To a Woman Who Lost Several Children
To a Woman Who Lost Several Children
Theological Letters
The following letter is to a woman, “Etheline,” who heard me speak at an event, and during the Q&A, she asked me a question about what I might say to someone who had lost a child. I shared briefly some things that I think are important to keep in mind, theologically speaking. She later emailed me, thanking me for my thoughts. She also revealed that she was the one who had lost, not just one, but several children. With this new information in hand, I decided to write a lengthier reply, fleshing out the thoughts that I briefly shared in person. Please subscribe and support my work.
Dear “Etheline,”
Thank you for your kind email. I certainly recall your question. I had no idea it was about your own experience. Lord, have mercy. My wife and I lost a child once through miscarriage, which I presume is in some ways easier, having never held him. I can't imagine experiencing what you've been through with several children.
I don't imagine anything I might say would remove the pain of that loss. At best, I can offer some theological perspective that may help correct the types of misconceptions about God that often arise in the face of extreme pain, and in fixing that lens, perhaps it becomes easier to draw near to God and find some healing until all things are made new.
I would offer three insights as a starting place. The first concerns a distinction that appears in the Eastern Church fathers between the antecedent will of God and the consequent will of God. John of Damascus discusses this in his chapter on providence in On the Orthodox Faith, and while John Chrysostom does not use these terms, he describes the concept in his homilies on Ephesians.1 I typically explain the concept using an illustration about my own son. (I believe it appears in my second talk about the Nones on Ancient Faith — in the three-part series I did for the Midwest Clergy Convocation — in case you want to hear it, rather than read it.)
The Eastern Church fathers insist that God is Good, and by this they do not mean that whatever he happens to do we call good. They mean that he wills the good of every being. Every possible good he wills and every possible evil he repels. Moreover, by this they do not mean that he simply happens to will the good and happens to will not evil; rather, God cannot do otherwise. This is what it means to say he is Good. Therefore, when asking whether God wills something good (e.g., virtue, life, salvation) or something evil (e.g., sin, death, destruction), we need not wonder; there is no mystery. If the thing is good, then he wills it. If the thing is evil, then he wills it not. This is the antecedent will of God.
Now, this naturally raises the question how evils in our world exist, since there are so many, too many to name. Does God not will these? In answer, the fathers recognize that our world is complex. Many goods entangle themselves with evils, and many evils attach themselves to goods. To take a very simple example, it is good that all creatures pray. It is also good that God creates beings that are rational and thus have free choice and self-determination.2 God wills both of these because both are good. But he cannot bring about both goods simultaneously. To will that creatures have free choice is to risk that some creatures will freely choose to not pray — or worse. So, God must choose between these goods. And this choice is the consequent will of God. In other words, God antecedently wills both goods precisely because both are good, but because these goods are incompatible, he must choose one and risk the other. So, God has evidently chosen that creatures have free choice and self-determination, and in doing so, he permits the possibility — now realized in our world — that not all creatures pray. The latter outcome he wills not; in fact, he repels it. But he permits that which he does not will because he wills the good that we have free choice.3
Now, allow me to apply this to a much more complex and personal situation. Were you to ask my children who Noah is (and it was clear that you did not mean the Bible character), they would answer that he's their brother. Yet, when running through the names of our five children, you won't find a Noah. That's because he's the child we miscarried. We refer to him as Noah because he introduced himself to my wife in a dream, and that was his name. (This, incidentally, is something Chrysostom mentions when addressing the loss of children. He assures parents they will one day see their children again, and in some cases, they need not wait until death, since children sometimes visit their parents in dreams.) Now, following the death of Noah, my son, David, was conceived. Anyone who has met him recognizes that he is an absolute blessing to this world, one without whom our world would be an impoverished place.
Were you to ask me whether I will that David exists, there is no question; the answer is a resounding Yes. Were you to ask me whether I will that my son, Noah, exist — which he does, despite the death of his body — the answer is also Yes. And were you to ask whether I will the death of Noah, the answer is an unhesitating No. Yet, it is not clear to me that both David and Noah can exist in any world other than the one in which Noah is miscarried. Had Noah been conceived and not been miscarried, David would never have been conceived and would not exist. Had we been spared the pain of Noah's miscarriage by avoiding his conception, then perhaps David would’ve existed but Noah would not. The only world in which both David and Noah exist is the world in which Noah is conceived and miscarried. Therefore, I cannot will the good that both David and Noah exist without accepting the evil — and it is an evil — that Noah is miscarried.4
This type of complex network of willing goods and permitting evils that attach to these goods is what the Eastern Church fathers teach that God faces at every moment, and the complexities are no doubt far more vast than what I've described.5 So, while it is difficult, if not impossible, to discern all the intersecting factors in any given event, we need never wonder whether God wills either foregone or manifest goods — he does will it — or whether God wills a manifest evil — he wills it not. Yet, the complexities of our world are such that many evils attach to goods that God wills and are thus permitted, even though God wills not these evils;6 and conversely, many goods that God wills he forgoes because they conflict with other goods that he also wills — or, perhaps, because they entail greater evils that he repels.
The point should never be used to reverse engineer reality and seek to discern the will of God, identifying why he permitted this evil or passed over that good. As I said, the complexities are simply too vast, so we are bound to "get it wrong" when engaging in such an exercise. The point is meant to assure us that we should never take manifest evil or foregone goodness to indict the Goodness of God. We can always be assured that God does not will manifest evil as such and that he wills even those goods that, for whatever reason, are foregone. In the case of your children, he does not will their deaths. And with you and your husband, he grieves the lost good that results, since such foregone goods he certainly wills. Of this we can be sure.
A second, very important shift in perspective that needs to take place concerns the doctrine of synergy. Far too often, and due to the influence of Modern philosophy, Western thinkers tend to think of themselves and the world generally like a machine. We are part of a large clock, and spiritual realities sit on the outside of that machine, occasionally breaking in and producing a miracle or something paranormal. But aside from these moments, things function "normally" (i.e., without spiritual dimensions). This unfortunate way of thinking causes many to look for God in the wrong places. If two people are in a room and both are looking for God, they expect him to show up as a third object in the room. However, this is how neither Scripture nor the Eastern Church fathers speak about God-world interactions.
We can see the point if we ask, How often does God (the Father) show up in Scripture in an unmediated fashion? There are extremely few examples. Typically, God speaks or works miracles via a prophet or an angel, or he energizes some natural element. The only exceptions that come to my mind are two: the Transfiguration and Theophany, where the Father speaks, declaring that Christ is his Son.7 Now, if we think in mechanical terms, like those described above, this may sound like God is absent from the world, never showing up, only ever sending some creature to do his will. Therefore, we, like neglected children, only ever see the servants of our Father; he is simply too busy to show up himself. But this sense of neglect is reflective of the fact that we, in the West, have lost the doctrine of synergy.
To understand synergy, we need to understand the doctrine of divine energies, another doctrine lost in the West. The Eastern Church fathers — drawing on the writings of Paul, who echoes the Alexandrian Jewish reception of Aristotle — draw a distinction between the essence of God and his energies. The distinction, in the most basic sense, distinguishes what a thing is (essence) from the operative powers that express what a thing is (energies). The fathers often use the illustration of fire and metal. Fire expresses its nature in the operations of heating and lighting. Now, if we stick metal in fire, the metal will eventually glow and burn, even when removed from the fire. The metal has not become fire; it is still metal. But the operative powers of fire, those that express its nature, have been communicated to metal. In other words, the energies of fire have taken up residence within the metal. Synergy is the idea that two different energies can be operative in one entity and one act. Let's imagine that, rather than amorphous metal, our heated metal is a blade. The operation of that blade is to cut. But if the blade is heated to the point of glowing and burning, then running that blade across a surface will result in it simultaneously cutting and burning. Both operations are present in the single act, and one of those operations is alien to the metal (i.e., burning); it is a foreign operation for which the metal has become a conduit. Another analogy is that of a branding iron. Were we to heat a branding iron and then take it over to a cow and brand it, the burning would be synergistic. The metal contributes to the act, bringing the energies of fire close to the cow and shaping the way that burn is articulated, but the burning is from the fire. So in the one act of branding, the cow experiences both the metal and the fire simultaneously.
This notion of synergy is pervasive in the New Testament, though it's often lost in translation, since most translators are Western protestants or Catholics who do not understand the history of the Greek word energeia. So, when Paul says that it is not he that works but God who works in him, he is actually stating that it is God who energizes him. Paul speaks about the same God who energizes him also energizes Peter. He speaks of the Thessalonians being "co-workers" with God, by which he means their ministry is a synergistic act, the energies of God operating within them. And Paul is also clear that God is not the only spirit who energizes people. In Ephesians, he speaks of "the children of wrath" who are energized by the Devil.
The reason this doctrine is so important is because both Scripture and the Eastern Church fathers testify that the primary way in which God manifests and expresses himself is in and through energized creatures. This does not mean what I described above in the mechanical framework, where God is a neglectful father who simply sends a servant to do his bidding. Rather, God acts synergistically. Just as the cow is really burned by the fire, even though the metal is what brings it close, so God really is present in the prophet, the Saint, the angel, the relic, and so on. To sit with an Elder, such as Elder Paisios, and to hear him speak about mysteries in your heart; to offer words of love, compassion, and wisdom; to experience him performing a healing miracle is to experience God. It is God's own secret knowledge that is resident in the Elder; it is God's own love, compassion, and wisdom that is in the Elder; it is God's own healing power that is in the Elder. Yes, the Elder too contributes to how God's energies are expressed, just as the shape of the metal affects how the fire is expressed to the cow, but it is no less God who is present and active. This is why, in Eastern writers, such as Pseudo-Dionysius, their talk of mediator means to bring close, as in the case of our heated metal; it does not mean to stand between, the way an attorney might. (For more on this, see my post on Mary as Mediatrix.)
All of this is a very long prelude to an additional point concerning how we see the evils of our world. Due to Western Christian doctrines concerning divine decrees, many tend to see all events as the will of God, as if God creates a blueprint of every event in history before creating, and everything that unfolds, good or evil, is willed by God.8 Yet, the doctrine of synergy — and of free choice — tells us that God does not unilaterally determine the events of history. Rather than starting with the fallen world, let us imagine that no creatures chose to rebel; all angels clung to God and attained holiness, and all human beings also clung to God and attained holiness. In such a scenario, the world would be saturated with divine holiness and glory, every creature participating in God as far as its nature permits. God would in no way be hidden, but everywhere present and filling all things, God's goodness, love, compassion, and wisdom being manifest in every square inch of the cosmos. Yet, even in this scenario, creatures would freely shape what this world looks like. For what holiness looks like in one Saint differs tremendously from what it looks like in another Saint. Some become healers, others teachers, others tend to the poor, and so on, for every person is unique and free. We might employ one more analogy. When a composer expresses his creativity, that creativity is shaped by the idiosyncrasies of the instrument used. Bach expressed through violin sounds very different from his expression in a cello or a piano or a clarinet. The reason is that the expression is synergistic, the composer being the same, but his creativity being shaped by the instrument. So it is with God and creation. By design, God does not unilaterally determine the events of creation. Rather, he wills to express his goodness, love, wisdom, justice, and so on in and through creatures, allowing each to shape that expression with its own free choice and unique traits. Thus, even in a world where every creature "obeys," the results are unpredictable; the expression of God's attributes is entrusted to the creatures, each employing their own freedom and creativity in determining how goodness and love and mercy are expressed in our world.9
Now, the dynamics change considerably when creatures turn away from God. In this act, creatures truly cut the world off from God. Every creature exists to be a conduit of God, mediating God — bringing him near — to creatures lower in the chain of creation, raising them up and enhancing their experience of God. Pseudo-Dionysius, when discussing the nine orders of angels, explains that the highest angels are energized by God, not for their own sake only, but so that they may bring God near to the lower orders — higher orders ministering to lower orders. This is also what it means that the angels are ministering spirits. They are to mediate God to humans as well, and we, humans, are to mediate God to the lower things of creation, such as plants and animals — something we see when plants or animals are transfigured by their interaction with the Saints. Yet, when the mediators of God turn away from God, they — we — hinder the presence of God in the world and the experience of God by other creatures. In fact, "hinder" is too soft. In most cases, creaturely rebellion produces something far worse. Angels, as beings that exist to energize humans, mediating the divine energies to us (such as when the holy angels energized the Maccabees for war, in 2 Macc), retain the capacity to energize humans, even when rebelling against God; for that is their role in the world. Hence, fallen angels, or demons, are able to energize people, darkening our mind, stirring the passions, encouraging evils of all kinds, and even, in extreme cases, possessing humans. Such is what happens when the shepherd decides he would rather destroy the sheep than care for them. Likewise, human beings, who are icons of God meant to offer a proper picture of the divine attributes, can distort this image, not only hindering the experience of God by other creatures, but distorting that image.
All of this is critical to a proper understanding of the antecedent and consequent will of God. A misapplication of the doctrine is that somehow God orchestrates every evil because he has some good he wants to bring about. This is the unfortunate bumper sticker theology that everything happens for a reason. And the result is that many are asked to accept the unacceptable, and false, idea that God somehow orchestrated the most horrific evils they have ever experienced. Such an idea is not only false but blasphemous, according to the Eastern fathers. God is not the author of evil. The doctrine reminds us of quite the opposite: God never wills evil, nor can he.
The more appropriate perspective is that amongst the many goods God wills is that God expresses his attributes in and through creatures (synergistically); that creatures freely contribute to this expression; and that higher creatures freely mediate God to lower creatures, elevating their experience of God. Yet, these goods carry with them the very real risk that creatures can hinder the will of God; we can stifle the presence of God in the world; we can stop the flow of divine energy to creatures lower in the chain, like rusted wires that prevent the flow of electricity from one point to another. Such is the nature of the fallen world. Fallen angels stifled the presence of God in our world; they turned on humanity, to whom they were meant to minister; our ancestry too turned away from God, introducing corruption and death to our species and cutting the lower things of creation off from a greater participation in God, and so on. When we look at the evils of our world, we should never look at them as the will of God unhindered. Rather, the presence of God is stifled in our world; corruptions that were never intended are present in our world; creatures who are meant to mediate God but refuse this role are innumerable. Hence, it is true that God is always synergizing all things toward good — synergy being the word Paul uses in Romans 8:28. But this divine act, being synergistic, is never unilateral but always interactive or cooperative with creatures. What this good looks like, however, depends largely upon the creature.
The Eastern fathers see this in the agricultural images of Scripture. The sower, for example, casts seed on every soil, without bias or differentiation. But some soil is receptive, while other soil is hard — with any number of variations in between. Likewise, they use the analogy of the sun, which shines on good soil and bad soil alike, but the difference in the effect — some flourishing and others hardening and cracking — is not due to a difference in the activity of the sun, but due to a difference in the condition of the soil. So, in the same way, the Eastern fathers see God as consistently and unrelentingly moving toward every creature with a common providential aim of bringing about its good. Yet, some creatures resist, while others cooperate — and, again, there are any number of variations in between. Pharaoh and Moses are perfect examples. God treats both of them the same: He manifests his presence; he declares who he is; he demonstrates it by miracle; and he commands. Yet, the effect is very different. Moses, being humble, flourishes and becomes a Saint. Pharaoh, being proud, hardens and cracks, until reaping destruction. Though the effect differs, the movement and will of God is the same in both cases, that every creature live and flourish.
Now, when we recognize all of this, our perspective on where we look for God should change. We should not look for God to show up as an object in the room. We should look for God in and through those creatures who are coworkers with God, cooperating with his movements in the world.10 Moreover, we should recognize that in a fallen world, God is not the only spirit who energizes creatures. Many of us not only refuse to cooperate with God; we become coworkers of the Devil, doing the will of those who rebel against the will of God. For this reason, I think a healthy exercise, when facing evil, is to ask two questions: Where is the Devil operative in this event? Where is God operative in this event?
To illustrate, I'll use the opening of the movie Midsummer. (For the record, I do not recommend the film, but its opening is helpful.) In the opening of the movie, there is a tragic, horrifying event. A depressed girl not only kills herself, but she does so in a way that murders her parents as well. We, the audience, witness this stomach churning evil as they cut to the girl's sister, who weeps and wails uncontrollably. When asking where the Devil is operative in this event, the answer is obvious. We see the activity of the Devil in the crippling depression of the girl; in the despair that leads to suicide; and in the murder of her own parents. But where is God? Oftentimes, such a horrifying evil seems to eclipse any and all good in the world, such that answering this question seems impossible. It seems to beckon a reply, God is nowhere to be found! Yet, if we look closer, we can see God in two places. First, we see God in the weeping of the girl. The recognition of evil as evil; the lament for lost goods; the cry that says This ought not be! all express God. That act of weeping and wailing in the face of senseless evil, lost goods, and injustice is a synergistic act. Second, we see it in her boyfriend, who holds her and comforts her, showing love and compassion. Again, the act is synergistic. But we even see it in ourselves, in the response of the audience. The horror and shock that cries out, This is evil and unjust! is also a synergistic act. These responses originate from God; they are perfectly appropriate; and in expressing them, we usher the presence of God into the world and into even this evil event. A great irony is that many utterances of the problem of evil — not in belligerent defiance of God, but when uttered from a place of experience that which ought not to be — is in fact a synergistic act, an act that mirrors God’s own antecedent will, which repels every evil.
I do not know enough about the evils you experienced to engage in this type of exercise, nor would I dare try if I did. But I will say in broad terms that the ways in which corruption and death manifest in your circumstance, there you see the work of the Devil and of the rebels; in those places where completely legitimate hurt turns into utter despair, moving into dark places, there is the work of the Devil. But in those places where good is — the good of those children existing, even if in the body for only a time; the good of them continuing to exist, despite the death of their bodies; the good of your and your husband's love for them, in these there is the presence of God. Moreover, in the hatred for the evil of death; in the lament for the loss of those children; in the cries of injustice, in all of these is also the presence of God, who wills good and hates evil. All of these goods are synergistic acts in which the presence of God is manifest in the world.
A third doctrine that I think is helpful when considering evils in our world is Holy Saturday, or Christ’s descent into Hades. This doctrine has been largely lost in the West, but it is as significant to the Eastern fathers as the crucifixion or resurrection of Christ. Its importance in the present context is that it offers a longview of our present experiences, a view that is hard for most of us to keep in mind.
Before applying the doctrine, allow me to briefly explain what it is. There is a distinction in Scripture and in Jewish lore between Hades and Hell. Hades is the realm of the dead, typically pictured as a subterranean holding cell for souls under the earth, while Hell refers to a lake of fire into which the wicked are cast after the final judgment. Now, both the Alexandrian Jews and the Eastern Church fathers read this lore in an allegorical fashion. They do not understand Hades to be an actual cave under the earth; rather, the cave is a picture of the darkness of death.
The main point of the doctrine of Hades is that death has come upon humanity as a result of the Fall. All, righteous and wicked, are subject to bodily dissolution. All, righteous and wicked, are destined to experience the unnatural state of being a soul without its body. For the righteous, prior to the advent of Christ, there was comfort, since they have hope that God will not abandon them forever in this unnatural state. Yet, for the wicked, who have built their lives around the flesh, they experience torment, no longer having flesh to satisfy their passions.
Into this unnatural state, Christ himself chose to descend. For embracing death, he gave up his soul, and in doing so, he entered the realm of the dead — or Hades. A consistent theme in the Eastern Church fathers is that Christ enters our world and even our own nature in order to heal it and bring it back to God. Christ takes on a human will in order to heal it; a human mind to restore it; our flesh in order to make it incorruptible; he even descends into waters in baptism to make them holy. And so it is in the doctrine of his descent into Hades. Christ, who is the light of the world, enters the darkness of the realm of the dead in order to fill it with life. Christ, who is the life of the world, enters the realm of the dead in order to bring life to that place.
The point is illustrated in a variety of ways by the fathers. In keeping with the picture that Hades is a holding cell, keeping all of humanity bound by death with bars, Christ speaks of the gates of Hades that will not prevail against him. The picture is that he binds the strong man, who bound humanity in Hades (i.e., Satan); he breaks the gates that hold humanity captive; and he liberates all who are present (i.e., all of humanity). Another image, mentioned above, focuses on the darkness of Hades, as a subterranean region. This darkness Christ dispels by entering it, radiating divine light that no darkness can overcome. One further image uses a more obscure picture of Hades, but one present in Scripture and early Christian literature nonetheless, namely, the picture of Hades as a sentient monster that swallows humanity and holds us in its belly. This picture arguably appears in Revelation, where Hades vomits up the dead for judgment and then is cast into the lake of fire. It also appears in the gospel of Nicodemus, where Hades speaks to Satan about holding many mighty men within him, and Satan bids Hades to swallow Christ. It appears in Orthodox iconography, specifically in the final judgment icon, where the dead exit the mouth of Hades, who appears in the lower right corner. Using this picture of Hades, John Chrysostom illustrates the defeat of Hades in his Paschal homily as this monster being vexxed. Hades takes into himself he who is life and Hades is undone, vomiting up those whom he holds within himself. The picture is an inversion of a living body taking into itself poison, death spreading to the host; here death is taken into a dead body, life spreading to the whole.
These pictures naturally raise the question of whether all of humanity is saved. Chrysostom’s Paschal homily, for example, speaks of none being left in the grave. The language is stark and certainly seems to say all are saved by Christ’s victory over death. In one sense, this is true. All are saved. The gates of the prison are broken; the light is dispelled; the realm of death is transfigured into paradise; all are saved, and none are captive. Yet, as always, we must embrace life. In many ways, the picture is of a liberated prison in which all the bars are broken and all are free to leave; in fact, all are encouraged to leave. But some may choose to remain in their cells. If they do, they are not captive by bars but by choice. Nonetheless, Christ liberated them and preached to them so that they might be saved. The Eastern fathers speak of John the Baptist and the prophets preaching to those in Hades in anticipation of Christ, so that they might repent at his appearance. And we even find talk of the Apostles preaching, not only to the four corners of the earth, but also to those “under the earth” (i.e., in Hades), so that even those who linger in the liberated prison might find life. (For a more thorough treatment of this topic, see my post Hell, Hades, and Christ’s Descent (Part 1).)
Now, there are two features of this doctrine that I think are important to keep in mind when looking at evils in our world. The first is God’s relentless pursuit of humanity. The biblical passage on this doctrine that is most well known is Peter’s statement that Christ went and preached to those who rebelled in the days of Noah. Yet, a less well known statement is what Peter goes on to say, which is that they (i.e., those who rebelled in the days of Noah) were judged in the flesh as man in order that they might live according to God in spirit. Maximus the Confessor, commenting on this passage, suggests that these rebels were drowned, their souls being pulled from their bodies and cast into darkness — being judged in the flesh. But this divine judgment was redemptive in nature. These, who were so far gone in their wickedness, were cast into darkness to sit and wait, unable to satisfy their passions or wicked impulses, so that they might repent at the preaching of Christ.
Similarly, Origen — in passages edited and blessed by Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus — hints at the same for Pharaoh. I mentioned above that God dealt with Moses and Pharaoh in the same way, but one was good soil and became a Saint, while the other hardened, reaping destruction. Yet, as Origen points out, Pharaoh’s story does not end at his drowning. Pharaoh, too, sat in darkness, being forced to face the fact that he is no god at all, so that he might repent at the preaching of Christ.
This doctrine sheds light on a further teaching of the fathers, namely, that the dissolution of the body is a mercy of God. On the one hand, death is an enemy to be defeated. Here, death is either anthropomorphised as Hades, the captor of humanity, or it is the corrupt condition that Satan coaxed our species into and to which we have been held captive. Yet, when speaking about God’s decision to send Adam back to dust, the Eastern fathers suggest that this is redemptive in nature. Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nyssa both use a pottery analogy to explain. Man has a higher and a lower nature, an animal body and a rational soul. These are made to operate in harmony, the higher nature, which bears the image of God, raising up the lower nature, ministering to it the life of God — as discussed above in the doctrine of synergy. Yet, in the Fall, the relationship is distorted. The higher nature is subjugated to the lower nature, being enslaved to animal passions and crippled in its ability to cling to God and find life. Now, Basil and Gregory illustrate this like a vessel crafted out of two different materials. If in the process the two materials mingle in a way that is contrary to the intent of the potter, what is the potter to do? If he fires the vessel, the corruption becomes permanent. He must break down the vessel, separating the materials, and begin again. This, they say, is why the body is sentenced to return to dust. In this decomposition, man is unmade. But this unmaking has a purpose: That the body might be remade in the resurrection and the corruption fixed. Such is the purpose of bodily death. (For more on this topic, see my essay “On Whether the Soul Is Immortal According to the Eastern Church Fathers,” section entitled Immortality and the Resurrection.)
Yet, the Eastern fathers recognize that unmaking the body and then remaking it is not in itself redemptive. If the soul continues in its rebellion, then the soul will reintroduce this corruption when reunited with its body. Hence, the soul must be separated from the body and the soul must be reformed, so that it can be remade incorrupt in the resurrection from the dead.
Such a redemptive perspective on death is what sits in the background of the stories of the Noahic rebels and of Pharaoh. These reached a point where they were so hardened toward God that they could no longer repent in the flesh. Thus, in ending their bodily existence, their souls are placed in a type of forced rehabilitation. Being unable to satisfy their fleshly passions and sitting in darkness, there is the hope that they might finally see the error of their ways when the light of God appears and repent at the preaching of Christ.
I share this because I think it highlights two very important teachings to keep in mind. The first is God’s relentless pursuit of humanity. God does not abandon his creatures, even in death. Even those who become so hardened toward him that they are irredeemable in the flesh he continues to pursue in Hades. When we consider what was said above about the doctrine of synergy — that God is perpetually synergizing all things toward good — this includes even the death of the body. God will use even this, in the case of Pharaoh or the Noahic rebels, to turn their souls back to him, so that they might be saved. As explained above, God moves with a singular, unrelenting pursuit of good toward all creatures, like the sun shining on all soil alike, but not all soil flourishes; some soil hardens and cracks. And yet, God does not abandon such soil. He uses it for the good of others — such as Pharaoh being used in the redemption of Israel — but he continues to relentlessly pursue that hardened soil in an effort to see it become good soil.
The second feature of this doctrine that is critical is the longview of divine providence. Were we to look at Pharaoh’s story without the doctrine of Holy Saturday, there would be nothing redemptive to it. We could see that God shows himself to Pharaoh; we could see the parallels between God’s dealings with Moses and God’s dealing with Pharaoh; and we could blame Pharaoh, not God, for his hardened state. But the story of Pharaoh would end with his drowning, and presumably his damnation. Yet, in the doctrine of Holy Saturday, we see that his story is not over. We can see that his drowning — even this — is redemptive in aim. We can see that God pursues him even in the realm of the dead. We can see that the story of Pharaoh goes well beyond the span of fifty years, as Origen points out and Basil and Gregory affirm. As difficult as it is for us to take such a long view, the fact of the matter is that stories — all stories — go beyond this world into the next, and we cannot know the whole story this side of eternity. What we can do, however, is take solace in the Goodness of God and his relentless pursuit of every creature. I believe it was I forget which Elder said it, perhaps Sophrony, but when asked whether Hell would be emptied, his reply was apt: I do not know if Hell will be emptied. What I do know is that if any is left there, Christ will be there with him.
Bringing this to bear on your story, one obvious application is that God will never abandon your children, even in death. But it is also relevant to your husband. Whatever worry you may harbor for his spiritual condition, given the ways this trauma has wounded him deeply enough to turn away from God, you should know that his story, too, is a long one. And whatever lays on the horizon for him, God will not abandon him either, not even in death.
I wish I had more to offer you than words. But hopefully these might offer some small degree of comfort.
Sincerely,
Dr. Jacobs
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Nathan A. Jacobs, Ph.D.
Scholar in Residence of Philosophy and Religion in the Religion in the Arts in Contemporary Culture Program (RACC)
Vanderbilt University, Divinity School
http://nathanajacobs.com
https://vanderbilt.academia.edu/NathanAJacobs
Those familiar with modern philosophy may recognize this distinction as one that appears in Leibniz’s Theodicy. While Leibniz does indeed utilize the antecedent-consequent-will distinction, he credits John of Damascus and John Chrysostom for the distinction in his Dissertation on Predestination and Grace.
For a treatment of free will in the Eastern Church fathers, see my post On Free Will.
As an aside, this demonstrates that the Eastern Church fathers share the belief that echoes in medieval realists — rejected by late-scholastic nominalists, such as William of Ockham — that contradictions are beyond the bounds of omnipotence. In other words, not even God can make free creatures that are not free, squares that are circles, or a second God. The point is evident throughout the Arian dispute. The pro-Nicenes are quite clear, contra the Arians, that certain metaphysical necessities apply to every creature qua creature, and not even God can make it otherwise. On this point, see my articles “The Metaphysical Idealism of the Eastern Church Fathers,” section II; “The Begotten-Not-Made Distinction,” passim; and “On the Metaphysics of God and Creatures in the Eastern Pro-Nicenes,” passim.
The question here being wrestled with is what is sometimes called “transworld identity.” I explore this issue as it relates to Leibniz in my doctoral dissertation, In Defense of Leibniz’s Theodicy, ch. 5, section 2 — though the setup for this exploration really requires the background of the superessentialism problem in section 1.
In classes where I’ve taught on this, I like to consider what is involved in the “simple” act of willing that a human being exists. A human being requires oxygen, which requires the existence of an oxygen-rich environment. No doubt, an oxygen-rich environment carries a host of its own entailments. A human also requires a rather narrow temperature range for survival, which itself requires a host of precise conditions. A human being’s digestive system requires certain types of food; he requires water; bipadality requires ground; and each thing we might name has its own entailments. In short, by the time we answer what is involved in willing the existence of a human being, we may well have an entire cosmos of a very specific kind. This is why I say that the decisions facing the consequent will of God are undoubtedly more complex than my rather simple thought experiment concerning David and Noah admits.
One might object that the phraseology of “permitting” seems to make all evils passive for God, but we have plenty of examples in which God wills evils, sending plagues upon a people, for example. Certainly, the Eastern fathers do not deny that God sends such evils. However, in keeping with the points made above, they see even these as being willed, not for their own sake, but for the sake of goods to which they attach. Hence, even these acts, as interpreted by the Eastern fathers, are redemptive in nature, ultimately aimed at the repentance and salvation of those upon whom they have been sent, akin to the damage one does to a body in surgery when seeking to heal it. Two good sources on how the Eastern fathers read such texts — and indeed insist that they must be read — are Gregory of Nyssa’s Homilies on the Lord’s Prayer, homily 1; and the Philokalia of Origen, specifically the passages on Pharaoh. Lest any look at the appeal to Origen here as irrelevant to Orthodox thought, keep in mind that the Philokalia of Origen is edited by Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus, thus representing approved passages.
I realize that Augustine would not grant that even this is the Father, since Augustine harbors the odd notion (explained at length in De Trin.) that if the Father shows up, then he must be sent by someone else. Speaking from an Eastern Orthodox perspective, however, I reject the premise.
It is noteworthy that the logoi doctrine of the Eastern fathers does presume a divine blueprint — words or concepts — in the Logos . However, they see creatures as capable of diverging from the divine intent for them. Our conformity or lack thereof to our logos is what determines whether our mode of being (tropos) is a movement of well being or corruption. On this, see my essay “The Metaphysical Idealism of the Eastern Church Fathers,” section IV.
Notice that, according to Paul, we will judge the angels. He does not say the demons. The doctrine seems to imply that, even though the holy angels obey God, their obedient work is subject to scrutiny. Though they may do the will of God without sin, “without sin” is not sufficient to fully determine the nature of their acts — one may do good in any number of ways. Thus, they sinlessly obey but in a way that is subject to scrutiny.
This is not to say that God never “shows up.” Theophanies do in fact occur, and it seems the Eastern patristic doctrine of the energies indicates that these are not created avatars but part of God himself. See, e.g., David Bradshaw’s essay on the divine glory in the Old Testament as the divine energies.