job. In Job, the problem of suffering is not resolved by faith in a good God, rather we find the traditional images of God repeatedly challenged. Job’s friends explain the problem away because they cannot endure the unanswerable dilemma presented by Job’s suffering. In contrast, Job’s lament and accusations against God give voice to all other experiences of suffering. God is not justified, rather God answers Job out of the depths of his hiddenness. The chapter then moves on from Job via a discussion of the philosophers Peter Wessel Zapffe and Søren Kierkegaard, both of whom touch upon Job’s experiences. They both see Job’s narrative as an example of the collapse of a generally accepted understanding of God and the world. Job’s lament at the brink of the existential abyss receives a new interpretation due to the deep disruption of classical metaphysics in the modern and late-modern periods. The degree to which we are dealing here with a great nothingness (Zapffe) or a repetition of thought (Kierkegaard) is an issue which will be left open in this context. It is not certain that these two alternatives are mutually exclusive. However, only the latter allows for existential hope in a new form of justice after this period of collapse.

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While holding on to this double perspective, the final part of this chapter will focus on the work of Martin Luther. In De servo arbitrio (1525) – particularly in the distinction between the Deus revelatus and Deus absconditus – we find an equally deep, intellectual disruption: the idea that it is in the unfathomable depths of God that we find the location of the origin of life and death, of chaos and of cosmos, of despair and of joy. Philosophically speaking, Luther clings to a metaphysics that defines God as the unconditional and necessary cause of each event. Yet for him, the ways of the One who is totally hidden remain undeveloped. Thus my aim is to investigate the degree to which this hiddenness has influenced Luther’s biblical interpretation. Through this radical and irrevocable disruption of his thought, Luther is pushed to forms of expression which touch upon Job’s contradictory experiences. We still feel today the power of Job’s lament in its movement to the point of radically challenging one of the foundational presuppositions of the Judaeo-Christian traditions, namely the unity of God.

The Methodological Dilemma of a Theodicy Time and again we see how the defence of God arises from a protective reaction on the part of the individual: we are not prepared to react to the pain of those who suffer and to the implicit contradiction between this experience of suffering and faith in a good and powerful God. If we speak of God as ‘omnipotent’, then when he permits evil to reign, and even allows children to suffer, we might quickly come to the conclusion that God causes, or at least allows, this evil. Responding to such accusations is the task of a theodicy. Like Leibniz, we could use a theodicy to provide a theoretical explanation why evil must be accepted, even in the best of all possible worlds.1 We hold fast to the goodness and justice of God since, in the grand scheme of things, evil also serves goodness. For philosophers, such a solution can establish that sought-after coherency, and it can also be a soothing comfort to the faithful. But at its worst, it can sound like utter mockery for those who are actually suffering. Structurally, this abstract problem functions to protect against confusion, suffering and contradiction. The thesis of a theodicy becomes a prosthesis which replaces a break or fracture within suffering.2 At times it even becomes a 1 Cf. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Theodicy (trans. E.M. Huggard, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1951), part I. 2 ‘There, then, in this place of aporia, there is no longer any problem. Not because – fortunately or unfortunately – the solutions would be given, but because a problem would no longer be able to constitute itself as something that one would keep in front of oneself, an object or a project that could be presented, a protective representative or a substitute in the form of a prosthesis, a frontier that one would still have to cross or behind which one could protect oneself.’ Jacques Derrida, Aporias (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 12. More detail on aporias and negativity in: Marius



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prohibition against the objectionable idea that one might level accusations at God because of injustices, suffering and evil (or due to God’s absence). While often carried out with the best intentions, dealing with the problem in the abstract suppresses the contradictions of suffering, replacing them instead with rational discourse. Rather than actually addressing the problem, it keeps us at an abstract level and simply papers over the horrific abyss that appears horrific precisely because suffering is experienced as abandonment by God, or even the result of divine hatred. Of course, no theoretical discourse on this topic can completely avoid abstraction since abstraction is part of the process of theorization. However, we must keep this aspect of the discourse in mind if we are to avoid simplistic conclusions and an overly untroubled conscience.3 An alternative to such substitutionary logic is provided by supplementary logic which preserves these aporias as aporias and the contradictions as contradictions. The tension of supplements provides a defence against the philosophical and theological tendency to remove and resolve contradictions. While the problem remains a theoretical one, and always at risk of smoothing over the pain, the discourse is kept open to the voice, indeed the cry, of experienced suffering. The heterogeneous structure of supplementary logic preserves space both for the cry and for silent, wordless suffering.

Will You Speak Falsely for God? When Job experiences unimaginable suffering, his first reaction is to pause and be silent. He sits on the ground and does not say a word. His friends are there, they are there for him, and are also wise enough to keep silent for the first seven days. In doing so, they provide a good expression of their sympathy: they are certainly not fair-weather friends; they are there to support Job when his children die, when he loses his cattle and his riches, and when he is struck down with illness. As long as they remain quiet these old friends share a moment of unity. And when Job finally cries out, a cry of torture and despair, it could be the expression of their common lament (Job 3.1–26). Yet the friends are disturbed by his words. Job accuses God of being unjust because he has caused or allowed such immense suffering, completely beyond the proportions of an economy of retribution. The friends are provoked by Job’s lament. They are not prepared to accept such accusations, and so protect

Timmann Mjaaland, Autopsia: Self, Death, and God after Kierkegaard and Derrida (Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 66–71. 3 ‘How to justify the choice of negative form (aporia) …? Because one must avoid good conscience at all costs’, Derrida, Aporias, 19.

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themselves from the disturbing thought that the guilt must be laid upon God rather than on Job. According to the principle of retribution common in the Near East, Job’s suffering must have been a result of sin, either his own or that of his ancestors. This economy of retribution was fundamental to the entire cosmos, and if one doubted this order of being, then one called into question the bases of faith, hope, justice and moral responsibility. This is precisely what Job does, and he does so on the basis of his experience of suffering and his claim to be free of sin. He is a righteous man and even if he had committed an insignificant sin, this could not explain such wretchedness. This argument is persistently repeated as a counterquestion and accusation when his friends charge him with blasphemy. It is not only their arguments which provoke Job but also their mistrust and hostility towards their friend. They prefer to defend God against Job’s accusations and, in doing so, also defend themselves against the challenging tone of Job’s cry. They see the consequences clearly: if Job is right, then their image of God and their projection of a universal economy grounded on God would collapse. They would be left helpless, with only the ruins of a divine image and a doubtful form of justice. Job’s God stands over against the God of his friends. To a certain degree, to recognize Job’s arguments in this situation would mean giving credence to these basic conditions of his existence: suffering, confusion and accusations against God. Yet Job sees that his friends’ arguments only make his situation worse, forcing him to act toward his friends as if they had become his enemies – these friends who do their best to transform Job into an enemy of God: ‘Will you speak falsely for God, and speak deceitfully for him? Will you show partiality toward him, will you plead the case for God? Will it be well with you when he searches you out? Or can you deceive him, as one person deceives another?’ (Job 13.7–9). Job can see no solution to the problem. Therefore, he appeals to a higher court, one that is to judge not only between him and his friends but also between him and God. To a certain degree, this is clearly a self-contradictory strategy since there is no higher authority than God. And yet there is the feeling that Job appeals to a God even beyond God, a God beyond the limits of that which he and his friends think possible. Here we see the problem displaced through the appeal to future justice: ‘For I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth’ (Job 19.25). The answer to Job’s lament, accusation and appeal comes from the whirlwind (Job 38.1–41.25). While it is certainly a mysterious answer, in its own way it offers a poetic solution to Job’s mourning and suffering. God speaks of the crocodile and hippopotamus, of the limits and boundaries of the seas, of the creation, and of the maintenance of the heavens and earth. God speaks from a perspective which extends beyond Job’s expectations, but which also presents a solution which borders on the absurd. There even seems to be a tone of absurd humour lying beneath these fantastic, poetic images – images which hardly



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provide a philosophical or theological solution to the problems of suffering, evil and injustice. Job has become a hero not because he is a model of morality or because of his piety (though the final chapter suggests such an interpretation). His story awakens a sense of sympathy because he is so human in his suffering. He falls silent, cries and screams out. He is brave because he is a heretic, daring to speak the unthinkable in the face of orthodoxy. He mistrusts God, hates him, hates his friends and himself, cursing the day of his birth. He despairs. Yet despite this desperation he still seems to maintain his faith in God. The question is whether he can trust and believe in this God or whether he just succumbs before the wild forces of nature and thankfully accepts his new happiness. The brief conclusion in chapter 42 leaves most questions open: Was Job right? Is God just or unjust? Is God good? Does Job really encounter God in the whirlwind or is this simply a poetic expression of the insight into human limitations? Is it the great, violent nothingness? The following section will examine two modern interpretations which draw very different conclusions from this story.

Job in the Age of Modernity: Critique and Repetition In his volume Om det tragiske (On the Tragic), the Norwegian philosopher Peter Wessel Zapffe takes the story of Job as an example of tragedy in the Near East.4 Philosophically, Zapffe was influenced by Nietzsche and sees this story as an early, yet fundamental, critique of the Judaeo-Christian concept of God hidden inside Scripture. It is particularly Job’s answer to God at the end of the book which exposes this concept of God from within and ironically undermines YHWH’s claims to power. Zapffe calls God’s response from the whirlwind a divine ‘demonstration of power’ over Job.5 Zapffe sees Job’s reaction as an absurd gesture of the indifferent individual who, when confronted with the immense forces of nature, can only submit in powerlessness – though still with irony. Job had asked for a rational explanation, or at least for a sign of compassion and justice. Yet all he receives is the rumbling of a storm. For these reasons, Zapffe sees in the story of Job the expression of tragedy’s humorous agnosticism, which transforms itself into defiance and contempt when faced with the eternal questions regarding the reasons for suffering. In a way, Job becomes an early precursor of the absurd reflections in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting

4 Peter Wessel Zapffe, Om det tragiske (Oslo: Pax, 2nd edn, 1996; 1st edn Oslo: Gyldendal, 1941), 478–489. 5 Zapffe, Om det tragiske, 488.

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for Godot. It is not difficult to understand Zapffe’s own conclusion concerning the rational basis of faith in God, or in any other form of universal justice: ‘The human being comes from nothing and returns to nothing; there is nothing else beyond this.’6 I find Zapffe’s interpretation not only original but also plausible. The radical calling into question of the concept of God is a consistent feature of the tradition and is even a decisive feature of Judaeo-Christian belief in God. On the other hand, modern doubts about the meaning of the concept of God also express a genuine theological query which penetrates deep into questions about the nature of God and the human being. For the one who questions, these two abysmal options are still open within modernity: either despair or hope – and either with or without God. Nothingness and the Absolute lie rather close together. Another Scandinavian, Søren Kierkegaard, reads this same story quite differently from Zapffe. In his small book Repetition (Gjentagelsen) from 1843, the divine whirlwind also plays a central role, yet for very different reasons.7 Repetition is a peculiar, small volume (a simple love story with psychological undertones) which has been given religious, ethical and even metaphysical significance. The main character, a young man, is in love – but this love fails. The woman simply becomes an object of his love and disappears from the story as a concrete person with her own flesh, will and reason. The young man’s problem is that his love becomes a purely internalized affair. He is primarily occupied with himself and never gets beyond complacent self-absorption. He does not know how to proceed but rather hopes for a violent storm (Tordenvejr) which might shake up his life – just as it shook up Job’s and introduced an unexpected solution. He argues that this is the only way that the repetition of his love affair could be possible. He constantly asks himself: is repetition possible? A repetition of the same, yet not in an identical manner? A repetition can never duplicate the first time. Here lies the problem, yet also a possibility. Does repetition also hide the radical possibility of breaking out of the eternal circle of sameness and of self-centredness? Is there a genuine openness for others and for the other which is altered by repetition? Kierkegaard argues that the problem of repetition not only affects love but also ethics, metaphysics and dogmatics: The dialectic of repetition is easy, for that which is repeated has been – otherwise it could not be repeated – but the very fact that it has been makes repetition something new. … If one does not have the category of recollection or of repetition, all life dissolves into an empty, meaningless noise. … [R]epetition is the interest of metaphysics, and also the interest 6 ‘Mennesket kommer fra Intet og går til Intet. Utover dette er der Intet’: Zapffe, Om det tragiske, 3. Cf. the statement ‘ashes to ashes’ from Gen. 3.19. 7 Cf. Søren Kierkegaard, Gjentagelsen, in Niels Jørgen Cappelørn et al. (eds), Søren Kierkegaards Skrifter vol. 4 (København: Gad, 1997) [abbrev.: SKS 4], 79–81.



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upon which metaphysics gets stranded; repetition is the solution [Løsnet] in every ethical view; repetition is the conditio sine qua non for every issue of dogmatics.8 The problem of repetition stands between metaphysics and dogmatics, and it is here that its interest (as well as its inter esse, its being-in-between) becomes decisive. If God is understood only within one particular economic logic, such as retribution or that of the metaphysical attributes (omnipotence, justice, goodness, beauty, etc.), then the scope for God to be otherwise is limited by this logic. In The Sickness Unto Death this special instance of repetition is analysed more precisely, yet the problem mirrors the love story of the young man: whether one constructs one’s own God or rejects the God of the ontotheological tradition because of the contradictory experiences of suffering and evil, fundamentally one is still occupied only with oneself since the category of the possible is no longer open to the other in God (or to God beyond God).9 Metaphysics gets stranded and fails upon the interest of the one seeking to understand. Even dogmatics cannot grasp repetition. Repetition is not at all concerned with grasping or understanding but rather with letting go – it aims at losing control and being exposed to the transcendence of the other. The connection to Job here is not accidental. Job repeatedly appears as an exemplar and problem in the letters of the young man. Job had undergone repetition, having lost everything and then, through the great violence of the storm, regained twice as much as before. His understanding of the world – and of God – was no longer the same. According to Kierkegaard’s interpretation, after the struggle and the violent encounter with God, Job knows that his entire life rests in the hands of the living God. Now he ‘knows’ God, and not just from hearsay. For Kierkegaard, Job is thoroughly guilty – yet is absolved nonetheless. Interestingly, Kierkegaard uses this experience of transcendence not only as an example of a religious experience but also for the repetition of ethics, metaphysics and aesthetics. The concept of God (which for Zapffe was bound up with a particular, active power – in which he could no longer believe) runs for Kierkegaard like a tear through every experience, for example in the young man’s lament that he can no longer live. The loss of his grasp on reality is connected with a lack of transcendence. The world which he invents remains a romantic and/or ideal one. Indeed it must be violently rocked, shaken apart and exposed to the other. In disrupted interference, in the experience of guilt, fear and despair, the human being can open itself to the other – or it can delve even deeper into itself. 8 Kierkegaard, SKS 4, 25–26, Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, ed. and trans., Kierkegaard’s Writings vol. 6 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), 148–149. Translation modified. 9 Cf. Kierkegaard, Sygdommen til Døden, in Niels Jørgen Cappelørn et al. (eds), Søren Kierkegaards Skrifter vol. 11 (Copenhagen: Gad, 2006) [abbrev.: SKS 11], 181–187, Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, ed. and trans., Kierkegaard’s Writings vol. 19 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 67–74. This problem is dealt with more thoroughly in Mjaaland, Autopsia, 219–227, 266–272.

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In my opinion, it is at this point – or rather in this tear, in this fracture of reality through unexplained and unresolved suffering – that these two philosophers, Zapffe and Kierkegaard, meet. The former claims that God is ‘nothing’, and that this great, inexplicable nothing encounters Job in his tragicomic fate. This enables Job to see through the deceit of a theology of retribution, allowing him to take a realistic stance towards his life and his environment without believing in what Zapffe calls the ‘seductive hope’ of the mystics.10 Kierkegaard also values this destruction and a destructive resignation; it is the destruction of ‘his’ God and ‘his’ world. Yet there remains here a surplus of possibilities pointing towards the future. Repetition is the acquisition of a possibility which not only stems from the tradition but also springs out of it. Thus transcendence is not conceived of as a movement out of the finite world but rather the discovery of a ‘wound’ which never heals, a wound of suffering and passion in the midst of experience. I would like here to hold on to both interpretations of lament, particularly since God’s existence and attention can never simply be assumed from a modern and postmodern perspective. Nevertheless, almost every single person laments when faced with great suffering or grief. At first, belief in God, or in higher powers, is suspended and the substance of this belief is tested. Yet in turn such absent faith, nihilism or the indistinct idea of a higher power is also suspended and tested. In our despair, we stand face to face with that great nothingness, or one senses the shadows of the hidden God who not only stands behind the good and the joyous, but who has also prepared death, illness and unjust suffering as the fate of human beings. Without a clear idea of the metaphysical bases of life, both options (and all positions in between) remain open. At this point, with fear and trembling and from such an open, late-modern perspective, we approach Luther’s De servo arbitrio.

Luther on the Power of God and on Evil Luther’s interpretation of biblical lament can be found primarily in his lectures on the Psalms, which he sees as touching upon issues of Christology, ecclesiology and abandonment by God. Yet his systematic reflections on the concept of God, which are of particular interest to us here, are for the most part found in De servo arbitrio. It is here that we find both a radical questioning of traditional concepts of God as well as a strong profession of them. De servo arbitrio is particularly interesting because in this text the relationship between descriptive language (as it appears in metaphysics and dogmatics) and speech acts (such as affirmations, promises, prayers and laments) becomes the key not only for biblical interpretation but also for the philosophical and theological understanding of reality. Luther regularly criticizes scholastic philosophy (and philosophy in general), but in De 10 Cf. Zapffe, Om det tragiske, 3, 489.



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servo arbitrio he presents what is primarily a philosophical argument in an attempt to defend his position against Erasmus. Decisive here is the concept of God, which Luther approaches through use of the fundamental distinction between the hidden and the revealed God, the Deus absconditus and the Deus revelatus.11 As I see it, there are at least three reasons behind Luther’s highly controversial doctrine that Deus in sua maiestate absconditus est. 12 The first is purely philosophical and deals with Luther’s understanding of causality, necessity and contingency. This argument is metaphysically constructed and forms the basis for the remaining aspects. The second reason stems from hermeneutics and deals primarily with the interpretation of the scriptures, where Luther distinguishes in principle between the outer and inner clarity (duplex claritas) or outer and inner obscurity (duplex obscuritas) of the text.13 The absolute hiddenness of God is directly related to both forms of obscurity – and therefore also both forms of clarity. Third, we also find here a pastoral concern. This third aspect highlights the conflict already underway between the other two: if it were not for the assumption of an absolute hiddenness in God, God would be defined either by using a moral measure or a limiting category of possibility which human beings themselves had constructed. On the other hand, the hiddenness of God is repeatedly experienced as something frightening and alarming. In this context, divinely-directed lament represents a particular problem: Does it make sense to protest to God if God is in fact the one who causes suffering? And can one even direct laments at an absolutely hidden God and expect to be heard – or does God remain unmoved in his majesty? Finally, how does such a concept of God relate to the experiences of Job and countless others with God in their moments of suffering? Some may well be surprised that Luther concerns himself at all with metaphysical problems. For example, Oswald Bayer does his best to avoid the entire question of metaphysics in De servo arbitrio since his only intention is to defend Luther on the basis of his doctrine of promise (promissio).14 I have no interest in defending Luther and will rather provide a critical analysis of his argument. When Luther criticizes Erasmus, he does so (among other reasons) because he thinks Erasmus is a poor scholastic. Luther himself believes that his arguments are better and clearer than those of the scholastics and, after presenting a long argument, concludes: From this it follows irrefutably that everything we do, everything that happens, even if it seems to us to happen mutably and contingently, happens 11 Martin Luther, The Bondage of the Will, in Philip S. Watson, ed. and trans., Luther’s Works vol. 33 (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1972). On the revealed and hidden God, cf. 139–140. [WA 18, 685– 686.] References to the Weimarer Ausgabe are provided in square brackets. 12 Cf. Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 139 [WA 18, 684–685]. 13 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 28 [WA 18, 608–609]. 14 Cf. Oswald Bayer, ‘Gottes Allmacht’, in Kerygma und Dogma 53 (2007), 57–70.

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in fact nonetheless necessarily and immutably, if you have regard to the will of God. For the will of God is effectual and cannot be hindered, since it is the power of the divine nature itself; moreover it is wise, so that it cannot be deceived. Now, if his will is not hindered, there is nothing to prevent the work itself from being done, in the place, time, manner, and measure that he himself both foresees and wills.15 If this is not metaphysics, then we need to revise what we mean by the term! Luther’s argument proceeds on the basis of an Aristotelian–Thomistic concept of God, defining ‘what’ God makes, ‘how’ he makes it, and ‘why’, etc. Luther also criticizes his colleagues, the ‘sophists’, for being poor scholastics and for recoiling from the thought that the work of God is necessary. Instead, they argue that while the will of God is necessary, the work of God is accidental, being contingent. Luther is highly critical of this position: But what do [the sophists] achieve by this playing with words? This, of course, that the thing done is not necessary, in the sense that it has not a necessary existence. But this is no different from saying that the thing done is not God himself. … Hence the proposition stands, and remains invincible, that all things happen by necessity. Nor is there here any obscurity or ambiguity.16 This is not a new position in the history of philosophy. As Luther himself notes, Greek and Latin scholars had made similar arguments in their teachings on fate.17 Nor does it appear so different from the perspective of twentieth-century debates in analytical philosophy on determinism and free will (though fate here is replaced by a mechanical understanding of causality).18 We are not dealing here with a force which limits human will but rather with an underlying condition of the very act of wanting. When a person desires something – even in the special case of wanting or not wanting salvation – that person cannot follow through on that desire if it does not correspond with the will of God. Thus everything occurs necessarily: ‘Here is a thunderbolt by which free choice is completely prostrated and shattered.’19 Yet the point that otherwise no one would be able to depend upon the

15 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 37–38 [WA 18, 615–616]. 16 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 40 [WA 18, 617]. 17 Luther refers primarily to Virgil, arguing that Virgil’s poetry also represents popular opinion. Cf. Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 41 [WA 18, 618]. 18 Cf. Peter van Inwagen, An Essay on Free Will (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983) and Harry Frankfurt, The Importance of What We Care About (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). 19 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 37 [WA, 18, 615].



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promises of God seems to me to be rather an ad hoc argument20 since connecting the Old Testament God with the idea of an absolute and necessary cause weakens rather than strengthens the logic of promise.21 Yet the doctrine of the absolute and necessary will of God also leads to several problems, especially if one does not want to accuse God of evil. If God not only created the earth and knows everything, but also predetermines each and every event, then the suffering of Job as well as each war, holocaust, tsunami and earthquake cannot be excluded from those events. Not just peace agreements, happy coincidences and the wonders of nature, but also natural catastrophes, accidents and political affairs occur ‘in the place, time, manner, and measure that [God] himself both foresees and wills’22. This is hardly going to lead people to break out into spontaneous thanks and shouts of ‘hallelujah’. What is problematic is not so much the idea that everything that happens in general occurs by the will of God, but rather that each specific event – each moment of suffering, each disability, each death of a child (not to mention far worse events) – is one desired by God. Yet this is the direct consequence of Luther’s position, even if each action occurs at the hands of an acting individual and God cannot be held responsible for the evil, base and sinful character of human beings. It must follow that evil acts, such as murder, abuse, rape and destruction occur in accordance with the will of God. Yet according to Luther, in these cases guilt still falls upon the one who acts: a carpenter cannot be held responsible for a poor axe.23 Whether the creator should be answerable for faults in his creature is a question Luther simply fails to address. The reformer is not interested in how things might have been but rather in the ways things actually are. Yet the question remains whether he can provide a satisfactory argument for this position – since his argument has failed to convince even orthodox Lutherans.24 Although he defends God against the accusation that he commits evil, Luther hardly provides us with a framework for a classical philosophical or theological theodicy. The dilemma is not solved here but rather amplified by a metaphysics which makes God responsible for suffering and, indirectly, even for evil. Luther 20 Cf. the ‘Ultra dico’ formulation which signals an additional rather than a fundamental or necessary argument. See WA 18, 618. 21 In contrast to Bayer, ‘Gottes Allmacht’. 22 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 38 [WA 18, 615–616]. 23 ‘[Y]et God cannot act evilly although he does evil through evil men, because one who is himself good cannot act evilly; yet he uses evil instruments that cannot escape the sway and motion of his omnipotence. It is the fault, therefore, of the instruments, which God does not allow to be idle, that evil things are done, with God himself setting them in motion. It is just as if a carpenter were cutting badly with a chipped and jagged axe.’ Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 176 [WA 18, 709]. 24 Cf. Theodor Mahlmann, ‘Die Interpretation von Luthers De servo arbitrio bei orthodoxen lutherischen Theologen, vor allem Sebastian Schmidt (1617–1696)’, in Notger Slenzka and Walter Sparn (eds), Luthers Erben: Festschrift für Jörg Baur zum 75. Geburtstag (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 73–136.

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admits that this is no theology for weaklings. This is precisely the incredible affront of his theology: It has been regarded as unjust, as cruel, as intolerable, to entertain such an idea about God, and this is what has offended so many great men during so many centuries. And who would not be offended? I myself was offended more than once, and brought to the very depth and abyss of despair, so that I wished I had never been created a man, before I realized how salutary that despair was, and how near to grace.25 Luther’s experience echoes Job’s lament26 which stems from despair over God’s power, over human suffering and outrageous injustice. It is precisely this despair over a lack of justice, both with human beings and with God, which forms a central part of Luther’s piety. For that reason he sees in retrospect how salvific despair has been, having led him to grace. Thus his experiences correspond with Job’s – with the abyss, suffering, lament and accusations of injustice – which, through a sudden change of grace, transform into new and even greater happiness. Grace corresponds to Job’s unimagined happiness at the end of the story (cf. Job 42.10–12). The question now is whether Luther also uses grace to solve the problem of evil. In my opinion, this is precisely what he does not do. Human suffering remains just as deeply problematic for Luther as injustice and election. There is no way to resolve the problem because this problem repeatedly arises with such clarity in human experience.27 Instead, Luther accepts the problem as real and irresolvable, and denounces all those attempts to avoid the problem in order to make faith in God more palatable: This thorn, this ‘painful awareness’ will remain forever ‘deeply implanted in the hearts’ of all.28 However, regarding the doctrine of the hidden God, Luther clearly writes that human reason could never understand it, nor should it try to penetrate deeper into the mysteries of the hidden God.29 This does not mean that the doctrine itself is opaque, unclear or inessential; on the contrary, Luther argues that it is fundamental and essential for each and every person who would claim to be Christian.30 Yet 25 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 190 [WA 18, 719]. 26 Cf. Job 3.3; Jer. 20.14. 27 It is actually reason itself which objects to its own attempts to resolve this problem: ‘Even natural Reason herself, who is offended by this necessity and makes such efforts to get rid of it, is compelled to admit it by the force of her own judgement, even if there were no Scripture at all.’ Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 190 [WA 18, 719]. 28 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 190 [WA 18, 719]. 29 Cf. Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 140; 171 [WA 18, 686, 706]. 30 Eberhard Jüngel argues the counter-position, stressing that the hidden God is not our concern, but he argues this point to such an extent that he removes the problem, just as his teacher Karl Barth had done. In this way, the thorn is extracted from the heart. Cf. Eberhard Jüngel, ‘Quae supra nos, nihil ad nos’, in Jüngel, Entsprechungen: Gott – Wahrheit – Mensch (Munich: Kaiser, 1980), 202–252.



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according to Luther, speculation as to why God wants things this way (in contrast with the fact that God does want things this way) is simply not our concern. But does not the idea that God allows unjust suffering strike at the very heart of the faithful, constantly disturbing their faith in a good God? Luther primarily considers the reality of God not from the perspective of the possibility for grace and joy but rather from the reality of the world, of evil, and of the contradictory. It is the vehemence of the world which he chooses as his point of departure for thinking about God – even prior to a theologia crucis. The experience of evil and injustice is an experience which hardly appears less contradictory and puzzling to Christians than to non-Christians. Quite the opposite: this contradiction first only becomes clear from the perspective of faith in a good God, only to be driven further into paradox and absurdity by the suffering of Christ.

Interpretation and Hiddenness As with the orthodox Lutherans, modern theology (with its reservations about metaphysics in general and the theistic doctrine of God in particular) has also distanced itself from Luther’s position. The problem is that the categories of modern theology really still continue to be informed by metaphysics – it is just that metaphysics itself has changed in the meantime. Instead of pursuing this debate about metaphysical versus post-metaphysical thought, I wish to show here how Luther’s position is in fact commonly misunderstood, since it is not as unambiguous as he claims (in any case not from our current perspective). His double concept of God neither fits into an early-modern understanding of the world nor a modernist conception of systematic theology in the twentieth century. At this point I would like to sketch out the way in which Luther connects the idea of the hidden God with a differentiated interpretative theory and then suggest some possible consequences of a new approach to his thought. Luther takes the fundamental distinction between law and grace as the starting point for scriptural hermeneutics, which leads him, for example, to hold fast to the tension between the omnipotence and grace of God. According to Luther, each passage of Scripture can be read from this double perspective.31 Yet, grammatically, we must be very careful to distinguish between the imperative and the indicative.32 Furthermore, we must carefully distinguish between descriptions of the world as it ‘is’ and a divine statement which assumes a certain temporal deferral (describing the world as it ‘will be’ or ‘could be’).33 In this way it is possible to read the entire scriptures ‘clearly and evidently’, even though an individual reader might have difficulty accepting some passages. 31 Cf. Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 132–133 [WA 18, 680–681]. 32 Cf. Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 127 [WA 18, 677]. 33 Cf. Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 137–138 [WA 18, 683–684].

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However we are not dealing here with simple clarity but rather with a double (outer and inner) claritas to which Luther also perceived a corresponding double obscuritas (external and internal).34 An inner obscurity can hamper and complicate an understanding of the text though in and of itself it does not make the text any less clear or transparent. Only grammatical misunderstandings and ignorance with the Bible and its linguistic assumptions obstruct the claritas externa. Since the language of most of the Bible’s texts is comprehensible, Luther claims that ‘there is nothing here of obscurity or ambiguity’ in the scriptures.35 Yet where should we locate the Deus absconditus within this framework: in the claritas or obscuritas interna or externa? The immediate answer is: in neither. Luther claims that the hidden God, in his majesty, cannot be ‘in’ the scriptures but is rather ‘outside’ them.36 This position is rather surprising, especially since we are dealing with a scriptural theologian. Yet it does not seem to be connected just with interpretative difficulties but with the problem of transcendence. The hidden God is transcendent to a degree which exceeds not only experience but also human rationality and imagination. How Luther is still able to hold onto the metaphysical determination of God as ‘cause’ is unclear, but what is certain for him is that God’s absolute hiddenness is connected with the interpretation of each event and each text. God’s presence before and in the event is always ambiguous, regardless of whether it is dealing with ‘revelation’ or fear and trembling. This is the reason for that ‘confusion’ which stems from the attempt to provide a precise explanation of the relationship between God and the event. This confusion is based on a hiddenness which is not precise but rather remains indefinite.37 That this indefiniteness arises at the very heart of theology has been a constant frustration for theologians not only because it disrupts the system but because the disruption comes from within. Luther’s metaphysics is not a ‘stable’ one. First, he commits himself to a strict cosmology which promotes a precisely regulated relationship between God and the world. But then a deep trench is opened up within this cosmology due to irresolvable contradictions. This thinking then moves towards the impassable, into the realm of an aporia, into that kind of problem which Erasmus likened to the Corycian cavern.38 At the beginning of his book, Luther rejects this expression because Erasmus uses it as the basis of scepticism when dealing with, for example, the meaning of the Trinity, the incarnation, of 34 ‘Duplex est claritas scripturae, sicut et duplex obscuritas.’ Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 28 [WA 18, 609]. 35 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 28 [WA 18, 608]. 36 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 139–140 [WA 18, 685]. 37 Once again, my interpretation differs here from Jüngel’s, who claims that each hiddenness of God is interpreted by Luther as a ‘precise’ hiddenness: cf. Jüngel, ‘Quae supra nos, nihil ad nos’, 137. 38 See Desiderius Erasmus, ‘On the Freedom of the Will’, in E. Gordon Rupp and Philip S. Watson, ed. and trans., Luther and Erasmus: Free Will and Salvation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1969), 38.



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necessity and contingency, and of free will.39 Luther counters that these are all decisive questions which have been answered clearly in the Bible. Only one concept, that of the hidden God, is not explained but remains ‘by far the most awe-inspiring secret of Divine Majesty, reserved for [God] alone and forbidden to us much more religiously than any number of Corycian caverns’.40 For Luther, this secret within God is not to be explained but rather silently revered and worshipped with a sense of awe. Yet this casts a degree of suspicion over his precise explanation of the meaning of the hidden God: on the one hand, God is supposed to be the one who does everything, yet on the other hand we are supposed to worship this hidden God only with silent reverence. The problem here centres on the boundary line of transcendence. To reach beyond that line in order to grasp the hidden God is an impossible act for our rationality. Nevertheless, this boundary line of transcendence becomes visible in every event, appearing as an indefinable factor in each and every action, decision, accident and moment of faith. Yet this remains a blind spot in the eye of reason, in the perspective of each subject. Awe-filled worship does not understand the unknown but rather glimpses that boundary line of human limitations and bows before the unknown (cf. Zapffe). Yet the reaction in moments of despair (which Luther also knew and described) is quite different: here, one accuses God or oneself; there is cursing, suffering and lament. Despair is the converse of awe-filled worship. It is a battle for clarity when perfect clarity can never be won. It unmasks the game of theoretical explanations which are mutually complementary but which are not interchangeable and certainly do not meet with our experiences. The space of human experience is a space between these systematic points of view, and cannot be subsumed under either. It opens itself up as supplementary thought, with its origin formed by the hidden God himself, the God who cannot be defined yet who, as the decisive linguistic symbol, transforms the meaning of the text and defers the ultimate explanation into the future.41 Yet it remains a question whether such despairing lament can also change something, and if it does whether this occurrence is only in the lamenting individual or also in God, or even through God in the world. The first question can be answered easily: it is certainly the case that a change can be experienced in the person who laments, especially if the despair is recognized as such and, under the circumstances, spills over into thankful faith in God. However, strictly speaking, one cannot assume any change in God so long as Luther holds to a rigorously metaphysical concept of God which defines God as eternal, unchanging, 39 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 27 [WA 18, 607]. 40 Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 139 [WA 18, 684]. 41 Cf. the discussion of the ‘three lights’ at the end of the book; Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 289–293 [WA 18, 784–785].

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and omnipotent. But Luther does offer a distinction here, which we have mentioned but not yet discussed: a distinction in God between the Deus absconditus and the Deus revelatus. This distinction points towards a possibility of change in God, even towards a change in the world through God – bringing us finally to the conclusion of this chapter.

Holy Fractures and Fractured Healing Grace The revealed God is also described as hidden, yet via a peculiar, namely Christological, form of hiddenness. We are dealing here with a secret in Christ which arises from the logic of the cross: it is the poverty and humility of Christ that reveals God’s sovereignty and majesty. Furthermore, it is the cross and resurrection which open up for us possibilities which otherwise would never have entered into a human heart: we pass through despair into reconciliation, through damnation into promise, through death into life. This hiddenness occurs sub contrario, via its opposite. From this perspective, the hiddenness of God is no longer vague and indefinite, rather it takes on a specific connection with the visible. That which we call ‘revelation’ is not the visible per se, nor the absolutely hidden, but rather that nexus, which is hidden yet in Christ made known, between poverty and majesty, death and life, etc. This does not mean that the indefiniteness of God disappears, rather it penetrates into the logic of revelation. There clearly remains here a contradiction in God between the hidden will and the will, prayers, tears and laments of the one who is revealed.42 For this reason, Luther has been accused of denying the unity of God. On the one hand, that is clearly the case, yet on the other hand, when formulated in this way, the accusation does not do justice to Luther’s thought. I would rather say that the unity of God fractures and breaks, and that there are good reasons to welcome this brokenness rather than attempt to resolve or replace it using doctrines of the Trinity or of God’s love. Just such a secret and such hiddenness in God could well form the basis for the Trinity and for divine love. Conversely, believers will be able to say that love essentially always endures – even when hidden – though despair in the face of the abyss and suffering may obscure that love and allow the concept of God to fracture. Yet the question here remains whether one ever can (and ever should) separate these two possibilities. For Luther, our thinking about God always continues to be indebted to both options: since God, in his omnipotence, can only ever lead us to despair, human hope must look to Christ. Yet since suffering and our deepest despair are also carved into the cross, that mysterious

42 Cf. Luther, The Bondage of the Will, 145–146 [WA 18, 689].



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abyss in God is only made all the more gaping and deeply devastating in the late-medieval and modern encounter with the cross of Christ. It is not only Christ but rather each doubting and despairing individual who cries out with Christ ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ (Mk 15.34). This devastating question, this contradiction in God, also has a basis in pastoral care. Despite that fractured unity, we are still dealing with the one God, yet the contradictions and aporias of the world are located between God’s humiliation and his majesty. Nothing remains alien to God, and human beings are ultimately dealing with God in each of their hopes and fears. Acceptance of a fractured, divine unity allows for experiences with God which otherwise fall outside of the ‘Christian’ category, such as Zapffe’s reflection upon nothingness. Today, such experiences are observed equally among believers and non-believers alike. This has also led to a change in the meaning of ‘faith’, at least in present-day Europe. It is precisely in the lament against suffering, injustice and the fracturing of life that Christian faith displays its strength and its humanity. Can such lament be directed to the Hidden One? Yes, the lament can – but the answer remains just as hidden in the abyss as the question itself. And each time it is God himself who is called into question. It is a constant repetition. Basically, this way of thinking, which for Luther underlies the contradiction in God and repeatedly disrupts every attempt of an equivocal interpretation of divine unity, also has its advantages against the more restrained and ‘weak’ thinking of some of postmodernity’s philosophical streams. Following this period of philosophical change, we will see new discussions on the structure and reality of the world, on modal categories and causality; but there will hardly be a metaphysics which can compare with Luther’s. Yet this is no cause for concern. The work of theology need certainly not stay bound to Luther’s image of the world, but rather must develop new concepts for both the power and impotence of God. The strength of Luther’s work lies, above all, in the resoluteness with which it takes seriously and pursues Job’s question, the radical question of an open lament, and to do this in such a way that God himself and God’s unity are called into question – just as Zapffe and Kierkegaard would later do in their own ways, through their appeals to nihilistic critique and repetition. Perhaps it is no longer so important whether Luther was ‘right’ or not. That, at any rate, is another question.

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Chapter 7

Trust and Lament Faith in the Face of Godforsakenness Claudia Welz

How do we cope with insurmountable obstacles that are thrown in our way, with events causing us such terrible pain that we cannot seem to go on? Are we supposed to suffer in silence, to endure and accept this deplorable plight without complaint? These questions seem out of place to people who are helplessly watching their lives fall apart. Crying, wailing, mute horror – who would want to impose regulations and restrictions on such spontaneous responses? Even after the moments of terror and paralysis, when the question of how life can continue slowly starts to arise, it is still difficult to decide what exactly should and should not be done. Instead of looking for universally applicable answers to a question that can only be answered individually, the following chapter undertakes to question a commonplace answer: that, in any case, one must never confront God with complaint, lament or accusation.

I. Lament: A Critical View What is the case against lament, against complaining, wailing and accusing? An inclination towards curbing such impulses in the presence of other people might be understandable, even advisable if one wants to avoid being a nuisance. But why should we not at least be allowed to turn to God with everything that burdens our heart? How can he remain our safe haven from all distress if we cannot turn to him with all of our sorrows? These arguments notwithstanding, lament by and large is and has been considered an unbidden prayer, a sign of lacking trust and a manifestation of faithlessness. A good portion of nineteenth-century pious literature is vivid proof of this: here, lament is downright criminalized.1 ‘To lament’ (klagen) is used 1 Andreas Holzem, ‘“Kriminalisierung” der Klage? Bittgebet und Klageverweigerung in der Frömmigkeitsliteratur des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (JBTh 16, NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener, 2001), 153–181.



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synonymously with ‘to whine’ (jammern), ‘to grumble’ (murren) or ‘to quarrel’ (hadern) and defamed as wrongdoing.2 Reservations against lament can also be found in Paul Ricœur’s lecture ‘Le mal: Un défi à la philosophie et à la théologie’ (1985).3 According to Ricœur, lament proclaims that people are victimized by suffering, when in reality they are made guilty by their own misdeeds.4 He states that the Book of Job occupies such a prominent place in world literature because it tries to come to terms with lament that has turned into complaint, that protests and demands accountability from God.5 The image of an unfathomable creator provokes various ideas: that the complaint is out of place and inopportune, in respect of a God who is master of good and evil … , or that the complaint itself must undergo one of the purifying trials … . Aren’t Job’s last words, ‘Therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes’? What is there to repent of but the complaint itself?6 For the moment, we will set aside the question of this interpretation’s validity. Instead, we will focus on the problem Ricœur is pointing out: on the one hand, the righteous sufferer’s plight destroys the notion that good will ultimately compensate evil;7 on the other hand, the lamenter may come to question the rightfulness of his complaint. How can adequate lament be distinguished from inadequate lament? In order to find correspondence-theoretical criteria of truth for an adaequatio lamentationis et rei, we would have to take into account not only the lamenter’s experience, but also his position in the world and before God. But who could claim to have such a comprehensive view of the big picture? However, if Job can merely testify to his own truthfulness and not to the veracity of the lamented situation itself, and we nonetheless sustain his complaint against God unconditionally, the problem of a failing theodicy is only deferred to the plane of equally unsuccessful anthropodicy.8 2 Ibid., 158–159, 180. 3 Quotes are taken from the following translation: Paul Ricœur, Evil: A Challenge to Philosophy and Theology (intr. Pierre Bühler, trans. John Bowden, New York: Continuum, 2007). 4 Cf. ibid., 36f. 5 Ibid., 43. 6 Ibid., 44. 7 Cf. ibid., 51. Since here (and in what follows) a universal human problem is illustrated by the story of a male character whose fate is not specific to gender, I will refrain from adding feminine pronouns to the masculine ones. 8 Immanuel Kant’s depiction of Job in his essay ‘On the Miscarriage of All Philosophical Trials in Theodicy’ (‘Über das Mißlingen aller philosophischen Versuche in der Theodizee’) (1793) offers the best example for this problem deferment. Cf. Claudia Welz, ‘Reasons for Having No Reason to Defend God – Kant, Kierkegaard, Levinas and their Alternatives to Theodicy’, in Hendrik M. Vroom (ed.), Wrestling with God and with Evil: Philosophical Reflections (Currents of Encounter 31, Amsterdam/ New York: Rodopi B.V., 2007), 167–186.

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Extending the epistemological problem into psychology, Ricœur emphasizes that the problem of evil ‘calls for a convergence between thoughts, action, and a spiritual transformation’ of the feelings expressed in lament, accusation and complaint.9 He states that the ‘zero point of the spiritualization of complaint’, and thus the opportunity to make intellectual aporia productive, is to admit one’s own ignorance.10 Then follows a ‘theology of protest’, in which accusing God is understood as ‘the impatience of hope’, and finally ‘the discovery that the reasons for believing in God have nothing in common with the need to explain the origin of suffering’.11 This discovery, this belief in God despite evil, results in the renunciation of lament – and of the desire ‘to be rewarded for one’s virtues’ and ‘to be spared suffering’.12 Ricœur sees the wisdom of renouncing ‘the infantile element of the desire for immortality’ realized in the notion that Job comes to love God gratuitously at the end of the book of Job.13 From this perspective, lament is not only based on escapist desires that conform neither to the reality of the world, God’s relationship to the world, nor the human condition, but is relativized even further by becoming obsolete in the course of an individual’s personal development. By letting this development culminate in the overcoming of lament, Ricœur makes it clear that he does not want to grant lament any genuine right of existence. Its status can only be that of a transitional phenomenon that must be superseded by other coping strategies. N.B. in his opinion, the renunciation of lament does not occur because events are taking a turn for the better, but because of a transformation of feelings, a new emotional modus vivendi with and in spite of adversity, which must be lived through in one’s own life as a fate shared with all living beings. This critical view of lament will now itself be subjected to critical analysis. First, we will take a scrutinizing look at Ricœur’s interpretation of the book of Job (II). Next we ask whether lament should be understood as a sign of trust or rather as one of mistrust (III), and whether the transformation of feelings supersedes lament or is determined by it (IV). The final section will deal with the question of how adequate and inadequate lament might be distinguished from one another (V).

II. God Hear My Plight! Job as the Advocate of Sufferers Job’s last words contain an anaphoric element: ‘Therefore…’ (Job 42.6). Ricœur claims that Job repents because he regrets his lament. But the preceding verses 9 10 11 12 13

Ricœur (see above n. 3), Evil, 51–52. Ibid., 68. Ibid., 69–70. Ibid., 71. Ibid., 72.



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suggest a different interpretation. Job regrets his words because he has seen the Lord, whom he had only heard of before, with his own eyes (Job 42.5). Only face to face with God does he recognize that God can do everything – and that he, Job, has been speaking of things he did not understand (Job 42.2–3). But admitting that the propositions of his lament were incorrect does not mean that the act of voicing them is regrettable: after all, it has brought about an intense encounter with God, and Job has come to realize the limits of his understanding. The story’s epilogue supports this interpretation. Job is justified by God before his friends: ‘you have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has’ (Job 42.7). After Job’s confession of speaking badly of God, this statement comes as a surprise. What is the crucial difference? Should God agree with Job that Job has suffered injustice at the hands of God, or should God, like Job’s friends, insist on his own justice? God’s reply from inside the whirlwind does not answer Job’s questions, but rather serves to demonstrate God’s power. Yet the fact that God does speak to Job in itself grants Job’s plea to be heard (Job 31.35) and disproves Elihu’s claim that God answers none of man’s words (Job 33.13). God himself argues neither for his justice nor for his injustice. However, he signals that Job’s anxious question about God’s justice is legitimate – a question that, significantly, remains open. Neither Job nor his friends could have known why what happened did happen. Therefore, it is no less presumptuous to set God’s justice against Job’s innocence than to hold his innocence against God’s injustice. Job’s friends have spoken of God’s justice as if it was a law of nature, while Job has learned that it cannot be experienced always and everywhere. Justice as the attribute of an unreachable God is not the same thing as a direct relationship to a God who commits himself. Moreover, they strive to educate Job about God as if they knew all about him, without having been educated by God himself. Job, in contrast, has addressed God directly and let himself be educated by him. As a lament about his plight, his lament remains a lament to God. Instead of considering Job’s lament a regrettable act, the ‘young man’ in Søren Kierkegaard’s book Repetition14 praises it as precisely that which constitutes Job’s 14 The book was published in 1843 under the title ‘Gjentagelsen: Et Forsøg i den experimenterende Psykologi af Constantin Constantius’ in Copenhagen. It consists of stories by the pseudonymous author Constantin Constantius and the letters of a young man who tells Constantin about his unhappy love affair. The abbreviation R refers to Søren Kierkegaard, Repetition, in Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, ed. and trans., The Essential Kierkegaard (Princeton: Princeton UP, 2000). The abbreviation SKS 4 refers to the most recent Danish edition: Søren Kierkegaard in Nils Jørgen Cappelorn et al. (eds), Søren Kierkegaards Skrifter vol. 4, Gjentagelsen. Frygt og Bæven. Philosophiske Smuler. Begrebet Angest. Forord (København: Gad, 1997). On the concept of repetition cf. Niels Nymann Eriksen, Kierkegaard’s Category of Repetition: A Reconstruction (Kierkegaard Studies: Monograph Series 5, Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2000) and Dorothea Glöckner, Kierkegaards Begriff der Wiederholung: Eine Studie zu seinem Freiheitsverständnis (Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1998).

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greatness. Rebutting the critical view of lament, his interpretation redefines the alleged misdeed as a triumphant feat for all sufferers and celebrates Job as their champion and advocate. 1. Against the psychological argument that seeks to eliminate lament and transform the feelings expressed in it, the young man argues for its therapeutic power that puts feelings into words: ‘Every word by him is food and clothing and healing for my wretched soul’.15 Job is a helpful role model precisely because he can encourage others not to suffer mutely nameless agonies. Job has found a language that provides relief for ‘all who bore their torment in silence’.16 Lament bursts the sufferer’s isolation wide open. After crying ‘woe to him who would cunningly cheat the sorrowing of sorrow’s temporary comfort in airing its sorrows and “quarreling with God”’, the young man challenges his contemporaries: ‘Perhaps we do not dare to complain to God? Has the fear of God then increased – or fear and cowardliness?’17 He celebrates Job as a powerful spokesman who, fearless as a roaring lion, appears before the tribunal of the Most High.18 Complaining to God takes courage and frankness. Job stands for faith that goes beyond obedience. It is this insubordination that keeps faith strong and healthy throughout the time of sorrow, for it holds God accountable for his promises and possibilities. In The Sickness Unto Death19 Kierkegaard further clarifies this point ex negativo with his characterization of the fatalist. While the believer relies on his faith that all things are possible in every moment for God, the fatalist sees nothing but necessity.20 Possibility is ‘the ever infallible antidote for despair’, but the fatalist, having despaired, has ‘lost God and thus his self’, because ‘personhood is a synthesis of possibility and necessity’.21 The fatalist’s loss of self is linked to his inability to pray. The existence of the self is ‘like breathing (respiration), which is inhaling and exhaling’, and ‘[t]o pray is also to breathe’, because ‘possibility is for the self what oxygen is for breathing’; the fatalist, however, is unable to pray because his worship of God is ‘mute capitulation’.22 The belief that ‘God’s will is 15 R 204. 16 R 197. The motif of growing mute in the face of torment, combined with the polemics against poets, may be an allusion to ‘Torquato Tasso’ by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. In Act V, Scene 5, it says: ‘All other men are silent in their torment / A god lets me express my suffering.’ (‘Und wo der Mensch in seiner Qual verstummt, / Gab mir ein Gott, zu sagen, wie ich leide.’) In the eyes of the young man, Job refutes the poet’s privilege and asserts the expression of feelings as the right of all human beings. 17 R 197f. 18 Cf. ibid., 198. 19 The abbreviation SD refers to Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, ed. and trans., Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death: A Christian Psychological Exposition for Upbuilding and Awakening (Kierkegaard’s Writings vol. 19, Princeton: Princeton UP, 1980). The Danish original was published in 1849 under the title Sygdommen til Døden: En christelig psychologisk Udvikling til Opbyggelse og Opvækkelse. 20 Cf. SD 39–40. 21 Ibid., 40. 22 Ibid., 40.



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the possible’ enables prayer – ‘if there is nothing but necessity, man is essentially as inarticulate as the animals’.23 The muteness of the despairing sufferer makes him withdraw from the world: he does not want to be consoled.24 The articulation of negative feelings can help to distance oneself from them. Once those feelings can be communicated, they can also be transformed. If they are voiced in a shared space of experience, they are taken beyond one’s own control (at least to a certain degree) and thus become open to change. If they remain locked in, they poison the soul. Hence, the prayer of lamentation in hope of God’s help is as indispensable as the air we breathe. It keeps the self alive and protects the vitality of relations in which alone it can thrive. 2. The epistemological scepticism of the adequacy of lament to the ‘actual’ events between God and man is countered by the young man with an argument similar to arguments from process philosophy. The (in)adequacy of lament can only be judged ex post, after it has set into motion a dynamic that would not have come to pass without it: how is God to ‘defend himself when no one dares to complain as befits a man’?25 It is Job’s lament that provokes God’s reaction. The account of God’s conversation with Satan signals to the reader from the very beginning that there is indeed actual cause for Job’s lament. But of course the protagonists, bound within the fictional frame of the story, cannot take a look ‘behind the scenes’ and have no ‘backstage’ knowledge. As long as God’s perspective remains beyond the human horizon, every attempt of an adaequatio lamentationis et rei must be subject to a temporary, perhaps even eschatological, proviso. Job’s lament is over as soon as he hears from God. In retrospect his lament is an interim. The process of lamentation results in the realization of his own ignorance, and this realization changes the criteria for assessing the situation, so that the outcome itself becomes part of an unfinished process. While it is still going on, lament cannot be counteracted by a higher knowledge, as knowledge of God only comes about through interaction with God, the outcome of which cannot be anticipated. Job is, so to speak, the whole weighty defence plea on man’s behalf in the great case between God and man, the lengthy and appalling trial that [...] ends with the whole thing having been an ordeal [Prøvelse]. … Only as knowledge about an ordeal, that it is an ordeal, would it be included in a dogmatics. But as soon as the knowledge enters, … the category is actually another category.26 23 SD 40–41. 24 Cf. SD 70. This is not to deny that silence, too, can be a form of lament in the widest sense of the word (i.e. physical, pathos-influenced, gesturally expressive and verbally expressible behaviour as a response to an experience); however, Kierkegaard maintains that lament should not remain mute and unspoken. 25 R 198. 26 R 210/ SKS 4, 77.

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The gravity of the situation is characterized not only by the fact that God is putting Job through an ordeal, but also by the fact that God fails to inform him about it. The ordeal as a provisional (midlertidig) category is defined temporally and thus is also annulled.27 But the process goes on without the participants knowing for sure where to situate their own life. The sufferer usually does not know God’s exact role in his suffering. This means that he has the choice of whether or not to keep trusting God. 3. This brings us to the third argument. Against the allegation that lament is a manifestation of mistrust in God, the young man argues that Job’s lament actually leads him to regain his trust in God – that is, if his trust has been lost at all and not implicitly included in his lament all along. First, he asks: ‘Why were you silent for seven days and nights … ? When all existence collapsed upon you and lay like broken pottery around you, did you immediately have this suprahuman self-possession … ?’28 It is uncertain whether Job’s trust in God has been unwavering throughout his ordeal, because his silence is ambiguous. The young man is sure, however, that Job has spoken and lamented out of trust in God. He proves his fear of God [Gudsfrygt]29 not by nodding assent and agreeing with God in spite of believing himself to be right, but in maintaining ‘his position in such a way that in him are manifest the love and trust [Tillid] that are confident that God can surely explain everything if one can only speak with him’.30 It follows that it is indeed trust in God that demands lament, the act of addressing God without reservation; the act that holds God accountable because his responsibility for the world is still acknowledged, even though the way of the world may cast doubt on the justice of his actions. Job’s trust in God is defined by his putting confidence in God’s intervention and his coming to an understanding with God – without understanding God himself, the only one who could attest to Job’s innocence.31 The trust that leads Job to lament about his present plight is rooted in the past as well as oriented towards the future. Because of this trust, which has proved itself in his previous experiences, Job dares to keep on trusting God in the future. His lament tells of a continued, albeit sorely tested, trust that has to prove itself yet again.

27 Cf. R 210/ SKS 4, 78. 28 R 197. 29 R 197/ SKS 4, 67. 30 R 208/ SKS 4, 76. 31 R 207/ SKS 4, 75: ‘To him, every human interpretation is only a misconception, and to him in relation to God all his troubles are but a sophism that he, to be sure, cannot solve, but he trusts that God can do it [fortrøster sig til]. … He affirms that he is on good terms [Forstaaelse] with God, … and yet all the world refutes him.’



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III. Lament – Mark of Trust or Sign of Mistrust? Kierkegaard’s interpretation of the book of Job, put into the mouth of his ‘young man’, argues that lament is not necessarily a sign of mistrust, but can actually be a mark of trust. In order to further investigate this alternative perspective, we will take a look at three controversies in the contemporary scholarship on trust, and then relate them to the theological concept of faith as fiducia, finally returning to the question of whether lament can be understood as a mark of trust.

Controversial Trust The following discussions must be taken into account: 1. It is disputed whether trust remains pre-reflective as long as it remains unchallenged, only becoming apparent and identifiable as trust once it has become problematic, or whether it must be defined as a cognitive phenomenon in the context of a rational choice perspective, i.e. as an act of volitional risk-taking.32 Representing the latter perspective, Annette Baier defines trust as ‘accepted vulnerability to another’s possible but not expected ill will (or lack of good will) toward one’ and as ‘awareness of risk along with confidence that it is a good risk’.33 From this perspective, trust includes the element of uncertainty. Contrary to this view, Olli Lagerspetz has argued that life is full of situations in which we trust without risking much.34 The emphasis on risk would be an inadequate way to describe a marriage or friendship, because it conveys an impression of mistrust. Unquestioned certainty is silent; to talk about trust means to contemplate the possibility of betrayal and thus indicates a situation in which we defend certainty against doubt.35 Trust, Lagerspetz claims, often shows itself precisely in the fact that one is not aware of one’s own trust.36 However, the idea that trust as a conscious effort is logically subordinated to trust that is blind and unconscious37 points towards the fact that one does not 32 Cf. Martin Hartmann, ‘Einleitung’, in: Martin Hartmann/Claus Offe (eds), Vertrauen: Die Grundlage des sozialen Zusammenhalts (Theorie und Gesellschaft 50, Frankfurt/New York: Campus, 2001), 7–34, here: 25–27. 33 Annette Baier, ‘Trust and Antitrust’, in: Ethics 96 (1986), 231–260, here: 235 and 236. A similar view is put forth by Diego Gambetta, ‘Können wir dem Vertrauen vertrauen?’, in Hartmann/Offe (see above n. 32), 204–237. Gambetta defines trust as our way of coping with the limits of our foresight, and also as conviction based on lack of evidence to the contrary (cf. ibid., 212, 235). 34 Cf. Olli Lagerspetz, ‘Vertrauen als geistiges Phänomen’, in: Hartmann/Offe (see above n. 32), 85–113, here: 101 and 104. 35 Cf. ibid., 93. 36 Cf. ibid., 93, 95, 98–99, 108. 37 Ibid., 110.

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necessarily preclude the other – and that pointing out an (un)awareness of it is not sufficient for understanding the phenomenon of trust. 2. Lagerspetz argues that trust is in the eye of the beholder, i.e. trust emerges only through the disparity of perspectives of the first and the third person, an agent and an observer.38 With this assumption he can avoid identifying a specific emotion or intention that would be equivalent to trust. Instead of defining trust from the perspective of faculty psychology as a mental state or activity, he finds it more productive to interpret the usage of the term ‘trust’ as a coping strategy for problematic situations.39 This evasion manoeuvre is elegant, but does it solve the problem or just defer it from the semantic to the pragmatic level of linguistics? How do the cognitive dimensions of trust relate to the volitional, imaginative and affective dimensions? Can the phenomenon of trust be reduced to a difference in perspective between an agent and an observer? The observation that trust is (or at least can be) a reciprocal phenomenon casts doubt on this assumption. Trust manifests itself not only in its being seen, but also in the act of one’s own seeing. Whether we can see each other as trustworthy is a question of mutual appreciation and implies a reversal of perspectives in that the seeing self also sees itself as seen by another.40 3. As Martin Endreß has pointed put, trust is not a hardwired instinct, but a product of interaction and a relative term that refers to relationships and self-interpretation in the context of previous experiences that merge exterior, interior and mutually shared realms.41 Beyond a holistic basic sense, trust is always aimed at specifics: we trust somebody for certain things and in specific situations.42 If trust as a pre-predicative form of interpersonal affection remains implicit in social interactions until an instance of disappointment occurs and ‘exposes’ it to reflective awareness,43 the question arises whether Niklas Luhmann is right when he contrasts ‘familiarity’ (Vertrautheit ) as an inevitable fact to ‘trust’ as an optional choice for specific risk-fraught problems.44 His hypothesis is plausible, provided that it deals with the familiarity of the life world (Lebenswelt ). However, the development of a mutual sense of familiarity and interpersonal trust can be avoided. Familiarity – like reliability and trustworthiness – is not independent of actions, behaviours and habits, but can 38 Cf. ibid., 108, 111. 39 Cf. ibid., 86–89, 107–108. 40 Here, ‘seeing’ does not only refer to the optical sense. On the problem of ‘seeing’ the invisible cf. Claudia Welz, ‘Un-sichtbar’, Hermeneutische Blätter 1/2 (2007), 13–23. 41 Cf. Martin Endress, ‘Vertrauen und Vertrautheit – Phänomenologisch-anthropologische Grundlegung’, in Hartmann/Offe (see above n. 32), 161–203, here: 176, 185–186. 42 Cf. ibid., 170. 43 Cf. ibid., 171. 44 Cf. Niklas Luhmann, ‘Vertrautheit, Zuversicht, Vertrauen: Probleme und Alternativen’, in Hartmann/Offe (see above n. 32), 143–160, here: 144 and 152.

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be fostered through certain (speech) acts and hindered by others. This leads to the question of how activity and passivity are interconnected in trust, which is so hard to build and so easy to destroy. It is neither simply a gift bestowed to us that we cannot control in any way, nor something that can be reduced to attitudes and acts of dedication, to merit or commitment.

Trusting Faith: fiducia The questions regarding human social interactions that have been introduced above also apply to the relationship between human beings and God. The theological debates are every bit as heated as those in the social sciences, but they can also complement each other. In order to put a sharper focus on the questions at stake, we will bring them back to the story of Job. 1. To what extent does Job’s trust remain pre-reflective, and to what extent can it be described as a deliberate act of risk-taking? His faith in God as an unquestioned given is finished the very moment it is put to the test by the proverbial ‘bad news’ Job received (Hiobsbotschaften). When he is struck with boils to boot, his wife asks him: ‘Do you still persist in your integrity? Curse God, and die’ (Job 2.9). But Job will hear nothing of it. No mention is made of probabilistic calculations, but there are anxious, uneasy questions addressed to God.45 Talking to his friends, Job calls God his witness and his advocate in heaven (Job 16.19). Thus, Job seems to trust in God despite openly expressed doubts about God’s trustworthiness. This complex finding is somewhat illuminated by making the distinction between ‘trust’ (Vertrauen) and ‘reliance’ (Sichverlassen). According to Wilfried Härle, reliance means ‘that a person moves away from himself and towards someone or something else, indeed gives himself to other(s)’.46 In contrast to this passive, devotional connotation of reliance,47 the word Vertrauen shares its linguistic roots with (sich) trauen (‘to dare’) und Treue (‘truth’ in the sense of ‘fidelity’). From this perspective, trust is the disposition to act in a way that stays loyal to the other in the face of possible disappointment, which explains why it is appropriate to speak of the risk of trustfulness. According to Härle, trust is synonymous with

45 Cf. Job 13.24: ‘Why do you hide your face, and count me as your enemy?’ 46 ‘daß jemand sich von sich selbst weg- und sich auf jemand oder etwas anderes hinbewegt, ja sich an andere(s) hingibt’ (Wilfried Härle, Dogmatik [Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1995], 57). 47 Of course it may be questioned whether devotion is indeed passive. The verb form ‘to devote oneself’ suggests an activity in which the self is so involved that it cannot just be subjected to it, much less unwillingly so.

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setting one’s heart on something (Sein-Herz-an-etwas-Hängen), one’s ‘lettingoneself-be-determined to devote oneself to another in the hope of goodness’.48 Interestingly, this definition includes the element of reliance, which had previously been differentiated from trust. Job trusts in God by wanting to rely on him. If the motion of relying-on-someone is also an instance of being moved, an affective and at the same time volitional letting-oneself-be-moved towards trustfulness, the gap between the rational choice perspective and a non-cognitive understanding of trust is bridged. 2. The idea that trust usually includes mutual appreciation applies to both religious and social relationships. Job’s trust is tested precisely in that the hoped-for and previously experienced reciprocity suddenly ceases and God abandons him, withdrawing all of his previous mercy – as if he doubted Job’s trust. Satan embodies this doubt and mistrust, insinuating that Job’s faith in God will only last as long as he stands to gain from it and leads a successful life. Job would fail the ordeal if his trust in God were to turn into mistrust. But how does his trust manifest itself? In the eyes of his friends it no longer manifests itself at all, because they equate trust with meek obedience. Job’s lament seems to them an act of self-righteous rebellion against God. This aspect of the story warns against locating trust exclusively in the eye of the observer, because people do not only see, but also overlook and mistake. If Job’s trust is indeed still intact, it must attest to itself in a different way, not least of all for Job, as long as his divine witness remains silent. Accordingly, Heiko Schulz ascribes to trust an element of doxastic assent (Fürwahrhalten).49 An example would be Job’s faith in God as his redeemer (Job 19.25), which stands in opposition to the experience of God’s concealment. Schulz emphasizes that trustful faith cannot be reduced to conviction, belief or reliance, and describes the interplay of elements involved in trust.50 Cognitively speaking, trust as deliberate goal-setting implies an act of acceptance; it represents the unity of cognition and volition and accentuates the voluntative-practical side of human nature. In comparison, the attitude of reliance is more determined by affect and represents the unity of drive and emotion. While ‘I trust you’ is primarily a 48 ‘das Sich-bestimmen-Lassen … zur Hingabe an ein Gegenüber in der Hoffnung auf Gutes’ (ibid., 58). Note the grammatical modal construction: ‘letting-oneself-be-determined’ (‘sich bestimmen lassen zu …’)! 49 Heiko Schulz, Theorie des Glaubens (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 292: Whoever trusts somebody else ‘acts, and acts in a way as if he trusts or relies on that person. Moreover, he does it deliberately and in that mode of reflective awareness in which the belief that his counterpart deserves to be trusted is balanced with a conviction that casts this assumption at least partly into doubt’ (trans. Martina Sitling). 50 Cf. ibid., 302, 305–308.



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commissive or verdictive speech act, ‘I rely on you’ should be understood in the sense of a behabitive speech act.51 Thus the mental and linguistic dimensions of trust are interrelated. Schulz describes the ‘covenant structure’ of trust as a joint venture, thereby further clarifying that trustful faith is by no means to be localized in the trusting person, but is expressed in the acts between him and God.52 In summary, he defines faith as unconditional trust that, in the acceptance of being accepted by God, absolutely relies on the real, albeit contrapossible possibility of this acceptance53 – a possibility which is constantly challenged by opposing possibilities. This definition already contains a possible answer to the third question. 3. How are activity and passivity interconnected in trust? Being accepted by God precedes one’s own act of acceptance, a notion confirmed by Job’s appeals to the formerly trustworthy God. Without this background, the story of Job’s apparent godforsakenness, of being denied the help he could rely on in the past, would not be nearly so dramatic. In order to retain his trust in God, Job needs not only actions, but also passion. What is more: if it seems to be impossible to have faith without first receiving God’s grace and affection, then trusting faith takes a person beyond himself and his own abilities. Trust is a gift and also a talent, but this gift only exists if God has bestowed it. Insofar as we as humans are on the receiving end and cannot give this gift to ourselves, we remain passive; but insofar as we can only attain it through using it and affirming it by passing it forward, we are active. This concurrence of activity and passivity is also a fundamental insight of reformation theology: Martin Luther stated that faith is only received passively, yet is practised in and through love’s spontaneity.54 Huldrych Zwingli, in whose work the term fiducia plays a crucial part, incorporates faith, hope and love into a dynamics of trust – no longer as virtues, but as modes of being touched by God’s spiritual power, which produces actions the way a burning fire produces warmth.55 From this perspective, trust is always principium and causa, never consequentia, and yet can only be active in being received anew. Social analogies can be found for these insights, e.g. in the bond of trust between parents and children. But to 51 Cf. John L. Austin, How to Do Things with Words: The William James Lectures Delivered at Harvard University in 1955 (ed. J.O. Urmson, Oxford: Clarendon, 1962), 150–154; 156–158. 52 Cf. Schulz (see above n. 49), 312, 315. 53 Cf. ibid., 346 n. 74. 54 Cf. the explanation of the third article of the Apostle’s Creed in the Large Catechism: Rat der Evangelischen Kirche in Deutschland (ed.), Die Bekenntnisschriften der Evangelisch-Lutherischen Kirche (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 8th edn, 1979), 660–661. 55 Cf. with lots of evidence Berndt Hamm, Zwinglis Reformation der Freiheit (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1988), 72–80.

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diagnose a simple structural analogy between the relationship to God and specific relationships to other persons is to miss the theological point; for God’s attention affects all interpersonal relationships, and faith in God affects all other relations in which human beings live.

Lament between Trust and Mistrust To what extent can lament be understood in the context of this framework of trust, and in what ways might it break out of this frame? 1. Even though lament still contains the element of reliance inherent to trust, it nevertheless transforms it to the extent that it cannot remain prereflective. By being language-bound, lament offers the opportunity to reflect on one’s own affectedness. The trust expressed in lament is not an involuntary, automatic reaction to events, but rather must be attained and sustained in spite of events: it is deliberate and volitional. Trust as accepted vulnerability corresponds to exposing oneself and opening oneself even in the face of the pain that is expressed in lament. The opposite of trustful lament that puts its hope in God’s help is the retreat into silence, which at its worst corresponds to the mute despair Kierkegaard calls the ‘sickness unto death’: incurvatio in se, sin as a loss of trust that is kept hidden from God. The lamenter turns to God with his doubts, and by addressing him as a ‘you’ opens up the possibility of a dialogue with God, during which precarious, enfeebled trust can be reinvigorated. 2. While Kierkegaard’s Job exegesis urges us to understand lament as a mark of trust in God, the comparative analysis of various elegies and lamentations from different cultures shows that lament, as an expression of existential plight, can go beyond grieving and into despair without the option of turning to an authority that could be expected to help.56 Even Job, who attributes both his suffering and his joy to God, has to fight his anxiety of godforsakenness in the midst of his lament to God. The apostrophe, an appeal remaining unheard and unacknowledged, is a basic motif of lament with an inherent reductive tendency towards cursing and cries of anguish, uttered even if no one is listening.57 In lament, linguistic helplessness is experienced, which paradoxically shows itself in the fact that lament cannot find an end; once it starts, it tends towards redundancy and repetition, even if it cannot possibly lift or undo the plight.58 It is the lamentation about this inability to act,59 or rather about the inability to 56 Cf. Johannes Anderegg, ‘Zum Ort der Klage: Literaturwissenschaftliche Erkundungen’, in Ebner (see above n. 1), 185–208, here: 190–191 and 193. 57 Cf. ibid., 199–201. 58 Cf. ibid., 192, 202f. 59 Cf. ibid., 196.



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act usefully, that threatens to destroy the framework of trustful faith that has been established as an effective action above. 3. The framework collapses when there is only enough strength left for moaning, sighing and cursing, but not for daring to entrust oneself and one’s plight to God again and again. To sustain trust in lament requires enormous effort lest it deteriorate into mistrust or hypocrisy. Lament can be both: an act of moving beyond oneself in trusting self-transcendence, or of revolving around oneself without giving up one’s own position. As in trust, activity and passivity are interwoven in lament. In one sense, the lamenter is practically hyperactive. But as long as his words accomplish nothing, as long as they continue fruitlessly and endlessly, without rhyme or reason or ever being heard by God, he laments in vain. In order to move beyond himself and beyond orbiting his own plight, he must rely on being moved by God. In this regard, his lament remains completely passive, in waiting, on stand-by. His lament cannot achieve its only objective: to be made unnecessary by the cessation (or at least alleviation) of his plight. Lament shall not have the final word.

IV. Lament as Journey: from Grief to Joy But if lament is not to have the final word, who or what does have it – joy? This is how Ricœur wants it: the feelings of grief and anger expressed in lament and complaint are transformed and vanish altogether, along with lament itself. From this perspective, the only viable path towards this goal is not an unavailable reversal of an unavoidable plight, but amending one’s own emotions, thoughts and actions. Can lament be superseded by emotional metamorphosis, or does it remain an essential factor for bringing about this metamorphosis in the first place? And where can joy be found – only at the end of the journey, or during the journey itself – or at least by the wayside? Questions like these are quite familiar from reading the biblical psalms of lament. Exegetic discourse can further the discussion within systematic theology, and thus its results will be briefly presented here:60 the lament psalms usually contain a passage of praise and thanksgiving at the end. How can we explain these ‘mood swings’, this extreme change of how the situation is emotionally evaluated (Stimmungsumschwung) in the declarative dynamics of these texts? The hypothesis of a ‘priestly oracle of salvation’ (Heilsorakel ) suggests that the reversal comes about suddenly and from the outside. This supposition is contradicted not only by a complete lack of evidence, but also by the fact that there is an alternation of elements of lament, gratitude and of confidence in God’s response, giving lament 60 I am referring to Bernd Janowski, ‘Das verborgene Angesicht Gottes: Psalm 13 als Muster eines Klagelieds des einzelnen’, in Ebner (see above n. 1), 25–53, here especially 42–53.

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a status of incompleteness, of waiting, of openness. Therefore it is more plausible to see the reason for the reversal from lament to praise in the praying process itself. The individual psalm text offers a time-lapse representation of a longer journey of experience that can last days and nights, weeks and months. By praying and saying the psalm, traversing the stages of invocation, lament, petition, avowal of trust and promise of praise, the reversal is realized anticipatorily. The declamation of the psalm itself contains an advance of trust in God and is carried by this basic trust,61 even though it cannot be experienced in the plight of feeling forsaken by God. Instead, it is freshly posited by the declarative speech act itself, while the full actuality of the anticipated closeness to God will only find its proof in the future. To recapitulate: (1) The reversal from lament to praise and from grief to joy does not happen once and for all, but must be patiently repeated and anticipated in speech acts. (2) The repeated verbal anticipation of the journey’s final destination helps to endure the existential tension between the experience of plight and the yet unfulfilled hope for salvation. (3) The lamenter finds himself in the transitional stage of transformation, in which lament, as it were, is a catalyst for a new self-understanding. It not only articulates that which is lamentable, but it also invokes that which is desired. From this it follows that lament as an expression of the interior, as a vocalization of suffering and a performative speech act, serves short-term emotional metamorphosis as well as a long-term change of disposition: it gives words to grief, maintains a trustful communication with God and thus can, in both retrospect and prospect, lead from grief to joy. Lament’s capability to discover the joy that has been choked by tears and smothered by anguish is illustrated by Kierkegaard’s discourse ‘The Lord Gave, and the Lord Took Away; Blessed Be the Name of the Lord (Job 1.20–21)’: ‘[t]hen Job collected all his sorrows, and “cast it upon the Lord,” and then the Lord took that away from him also, and only praise was left and in it his heart’s incorruptible joy’ – ‘this voice of comfort, this voice that trembles in pain and yet proclaims joy, this is heard by the ears of the troubled one, … and it strengthens and guides him to find joy even in the depths of sorrow.’62 This quotation illustrates that even though grief and joy are consecutive emotions, they can also be intertwined. Moreover, the succession from lament to praise can be reversed. While the Repetition focuses on the later chapters of the book of Job, this discourse deals with the beginning chapters. The ‘young man’ reads the book of Job with an emphasis on its laments and thus is doubtful of Job’s capability of praising God even in the depths of his grief. But, as in the psalms, 61 Cf. Christoph Markschies, ‘“Ich aber vertraue auf dich, Herr!” Vertrauensäußerungen als Grundmotiv in den Klageliedern des Einzelnen’, in: ZAW 103 (1991), 386–398. 62 Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, ed. and trans. Søren Kierkegaard, Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses (Kierkegaard’s Writings, vol. 5, Princeton: Princeton UP, 1992), 122.



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the representation of experience is probably abridged – a process that is not linear, but runs from joy to grief, from lament to cautious praise, from praise back to the truculence of lament, until finally grief is transparent to joy again. Can a praying person plaintively plead and joyfully praise and thank at the same time? The discrepancy of the emotions involved and the time needed for a real change of disposition make this an improbability. The joy of having one’s prayers answered by God, which is an experiential requirement for praise and thanksgiving, is still missing in lament and petition, and at best manifests itself fleetingly as the hope for a reply and anticipatory joy – before the grief becomes overwhelming again. If joy and grief, praise and lament occur simultaneously, the emotions are ‘mixed’ and inseparable in experience, but the same does not apply to their intentional objects: Job certainly does not rejoice in the loss of his children, but he does rejoice in the trusting relationship with God, and thus praising him precedes and carries his lament. Ricœur correctly identifies lament as a phenomenon of transition. Lament is a journey in which, step by step, joy can catch up with grief and ultimately overtake it. It remains to be examined whether this process of transfiguration initiated by lament ultimately means the end of lament itself.

V. Theology from the Depths If the process of lamentation culminates in its overcoming, lament’s right to exist is ultimately denied. To what extent is lament justified, and how can adequate lament be differentiated from inadequate lament? Ricœur’s criticism of lament provides a starting point for reassessing this distinction. At best, his criticism applies to certain malformations of complaint, but it is by no means valid for all forms of lament, as has been shown above. First of all, complaint about an injustice is not always born of a desire to be spared, rewarded or made immortal. At most, Ricœur’s criticism indicates the danger that lament may be abused as an attempt to manipulate God. Lament cannot extort anything from God, though it may be driven by the desire to be able to praise God again and to rejoice in life despite suffering. Second, contrarily to what Ricœur seems to believe, a lamenting person is not necessarily a victim. Sometimes, there is reason to lament about oneself and one’s own squandered possibilities. Like the lamenting self, lament itself is not free from ambiguity. Will we ever come to the point where we can love God ‘for nothing’ (Job 1.9), and did Job really succeed in doing so? Satan’s question is justified. However, this ambiguity fails to disqualify lament entirely. To speak with Kierkegaard’s ‘young man’ once again: ‘the confidence [Fortrolighed] of the Lord dwells again in the tents of Job as in former days’ … Was Job proved to be in the wrong? Yes, eternally, for there

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is no higher court than the one that judged him. Was Job proved to be in the right? Yes, eternally, by being proved to be in the wrong before God.63 On the one hand, it is highlighted here that God did not accept Job’s lament utterly and completely, but on the other hand, it says that the reasons for his being in the wrong were not the aspects of his lament that appeared worthy of criticism by human standards. Job agreed with God by admitting that he could not understand God’s decree, and he was proved right in turning to God with his failure to understand, so that he was proved wrong coram deo alone. Lament articulates a protest against an existing or unfolding situation, but in its act of facing God, it counts on him to change that situation by listening and helping. It also becomes obvious that lament has upset the continuity of trusting familiarity with God. Although this disturbance does not equal a loss of trust, it does signal the possibility of this loss. Lament is a dangerous balancing act on the thin line between trust and mistrust. Lament can all too easily turn into complaint and accusation against God. If it goes beyond merely voicing boundless suffering and instead tries to bring God before the tribunal of human reason, lament turns into hubris and becomes every bit as presumptuous and inadequate as the attempt to defend God. It is important to differentiate between the pitfalls of inadequate lament, which ignores the limits of man and wants to judge God instead of subjecting itself to his judgement, and the legitimate functions of a lament that acknowledges the difference between God and man and is appropriate to the position of human beings before God. Since theology as a theoretical endeavour – i.e. as the critical reflection of the speech of, to and about God – can only exist if such speech acts on which to reflect exist in actuality, it remains bound to the actual world, to the life world in which people lament. If the problem of suffering and evil must be dealt with in interaction with God and not merely in speaking about him, and if the speaking of God in the sense of a genitivus subiectivus (God’s own speech) likewise becomes accessible or ‘audible’ only by speaking to him, theology in all its forms remains dependent on prayer – thus also on the prayer of lament, the conversation of conflict and crisis with God, because all speaking of God in the sense of a genitivus obiectivus is fed by encounters with God. But the suffering expressed in lament often is rooted in the impression that lament seems to remain without God, unheard and unanswered by him, mired in unheard-of godforsakenness. The first legitimate function of lament in this situation is to ask God in reply.64 Lament in this case is not meant to give meaning to innocent suffering and thus to take on theodicy-like functions,65 but rather to rediscover God 63 R 212 / SKS 4, 79. 64 In this point I concur with Ottmar Fuchs, ‘Unerhörte Klage über den Tod hinaus! Überlegungen zu einer Eschatologie der Klage’, in Ebner (see above n. 1), 347–379, here: 353–354. 65 In contrast to theodicy as an explicit attempt to theologically justify God in the face of evil, theodicy-like attempts remain implicit and/or indirect. Cf. Matthias Wüthrich’s chapter in this volume.



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in the midst of (guilty or innocent) suffering. The focus of its desire is God’s solidarity with the sufferers, which due to their inability to experience it even adds to the suffering. Lament is the persistent waiting for God’s saving presence. Listening and speaking in lament are not reducible to obedient submission. Thereby lament also fulfils its second function: to bridge the period of suffering and waiting for God and to keep the lamenter prepared for a new encounter with God. Lament is a form of perseverance. In memory of God’s promise it persistently waits for the promised answer to its prayer. Thus it leads to a journey whose happy ending is to be hoped for, but not yet given entirely: The last word of Christian faith is surely that nothing can separate me from the love and mercy of God that is in Jesus Christ, our Lord (Rom 8,38f). But can the last word also be made the first? […] Systematic theology in general tends to refer to a happy ending all too hastily and fails to take seriously the fruitless disorientations of the journey in all its uncertainties.66 The last word of Christian faith can be made the first one insofar as it gives reason to the hope that makes us start out on our journey and lets us persevere on it, even if it seems to lead to dead ends. The fact that one can speak of dead ends in the plural at all indicates that the journey is not completed with them. But neither can its uncertainties simply be talked out of existence. Lament is a way of facing these uncertainties and bringing them before God. Kierkegaard reminds us that on this journey the criteria of evaluation can also change and warns against trying prematurely to anticipate the ultimate end of a yet unfinished process. Because of the temporal dynamic, every attempt of an adaequatio lamentationis et rei must remain an approximation. Instead of trying to endure lamentable circumstances without complaint, a theology de profundis encourages us to see lament as a viable way of transformation. The cathartic and critical potential of lament alone makes it worthy of taking time and space. In Vor Frue Kirke, Copenhagen’s cathedral, where Kierkegaard was a regular visitor, there is a corner dedicated to Job and to all mourners and grievers. Here, a remarkable creed encourages lament: ‘We believe that God is great enough to harbour our little lives with all their grievances, and that he can lead us from the darkness through to the other side.’ Once the eyes have become accustomed to the dark, a picture with a cross becomes visible. Prayer notes can be pinned to the cross which is inscribed with the words from 1 Peter 5.7: ‘Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.’ Lament, thus, is not unwanted, unbidden prayer. In lament God at least comes within earshot – God without whom we could neither trust nor lament about being forsaken. 66 Oswald Bayer, ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, in Ebner (see above n. 1), 289–301, here: 297.

Chapter 8

Praise, Petition, Lament – and Back On the Significance of Lament in the Book of Tobit Henrike Frey-Anthes

Whenever the significance of lament in the Old Testament is discussed, the Book of Job is, along with the psalms, naturally at the forefront of interest.1 In light of this predominance, this chapter calls attention to the Book of Tobit as a sapiential text in which lament seems to be marginalized and even crowded out by an emphasis on praising God. Investigating the Book of Tobit promises to enrich the larger discussion on the issue of lament, not only because it sheds light on a text considered apocryphal in Protestant theology, but also because – unlike the Book of Job – it contributes to the diversity of perspectives on the general anthropological matter of suffering and guilt by employing as central characters both a male and a female.

Pious Tobit and Humble Sarah The book of Tobit2 tells the stories of old, pious Tobit and of young, humble Sarah, recounting their troubles and the eventual relief of their suffering through God’s 1 On the significance of lament in the Book of Job also cf. the chapters by Claudia Welz and Jonas Bauer. 2 Several versions of the Book of Tobit in various languages are extant, with the two Greek versions (G1: Codex Vaticanus; G2: Codex Sinaiticus) representing the most important textual witnesses. Fragments of version G2 are also evident in 4Q196–199 (Aram.) and 4Q200 (Hebr.), and it is closely related to the Vetus Latina. G2 probably offers a closer approximation of the Urtext than the abridged and smoothed-down G1 version. On the textual history of the book of Tobit, cf. Robert Hanhart, Text und Textgeschichte des Buches Tobit (AAWG.PH 3.139; MUS 17; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 11–20; Beate Ego, Buch Tobit, in JSHRZ 2 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 1999), 873–1007, here: 875–884; Helen Schüngel-Straumann, Tobit (HThK.AT, Freiburg i.B./Basel/Wien: Herder, 2000), 39–42. In the following, all verse notations and citations are based on G2 as given in Stuart Weeks, Simon Gathercole, Loren T. Stuckenbruck (eds), The Book of Tobit: Texts from the Principal Ancient and Medieval Traditions, with Synopsis, Concordances, and Annotated Texts in Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and Syriac (Fontes et Subsidia ad Bibliam pertinentes 3; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2004), 1–60. The English translations of G1 and G2 are adopted from Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Tobit (Berlin/ New York: de Gruyter, 2003).

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merciful intervention. In a larger context, the individual lives of Tobit and Sarah are closely intertwined with the collective fate of their nation. Tobit and his family live as exiles in Nineveh. Tobit, a God-fearing man of great piety, strives to preserve Israel’s identity by observing its laws in the foreign land. Practising his religious duties brings him into conflict with his immediate and wider surroundings (the foreign rulers, his own kinsfolk and his wife3). Tobit implores God to let him die after he has gone blind due to sparrow droppings that fell into his eyes while he slept outside after a funeral in observance of cleanliness rules. The second storyline recounts the fate of obedient Sarah, who also lives in the Diaspora, in her parents’ house in Ekbatana in Media. Sarah has married seven times, but each of her husbands was killed on their wedding night by the demon Ashmodai (‘demon of wrath’).4 Sarah’s personal fate, too, poses a threat to the entire nation of Israel, because according to the Book of Tobit, Israel can only survive if its daughters do not marry foreigners.

Praise, Petition, Lament, and Back Again Prayers provide a theological key for the Book of Tobit. Tobit (3.2–6) and Sarah (3.7) implore God to let them die. Not only do their prayers occur simultaneously (3.7), but the ‘prayer of both of them was heard in the glorious presence of God’ (3.16). Thus the earthly fates of Tobit and Sarah and their respective pieties are intertwined in heaven. Both prayers start with a praise of God, followed by an account of their own and their people’s troubles, then by lament, and finally by the plea for release in death:

Praise:

Tobit (TobG2 3.2–6) 2 You are righteous, O Lord, and all your deeds are just (δίκαιος); all your ways are mercy (ἐλεημοσύνη) and fidelity (ἀλήθεια). You are the judge of the world.5

Sara (TobG2 3.11b–15) 11b Praise to you, merciful (ἐλεήμων) God, and praised be your name forever! May all your works praise you evermore!6

3 On the negative interpretation of Tobit’s wife’s role compared to Job’s wife in TestHiob cf. Schüngel-Straumann (see above n. 2), 74–76. 4 On the demon Ashmodai cf. Henrike Frey-Anthes, Unheilsmächte und Schutzgenien, Antiwesen und Grenzgänger: Vorstellungen von ‘Dämonen’ im alten Israel (OBO 227; Freiburg [Switzerland]: Academic Press Fribourg, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 281–301. 5 G1: ‘You are righteous, O Lord, and all your deeds and all your ways are mercy, and with true and righteous judgment you judge forever.’ 6 G1: ‘Blessed are you, O Lord my God! And blessed is your holy and honoured name forever. Let all your works praise you forever. ’

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Tobit (TobG2 3.3–6) 3 Now remember me, O Lord, and look kindly upon me. Do not punish me for my sins or for my oversights, or for those of my ancestors. I sinned against you 4 and disobeyed your commandments [G1: who sinned against you and disobeyed your commandments]; 4b you have given us over to plunder, captivity, and death so that we have become a byword, a proverb, and a taunt in all the nations among which you have scattered us. 5 Now your many judgments are right in dealing with me according to my sins [G1: and those of my ancestors], because we have not kept your commandments and have not walked faithfully before you. 6 So deal with me as you see fit; command that my spirit be taken away from me, that I may be released (ἀπολύω) from the face of the earth and become dust. (I-)Lament: 6b Thus it is better for me to die than to live, since I have listened to untrue reproaches (ὀνειδισμοί); and excessive grief is within me. Command, O Lord, that I be loosed (ἀπολύω) from this distress; release me (ἀπολύω) to go to my everlasting home. Do not, O Lord, turn your face away from me. [G2 only:] For it is better for me to die than to see excessive distress in my life and to listen to such reproaches (ὀνειδισμοί). Petition:

Sara (TobG2 3.12–15) 12 To you, O Lord, I now turn my face and lift up my eyes. 13 Bid that I be taken (ἀπολύω)7 from this earth so that I may no longer have to listen to such reproaches (ὀνειδισμοί). 14 You know, Master, that I am innocent of any defilement (ἀκαθαρσίας [G1: ἁμαρτία ‘sin’]) with a man, 15a that I have not besmirched my name or my father’s name in the land of my captivity. I am my father’s only child; he has no other child to be his heir, no brother or close relative or other kinsman for whom I should keep myself to be his wife. 15b Seven husbands of mine have already perished; so why should I still go on living? If it is not pleasing to you to take my life, O Lord, then listen to the criticism of me (ὀνειδισμός)! [G1: … then command that people respect and pity me, and that I hear a reproach (ὀνειδισμός) no more!]

Praise Praising God is an integral element of righteous behaviour and piety in the Book of Tobit. God is praised regardless of the worshipper’s actual situation, and exhortations to praise God abound (cf. 3.2, 11; 4.19; 8.5, 15–17a; 11.14, 15, 17; 12.6, 20, 22; 13.1–18; 14.2, 6). The two prayers uttered by Tobit’s son Tobiah8 and Sarah’s father Raguel are also framed as hymns of praise. They praise God as the Creator and Lord of the history of Israel (‘ancestors’) and of mankind (‘Adam and Eve’) (8.5–6), and also as a personal protector who guides the fate of the individual (8.15–16). 7 Greek λύω probably stands for Aramaic r+p, which functioned as a terminus technicus for divorce for the Jews in Babylonic exile (cf. bGit 65b) and can be found in Aramaic and Mandaic magic inscriptions in the context of demon exorcisms, cf. Ego (see above n. 2), 943; Frey-Anthes (see above n. 4), 285–289 . 8 In the Greek versions the name of the father (Tobit) is different from that of the son (Tobiah), but this distinction is not made in the Vetus Latina and the Vulgata.



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Although the prayers of Tobit and Sarah are occasioned by suffering and distress, they differ in some respects from the lament psalms in the Psalter. Most notably, both prayers begin with praising God. Interestingly, a similar structure can be found in the theology of the foreign rulers, from whom Israel is supposed to keep its distance: the ritual Akkadian prayers of individual petition (which predate the Book of Tobit considerably) often begin with a more or less elaborate glorification of the deity they address.9 The structures of these prayers correspond to social situations of a secular nature. The ritual sequence of the Šu-Ila (‘hand-lifting’) prayers, for example, mirrors that of an audience with a worldly ruler. The ‘laments over enemies’ (Feindklagen) and pleas to destroy them (Vernichtungsbitten) that are expressed in these prayers refer to demons or men bent on harming the worshipper. Since a high deity is addressed, the predications, as well as the praises in the thanksgiving part at the end of the prayer, are quite elaborate.10 The so-called ‘laments for calming the heart’ (Herzberuhigungsklagen(, which are extant in Sumerian with an Akkadian translation, address the worshipper’s personal deity. In them, being forsaken by one’s personal deity is the consequence of personal (even unintentional) wrongdoing, not the work of a demon or a witch.11 The invocation of the deity is not very elaborate (described by Maul12 as type a.b) or can even be omitted completely (type c.d). The laments for calming the heart, classified by Maul as type a, open with praise that is meant to put the deity into a merciful mood. Thus Kat. n.1 vs. 3’ prays to the god Marduk: 3’ sum.: ] gi-izi-lá gù ¬-[ru x x ] x i-zi-hu-luh-ha gaba-šu-gar | nu-tuku-a torch bearer ... terrible flood that has no opponent.

9 The Mesopotamic equivalent to the Book of Job, the text ludlul beˉ l neˉ meqi, also begins with a hymn; cf. Michaela Bauks, Die Feinde des Psalmisten und die Freunde Ijobs: Untersuchungen zur Freund-Klage im Alten Testament am Beispiel von Ps 22 (SBS 203, Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2004), 143. 10 Cf. Annette Zgoll, ‘Für Sinne, Geist und Seele: Vom konkreten Ablauf mesopotamischer Rituale zu einer generellen Systematik von Ritualfunktionen’, in Erich Zenger (ed.), Ritual und Poesie: Formen und Orte religiöser Dichtung im Alten Orient, im Judentum und im Christentum (Herders Biblische Studien 36, Freiburg i.B.: Herder, 2003), 25–46, here: 33–36. 11 While numinous natural forces cause most evil and illnesses in Sumerian texts, the culprit in Akkadian invocations is usually a human enemy, particularly the witch. Numinous natural forces also retain their power, but are joined by the evils and dangers caused by human agents. Tzvi Abusch, Mesopotamian Witchcraft: Toward a History and Understanding of Babylonian Witchcraft Beliefs and Literature (Ancient Magic and Divination V, Leiden/Boston/Köln: Brill, 2002), 51, sees the reason for this shift in the development of a differentiated civil society in which the other human being (i.e. the witch) becomes a greater menace than natural forces, which do not pose as sinister a threat in towns and cities. 12 Cf. Stefan Maul, ‘Herzberuhigungsklagen’: Die sumerisch-akkadischen Eršahunga-Gebete (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1988), 17–19.

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or Kat. n.1 vs. 5’.6’ to the goddess Papnunaki:13 5’ sum.: 6’

] ga-ša-an-mu di-kud ga-ša-an-mu! di-kud! My Mistress is judge, my Mistress is judge! ] x gašan-mu mu-LU(-)e-ri-zu gú-zu zi-mu-un-ši-ı`b My Mistress, to your servant raise your head!

The lament for calming the heart Ešh n45 Z.4f.vs (‘soliciting’ type b) prays thusly to the ‘god of a person’ or ‘to any god whatsoever’:14 4’ sum.: 5’ akk.:

[dı̀m-me]- ¬er mu-un-ugu-mu [ga-(?)] My god who created (me), (to him) I want to go, [ana] ili([N]I) ba-ni-ia (blank) [ ] [To] my creator god [(I want to go)]?

The prayers address the gods in their one quality that is most important to the respective worshipper. They entrust their individual problems to the creator, the judge, the god that no enemy can defeat, and plead for their help and intervention. In this respect, these hymn-like prayer invocations are functionally equivalent to the praises employed by Tobit and Sarah to preface their pleas and lamentations. Praise of God as an autonomous element of prayer expresses the worshipper’s confidence of being heard (Erhörungsgewissheit ) 15 and demonstrates the appropriate way for a human being to approach and honour the divine power. It is only logical, then, that the pleas of Tobit and Sarah are preceded by salutatory praise. At the same time, their praise corresponds to the objective of their prayers’ implicit appeal. Tobit Tobit praises those three aspects of God’s nature that are most important for him – ‘justice’ (δικαιοσύνη), ‘truth’ (ἀλήθεια) and ‘mercy’ (ἐλεημοσύνη) – and addresses God in his function as judge of the world. This form of address corresponds to Tobit’s own pious character: his actions are also characterized by the terms ἀλήθεια, δικαιοσύνη and ἐλεημοσύνη (1.3). The pious life of Tobit the individual, lived in tune with the ethics of siblinghood,16 is contrasted with the collective 13 Maul (see above n. 12), 58–59. 14 Maul (see above n. 12), 233–235. 15 Cf. Bauks (see above n. 9), 119. 16 In my opinion, the term ‘ethics of siblinghood’ is a more fitting term for the Book of Tobit than the limiting ‘ethics of brotherhood’, because the women, too, are called ‘sister’ throughout the narrative: Tobit calls his wife Hannah ‘sister’ (5.21), as Raguel calls his wife Edna in 7.15 and Tobiah his bride Sarah in 8.4, 7. The idea of marrying a sister recalls Gen. 12 (paras 20; 26) and emphasizes the principle of endogamy. Azariah calls Tobit ‘brother’ (5.11f.), and Tobit responds in kind (5.14).



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decay of his nation. Tobit distances himself from the false cult of Baal of his kinsmen by continuing to make sacrifices in Jerusalem and to give alms to the poor (1.6–8). Of all the Israelites living in exile, he is the only one who continues to observe the dietary laws (1.10). He urges his son to marry a woman of their own tribe (4.12–13) (which the son obeys as a matter of course) and attends to the proper care of the dead (1.16–18).17 The burial of the dead, because prohibited by the foreign rulers, provides a particularly striking metaphor of isolation and alienation. According to the rules of hygiene, contact with the dead is a source of contamination, which means that the undertaker must keep his distance from society.18 But from a different perspective, Tobit’s piety also connects him to the history of his people. His actions recall an episode from the life of ‘David, [his] ancestor’ (TobG2 1.4): David orders the execution of the seven sons of Saul, and Rizpa is guarding their unburied bodies against birds and wild animals. When David hears of this, he has the bodies buried, which in turn inspires God to have mercy (rt() on the land (2 Sam. 21).19 By adhering to the laws of Moses and burying his compatriots regardless of their misdeeds, Tobit proves himself to be even more merciful and just than King David, who had to be reminded of his duties to the dead by a woman.20 Moreover, Tobit is ranked with the paradigmatic sages Daniel and Joseph, themselves famous keepers of Israelite identity in foreign lands.21 But unlike the sapiential books of Ahiqar, Susanna and Jonah, the Tobiah is called ‘brother’ by Rafael (6.11; 11.2). Tobiah calls Azariah ‘brother’ (6.7, 14; 7.9; 9.2). Edna calls her future son-in-law Tobiah ‘brother’ (10.13). 17 Besides the general Dtn/Dtr issues (such as the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, observing the dietary law, the law of endogamy and the commandment to ‘honour thy parents’, giving alms to the poor, paying wages to day labourers, and the proper burial of the dead), certain other keywords can also be found in the Book of Tobit: e.g. the idea of cultural centralization (1.6–7; 13), commemoration as a religious act (4.5–6), the terms ‘joy’, ‘fear of God’, ‘love of God’, the return to and safe residence in the homeland and the practice of siblinghood ethics. Cf. Norbert Johannes Hofmann, ‘Die Rezeption des Dtn im Buch Tobit, in der Assumptio Mosis und im 4. Esrabuch’, in Georg Braulik (ed.), Das Deuteronomium (ÖBS 23, Frankfurt a.M.: Peter Lang, 2003), 311–342, here: 234. 18 Contamination by handling the dead is a topos that – in contrast to honouring one’s parents, paying wages to day labourers or showing charity towards the poor and the sick – is not found in Lev. 19, but in the Book of Numbers. Num. 19.16 stipulates that touching the dead makes one unclean for seven days. This, however, means that Tobit should not have come home after his first contact with the dead man in Tob. 2.4. He does so, however, and even eats there, planning to bury the dead kinsman under cover of the night. It is only after the burial that Tobit speaks of having become unclean through this act. Here, Mosaic law is not executed to the letter, but adapted to the circumstances of everyday life. 19 Cf. Schüngel-Straumann (see above n. 2), 63. 20 In contrast, Tobit’s behaviour towards his wife seems distinctly unmerciful, cf. Tob. 2.11–14; on this matter cf. Schüngel-Straumann (see above n. 2), 70–76. 21 Both Joseph and Tobit find themselves in a foreign country (Tob. 1.1–2//Gen. 39.1); both hold a high magistrate position (Tob. 1.13, 22//Gen. 41.42–43), which they lose due to unjustified attacks; both of their lives are in danger (Tob 1.19–20//Gen. 37.18–28; 39.7–20). Ultimately, they both are rehabilitated because of their piety (Tob. 1.17; 4.16//Gen. 45.11; 47.12). Parallels to the legend of Daniel: Daniel, too, lives in exile (Dan. 1.1–6) and finds himself maligned because of his piety (Dan. 3.8–25; 6.5–6, 17–25).

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Book of Tobit emphasizes God’s mercy as the crucial element for the sage Tobit.22 The so-called ‘principle of retribution’ (Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang) never exists independently of God’s mercy, but by his grace alone (Tob. 8.16–17; 11.17). Humans can only hope to fare well (4.14), but ultimately God’s plans are kept hidden from them (4.19). This is also true for pious Tobit, who begins his prayer by praising God’s mercy. As a symbolic figure, Tobit is thus closely connected to the well-being of his nation.23 This symbolism is underscored by the almost verbatim transfer from the individual’s hope of salvation through God’s mercy, as it is expressed in Tob. 13.2,24 to the collective in 13.5.25 Therefore, it is of particular importance that Tobit is saved: who will observe the laws and commandments if Tobit actually dies and his son’s wedding plans fail? This question implicitly pervades the entire narrative. Tobit must pray for his tribe’s salvation, and God must not leave Tobit to his fate, because Tobit’s salvation is paradigmatic for the future salvation of the whole tribe. Sarah Unlike Tobit, Sarah begins her prayer by invoking God’s mercy (θεὲ ἐλεήμων; only in G2, G1: ‘Praise to you, O Lord, my God’) and praises him as the creator of all things. This is in keeping with the gender dynamics of the text. Tobit’s dominant character traits correspond to aspects of God’s nature, and his function as a role model is represented by his actions regarding Dtn/Dtr matters and the paradigmatic role of the sage. Sarah, on the other hand, is the prototype of the passively obedient woman. Her individual fate is linked to that of several women in Genesis, thus contributing to the emergence of a female perspective on suffering. Sarah bears the name of the first arch mother. Like Tamar (Gen. 38), she is considered a ‘killer wife,’ i.e. she is blamed for the deaths of her husbands (Tob. 3.7–8), and taunted by her maid.26 Sarah’s fate also recalls that of her 22 Cf. Klaus Koenen, ‘Gerechtigkeit und Gnade: Zu den Möglichkeiten weisheitlicher Lehrerzählungen’, in Joachim Mehlhausen (ed.), Recht – Macht – Gerechtigkeit (Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie 14, Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 1998), 274–303, here: 285–286. 23 In the narratively condensed 112 years (G1 158 years) of his life, Tobit has lived to see 300 years of the history of his people: the secession of Naphtali from the house of his ancestor David and thus from Jerusalem (1:4), the captivity in Nineveh wrought by the Assyrians (1.10), the destruction of Jerusalem and the hope for rebuilding and returning to the holy city (13). 24 The verse alludes to Deut. 32.39 and Hannah’s song (1 Sam. 2.6). 25 Cf. Ego (see above n. 2), 897. Tob. 13.5–6 is phrased in the style of Deut. 30.2–3, even more explicitly in G1 than in G2; cf. Hofmann (see above n. 17), 322–323. 26 Cf. TobVg 3.9: ‘When, therefore, the maid blamed her [Sarah] for her guilt, she replied: “Never may we see a son or a daughter of yours upon the earth, you slayer of your husbands!”’ According to bJev 64b, a woman whose husbands die is called ‘murderess’ (qatlanit) and shall have three husbands at most.



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ancestress Rebecca.27 But while Rebecca is presented as a strong woman – she is asked for approval regarding her own wedding and even given the blessing of increase that is usually reserved for men – Sarah is merely an object of negotiation. She is sent on her journey abroad not with a blessing, but with the directive to honour her parents, and her father’s admonition that he wants to hear nothing but good news about her. Remarkably enough, Sarah’s prayer is positioned at the heart of the Book of Tobit, equalling and paralleling the prayer of pious Tobit. But this centrality is mitigated by the fact that Sarah’s only other utterance in the whole narration is an ‘Amen, Amen’ in affirmation of Tobiah’s words in Tob. 8.8.28 The role of Sarah, who brings her personal suffering before God, is accentuated in different ways in the two Greek versions of the Book of Tobit: although version G2 cuts the predication of God shorter than G1 (n.6), TobG1 3.11b emphasizes Sarah’s relationship with God through her form of address ‘O Lord, my God’. With this salutation, which is quite common for individual prayers of invocation (cf. Dan 9.18, 19), and with the image of Sarah lifting her eyes to God (cf. Ps 121.1; 123.2; Dan. 9.3), the creator is presented as Sarah’s personal God – much like in the prayer Ešh n45, which has been quoted above. The personal form of address corresponds to Sarah’s role as a humble woman. She prays to her personal God regarding a personal matter and emphasizes the aspect of his mercy.

Petition Thus, while Tobit’s paradigmatic role predominantly manifests itself in his pious actions, Sarah’s role is defined by her humble obedience. Both of them plead with God for their death and express their hope for salvation only implicitly. But the protagonists’ confidence of being heard (Erhörungsgewissheit ) is shown in the fact that they preface their pleas by praising God’s mercy and justice, i.e. those aspects of God’s nature that are pertinent to their lament. Both Tobit and Sarah support their pleas for salvation by describing their respective troubles. They both must endure reproach (ὀνειδισμός) and dishonour (cf. Lam. 1.9). The term ὀνειδισμός is a key term in both of their prayers, and is used one more time by 27 In order to marry a woman from the same tribe (Tob. 1.9; 4.12–13; 6.10–12, 15; 7.10, 12; 8.7// Gen. 24.3, 4, 7, 38–40), the suitor undertakes a journey to the bride’s family, on which he is accompanied by a guardian angel (Tob. 3.16–17; 6.4–5; 12.14//Gen. 24.7). Once he has arrived at the destination, the suitor refuses to eat until the conclusion of the negotiations (Tob. 7.11//Gen. 24.33). The family’s consent and the blessing of the bride are described (Tob. 7.11–12, 15//Gen. 24.51, 60), and the bride, in both texts also called sister, leaves her home and travels abroad (Nineveh/Canaan) to live with her husband (Tob. 7.13; 10.7–12//Gen. 24.61–62). In both cases, the departure is hastened for the sake of those who have stayed at home (Tob. 10.8–9//Gen. 24.55–61). 28 In the Vg, Sarah also speaks and pleads for the Lord’s mercy in v.10 (miserere nobis Domine miserere nobis).

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Raguel, who voices his fear of people’s taunts in the face of Tobit’s impending death (TobG2 8.10). Tobit For Tobit, God is a righteous judge whose decisions are not to be challenged. He passes on his own conviction about the validity of the principle of retribution (Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang) to his son Tobiah (TobG2 4.6, 21). Thus, it is not Tobit’s loss of sight or his fate in the Diaspora that leads to his plea for death, but the wrongful reproaches he must endure from the Assyrians, his kinsmen and even his own wife. Unlike Job, Tobit is convinced that the hardships he suffers are punishment for committed sins. At the same time, the limits of this conviction are emerging. In his prayer, Tobit employs a phrase typical for psalms of sickness (Tob 3.3): ‘Do not punish me for my sins or for my oversights, or for those of my ancestors.’ Since the text does not report any sin committed by Tobit, the matter must be traced back to the ‘ancestors’.29 This notion of hereditary sin demonstrates that the Book of Tobit does not want to do away with the principle of retribution (Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang), but is absolutely aware of the dilemma it can generate in the case of a righteous sufferer. This ambiguity is manifest in the two Greek versions of the book, which accentuate different nuances: in contrast to G2, G1 emphasizes the guilt of the ‘ancestors’ by their inclusion in verses 3.4 and 3.5. Sarah In contrast, the source of Sarah’s troubles seems to be quite obvious: the demon Ashmodai is to blame.30 Therefore, Sarah can cope with her suffering in a different manner from Tobit. Sarah knows that she is innocent and stresses this fact in her prayer to God. On the one hand, this puts her in the tradition of Job, who is also convinced of his innocence, but on the other she refrains from accusing God, just like Tobit. Sarah’s wish to die also stems from the reproach and dishonour inflicted on her. Both Greek versions of the Book of Tobit report that she is taunted by her maid in 3.7. According to TobG1 3.10, Sarah herself states that suicide would only bring reproach on her father; Tob G2 3.10 also reiterates Sarah’s wish ‘that I might no longer hear such reproaches (ὀνειδισμός) in my lifetime’ (cf. TobG1 3.15c). Thus, it is not the deaths of her husbands per se that cause her to lament, but the danger of losing her good reputation and thus every chance of a secured life within the community – i.e. her impending social death. This fear, which is quite concrete 29 As a non-Israelite, Job cannot resort to this theological concept, which makes him all the more sure of his innocence. 30 This difference from Tobit may ultimately be gender-specific: looking at the history of demonology, women in patriarchal society are generally more prone to possession by demons, cf. Frey-Anthes (see above n. 4), 284–285.

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and real for Sarah to begin with, is narrowed down to the issue of chastity in the Vulgata (TobVg 3.16–19): 16

You know, O Lord, that I have never desired a single man, but have kept myself from all concupiscence (concupiscentia). 17I have never mingled with the frivolous, nor have I allowed myself to join those who walk in lightness; 18 But in thy fear, and not after my own lust (cum timore tuo non libidine), I agreed to take a husband, 19but either I myself was not worthy of them, or perhaps they were unworthy of me; or perhaps you have reserved me for another man. Correspondingly, Tobiah does not marry Sarah out of lust, but only with the purest of intentions (TobVg 8.7, 9–10). The prayer uttered by Tobiah in TobVg 8.9, in which he pleads for deliverance from the demon, again places particular emphasis on the importance of prayer (there is no evidence of an incantation in Tob; cf. Sir. 38.9): And now, Lord, You know that I do not take my sister for pleasure’s sake (non luxuriae causa accipio sororem meam), but only for the desire of posterity; in which your name may be blessed for ever and ever! But originally, Sarah’s chaste and virtuous behaviour has a much more important function for the Book of Tobit than the evaluation of individual moral conduct. The nation’s identity in the Diaspora can only be preserved through clear distinction from the foreign rulers. Sarah represents the whole of Israel; thus the Book of Tobit champions the principle of endogamy as a central matter of the Torah,31 which is referred to as the ‘law/book of Moses’ (TobG2 6.13; 7.11–13; TobG1 7.12; TobVg 7.11) in this context. The law’s divine origin is underscored by its correspondence to the will of providence (TobG2 3.16). Divine providence and the law of Moses become one. Endogamy is juxtaposed with πορνεία (‘prostitution’): in her prayer, Sarah stresses her virginal purity (ἀκαθαρσία; G1: without ‘sin’ [ἁμαρτία]). The term πορνεία can also be used to describe illegitimate exogamy (cf. 1 En. 10.11, 20; TestJud. 13.2; 14.5; 13.2). In Jub. 30.7, it stands for

31 Cf. Beate Ego, ‘“Denn er liebt sie” (Tob 6,15 Ms. 319): Zur Rolle des Dämons Asmodäus in der Tobit-Erzählung’, in Armin Lange, Hermann Lichtenberger, K.F. Diethard Römheld (eds), Die Dämonen: Die Dämonologie der israelitisch-jüdischen und frühchristlichen Literatur im Kontext ihrer Umwelt – Demons: The Demonology of Israelite-Jewish and Early Christian Literature in Context of their Environment (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 309–317, here: 310–313; Beate Ego, ‘“Heimat in der Fremde”: Zur Konstituierung einer jüdischen Identität im Buch Tobit’, in Hermann Lichtenberger, Gerbern S. Oegema (eds), Jüdische Schriften in ihrem antik-jüdischen und urchristlichen Kontext (JSHRZ 1, Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 2002), 270–283, here: 278–280.

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matrimony with heathens, which is an offence punishable by death. In later rabbinical usage, it also designates intercourse between spouses whose marriage does not comply with rabbinical principles.32 Sarah’s contribution to preserving the identity of the People of God thus consists of her predetermined role as Tobiah’s wife. By marrying Tobiah, she obeys the rule of endogamy (cf. Tob. 6.16). On the individual level, this is related to the ‘honour thy parents’ commandment, which includes being obedient by choosing a husband or wife among one’s own tribe. For Sarah, who is intent on honouring her parents, marrying a foreigner is out of the question. That is why her maid’s unfair reproaches hurt all the more.

Lament In the Book of Tobit, unlike in the lament psalms of the Psalter, lament is articulated only after praise has been given. Tobit and Sarah tell God of their troubles in the form of an I-lament, each bemoaning the isolation they suffer and the reproaches they must endure. The protagonists’ isolation can be taken as a paradigm for the Israelite nation in the Diaspora. Even though they express no explicit plea for salvation, Tobit’s and Sarah’s prayers are characterized by their unquestioning faith in God’s presence and thus the possibility of approaching him. God is present during every moment of their suffering, and this is where Tobit’s and Sarah’s prayers differ from other prayers of lament. For example, the lament about the destruction of Ur (Z. 237) bemoans that the goddess Ningal has forsaken the city: Ningal left her city, (anxiously) taking flight like a fearful bird.33 Inanna herself utters a similar lament: Like a fearful dove I spent the day on the roof. Like a fluttering bat I cowered in a crevice. He (the enemy) has made me take flight from my house like a bird; he made me, the Mistress, flee the city like a bird.34 These prayers are occasioned by the feeling that a personal deity has forsaken the individual or that a patron deity has forsaken the settlement, thus leaving them 32 Cf. Merten Rabenau, Studien zum Buch Tobit (BZAW 220, Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1994), 139–142. 33 Cf. Willem H.P. Römer, Die Klage über die Zerstörung von Ur (AOAT 309, Münster: Ugarit, 2004), 97. 34 Adapted and translated from Peter Riede, Im Netz des Jägers: Studien zur Feindmetaphorik der Individualpsalmen (WMANT 85, Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2000), 304–305 (n. 218).

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vulnerable to attacks by evil forces.35 Likewise, Ps 22.1–2, the lament psalm par excellence, bemoans suffering that is caused by God’s absence, albeit mitigated by the fact that the absent God can still be addressed:36 1

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? 2O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent. Although Sarah’s situation shows some parallels to Mesopotamian concepts – a force other than God, in this case the demon Ashmodai, is the cause of distress – God in the Book of Tobit is not an absent God. Tobit and Sarah can turn to their personal God and righteous judge. The humble/female and pious/male attitudes of the protagonists reflect the respective gender-specific experience of their suffering; this difference, however, does not manifest itself in their lament. In the midst of their troubles, Tobit and Sarah question neither God’s actions nor his presence.37 They tell God about their troubles because they cannot bear their peers’ reproaches anymore, thereby affirming their trust in their personal God, affirming him as their confidante. Thus, lament becomes an occasion for praising God, and therefore is expressly devoid of any accusation against God.

35 Cf. Frey-Anthes (see above n. 4), 75–80. 36 Cf. Bauks (see above n. 9), 29f. For Christological interpretations of God’s lament on the cross cf. the chapters by Brian Brock and Eva Harasta in this volume (chapter 12). 37 According to TobVg 6.16–22, people bring the demon on themselves through their own lewdness: ‘16Then the angel Rafael said: “Listen to me and I will show you the ones in which the demon can prevail (praevalere potest daemonium): 17They who consummate their marriage by shutting out God from themselves and from their thoughts, and who give themselves up to their lusts (suae libidini) like a horse or an ass, animals that do not have any intellect, it is over these that the demon has got power. 18 But you, when you have received her, and you have entered the chamber, abstain from her for three days (per tres dies continens esto ab ea) and devote yourself and her to nothing but prayers. 19But on the same night burn the fish’s liver, and the demon will be put to flight (fugabitur daemonium). 20On the second night you will be admitted into society with the holy patriarchs (in copulatione sanctorum patriarcharum admitteris). 21But on the third night you will obtain a blessing; so that from you shall be born healthy sons. But when the third night has passed, take the virgin in the fear of the Lord (accipies virginem cum timore Domini ), induced more by the desire of children than by concupiscence (amore filiorum magis quam libidinis ductus), so that in Abraham’s seed you may receive a blessing by sons (in semine Abrahae benedictionem in filiis consequaris).”’ Thus the Vg revokes the emphasis placed by the Greek versions of the Book of Tobit: while the latter presents Ashmodai as a numinous enemy, as utterly Other, intangible and capable of possessing even virginal Sarah, the Vg recasts the demon from the ‘utterly Other’ into a ‘personalised punishment and … thus into a system-conforming entity,’ Ego (see above n. 31), 316. This shift makes the demon’s attack explainable and, as it were, domesticates the demon. Cf. Frey-Anthes (see above n. 4), 294–296, 299–300.

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– and Praise The dissociation of lament from any accusation against God, along with its marginal position in the prayers compared to praise, may be interpreted as an attempt to preserve the postulate of God’s mercy. However, the implicit assertion that God is not to blame for Tobit’s and Sarah’s suffering by no means detracts from the thorny question of whom to blame for their troubles and misfortune. If it is within the merciful God’s ability to deliver them from their troubles, is he not responsible for the suffering, and thus unmerciful after all? The Book of Tobit strives to answer this question by incorporating into the narrative the ambiguity of human experience, in which the questions of guilt and innocence and of how to deal with one’s own suffering and that of others can be answered in a variety of ways, depending on point of view. The tribe, made guilty by misdeeds of the past, justly suffers the punishment of the Diaspora. The prologue explicitly mentions the sins of the ancestors, as does Tobit’s final praise in Tob. 13 – possibly a later addition38 –, in which he urges his people to give glory to the God of Israel. However, although the guilt of Tobit’s kinsfolk can be taken for granted, Tobit also pleads with God to have mercy on the sinners (Tob 13.2, 5, 8; cf. Jon. 3.9; Ezek. 18.32)39 and expresses the hope of a return from exile (cf. Deut. 30.1–10). In the eyes of their peers, both Sarah and Tobit also appear guilty. Tobit himself acknowledges his guilt, even though no evidence of it can be found in the narration, while Sarah insists on her innocence. Neither Tobit nor Sarah put any blame on God. By introducing the demon, the narrative exonerates God at least from causing Sarah’s troubles; but the demon only appears to be capable of suspending the distribution of just retribution (Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang). In the end, this nexus is affirmed by God’s mercy, and the righteous protagonists are saved. But this resolution casts doubt on God’s innocence in the matter, at least implicitly. The narrative ultimately does not answer the question of whether God is responsible for the deplorable situations of Sarah and Tobit. Instead, its aim is to show that God’s mercy operates independently of guilt and innocence, even independently of God’s own guilt or innocence. The fact that God does not intervene earlier is instrumental to the narrative dynamics. The implication is that the troubles of Tobit and Sarah ultimately serve God’s providence in relation both to the individuals Sarah and Tobit and the entire tribe. As in the final passage of the Book of Jonah, in which Jonah praises God in anticipation of his rescue, the eventual rescue of the protagonists has been predestined in heaven all along. By not granting their pleas for death, God reveals himself as the God of life. For the sake of narrative suspense, Sarah and Tobit

38 Cf. Rabenau (see above n. 32), 189–190; Ego (see above n. 2), 890. 39 Cf. Koenen (see above n. 22), 286.



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themselves do not know this, but it is obvious to the readers (Tob. 6.18). Thus they can understand Sarah’s and Tobit’s laments in the context of their praise and vice versa. Salvation is possible – indeed, it is possible for innocent sufferers (Tobit and Sarah) as well as for those that have become guilty and now must suffer their just punishment (the tribe). Thus, the Book of Tobit does not stop at the movement from praise to petition and lament, but in the example of its protagonist Tobit reverses this path in the course of the narrative. The gratitude expressed in Tob. 8.15–17 is the counterpart of the pleading prayer in Tob. 8.5–7. And Tob. 13, the last prayer of the book, is a great hymn about God’s mercy, employing Dtr/Dtn phrases in its appeals to turn to God (13.6) and give praise to him. This praise is an encomiastic response to God’s salutatory actions, set in motion because of Tobit’s and Sarah’s prayers. The Book of Tobit wants to spread the message that the world belongs to the God of life and not to his adversary, and it does so by portraying the fate of the entire nation of Israel in the example of the individual fates of a man and a woman. Accordingly, the God of the tribe turns out to be a personal God, and in precisely this fact reveals himself to be more than a transcendental engineer of earthly events.

The Significance of Lament in the Book of Tobit The marginalization of lament in the prayers of the Book of Tobit has prompted Merten Rabenau to conclude that the ‘worshippers’ may lack ‘the proper trust in a direct reaction from God to their prayers’.40 Indeed, compared to the Book of Job, there seems to be a clear directional shift in the communication with God. While in the Book of Job, lament dominates the discourse41 and praise is only implied, the Book of Tobit makes praise very explicit and seems to give it precedence over lament. Rabenau does have a point insofar as trust in the personal God and God the creator is initially expressed as praise. But it is precisely in this praise that those qualities of God which pertain to the worshipper’s lament are expressed, and thus it is inseparable from the lament that is the reason for praising God in the first place. Only the elaborate praise of God, uttered in a situation of lament, makes plausible the plea for salvation implicitly expressed in the dying wish. Conversely, it is only from the background of – answered – lament and in the juxtaposition of a plea for death and the gift of new life that the praise of God comes into its own. This interdependence of praise and lament attests to the worshippers’ trust in their personal God and the God of their people. It is only through a combination of praise and lament that trust in God can be expressed adequately – and this is true already in the apocryphal Book of Tobit. 40 Rabenau (see above n. 32), 144. 41 Cf. Bauks (see above n. 9), 134.

Chapter 9

To mourn, weep, lament and groan On the Heterogeneity of the New Testament’s Statements on Lament Markus Öhler

The New Testament is characterized by the absence of lament. There are no newly written psalms and songs of lament, and indeed that painful turning to God in the face of suffering and death almost seems opposed to the Christian way of life. As such, this topic plays a conspicuously marginal role in New Testament research. When lament does actually appear (it is missing from the RGG3), it is connected with mourning (TRE) or joy (e.g. in the TBLNT), and only rarely accorded its own article (as in the RGG4). Even when, as in more recent encyclopedias, it is recognized as an independent topic,1 other listings dealing with the early church still maintain that: ‘The new world of salvation and life which is hoped for in light of Jesus’ death and resurrection knows nothing of tears and lament.’2 Though such a reading of the New Testament’s (few) passages of lament may be justified, it can lead us to overlook the reality of the events and experiences which provoked even the early Christians to lament. At those few points in the New Testament where we still find traces of lament, what we discover is neither a general repudiation nor a denial of lament, mourning and other expressions of the experience of suffering. In this chapter, we will examine texts where various expressions of mourning and lament are not only recognized and reinterpreted but even encouraged. New Testament authors revive and draw upon a broad palette of expressions which cover the semantic field of lament. While the most frequently used term is κλαίω (‘to cry’, used forty times), πενθέω (‘to mourn’, ten times) and στενάζω (‘to sigh/to groan’, including composites, eight times) are also relatively common. In comparison, θρηνέω (‘to mourn/to lament’, fout times) and ἀλαλάζω (‘to weep 1 Cf. e.g. the articles by Bernd Janowski, ‘Klage II. Biblisch’, RGG 4 (4th edn, 2001), 1389–1391; Oswald Bayer, ‘Klage III. Systematisch-theologisch’, RGG 4 (2001), 1391–1392. 2 Hermann Haarbeck and Jörg Frey, ‘κόπτω’, TBLNT 1 (rev. edn, 1997), 533–535: 535.



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loudly’, twice) appear infrequently. Among the hapax legomena we find δακρύω (‘to cry’, Jn. 11.35), ταλαιπωρέω (‘wail’, Jas. 4.9) and ὀλολύζω (‘to wail loudly’, Jas. 5.1). We also encounter the nouns κλαυθμός (‘cry’, nine times), κραυγή (‘cry’, six times), πένθος (‘mourning’, four times) and στεναγμός (‘sigh’, twice). In the following discussion, we will examine a selection of texts which deal with ‘lament’ in various genres and which treat this topic from truly diverse perspectives. We begin with the main cause for lament, viz. death, which we encounter primarily in the synoptic gospels, i.e. in a narrative context. An examination of the letter of James leads us to a paraenetic text displaying an extraordinarily positive assessment of lament. This takes us then to lament in the context of apocalyptic expectation, with a focus on the Revelation of John. Finally, we deal (in somewhat more detail) with a theological reflection on the ‘sighs’ and ‘moans’ found in Paul’s writings in 2 Cor. 5 and Rom. 8.

Lamenting Death – the Gospels In the synoptics, one of the things that κλαίω, ‘to cry’, is associated with is the experience of death: in Mk 5.39 par Lk. 8.52, the parents of the young girl cry even though, according to Jesus, she is not dead but only sleeps.3 In the gospel of John, Jesus cries over the death of Lazarus (Jn 11.5) just as Mary Magdalene cries due to Jesus’ own death (Jn 20.11). As in other passages, mourning for one who has died represents the primary cause for human lament, though this extends even to the confrontation with imminent death. As Jesus walks to his execution, women mourn him and lament. At first sight, Jesus seems to reject their laments: ‘Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children’ (Lk. 23.28). Lamenting over Jesus is wrong here because it misunderstands the cause:4 Jesus does not die, but rather through his resurrection triumphs over the crucifixion, thus validating his message about the reign of God. Thus Jesus himself (paradoxically) blessed those who mourn, since they will receive God’s comfort (Mt. 5.4). However, in Lk. 23, Jesus does not say: ‘Stop crying!’, but rather ‘Weep for your children!’ It is not that lament per se is forbidden, rather the cause of that lament is strikingly redirected: lament is not abolished but remains valid – indeed, it is even encouraged! Nevertheless, as we know, the children of the lamenting women signify Israel, which will soon be destroyed. Jesus’ lament over Jerusalem, as we find it reported 3 Cf. also the weeping and laments of Rachel over her children (Mt. 2.18), the laments of the pious men over the death of Stephen (Acts 8.2) as well as that of the Ephesian elders over Paul’s departure (Acts 20.38), which Luke most likely uses to foreshadow Paul’s coming martyrdom. 4 This is picked up in Jn 16.20 which promises the transformation of that mourning for Jesus into the joy of Easter.

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in the Lukan Sondergut (19.41–44), is to be understood here in a prophetic sense. By weeping over Jerusalem, Jesus points to that judgement about to descend upon the people because of their rejection of his message. As we know, what Luke is alluding to here is that this judgement will occur with the destruction of Jerusalem (70 C.E.). In Lk. 19, the gospel writer creates an emotional contrast: earlier, the disciples had celebrated Jesus as a king entering into Jerusalem – as the one who comes in the name of the Lord (19.38) – yet Jesus himself weeps over the destruction of the city and its inhabitants, a destruction which arises because the gospel remains hidden from them (19.42). The rather high estimation given to lament and mourning in the gospels is seen not only with respect to the death of human beings but also appears from a Christological perspective, as is demonstrated by the integration of the psalms of lament (especially Ps. 22) into the narrative of the passion. Yet we should not jump to the conclusion that this occurred because the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus somehow corresponds to an answering of that lament. When, as an expression of his despair, the dying Jesus cries out, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ (Ps. 22.1 in Mk 15.34 par Mt. 27.46), we must take this seriously as a cry of true despair and not soften it by understanding it as referring to a salvific event contained in Ps. 22.5 In the Markan and Matthean passion narratives, Jesus is the lamenter par excellence, who with his ‘Why?’ provides Christians with a prime example of lament as a legitimate expression of despair.6

Lament as Penance – the Letter of James In James, with its close connections to the Jewish wisdom traditions, lament plays a role in two vastly different contexts. In 5.1 we find the threat of judgement upon the rich, who are told to start their weeping and wailing now over the miseries about to come on them as punishment for their injustice. 5 See e.g. Rudolf Pesch, Das Markusevangelium (HThK II/2; Freiburg/Basel/Wien, 1976, 3rd edn 1984), 495, who argues that Jesus’ prayer on the cross was ‘no cry of despair but rather an expression of trust’. For many more examples, cf. here Martin Ebner, ‘Klage und Auferweckungshoffnung im Neuen Testament’, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (JBTh 16; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2001), 72–87, here: 75–81, who correctly stresses that all further references to Ps. 22 in Mark’s passion narrative point to suffering and not to the experience of salvation. Thus Ebner concludes (79): ‘When seen from the perspective of the text’s own pragmatic aim, the narrator presents Jesus as an exemplar: a model of the right to lament in situations of suffering.’ 6 Mt. 9.15 also indirectly alludes to the idea that mourning over the death of Jesus will be appropriate even after Easter. According to Matthew’s Jesus, while mourning in his presence is forbidden, later one may still certainly fast. On the other hand, Rev. 1.7 says of the coming Son of Man: ‘Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail [κόψονται].’ Yet this mourning is not for Jesus but rather because of that coming destruction (see below).



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Another call to lament appears in 4.9: ‘Lament and mourn and weep. Let your laughter be turned into mourning and your joy into dejection.’ Unlike Lk 6.24– 25, the context here is not judgement upon sinners but rather a call to humility and penance for those who are interested only in the pursuit of their own desires (4.1–3). For this early Christian writer, nearness to God and the purification of one’s heart (4.8) are not attained through joy but through lament and selfabasement. Thus it is the knowledge of oneself which leads Christians to feelings of wretchedness, and then to express that insight with mourning and tears.7 God will exalt human beings only out of the misery of penance – a state which mirrors that of the guilty, though it is present now already before the judgement (4.10). As such, James operates within the framework of Old Testament, Jewish penance, a classic example of which we find expressed in the psalms of lament (cf. e.g. Ps. 38.5ff.).

Lament in an Apocalyptic Context With its call for the rich to begin weeping because of the miseries about to befall them, Jas. 5.1 already presents us with an apocalyptic setting.8 We find the converse in the woes pronounced by Jesus: proclamations which deny the rich any future consolation and which pronounce mourning and weeping for those who now laugh (Lk. 6.24–25). Even Jesus’ apocalyptic speech in Matthew notes that people will mourn when faced with the coming of the Son of Man (24.30), an image very similar to that in Rev. 1.7. Particularly in Revelation we often find a connection between mourning, lament and weeping, even in a variety of contexts. The mourning of the kings and merchants who are horrified at the destruction of the whore Babylon (chap. 18) must be distinguished from the lament of the martyrs’ souls who call out from under the great and heavenly altar: ‘Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long will it be before you judge and avenge our blood on the inhabitants of the earth?’ (6.10). While that questioning cry to God – ‘How long?’ – which is so often repeated in the psalms of lament9 occurs here only in Revelation, it certainly forms part of the standard apocalyptic expectation. Thus in 4 Ezra, the souls cry out from the realm of the dead: ‘How long are we to remain here? And when will the harvest of our reward come?’ (4.35). Though attributed literarily to the souls

7 Regarding the imperative ταλαιπωρήσατε (‘be wretched’) it is worth noting that this hapax legomenon is not referring to any penitent activity but rather to an inner movement. 8 Cf. also the wailing and gnashing of teeth of the damned in Mt. 8.12; 13.42, 50; 22.13; 24.51; 25.50. 9 Cf. e.g. Ps. 74.10: ‘How long, O God, is the foe to scoff? Is the enemy to revile your name forever?’, as well as 6.3; 13.1–2; 79.5; 80.4; 89.46; 90.13; 94.3.

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of the dead and the martyrs, this impatience and its articulation as lament actually arises from the living who are suffering under current persecutions. The comfort of John’s apocalypse stems not only from the conviction that those forces which fight against God will have a certain end, but that that time is now near. ‘I am coming soon’, Christ declares – a statement stressed again at the very end of the apocalypse (22.7, 12, 20). Nevertheless, in the cry of the martyrs we also hear the impatience of those who not only await the end but also the judgement of those who persecuted them.10 The cry of the helpless is directed to God, and from God the helpless do not just expect an intervention (one which they are certain will come), but an intervention now, one which will vindicate the dead and the oppressed. Even the answer they receive to their lament corresponds with a belief in the ultimate sovereignty of God: he gives them white robes as a symbol of their holy status and encourages them to be patient since the number of dead (laid down by God) has not yet been reached (6.11).11 The apocalypse of John certainly does not end with lament, either that of the martyrs who hope for revenge or of those who mourn for their own destruction. Instead, our sights are set on that time when there will no longer be death or mourning, crying or pain (21.4). That lament which shapes the lives of John’s Christian contemporaries will finally be silenced, because God will wipe away their tears (21.4; cf. 7.17). Here humanity’s dream, already expressed back in Isa. 25.8, is finally fulfilled: ‘Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces.’ That this existence is not described in a positive way but rather as the absence of negative experiences and negative emotions exposes the connection between all those things which prevent us from being happy with this old earth, old heaven, and sea (out of which the dragon comes): there will be no lament on the new earth or in the new heavens, because there will no longer be any reason to lament.

Sighing and Moaning – Paul In two passages, Paul speaks of a specific form of lament, namely groaning or sighing: once in reference to his apostolic existence (2 Cor. 5), and once in relation to the state of creation (Rom. 8). The words Paul uses are στενάζω (Rom. 8.23; 2 Cor. 5.2, 4), συστενάζω (Rom. 8.22) and στεναγμός (Rom. 8.26). Before 10 Cf. here e.g. also 1 En. 104.3: ‘cry for judgement, and it shall appear to you; for all your tribulation shall be visited on the rulers, and on all who helped those who plundered you’. 11 The souls receive the same answer from the archangel Jeremiel in 4 Ezra: ‘When the number of those like yourselves is completed’ (4.36). That the lament is answered can be seen from the lack of any possible clear division (at least in the New Testament) between lament and prayer. It is only the laments of the damned who no longer have an actual addressee (but cf. Lk. 16.23–24).



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taking a closer look at these Pauline statements, it will be helpful to touch upon the LXX and early Jewish texts.

Groaning and Sighing in the Old Testament and Early Jewish Texts In the LXX, στενάζω (as with similar terms) is used to refer to the experience of suffering expressed otherwise by a range of Hebrew words. Here, the emotionalaffective aspect is clearly apparent, as groaning is most often connected with illness, pain, oppression or death,12 especially in the laments of Jeremiah over the destruction of Jerusalem (Lam. 1.4, 8, 11, 21–22; cf. Par. Jer. 7.26). In the LXX, groaning and sighing most often occur in prayer: the Israelites groan because of their work in Egypt (Exod. 2.23) and God hears them, remembering his covenant with them and saving them (Exod. 6.5–6). This continues from a deuteronomic perspective, which sees God’s intervention during the time of the judges as a response to the people’s groans of persecution (Judg. 2.18). Therefore, the expectation that the groans of humanity lead to God’s positive intervention is not only quite clear but also confirmed in these narrative traditions. This confidence is also expressed in the Psalms: ‘My groaning is not hidden from thee’ (Ps. 37.10 LXX), the psalmist cries, and is certain that God in his heavenly sanctum hears the groans of the imprisoned and will also save the children of death (Ps. 101.21 LXX).13 While the inward aspect of στεναγμός is suggested by its combination with ψυχή (Job 24.12), καρδία (Lam. 1.22; Ps. 37.9 LXX) and the spirit (1 En. 9.10; T. Jos. 7.2), this is not a necessary connection. In the LXX, the close connection between sighing or groaning and physical experience can be seen in the repeated association with birth pains. In Gen. 3.16 (LXX), we find a programmatic, divine proclamation to the woman: ‘I will greatly multiply your pains and your groanings.’14 From an eschatological perspective, this close connection with pain on the one hand expresses the expectation that sinners will be made to groan (Wis. 11.12; Ezek. 21.11–12; Pss.Sol. 4.14), but on the other hand that there will come a time without pain and groaning (Isa. 35.10; 51.11; cf. T. Abr. rec.long. 20.14). That weeping and groaning also belong to the process of repentance and penance (cf. Jas. 4.9) is mentioned by the prophets (Isa. 30.15; 46.8; Jer. 38.19 LXX) as well as being addressed in a particular way in Joseph and Aseneth: Aseneth’s penance in sackcloth and ashes occurs with great sighing and bitter tears (10.3–5, 15; 11.1b).

12 Cf. e.g. in the LXX: Job 9.27; Ps. 6.6; 30.11; 38.9; Jdt. 14.16 among others. 13 According to 1 En. 9.10 the sighs of the murdered rise up to God; and in 9.3 the spirits of the souls of men sigh and plead their case before God. 14 Πληθύνων πληθυνῶ τὰς λύπας σου καὶ τὸν στεναγμόν σου; cf. also Isa. 35.10; 51.11; Jer. 4.31; 22.23.

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The importance of the emotional aspect of στεναγμός is also apparent in Philo of Alexandria. By drawing a parallel to Israel’s desert wanderings, the human soul is described as greedy: it cries and moans (δακρύει καὶ στενάζει) when it does not get what it wants (Migr. Abr. 155). While Philo is certainly not condoning such behaviour here, in other places he draws on Exod. 2 to understand groaning as an authentic prayer which stems from the depths of the νοῦς and is heard by God (Det. Pot. Ins. 93). It is precisely because of this authenticity that Philo values it so highly. In Leg. All. III.211–212, he distinguishes between two forms of στεναγμός: one which seeks after evil, and one which looks back on past errors and expresses regret over them.

The Groans of the Apostle (2 Cor. 4.16–5.10) Assuming the unity at least of its first nine chapters,15 2 Corinthians begins with a section in which Paul refers to current as well as earlier sufferings which have faced both him personally as well as the community. Afflictions and then consolation (1.3–7), the threat of death and then rescue (1.8–11) shape the beginning of the letter and then reappear, under different circumstances, in chapter 11. The ‘apology of the apostle’ in 2.14–7.4 contains a section in which Paul speaks about his own persecutions and even his repeated encounters with the threat of death. 2 Cor. 4.16–5.10 is one of the most difficult sections within the Pauline corpus, not only because of the style of argument, but also due to the wide variety of themes Paul broaches, as well as the many questions raised by interpreters of this text. Important for us here is: the role which lament plays for Paul in 2 Cor. 5; what he seeks to achieve with it in his discussion; and the sources upon which he is drawing. The multi-dimensionality of this ambiguous passage will help to clarify the differing approaches to the phenomenon of lament in the early church, or more precisely in the works of the apostle Paul. The use of the first person plural in 4.1–5.10 does not refer to the community, to all Christians or to humanity in general (whose thoughts Paul might be trying to express) but rather to Paul himself, in an attempt to explain his own apostolic existence and defend his efforts. A collective interpretation referring to all Christians would not agree with the context here, evident in the distinction between ‘us’ and the plural ‘you’ (4.12). In this apology, hardship and suffering are characteristic marks of apostolic existence.16 15 Cf. here the discussion by Erich Grässer, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther, vol. 1: Kapitel 1, 1–7, 16 (ÖTK 8, 1; Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 2002), 29–35; Udo Schnelle, Einleitung in das Neue Testament (UTB 1830; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994, 3rd edn, 1999), 92–100. 16 Cf. here the detailed discussion in Manuel Vogel, Commentatio mortis: 2Kor 5,1–10 auf dem Hintergrund antiker ars moriendi (FRLANT 214; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 32–43;



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The broad consensus is that 2 Cor. 4.16–5.10 has been shaped by a form of dualism typical both to Paul and to early Christianity, though understood quite differently by each. In 4.16 the writer distinguishes between an external and an internal person.17 It is already fairly clear here that Paul is both of these together. For Paul, there is no Gnostic separation between an evil outer shell and a good inner being, rather he is directly affected by suffering – otherwise his assurance that ‘we do not lose heart’ (4.16) would be meaningless. Therefore, this distinction between the inner and outer person is not primarily anthropological but rather stems from Paul’s perspective that even though he is being destroyed externally and even given up to death (4.11), the inner person is that aspect of his self which is transformed and renewed in the καινότης (Rom. 6.4; cf. 2 Cor. 5.17) – and this in a process which is currently under way. His main point here is the rejection of all those who would accuse him of dishonouring his office through his personal presentation of such wretchedness. In the same way that treasure is kept in earthen vessels (4.7), the entire apostolic existence, though shaped by death, is directed in reality to that life beyond. The dualism continues in 4.17 where Paul contrasts fleeting misery (which, despite the threat of death, he describes as slightness [ἐλαφρόν; cf. 1 Cor. 7.29– 31]) with eternal glory which, in accordance with God’s will, is created out of affliction.18 This probably builds upon the idea that just suffering, or suffering in a divine cause, deserves reward.19 Though Paul does not develop this idea, he maintains that that which he has suffered has not been in vain. Yet neither should one reduce Paul’s thinking here to a simplified reward scheme, since importantly for Paul this glory is already displayed – hence his use of the present tense ἀνακαινοῦται and κατεργάζεται in vv.16–17. The dualism in 4.18 also arises from the distinction between the visible/ temporal and the invisible/eternal. Here too, one should not immediately assume a primarily future-eschatological perspective,20 despite the obvious inclusion of a temporal dimension. Instead, we must note Paul’s focus on the present: Paul

as well as Markus Müller, ‘Der sogenannte “schriftstellerische Plural” – neu betrachtet: Zur Frage der Mitarbeiter als Mitverfasser der Paulusbriefe’, BZ.NF 42 (1998), 181–201. 17 On possible models, cf. Fredrik Lindgård, Paul’s Line of Thought in 2 Corinthians 4:16–5:10 (WUNT 2. Reihe 189; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 113–119. 18 Indeed, it is only due to divine decree that affliction creates (κατεργάζεται) glory. 19 Cf. Margaret E. Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, vol. 1: Introduction and Commentary on II Corinthians I–VII (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), 352; Lindgård, Paul’s Line of Thought in 2 Corinthians 4:16–5:10, 124; for contrast see Rudolf Bultmann, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther (KEK Sonderband; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1976, 2nd edn, 1987), 131. Paul uses a similar formulation in Rom. 8.18. 20 E.g. Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 355– 356.

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argues that he himself does not look at that which can be seen21 (namely suffering, destitution, and the threat of death), but rather focuses on that which he himself is and will become. Current renewal and the creation of glory are what truly count. As for our question regarding the meaning of lament, despite the absence in Paul of the actual word ‘lament’, it is clear not only that the apostle is well aware of his distresses and weaknesses, but that he also refuses to deny them. Yet at the same time, he also knows that they are not the real issue, they are only preliminary and temporal. Judging from Paul’s passing comments in 2.14–7.4, we can see that his problems arose both from within the church community as well as from outside it. Apart from lengthy lists of various external afflictions, such as in 4–11, in 6.4–10 he also offers some well-formed rhetoric: using contrasting couplets, Paul argues that virtues follow on from the difficulties which he has endured, the legitimacy of which is then argumentatively presented here in order to provide a description of the apostolic existence (6.8–10; cf. 4.8–9): in honour and dishonour, in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see – we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything. In addition to these external afflictions, Paul also adds internal difficulties – the actual cause for his apology: other apostles appear with letters of recommendation (3.1; 10.12) and don’t appear troubled by those sufferings which for Paul go hand in hand with the proclamation of the Gospel. What seems most important for Paul is to defend himself against the accusations of the Corinthians with respect to his appearance and work. Whoever follows the Corinthians in looking only upon the external, weak appearance of the apostle will not recognize the glory that he has already received through the Spirit (5.5). Paul continues his defence in 5.1–10 – as we see from the use of γάρ which extends 4.16–18 into 5.1.22 The polarity in 4.16–18 is also continued, though now using the metaphor of houses: specifically, the opposition between earthly tents and God-given, eternal buildings. Though the former may pass away, Paul still 21 Σκοπούντων refers here to an actual, precise observation rather than a vision. 22 Cf. among others Jens Schröter, Der versöhnte Versöhner: Paulus als unentbehrlicher Mittler im Heilsvorgang zwischen Gott und Gemeinde nach 2 Kor 2,14–7,4 (TANZ 10; Tübingen/Basel: Francke, 1993), 229–230; Grässer, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther, vol. 1, 176; Lindgård, Paul’s Line of Thought in 2 Corinthians 4:16–5:10, 73–77; or for the converse position, Bultmann, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther, 132, who characterizes 5.1–5 as a ‘digression’, ‘that the apostolic office is not at issue here’. Yet in my opinion, it is precisely the context of the apology which is decisive for its interpretation. Cf. here also the argument by Vogel, Commentatio mortis, 10–11.



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has the latter (in 5.1–10 he is still speaking primarily of himself). Interestingly, although this building is in heaven, Paul again uses the present tense, ἔχομεν, effectively emphasizing the present. With his eyes on that earthly tent (that is, the present Paul with all his hardships and tokens of death), the writer speaks of the future: that earthly existence will be demolished in the same way that a tent can be easily destroyed; it is not a permanent dwelling.23 Paul writes here of his death, and does so without fear but rather with his eyes set on that house in heaven which God has built for him and which already exists.24 And it is precisely for that reason25 that Paul groans (στενάζομεν; 5.2). It is with eyes searching for that which is already present yet invisible in heaven that lament arises over our current existence. Groaning is accompanied by longing. In 5.2–3 Paul adds another metaphor: he longs to be clothed in that heavenly building. ‘Paul interprets the expressive form of his suffering (groaning as the expression of pain and suffering) as the phenomenally perceptible crystallisation of his longing for salvation.’26 Thus suffering is by no means denied, rather it takes on a position of prominence, though certainly with a new interpretation: his lament is not based on despair but on his wish to attain that heavenly existence. He laments because he knows about that existence, not because everything now is so miserable.27 Paul’s hope is that the Corinthians might understand him as he understands himself: as an apostle who has taken upon himself all types of pains and burdens, a wretched figure of an apostle who actually laments yet who, despite (or, more properly, precisely because of) those laments, is carried by the certainty that even now, just as after death or with the arrival of the parousia, glory has been prepared for him.28 They must focus on the invisible rather than the visible. 23 On parallels in ancient literature, cf. e.g. Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 357–359. 24 The metaphor of the house is not referring to a heavenly mansion but to the resurrection body. A helpful overview of the research on this point is provided by Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 368–370; see also Bernd Kuschnerus, Die Gemeinde als Brief Christi: Die kommunikative Funktion der Metapher bei Paulus am Beispiel von 2 Kor 2–5 (FRLANT 197; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 283–286. 25 Paul uses ἐν τούτῳ in 5:2 to signify the reason rather then the location; cf. 2 Cor. 8.10; Phil. 1.18; Vogel, Commentatio mortis, 240–241; or for an alternate view, Lindgård, Paul’s Line of Thought in 2 Corinthians 4:16–5:10, 150. 26 Vogel, Commentatio mortis, 241. 27 Cf. Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians, 351: ‘In the context, the ἔξω ἄνθρωπος is Paul’s outward persona as it is seen by his Corinthian critics, who simply observe the lack of the superficial splendour they would expect from the agent of a new covenant superior to that of Moses. They fail to look more deeply, so as to detect the outward manifestation of the ἔσω ἄνθρωπος in process of renewal in the divine likeness.’ 28 Whether Paul here already gives up hope of witnessing the parousia, or whether he has in mind a transformation which occurs immediately after death or after that parousia is not a question that can be examined here; on this issue cf. e.g. the overview by Vogel, Commentatio mortis, 14–16; Lindgård, Paul’s Line of Thought in 2 Corinthians 4:16–5:10, 9–13.

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Chapter 5.4 continues: ‘For while we are still in this tent, we groan under our burden, because we wish not to be unclothed but to be further clothed.’ Such groaning arises from this fleeting earthly existence, yet while it is cause for complaint, it is by no means a death wish. Paul does not seek destruction as salvation from his suffering, but rather positively seeks out that heavenly existence.29 In my opinion, he expresses this here by drawing on Wis. 9.15: ‘For a perishable body weighs down (βαρύνει) the soul, and this earthy tent burdens (βρίθει) the anxious mind.’ Yet Paul intends more than the writer of the Wisdom of Solomon: though he is afflicted in his sighing,30 he does not lose heart (4.16) but is rather committed in the knowledge that the glory of God is being prepared for him – or in other words, that what is mortal might be swallowed up by life (5.4c). Only in 5.3 does it become clear how well aware Paul is of how different things might have been.31 Though the fear of remaining naked, of lacking that heavenly robe, has been overcome, the consciousness of it lingers. In 5.10, this is then taken up into Paul’s discussion of judgement: whether one has done good or evil during one’s life – or more precisely, through the body (διὰ τοῦ σώματος) – this will be revealed before the judgement seat of Christ (5.10). Yet for Paul, what role is played by lament, or specifically by groaning and sighing? When seen against the background of Old Testament and Jewish literature, we can see the way in which Paul connects with Israel’s laments.32 However, his sighs over the difficulties of his office are carried by the expectation and experience of that glory which God has prepared for him. Thus he shares in the underlying emotion of each person who directs his or her sighs and groans towards God, because each of these lamenters awaits salvation from God. In this respect, Paul’s attitude and outlook match that of the Israelites in Egypt, of the people during the period of the judges, and of those who pray the psalms. If one also takes into account Paul’s physical sufferings, which he repeatedly presents in 2 Cor. as the sign of his infamy, we see then that connection between pain and sighing which is also so eschatologically important: namely, as yet another anticipation of that coming liberation. I believe it is here that we find the primary context for understanding Paul’s statements.33 29 Cf. e.g. Vogel, Commentatio mortis, 374: ‘What Paul seeks to clarify is that his “sighs” do not arise from some vague longing for death but rather from a distinct longing for salvation.’ 30 In 1.8 we find that those afflictions became concretized in the Asian persecutions which drove Paul to despair; cf. also Phil. 1.23–24. 31 On the textual-critical prioritization of ἐνδυσάμενοι over ἐκδυσάμενοι cf. Grässer, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther, vol. 1, 187. 32 In support of a connection with OT traditions, we have not only Paul’s background and pharisaic education but also the regular use of στενάζω in the LXX as well as the allusion to Wis. 9.15. The judgement context which appears in 5.10 has also been shaped by OT traditions. 33 In contrast to James, the idea of penance remains absent in Paul’s writing: while suffering does lead to salvation, it is not a condition of that salvation. Contrary to all appearances, it is out of that imposed affliction that salvation arises for Paul as apostle.



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But one must remember that Paul’s letter was written to Hellenistic Jews and gentile Christians. This context has been displayed and its importance well-developed by Manuel Vogel, who has shown that Paul’s statements can be understood against the background of the ancient ars moriendi. We are dealing here ‘with a character sketch developed from the perspective of the problem of death, into which Paul interweaves statements about his eschatological fate as a counter image of the lowliness of his earthly life’.34 Thus, Paul’s laments take on a clearly positive value by directing the afflictions of this existence toward a salvific future. As a parallel, one could offer the observation by the Platonic Socrates on the singing of swans (Phaidon 84e–85a): that their song is particularly beautiful when they are close to death because they look forward to their meeting with Apollo, though human beings might hear in that song only frightened despair in the face of death. Of course, the intrinsic value of lament is called into question here: the screech of the swans is interpreted as divine praise, whereas Paul certainly does not present his sighing as praise but rather acknowledges it in all its bitterness. I feel that both approaches are sensible in an apologetic context, and perhaps Paul is also aware of the benefit of combining both elements in this particular way: lament as a legitimate reaction to God under such conditions being connected with the interpretation of that lament as an expression of hope in the glory of the new creation.

The Groaning of Creation (Rom. 8.18–27) In what was probably his final letter, Paul returns to the issue of groaning/sighing, though in a different context. In Rom. 8, Paul begins with a discussion of the Christian life in the Spirit: free of sin and free from the power of the flesh. In v.17, with the conclusion of the first passage, he turns quite unexpectedly to the topic of suffering: as heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, Christians suffer with Christ but are also glorified together with him. Once again, as in 2 Cor. 4.17, suffering is bound with glory in such a way that out of a negative present we witness the growth of what is eschatologically positive, though already now palpable. In contrast with the discussion of suffering in 2 Cor. 5, in Rom. 8 Paul points to the fundamental Christian situation, indeed to that which faces the entire creation. At issue here is no longer the suffering that accompanies the apostolic office but rather the inherent fate of a suffering existence σύν Χριστῷ which faces all Christians, or that suffering connected with an earthly existence which confronts all creatures. 34 Vogel, Commentatio mortis, 371 (emphasis in original).

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Again, as in 2 Cor. 4, Paul contrasts the current unimportance of suffering with that future glory which will be revealed in all Christians.35 With λογίζομαι γάρ Paul marks v.18 as the thesis for what follows (at the same time, the sentence essentially summarizes 2 Cor. 4.16–18). In vv.18–21, Paul argues that in the end everything is directed at freedom in the glory of the children of God (v.21b). Of course, in the meantime it is not only we Christians (still participating in the sufferings of Christ) who suffer, but all creation which, according to v.19, also waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God as well as for the end of time. For its fate is that futility (ματαιότης) to which God has subjected it (v.20). The creation that Paul speaks of here can be interpreted in different ways: it could refer to all of creation,36 to non-Christian human beings, to non-human creation, or even to the angels.37 While the current majority opinion thinks that Paul uses κτίσις here to signify non-human creation,38 this is far from clear.39 If we assume it is in fact non-human creation, then the discussion of creation’s futility is due to the experience of the transience of all beings, but also to the knowledge of their eschatological end. As ‘we know’ (v.22), the world suffers under this fate as a result of the subjection of God: the whole of creation has been groaning in labour pains until now. What immediately strikes us is that Paul picks up the connection between στενάζειν and ὠδίνειν so familiar from the Old Testament (Gen. 3.16; Isa. 35.10; 51.11; Jer. 4.31; 22.23). It is unlikely that the mention of labour pains expresses a directedness to the future; yet above all, the two words amplify each other: the groaning of creation is grounded in creation’s suffering, a suffering as intense as labour pains.40 How that groaning is expressed is irrelevant. What is essential for Paul is this character of sighing and suffering which takes grip of creation due to its fate of ruinous decay.41 While this fate is likely connected with the fall,42 35 In 2 Cor. 4.17 it is the slightness (ἐλαφρόν) of that suffering, in Rom. 8.18 its unimportance (οὐκ ἄξια). 36 See Joachim Meissner, Das Kommen der Herrlichkeit: Eine Neuinterpretation von Röm 8,14–30 (FzB 100; Würzburg: Echter, 2003), 255. 37 For an overview of the various research perspectives, cf. among others Ulrich Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer: Röm 6–11 (EKK VI/2; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1980, 3rd edn, 1993), 152–153. 38 There is a parallel here in the Jewish literature (e.g. Wis. 2.6; 16.24; 19.6; 1 En. 18.1; 36.4). 39 The stress on the fact that Christians lament leads us to ask how we are to understand those people who, though non-Christian, are also seen by Paul as lamenting. 40 Contrary to Heinrich Schlier, Der Römerbrief (HThK 6; Freiburg/Basel/Wien: Herder, 1977, 2nd edn, 1979), 263–264, who refers to the labour pains of the messianic age, an idea not found in Paul (at issue in 1 Thess. 5.3 is the suddenness of those pains, not their result); similarly Meissner, Das Kommen der Herrlichkeit, 279; for a more appropriate view, Wilckens, Der Brief an die Römer, 156. 41 On futility (ματαιότης) cf. in the LXX Ps. 61.10; 77.33; 118.37; 143.4 and above all Ecclesiastes.



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it appears only vaguely in the background. In any case, it is the cause of that suffering which Paul has been discussing since v.18. That non-human creation is imagined as something able to lament is on the one hand a theological innovation, yet on the other hand also the converse of an idea anchored in the Psalms: Ps. 19 speaks of the praise of creation which occurs even though ‘there is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard’ (Ps. 19.3). From an eschatological perspective, Ps. 96 speaks about the joy of the heavens, earth and sea (Ps. 96.11–13). In this respect, Paul’s use of συστενάζω in Rom. 8.22 is striking. It likely serves as an amplifier: this sighing and suffering encompasses all creation.43 Nothing is excluded, just as nothing is excluded from that fated death, the ματαιότης, and no period of time has been free of lament and pain (ἄχρι τοῦ νῦν). One could take the temporal marker, ‘until now’, as meaning that the suffering and sighing of creation has its end now, with the entry of the eschaton. If one wanted to understand the entire phenomenon of ‘lament’ as an aspect of that nowpassed aeon, the end of which has now arrived – indeed, the heritage of which should be utterly cast off – then joy truly should (certainly, truly must) replace that groaning. Yet this is precisely not the case. Returning to the actual topic of the section, Paul stresses that ‘not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies’ (v.23). Christians – Paul is certainly not just speaking of himself here – also groan! This is precisely what Paul is aiming at: they are freed neither from suffering nor from its expression, from that groaning under the futility of all being.44 The reason for this is quite straightforward: because their bodies, together with all created beings, are also subject to that same fated death. We seem to find the counterpart to the ὠδίνειν of creation (v.22) in the participle ἀπεκδεχόμενοι: the labour pains which move a suffering creation towards a (positive?) end correspond on the one hand to the expectation of sonship, of that salvific state which is characterized here with the Abrahamic metaphor of inheritance. On the other hand, and in a conceptual parallel to 2 Cor. 4.16–5.10, this expectation also aims at the salvation of the flesh. However, we have here in the background a rather unevaluated dualistic anthropology: that there will be salvation from the body, in other words a liberation from it rather than salvation of the body itself. It is primarily this body (but not it alone) which is subject to futility, which suffers and whose pain and vulnerability drive people, even 42 As for the world of human beings, cf. in Rom. 5.12 the fate of death has entered the world due to Adam’s sin. This connection between transience and death becomes clear in 1 Cor. 15.42, 50. 43 Cf. e.g. Schlier, Der Römerbrief, 263; Eduard Lohse, Der Brief an die Römer (KEK 4; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 247; Meissner, Das Kommen der Herrlichkeit, 283. 44 On the inwardness of this groaning, cf. Lam. 1.22; Ps. 37.9; Job 24.12; 1 En. 9.10; T. Jos. 7.2.

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Christians, to sigh and groan. Unlike in Rom. 3.24, here salvation (ἀπολύτρωσις) is not from sin but is rather salvation from futility. While its arrival is expected in the fulfilment of salvation, it is already ‘guaranteed’ by the Spirit. Though a certain hope springs from the experience of the Spirit (vv.24–25), this does not mean freedom from suffering and lament. Those who would demand the absence of lament because we have the Spirit or are Christian, would, against Paul, deny created existence even to Christians. However, as Paul argues, the Christian hope is not simply an escape into the unknown. On the one hand, salvation is not a future event but has already been accomplished: τῇ γὰρ ἐλπίδι ἐσώθημεν ‘in hope we were saved’ (aorist!). The ‘guarantee of the Spirit’45 is to be understood in the same way: it is the gift of God for the saved, yet one which does not yet affect the σῶμα.46 After his observations on the character of hope, Paul returns in the passage’s third section to the topic of Christian existence (vv.26–27): it is perfected in the weakness (ἀσθένεια) which arises from that subjection to futility. Thus it is now clear that not only a person’s body is weak but also the spirit. This weakness (especially in believers) shows itself for example in our inability to know how to pray as we should. It does not mean our prayers are not effective or that we pray for the wrong things or with too little faith. Rather ἀσθένεια here refers to the difference between human beings and God, between finite beings and BeingItself. When Christians – longing for their adoption and suffering under the futility of the body – pray for salvation, they do so in their own words, yet ones which cannot reflect what God’s gift of salvation will be. This human sighing is then translated by the Spirit, again as sighing (!), and in so doing the Spirit intercedes on our behalf before God.47 While Paul would hardly argue that God needs an interpreter, he would emphasize that all lament and sighing (which despite its inwardness was still understood as prayer in the Old Testament Jewish traditions) is shaped by that difference between creator and creation. That this difference is finally overcome is due here to God’s Spirit, which Paul clearly personalizes. Vital for our discussion is the observation that Paul is not rejecting sighing and groaning as useless or wicked. On the contrary, the Spirit intercedes for believers with sighs which are for us both unspeakable and inexpressible, so that that which we plead for in our laments finally becomes reality: the adoption and salvation of the body.

45 Cf. Friedrich W. Horn, Das Angeld des Geistes: Studien zur paulinischen Pneumatologie (FRLANT 154; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992), 389–390, on the term ‘Angeld’ (ἀρραβῶνα). 46 Of course, one must also stress that this rescue is not a guarantee of salvation; it can still be squandered (cf. Rom. 14.10–12, 22–23; Gal. 5.16–21). 47 As for whether Paul was thinking here of the glossolalia (1 Cor. 12; cf. Meissner, Das Kommen der Herrlichkeit, 328–330), this seems unlikely since it represents activity in the reverse direction: the glossolalia are achieved through the Spirit but require translation by the community.



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Summary As this examination of various New Testament texts has shown, lament is by no means repudiated or invalidated in the New Testament. It remains a valid form of speech with God, one which grows out of experiences of suffering and mourning. Those experiences were also present in the lives of early Christians, just as they were present in the life of Jesus of Nazareth and the Christ of the community. Contrary to the tendency to interpret lament as a sign of weakness, Paul in particular holds fast to the idea that groaning and sighing under the conditions of this finite life are unavoidable characteristics of human existence. Of course, this is all seen through eschatological foreshadowing: lament stands under the mark and influence of our experience of the Spirit, the knowledge of God’s salvific work in Jesus, and hope in the fulfilment of all time. Thus it is not that lament is invalidated, but is rather re-evaluated as a positive expression of our longing.

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Chapter 10

‘Have you any right to be angry?’ Lament as a Metric of Socio-Political and Theological Context Stephen Lakkis

Within a European context there has been some perplexity regarding the absence of lament in the spiritual life of the church. Despite the long history of lament as a liturgical form and biblical, literary genre – and despite the existence of a substantial body of lament texts in the Psalms – lament seems to have vanished from immediate Christian praxis. Yet from its very formulation the shortcomings and limitations of the question, ‘Why has lament disappeared from the church?’ become apparent. Which church is being referenced here? The wealthy and established churches of Western Europe and its cultural colonies in North America and Australia? Or do we ask after the impoverished, oppressed or underground churches of the so-called ‘third’ and especially ‘second’ worlds? As for lament itself, how are we quantitatively to measure its decline in ecclesial praxis? Simple absence from the printed liturgy or prayer book would limit the data to that subset of denominations which use such concrete liturgical forms (ruling out a significant proportion of so-called ‘free’ as well as Charismatic and Pentecostal churches). Against this background, asking about the disappearance of lament from the church would seem to imply more about the social, political and theological context of the questioner rather than the nature and contemporary existence of lament per se. However, we should not take this as grounds for dismissing the issue but rather as an opportunity to reorient our discussion of lament and to display the degree to which lament itself (and its occurrence within the church – whichever church that may be) can act as a useful metric or measure of the social, economic, political and theological context of the church community in question and of the individuals which compose it. In short, examining the occurrence (or lack) of lament may allow us to describe, and gain deeper insights into, the particular context of a particular church community. Specifically, this chapter will consider three aspects with regard to the role and presence of lament in the life of the churches: (1) an individual, socio-economic aspect, (2) a communal, politico-cultic aspect, and (3) a biblical-historical, theological aspect.



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An Individual, Personal Aspect: Lament in the Face of Annihilation Part of the consternation arising from the apparent disappearance of lament in the modern church stems from the central role that the literature of lament played in the biblical traditions, above all in the Old Testament. Frank Crüsemann presents the right to lament together with the protections of the law as the two central pillars in the maintenance of social justice in ancient Israel.1 While the regulations of the law concentrate on wrongs and sufferings produced by fellow human beings, lament takes issue with what is perceived as divinely caused suffering.2 The diagnosis here can be broad, covering the general relationship between God and the individual, dealing with general issues of life and death, guilt and perceived injustice. While the area covered by the law is precisely defined, this is merely a subset of that sphere of influence over which the divine is ultimately responsible. In the end, final responsibility always lies with God.3 For this reason, in ancient Israel lament operated as a form of final appeal to divine authority, appeal to the ultimate jurisdiction of God over all the destructive forces of life that face the individual (including those which arise from the legal system itself). The diffuse focus of divine jurisdiction mirrors an equally diffuse concentration on the source and cause for lament. Having wrestled with this problem of identification in the psalms of lament, Crüsemann concludes that ‘most of the time one can hardly tell what the “actual need” of the petitioner is’.4 While there are a range of common features which arise – such as sickness, the actions of enemies, ostracism, false accusations, poverty, the threat of death – rarely in the psalms of lament can we identify a singular issue as the principal cause for this call to the divine. Three factors play a role in this diffuseness. Two (corporate authorship of these laments and their social context) will be examined in the next section. The third is what Crüsemann insightfully identifies here as an interrelated web of distress and despair: ‘the net of need’ (Das Netz der Not ).5 In practice, that is in experienced instances of despair, the sufferer finds herself trapped in a web of 1 Frank Crüsemann, ‘Das Alte Testament als Grundlage der Diakonie’, in Gerhard K. Schäfer and Theodor Strohm (eds), Diakonie: Biblische Grundlagen und Orientierungen: Ein Arbeitsbuch (Heidelberg: Veröffentlichungen des diakoniewissenschaftlichen Instituts an der Universität Heidelberg, 1990), 67–93 (= in Volker Herrmann and Martin Horstmann [eds], Studienbuch Diakonik, vol. 1: Biblische, historische und theologische Zugänge zur Diakonie [Neukirchen: Neukirchener, 2006], 58–87). 2 Cf. e.g. ibid., 70. 3 Ibid., 72: ‘God is the first and last one to answer for lament. … It is God who finally stands … behind all else. … The one God is responsible and accountable for everything. Since all depends upon him, lament and accusation can be directed at him.’ All translations of Crüsemann by the author. See also Ps. 13.1; 22.1–2. 4 Ibid., 73. 5 Cf. ibid., 73–75, as well as Frank Crüsemann, ‘Im Netz. Zur Frage nach der “eigentlichen Not” in den Klagen der Einzelnen’, in Rainer Albertz et al. (eds), Schöpfung und Befreiung: FS Claus Westermann z. 80. Geburtstag (Stuttgart: Calwer, 1989), 139–148.

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causes and effects which ‘are interwoven and mutually affect one another’.6 While there may originally have been a single trigger, the sufferer quickly experiences a comprehensive ‘system breakdown’, the failure of multiple personal systems of support so that the person now stands trapped within an entire network of dangers which collectively threaten the individual with destruction. For example, sickness may lead to an inability to work, thus to poverty, indebtedness, legal vulnerability, social exclusion and finally death. It is no longer the trigger alone that threatens life but the confluence of all these aspects, working together to strand the individual at the brink of annihilation. If the person offering up lament has made final appeal to God – in the face of individual annihilation and trapped within this ‘net of need’, as Crüsemann suggests – what then is the restitution being sought? What does the lamenting individual expect from the divine? Following the Jewish tradition of protest theodicy, Jon D. Levenson has argued that the individual does not want mere platitudes or a rationally and theologically intelligible theodicy, neither does he want to philosophize about the ultimate righteousness of God: lament ‘is not an intellectual exercise but rather a taunt intended to goad the just God into action after a long quiescence’.7 What the sufferer wants is not an explanation but a prescription, something that he can do to reactivate God after this painful quiescence or to augment the benevolent side of God at the expense of his malevolence, converting fury into favor. … When God’s silence and inactivity do not end, when the prescription does not come or does not work … [one may] continue the argument with [God] in the hope that he might yet be cajoled, flattered, shamed, or threatened into acting in deliverance. This is the tactic of the lament literature.8 For Levenson, the goal of individual lament in the Old Testament is to arouse God, to draw attention to personal suffering, to plead one’s case, to call for a renewal of God’s favour. The situation of danger is concrete, and the petitioner seeks equally concrete results: namely, the removal of the threat, and very often the destruction or annihilation of one’s perceived enemy.9 In almost all laments we find concrete 6 Crüsemann, ‘Das Alte Testament als Grundlage der Diakonie’, 74. 7 Jon D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2nd edn, 1994), xvii. For this reason, I find the German word Klage much more appropriate than the English ‘lament’ since Klage incorporates aspects of anger and complaint, a fierce questioning of God’s silence in the wake of suffering, an underlying anger at God’s silence precisely due to God’s perceived role as final authority. 8 Ibid., xviii. 9 Here Crüsemann and Levenson differ in their views on the expected results of lament. Rather than seeing lament as a concrete call for concrete ends, Crüsemann understands the benefit of lament as primarily psychological, providing the individual with an opportunity to speak out loud those things which they find troubling. ‘To have the possibility publicly to articulate one’s need, suffering, despair,



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curses upon these ‘enemies’, detailed condemnations, and intricate plans for their annihilation at God’s hand: ‘Let death come upon them; let them go down alive to Sheol’ (Ps. 55.15).10 Faced with injustice, caught in the ‘net of need’ and standing before their own annihilation, the weak seek to tap into the mighty power of God via lament in order to accomplish that which they themselves are powerless to do: to destroy those whom they perceive to be their persecutors. Despite the constant appearance of such ‘violent desires’ in so many of the psalms of lament, 11 Crüsemann is able to find a positive aspect in these punitive, retributive wishes: Lament [Klage] means being able to speak unreservedly about those things that threaten and frighten us, to accuse [anzuklagen] all those persons and powers which rob us of life, which make us small and destroy us. … But do those who suffer among us today … no longer have these emotions? What happens with these types of emotions when we are forbidden from expressing them, even in conversation with God? And what should we make of a prayer which is not allowed to contain parts of one’s own person? Lament hands our enemies and our hatred of them both over to God, rather than planning its own revenge.12 We are provided here with a framework for understanding lament as the action of an individual faced with the very real prospect of annihilation at the hands of a broad constellation of enemies. Trapped in this life-threatening situation, unable to affect one’s own escape, and powerless to destroy those who have provoked this situation, the individual turns to God as ultimate authority and pleads his case before the divine, pleads for a refocusing of divine attention and a return of divine favour, to be evidenced by the downfall and destruction of those same enemies which have trapped the individual within this ‘net of need’. hate, and also trust and hope is more important than any answer’ (Crüsemann, ‘Das Alte Testament als Grundlage der Diakonie’, 76). However, Crüsemann bases this conclusion on the assumption that the psalms of lament represent a ‘one-sided’ discussion: we have the words of the petitioner but never God’s answer, never an epilogue which outlines the result of the offered lament. This underestimates the pragmatic nature of cultic practice in the ANE and Greco-Roman worlds and certainly the very real competition between divinities in the pantheon of gods. If after petition was made to YHWH no clear and obvious help resulted, one may very well ‘abandon YHWH, the God of Israel, and … direct one’s service to another God, as some Judeans in exile in Egypt did when they made offerings to the Queen of Heaven on the grounds that when they had done so, “we had plenty to eat, we were well-off, and suffered no misfortune” [Jer. 44.17]’ (Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil, xviii). 10 Cf. Crüsemann, ‘Das Alte Testament als Grundlage der Diakonie’, 72. 11 A feature which (when contrasted with Jesus’ command to love our enemies) served to contribute to an overly narrow Christian view of the Old Testament and Ancient Israel as ‘lacking in love’: ‘The world before Christ was a world without love’, Gerhard Uhlhorn, Die christliche Liebesthätigkeit, vol. 1 (Stuttgart, 1895), 3; trans. by the author. 12 Crüsemann, ‘Das Alte Testament als Grundlage der Diakonie’, 72–73.

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If we operate with this framework as our primary understanding of lament, we ought hardly be surprised that lament has been dying out as an intercessory or liturgical form in the affluent first world churches. If lament really is primarily a tool to re-empower the helpless, to give a voice to the weak and oppressed, and a means by which the weak can appeal to the divine for the destruction of their enemies, then it hardly seems necessary for the western church to raise its voice in lament. As a measure or metric of socio-economic status, it could be argued that lament (or more appropriately, its disappearance) points to a church grown obese, bourgeois and powerful. No longer having to face the everyday perils of a minority existence, of hunger and malnutrition, of displacement, ostracism and the threat of hostile enemies, there seems little necessity for the western churches to reawaken the favour of God for their own benefit. And when faced with perceived injustices or with a perceived threat by supposedly hostile enemies, the members of the western churches (and the first world nations in which they live) would seem to have better options for seeking their own retribution – for effecting their own destruction and annihilation of their enemies – than appealing solely to the mighty hand of God, which is the final recourse only of the poor and powerless (cf. Deut. 24.14–15). There is certainly truth in this analysis: it is not hard to imagine that the improving socio-economic status of the western churches and of their members has played a role in the slow disappearance of lament within western congregations and prayer-lives.13 In general terms, this is in fact a good thing. Yet given this context, one would be justified in asking whether the affluent western churches have any right to be angry, any need to raise their voice to God in lament – to gain from the poor land, food and natural resources, and then even to appropriate the voice of the poor to bring laments before God? However, while justified, we must be very careful of jumping too quickly to such conclusions and dismissing out of hand the absence of lament in western churches as a simple artefact of a bourgeois socio-economic context. The reasons behind the phenomenon are much more nuanced and polyvalent. Specifically, while the aspect of individual socio-economic status is important, we must not overlook the role that lament plays as a social or communal form of expression, or its role within the faith structure of particular communities. 13 While there is no room here for a comparative, quantitative analysis of the socio-economic contexts of First, Second and Third World churches, much of this work has already been done by liberation theologians, though their focus has often been primarily on the Latin American rather than Arab or East Asian context. However, the reader could follow Boff with a simple comparison of obesity-related deaths in the First World and deaths arising from malnutrition in the Third World, specifically Brazil where 89 per cent of the population is Christian, yet where ‘40 percent of all Brazilians live, work, and sleep with chronic hunger; there are 10 million who are mentally retarded due to malnutrition; 6 million suffer from malaria; 650,000 have tuberculosis and 25,000 suffer from leprosy’. Leonardo Boff, Church: Charism and Power (New York: Crossroad, 1985), 22.



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A Social Aspect: Lament as a Reflection of Politico-Cultic Expectation If our examination of lament stays at the level of the individual – understanding lament as the expression of one troubled individual who appeals to God in the face of personal destruction – then we risk missing the important social aspects of lament, aspects which are already operative at a deeper level. That there exists a social dimension to lament should hardly come as a surprise if we remember that lament is a form of prayer. As with prayer, we witness intimate, personal forms, but also shared, communal forms. Crüsemann in fact highlights some of these social aspects: he recognizes that the psalms of lament are not individual creations but are based on traditional, liturgical templates under the administration of cultic officials.14 He also stresses that the praxis of lament was one which occurred in public environments rather than in private.15 Yet Crüsemann’s view here is still too individualistic. We need to look first for the existence of a deeper, communal structure or framework which supports individual lament – a pre-existent structure which only then provides the individual with the right and opportunity to present his or her prayer. In other words: how does the individual even arrive at a feeling of entitlement to offer laments to the divine? Why does the individual believe that YHWH is interested in his or her lament or is even prepared to address it? These questions bring us to the root soteriological issues of almost all cultic practices based on belief in personal divinities. Yet it is worth pausing to examine the specific situation in Israel. There are numerous, differing interpretations of Jewish soteriology, yet common to most is the central role played by the concept of divine election and its expression in the form of the covenant between YHWH and Israel. Over the last thirty years, one of the more valuable analyses in this area has come from

14 ‘The texts of those psalms of lament which have been handed down to us represent prayer formulas which were constantly reused. Their poetic force and condensed language alone rules out the possibility that they were written by individuals in their time of need. In the rituals of that environment, the texts were maintained by cultic officials.’ Crüsemann, ‘Das Alte Testament als Grundlage der Diakonie’, 76. 15 Ibid., 75–77. While Crüsemann’s identification of the public practice of lament is helpful, he skips over the impact this practice has in the context of a community characterized by the principles of honour and shame. Public lament publicizes grievances by placing them within a context where (even tangential) identification of the ‘enemy’ may subject that enemy to open shame, or conversely bring shame upon the lamenter: if the community feels the lament is unjustified, then this may expose the praying individual to even further ridicule. Thus, in this sense, the public practice of lament may have involved a self-regulating system which curbed frivolous lament. See e.g. Ps. 22.7–8, or for an analogy, Mk 15.34–36.

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E.P. Sanders’ soteriological paradigm of ‘covenantal nomism’.16 In outline, covenantal nomism stresses YHWH’s free act of grace in selecting Israel as his chosen people, a decision which is then ratified by YHWH’s free entry into the covenant with them. Thus ‘getting in’ to the cult is a quasi-genetic act based on YHWH’s election of Abraham and his descendants. Obedience to the law does not offset this initial act of divine grace – that is, the election of Israel as a special nation to be favoured by YHWH – but is rather a response to that grace, a way of reinforcing and maintaining that election, of ‘staying in’ the cult. What the faithful then ‘get out of it’ is the favour of YHWH (that YHWH will be their God) and hope in the fulfilment of the covenantal promises (particularly entry into the promised land) as well as ultimate salvation. In the context of lament, it is this covenantal promise which provides the pre-existing framework for the favourable disposition of YHWH towards the Israelite believer. In other words, lament could be offered up to YHWH precisely because the believer had an expectation that he or she (as part of the chosen people) could indeed expect divine affection, favour and eventual restitution. The hope expressed in lament arises from an already existent social framework which linked the individual with a politico-cultic understanding of election and covenant: an ideology that saw the Israelites as unique, chosen from among the nations to be YHWH’s people and (as long as they observed the covenant) that they deserved better than the currently experienced torments. Thus, the Israelites’ election as YHWH’s chosen people provided a basis for this feeling of entitlement which only then allowed for the subsequent praxis of individual lament. Prayer could always be offered to other competing divinities on the basis of proper ‘payment’, such as the sacrifice of appropriate offerings.17 However, since (according to the principles of covenantal nomism) Judaism is not to be perceived as a works-based faith,18 the bringing of offerings or sacrifices could not function as prerequisites for divine favour – it is not the faithfulness or cultic offerings of the individual which secure his or her rights to bring lament before YHWH but rather YHWH’s own act of grace, his special covenant with Abraham and his descendants. Thus, as Levenson argued, lament seeks to reactivate God’s initial favour and benevolence; this could work only because it was a reactivation of a perceived pre-existing politico-cultic covenant. 16 E.P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977). While Sanders’ system is prone to the problems facing all such general ‘paradigms’ or ‘patterns’ of religion (namely a difficulty dealing with the variety and diversity of actual practice, here specifically within second-temple Judaism), his general structure is still helpful. 17 Cf. n. 9. 18 Cf. e.g. here Douglas J. Moo, The Letter of James (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 39: ‘Because God freely entered into this covenant with Israel, grace is at the heart of the Jewish view of salvation. Far from being a religion of “works” or “law”, then (as it is often portrayed), Judaism was a religion of grace.’



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This politico-cultic aspect becomes important when we consider a particular form of social lament, a striking example of which is seen in the lament of Jonah (cf. Jonah 4.1–4). Hartmut Gese19 and Jörg Jeremias20 have touched upon the deep questioning occurring in the text of Jonah: a confused search for insight into God’s profoundly disconcerting choice to save one of Israel’s greatest enemies. Against the background of the Assyrian invasion into northern Palestine, the destruction of the northern Israelite kingdom and the loss of half of YHWH’s ‘elect’, the text of Jonah struggles to understand not only God’s actions but also, by implication, Israel’s own ‘favoured nation’ standing before God. It is this part of their cultural memory that is made the object of a prophetic narrative in the Book of Jonah. … Jonah is forced to stand by and watch, indeed even co-operate, as God allows the Assyrians to escape – and God allows this even though (according to the history presented in 2 Kings 14f.) they go on immediately to wipe out the Northern Kingdom. … [The] text deals in all seriousness with the incomprehensibility of God’s actions – an incomprehensibility that the prophet Jonah is well aware of from the beginning and of which he is afraid.21 This culminates in Jonah’s great lament to YHWH (Jonah 4.2–3): O Lord! Is not this what I said while I was still in my own country? That is why I fled to Tarshish at the beginning; for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. And now, O Lord, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live. Against this background, Israel’s politico-cultic structure had led Israel to sanctify itself with the status of favoured nation. Jonah would have preferred to die than willingly expose others (particularly the enemy) to YHWH’s grace (the foundations of Israel’s own covenant and blessing) so that YHWH’s mercy may fall upon them. The central astounding aspect in the Book of Jonah (which distinguishes it not only from the broader, textual, prophetic tradition, but also from the general assumptions of covenantal nomism) is its understanding that a theology of repentance is not only known outside Israel, but even remains valid22 – YHWH honours the collective lament and repentance of the Assyrians despite the lack of a pre-existing election 19 Hartmut Gese, ‘Jona ben Amittai und das Jonabuch’, Theologische Beiträge 16 (1985), 256–272. 20 Jörg Jeremias, ‘Das Jonabuch in der Forschung seit Hans Walter Wolff’, as an afterword in Hans Walter Wolff, Studien zum Jonabuch (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2003), 93–128. 21 Andreas Schüle, ‘“Have you any right to be angry?” The Theological Discourse Surrounding the Conclusion to the Book of Jonah (Jonah 3.6–4.11)’, (in press), 6–7. 22 Ibid., 11.

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or exclusive covenant. It is the hated and brutal Assyrians who are morally responsive, who are aware of their own guilt and the need for repentance before YHWH (and who receive it): ‘This is an insight which Jonah, as a representative of Israel and Judaism, is yet to gain.’23 The parallelism here is striking: The king of Nineveh offers up the lament and repentance of his people, and YHWH accepts it; Jonah synecdochically offers up the confused and despairing lament of all Israel, to which God responds: ‘Do you think you have a right to be angry?’ – an accusation reinforced with its repetition in v.9 (with regard to Jonah’s lament for the vine). Despite Jonah’s deepest desires, YHWH refuses to act as judge over Nineveh, acting instead towards them primarily in his role as their creator and sustainer. Jonah’s attitude toward the plant is compared with God’s attitude toward the nations – but a plant grows quickly, a nation develops over generations, Jonah did not create the plant himself or work hard for it to grow but that is exactly what God has done for his creatures.24 Yet it is precisely this divine disposition which becomes grounds for Jonah’s and Israel’s collective lament. Here YHWH directly picks up on Israel’s expectation of exclusive goodness: that as the ‘chosen people’ the Israelites are entitled to expect better. Rather than entering into the standard paradigm of the psalms of lament which seeks the destruction of one’s enemies, God instead directly threatens the politico-cultic sanctification of the Israelite nation and simultaneously dismisses Israel’s expectations and feeling of entitlement to lament. It is precisely this outer bracket of expectation of entitlement to better things that structures the situation of social lament: Jonah and Israel must come to grips not only with personal annihilation but also communal destruction, a prospect made all the more devastating due to the community’s self-sanctification. It is this form of ‘conservative’ ‘consciousness [which] has a feeling of horror when faced by the ruin of things which present themselves as historical sanctities’ and, when faced with this horror, is then pushed to lament.25 To summarize the discussion of this second, social aspect of lament, we must understand lament as having a deeper dimension than merely that of the individual. Indeed, this social dimension of lament provides the underlying cultic framework enabling individual lament to arise. In ancient Israel, one could understand this social framework for lament as being closely tied to politico-cultic expectations. Based on the covenant of grace with YHWH, Israel had come to sanctify its own social existence and was pushed to lament when faced with the horror of its destruction. The key point here lies in Israel’s expectation that it was elected and chosen for good and thus entitled to complain to God when confronted with hardship – an assumption which receives the divine rebuke: ‘Do you think you have any right to be angry?’ 23 Ibid. 24 Ibid., 17–18. 25 Nikolai Berdyaev, Slavery and Freedom (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1944), 264.



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‘Chosen to Suffer’: A Historical, Theological Re-Evaluation of Suffering in the Early Church One of the astonishing results of any examination of biblical lament is the near disappearance of the form as soon as one crosses into the New Testament. If one were to stay simply at the individual level of lament, and combine the lowly socioeconomic status of many early Christians together with their many experiences of harsh persecution, one would expect a real renaissance of lament to appear in the early church. But the converse is true. Lament plays a surprisingly minor role in the gospels (centred mostly around the person of Jesus and the passion: Gethsemane, cross26)27 but this absence becomes particularly conspicuous in Acts and the Pauline letters, and is then openly re-evaluated in the later epistles – a re-evaluation which was continued through the (second and third-century) literature of the early church and beyond. Let me briefly trace out one strand of this development and suggest some interrelated reasons for its appearance. The first important aspect lies with the intricate relation between the person of Jesus and suffering. A clear strand in the gospel traditions highlights the strong belief that the Son of Man came purposefully to suffer and die, or that (at the least) hardship, suffering and death were deeply inherent components in the role of Jesus’ mission: ‘the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many’ (Mt. 20.28); ‘Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering [παθεῖν], and be rejected by the elders, 26 In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus takes his dying words from a psalm of lament (Ps. 22.1): ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ Notably, while Luke transforms these dying words, he does so by drawing on the words of another psalm of lament (Ps. 31.5): ‘Into your hand I commit my spirit’. 27 Since references to Psalm 22, an important psalm of lament, repeatedly occur in the synoptic gospels, some have suggested that strands of gospel tradition present the life of Jesus within the larger framework of a lament: the sufferings and lament of a ‘righteous one’ who is then vindicated by God (cf. e.g. Richard Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament: Community, Cross, New Creation: A Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethics [London: Continuum T & T Clark, 2004], 118–120). However, when reading this New Testament presentation, it is important to remember the peculiar role that Ps. 22 holds within the Old Testament lament literature. The appended hymn of praise (Ps. 22.22–31) distances this text from the standard form and structure of other psalms of lament, ensuring that ‘Psalm 22 impacted the New Testament not as a typical lament, but as one that now concludes with an exuberant, hymnic vision of eschatological redemption’. (Stephen L. Cook, ‘Relecture, Hermeneutics, and Christ’s Passion in the Psalms’, in Stephen L. Cook, Corrine L. Patton and James W. Watts (eds), The Whirlwind: Essays on Job, Hermeneutics and Theology in Memory of Jane Morse [Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series 336, New York: Sheffield Academic, 2001], 181–205, quoted at 196). Thus ‘this psalm becomes Messianic and even eschatological. The conclusion gives to Psalm 22 a prophetic and universalist meaning which is rare in the Psalter. It is easy to see why it was used so much by the New Testament writers’ (Paul Auvray, ‘The Psalms’, in André Robert and André Feuillet [eds], Introduction to the Old Testament [trans. Patrick W. Skehan et al., New York: Desclee, 1968], 367–404, quoted at 386).

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the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed’ (Mk 8.31, cf. Mt. 16.21); ‘but I tell you that Elijah has already come, and they did not recognize him, but they did to him whatever they pleased. So also the Son of Man is about to suffer [πάθῃ] at their hands’ (Mt. 17.12; cf. Mk 9.12). This intricate relation to suffering spilled over into the discipleship ethic of those who followed Jesus and, by being attributed back to a saying of Jesus, was then solidified into a permanent aspect of life in ‘The Way’: ‘He said to them, “You will indeed drink my cup”’ (Mt. 20.23); ‘Remember the word that I said to you, “Servants are not greater than their master.” If they persecuted me, they will persecute you’ (Jn 15.20). To follow in Jesus’ footsteps, to join the Way of Jesus Christ, involved an explicit expectation of and openness to suffering and persecution. Second, this expectation was then heightened and perfected in the biography and writings of Paul who was chosen to suffer: But the Lord said to him, ‘Go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen [ἐκλογῆς28] to bring my name before Gentiles and kings and before the people of Israel; I myself will show him how much he must suffer [παθεῖν29] for the sake of my name’ (Acts 9.15–16). Here we have a fundamental reversal of ancient Israel’s politico-cultic expectation of goodness and their basic right or entitlement to bring lament – a reversal begun by the Book of Jonah’s deconstruction and subversion of the ‘Day of the Lord’ traditions.30 Unlike Abraham and Israel, which saw themselves as chosen for good (an election which then provided the framework for lament), the story of Paul’s calling makes it clear that Paul’s choosing is directed toward suffering, not because he is an enemy of God, not because he hardens his heart like Pharaoh in the exodus narrative, but precisely in the service of the proclamation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. This perspective on the inherent, privileged and honourable role of suffering in the life of discipleship consistently recurs in Paul’s writings and in the experiences of those involved in mission in the early church: ‘If we are being afflicted, it is for your consolation and salvation; if we are being consoled, it is for your consolation, which you experience when you patiently endure the same 28 This same root expression is also used by Paul in Rom. 9.11; 11.5, 7, 28; 1 Thess. 1.4, as well as occurring in 2 Pet. 1.10 to refer to God’s divine election. 29 The degree to which Paul’s sufferings are to be aligned with Christ’s can be seen from the fact that of all twelve instances of παθεῖν in the New Testament, this is the only one which does not refer to the sufferings of Jesus. 30 If one ‘reads the Book of Jonah in the context of the twelve minor prophets, then it becomes even clearer how foundationally Jonah separates itself from the “day of the Lord” tradition. This tradition forms one of the leading themes of the twelve-book corpus and can be found bundled into the Book of Joel – against which the Book of Jonah presents a multi-layered critique. The idea that one day Yahweh will call the nations to account for their injustices (namely against God’s chosen people) lies at exactly the opposite end of the ideological spectrum compared to what we find in the final seven verses of the Book of Jonah.’ Schüle, ‘Have You Any Right to be Angry?’, 17–18.



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sufferings that we are also suffering’ (2 Cor. 1.6); ‘For he has graciously granted you the privilege not only of believing in Christ, but of suffering for him as well’ (Phil. 1.29); as Peter and the apostles ‘left the council, they rejoiced that they were considered worthy [κατηξιώθησαν] to suffer dishonour for the sake of the name’ (Acts 5.41). In this respect, suffering took on an aspect of honour rather than a state to be avoided or lamented. To follow Christ, to be like Christ, involved participation in the sufferings of Christ: ‘I am now rejoicing in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am completing what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church’ (Col. 1.24). Third, while clearly not all suffering arises as a direct result of proclaiming the gospel, strands in the early church tradition (especially in the letters of Peter) quickly drew a distinction between suffering for the sake of Christ and general suffering as a result of our own ‘perversions’, neither of which was seen as cause for lament – wrongdoing rightly leads to suffering, and suffering endured for the gospel meets with God’s approval: let none of you suffer as a murderer, a thief, a criminal, or even as a mischief maker. Yet if any of you suffers as a Christian, do not consider it a disgrace, but glorify God because you bear this name. … Therefore, let those suffering in accordance with God’s will entrust themselves to a faithful Creator, while continuing to do good. (1 Pet. 4.15–16, 19) Notable here is the introduction into the New Testament literature of a distinction between deserved suffering as a result of wrongdoing, the unattributable, undeserved suffering and injustice faced by the weak, and the unmerited (yet according to the tradition, often inevitable) suffering of the righteous, a distinction which was not always clear in the Old Testament laments:31 ‘If you endure when you are beaten for doing wrong, what credit is that? But if you endure when you do right and suffer for it, you have God’s approval’ (1 Pet. 2.20); ‘But even if you do suffer for doing what is right, you are blessed’ (1 Pet. 3.14). Finally, in the extra-canonical literature of the early church we find the integration of all these aspects in the community’s stories of its martyrs. I will take a single example here: the account of the martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicity at the turn of the third century. The account of their martyrdom states that having refused to present offerings as part of the Roman practice of emperor worship, the young mother Perpetua, her servant, the pregnant Felicity, and their fellow catechumens are sentenced to be killed by wild beasts in the arena. Yet despite the seriousness of their situation, Perpetua writes: ‘The procurator then delivers 31 Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil, xviii: Lament can be used ‘both by those who believe their suffering to be undeserved or excessive and by those who, like Job, think themselves innocent. (The ancient Israelites felt that difference to be less than it seems to us.)’

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judgement on all of us, and condemns us to the wild beasts, and we went down cheerfully to the dungeon.’32 Here we see a direct extension of the tone set in 1 Peter towards suffering: ‘But rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed’ (1 Pet. 4.13). Not only is there express joy and dignity in the face of suffering and death – seen in the triumphal tone given to the martyrdom of the catechumens33 – they even actively seek out greater and greater opportunities for participation in suffering.34 The key here is that the martyrs expressly aligned their suffering with the sufferings of Christ: ‘Now it is I that suffer what I suffer; but then [in the arena] there will be another in me, who will suffer for me, because I also am about to suffer for Him.’35 Indeed, they ‘rejoiced that they should have incurred any one of their Lord’s passions’.36 One might (rightly) object, first, that a hagiography is a poor source for historically accurate data about the persecution and death of early Christians; and, second, that a glorious martyrdom was not unknown within earlier Jewish communities. The apocryphal literature dealing with the Maccabean revolts is certainly important here, especially in its glorification of the death of the martyrs.37 Yet the difference with the New Testament and early church literature is that ‘Jesus, by the manner of his [martyr’s] death, proves himself truly to be the Righteous One and at the same time supplies a paradigm of faith.’38 That which was exceptional and extraordinary in the Jewish context of the Maccabean Revolt has now been standardized and made into a normative aspect of the Way of Jesus Christ. To be a disciple of Christ is to be prepared for suffering and persecution

32 Following the English translation provided in Allan Menzies (ed.), Ante-Nicene Fathers, vol. 3: Latin Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, n.d.), accessed online . 33 ‘The day of their victory shone forth, and they proceeded from the prison into the amphitheatre, as if to an assembly, joyous and of brilliant countenances; if perchance shrinking, it was with joy, and not with fear. Perpetua followed with placid look, and with step and gait as a matron of Christ, beloved of God; casting down the luster of her eyes from the gaze of all. Moreover, Felicitas, rejoicing that she had safely brought forth, so that she might fight with the wild beasts; from the blood and from the midwife to the gladiator, to wash after childbirth with a second baptism.’ Ibid., . 34 ‘For when at any time they had been discoursing among themselves about their wish in respect of their martyrdom, Saturninus indeed had professed that he wished that he might be thrown to all the beasts; doubtless that he might wear a more glorious crown.’ Ibid. 35 Ibid., . 36 Ibid., . 37 Cf. e.g. 2 Macc. 6.31: ‘So in this way he died, leaving in his death an example of nobility and a memorial of courage, not only to the young but to the great body of his nation.’ Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament, 120: The Maccabean martyr’s ‘manner of death is seen to be not a disconfirmation of his righteousness or relation to God; rather, by heroically surmounting suffering and death, the martyr demonstrates the depth of his faith and the truth of his convictions’. 38 Ibid.



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– to follow in the footsteps and in the sacrificial suffering of Jesus of Nazareth. That the dignified disregard for one’s own life and death cannot be verified historically in the hagiography of Perpetua and Felicity is a critique that widely misses the point of the text: namely, that already by the end of the second century, the early church had clearly idealized this approach to suffering and persecution, holding up the lives of the saints as the normative example to be emulated by all Christians. Joyful suffering to the point of martyrdom was thus transformed into a central (though still idealized) aspect of the Christian faith: a paradigm of faith which took its direct lead from the life and death of Jesus. In short, in contrast to the Old Testament literature, the socio-cultic expectation here is one of suffering and death which subsequently turns the community away from lament. Only in this way could death (after the model of the life of Christ) then be balanced by the eschatological hope in resurrection.

Conclusion: What Type of Lament Does the Church Need Today? This chapter opened with the question as to why lament seems to have disappeared from the church today – and has argued that there are historical and theological reasons for this development. While the question itself is misleading (in that it seems to take the western first world churches as its assumed basis39), I have attempted to show that the theological move away from lament is by no means a new phenomenon, but one which has its roots in the earliest communities of disciples and was grounded on a particular Christology which distanced itself from the expectations of the earlier and broader Jewish cult. Is there then a form of lament which is helpful and necessary for the church community today? By understanding lament as a metric of differing aspects of the life of the church in various contexts this chapter has argued that such a question is difficult to answer for ‘the church’ as a whole – instead, it needs rather to be asked by each individual church community, and finally by each individual. Since life in its finitude is always threatened by destruction, annihilation, fear and suffering, and since life is so often debilitated by injustice, the lamenting cry to God (as final authority) will always have an important place. Thus if the lament of the churches connects with the destructive forces of oppression and injustice, it may then stand in a long tradition of biblical lament and align itself with the work of Christ. However, this does not provide a blanket licence which covers all suffering. As the New Testament texts have shown, the difficulty arises from

39 In this respect, it is a shame that the voices represented in this volume all stem from the dominant first world church.

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reductionistic or undifferentiated views of suffering and of the sufferer. When Crüsemann doubts ‘whether out of a theology which has finally seen lament as un-Christian … a diaconal practice might develop in which the authentic voice of those who suffer (lament being nothing other than this) is repeatedly heard and endured’,40 he falls into the trap of an undifferentiated view in which all suffering is seen as an inherently legitimate cause for lament. Despite the importance of a diaconal focus in the church, ignoring the unavoidable finitude of life and the vital sacrificial aspect inherent in the pursuit of Christian discipleship does not make diaconal praxis any more ‘Christian’ but rather distances it from its Christian roots by viewing any and all suffering as grounds for complaint against the divine. Such a move sterilizes the life and death of Christ and his disciples, disarming the power of their collective sacrifice and transforming the path of discipleship into a banality removed from all possible discomfort.41 If the churches ignore their own entanglement in structural sin, sanctify their expression in a bourgeois existence and, in denial, repress the memory that the Way of Jesus Christ is deeply linked with suffering – that there can be no resurrection without death – then they will find it difficult to offer up authentic, constructive lament; and they will always be subject to the divine challenge: do you think you have any right to be angry?

40 Crüsemann, ‘Das Alte Testament als Grundlage der Diakonie’, 70 (emphasis added). 41 One of the great services Dietrich Bonhoeffer provided was in his push against this banalization of the Christian life – to refocus the praxis of faith upon sacrificial discipleship which occurs outside of one’s own ‘comfort zone’ and which is distanced from incessant complaint. This is expressed well in the words of his New Year’s Hymn for 1945: ‘And when the cup you give is filled to brimming with bitter suffering, hard to understand, we take it gladly, trusting though with trembling, out of so good and so beloved a hand’ (trans. Fred Pratt Green).

Chapter 11

Augustine’s Incitement to Lament, from the Enarrationes in Psalmos Brian Brock

On first glance it appears that Augustine has little interest in lamentation.1 In reading the biblical book of Lamentations, Augustine’s only interest is in demonstrating the author’s foreknowledge of Christ.2 Though the complications introduced by Augustine’s search for Christological foretellings might be sympathetically interpreted in various ways, they tell us nothing of the biblical concept of lamentation itself. To further complicate matters, Augustine makes no special comment at the various places in the canon where examples of lament are explicitly mentioned,3 and refers to New Testament uses of the term ‘lamentation’ with extreme rarity.4 From this perspective it appears that Augustine is simply not interested in lament as a theological topic. This proves a misleading first impression. Lament does play a significant and conceptually well-developed role in his theology. It is in his Christological engagement with the Psalms that Augustine is driven to reflect on the phenomenon of lamentation. This exploration is instructive for contemporary theology because Augustine refuses to talk about human lamentation in abstraction from Christ while deeply engaged in analysis of the human phenomenon of lament. In this 1 In his entire corpus, Augustine quotes directly from the book of Lamentations less than five times, exclusively from chapters 3 and 4, and these quotations are of such a generic nature that it is sometimes not clear if they come from Lamentations or elsewhere. Cf. Confessions 10.37.60 which could be either Lam. 3.48 or Ps. 119.136. 2 The City of God, 18.33. Here, not only does Augustine take just one verse (4.20) from Lamentations to prove that Jeremiah was writing of Christ, he also attributes the Book of Baruch to Jeremiah’s pen. 3 For example, Gen. 50.10; 1 Sam. 7.2; 2 Sam. 1.17; 2 Chron. 35.25; Isa. 3.26; 19.8; Jer. 51.15; Ezek. 27.32; Am. 8.10; Mic. 1.8; Acts 8.2; Rev. 18.9. 4 Such as Jas. 4.7 in Enarrationes in Psalmos 85.23. Throughout this chapter I will reference Augustine’s Enarrationes in Psalmos (hereafter Enarr.) using the standard reference numbers, which refer to the Vulgate numbering of the Psalter and the sections of the exposition, though in the main text I will use the English verse notation of the psalm verses that Augustine discusses. All quotations are from Expositions of the Psalms, in six volumes, The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, vols 15–20 (John Rotelle, ed., Maria Boulding, trans., New York: New City Press, 2000–2004), and Corpus Christianorum: Series Latina vols. XXXVIII–XL (Eligius Dekkers and Jean Fraipont, eds, Turnholti: Typographi Brepols Editores Pontificii, 1965).

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chapter I will survey Augustine’s usage of the concept of lamentation in his Enarrationes in Psalmos, with emphasis on the recurring thought structures that shape his account of lament. This is a relatively stable structure, which minimizes the problems presented by the complicated chronology of the Enarrationes. In overview, Augustine’s Christological reading of the Psalms seeks to discern what, precisely, is truly lamentable to Christian faith. In these sermons we see him enticing believers to a Christian practice of lament. In contrast to modern secular sensibilities in which lament is understood as protesting or bewailing the loss of bodily integrity, loved ones or possessions, Augustine suggests that the loss of these things is only the occasion for the loss that is truly lamentable: of affective attachment to Christ, of virtue and charity. Furthermore, Augustine sets this individual account within an ecclesial context. The state of the church occasions his most passionate comments on lament, and revolve around his lamenting the loss of the church’s unity. Because charity binds the members of Christ’s body to one another, when one member suffers harm, theologically defined, the whole body cries out. Augustine’s account of this cry is grounded in his understanding of the cry of dereliction from the cross. In this sense the church is one single community lamenting continually throughout space and time. It is unified only insofar as its raised voices lament with Christ, becoming a community affectively engaged with one another and the world. In the following I will proceed under four headings. First, the pedagogy and epistemology of lament; second, the hermeneutics of lament; third, the ontology and ethics of lament; and finally, a brief critical analysis and some hints about the light I think Augustine sheds on contemporary English-language approaches to the topic.

Suffering as Education and the Splendour of Virtue: The Pedagogy and Epistemology of Lament The easiest entry point into Augustine’s discussion is through his well-known distinction between uti and frui, use and enjoyment. All creation is good and its delights and pleasures are individually good, but they are not to be loved inordinately. By this Augustine means that the orienting centre of the affective attachments of redeemed humanity must always be Jesus Christ, to whom all earthly delights are referred.5 The delights of this world are desirable, but cannot bear comparison with God’s gift of God’s self. With this caveat in place, Augustine affirms the goodness of temporal, mortal material happiness.6 Because the Lord cares for human temporal needs, Christians are to make use of the things and 5 6

Enarr., 141.15. Ibid., 101 (1).1; 144.22.



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pleasures of this world only to secure eternal happiness. Those who use material goods to meet their neighbour’s need meet Christ (Mt. 24.35–36) and so exhibit the right priority of loves.7 This account of blessedness gives definition to Augustine’s understanding of virtue. People often attach themselves to things that can bring them no happiness. When these things are then lost, people lament their destitution. But the citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem weep rather with compassion for those who are caught up in loves that can never satisfy. They weep to watch people snatched away from themselves,8 and exhibit, in contrast, a detachment from earthly things: Those who are still in the womb of Babylon … know no rejoicing except that which comes to them when some temporal affair turns out well, and they are strangers to sadness except when their temporal enterprises go wrong … we know no happiness except to deserve God and to be led to the fulfilment of his promise. What do this world’s goods, or this world’s woes, mean to us? Let them be all one to us, for now that we have been taken up by God from the womb of that mother who bore us [Babylon], we can view both with detachment.9 This disjunction of inner and outer happiness is the furnace in which faith’s inner firmness is developed. Christ has set believers apart from their biological mother’s womb, and takes believers into his metaphorical womb, granting the patience and strength to endure the pain of extraction from their Babylonian captivity to the flesh. Thus far Augustine has given Paul’s glorying in his suffering in Romans 5.3–5 a conceptually crucial role. The suffering of earthly life is glorious, contends Augustine, because it fosters endurance, constancy and hope, and is a gift of divine love.10 Perhaps unsurprisingly, Augustine designates Job as the paradigm exemplar of this endurance in faith and hope. The manner in which Job endures earthly loss proves his primary concern with his eternal relationship with God.11 Augustine regularly cites Ps. 34.1 as the lesson of the story of Job and the basic criterion of human lament: We must not praise him [God] when things go well with us and curse him when they go wrong; rather we must obey the injunction of another psalm: I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall be in my mouth always. 7 Ibid., 143.18–19. 8 Ibid., 136.3–4. 9 Ibid., 138.18. 10 Ibid., 138.20. Here, as at many other points, Augustine conforms to the account of the development of Christian lament outlined in Stephen Lakkis’ chapter in this volume (chapter 10). 11 Ibid., 29 (2).7; 120.8.

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When you feel happy, acknowledge the Father who is caressing you; when you are distressed, acknowledge the Father who is chastening you. Whether through caresses or through chastisement he is educating his child, for whom he is preparing an inheritance.12 For Augustine it is the Christian martyrs, who forfeited every possible earthly happiness for eternal happiness, who continue to exemplify this ethos.13 We can now give a preliminary account of Augustine’s definition of lament. Lament is a modality of human affect directed to God, and anchored in eschatological hope. When we are happy we sing, when we lament, we pray. Lament for the things of the present, sing of what is to come in the future. Pray about what already is, sing about what you hope for. [In psallendo exsultatio, in orando gemitus. Geme de praesentibus, psalle de futuris; ora de re, psalle de spe.]14 Lament is the expression of the pains of awaiting the eschaton. Augustine by no means disparages earthly grief, but insists that lament is the roaring and sighing of those awaiting Christ’s eschatological consummation. I am not speaking of the grief experienced by certain people for whom I feel very sorry. Plenty of people there are who do grieve, and I grieve too, but I lament because they lament for the wrong reasons. Someone who has lost a coin laments, but he or she raises no lament over the loss of faith. I weigh the coin against the faith, and my grief is keener over a person who grieves for the wrong reasons or does not grieve at all. … He has acquired some money and lost integrity. Anyone who understands what we ought to grieve laments this loss; anyone who is close to the head and genuinely united with the body of Christ mourns over it.15 Augustine is not suggesting that believers are immune from the carnal loves that destroy humanity; indeed, his aim is to remake their perception and to urge the compliance of their will, their humble submission to Christ.16 Because the epistemologies with which moderns are most familiar emphasize will and cognition, we must notice that Augustine follows the ancient practice of conceiving human action as primarily growing from desire or love, the affective part of the human. Knowledge is always affective in its roots, while at the same 12 13 14 15 16

Ibid., 54.2, cf. 93.19; 144.4. Ibid., 120.13. Ibid., 29 (2).16. Ibid., 101 (1).6. Ibid., 102.5–6.



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time being thoroughly cognitive in its form and objects.17 Human action is an expression of the attractive force of our desires and loves. However, this force is not, as in romanticism, the opposite of cognition, but penetrated with cognitive content. For Augustine, lament, as a form of prayer, is in the first instance an affective attachment, but one that is always already formed by the intellect, memory and will.18 Affect then moves all things. Whatever moves is driven by divinely ordered desire, from plants seeking the sun to oil moving up to float on water. Only humans violate this rule by desiring that which destroys them. The subject of lament is the realization of our attachment to earthly things, or of our temptations or fears about them. It is through these temptations, fears and attachments that humans are led away from God.19 The church can be characterized as that humanity being implanted with the rightly ordered desire that strains heavenward and so pulls humans upright.20 As I will show below, this is primarily an account of the activity of human rather than divine agents. The Christ who draws humanity has a different mode of action than the humanity so drawn. Here Augustine is trying primarily to explicate the patience and endurance of the Christian in biblical terms. He wants to affirm the worth of endurance in suffering as a divine gift to be gloried in (Rom. 5.5). To illustrate this point he regularly refers his hearers to the example set by the serene self-possession of the Johanine Christ.21 Because they are drawn to Christ, believers are citizens of heaven, appearing like stars in this world (Phil. 2.16). Their affections are leant steadiness by being attached to Christ, who is beyond the vagaries of temporality. The stars in the sky above us [e.g., the creatures exhibiting perfect creaturely motion] never deviate, but track their heavenly ways as their creator has determined and appointed for them; and the saints must do likewise if their hearts are fixed in heaven, if they hear to good purpose the invitation ‘Lift up your hearts!’ and act on it, if they imitate him who testified, Our citizenship is in heaven (Phil. 3.20). They live in heavenly realities, and keep their minds on heavenly realities, according to the gospel saying, Where your treasure is, your heart will be too (Mt. 6.21), and in the strength of this meditation on the things of heaven they grow in patience.22

17 Oliver O’Donovan, Common Objects of Love: Moral Reflection and the Shaping of Community (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 11, 16. 18 Enarr., 141.2; cf. 85.8. 19 Ibid., 54.6; 141.4, 14. 20 Ibid., 29 (2).10. 21 Ibid., 138.20–21; 68 (1).12. 22 Ibid., 93.5.

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To fail to forbear persecution, or to be unhinged by suffering, or to sin from the desire for earthly gain is to lose this motion, to ‘fall out of heaven’. We can now see how Augustine’s account of right human action unites a conviction about the divine order of creation with an aim to evoke a specific form of life. The blessed learn of Christ by meditating day and night on the scriptures (Ps. 1.2), through them having their affections drawn beyond the vicissitudes of this life. When they do so meditate, they shed Christ’s light in a world buffeted by attachment to fleeting goods.23 Augustine inherits his pedagogical account of suffering from St Paul, namely 2 Cor. 4.17–18 and Rom. 8.18, which he regularly cites in relation to earthly suffering.24 Christians ought to rejoice in adversity, as chastisement proves God’s continuing concern and commitment to purifying the church and believers.25 This is the sharp end of Augustine’s distinction between earthly and eternal happiness. Earthly loss or persecution is rightly an occasion for sadness, but this can and ought to be tinged with the hopeful awareness of faith that such events are essentially purgative. Augustine calls this a hard lesson because all Christians want to grow in grace, but when the time comes, attachment to earthly things is hard to relinquish. Inability to distance one’s self from these travails is therefore lamentable in hindering conformity to Christ.26 Christians’ time on this earth is short, and they do not lack for consolation: the task of faith is to rejoice in Christ, his word and his law, not allowing prosperity to corrupt them or adversity to crush them.27 As the example of Job so clearly shows, to affirm that we are being educated by suffering is not the same thing as implying we are being punished for our sins. The Christian’s suffering may well serve the education of others,28 and Augustine unambiguously affirms that the church’s suffering under heretical schisms educates the church about its own inheritance (citing 1 Cor. 11.19).29 For Augustine, lament is the Christian form that shapes the affective eruption engendered by suffering. Augustine would be surprised at modern suggestions that the role of lament is reduced in the New Testament, as he finds it at the heart of the Sermon on the Mount. O my people, those who call you happy are leading you into error and confusing your steps (Isa. 3.12). You hear the same message from the Letter of the apostle James: Be wretched and mourn, let your laughter be turned into 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Ibid., 93.6, 29. Cf. ibid., 48 (2).9; 93.23–24. Ibid., 21 (2).4–5; 93.17. Ibid., 48 (2).10. Ibid., 93.24. Ibid., 68 (2).3. Ibid., 54.22.



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lamentation (Jas. 4.9) … You have freed my eyes from tears, and my feet from slippery places; I will find favour with the Lord in the land of the living (Ps. 116.8–9). This is the land of the dead. The land of the dead passes away, but the land of the living will come. In the land of the dead there is labour, pain, fear distress, temptation, groaning and sighs; here are people falsely happy but truly unhappy, because false happiness is real misery. To recognize truthfully that one is in real misery is to ensure real happiness later; yet because you are at present miserable, listen to the Lord’s words, Blessed are those who mourn (Mt. 5.4). Yes, that is what he says, Blessed are those who mourn!30 Tears are the ‘food’ of the faithful because they express the strength of desire for God beyond all earthly loves.31 Such tears purge human attachments to the earthly realities that we take for God so that ‘there is nothing left for me to touch, except for God; from there he draws, from there he looks down upon me, from there he governs me and takes thought for me, from there he arouses me, calls me, guides me and leads me on, and from there he will lead me to journey’s end’.32 The affective eruption is not itself lament, and can be criticized by the lament-forms provided in scripture. As I will discuss in more detail in the next section, the Psalter is especially suited to reorienting human affections towards the heavenly Christ, and so functions in a special role in teaching the transition from grief into a new hope and from a new hope to a Christoformed lament. The Psalms remind believers that tribulation is the human condition, and so protect them from becoming complacently attached to the things of this world (including other humans) as ends in themselves.33 Here again Augustine is thoroughly Pauline. Sadness about earthly things simply does not have the same existential weight as joy. Our sadness has an ‘as if’ prefixed to it, but there is no ‘as if’ quality about our joy, because it springs from a certain hope. Why is an ‘as if’ attached to our sadness? Because it will fade away like a dream, and the righteous will have dominion in the morning (Ps. 94.14) … Seeming like people who have nothing (this state of seeming to have nothing was the apostle’s experience of the ‘as if’), we possess all things (2 Cor. 6.10). No ‘as if’ to that last statement, you see. He was ‘as if’ poor, but he truly did bring riches to many; there was no ‘as if’ about that. … How did he truly possess all things? By clinging to the Creator of all things. God will indeed save my soul from the grasp of hell, when he takes up my cause (Ps. 49.15).34 30 31 32 33 34

Ibid., 85.23. Ibid., 41.6. Ibid., 41.8. Ibid., 68 (1).1. Ibid., 48 (2).5, cf., 29 (2).7.

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Augustine understands such a redirection of affection to be both possible and a gift of God. His interest throughout is in teaching his congregants properly to see and so to love that charity and patience that can only be learned in adversity. He takes great pains to entice his congregation to love the beauty of righteousness above all things. Again the martyrs (along with the aged) are paradigmatic exemplars of this beauty. They serve a heuristic role by revealing an aspect of human character as rare as it is beautiful. I repeat, the eye with the capacity to appreciate the beauty of righteousness is within you. If there were no beauty in righteousness, how could we love a righteous old man? What bodily charms has he to offer that could delight our eyes? All he has is a bent back, a wrinkled face, white hair, weakness, and bodily complaints throughout his frame. Nothing to please your eyes in this worn-out old man, then. But perhaps there is something to delight your ears? His speaking voice? His singing? What are they like? Even if he did sing well as a boy, all such talent has fallen away with age. Is even the sound of his speech pleasant to your ears, when he can scarcely get his words out, having lost his teeth? Yet all the same, if he is a righteous man, if he does not covet other people’s property, if from his own possessions he is generous to the needy, if he gives good advice and is a man of sound judgement and honest faith, if he is prepared to sacrifice even shattered limbs in defence of the truth (for many martyrs were elderly) – then, isn’t that why we love him? What good do our carnal eyes find in him? None at all. This proves that righteousness has a beauty of its own, which we perceive with the eyes of the heart, and love, and kindle to, a beauty which people have dearly loved in the martyrs, even when their limbs were being torn by wild beasts.35 The winsomeness of this portrayal is rhetorically charged because Augustine is trying to forge an affective attachment to virtue in his hearers. If virtue is loved as a gift of God, a hunger and thirst for God is kindled in this life that is the sole satisfaction of human desire. Here Augustine’s epistemology is especially interesting. He seeks to teach his congregation to lament, and gives a Christological reason for seeking examples of patience in adversity in the church. ‘For he who has his most lofty home in a secret place also has a tent on earth. His tent is the Church, the Church which is still a pilgrim; yet he is to be sought there, because in this tent we find the way that leads to his home.’36 This tent is ‘merely’ a tent, a temporary dwelling for God, but it is a genuine dwelling of Christ, and therefore we can expect to see his handiwork there. In this theatre faith can see the divine fabrication of human virtue. 35 Ibid., 64.8. 36 Ibid., 41.9.

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The faithful are God’s tent on earth; and in them I admire the obedience of their bodily parts … I marvel at bodily members enlisted for action under the soul that serves God. Moreover I watch the soul obeying God, organizing its activities, restraining its wayward desires, banishing ignorance, stretching out to endure all that is harsh and testing, and exercising justice and kindness toward other people.37 The psalmists teach that to look at God’s people is to learn to see the dawning eschatological feast. To see the virtues of the saints is to be induced to ponder God’s works and so hear faint melodies of the eternal wedding celebration of Christ and the church. Yet, at the same time, this sight induces proper lament. It is precisely in being taught to see the beauty of virtue that faith perceives with new clarity the groaning appropriate to this age. Why do so few, even (especially?) in the church, exhibit the patience and hope of faith? To ask this question is to reiterate Augustine’s alteration of the concept of lament. Rejoicing in God’s promise reveals the world as a place of dark self-absorption, as Augustine says that all believers of any seriousness will have experienced.38 We must be taught to lament: faith must undergo the pedagogy of lament. This is Augustine’s epistemology of lament, in which glimpses of the beauty of virtue heighten faith’s attachment to eschatological reality rather than illusions. This account rests on an ontology and hermeneutics of lament, and it is to the latter that we now turn.

The Psalter as Invitation to Christ’s Passion: The Hermeneutics of Lament Augustine came to develop a theologically sophisticated account of Christian prayer as he interpreted the Psalter. Christian prayer is Christologically defined, has a textual form, and aims at the reorientation of affective relations. This account of prayer, which includes lamentation, is part of his rationale for why Christians can appropriately pray the Psalms. He often makes a scriptural argument to this end. Scripture calls David a prophet, and other Old Testament prophecies point to the Messiah coming from his seed. So Christ is David’s son according to the flesh, and his Lord according to his divinity. David both represents Christ, and more importantly, is a member of his kingdom, of the totus Christus. It is this latter status that is determinative: David’s status as prophet is derivative of his status as participant in Christ’s body, and as such his words are the words of Christ. David as the implied author of the Psalms stands with us who also speak the words of 37 Ibid., 41.9. 38 Ibid., 54.3.

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Christ as provided for his body in the form of the Psalter.39 ‘Unquestionably, Christ is speaking here [in the psalm]. The challenge to us is not so much to prove this as to point out where his members are speaking, in order to show that the speaker is the whole Christ.’40 Augustine can also put this in more theoretical terms. Notice in the following how the force of the description is to urge on his hearers an identification with Christ. God could have granted no greater gift to human beings than to cause his Word, through whom he created all things, to be their head, and to fit them to him as his members. He was thus to be both Son of God and Son of Man, one God with the Father, one human being with us. The consequence is that when we speak to God in prayer we do not separate the Son from God, and when the body of the Son prays it does not separate its head from itself. The one sole saviour of his body is our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who prays for us, prays in us, and is prayed to by us. He prays for us as our priest, he prays in us as our head, and he is prayed to by us as our God. Accordingly we must recognize our voices in him, and his accents in ourselves. When something is said about the Lord Jesus Christ, particularly in prophecy, which seems to imply some lowly condition unworthy of God, we must not shrink from ascribing it to him, who did not shrink from uniting himself to us.41 Augustine often summarizes these points by reference to Acts 9.4, where Jesus completely identifies himself with the church that Paul persecutes. ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ The centrality of the totus Christus in Augustine’s Psalm exegesis is marked by the regular recurrence of this citation.42 Further examination of Augustine’s Psalm exegesis will reveal that the Israel–Jesus– church interpretive schema which serves to link and intertwine the testaments also yields a single account of the present community of faith and the authors of scripture. 39 Ibid., 54.3. 40 Ibid., 68 (1).1; cf., 68 (2).1. 41 Ibid., 85.1. Augustine is well aware that not all the psalms are ‘of David’, but would apply the similar arguments to the other canonical authors. 42 Cf. Ibid., 26.11; 30.3; 32.2; 34.1; 37.6; 39.5; 44.20; 52.1; 54.3; 55.3; 67.25; 67.36; 69.3; 75.14; 86.3; 87.15; 88.3; 90.5; 90.9; 91.11; 140.3. By introducing the totus Christus as a central idea here I intend to stress its importance as one reviewer suggests I did not sufficiently do in my previous treatment of Augustine’s reading of the Psalms (see Jason Byassee, Singing the Ethos of God: On the Place of Christian Ethics in Scripture, Studies in Christian Ethics 21.3 [December 2008], 434–438). The main difference between our accounts of the totus Christus regards the register in which the concept is interpreted. He opts for a version of mystical union, I for performative union (see Jason Byassee, Praise Seeking Understanding: Reading the Psalms with Augustine [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007] ).



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The times in the gospels where Jesus appears to be expressing weakness, as he does in the prayer of Gethsemane (Mt. 26.39) and the dereliction on the cross (Mt. 27.46//Mk 15.34) orient Augustine’s understanding of lament in the Psalms. There is a truly united and reciprocal relationship of speech between Christ and his body. Believers can take on Christ’s words of divinity as he has borne the cries of human frailty before the Father.43 This is not to imply that he was above all human weakness, but to affirm that he can assume our lament; ‘just as he freely took on real flesh so he freely took on real sadness’.44 He has done this to destroy the fear of death, consciousness of sin, and the dread of judgement.45 Augustine is careful to stipulate that though the head and the body are one person, one perfect man growing towards fullness and speaking as one, ‘the Word and flesh do not share one nature’.46 The Psalter is not a warrant for believers to claim divinity, but is a promise that their prayer will be heard. The written words of the Psalter set believers’ affections in the heavenly Christ, so that they are not wrenched loose by earthly buffeting.47 This account seems more determined by scripture and the demands of the moral life than a substance ontology; Christ in his glorious state sings and in his humbled state laments, so that in him the city of God may both hope and lament, both prefiguring and taking humanity into himself.48 Notice how apparent inconsistencies in the ontology here produce an entirely consistent account of lament: ‘We are suffering willingly – at least patiently – because there is no other way for us to make our Passover [Pascha] and cleave to Christ.’49 ‘Our’ passion is undergone in the processes of detachment from this world, which Augustine expressly links to the concept of clinging to Christ. This eschatological reorientation of human suffering in Christ is like the suffering of the formerly barren Sarah in childbirth, a suffering overwhelmed by joy. ‘He has lifted us up to a mighty hope, and in that mighty hope we are groaning. Groaning implies sadness, but there is a kind of sadness that also has room for joy.’50 The task of faith is therefore to learn to hear itself in the psalms of lament that invite all to join the prayer of the Son to the Father: ‘If we perceive ourselves to be outside them, let us do our best to be within.’51 In listening to the things Christ laments, as learned from the Psalter, faith discovers its proper form and the will is trained. Confidence in prayer is tied not to our performance, but to the work of Christ carrying our lament before the Father.52 At the same time, because God only 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Enarr., 93.19. Ibid., 93.19; cf. 29 (2).1. Ibid., 29 (1).12 Ibid., 101 (1).2. Emphasis mine. Cf. 39.28. Ibid., 93.5–6, 19. Ibid., 29 (2).21–22. Ibid., 68 (1).3. Ibid., 101 (1).2. Ibid., 101 (1).2. Ibid., 93.18.

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answers prayer for our good and his purposes, Christ’s unanswered prayer from the cross reminds Christians that as he was loved but not immediately answered, so too may they be. Augustine urges his congregation to have the psalmist’s confidence that the eyes of the Lord are upon them and they are heard.53 The emphasis of the cry of dereliction as a hermeneutic of the psalms of lament places the church’s participation in the passion in the conceptual foreground. This bolsters Augustine’s claim that for Christian faith mortal life is properly one of continuous lament because in this time between the times that for which Christ suffers has not yet been finally routed. The Psalter serves to transmit Christ’s passion in order that it can transform believers’ suffering by claiming humans for Christ’s suffering pilgrimage through the world. Thus, he concludes, ‘By listening, understanding and groaning with the Psalm let us be changed.’54 The remembrance of the Lord’s passion is something that must be performed in order to transform us. We truly remember it by joining Christ’s lament in his passion, letting it claim and reconfigure our desiring love.55 Again, to join Christ’s lament is not to act sad, but with clear countenance and the joy of the resurrection, to be repelled by all that wars against it.56 The Psalms serve human transfiguration by bringing human perception and affections into alignment with Christ, giving cause for the confidence that the prayers of the faithful are heard by the Father. The transformation of humanity is accomplished in individuals being made participants of the resurrected Christ’s passion. This leads us deeper into Augustine’s account of the mechanics of this transformation.

Christ’s Lament on the Cross: The Ontology and Ethics of Lament This construal of lament orbits around a soteriologically and ethically charged account of Christ’s sorrow on the cross. Augustine reads the Psalms to suggest that in his passion Christ’s true sorrow was that those who grieved for him did so for carnal reasons. They did not, perhaps could not, see that he was to be resurrected,57 and so they lamented (wrongly) his physical suffering and loss of earthly life on the cross.

53 54 55 56 57

Ibid.,21 (2).5–6; 39.2. Ibid., 68 (1).2 Ibid., 21 (2).1, 3, 6, 8; 39.5. Ibid., 91.5. Ibid., 68 (1).19.

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Their pity would have been better spent on those blind people who killed their physician, on the wildly delirious patients who attacked the one who had come to bring them health. He willed to cure them, but they thrashed about savagely; and this was the source of sorrow to the doctor. Now ask yourselves, whether he found any companion to share this sorrow of his. The psalm does not say, ‘I looked for someone to grieve, but there was no one’; it says, For someone to grieve together with me (that is, someone to grieve for the same reason that I grieve myself), and I found no one. (Ps. 69.20).58 Because Christ’s body is one person, this one lament of Christ in his passion is, properly speaking, the one lament of Christ’s body in all times and places. This great relay of crying out against the crucifying of Christ inside and outside the believer’s being also includes all the cries of purgation and persecution of Christ. Have mercy on me, Lord, for I have cried to you all day long (Ps. 96.3). Not just on one day; all day long must be understood as throughout time. From the day when Christ’s body began to groan in the wine press, until the end of the world when the pressures have passed away, this one person groans and cries out to God, and we, each of us in our measure, add our own contribution to the clamour of the whole body. …One single person spans the ages to the end of time, and it is still the members of Christ who go on crying out, though some of them are already at rest in him, others are raising their cry now, others will cry out when we have gone to rest, and others again after them. God hears the voice of Christ’s entire body saying, I have cried to you all day long. But our head is at the Father’s right hand to intercede for us; some of his members he welcomes, others he chastises, others he is cleansing, others he consoles, others he is creating, others calling, others recalling, others correcting, others reinstating.59 This body in which joy is tinged with lament is God’s tent, but the psalmist asks something more, to live in the house of the Lord (Ps. 27.4). That house is Christ himself, in his pure radiance. Whereas in his passion Christ laments human resistance against him, in heaven believers share in Christ’s own joy at his transformed body.60 There no works of mercy will be necessary because there will be no misery to be soothed, and so faith’s love may wholly devote itself to enjoying its object.61 The hope for this end is the first fruits of the Spirit, marking 58 59 60 61

Ibid., 68 (2).5. Ibid., 85.5; cf. 54.13. Ibid., 26 (2).6–8. Ibid., 48 (2).5; 85.23.

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those not entirely sunk in earthly cares by initiating the lament that transforms.62 Lament transforms believers by reorienting their prayers so that they conform to Christ rather than trying to manipulate him for earthly gain. ‘Be sure to invoke the Lord with praise; do not suppose that he is like you, and if you avoid that, you may become like him.’63 The ethical implications of this understanding of lament are encapsulated in this ‘become like him’. We have seen the purgative side of this exhortation, that Christian faith is to lament what Christ laments. But Augustine is equally if not more concerned with its positive claim: that we are to love as Christ loved. This is to transform lament into a fundamentally social activity. The paradigm of full and mature faith is the apostles, who understand scripture and can preach it. They are the ‘bones’ of the body because they support and stiffen its more fleshly parts. Here Augustine the experienced pastor speaks almost biographically; the fervour and perseverance of pastoral activity is directly proportional to one’s love of Christ’s body. If any member is scandalized and imperilled in spirit, the bone is roasted (Ps. 102.3) with an intensity in proportion to its love … let charity prevail, and then, if it is true that whenever one member suffers, another suffers in sympathy, how fiercely must the bones be heated – the bones that support the whole bodily frame?64 It is this suffering that generates the lament of the righteous, and therefore Augustine can make the bold claim that, as the body is made up of the strong and weak, and is supported by the strong (Rom. 15.1), so too is it held together in this righteous lament.65 It may look to the outside observer that all goes well with those devoted to life in Christ, but this is because the joy of faith does not ostentatiously display the anguish of love for the body. [W]hat does it mean, to live this devoted life in Christ? It means that you must in your heart of hearts experience the anguish the apostle felt: Is anyone weak, and I am not weak too? Is anyone tripped up, without my being afire with indignation? (2 Cor. 11.29). The weaknesses of others, the stumbling-blocks set in other people’s paths – these were the persecutions Paul suffered.66

62 63 64 65 66

Ibid., 39.2; 41.10–11. Ibid., 39.4. Ibid., 101 (1).4. Ibid., 101 (1).6. Ibid., 54.8.



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The amplitude of Christian lament is a function of its love for Christ and his body and so is an indicator of the depth of the believer’s identification with Christ.67 Augustine’s axiom is that because God is love (1 Jn. 4.16), to rejoice in God is to rejoice in charity.68 Rejoicing, again, is an affective term; it is a unity in affective engagement that defines the society of the church (as it does all societies).69 ‘Do you not understand that it is charity that makes us one in Christ? Charity cries out from our hearts, and charity cries out from Christ on our behalf.’70 Because this affective bond is the essence of the church, ‘the heretics have been able to tear apart the sacraments for their own use, but love they could not tear’.71 It is by sharing this love that believers participate in Christ, a love that is simultaneously a love for his body and a unity of fear and praise of him.72 Stated conversely, heresy is not first a doctrinal category, but a judgement about people’s defection from the love of unity. The unity of the church is primarily a quality of action of being possessed by Christ’s love. Christ suffers the rending of the church by heresy, yet preserves its essential unity in those who hold it dear, caring for and tending it (Eph. 2).73 Augustine is fond of referring to the image of the great haul of fish at this juncture: true Christian faith does not tear apart the net of unity to separate the bad from the good in the faith that God will make this separation in the end (Mt. 3.12; 13.29).74 What Augustine most strenuously objects to in the Donatists is not their beliefs about the priesthood or even rebaptism, but their attempt to narrow down the number of Christians to whom they must feel any loyalty. They are treating the body of Christ as property that can be co-opted and possessed under Donatus’ name rather than Christ’s.75 The sin of the Donatists is to have violated the imperative of brotherly love to remain ‘eating the bread of unity’, rather than destroying it over a lesser moral claim. In putting his case this way Augustine agreed with the Donatists, ‘that the church must have agreement about the central practices of its way of life and must separate itself from those who do not agree’, comments Bernd Wannenwetsch. His disagreement with them is his protest that, ‘Any handling of moral transgression or division that does not reflect Christ’s love of unity will inevitably lead to moral corruption – a corruption that is all the more serious in kind if it comes (self-) deceptively wrapped in moral clothes’.76 Augustine’s strenuous resistance to 67 Ibid., 21 (2).1; 68 (1).1; 85.19. 68 Ibid., 149.4. 69 O’Donovan, Common Objects of Love, 17–28. 70 Enarr., 140.3; cf. 140.2. 71 Ibid., 21 (2).19. 72 Ibid., 21 (2).24. 73 Ibid., 21 (2).2; 54.26; 101 (2).9, 12. 74 Ibid., 138.27, 31. 75 Ibid., 21 (2).26–32. 76 Wannenwetsch, Bernd, ‘Ecclesiology and Ethics’, in Gilbert Meilaender and William Werpehowski (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Theological Ethics (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2005), 70.

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Donatism is grounded in his account of righteous lament, in the sense that he understands his protest against them to be a lamentation of the destructive loss of charity by a segment of the church’s shepherds.77 It is in this connection that Augustine draws much from the enemy psalms. Those who attack Christ’s body join the mockers at his crucifixion, causing the righteous much pain. These are the bad persons whom the psalmists teach the faithful to hate, while at the same time teaching the Christian to conform to God’s love, the God who loves his enemies (Mt. 5.45). Because Christ spares his enemies, his enemies become the occasion for both lament and the believer’s growth in Christ’s patience with them. [A] ruling principle has been established for you, that you must imitate your Father by loving your enemy, for Christ commands, Love your enemies (Lk. 6.27, 35); and how are you going to get any training in observing it if you never have to put up with an enemy? So you see, he or she is doing you some good. And let the fact that God spares the wicked do you good as well; let it inspire you to show mercy… May he who has spared even you be merciful to others as well. The road to a devout life must not be barred after you have traveled along it.78 Proper lament then demands a background activity of prayer against ourselves, for example confessions of sins, so that we do not angrily counter-attack and so undermine charity. To undermine charity is suicide: ‘In his rage the enemy may kill the body, but by hating him you have killed the soul; and whereas he has killed the body of another, you have killed your own soul.’79 The psalmist teaches us to lament the assault on Christ and gives us the words to pray against our momentary anger turning into the enduring hatred that blinds and ultimately kills. This is a serious struggle of faith and the psalmist seeks death or solitude out of exhaustion from it (Ps. 55.4–5). But precisely because true love makes the neighbour part of us, the neighbour cannot be escaped. Augustine allows those struggling with enemies to seek some relief in physical distance, but never to relinquish dilectio, the divinely enabled love of deliberate choice.80 Christians cannot escape their enemies, but can only pray to the Lord for patience and respite as they forgive others (Mt. 6.14–15).81 The only thing that can be done in addition is pray for one’s enemy, that they be visited by the blessing of Babel – that their prideful ‘unity’ be disturbed so that they may again be gathered into the true unity of love.82 77 Enarr., 41.18. 78 Ibid., 54.4. 79 Ibid., 54.7. 80 Ibid., 54.8. For discussion of Augustine’s usages of the various terms for love see Oliver O’Donovan, The Problem of Self-love in St. Augustine (New Haven: Yale UP, 1980), 29. 81 Enarr., 54.14. 82 Ibid., 54.11; 68 (1).17.



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This life of prayerful lament yields a threefold ethical reorientation of the believer. First, by drawing them into Christ, lament brings humans to themselves. The Psalter allows believers to ‘dwell in heaven’ by leading them out of the abyss of futile desires and into a new unity and self-knowledge in Christ. Here in his appreciation of the way the many voices inside distract us from prayer, Augustine approaches Nietzsche’s affirmation of humans as unknown, as hidden to themselves and torn by conflicting desires.83 But humans are not hidden from God, and preaching and hearing are the ecclesial activities that allow the deep things of God to co-opt the believer’s depths in ways that are too complex for either preacher or congregant to control.84 Preaching scripture and the performance of the psalms are divine gifts inviting believers, supporting and challenging the fleshiness of the body, and confronting and taming the individual’s primal hatred and violence.85 Christ inflames hearts and provides the scriptures so that humans can pray from the depths of temptation in hope, avoiding becoming spiritually stuck in the mire of our sins.86 Second, godly lament orients faith’s response to suffering. Lament teaches Christians, as does the example of Job, to ask if others’ hatred against them is undeserved. Suffering is praiseworthy and upbuilding if it participates with Christ, and if, in facing unjustified hatred, believers find comfort in recognizing their voice in Christ’s.87 In pointing to the example of Job and the martyrs Augustine seems to suggest that physical suffering is only intelligible as an artefact of some personal agency, whether it be the world against Christ or divine chastisement, allowing no place for ‘accidental’ suffering. Again like Job, in Christian lament faith experiences the precise value of human comforters. ‘By all means let my brother or sister comfort me by sharing my sadness; let us groan together, weep together, pray together and wait together, but for whom? For the Lord.’88 In addition, scripture gives hope in suggesting that the proper response to suffering is, first, to tell of the beauty of virtue in the suffering, second, to proclaim the victory of Christ over death, and at the zenith of prayer, to pray with confidence and love that Christ who intercedes for us will hear us.89 Third and finally, the lament of Christian faith orients Christian mission. The years of human life that have substance are those living out the unity of love for Christ’s body and in it the world. Thus, ‘for the sake of those years it is worth finding ways to answer the profligate, to win over the erring, and to rescue the lost; for to those years must our longing be directed’.90 Time and time again 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90

Ibid., 102.6. Compare Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, 200. Ibid., 41.13. Ibid., 64.11. Ibid., 68 (1).19. Ibid., 68 (1).9. Ibid., 39.2. Ibid., 54.18. Ibid., 101 (2).12.

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Augustine preaches on the psalms to share his eagerness for God, to try to induce the affective attachment to others that orients and motivates Christian outreach to non-believers and engaged pastoral teaching.91

Augustinian Lament in Contemporary Perspective In this final section I will sketch the outlines of an assessment of Augustine’s definition of lament, highlighting its distinctive features by comparing it with one representative contemporary English-language account. In formal and methodological terms, Augustine’s questioning of the modern priority of will and cognition in epistemology seems more in tune with the experience of lament as primarily tied to the affective human response to unpleasant events. Augustine’s theory is therefore superior to theologies that tie faith too single-mindedly to cognitive or rational affirmations. At the same time, his account of affect is set firmly within an account of reality that limits and judges affective attachment in ways modern romantic accounts usually do not. Augustine is instructive in a modern context in reminding us of the conceptual and phenomenological richness of lament often obscured by early Enlightenment (Neuzeit) conceptualities that remain highly influential, especially in an AngloAmerican context. Materially, Augustine’s connection of the biblical songs of lament with the prayer of Gethsemane and the cry of dereliction as well as the suffering of Job and the witness of the Christian martyrs properly directs Christian theology to the central biblical texts and doctrines that any theologically sophisticated account of lament must address. In addition, Augustine is right to stress that lament must be learned, as a form that shapes the expression of affective outbursts. Such a form gives shape to subjects by attaching them to new aspects of reality, preparing them for different initial or ‘immediate’ affective reactions to subsequent suffering. By insisting that a Christian judgement about the things that are truly lamentable be framed as an issue of seeking to be included in Christ’s lament, Augustine remains instructive for a contemporary systematic theology of lament. The conceptual mechanics Augustine deploys to accomplish this goal may well need to be revised, especially his use of the polarity between time as ephemeral and the eternal as permanent, with its Platonic conceptual overtones and its tendency towards a Stoic ethic. The Christian church certainly would not have emerged without pastors for whom lament was primarily for others, set within an essentially social matrix as it is in the biblical book of Lamentations.92 This is an aspect of theologies of 91 Ibid., 41.2. 92 Here Augustine’s interest parallels the emphases of Jonas Bauer (chapter 2) and Stephen Lakkis (chapter 10) in this volume.



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lament especially obvious in its absence in current English-speaking discussion. Yet this insight certainly does not exhaust the full depth of (biblical) lament, and requires the broadening of our account of lament suggested by this volume. The most radical implication of Augustine’s account is its thoroughgoing reconfiguration of the individual as a social being because a desiring being. Love makes the ‘other’, supremely Christ, one of us, as Christ has made us part of himself. Christ’s example makes this love due even one’s enemy. The self is thus constituted outside oneself first in Christ and therefore, in a formed way, by attachment to the neighbour. This external constitution fuels and orients human activity. In stressing that lament entails affective attachment to Christ, his body and the world Christ loves, Augustine makes an enduring contribution to a Christian theology of lament, not least by demanding that it be conceived in fundamentally social and redemptive terms. Yet the criticisms I have suggested call for quite different contemporary responses to the complex theological considerations that Augustine rightly exposes to view. One of his most important systematic insights is that, however we wish to define it conceptually, an adequate account of Christian lament demands that Christ be present in immanent affairs and that he transcend them. Without him being ‘above it all’ Christian patience loses its addressee. Allen Verhey’s account of lament is both typical of English-speaking theological literature on medical ethics and illustrates the theological gain of Augustine’s Christology. 93 He introduces lament first to invite medical practitioners and pastoral carers to take the expressions of sufferers more seriously than the medical model typically allows. His second is to limit the scope of actions that may legitimately be labelled ‘compassionate’, and here Verhey cites the case of a parent who murdered a disabled twelve-year-old child to ‘end their suffering’. Verhey is quite correct to see both tasks as crucial within contemporary medical ethics discussions framed as exercises in ‘problem solving’. It is therefore disappointing that Verhey’s Christology undermines his attempt to reintroduce a life-giving lament into this context. With his focus on medical ethics, it is perhaps unsurprising that Verhey suggests that suffering is easy to define, but hard to recognize. He defines suffering as the breakdown of one’s self-perception, and thus understands it as structurally an individual affair that sometimes becomes shared or common.94 This psychologized and individualist account of suffering consists in identification with and alienation from the body, isolation from social existence and the loss of the ability to express one’s experience.95 This last deficit, the inability of the sufferer to express their pain and so to absorb it into the life narrative that constitutes human identity, is 93 Allen Verhey, Reading the Bible in the Strange World of Medicine (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003). 94 Verhey, Strange World of Medicine, 105, 124, 131. 95 Ibid., 109.

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the theme of the lament of Job 3, Verhey contends, which he interprets in terms of a general anthropology. In the words of Job’s lament ‘human suffering finds a voice’,96 and in the silent listening of his friends ‘Job could struggle to discover a voice that would express his hurt and to search for a structure, a meaning, a new identity in the midst of it’.97 The same is true of a lament psalm. It ‘gives the suffering voice. And it allows [sufferers] to begin to reconstruct their identity, to hold to a meaning and a covenant that promise that the tragic reversal is not the last word’.98 The Psalms are tools for ‘digesting’ suffering so that the sufferer can reconstruct identities fragmented by pain. Having presumed the accessibility and validity of all human suffering, Verhey then uses language familiar from Augustine to suggest something quite the opposite of his intention. In lament we do not join Christ’s suffering; Christ takes up human cries of suffering. ‘The good news is that Jesus made the human cry of lament his own cry. And the good news is that God raised this Jesus up and spoke the last word over the whole suffering creation.’99 The gospels are read as expressing this understanding of human lament, and Jesus is understood as an exemplar of human compassion, the cross an example of the appropriate taking on of others’ suffering.100 The anthropocentricism and sheer physicality of this account comes clear in Verhey’s interpretation of Mt. 5.4. While Augustine glosses this beatitude as ‘blessed are they who join Christ in his mourning,’ (so tying his reflections on lament to the redemption of the cross), Verhey sees in it no more than salve for what Augustine calls earthly grief. The mourners are those whose eyes have caught a glimpse of God’s coming sovereignty and whose eyes fill with tears when they see it challenged and contradicted now by pain and suffering … There are some who are dying and some who suffer their way to a lingering death, and the mourners weep that the reign of God is still not yet … This beatitude calls us to be visionaries. It calls us to dream. We’ve got to dream of God’s good future, to imagine that the sick are healed and the suffering restored to themselves and to their communities. We’ve got to hope.101 On such a view, ‘looking heavenward’ is not a training in patience (nowhere mentioned in Verhey’s account), but is thoroughly immanent: to see the exalted Christ ‘directs our eyes back to those who suffer, and we see their weakness and 96 Ibid., 117. 97 Ibid., 119. 98 Ibid., 125. 99 Ibid., 121. 100 Ibid., 136–137. 101 Ibid., 138–139.

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vulnerability, their hurt and pain, their loneliness, in a new way, as the very image of the Lord we serve’.102 While the plea for attention to the suffering is laudable, the collapse of any sense of Christ’s transcendence of earthly suffering seems to render lamentation one more task in the project of self-reconstruction, and explicitly eschews making any offer of an immediate and joyful relativization of earthly suffering. Again, typically, this anthropocentric theology replaces Augustine’s Christological account of the Psalms with one driven by ecclesiology. Psalm 22 is inscribed ‘A Psalm of David.’ Perhaps David did not write it, but whether written by David or another, it was written to be used by others in the community, and the ‘of David’ served to authorize it. One person’s creation of a language of suffering – and a community’s authorizing it – made it possible for others to find a voice. One person’s finding a voice to express the hurt – and the community’s authorizing it – gave permission to others in the community to cry out in anguish.103 Gone is any notion of David as prophet (Psalm 22 ‘is not prophecy […] not prediction. It is lament’104), replaced by the church as a community preserving texts that allow sufferers to bring their pain to words and so reconstitute their own identities. The upshot of this construal is that though Verhey resists the underspecification of the content of the term ‘compassion’ in medical ethics, his anthropocentric definition of suffering is in principle equally underdetermined in validating any and all claims to be suffering. This is the cost of defining suffering and lament without allowing Christology to serve as criterion. In addition, suffering seems to serve no pedagogical purpose whatsoever, as lament does not include us in or conform us to Christ, and seems not even to invite his intervention in affairs at all. Most strikingly, however, Verhey seems to have no notion that lament is speech to God. It is primarily for him a method of self-help, perhaps ensured by divine promises, but not explicitly asking for divine intervention. As a result, like many modern accounts, Verhey is simply unable to see physical suffering as a place where faith is tested and comes better to know the divine person who is its object. He can therefore, unlike Augustine (and Paul), ask us to own our pain, but has no resources to relativize our perception of suffering, nor to make sense of the prayer that asks ‘let this cup pass from me’.

102 Ibid., 141–142. 103 Ibid., 133. 104 Ibid., 134.

Chapter 12

CruciFIed Praise and Resurrected Lament Eva Harasta

Why Reflect on Lament from the Perspective of Systematic Theology? It could be argued that systematic theology would do well to keep silent on the issue of lament: has not the resurrection of Christ done away with lament once and for all, transforming it into petition? In this light, lament may well appear suspect, an expression of weak faith and of God-defying disobedience, deplorably transfixed by penultimate things and so undermining trust in God and the confidence of being heard (Erhörungsgewissheit ). Yet such objections against lament prematurely dismisses the possibility of a form of lament that is commensurate with Christ. This chapter pursues an exploration of a systematic theology of lament to suggest that the coming of Christ does not suspend the promises made in the Old Testament, but instead fulfils them and opens them anew towards the future of God.1 This also includes lament, which is handed down in the Psalms as an essential aspect of Israel’s prayers. Those who lament with the Psalms have come to question YHWH and his benevolence, but they address God directly with their questioning, thus making a claim for God’s withdrawn affection.2 Moreover, eliminating lament from Israel’s prayers would diminish God’s glorification: lament and praise are interdependent elements – not necessarily in the concrete prayer of individual believers, but in the grammar of praying as presented in the Psalms. Praise and lament are entirely focused on the present situation of trust between God and the believer (as opposed to thanksgiving, which refers to past acts of God, and petition, which seeks to influence God’s acts in the future). Within the believing community, lament without praise (be it expressed elsewhere or in the very same prayer) would not be a lament addressed to YHWH, but the ‘atheist 1 In the sense of Jürgen Moltmann, Theology of Hope: On the Ground and the Implications of a Christian Eschatology (trans. James W. Leitch, New York: Harper & Row, 1967), 104, 202–203. 2 For this reason, Christoph Markschies has called the individual laments in the Psalter a ‘purposeful paradigm of trust’ (zielgerichtetes Vertrauensparadigma) (Christoph Markschies, ‘“Ich aber vertraue auf Dich, Herr!” – Vertrauensäußerungen als Grundmotiv in den Klageliedern des Einzelnen’, ZAW 103 (1991), pp. 387–398, here: 397). But Markschies views this trust as an undoubted, unbroken trust, which puts lament in danger of losing its intended purpose and of being absorbed into petition.



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howl’ for which it sometimes is mistaken. Praise without lament (expressed elsewhere) would be frivolous and self-deceptive – not a praise to God, but merely rejoicing in good luck, or a triumph of projection. What follows is an exploration of the question of how the prayer tradition of the Psalms with their grammar of praise, petition, thanksgiving and lament should be interpreted in the context of the relationship to God transformed by the work and passion of Christ.3 The objective here is to come to a Christian appreciation of lament rooted in the revelation of Christ on the cross and in his resurrection. Christian lament takes two basic forms: the lament of Christ himself on the one hand, and the lament of his believers on the other. Christ’s lament directly articulates his relationship to God and indirectly frames the believers’ relationship to God as mediated by him. Christian lament is grounded in the cross and resurrection of Christ.4 The cross reveals God’s own acceptance of lament, and the resurrection bears witness to the transformation of lament in the context of the new, eschatological reality which is brought about by the Spirit ‘already’. In the resurrection of the crucified Christ, the new, fulfilled form of lament manifests itself: if this form cannot be made plausible, any legitimacy for contemporary lament remains in doubt.

The Cross of Christ as the Cause and Key for Lament Christian lament has its source in the cross of Christ and is addressed to the crucified one. The most important aspect for the lament of believers is not the exact wording of Christ’s lament on the cross, or even whether his mind was clear enough to speak a psalm, but the substitutional significance of Christ’s suffering on the cross. On the cross, God puts himself into the locus of lament, and the believers in a relationship of blessed substitution. In becoming human, God incarnate adopts the position of the lamenter and opens to believers the locus of God’s lament, Christ’s lament directed to the Father.5 The cross as an event 3 Ps 22 and its use for interpreting the crucifixion of Jesus exemplify how biblical prayer is taken up and transformed through the work and passion of Christ. (On the inclusion of Ps. 22 into the passion of Mark, see: Bernd Janowski, Konfliktgespräche mit Gott: Eine Anthropologie der Psalmen [Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2003], 360–365.) 4 Oswald Bayer. ‘Zur Theologie der Klage’, in Martin Ebner et al. (eds), Klage (Jahrbuch für Biblische Theologie [JBTh], vol. 16, Neukirche-Vluyn: Neukirchner, 2001), 289–301, here: 289–290. Bayer sketches the significance of lament for Christology but does not elaborate on it. 5 According to Dietrich Bonhoeffer, substitution is characterized by selflessness: another is placed in one’s own stead. Christ’s selflessness puts itself into the godless’s situation of lament – and puts them in this place. Bonhoeffer’s interest in this context, of course, lies primarily with ethics, not with prayer (Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ethik, Dietrich Bonhoeffer Werke, vol. 6 (Ilse Tödt, Heinz Eduard Tödt, Ernst Feil and Clifford Green, eds, Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 2nd edn, 1998, 258). In English cf. Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works, vol. 6 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005; referred to in the following as ‘DBWE 6’), 258 (German page numbers).

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‘between God and God’6 assigns a clearly defined type of lament to believers. Here, I take up Jürgen Moltmann’s interpretation of the cross as an event in the life of God; however, he does not pursue the implications of this notion for the prayers of believers, emphasizing instead the aspect of liberation, and so primarily focusing on its ethical and political consequences.7 The transformative significance of Christ’s relationship to God for believers is based on Christ’s role as their mediator before God. But this does not have to mean, as Moltmann suggests, that believers are inducted into the ‘trinitarian situation of God’.8 With regard to their lamenting in the footsteps of Christ’s lament, it can also refer to the Holy Spirit dwelling within them and to their restored imago Dei. In order to differentiate between creator and creature, Ingolf Dalferth interprets the cross as the revelation of the true imago Dei (God identifies himself with us) and describes it as a creative act of God towards human beings.9 Christ is the true, creative image of God; by his death, he enables the believers to receive their own being as created images of God. The lament of believers is not the lament of Christ. His lament is God’s lament, the lament of God incarnate. Their lament is the lament of the justified sinner, of the sons and daughters of God. In accordance with his approach, Moltmann narrows down Christ’s lament in Ps. 22.1 (or Mk 15.34b) to the cry of ‘godforsakenness’10 and in so doing draws conclusions regarding the inner-Trinitarian significance of the cross. Whether the psalm ascribed to the crucified Jesus is the authentic form of his death lament does not concern us here. The central question here is how, on the cross, Christ brought lament into the reality of God in that he himself as God incarnate uttered a lament, and how the lament of believers has been transformed and reconstituted in his having done so. On the cross of Christ, Moltmann suggests, the Son of God dies forsaken by his Father. In the death of the Son, God the Father suffers the ‘death of his Fatherhood’.11 Thus, for Moltmann, the death of the first Trinitarian person is comprehended exclusively through his relation to Christ. To put it bluntly: if the relationship dies, the person dies. 6 Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God: The Cross of Christ as the Foundation and Criticism of Christian Theology (trans. John Bowden from the German Der gekreuzigte Gott, Christian Kaiser Verlag, Munich, 2nd edn, 1973; New York: Harper & Row, 1974), 244. 7 Ibid., 7–8. 8 Ibid., 277. 9 Ingolf U. Dalferth, Der auferweckte Gekreuzigte: Zur Grammatik der Christologie (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 46–47. 10 Moltmann (see above, n. 6), 193. In his interpretation of Jesus’ cry on the cross, he explicitly sets apart verse Ps. 22.1 from the rest of the psalm (ibid., 149). Moltmann assumes that, on the cross, Christ uttered Ps. 22.1 or an approximation of it, but he does not address the issue that this is a lament, or what effects it has on the praying of believers. 11 Moltmann (see above, n. 6), 243. Moltmann specifies the first person of the Trinity as the addressee of the psalm verse, since he interprets the cross as the original place of differentiation between the three Trinitarian persons.



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Even though the Son has been forsaken by the Father, in suffering and dying they are still united in a ‘deep community of will’.12 This community of will between Father and Son belies any suspicion of disobedience which might fall upon the lamenting Son of God.13 But the question must be asked if God’s justice is the sole point of reference for Christ’s lament: is the cross of Christ only about who ends up being right, Father or Son? Can lament only be interpreted as accusation? The community of will between Father and Son in their respective suffering and dying on the cross attests to the shared sacrifice of Father and Son for the sake of the justification of the godless. According to Moltmann, it is from this shared sacrifice that the Spirit, the justifier and giver of life, originates.14 It is the Spirit that includes believers into the events on the cross, through sacrifice and substitution. By being included in the substitution of Christ, the godless are justified. By being included in the sacrifice of Christ, the justified are set free to work for the coming of the kingdom. But Moltmann does not allow for believers to be included in the lament of Christ.15 This qualifies the act of substitution and ultimately invalidates the lament on the cross. For Moltmann, substitution regarding the situation of lament, regarding the suffering of Christ on the cross, is a one-way street: ‘There is no suffering which in this history of God is not God’s suffering; no death which has not been God’s death in the history of Golgotha.’16 God appropriates the suffering of the godless and the godforsaken, taking their burden from them. Amen! But coming to terms with Christian lament depends, crucially, on how the suffering of Christ connects with the very experience of suffering of his believers and thus transforms it, on how they are included in his suffering (2 Cor. 4.10) and protected by this inclusion into God’s love.17

12 Ibid., 243. Here, Moltmann wants to re-emphasize God’s unity in the events at the cross, which had been in danger of being overshadowed by his Trinitarian differentiation. 13 For this reason, Moltmann also characterizes Christ’s cry on the cross as a ‘legal plea’ (ibid., 150). 14 Ibid., 244. 15 Here, Moltmann is in agreement with Karl Barth, who holds forth that the duty of the believers to take up Christ’s cross means that they follow in the footsteps of Christ’s suffering, but not that they may partake in his lament (Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics, vol. IV/2 [Thomas F. Torrance, Geoffrey W. Bromiley, eds, Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1958] 680–684; referred to in the following as ‘Barth, CD IV/2’). Lament equals disobedience; it is not to be mentioned. For Barth, the question of Ps 22.1 has been resolved once and for all on the cross (though his explanation differs from Moltmann’s; Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics, vol. I/2, [Thomas F. Torrance, Geoffrey W. Bromiley, eds, Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1956], 107–108; referred to in the following as ‘Barth, CD I/2’). He offers instead: ‘strict matterof-factness’ (strenge Sachlichkeit ) (ibid., 108)! 16 Moltmann (see above n. 6), 246. 17 Paraphrasing Kazoh Kitamori (albeit without quite sharing his mysticism of pain): ‘When we are within the pain of God, we are protected.’ (Kazoh Kitamori, Theology of the Pain of God [Richmond: John Knox Press, 1965], 123, emphasis in the original). God’s love is revealed in his pain.

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What is at stake is the realization of salvation ‘before’ the eschaton. If Lament has its place in how God incarnate deals with suffering, how can it not have its place amongst those who are placed before God by him? Yet it remains offensive to claim a right to lament for the justified. Has not every reason for lament been taken from them, are their tears not wiped away by the resurrection of Christ? What business do believers have at the locus of lament in God? Whoever wants to advocate a Christian right to lament will have to reply to these objections. Without being related to the resurrection, the cross remains mute.18 In this case, the meaning of Christ’s crucifixion for us is withheld from us, the cross of Christ reduced to his individual fate, merely revealing God’s powerlessness, but not revealing God’s love. Christ’s lament on the cross then would be one and the same with the lament of creation under the conditions of sin and evil; his lament would have no transformative and creative effect on the lament of his believers. Their lament would have an addressee who is unable to intervene on their behalf. On the cross, Christ sacrifices himself for the sake of sinners (CA 4). He stands before God in their place and puts them in his place before God. God reveals himself as a Trinity on the cross of Christ because the cross and the resurrection are interdependent.19 Conversely, God’s act of power in the resurrection remains incomprehensible without a connection to Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. Without this reference to the crucified one, the identity of the resurrected one, who represents and anticipates the new creation, remains questionable, and the relevance of his exaltation is withheld from the old world.20 If this were the case, there would be no addressee for the believers’ lament. Christ’s lament on the cross would be separated from his exalted and fulfilled reality. The resurrected one would rise against the crucified one and put him in the wrong.21

18 Cf. Dalferth (see above n. 9), 44. But for Dalferth the ‘word from the cross’ (Wort vom Kreuz) merely announces the justification of the sinners; it is not directly related to prayer. In a similar vein, but with explicit reference to the aspect of lament, Oswald Bayer asks: ‘to what end should a lament, the lament of a dead man, be “proclaimed ”? Yet it is the annunciation of the Lord, ergo, the Living God.’ (Oswald Bayer, Leibliches Wort: Reformation und Neuzeit im Konflikt [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 1992], 296; emphases in the original; trans. of the quotation Martina Sitling). 19 Moltmann calls the cross ‘the place of the doctrine of the Trinity’ (Moltmann (see above n. 6), 240; on the identity of the resurrected one with the crucified one: Moltmann (see above n. 1, 200). 20 Michael Welker talks about the identity of the resurrected one with the pre-paschal Jesus while concurrently refuting the opinion that Christ’s resurrection is an awakening of the dead like in the case of Lazarus. Michael Welker, ‘Die Wirklichkeit der Auferstehung’, in Ebner (see above n. 4), pp. 311–331, here: 318. 21 Regarding cross and resurrection, Moltmann states that the despair about the condition of unfulfilment becomes all the more painful through the contrasting experience of the Eschaton (Jürgen Moltmann, Der Weg Jesu Christi: Christologie in messianischen Dimensionen [München: Chr. Kaiser, 1989], 215).



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Christ’s lament on the cross, inseparably intertwined with his praise of God as the resurrected one, thus marks the point of origin for the lament of his believers. Moreover, Christian lament is characterized by various aspects of the acts and sufferings of Christ on the cross: substitution, revelation and judgement, self-sacrifice and grace.22 The acts and sufferings of Christ, which provide believers with a place where they can commune with God, are the fundament for the believers’ lament (as well as their petition, thanksgiving and praise). But at the same time, the issue of Christian lament is embedded in the tradition of biblical prayer, which is characterised by the interrelation of praise, lament, thanksgiving and petition.23 Within this matrix of praise, lament, petition and thanksgiving, the relationship between praise and lament is of particular importance for the question of lament. Continuing the chorus of the biblical prayer tradition and grounded in the cross and the resurrection of Christ, both praise and lament are entitled to equal positions of honour. From the perspective of systematic theology, praise cannot speak at the expense of lament losing its connection to the crucified one, and lament cannot speak at the expense of praise losing sight of its addressee, the triune God. Any notion of prayer that excludes praise ignores the glory of God and the possibilities for happiness in the world; a notion of prayer that excludes lament disregards the unredeemed state of the world, the judgement of God, and his despair about the world. A triumph of praise over lament obscures God’s capacity to suffer and his acts of judgement. A triumph of lament over praise turns lament into embittered blasphemy.

Cruciform Lament The crucified Christ joins the lament of the godless, thereby transforming it. Initially, this lament is prompted by and deals with the state of godforsakenness. Christ’s act of reconciliation by substitution, however, brings about a transformation of godless lament: it is only through Christ’s mediation that the (justified) godless can address their lament to God, or rather to the triune God revealed by Jesus Christ. The godless attain grace through the selflessly loving, vicarious acts and sufferings of Christ. The Son of God betakes himself into the situation of the godless – and transforms it into an occasion for lament before God. The godless receive grace,

22 Enumerating these ‘aspects’ does not suggest that the cross can be completely explained by them, but rather is meant to establish them as points of reference. Supporting his kenotic approach, Moltmann places particular emphasis on the aspects of revelation and sacrifice. (Moltmann [see above n. 6], 243f). The aspect of judgement is emphasized by Dietrich Bonhoeffer (DBWE 6, 77f., 149f, DBWE 6, 90f, 157–159). 23 For a more detailed account cf. Eva Harasta, Lob und Bitte: Eine systematisch-theologische Untersuchung über das Gebet (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2005).

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which means that, within their state of godforsakenness, they are empowered to understand it and articulate it as an occasion for lament before God. Because the godless receive grace, their lament includes the repentant confession of sins, but beyond that it also extends to the suffering caused by evils that are not their own fault.24 In lament, these troubles are brought before God as experiences of godforsakenness and godlessness. The mediative acts and sufferings of Christ expand the circle of lamenters: no longer may Israel alone pray and lament to YHWH; now, the godless in their godforsakenness may also lay claim to the coming of God, to his presence. Christ’s deed of substitutionary mediation on the cross makes the godless person step outside of her own perspective on suffering and lets her enter into the suffering of Christ, i.e. into God’s despair about the godlessness of the world. Thus, ‘godforsakenness’ indeed turns out to be a two-way street. While secular theodicy laments (Theodizeeklagen) hold only God accountable for human godforsakenness and isolation from his mercy, the suffering of Christ opens our eyes to the fact that our own forsaking of God is to blame as well. From this perspective, the substitutional aspect of lament is linked to its revelatory aspect. The confession of sins is a legitimate part of lament, but lament extends beyond repentance. The act of substitution reveals the humility of lament with which the Father of Christ is addressed. At the locus of Christ’s lament, it becomes clear that the strength that enables him on the cross to raise his lament to God sets him apart from the godless. But at the same time, his strength, being the strength of grace, bestows onto the godless the privilege of holding God accountable for evils and for sin. In so doing it establishes Christian lament as the lament of justification. Christ’s lament emplaces the situation of lament into God’s relational reality (Beziehungswirklichkeit ):25 the crucified lamenter himself speaks as a sufferer, as the Son of God incarnate. Therefore, his lament is not substitutional in the sense that it is no longer his own lament, that it is taken away from him in order only to represent the godless. As the second person of the Trinity, he takes the place of the godless. It takes authority over creation to divest oneself of creational

24 For Stefan Ark Nitsche, the inclusion of the psalms of lament in the Evangelisches Gesangbuch represents a reduction of lament to penitence: ‘dogmatically correct, but of no avail to pastoral psychology’ (Stefan Ark Nitsche, ‘Vor der Antwort käme die Frage: Die Psalmenrezeption im Evangelischen Gesangbuch’, in Georg Steins [ed.], Schweigen wäre gotteslästerlich: Die heilende Kraft der Klage [Würzburg: Echter, 2000], 133–153, here: 141, emphasis deleted, trans. Martina Sitling). Nitsche states that to reduce lament to the confession of sins is a typically Protestant approach. Exemplary in this regard is Oswald Bayer’s interpretation of the Kyrie Prayer as the Christian form of lament par excellence (Bayer [see above n. 18], 347). Ultimately, this reduction of lament to the Kyrie prayer discounts any form of lament by innocent sufferers. Hermann Spieckermann argues from an Old Testament perspective against reducing lament to the confession of sins (Hermann Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart: Eine Theologie der Psalmen [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989], 246). 25 Moltmann (see above n. 6), 150 and 243–244.



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authority.26 Christ takes the pain of godforsaken lamenters upon himself without taking away their dignity, without dispossessing them of their experience of pain. But his lament does free them from the isolation that comes with the essential incommunicability and non-transferability of pain.27 He brings lament into God’s life, thereby attesting to the unmistakably personal and varied ways in which God cares about his believers, in other words: to the Holy Spirit dwelling within them. Christ is ‘the’ human being,28 but in the context of lament, this means he bears witness to the fact that God lets himself be touched by human individuality. The lament of Christ takes place within God himself. It provides a glimpse into God’s despair and suffering about the world and about himself. Christ involves the Father and the Spirit in the situation of the godless.29 In lament, the sacrifice of Christ thus extends to the Father and the Spirit. If that were not the case, the godless would not be truly entitled to approach God with their lament, because the actual identity of Christ with God would be in doubt: believers would not be justified. Christ’s lament is not merely a commiseration of shared suffering, but instead bears witness to his substitutional and thus redemptive suffering. His kenosis is not the suicide of God, but is human salvation. In the face of Christ’s kenotic love and the bestowal of grace, the lament of the godless turns into the lament of believers, of those who are in communion with God, those within whom the Holy Spirit ‘dwells’. It turns into the lament of justification. The position of Christ before God, in which the godless are led to justifying faith, is the locus of reconciliation. From reconciliation rises their lament of justification. The reason for this lament, for both Christ and the believers, is the limited nature of reconciliation before the dawn of the new creation. Thus, the lament of justification is connected to the lament of judgement, which originates from the condemnation of sinners through God’s judgement. Together, they form the lament of justice. But Christ’s lament is not only a lament of justice; above and beyond that, it is also a ‘lament of love,’ arising from his grief about the fallen mortal creation. This grief cannot be alleviated by the eschatological horizon which spans the passing of the old creation. The lament of love differs from the lament of justice in that it

26 The interpretation of all God’s acts as acts of creation is emphasized by Dalferth (with regard to the cross; see above n. 9), 57. 27 Kathleen D. Billmann, Daniel L. Migliore, Rachel’s Cry: Prayer of Lament and Rebirth of Hope [Cleveland: United Church Press, 1999], 123 (‘suffering both bonds and differentiates us’ – but no reference to the cross). 28 Bonhoeffer DBWE 6, 71 (DBWE 6, 258–259). Bonhoeffer does not talk about lament here, but he describes the incarnation of Christ as the ‘merciful Yes of the fellow sufferer’ towards creation. 29 Such are the effects of substitution on God’s life. Bonhoeffer’s idea of substitution, which is adopted here, states that the substitution of Christ is the fundament of altruistic responsibility and sees Christ as the altruist par excellence, but does not relate this responsibility to lament (Bonhoeffer DBWE 6, 257–258; DBWE 6, 258–259).

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does not lay claim to a withheld entitlement, but instead – love being ‘a little oblivious as to morals’30 – mourns the past by pulling it into the present communion with God.31 The lament of love arises from an experience of loss. It exposes itself to loss by candidly facing the despair of the world that has entered into the communion with God through his kenosis. The lament of love does not draw up a reckoning. It does not argue with evil but mourns the destruction caused by it. It grieves for the wreckage. The lament of love speaks with the clear voice of forgiveness and concedes a right to live even to the unrighteous – not out of arbitrariness, but because of the distinction between a person and her actions, between the sinner and the sin, which has been effected by Christ on the cross. The believers’ lament of love is a Good Friday lamenting of the Passion of Christ. It articulates their grief over the death of the Son of God and prepares the ground for Easter praise. This lament does not sentimentalize the event on the cross: it does not regard Christ’s death as his quasi-private failure, nor does it mystically-voyeuristically meditate itself into his suffering. It mirrors Christ’s mournful lament about the fallen creation in that it laments the fate of the world, which also has befallen Christ. It expresses to God that the judge’s heart is broken by the verdict he is enforcing on the cross. This is one more way in which believers are included in the lament of Christ. So far, the main thrust of the argument has been to relate the lament of believers to the lament of Christ, allowing another way of looking at the Christian understanding of lament to remain in the background. This alternative viewpoint considers lament as Christian prayer, i.e. from its position within the matrix of petition, thanksgiving, lament and praise.32

Crucified Praise and Resurrected Lament Does not the praise of God that begins with the resurrection of Christ eliminate every need and occasion for lament? If lament cannot be related to Christ’s praise of God in a constructive way, it stands on shaky ground. Within the context of Christian prayer, lament is interdependently related to petition, thanksgiving and

30 Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology (David R. Griffin and Donald W. Sherburne [eds], New York/ London: The Free Press, corrected edition, 1978), 343 (original Macmillan edition: 520–521). 31 Sally A. Brown und Patrick Miller differentiate between ‘lament’ and ‘mourning’ in order to emphasize that ‘lament’ contains an element of accusation against God. Nevertheless, they still include ‘mourning’ (the lament of love) as an aspect of lamentation (Brown/Miller [eds], Lament: Reclaiming Practices in Pulpit, Pew, and Public Square [Louisville: Westminster Press, 2007], xv–xvi). 32 The four mentioned elements – praise, lament, petition and thanksgiving – form the basis for a grammar of Christian prayer and are not intended to represent a comprehensive phenomenology of Christian prayer.



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praise and thus is influenced by them and vice versa. Without a connection to the other aspects of prayer, lament will remain underdetermined. The interdependence of praise and lament in Christian prayer represents the believers’ assertion of the unity of cross and resurrection.33 The unity of praise and lament can thus be analysed (1) with respect to the cross of Christ and (2) with respect to his resurrection. It is Christ, or more precisely Christ’s own praising and lamenting, that enables the believers to pray. Therefore, I will now reflect on the connection between Christ’s praising and lamenting and the believers’ praising and lamenting, and then proceed to discuss the relationship between the believers’ lament and their praise. With his own praising and lamenting, Christ elicits and leads the believers’ lamenting and praising. Up to this point, our investigation into the Christian definition of lament has been focused on Christ’s lament on the cross. Now our focus will shift to viewing the cross from the point of view of Christ’s resurrection; for if the cross did not leave room for praise, lament would supplant praise, and the identity of the resurrected one with the crucified one would be cast into doubt. The cross stands in the light of Christ’s resurrection: his lament on the cross takes place in order to empower praise. The judgement and the lament on the cross reveal the ambivalent reality of the old creation as a fallen world on the one hand and God’s good creation on the other. This has been addressed above in the two aspects of Christ’s lament: the lament of justice about the fallen state of creation and the lament of love about the fleeting, ephemeral goodness and beauty of creation. But the goodness of creation also gives reason to praise its creator. It is the business of praise to be a reminder of the goodness of creation and its potential for happiness even within its menaced and broken state. The resurrection of Christ gives his believers an immediate occasion for praise. The believers’ praise of the resurrection takes place simultaneously with Christ’s lament of love about the old creation in its past unredeemed state. Without this lament, the praise of new creation would be blind to the continuity of the old and new creation. The cross, too, gives the believers reason for praise, because it not only shows God’s compassion towards the unredeemed world, but beyond that also reveals the overcoming of godlessness. It does so by placing the godless before God and justifying them by the gift of grace. Christ’s cross and Christ’s lament on the cross enable believers to praise the incarnation of God, with which

33 From a New Testament perspective, Martin Ebner states: ‘Faith in the resurrection of Jesus and the hope for resurrection that goes with it is the theological fundament of lament before God.’ (Martin Ebner, ‘Klage und Auferweckungshoffnung im Neuen Testament’, in Martin Ebner et al. [eds], Klage [JBTh 16; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 2001], 72–87, here: 75). Ebner interprets the miracle stories as dramatized psalms of lament, including a dramatization of the lament about enemies (Feindklage), 81–85.

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Christ has brought about their justification.34 The incarnation of God bears witness to God’s abiding affirmation of his creation even in the abject state of sin; it thus bears witness to the overcoming of fallen creation. The praise of incarnation is a reminder of the truth of creation as revealed by Christ; its function is to announce the aspect of mercy in God’s judgement over creation. The lament of justice asks God about truth’s judging function. If it takes the form of a lament about enemies (Feindklage), the lament of justice calls on God to dispense justice on behalf of the righteous in the face of their innocent suffering; in the form of penitence, judgement’s incorruptible gaze is trained on one’s own righteousness before God. The praise of God’s truth reminds lament of the affirmative power of merciful judgement; lament reminds praise of the inescapable incorruptibility of the judging revelation of truth. Conversely, the believers’ praise of resurrection must relate itself to Christ lest it be reduced to idle eschatological speculation. In fact, its immediate connection to Christ can be found in the ‘praise of the forty days’ between resurrection and ascension. Karl Barth interprets the praise of the resurrected, but not yet exalted Christ as the revelation and realization of the identity of love of God and love of neighbour.35 But this fulfilled praise, which (according to Barth) before the resurrection is lived by Christ only,36 gives the believers’ lament of justice their horizon and their entitlement to address God the Redeemer. Believers are enabled by the Spirit of Christ to join in the praise of the forty days. The praise of the resurrected one demonstrates how the eschatological abundance of reality contrasts with the old waste and refuse of the world. Such praise is inculcated by lament, for Christ remains vulnerable to the penultimate. The ‘praise of the forty days’ is Christ’s form of the praise of resurrection he makes possible for believers. It bears witness to the realization of the hope that is being demanded by the believers’ lament of justice. The believers’ praise of incarnation refers to the truth of creation as affirmed and revealed by God. By its reference to the lament of love, it reflects the doxological aspect of the incarnation: Christ incarnate personifies a praise of creation that is not blind to creation’s fallen state but, despite this awareness, neither forgets creation’s beauty and its possibilities for happiness. Even the lamenting ‘groanings’ of the Spirit (Rom. 8.26) can be recognized in this context as an indicator of a praise of creation within God himself. The cross reveals that lament has been included into God’s relational reality; the resurrection reveals that

34 The justification itself is a direct occasion for the believers to give thanks. 35 Barth, CD I/2, 428. The order of praise before the eschaton is charity, or love of neighbour, but its identity with love of God is only revealed to the believers in the consummation. 36 Ibid., 455.



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praise has been included in God’s relational reality,37 and that it is included not as a triumph over lament, but as its equal counterpart. Thus the believers’ praise can be seen as lament shaped by Christ’s resurrection, or resurrected lament; and the believers’ lament as praise shaped by Christ’s crucifixion, or crucified praise. However, crucified praise and resurrected lament do not represent a dialectically paradox identification,38 but are only connected through the sufferings and actions of Christ. It is the identity of the crucified resurrected one, the resurrected crucified one, which entwines the believers’ praise and lament and enables the justified godless to lament, the redeemed believers to praise the same God.

Lament, Praise, Petition and Thanksgiving The final question that remains is how the interconnection of lament and praise put into effect by Christ is related to thanksgiving and petition. This is not to say that thanksgiving and petition are less important aspects of prayer just because they are developed here out of their connection with praise and lament. Rather, it is this chapter’s focus on Christian lament and its right to exist that has caused me to explore thanksgiving and petition from within the context of lament’s essential relationship to praise. At the same time I want to stress that thanksgiving and petition, in turn, cannot claim any kind of general priority over praise or lament. The plurality of prayer cannot be reduced to a ‘centre’, but rather exists in a complex matrix of praise, lament, petition and thanksgiving.39 To seek a central prayer element per se among lament, praise, petition and thanksgiving would also fail to acknowledge the situational character of prayer.40 It goes without saying 37 From this perspective, lament may seem to be particularly associated with the second person of the Trinity while praise appears to affiliate itself with the creative Spirit. Nevertheless, lament and praise will not be affixed to specific persons of the Trinity here. William Stacy Johnson pinpoints this problem in Moltmann’s interpretation, but may seem to approach Docetism when he affirms that God is present on the cross but wants to eschew speaking of God’s dying on the cross (William Stacy Johnson, ‘Jesus’ Cry, God’s Cry, and Ours’, in Brown/ Miller [eds], Lament [see n. 31], 80–94). 38 A general way of identification is suggested by Christiane de Vos’s Old Testament interpretation of lament as a glorification of God, albeit one from the depths of despair. She suggests that whoever lives also praises, even the lamenter (Christiane de Vos, Klage als Gotteslob aus der Tiefe: Der Mensch vor Gott in den individuellen Klagepsalmen [Forschungen zum Alten Testament 2. Reihe Band 11; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005], 228). 39 Contra Karl Barth, who looks for the ‘centre’ and finds it in petition (Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics, vol. III/3 [Thomas F. Torrance, Geoffrey W. Bromiley [eds], Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1960], 266–267). 40 Gerhard Ebeling emphasizes the situational nature of prayer, but prefers, in Schleiermachian fashion, the ever-present ‘basic situation’ of prayer to the concrete situation (Gerhard Ebeling, Dogmatik des christlichen Glaubens, vol. 1 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 3rd edn, 1987], 197). Thus, he reduces prayer to the attitude of prayer and discounts its considerably more individual articulation. Is not every prayer a matter of bringing one’s own particular situation before God? It is impossible to locate the interconnection of praise, lament, petition and thanksgiving in this unchanging ‘basic situation’.

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that the one fundamental situation of Christian prayer is the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ that gives believers their place before God. But this one origin reveals the individuality of God’s affection, since he includes the irreducibly individual situation of lament into his reality. Petition and thanksgiving tell of the inseparability of praise and lament as effected by Christ. The believers’ petition sheds light on the inseparability of praise and lament through the hope of resurrection; the believers’ thanksgiving illuminates it through the recalled memory of the cross. Thanksgiving calls to mind the crucifixion of Christ as an act of God upon one’s own fate, as one’s own justification. In giving thanks, believers articulate the difference between themselves and the crucified one who gives them a place before God. At the same time, the believers’ thanksgiving testifies to the ‘dwelling’ of the Spirit within them, because only the strength of the Spirit enables them to identify and accept the crucifixion as their own fate.41 But the Spirit’s pledge (2 Cor. 5:5) also draws thanksgiving into the believers’ praise of resurrection, as it shows them where God wants to go with Christ’s crucifixion. Thanksgiving enhances the believers’ praise by setting God’s past actions towards them before God. But on the other hand, praise also intensifies lament when it articulates God’s past beneficent acts and compares them to the present situation of lament. Even in the lament of love it gives thanks for the past and thus articulates the reasons why its passing causes so much pain. The lament of justice confronts God with gratitude for the justification that makes the experience of being abandoned by God all the more incomprehensible. Petition broaches the issue of Christ’s resurrection as the future of believers. From within the power of the Spirit, it speaks out of hope for redemption, drawing on God’s past actions on behalf of believers. Within lament, petition speaks of the situation of praise, i.e. of the experienced presence of God. Within the lament of justice, petition entreats God for the protection of the self and for the coming of God’s kingdom. Within the lament of love, it takes the form of intercession on behalf of others, of intercession for the community of believers, but also for creation as a whole. Petition draws the believers’ future into the praise of God. It trusts in the hope that this future will be the bliss of eschatological praise of God; from this trust it derives its right to demand actions from God. Thus lament is shown to be an essential part of Christian prayer. It embodies the situational nature of prayer in its articulation, because it cannot be prescribed in the sense of a ‘lament imperative’ (Klagegebot ). With its clear-sightedness and its seriousness, lament deepens praise because it does not envy or deface it, but instead humbly lets itself be embraced by it. Lament does not argue with praise,

41 Jean Calvin, Institutio Christianae Religionis (1559) (Corpus Reformatorum 30/ Calvini Opera 2; Braunschweig, 1864), 394 (Book III, chap. 1).



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even though it reminds praise of the fact that vulnerability has not been suspended ‘yet’. It gives dignity to petition and at the same time protects it from presumptuousness. In their lament, believers are included into the kenosis of Christ that is inseparable from his exaltation.

contributors

Jonas Bauer studied theology and psychology in Marburg (Germany) and Cambridge, Mass., USA (Harvard Divinity School). He is married with one son and has been a lecturer since 2006 at the Martin-Buber-Chair for Jewish Philosophy of Religion in Frankfurt/Main. His doctoral research is on performativity and religious communication. Brian Brock, D. Phil., is Lecturer in Moral and Practical Theology at the University of Aberdeen, Scotland. He studied in Denver, Colorado, Loma Linda, California, Oxford, and earned his D. Phil. in Christian Ethics from King’s College, London. He was Visiting Scholar in Erlangen 2003–2004 and Duke 2008–2009, and is author of Singing the Ethos of God: On the Place of Christian Ethics in the Scripture (2007). Henrike Frey-Anthes, D. Theol. (2006, University of Bonn) studied theology and assyriology in Hamburg and Jerusalem, and was Lecturer in Old Testament Studies, University of Cologne 2002–2007. Since 2008 she has been vicar in the Protestant Church of Württemberg. Her doctoral research on conceptions of demons in Ancient Israel and Judah was published as Unheilsmächte und Schutzgenien, Antiwesen und Grenzgänger (OBO 227; 2007). Eva Harasta, D. Theol., studied theology in Vienna, Jerusalem and Heidelberg. She gained her D. Theol. (2004, University of Heidelberg), with her dissertation on prayer as a dogmatic theme (Lob und Bitte, 2005). Since 2004 she has been Lecturer at the Chair for Systematic Theology and Contemporary Theological Issues, University of Bamberg, and she gained the 2007 John Templeton Award for Theological Promise. She is currently working on a habilitation project about the pluriform truth of the church in Christ. Rebekka A. Klein, D. Theol., studied theology in Halle, Zurich and Marburg, gaining her D. Theol. in 2009 (University of Zurich). Her doctoral work was on theological anthropology. She has been Lecturer in Systematic Theology/Ethics at the University of Heidelberg since 2008. Stephen Lakkis, D. Theol., is Arab-Australian Baptist, Bachelor of Theology Honours Degree (Melbourne College of Divinity) and Bachelor of Arts (University of Melbourne). After working at a theological publishing company in Melbourne



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in 2007, he completed his D. Theol. (2007, University of Heidelberg) with a dissertation on Wolfhart Pannenberg’s concept of time. He has been Assistant Professor for Systematic Theology, Taiwan Theological College and Seminary (Taipei, Taiwan) since 2008, and a Postdoctoral Fellow, Taiwan Foundation for Democracy, since 2009. Marius Timmann Mjaaland, D. Theol., has been research fellow at the Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo since 2006. He studied philosophy (MA 1999) and theology (TD 2005) in Oslo, Göttingen, Copenhagen, Heidelberg and Montpellier and was a visiting scholar in Tübingen, Chicago and Hamburg. He has been President of the European Society for Philosophy of Religion (ESPR) 2006–2008 and of the Nordic Society (NSPR) since 2007. His most recent book is Autopsia: Self, Death, and God After Kierkegaard and Derrida (2008). Markus Öhler, Prof. D. Theol., has been Associate Professor at the Institute for New Testament Studies, Faculty of Protestant Theology, University of Vienna since 2001. He received his D. Theol. (1996, University of Vienna), with a dissertation on the role of the prophet Elijah in early Christianity. His 2001 Habilitation was on Barnabas (WUNT 156, 2003). Christian Polke, D. Theol., has been Lecturer at the University of Hamburg since 2008. He studied theology, law and philosophy in Heidelberg, Berlin and Tübingen, and from 2005–2008 was Lecturer at the University of Heidelberg Theological Seminary (Department of Ethics). His 2008 D.Theol. (University of Heidelberg) thesis was on public religion and democracy: Öffentliche Religion in der Demokratie: Eine Untersuchung zur weltanschaulichen Neutralität des Staates (2009). He has been Lecturer in Systematic Theology at the University of Hamburg since 2008. Claudia Welz, D. Theol., is Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Danish National Research Foundation’s Center for Subjectivity Research at the University of Copenhagen. She studied Theology and Philosophy in Tübingen, Jerusalem, Munich and Heidelberg, and earned her D. Theol. at the Institute for Hermeneutics and Philosophy of Religion, University of Zurich, with a doctoral dissertation published as Love’s Transcendence and the Problem of Theodicy (2008). Among her recent publications is the co-edited book Despite Oneself: Subjectivity and Its Secret in Kierkegaard and Levinas (2008). She received the 2009 John Templeton Award for Theological Promise and is currently working on two research projects: Trust in Trials and Witnessing Self-Transformation: Seeing Oneself in the Mirror of Conscience.

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Martin Wendte, D. Theol., Lecturer at the Institute for Hermeneutics and InterCultural Dialogue, University of Tübingen since 2004. He received his D. Theol. (2006, University of Tübingen), with a dissertation on Hegel’s concept of divinehuman unity, which received the 2006 ‘Tübingen Faculty for Protestant Theology’s Award for the Best Dissertation Thesis of the Academic Year’. He is also a winner of the 2008 John Templeton Award for Theological Promise. Matthias D. Wüthrich, Rev. D. Theol., has been Senior Theological Affairs Officer at the Institute for Theology and Ethics of the Federation of Swiss Protestant Churches since 2006. He studied in Berne and Heidelberg, and from 2000–2006 was Research Associate at the University of Berne Theological Seminary. He has had research stays in Princeton and Münster. His 2006 D. Theol. (University of Berne) dissertation was on Karl Barth’s concept of ‘nothingness’ (das Nichtige).

BIBLICAL AND APOCRYPHAL REFERENCES

Old Testament Genesis 3.16 (LXX) 155 32.23ff. 50 50.29 50 Exodus 2.23 155 6.5f. 155 32.7ff. 50 32.15ff. 50 Leviticus 19 141 Numbers 19.16 141 Deuteronomy 24.14–15 172 26.7a 49 30.1–10 148 30.2f. 142 32.39 142 1 Samuel 2.6 142 2 Samuel 21 141 Isaiah 25.8 154 30.15 155 35.10 155, 162 46.8 155 51.11 155, 162 Jeremiah 4.31 155, 162 22.23 155, 162 38.19 (LXX) 155

Ezekiel 18.32 148 21.11f. 155 Hosea 6.4 49 Jonah 3.9 40, 149 4 50 4.2–3 175 Psalms 13 37 13.1 169 19.3 163 22.1 2, 147, 152, 169, 177, 206, 207 22.22–31 177 31.5 177 34.1 185, 192 37.9 (LXX) 155, 162 38.5ff. 152 55.4f 198 55.15 171 74.10 153 96.11–13 163 121.1 143 123.2 143 Job 1.20f. 132 3 50, 202 3.1–26 101 9.27 (LXX) 155 13.7–9 102 19.25 40, 128 24.12 155, 163 31.35 121 33.13 121 38–42 50 38.1–41.25 102 42.2–7 121

42.6 39, 120 42.10–12 110 Lamentations 1.4 155 1.8 155 1.9 143 1.11 155 1.21f. 155 1.22 155, 163 Daniel 1.1–6 141 3.8–25 141 6.5f. 141 6.17–25 141 9.18, 19 143 9.3 143

New Testament Matthew 2.18 151 5.4 151, 189, 202 9.15 152 13.42 153 13.50 153 20.28 177 24.30 153 24.35f. 185 26.38f. par 50 26.39 193 27.46 50, 152, 193 Mark 5.39 151 15.34 50, 115, 152, 173, 193, 206 Luke 1.46–55 65 6.24f. 153

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Biblical and Apocryphal References

8.52 151 16.23f. 154 19.38 152 19.41–44 152 19.42 152 23.28 151

6.8–10 158 8.10 159 10.12 158

11.12 155 16.24 162 19.6 162

Galatians 5.16–21 164

John 11.35 15.20 16.20 16.23 20.11

Philippians 1.18 159 1.23f. 160 2.16 187

Tobit 2.11–14 141 2.4 141 3.2 138 3.2–6 137 3.3 144 3.7 137, 144 3.7f. 142 3.11 138 3.11–15 3.16f 137, 143 4.5f. 141 4.12f. 141, 143 4.19 138, 142 6.16 146 7.11f. 143 7.15 140, 143 8.5–7 149 8.5ff. 138, 149 8.7 143 8.8 143 8.15ff. 138, 149 8.16f. 142 11.14 138 11.15 138 11.17 138 12.6 138 12.20 138 12.22 138 13 141, 148, 149 13.1–18 138 13.2 142, 148 13.5f. 142, 148 13.6 149 13.8 148 14.2 138 14.6 138

151 178 151 56 151

Acts 8.2 151, 183 9.15f. 178 20.38 151 Romans 5.5 187 5.12 163 6.4 157 8.17 8.18 157, 188 8.18–27 9, 161–5 8.22 154 8.23 154 8.26 154, 214 14.10–12 164 1 Corinthians 7.29–31 157 12 164 15.42 163 15.50 163 2 Corinthians 1.3–7 156 1.6 179 1.8 160 1.8–11 156 2.14–7.4 156, 158 4.1–5.10 156 4.7 157 4.8f. 158 4.11 157 4.12 156 4.16–5.10 9 4.17f. 188 5.17 157 6.4–10 158

Colossians 1.24 179 1 Thessalonians 5.3 162 1 Peter 2.20 179 3.14 179 4.12f. 180 4.15f. 179 4.19 179 5.7 135 1 John 4.16 197 James 4.1–3 153 4.8 153 4.9 153 4.10 153 5.1 153 Revelation 6.10 153 6.11 154 7.17 154 18 153 21.4 154 22.7 154 22.12 154 22.20 154

Apocrypha Wisdom 2.6 162 9.15 160

Tobit Codex Vaticanus (TobG1) 3.4 144 3.5 144 3.10 144 3.11b 143 3.15c 144 7.12 145

Tobit Codex Sinaiticus (TobG2) 1.4 141 3.10 144 3.11b–15 137 3.16 145 6.13 145 7.11–13 145 8.10 144

Biblical and Apocryphal References Tobit Vulgata (TobVg) 3.9 142 3.11b 143 3.16–19 145 7.11ff. 145 8.7 145 8.9f. 145

1 Enoch 9.3 155 9.10 155, 163 10.11 145 10.20 145 104.3 154 18.1 162 36.4 162

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INDEX OF NAMES AND TERMS

accusation 4–7, 15, 26, 28–30, 32–4, 37, 49–54, 55, 72, 99–102, 109–10, 118, 120, 134, 147–8, 169, 207, 212 affections, affective 15, 22, 126, 128–9, 155, 174, 184, 186–91, 193–4, 197, 200–1, 204, 216 anthropocentrism 10, 202–3 Austin, J.L. 129 Baier, A. 125 Barth, K. 7, 60–76, 77–98, 110, 207, 214–15, 220 Bauks, M. 139–40, 147 Baur, J. 98 Bayer, O. 26, 36–7, 61, 73, 75, 78, 107, 109, 135, 150, 205, 208, 210 beatitude 202 beauty 57, 105, 190–1, 199, 203, 214 Beckett, S. 103 Benedikt XIV 57 Benjamin, W. 54 Berdyaev, N. 176 Berner, K. 43 Blumenberg, H. 45, 46, 63 Boff, L. 172 Bonhoeffer, D. 1, 2, 182, 205, 209, 211 Bühler, P. 119 Bultmann, R. 157–8 Byassee, J. 192 Calvin, J. 62, 216 Camus, A. 16 certitude 40 Christ see Jesus Christ Christology 10, 54, 56, 68–70, 73, 80, 83–5, 89–2, 92–3, 106, 114, 147, 152, 181, 183–4, 190–1, 201, 203, 205 church 1, 5, 9, 10, 25, 150, 156, 158, 168, 169, 172, 177–81, 181–2, 184, 187–92, 194, 197–8, 200, 203 collective lament 175–6 communicatio idiomatum 94 compassion 9, 53–4, 103, 185, 201–3, 213

contingency 6, 44–57, 107, 113 contradiction 72, 77–98, 100, 101, 111–12, 114–15 Cook, S.L. 177 covenant 50, 89–90, 129, 155, 159, 173–6, 202 covenantal nomism 174 creation 9, 10, 36, 44, 50, 52, 53, 55–7, 63, 65, 70–3, 89, 95, 102, 154, 158, 161–5, 185, 188, 202, 208, 210–12, 213–14, 216 cross 10, 36, 50, 52–4, 57, 68, 74, 84, 92, 93, 94, 96, 114, 115, 135, 147, 152, 177, 184, 193, 194–200, 202, 204–17 crucifixion 50, 53, 55, 151–2, 198, 204–17 Crüsemann, F. 169–71, 173, 182 cult 48, 141, 168, 171, 173–6, 178, 181 Dalferth, I.U. 19, 43, 87, 206, 208, 211 death 3, 9, 10, 14, 16, 17–19, 21, 22–4, 32, 38, 40, 45, 47–8, 50, 51, 55, 64, 67–8, 70–1, 83–4, 100, 106, 109, 114, 130, 137–8, 142–4, 146, 148–51, 151–2, 154–61, 163, 169–72, 177, 180–2, 193, 198–9, 202, 206–7, 212 depth 72, 97–100, 110, 132, 156, 180, 197, 199, 201, 215 Derrida, J. 100–1 Deus absconditus (cf. God’s hiddenness) 8, 57, 98, 100, 107, 112, 114 Deus revelatus 8, 98, 100, 107, 114 Deuser, H. 97 de Vos, C. 2, 27–8, 215 Dierken, J. 78, 88, 90 discipleship 10, 178, 182 doom 49, 50 Ebeling, G. 74, 76, 215 Ebner, M. 8, 25–8, 30, 36, 73, 75, 78, 118, 130, 131, 134–5, 152, 205, 208, 213 Ego, B. 136, 138, 142, 145, 147–8 Ehlers, K. 2 Endreß, M. 126 enemy 9, 102, 127, 139, 140, 146, 147, 153, 170, 173, 175, 198, 201

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Index of Names and Terms

Erasmus, D. 107, 112 Erhörungsgewissheit 75, 140, 143, 204 Eriksen, N.N. 121 eschaton/eschatology 6, 9, 10, 22, 26, 36, 49, 55–6, 74, 78, 97, 123, 134, 155, 157, 160–3, 165, 177, 181, 186, 191, 193, 205, 208, 211, 214, 216 experience 1, 3, 5, 6, 8, 10, 11, 14–18, 20–4, 27, 32–5, 39, 42, 44, 47, 50, 53, 64, 71, 73, 89–92, 99–102, 105–6, 110–13, 115, 119, 123, 126, 128, 132–4, 147–8, 150–2, 154–5, 160, 162, 164–5, 170, 174, 177, 191, 196, 199–201, 207, 210–12, 216 evil (cf. nothingness) 4, 6, 7, 14, 16, 17–19, 21–4, 32, 34, 44, 47, 49, 52, 62–5, 65, 67–9, 71–3, 83, 90, 100–1, 103, 105, 106–11, 119–20, 134–5, 139, 147, 156–7, 160, 208, 210, 212 Frankfurt, H. 108 Fuchs, O. 25, 33–4, 75, 134 Gambetta, D. 125 Gathercole, S. 136 Geyer, C.-F. 62 Glöckner, D. 121 God ambiguity 54–7 election 69–70, 89, 90–2, 95, 110, 173–5, 178 glory 2, 57, 147, 160, 180, 209 goodness 8, 9, 99–100, 105 hiddenness 8, 99–100, 107, 111–14, 114 justice 1, 6, 8, 51–2, 54, 57, 69, 72, 74, 99, 100, 105, 121, 124, 140, 143, 207, 214 love 8, 50–3, 56–7, 114, 141, 197–8, 207–8, 210, 214 mercy 36, 37, 53–4, 56–7, 128, 135, 137, 140–3, 148–9, 175, 210, 214 promise 6, 42 48–9, 54, 56, 98, 109, 122, 135, 174, 185, 191, 203, 204 unity 8, 87, 94, 98, 99–115 godforsakenness 50, 115, 118–35, 147, 152, 177, 206–7, 209–11 godlessness 52, 75, 84, 205, 207, 209–11, 213, 215 Grässer, E. 156, 158, 160 gratitude 20, 37–8, 72, 131, 149, 216 guilt 6–7, 9, 25–43, 45, 47, 51, 102, 105, 109, 119, 134, 136, 142, 144, 148–9, 152, 169, 176 Gunton, C. 88, 91, 94

Hamm, B. 129 Hanhart, R. 136 happiness 20, 42, 50–1, 103, 110, 184–6, 188–9, 209, 213–14 Harasta, E. 10, 20, 57, 83, 90, 147, 209, 218 Härle, W. 90, 127 Hartmann, M. 125, 126 Hays, R. 177, 180 Hedinger, U. 61, 64, 65 Hegel, G.W.F. 7, 30, 47, 64, 77–98 Herms, E. 96 Hick, J. 62–3, 66–7, 70 Hofmann, N.J. 141, 142 Holy Spirit (cf. Spirit) 10, 79, 91, 206, 211 Holzem, A. 28, 118 hope 1, 9, 11, 40, 51, 54–7, 99, 102, 104, 106, 114, 120, 123, 128, 129–33, 135, 142, 143, 148, 161, 164–5 Horkheimer, M. 57 Horn, F.W. 164 Huber, W. 72 Iber, C. 82 individual lament 37, 170, 173, 174, 176, 204 innocence 6, 9, 37–8, 42–3, 51, 53, 57, 121, 124, 134, 138, 144, 148–9, 179, 210, 214 intentionality 17–18, 21, 81, 133 Israel 9, 41, 49, 50–1, 137, 138–9, 141, 144–5, 146, 148–9, 151, 155–6, 160, 169, 171, 173–6, 178–9, 192, 204, 210 Janowski, B. 25–6, 28–9, 31, 33, 37–9, 60, 131, 150, 205 Jenson, R. 87, 91 Jesus Christ 2, 5, 6–7, 9–10, 36, 50, 52–3, 55–6, 68–75, 79, 83–5, 86, 88–96, 11, 114–15, 135, 154, 160, 161, 177–82, 183–91, 191–200, 201–3, 204–17 Job 5–8, 31, 36, 38–43, 50, 53, 73, 80, 99–100, 101–7, 109–10, 115, 119–24, 125, 127–35, 136–7, 139, 144, 149, 155, 163, 179, 185, 188, 199–200, 202 Joest, W. 69 Johnson, W.S. 215 Jonah 9–10, 50, 141, 148, 175–6, 178 Jonas, H. 52, 64 Joseph and Aseneth 155 joy 90, 100, 111, 130, 131–3, 141, 150, 153, 163, 180–1, 189, 193–6, Jüngel, E. 38, 88, 93, 110, 112 justice (cf. God’s justice) 7, 9, 10, 11, 31, 33, 42, 48, 51, 53–4, 57, 99, 102, 103–5, 110,



Index of Names and Terms

169, 191 justification 36, 38, 52–3, 55, 62, 69–70, 73–4, 97, 207–8, 210–11, 214, 216 Kant, I. 28, 47, 69, 119 kenosis 64, 209, 211–12, 217 Kessler, R. 40–1, 62 Kierkegaard, S. 8, 99, 101, 104–6, 115, 119, 121–3, 130, 132, 133–5 killer wife 142 lament of justice 211, 213–14, 216 lament of love 10, 211–14, 216 love 8, 10, 50, 52, 53, 56–7, 62, 93, 104–5, 114, 124, 129, 133, 135, 141, 171, 175, 185–7, 189–90, 194–9, 201, 207–8, 211–14, 216 Luther, M. 8, 28, 39, 57, 66, 96–8, 100, 106–15, 129 martyrdom 151, 153–4, 179–81, 186, 190, 199–200 Maul, S. 139–40 Mehlhausen, J. 142 Meissner, J. 162, 163, 164 Metz, J.B. 45, 51–2, 63, 65 Migliore, D.L. 3, 61, 73, 211, 101, 105, 219 Mjaaland, M.T. 5, 7–8, 101, 105, 219 Moltmann, J. 204, 206–10, 215 Moo, D J. 174 mourning 6, 21, 26, 20–30, 102, 150–4, 165, 202, 212 Moxter, M. 30 Mühling-Schlapkohl, M. 87 Müller, M. 157 negative theology 55, 57 ‘net of need’ (‘Netz der Not’) 169–72 nihilism 106, 115 Nitsche, S.A. 210 nothingness 60–76, 80, 89–90, 92, 99, 103, 104, 106, 115 nothingness as translation of ‘das Nichtige’ 66 obedience 7, 68, 77–98, 122, 128, 143, 174, 191 O’Donovan, O. 187, 197, 198 Oegema, G.S. 145 Offe, C. 125, 126 orientation 14–16, 18–24, 70, 75

227

pain 1–4, 10–11, 16, 23–4, 27, 29–30, 32, 34, 49, 52–3, 71, 84–5, 100–1, 110, 118, 130, 132, 150, 154–5, 159, 161–4, 170, 185–6, 189–90, 201–3, 207, 211, 216 Pannenberg, W. 23, 54–5, 70, 81, 97 particularity 77, 79–80, 86, 88, 91, 94–5, 98 patience 185, 187, 190–1, 198, 201–2 Paul 9, 151, 154–65, 177–82, 185, 188–9, 192, 196, 203 penance (cf. penitence, repentance) 152–3, 155, 161 penitence (cf. repentance, penance) 10, 210, 214 Perpetua (and Felicity) 179–81 Pesch, R. 152 petition 9, 132–3, 136–49, 204–5, 209, 212, 215–17 phenomenology 5, 14–24, 26, 44, 52–3, 200, 212 Philo 156 Plato 161, 200 praise (of God) 1, 9–10, 20, 33, 36–8, 55, 75, 121, 131–3, 136–49, 161, 177, 185, 196–7, 199, 204–17 punishment 62–3, 144, 147, 148–9, 152 Rabenau, M. 146, 148, 149 Rahner, K. 52 rationality, reason 36, 46–7, 69, 96, 104, 110, 112–13, 134 Ratschow, C.H. 95, 98 redemption 48, 163, 177, 202, 216 religion 1–2, 35, 44–5, 47–52, 54, 80, 85–6, 97, 99, 174 Rendtorff, T. 88, 91, 96 repentance (cf. penance, penitence) 39–40, 155, 175–6, 210 repetition 8, 99, 103–6, 115, 121, 130, 132 principle of retribution 33, 43, 102, 142, 144 responsiveness 17 resurrection 1, 7, 10, 68, 70–1, 74, 83, 84, 93, 94, 96, 114, 150–1, 159, 181–2, 194, 204–5, 208–9, 212–16 retribution (cf. Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang) 32–4, 38, 43, 101–2, 105–6, 142, 144, 148, 172 revelation 8, 10, 55–6, 70, 86, 89, 90, 91, 96–7, 112, 114, 205–6, 209, 214 Ricœur, P. 8, 31–3, 34–5, 42, 119–20, 131, 133 Riede, P. 146

228

Index of Names and Terms

Riesebrodt, M. 48 Ringleben, J. 83 Römer, W.H.P. 146 Römheld, K.F.D. 145 salvation 9, 48–51, 51–6, 63, 68, 83, 90–1, 108, 131–2, 142–3, 146, 149–50, 152, 159–61, 163–4, 174, 178, 208, 211 Sanders, E.P. 174 Satan 123, 128, 133 Schelling, F.W.J. 97 Schlier, H. 163 Schlink, E. 75 Schnelle, U. 156 Schröter, J. 158 Schüle, A. 175, 178 Schüngel-Straumann, H. 136, 137, 141 Schwöbel, C. 97 sighing 9, 62, 131, 154, 155–6, 160–1, 162–5, 186 sin, sinner 1, 7, 10, 32–4, 36–9, 42, 49, 51–3, 55–7, 60, 62–3, 67, 72–4, 83, 85, 89, 90–4, 97, 102, 130, 138, 144–5, 148, 153, 155, 161, 163, 164, 182, 188, 192, 197–9, 206, 208, 210–12, 214 Sölle, D. 52 Spieckermann, H. 210 Spinoza, B. 46 Spirit (cf. Holy Spirit) 9, 75, 78–89, 91, 95–8, 158, 161, 163–5, 195, 205, 207, 211, 214, 16 Stuckenbruck, L.T. 136 suffering (cf. pain) 4–11, 14–24, 25–43, 49–57, 62, 64–5, 70–3, 78, 92, 99, 100–3, 105–7, 109–11, 113–15, 119–20, 122, 124, 130, 132–5, 136, 139, 142–4, 146–8, 150, 152, 154–65, 169–70, 177–82, 185, 187–8, 193–4, 196, 199–203, 205, 207–15 thanksgiving 131, 133, 139, 204–5, 209, 212, 215–17 theodicy 4–7, 9, 32, 39, 48, 51–5, 99, 100–1, 109, 119, 134–5, 170, 210 question 7, 28, 61–74

theologia cruces 57, 111 Theunissen, M. 45 Thrall, M.E. 157, 158, 159 time, experience of time 6, 14–24, 29, 84, 89, 91, 95, 135, 163, 165 Tobit 8–9, 136–49 totus Christus 191–2 Trinity 36, 75, 79–84, 86–93, 98, 112, 114, 206, 208, 210, 215 Troeltsch, E. 47 trust 6, 8–9, 11, 24, 37, 98, 99, 103, 118–35, 147, 149, 152, 171, 204, 216 Tun-Ergehen-Zusammenhang (cf. retribution) 32, 142, 144, 148 Uhlhorn, G. 171 van Inwagen, P. 108 Verhey, A. 201–3 virtue 120, 129, 158, 185–91, 199 Vogel, M. 157, 158, 159, 160, 161 Vroom H.A. 119 Wagner, F. 85, 96 Waldenfels, B. 17, 18 Wannenwetsch, B. 197 Weber, M. 48 Weeks, S. 136 weeping 72, 151, 152–3, 155 Welker, M. 82, 208 Welz, C. 5, 8, 31, 119, 126, 136, 219 Wendte, M. 5, 7, 17, 73, 81, 97, 220 Westermann, C. 29, 33, 49, 169 western churches 9, 172 Wilckens, U. 162, 163 Wittgenstein, L. 44 Wüthrich, M.D. 5, 7, 60, 66, 80, 89, 91, 92, 135, 220 Zapffe, P.W. 8, 99, 103–6, 113, 115 Zenger, E. 139 Zgoll, A. 139 Zwingli, U. 129