Religion at Ground Zero

Theological Responses to Times of Crisis

Christopher Craig Brittain

• Publisher: Continuum
• Year: 2011
• Print ISBN: 9781441132390
• eBook ISBN: 9781441118288
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Comparative Religion

'The world will never be the same!' How many times have human beings uttered this cry after a tragic event? This book analyzes how such emotive reactions impact on the way religion is understood, exploring theological responses to human tragedy and cultural shock by focusing on reactions to the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and 7/7, the two World Wars and the Holocaust, the 2004 South-East Asian tsunami, Hurricane Katrina and the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. It discusses themes such as the theodicy question, the function of religious discourse in the face of tragedy, and the relationship between religion and politics.
The book explores the tension between religion's capacity to both cause and enhance the suffering and destruction surrounding historical tragedies, but also its potential to serve as a powerful resource for responding to such disasters. Analyzing this dialectic, it engages with the work of Slavoj Žižek, Karl Barth, Theodor Adorno, Emil Fackenheim and Rowan Williams, examining the role of belief, difficulties of overcoming the influence of ideology, and the significance of trust and humility.

Chapter 1

In the Wake of Lisbon, Katrina and Haiti: On the Limits of Theodicy

The aftermath of what is frequently called a ‘natural disaster’ often includes considerable commentary that is either overtly or indirectly ‘theological’. Survivors of the devastation may ask questions like, ‘Why did God let this happen? How can I believe in God when the world is full of such suffering?’ In the absence of direct references to concepts like ‘God’, it is not uncommon for individuals to ask ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ implying that somehow the way they live their lives has caused their present difficulty. Others may simply express their feelings at such times as follows: ‘My life will never be the same!’ or ‘This changes where I place my priorities.’ Of course, it is also common for people to fall into deep despair or depression in reaction to discovering that the world was not as safe or secure as they once thought.

This chapter explores such reactions to natural disasters. It does so by focusing particularly on a disaster that not only impacted the lives of the people who experienced it directly, but that also shocked the cultural ethos of Europe as a whole: the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. Following this event, the lives of many would no longer be the same, including some who only heard about the disaster from pamphlets and letters they read. Some of the most famous philosophers of the period were compelled to respond to the implications of the earthquake, which resulted in considerable theological controversy and debate. In what was perhaps the first great ‘cultural shock’ of the modern age, a new distinction emerged between ‘natural’ and ‘moral’ evil. This influenced how the nature of suffering was conceived, and the way in which new articulations of ‘theodicy’ were formulated. The discussion here illustrates some of this debate by analysing an exchange that developed between the philosophers Voltaire and Rousseau in the aftermath of Lisbon.

Beyond illustrating some of the standard elements of theological explanations for suffering (known as a ‘theodicy’), the analysis in this chapter demonstrates that theodicies are not simply abstract theological discussions but are frequently shaped by political and social concerns and agendas. There is nothing purely theoretical or abstract about theodicy; rather, it is a form of response to a disaster that is shaped by the event it tries to explain and by how that event has impacted on the person constructing the theodicy. This is shown with reference to disasters closer to our own time than that of Lisbon: the Asia Pacific Tsunami of 2004, Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and the Haitian earthquake of 2010. The entwinement of theodicy and politics, as well as the very painful challenge of human suffering, illuminates the profoundly problematic nature of theodicy as both an intellectual and emotional exercise. The chapter concludes, however, that the dynamics of seeking an explanation for suffering are not so easily avoidable despite these problems, even in more ‘secular’ forms of discourse.

The Lisbon Earthquake

Shortly before 10 AM on 1 November 1755, a major earthquake struck the Portuguese capital city of Lisbon. The first shock wave caused great destruction, followed by a second and then a third great tremor. As it was All Saints’ Day, churches and chapels were filled with an abundance of lit candles. Furthermore, most people heated their homes and cooked using an open fire. Thus, in the chaos and confusion many fires broke out, and soon the whole city was aflame. It burned for five days. Many of the residents fled to the waterfront, but again tragedy struck. The seismic shock wave of the earthquake caused a tsunami to hit the city, which washed away many of the people seeking refuge at the harbour. Scholars continue to find it difficult to accurately estimate the number of people who died. Some reports from the period go as high as 70,000 people dead, but most researchers today think the number was more likely around 15,000. Of the estimated 20,000 dwellings in the city, it is thought that only about 3,000 were left standing afterwards.¹

It would be difficult to exaggerate the shock that this terrible event spread across Europe. It was not that earthquakes were unheard of or unfamiliar to Europeans in this period – there had been major earthquakes recorded in Jamaica in 1692, and in Sicily and Catania in 1693. But Lisbon at the time was the fourth largest city in Europe (after London, Paris and Naples). Its 275,000 residents were wealthy and educated, and many were devout Roman Catholics. The city was known for its gold (from its colonies in Brazil) and for its many impressive churches. Witnesses of the event were, therefore, very shocked to see one of Europe’s wealthiest and most beautiful cities being destroyed. One Portuguese officer, writing to a friend, summarized the ruins of the city as ‘one of the wide Gates of the vast Empire of Death’.² A merchant’s letter to a friend in England captures the tone of those terrible days:

It would be a vain attempt to endeavour describing the numberless miseries and terrible distresses of all kinds occasioned by this dreadful calamity, as well as the shocking effects that it had on the minds of all people. Infinite were the numbers of poor broken limbed persons, who were forced to be deserted even by those who love them best and left to the miserable torture of being burnt alive . . . In passing about the boundaries of the city, for some days after the destruction of it, ‘twas extremely affecting to receive the congratulations on my escape from those who know me, and to observe those others. For the first few days the natives seemed entirely taken up with acts of devotion and repentance: every road and every field were filled with people at prayers or in processions . . . I have past through the ruins of the principal parts of the city and they are dreadful indeed to behold. I believe so complete a destruction has hardly befallen any place on earth since the overflow of Sodom and Gomorrah.³

This eye-witness report highlights one of the reasons that the event captured the imagination of Europe. Beyond being disturbed by the immediate tragedy and destruction, people began to debate the possible reasons for the event. Questions regarding the meaning of the disaster soon had far more significance to observers than did the terrible consequences the destruction had on the residents of the city. Set in the context of the ‘Enlightenment’ or ‘Age of Reason’, many saw in the effort to understand the Lisbon disaster a great tension between religion and human reason. Some argued that the terrible earthquake should be understood as a ‘natural occurrence’ without any supernatural cause. This was a new idea for many people of the period, given the scientific community’s uncertainty at the time over the cause of earthquakes.

Many of the philosophers and scientists of the day, as well as the principal ruler of Lisbon, Sebastian José de Carvalho e Mello (commonly known as the Marquês de Pombal), insisted that the cause of the event lay solely in the forces of nature. There was little agreement on the precise reasons for the earthquake, but such individuals were confident that some day science would bring them to light. Others, however, including Gabriel Malagrida, a Jesuit missionary in Lisbon, argued that the cause of the earthquake was divine punishment for the sinful lives of the people of Lisbon. The tension between these different interpretations within the city grew very heated. Malagrida’s position served to discredit other Christian leaders who worked to comfort those left injured and homeless in the city. Until Malagrida got involved, many clergy were applauded for their efforts.⁴

The dispute became very heated. The authorities sought to focus the efforts and attention of the survivors on rebuilding the city and restoring as much order to society as possible. For preachers like Malagrida, this was entirely wrong-headed. What was required, he argued, was to turn to God in repentance, go on pilgrimages and avoid being distracted by worldly concerns. The anxiety level of the general population was not helped by the fact that over 30 small tremors continued to be felt around Lisbon in the week following 1 November.⁵ Pombal grew increasingly intolerant of such preaching. He first had the Papal Nuncio banish Malagrida, and when that proved insufficient to silence him, he had the Jesuit preacher imprisoned. Four years later Malagrida was executed.

Disputes over the cause and meaning of the earthquake were found not only within Portugal, but quickly became heated throughout Europe. In Spain, for example, a fierce theological dispute developed as priests like Agustín Sanchez emphasized that ‘God uses the creatures to infuse fear in sinners and to move them to repentance’. In opposition to such positions, José de Cevallos insisted that ‘the earthquake has been entirely natural, caused by natural and proportioned second causes’.⁶ In England, a similar debate developed, although it is clear that the theological discussion was frequently infused with national and political biases. To the question, ‘Why Lisbon rather than London?’ English preachers were prepared to offer some clear answers: because Portugal was Roman Catholic and had failed to follow the path of the Reformation; because the Inquisition was strong within Lisbon; or because God had clearly shown greater favour for the political system of England. One clergyman wrote to ask the survivors, ‘Is there a scene of lewdness or debauchery that was ever practised which hath not been daily repeated in your religious houses?’⁷ John Wesley wrote with considerable vehemence in a similar fashion: ‘Is there indeed a God that judges the world, and is he now making an Inquisition for Blood? If so, it is not surprising that he should begin there [Lisbon] where so much blood has been poured on the ground like water.’⁸

Although such views were common among English theologians and clergy, not all observers were prepared to agree. A poem by John Biddulph would only go so far as to remark, ‘but why to them ’twas giv’n, remains among the Mysteries of Heaven’.⁹ One satirist angrily dismissed the popular tendency to suggest that Lisbon was being punished for its sins: ‘the Pamphleteers, common print-sellers, and Journalists, have been labouring incessantly for some months pasts, not only to keep awake and augment our sympathetic anguish of mind, but (what is still more base) to rob us of the credit and merit of that generosity which inspires it.’¹⁰

Theodicy and the Book of Job

Such attempts to explain the existence of pain and imperfection in human history are known as exercises in ‘theodicy’. Clearly the disaster that happened at Lisbon had a considerable impact on how people thought about the world in which they lived and their place within it. This pattern of theorizing over the possible meaning of such an event, particularly with reference to blaming either the victims of the tragedy themselves for the disaster or some other political or ideological opponent, is one that remains a common response to catastrophes to this day. It is practically taken for granted that Christian theology and the reflections of other religious traditions inevitably involve such forms of theodicy. When religious adherents confess a belief in a loving and powerful divine being, it is assumed that such faith must inherently involve a theoretical explanation for the existence of tragedy and suffering in the world. Many critics of religion are quick to highlight logical errors or gaps in such forms of reasoning, but few focus on the fact that such theoretical practices are frequently plagued by bias, fear and even political agendas.

It cannot be denied that theodicy has had a central place in Christian thought for many centuries. In the medieval worldview, many understood Christianity to offer a full and complete explanation for how the universe worked. God created the world, and, therefore, it was assumed that everything that happened in the world occurred because God willed it that way. This seems like a simple enough idea, but, of course, things are not so straightforward once one begins to apply this view of God and the world to the realities of human suffe...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Introduction
• Chapter 1: In the Wake of Lisbon, Katrina and Haiti: On the Limits of Theodicy
• Chapter 2: The ‘War to End All Wars’: Religion in the Trenches of the Great War
• Chapter 3: Jewish Theological Responses to the Shoah
• Chapter 4: September 11, 2001: Religion Reviled and Revived
• Chapter 5: Belief and the Trauma of Catastrophic ‘Events’
• Chapter 6: Religion as Ground Zero?
• Chapter 7: Speaking of God in a Time of Terror
• Afterword
• Bibliography
• Index