ISIT 2.

1 (2018) 83–104 Interreligious Studies and Intercultural Theology (print) ISSN 2397-3471
https://doi.org/10.1558/isit.32682 Interreligious Studies and Intercultural Theology (online) ISSN 2397-348X

All is of God:
Joy, Suffering, and the Interplay of Contrasts

Jon Paul Sydnor

Emmanuel College, Boston

sydnorjo@emmanuel.edu

Abstract
This essay elaborates a constructive, comparative, nondual theodicy
for the Christian tradition based on the Hindu Vaiṣṇava tradition.
According to the Indologist Henrich Zimmer, in Vaiṣṇavism everything
is an emanation of Viṣṇu, therefore everything is of Viṣṇu. All apparent
opposites are inherently divine and implicitly complementary. Good
and bad, joy and suffering, pain and pleasure are not conflicting
dualities; they are interdependent qualities that increase one another’s
being. The Hindu myth of Samudra Manthan, or the Churning of the
Ocean, exemplifies Vaiṣṇava nondualism. In that story, gods and
demons—seeming opposites—cooperate in order to extract the nectar
of immortality from an ocean of milk. If “opposites” are interdependent,
hence complementary, then they are not “opposites” but mutually
amplifying contrasts. Given this phenomenology, and applying it to the
Christian tradition, a benevolent God who desires full vitality for her
creatures would have to create pain, suffering, darkness, and death in
order to intensify their correlates. Love would demand their creation,
because love would want abundant life for all. In this aesthetic theodicy,
the interplay of all contrasts results from the love of a life-giving God.

Keywords
theodicy, comparative theology, Vaiṣṇavism, mythology, suffering

I am the Lord, and there is no other;

besides me there is no god.
I arm you, though you do not know me,
so that they may know, from the rising of the sun
and from the west, that there is no one besides me;
I am the Lord, and there is no other.
I form light and create darkness,
I make weal and create woe;
I the Lord do all these things.
(Isaiah 45: 5–7)

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84 Jon Paul Sydnor

We don’t have to minimize either suffering or uncertainty.

Our love for truth can help protect us from ourselves and
from worshipping an untrue god that can’t survive the trial
of this world. Let our faith too be nailed regularly to the
cross of this world. Any faith that dies there was dead to
begin with. What is resurrected is Life.
(Kent Annan, After Shock)

Figure 1: Christian Science Plaza, Boston. Credit: Author.

Disclaimer
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I am certainly a fool for
broaching the subject of theodicy, but at the same time, I will deny
rushing in. I enter the cave of theodicy reluctantly, out of a sense
of obligation. A paradox has long perplexed theistic human beings:
sensing the divine love yet seeing human suffering. Caught within this
existential vise, we have sought an intellectual escape in the form of
theodicy—justifying the ways of God to humankind.1
Theodicy—the intellectual attempt to reconcile a loving Creator with
a suffering creation—is not for those who are currently undergoing
affliction. For them, we can only offer our own tears: “weep with the
weeping,” Paul advised (Romans 12: 15). Those who are suffering
will interpret any justification of God as an intellectual evasion of
compassion. To speak of theodicy when your neighbour is suffering
abandons them to their suffering. Theodicy is incompatible with
a ministry of presence; it will only curse the suffering with deeper
loneliness (Wolterstorff 1987, 34).
1 I would like to thank the anonymous reviewer whose comments and suggestions
significantly improved this article.
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All is of God 85

Introduction
We should not, cannot, yet must attempt theodicy. We should not
attempt theodicy because it does not help the suffering and may even
harm them. We cannot succeed at theodicy, because the answers never
suffice—the best theodicy is the least wrong theodicy. Yet we must offer
a theodicy, because human beings are the species that asks “Why?”
This bold questioning may be one of our greatest glories. We dare to
ask questions that we cannot answer. Incessantly asking “Why?” has
produced science, asking “Why do things happen?” It has produced
philosophy, asking “Why are we here?” It has produced psychology,
asking “Why do we act the way we do?” And it has produced theology,
asking “Why do we sense a God within and beyond our universe?”
Because human beings are the species that asks “Why?” we must ask
why this loving God, whom we sense, sustains such a trying universe,
which we feel. Embarking upon theodicy, we implicitly ask if our
universe is comprehensible, and we risk the possibility that it may not
be (Hick 1966, 371).
The resulting conversation is only for those who are not currently
suffering, at least not any more than usual. It is for those who want
to make sense of life and are willing to fail. By the grace of God, even
in this failure we may find some peace. Wrestling with theodicy now
will at least save us from beginning the process—distraught, frantic,
and desperate—when suffering strikes. In this way, theodicy may
be pastoral; that is, helpful to us in our existential situation, both as
individuals and as communities. It cannot answer the unanswerable
questions, but maybe it can inoculate us against the doubt that
accompanies tragedy. And, if we wrestle long enough, we may even
outgrow the questions.
What follows is an aesthetic theodicy, an explanation of suffering
with reference to the quality of human experience and the intensity
of divine benevolence. I write as a progressive, Protestant Christian,
comparative theologian, and pastor. As a progressive Protestant, I will
avoid theories that describe suffering as God’s punishment of human
beings for sin. When suffering becomes affliction, when it is distributed
unevenly, it can no longer be the proportionate punishment of a just
God. As a comparative theologian, I look beyond (as well as within) the
Christian tradition for theological stimulation. Comparison broadens
the conversation, presents new possibilities of religious being, and
questions what we consider obvious. It produces new and better
questions, which may even produce new and better answers. As a
pastor, I will always evaluate those answers based on their application

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86 Jon Paul Sydnor

to congregational life. Answers that quicken, inspire, and heal will be

preferred to answers that do not. God wants us to have more life. In
order to do so, we must question the conventions that bind us and
choose the answers that animate us.

Figure 2: Barbed Wired Through Wood. Credit: Max Pixel.

Hindu myth as Hindu nondualism

Advaita, or nondualism, is an important concept in Hinduism.
Different thinkers explicate nondualism in different ways, but all
agree that it rejects atomism. Atomism asserts separation—entities are
independent, self-sustaining, and inherently existing. They do not rely
on one another for their being; they are dual. The concept of advaita,
on the other hand, asserts inseparability. Reality has one Source, and
is one with that Source, which unifies all reality, rendering it nondual
(Rāmānuja §1.9, 12).
Not all Hinduism is nondual. Madhva, for example, proposed
Dvaita (Dual) Vedānta, an interpretation of the Hindu scriptures
that distinguishes the Creator and creation. However, the two most
intellectually prominent schools of Vedānta propose a nondual
interpretation of the Creator/creation relationship. Advaita (Nondual)
Vedānta, most notably articulated by Śaṅkara, teaches that Brahman
and the universe are ultimately identical. Viśiṣṭādvaita (Qualified
Nondual) Vedānta, most notably articulated by Rāmānuja, teaches
that Brahman, individual souls, and the psychophysical universe
are of one divine substance, but appearing in different modes with
different characteristics. Therefore, nondualism is only one possible
interpretative approach in Hinduism, and there are several forms of
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nondualism. For our purposes, nondualism entails the complementarity

of seeming opposites, all of which share their origin in God. Indeed, God
creates and sustains seeming opposites, which are actually mutually
amplifying contrasts.
For a narrative example of nondual complementarity, Hindu
mythology offers the myth of Samudra Manthan, or the Churning of
the Ocean. This story is also known as Kūrma Avatāra, or the Tortoise
Avatar of Lord Viṣṇu. In this myth, a holy man’s curse has weakened
the gods, who are now losing their battles with the demons. For
help the gods go to Viṣṇu, who advises them to obtain the nectar of
immortality, or amṛta. Problematically, the nectar lies at the bottom of
a vast ocean of milk. The gods can only obtain it by churning the ocean
with the mountain Mandara, using the serpent king Vāsuki as a rope
(Wilson 1895, 70–81). (Nota bene: while multiple versions of this story
appear in Hindu mythology, we will rely primarily on that of the Viṣṇu
Purāṇa, then turn to Henrich Zimmer’s interpretation thereof in Myths
and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization.)
The enervated gods are a bit nonplussed at this challenge, and ask
Viṣṇu how they’re supposed to meet it. He suggests that they turn
to their cousins and enemies, the demons, for assistance. The gods
naturally worry that if the demons help, then the demons will get
the ambrosia. But Viṣṇu assures them that, if they do not covet the
contents of the ocean that appear during its churning, and if they can
remain calm even if the asuras (demons) attempt to steal the nectar,
then Viṣṇu will assure the gods of its possession.
So, the gods secure the help of their cousins the demons. They dig up
Mount Mandara and begin to carry it to the ocean. Unfortunately, the
gods are so weak that the mountain crushes many of them, prompting
a rescue effort by Viṣṇu and his mount, Garuḍa. Intervening further,
Viṣṇu promises Vāsuki his share of the nectar and that the mountain
won’t harm him, so Vāsuki agrees to serve as the churning rope.
Then the gods and demons begin to churn. Alas, unsupported Mount
Mandara immediately begins to sink to the bottom of the ocean, so
Viṣṇu turns into a giant tortoise (kūrma) and supports it on his back
while the gods and demons churn.
To the dismay of all, the ocean first releases a poisonous gas,
suffocating and killing many gods and demons. For help the gods
now turn to Śiva, who volunteers to drink all the poison out of the
ocean in order to protect the gods. Once the nectar arises, the
demons immediately seize it for themselves and begin fighting over
it. Following Viṣṇu’s command, the gods do not attempt to retrieve

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it. Pleased, Viṣṇu notes that the nectar has divided the asuras, and he
promises the devas that he will give it to them. He assumes his female
form as Mohinī, entrances the demons with her beauty, and secures
the nectar from them. Then, she distributes it to the gods, leaving none
for the demons. Realizing that they have been tricked, the demons
attack the gods but are defeated by their newly energized cousins and
enemies. Once the gods re-establish their sovereignty, Brahmā has
them negotiate for peace with their cousins and vanquished enemies,
the demons (Wilson 1895, 70–81).

Figure 3: Kurma Avatar. Credit: Wikimedia Commons.

Nondual interpretation of the myth

The myth of Samudra Manthan, The Churning of the Ocean, speaks as
only a myth can. It appeals to our intuition and creative imagination,
while refusing to be manipulated as propositional doctrine. Like all
myth, it lies beyond the reach of law and logic; it feeds our subconscious
with story rather than stimulating our intellect with ideas. In this way,
myth attempts to make us spontaneously wiser. As a story, the myth
resists fixed signification—a single, exhaustive interpretation—which
would only sterilize it. Instead, it seeks to produce skilful, intuitive
action within the infinite situational plenum of existence, a plenum
that defies the blind application of unbending rules. For this reason,
we comment on the myth at our peril—to probe its philosophical
implications may obscure its narrative power (Zimmer 1946, 40–42).
Nevertheless, the myth of Samudra Manthan has enormous
potential for existential translation. Even if a myth is irreducible to its
philosophical implications and theological interpretations, they may
amplify our experience of the myth. Hence, while I would deny the
reducibility of a myth to its philosophical implications, I will assert
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the usefulness of various philosophical translations of any myth. They

are not what the myth is, but they are a legitimate expression of the
myth’s inexhaustible meaning (Jaspers and Bultmann 1958, 19–20).
Indeed, some Hindu scholars describe Samudra Manthan itself as an
allegory for the act of interpretation. As the gods must churn the
ocean to elicit its riches, so we must churn a text to elicit its meaning.
Readily available meanings are superficial. The true meaning—the
salutary, transformative meaning, the meaning that changes us for
the better—lies within the depths of the myth, and only struggle can
secure it. Coveting the meaning, claiming it prematurely, or priding
oneself on its possession will eviscerate its power. Only persevering
study, meditation, and debate can receive the sacred gift (Edelmann
2013, 438–440).
Interpreting the myth of Samudra Manthan, we may first note
that there is a supreme God, and that supreme God is intimately
participatory in the drama of unfolding historical existence. God as
Viṣṇu is concerned, not aloof or uncaring. Although God seems able to
resolve all difficulties effortlessly, God leaves room for the actions of
other beings to have meaning and consequence. God’s activity assists
but does not displace that of his deputies. They may be lesser beings,
but their actions do not have lesser significance.
Second, a curse upon the gods has deprived them of their vitality
and power. They are now fatigued and listless, so much so that they
are losing battles with their cousins the asuras. The gods’ enfeeblement
demands a remedy. The situation endangers the universe itself. For
this reason, God steps in to suggest a fix: secure the amṛta, the elixir of
life. The gods—at least these lesser gods—do not appear to be immortal
yet, since the demons are slaughtering them. The elixir will grant them
renewed power, and immortality as well.
Here, the most interesting part of the story arises as plurality
produces vitality. In order to secure the elixir, the gods and demons
must work together. Vitality is summoned by the cooperation of
gods and demons—good and bad, cosmos and chaos—who churn the
ocean together. Vitality is summoned with the assistance of nature,
personified by Vāsuki the serpent king. Vitality is summoned with the
assistance of insensate matter, personified by Mount Mandara. And
vitality is summoned with the approval and guidance of God as Viṣṇu,
who is concerned that his devotees flourish. All elements of existence
cooperate to energize the gods.
Yet vitality does not come without a cost. As the gods and demons
churn the ocean in their quest for the elixir a poison is released,

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suffocating both. They can only survive this milk-borne toxic event
with the help of another powerful God, Śiva, who suffers the poison
for them. Śiva cleanses the ocean of milk—the symbol of life—of its
toxicity. Now, it can offer its potency.
As the ocean yields her wealth the gods keep their promise to Viṣṇu.
They do not covet the riches, but wait patiently for the elixir. When
the elixir appears, and the demons try to steal it for themselves,
fighting over it with one another, the gods do not enter the fray.
Instead, they remain calm and trust Viṣṇu. Trust in God, expressed as
calm detachment and freedom from greed, is the only way to receive
the divinely promised vitality. Those who thirst for it (in this case, the
demons) may appear to receive the boon, but they will soon lose it, to
their great dismay.
Appearing in his female form as Mohinī, Viṣṇu civilizes the demons,
then tricks them into giving her the elixir and turns it over to the
gods. Revitalized, the gods can now battle the demons and win—until
advised to negotiate for peace by Brahmā. For who knows what life
would be like without their cousins and enemies? Indeed, who knows
when they might need their enemies again?

Figure 4: Mutuality. Credit: Stephen Fitzgerald. http://sfitzgeraldfineart.com/index.asp

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Let us summarize our interpretation of the myth: God desires vitality

for all subjects, and utilizes gods and demons, good and bad, the powers of
creation and the powers of destruction, to secure that vitality. By way of
consequence, mutually amplifying contrasts are essential to the
fullness of being.
Nondual Vaiṣṇavism
Since difference amplifies being, polarities such as life/death, light/
darkness, and joy/suffering should be understood as complementary
contrasts, not conflicting dualities. They are not separate, reified
realities. They are not thesis and antithesis, nor are they ontologically
set upon the annihilation of the other. Instead, in the complementary
dualism that we are considering, they are more like interdependent
polarities. Indeed, in Indian thought (as we are interpreting it) they
are not even dual; they are nondual (advaita).
Although Viṣṇu sustains these contrasts, the negative poles do not
sully him. Different thinkers resolve this paradox in different ways.
Rāmānuja, for example, insists that Viṣṇu is pure and untouched
by any evil (pāpa). Evil here refers to all the negative qualities that
souls bound in karma experience, such as pain, fear, and doubt. The
perfectly undefiled (amalatva) and all-knowing (sarvajña) Viṣṇu could
never suffer in this way (Sydnor 2012, 92–95). Other explanations of
suffering, such as human ignorance, ethical freedom, and beginning-
less karma, absolve Viṣṇu of implication in the negative realm, while
also sharing the authority of tradition (Clooney 1989, 530–548). Thus,
Heinrich Zimmer’s interpretation of the myth, which implicates Viṣṇu
in the negative realm by asserting the necessity of the negative for the
fullness of the positive, is only one possible interpretation, though well
corroborated within the tradition (O’Flaherty 1976, 46–49).
For our purposes, we will distinguish nondualism from monism.
Monism asserts that all things are ultimately the same thing, so all
difference is illusion. Nondualism asserts that all things are interrelated
hence interdependent, deriving their existence from God and, by the
determination of God, one another. Difference is real, so plurality
truly exists. But all difference is united into one shimmering web of
divine interbeing, so unity truly exists (Rāmānuja, The Śrī Bhāshya
§1.1.2.2, 261). Reality is many yet one, diverse yet united, different yet
related (Sydnor 2016, 29–31). Such complementarity holds promise
for theodicy—at least to the extent that anything holds promise for
theodicy.
In much Hindu mythology, this complementarity is divinely ordained.

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For example, in The Laws of Manu the Lord explicitly creates dualities:
“in order to differentiate conduct, [the Lord] differentiated right from
wrong, then he bound creatures to the contrasts: joy and suffering,
etc.” (Laws of Manu §1.26, 6 author’s translation, adapted from Olivelle
and Doniger). God rejects pure unity in favour of calculated diversity.
The One chooses to become the Many while remaining the One
(Taittiriya Upaniṣad 2.6.1). God, as the source of all phenomena, does
not create metaphysical opposition. Instead, he creates experiential
amplification. Like the colours on a canvas, ordained difference
cooperates to generate everyday abundance (O’Flaherty 1976, 49).
Likewise, in the myth of Samudra Manthan, all is of Viṣṇu. Energies
that contest with one another are synergies that amplify one another.
Creation and destruction, evolution and dissolution, cosmos and chaos
are of an essence. Opposites are united by their divine source and
justified by their divine function (Zimmer 1946, 46). Evil does not exist
in itself or for itself, but only to serve the greater good of vitality. For
this reason, the holy in Hinduism can manifest itself in both benign
and terrifying forms: the mother Goddess Devī can appear as fanged,
blood drinking Kālī. Śiva can appear as Bhairava (“Frightful”), his
demonic, destructive, yet protective form. And, most relevant to our
discussion, Viṣṇu can appear as Narasiṃha—his half-man, half-lion
form—who disembowels the demon Hiraṇyakaśipu on his lap.
Moreover, Hindu mythology generally asserts the interdependence
of moral polarities by asserting the consanguinity of devas (gods)
and asuras (demons). They are not separate species, tribes, or even
families—they are cousins. In the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad (§1.3.1),
both gods and demons are sons of the creator Prajāpati. In Viṣṇu
Purāṇa §3.17, the gods are absolutely flummoxed when the demons
begin to observe Vedic precepts, fulfill their sacred duties, and
practice religious penance—in other words, when the demons begin
to do what the gods do. Gaining power through virtue, the demons
become invincible, forcing the gods to seek assistance from Viṣṇu.
Even then, Viṣṇu only defeats the demons by deluding them into
non-Vedic practices: he becomes the Buddha, who rejects the Vedas,
animal sacrifice, and the caste system. The demons follow willingly,
forsaking true religion, thereby allowing their destruction (§3.18). In
the Mahābhārata (§12.8.28) Arjuna asks, “Do the gods prosper without
killing their kinsmen, the demons?” (O’Flaherty 60). Elsewhere, the
Mahābhārata declares that enmity is innate to gods and demons
because they are brothers (§12.8.28, §5.98.180. See O’Flaherty 1976,
57–62).

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Virtue is only possible when vice is an option. Viṣṇu creates gods and
demons so that free beings can cultivate moral excellence within the
balance of the universe. Paradoxically, evil is necessary and desirable,
yet must be overcome. Only thus does the self experience increase
within a universe of possibilities. Metaphysical tension is a gift from
God, who sustains the complementary polarities that sentient beings
negotiate and through which they become wise (O’Flaherty 1976, 378–
379).
In addition to sustaining mutually amplifying contrasts, Viṣṇu can
also appear as Viśvarūpa (“universal form”), the original source of all
such difference. In this manifestation Viṣṇu reveals his sovereignty
over all the forces in the universe. Gods and demons, good and evil,
creation and destruction, joy and suffering, life and death all serve
the one supreme Viṣṇu, because all are of the one supreme Viṣṇu.
The clashing forces of this-worldly life merge into their harmonious
source, the terrifying and beneficent personal God (Zimmer 1946,
124–125). Generally, those who see Viṣṇu in his universal form beg
him to take on a more manageable aspect. For instance, in chapter 11
of the Bhagavad Gītā the warrior Arjuna asks to see Viṣṇu’s true form,
which is his Universal Form. Viṣṇu (here, in his avatār as Kṛṣṇa) reveals
the cosmic sweep of his being—infinite arms, infinite heads, without
beginning or end, exceeding even the universe, face ablaze, blindingly
brilliant, worshipped by all, feared by all, granting life, yet consuming
creatures in his gaping maw—dreaming, destroying, and engaging
in intimate conversation with a devotee. Overwhelmed, Arjuna begs
Viṣṇu to return to his conventional appearance: “I rejoice that I have
seen what has never before been seen, but my mind is unhinged with
fear. O god, show me that other form again. Be merciful, lord of gods,
home of the world! I need to see you as you were before: crowned, with
a club, and holding a discus. O thousand-armed one, whose material
form is the universe, assume your four-armed shape” (Johnson 1994,
52).
Unlike Arjuna, when the accomplished sage Nārada sees Viṣṇu
as Viśvarūpa, he simply bows in gratitude. To see reality as it is
requires wisdom and preparation. The wise know that the contrasts
of existence emanate from a shared, divine source, even as that divine
source transcends them, and offers shelter from the maelstrom of
polarities that he himself has created. Only personal devotion to Viṣṇu
can redeem us within (not from) this fluent play of synergies. That
is, recognizing the divine origin of negation empowers us to accept
negation as a gracious aspect of experience. Then, we can live within

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the balance, serenely. Just as a symphony can offer no consonance

without dissonance, life can offer no joy without suffering. Yet, just
as a challenging symphony will struggle with tonal instability and
heightened harmonic tension, then resolve itself in a harmonic
conclusion, so our own struggles will end in the benevolent repose of
God (Zimmer 1946, 136). Everything in our lives—guilt and forgiveness,
failure and success, cruelty and kindness—everything is an expression
of divine energy. What we experience is Viṣṇu manifest, the negative
providing background to the positive. Whether we interpret wisely or
not, our experience is Viṣṇu’s grace (Zimmer 1946, 207).

Figure 5: Chennakesava Temple in Belur, Karnataka. Credit: Author.

Nondual Christian phenomenology

Nondual Vaiṣṇavism suggests that all is of Viṣṇu, who desires for
us a vitality that demands difference. We can discern the value of
vitality in Christian thinkers as well, particularly in the work of
Friedrich Schleiermacher, who commends absolute vitality as a
defining characteristic of God (§51.2, 291–292). For Schleiermacher,
God’s absolute vitality is closely linked to God’s absolute causality—
all that is, is of God. He applies this insight to the Christian doctrine
of creation. Historically, the early Church formulated the doctrine of
creatio ex nihilo—that God created the universe from nothing—to assert
the absolute power of God. Unlike Plato’s demiurge, God did not create
the universe out of pre-existing, uncooperative matter. God created
the universe out of nothingness in an exercise of complete freedom.
Therefore, all that is, is as God wills it. The Creator creates under no
ontological constraints (Schleiermacher 2016 §41.1, 224).
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Although God was under no ontological constraints in the creation

of the universe, God’s free imagination discerned the richest possible
existence for us—the interdependence of dissimilar experiences
(Schleiermacher 2016 §5.3, 31–33). The infinite divine wisdom saw
that a universe of pure joy could never offer such intense joy as a
universe of joy and suffering. A universe of pure love could never offer
such intense love as a universe of love and hate. Similar experiential
opportunities exist for pleasure and pain, hope and fear, life and death,
creation and destruction. We may trust that, as an expression of God’s
love for us, the material world is fundamentally good (Schleiermacher
2016 §59 Postscript, 350–355).
In other words, desiring for us the most vitality possible, God has
placed us within a universe of interdependent, mutually amplifying
contrasts. Here, we not only survive physically, we also grow spiritually,
presented with the opportunity for ever increasing God-consciousness
(Schleiermacher 2016 §59.1, 345–348). Perhaps this aesthetic decision
expresses God’s own internal relatedness, in which the three persons
of the Trinity receive their fullness from one another. Creation bears
the stamp of God’s being (Zizioulas 1985, 87–88), as increase-through-
relation generates divine, human, and cosmic beatitude. In this
view anything that exists independently exists insufficiently. Only
difference fosters experiential bounty, even as negative qualities cause
tribulation. God prioritizes challenge over ease; God wants our lives to
be meaning-laden, not comfort-dulled.
God is not neutral with regard to the contrasts, however. The negative
aspects of the universe exist only to serve the positive aspects. They
amplify, hence are ancillary to, all that makes life good and holy. And
they drive us toward the healing offered by God (Schleiermacher 2016
§76.1, 278-280). Moreover, our moral navigation of these contrasts
grants our life consequence. What we do matters. Made in the image
of God, we can create, and create freely. We are free to create joy or
suffering for our neighbour, we can become agents of hope or despair,
we can grant pleasure or inflict pain. Our lives and our decisions
have import, which they would lack in a monochromatic universe
(Moltmann 1993b, 40–42).
This dangerous abundance blesses human thought, feeling, and
action with significance, so much significance that we call it holiness.
To be holy is to bear both beauty and consequence. The holiness
of life charges moral deliberation, charitable action, and political
struggle with meaning. Our primary question should not be, “why is
there suffering?” But rather: “how can we alleviate suffering?” The

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most holy response to the reality of suffering is the alleviation of it.

Through this ministry, we can become co-redeemers of creation, with
the Creator (Southgate 2002, 820).
The alleviation of suffering grants unexpected joy. In a “perfect”
world, we could never be heroic or sacrificially loving. But in this
broken world we can work to heal, which is to save (Fiddes 2007, 1).
Love becomes the trademark practice of faith in a suffering world. And
through the practice of love we all of us, both as individuals and as
community, experience increase.
When God mapped the affective universe, she assigned it a great
variety of features. In this cartography of difference it matters where
we go. There are dead ends and wide vistas, unfriendly terrains and
fertile hills, streams for drinking and raging rivers to cross. There is
love and hate, hope and despair, disappointment and celebration. We
risk the Wilderness as we seek the Promised Land, where the Creator
invites us to the consummation of her creation. Along the way we
ask: what heals? These questions have great import in a textured,
topographical universe characterized by a vast range of contrasting
affects.

Figure 6: Jacob Wrestling with the Angel by Gustav Dore. Credit: Wikicommons.
For those with a sense for the divine, even tribulation can reveal
a love underlying the universe, to which the universe is imperfectly
transparent. This love discloses itself only in intimations. It will offer
no proof to the sceptical, but it will offer inspiration to the receptive
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(Southgate 2014, 796–797). Those receptive to such intimations will

naturally gather to express God’s grace to one another and our suffering
world (Hall 1986, 140–142). During times of great trial, people of faith
experience God, and God-centered communities, as helpful. They
experience the Creator as loving, even as they experience the creation
as enigmatic—beautiful yet tragic, alive yet deadly, providential
yet threatening. They choose to live within this paradox, for the
inhabitation of paradox offers the most vitality. They then wrestle
with the questions, as Israel must wrestle with God (Genesis 32: 22–32).
Incarnation as divine ratification and celebration
In the myth of Samudra Manthan, Viṣṇu plays the role of divine
mediator. As the source of both good and evil, he is primarily interested
in restoring the balance between the two when evil begins to get the
upper hand. On these occasions, he descends into history in the form
of an avatār, returns the universe to its equilibrium, then ascends back
to his heavenly state (Zimmer 1946, 88).
Christianity offers numerous doctrines of salvation, but none of
them asserts that Jesus came to restore the balance of the universe, as
in Vaiṣṇavism. Nevertheless, Samudra Manthan provides a stimulating
comparison that allows us to enliven our interpretation of the New
Testament. This enlivened interpretation may better address the
existential situation of 21st century humankind, thereby reinvigorating
the religious power of the myth. And if the New Testament myth is
reinvigorated, then the New Testament faith will be reinvigorated
(Bultmann 1961, 10–11). In what follows, we will reinterpret the
Christian narrative of incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection
in accordance with the aesthetic theodicy presented above. This
reinterpretation will accord with the agapic nondualism pervading that
theodicy: God’s love for us overcomes the duality between all contrasts,
uniting being into one seamless whole. Even Roman nails cannot tear
the divine fabric, since God defeats death with life.
In this incarnational doctrine of salvation, God became human as
God always intended. From the moment that God conceives creation,
God chooses to enter creation. The Artist must celebrate her art; the
Playwright must perform her play (Moltmann 1989, 84). Yet this
Creative is no smarmy, shallow romantic. Instead, she acknowledges
our exposure to the soaring and searing spectrum of experience that
she sustains. She knows that we are susceptible to an inexhaustible
range of events and their resultant feelings, yet she affirms the
varieties of embodied experience by undergoing embodied experience
(Annan 2011, 56–57).
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98 Jon Paul Sydnor

But if God is to celebrate her creation, then she must do so

unconditionally. She must become fully human, vulnerable to the
prodigious expanse of events, sensations, emotions, and thoughts
that she loves into being. God, having chosen to amplify joy through
suffering, and pleasure through pain, affirms this decision by subjecting
Herself to the very contrasts that She has created. She must delight,
and She must sorrow (Wolterstorff 1987, 89–90). Crucially, the Hebrew
scriptures testify to Emmanuel, “God with us” (Isaiah 7: 8 and 8: 7).
The incarnation of God in Christ is the flawless consequence of this
sentiment. Entirely open to the ebb and flow of earthly life, Jesus will
turn water into wine at a wedding (John 2: 1–11) and will weep over the
death of a friend (John 11: 35).

Figure 7: The Nativity by Gari Melchers. Credit: University of Mary Washington.

Crucifixion as an expression of absolute participation

Unlike the Vaiṣṇava avatār, Jesus’ fleshly form is meek. Jesus is not
the master of embodied life; he is subject to embodied life. He inhabits
what we inhabit—the plain fact of human suffering and the intimated
assurance of a loving God. He symbolizes divine vulnerability to the
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agony and the ecstasy, but also to the unresolvable paradox of faith
embodied in the words Jesus cries from the cross: “my God, my
God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15: 34). He simultaneously
acknowledges the presence of God and the absence of God. He
accuses God of abandonment, demands of God a defence, yet dies
before receiving one, perhaps because God has no adequate answer.
Crucifixion is an incomprehensibly “grotesque and gratuitous” act.
The Romans created it to terrorize subjugated peoples. This torturous
execution was public, prolonged, and political, reducing the victim to
a political symbol of the Empire’s power over (Crossan 1994, 124–127).
Theologically, the crucifixion of Jesus testifies to the unholy within
the universe, useless suffering that freedom produces but God abhors.
In a challenge to our thesis, something emerges in creation that is
alien to Godself. God did not intend the unholy, but God allows it out
of respect for our moral consequence. Crucially, God suffers from this
demonic fault in reality. God in Christ undergoes demonic alienation
from God through crucifixion (Fiddes 2013, 6–7). In other words,
freedom is of God, but the results of freedom may not be. Faced with
a choice between freedom and suffering, God has chosen to preserve
freedom. We may wish it otherwise, but God has prioritized vitality
over security (Hick 1966, 291).
Yet, God does not make these choices at a distance. In the
incarnation, we see that God has entered creation as unconditional
celebrant. On the cross, we see that God has entered creation as
absolute participant. No part of the divine person is protected from
the dangers of embodiment. God in Jesus is perfectly open to the
mutually amplifying contrasts of embodied life. And God is perfectly
subject to the grotesque and gratuitous suffering that God rejects but
freedom allows. God is completely here; God is fully human. For the
cosmic Artist in a position of creative responsibility, authentic love
necessarily results in vulnerable suffering. Incarnation necessitates
crucifixion. Grotesque and gratuitous suffering may not be from God,
but God has taken it into the Godhead. So now, it is of God (Moltmann
1993a, 270–274).
Resurrection as a declaration of divine decision
Crucifixion alone would repudiate the divine will and intent. For God
to suffer alongside us is insufficient. Doctrinally, theodicy presumes
eschatology; human suffering demands divine healing. Crucifixion
offends God, who responds to it with resurrection (Hodgson and King
1985, 217–219).

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100 Jon Paul Sydnor

Figure 8: Golgotha by Ilya Repin. Credit: Princeton University Art Museum.

As noted above, God is not neutral with regard to creation; God

has chosen faith, hope, love, joy, and peace. In the Hindu myth of
Samudra Manthan, Viṣṇu sustains the demons to assist the gods. Both
are needed, but one is preferred. Mythologically, we infer that God
magnifies blessings through contrasts. In so doing, God vastly enriches
our feeling for life. Now, our decisions are significant; they affect
people, who signify God (Chāndogya Upaniṣad 6.8.7, Genesis 1: 27). And
our decisions are consequential; they produce varying outcomes of
varying qualities. In a purely joyful universe, our decisions could only
produce joy. They would not change the nature of the universe, and
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All is of God 101

they would not affect anyone, so they would be meaningless. Unable

to help or harm, we ourselves would be of no import, mere shades in a
blank-walled pleasure palace.
Existential vitality demands ontological texture, and the choice of
the living God is to be absolutely alive (Schleiermacher 2016, §51.2,
292). Made in God’s image, we are offered God’s vitality. Since the
divine option is for life over death, the crucifixion must yield to the
resurrection; suffering must yield to joy. The emotional fabric of the
universe is woven in different colours, some of which are ugly, others of
which are beautiful. But the overall pattern is one of grace, even when
that pattern is invisible to our downcast eyes. At any one moment we
may not be able to see the overarching magnificence of the weaver’s
creation, but time will move us onward, granting perspective. The
overall pattern always holds. In the end, the resurrection assures us
that God chooses joy, and that we will one day see the grandeur of the
whole, and the Artist’s perfect love woven into the warp and woof of
this trying universe.

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102 Jon Paul Sydnor

Figure 9: The Resurrection by Pierro della Francesca.Credit: Wikicommons.

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All is of God 103

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