^[1] Recent work on the im/passibility debate has been concerned not only with the theological and philosophical arguments for and against a suffering God, but also with the cultural and intellectual climate in which modern passibilism has arisen. One phenomenon that is reiterated both as an argument in favour of passibilism, and as a cultural factor occasioning passibilism’s rise, is the existence of, or an increase in, suffering. Yet the way in which our experience of suffering might be an influencing cultural and intellectual factor in the rise of passibilism remains ambiguous. As, for example, Augustine’s Confessions and the Book of Job attest, it is not an exclusively or even a primarily modern phenomenon to be acutely aware of and greatly affected by suffering, and to see suffering as an obstacle to belief in God, yet neither Augustine nor the writer of Job (nor any other ancient or mediæval thinker whose works are extant) suggest or conclude from their reflections on the problem of evil that God must be passible - and thus we cannot conclude that it is the problem of suffering in and of itself that has given rise to the modern propensity for passibilism.

^[2] Nevertheless, the claim that there is a causal relation between suffering and the rise of passibilism cannot be so easily dismissed, since the suffering of humanity is clearly among the primary concerns of passibilist theologians, and many theologians relate their passibilist conclusions to their own experiences of or reflections upon human suffering. [1] Thus we are left with the vague impression that our experience of suffering is somehow different from that of our predecessors and that this is in part responsible for modernity’s passibilist tendencies, and yet how this is so remains unclear.

^[3] In what follows I shall seek to clarify the situation by exploring three possibilities concerning the relation between suffering and the modern theological propensity for passibilism. First, I shall explore the possibility that suffering has increased (either qualitatively or quantitatively) immediately prior to and during the twentieth century, such that theologians and religious believers have been attracted to passibilism in a radically new way. I shall criticise this suggestion, on the grounds that the attempt to say that suffering has increased quantitatively is unintelligible, and the attempt to say that the suffering of humanity has ‘increased’ qualitatively implies a collective understanding of suffering and, consequently, slips back into a quantitative understanding of suffering. Second, I shall look at the idea that modern people have an increased perception of suffering, or a greater awareness of suffering (as distinct from a perception of increased suffering, or awareness of greater suffering). I shall suggest that it is possible that modern people do tend to have an increased perception of suffering, but that a direct link cannot be made between this and the particular response to suffering that is passibilist theology. Third, I shall inquire into the relation between protest atheism and passibilism as analogous responses to the problem of suffering, and shall conclude that there is not a causal relation between them.

^[4] Given that all of the suggestions I explore transpire to be inconclusive, I shall put forward an alternative, intended not only to provide a cultural factor accounting for the rise of passibilism, but also to help us to put the modern im/passibility debate into historical perspective and to uncover some of the deeper issues lying behind it. I shall suggest that the decline of both reflection upon Christ’s Passion and devotion to the communion of saints in modern theology and religious life means that the psychological need to pray to a transcendent being who understands suffering at an experiential level is no longer fulfilled by the saints and the incarnate Christ, and that it is replaced instead by a doctrine of the empathetic suffering of God in Godself. Thus, I shall suggest, that while the reality of suffering has not changed, and while our increased perception of suffering cannot account for our proclivity for passibilism, the decline of the cult of saints means that, when confronted by suffering, we respond to it in a theologically different way: We increasingly respond to suffering by turning to passibilist theology instead of appealing to the empathy of the incarnate Christ and the saints for consolation.

^[5] For much modern theology, the task of theodicy, classically conceived of as ‘solving’ the ‘problem’ of evil and so ‘justifying’ God, is recast in terms of the way in which God’s moral credibility requires Him to be emotionally affected by the sufferings of the world. For example, Jürgen Moltmann and Dorothee Sölle distance themselves from classical responses to the problem of evil, in favour of affirming the sympathetic and empathetic suffering of God for humanity. [2] This sort of response recognises the insufficiency of ‘answers’ to the problem of evil such as the free will defence and ‘vale of soul-making’ theodicy when confronted with an individual person experiencing deeply dehumanising and meaningless evil. If taken in isolation, an Irenaean theodicy can only make sense where the suffering is of the sort that could conceivably (either in this life or after death) purge or edify the sufferer, while the free will defence is not much consolation to the victim suffering moral or natural evil. The modern theological response to the existence of profound and senseless suffering is to assert that God suffers with the oppressed; as Kenneth Surin puts it, ‘The only credible theology for Auschwitz is one that makes God an inmate of the place’ [3].

^[6] The evident historical concurrence of instances of extreme suffering and the emergence of passibilist thought [4] has led commentators on twentieth century theology to conclude that there is a causal link between theologians’ awareness of suffering on the one hand, and the proclivity for passibilist theology on the other. For example, while having some reservations about positing an unqualified link between suffering and passibilism, Richard Bauckham observes that ‘It is certainly no accident that the modern concern with the question of divine suffering has frequently arisen out of situations in which human suffering was acute…. It could be said that the sheer scale of innocent and involuntary human suffering in our century has posed the problem of suffering in a way which makes the doctrine of divine suffering very attractive.’ [5]

^[7] The implication of Bauckham’s statement is that there was more suffering during and immediately prior to the twentieth century than before. In investigating whether it is the case that an increase of suffering is responsible for the rise of passibilism, we first need to ascertain whether there has been an increase in suffering. At this point, two questions arise. First, is the claim that the amount of suffering has increased intelligible? Second, if the claim that there is more suffering now than before is intelligible, is it plausible? The first question needs to be split up further, for we need both to ask what sort of thing it makes sense to say there is/are more of, and then ask what sort of thing suffering is.

^[8] A further distinction that needs to be made in order to examine whether there is more suffering than before is between (i) a qualitative increase in suffering, and (ii) a quantitative increase in suffering. If (i), then the claim is that the suffering experienced in the twentieth century was far more intense, far more devastating or far more dehumanising for the victim than the suffering that took place prior to it. If (ii), then suffering is not more intense, but there is simply more of it. The idea that suffering can be quantified is not only assumed by some theologians charting the rise of passibilism; it is also regarded as the crux of the problem of evil for some theodicists: Richard Swinburne claims that ‘It is not the fact of evil or the kinds of evil which are the real threat to theism; it is the quantity of evil.’ [6] Thus the question of whether it is meaningful to quantify suffering is not only important to the im/passibility question, but to theology and philosophy of religion more broadly.

^[9] In order to examine the claim that there is more suffering than before, I shall begin by examining whether it is intelligible to speak of there being a greater quantity of suffering than before. I shall suggest that it is not, and thus that the question of whether the claim that there is a greater quantity of suffering than before is plausible is rendered meaningless. I shall then move on to the question of whether it is intelligible to speak of a qualitative increase in suffering, and shall suggest that it is. This opens up the possibility that it is also plausible that suffering has increased qualitatively. I shall suggest that the claim that the suffering of humanity has increased implies a collective view of suffering which entails a quantitative account of suffering, and thus that it also becomes meaningless.

^[10] Is the claim that there is a greater quantity of suffering than before intelligible? A good starting point for this question is an exploration of what sort of things can be quantified and what sort of things cannot be quantified, followed by a consideration of which category suffering falls into. Perhaps the most easily definable entities in terms of quantity are physical objects. It clearly makes sense to speak of there being more apples, for example, since if there are ten apples there are more apples than if there are four apples. The same is true of other physical entities, such as people, or trees, or gin. It is difficult to think of a physical object that cannot be quantified in one way or another, and thus I am going to assume that all physical entities can be quantified.

^[11] In contrast, while we (often misleadingly) use nouns to describe non-physical qualities, non-physical qualities are not quantifiable. It is difficult to see what we actually mean if we speak of quantitatively more hope, quantitatively more truth or quantitatively more goodness, unless we re-image these qualities as physical or quasi-physical entities, or unless we interpret these qualities as instantiations of the particular quality in the world that has its perfect (and quasi-physical) reality in a Platonic (or quasi-Platonic) realm of forms. Thus, while physical entities are quantifiable, unless we adopt a Platonic metaphysic, non-physical qualities are not.

^[12] The question follows, is suffering a physical entity, such that it can be quantified in the way that apples, people and gin are quantified? This suggestion is not as frivolous as may first appear, for the extent of the relation between a person’s ‘psychology’ and their ‘physiology’, and thus between a psychological phenomenon such as suffering, and the human body, is becoming increasingly evident. There are, for instance, physical manifestations of suffering, particularly when suffering is combined with physical pain. For example, someone who is suffering from the pain of backache might show their suffering by a contorted facial expression and groaning, and someone who is suffering from anxiety might come out in a rash. However, neither a rash nor a contorted facial expression are the suffering itself, but are merely outward signs that the suffering is taking place. One might have a contorted facial expression or a rash without suffering, and might suffer without having any outward signs of suffering, and so suffering and its physical manifestations cannot be identified. In addition to physical manifestations of suffering, there are instances of suffering that are caused directly by physical phenomena, such as when a lack of serotonin causes depression, though, in this case, the cause of suffering is not the suffering itself. Finally, there are also descriptions of what happens in the brain when someone is experiencing a type of suffering, though here again we can distinguish between a description of the physical processes of suffering, and the actual experience of suffering itself. Thus, while it would be simplistic to speak of suffering as though it were unrelated to physical phenomena, I think we can conclude that suffering is not itself a physical entity, and so cannot be quantified in the way that physical entities can be quantified.

^[13] Is suffering then a non-physical quality, such that we cannot quantify it except through a category error or by an appeal to a Platonic metaphysic? I suggest that it is. There is no such ‘thing’ as suffering; rather, ‘suffering’ is a quality of experience characterising and characterised by a number of subjective responses to a number of different human situations. Thus it is meaningless to speak of there being quantitatively more suffering in the world, just as it is to speak of there being quantitatively more truth, goodness or hope in the world than before. This means that Bauckham’s suggestion that the rise of passibilism is in part due to the existence of more suffering in the world (if interpreted to mean quantitatively more suffering) fails at the first hurdle, for it is meaningless to speak of quantitatively more suffering, and Swinburne’s suggestion that the sheer quantity of suffering is at the root of the problem of evil requires reconsideration.

^[14] It could be replied that this analysis of Bauckham and Swinburne’s comments is a little facetious, for perhaps what Bauckham and Swinburne are actually getting at when they speak of there being more suffering in the world is that there are more sufferers in the world, and thus more ‘instantiations’ of suffering. That there are more sufferers in the world is, of course, likely to be true, simply on the grounds that the world population has increased, and thus there are more ‘instantiations’ of suffering just as there are more ‘instantiations’ of moral goodness, of hope and of love. However, an increase in the quantity of sufferers is not an increase in the quantity of suffering, since sufferers and suffering are different sorts of thing. Just as the (probable) fact that there are now more English people in the world than ever before does not mean that there is more Englishness in the world than ever before, so also the fact that there are more sufferers in the world does not mean that there is more suffering in the world, for sufferers cannot be equated with suffering. Two further but related points need to be made here. First, as C.S. Lewis observes, the attempt to ‘add up’ all human suffering by combining the suffering of all sufferers posits something that doesn’t actually exist; namely, a sum total of human suffering:

^[15] Second, not only does talking about the ‘sum of human suffering’ posit something that doesn’t in fact exist; it is also a category error, for, just as speaking of quantitatively more suffering misleadingly re-images suffering as a quasi-physical object or substance, so speaking of the ‘sum of human suffering’ re-images suffering as a quasi-physical substance or object that we can mix with ‘more’ suffering in a meta- yet quasi- physical vat to create larger amounts of it. The idea that suffering can be added together to produce a larger amount of it is fallacious, for it entails the idea that suffering can be quantified.

^[16] In addition to this, the idea that the existence of more sufferers intensifies the problem of evil (and that this is partly responsible for the rise of passibilism) undermines the theological framework in which the problem of evil and the im/passibility debate are rooted for both Bauckham and Swinburne, for it ignores the Judaeo-Christian emphasis upon the essential value of each human being in favour of a broadly utilitarian conception of humanity. As David Brown remarks:

^[17] Thus the idea that there is more suffering in the world in that there are more sufferers in the world, and that this intensifies the problem of evil, is fallacious on several levels. First, it suggests an identification of sufferers and suffering, whereas in fact sufferers and suffering are different types of thing. Second, it posits the existence of ‘the sum of human suffering’, which is something that doesn’t actually exist. Third, it suggests that suffering can be added up to create larger amounts, therein again erroneously quantifying suffering. Fourth, on the theological level, it undermines the Christian belief in the intrinsic value of every human being based upon God’s love for each person, a belief which is fundamental to the Christian formulation of the problem of evil.

^[18] From this, I conclude that attempts to speak of quantitatively more suffering (whether or not in virtue of the fact that there are quantitatively more sufferers) are unintelligible and misconceived, and thus that the quantity of suffering is not at the root of the problem of evil, and an increase in the quantity of suffering is not responsible for the rise of the passibilism. However, this leaves open the possibility that Bauckham’s suggestion that the rise of passibilism is partly due to the ‘sheer scale’ of suffering in the twentieth century should be interpreted to imply a qualitative, rather than a quantitative, increase in suffering. The question thus becomes, is it meaningful to speak of a qualitative increase or decrease in the referents of abstract nouns such as ‘suffering’, and what are the implications of using abstract nouns in this way?

^[19] While one can speak intelligibly in terms of quantities with respect to physical things but not with respect to non-physical qualities, I suggest that the reverse is the case when it comes to speaking of the qualitative increases or decreases of the thing or quality in question. It is difficult to see what would be meant if one started to speak of a qualitative increase in apples, trees or gin. What would it mean to say that one gin was more ‘gin-like’ or ‘gin-ny’ than another? One could of course speak of one gin being of a better quality than another, but this would probably imply that that particular gin had more of one’s favourite quality of gin about it – for example, that it was more citrus-y than another gin, or more spicy, or more alcoholic. It would not make sense to say that one gin is more gin-ny than the other, since the beverage in question either is, or is not, gin. Thus the only intelligible interpretation of the phrase ‘more gin’ is quantitative, that is, it implies a larger bottle or a fuller glass.

^[20] This is not the case when we speak of ‘more’ and ‘less’ in the context of non-physical things. As we have seen, when we speak of ‘more’ and ‘less’ of the referent of an abstract noun, we cannot intelligibly be speaking of a greater quantity. Yet, I suggest, it is not the case that all instances of speech about non-physical qualities that employ the language of ‘more’ and ‘less’ are meaningless. For example, the statement ‘Susan loves John more than [she loves] James’ has a real referent: The statement is referring to something true (or not true, or true in some respects but not in others) about Susan’s feelings and attitudes towards John and James. The fact that love is not a physical object by no means diminishes the fact that the proposition refers to a true (or false) statement of affairs in the world (in this case, Susan’s attitude and feelings). Yet it is not likely that we mean that Susan has the same sort of love for John as for James but simply a greater quantity of it for John (this interpretation would not only be meaningless, but would also indicate a simplistic understanding both of love and of human psychology)—rather, Susan’s love for John is (or isn’t) of a more valuable sort, or is more intense, or has more of the perceived qualities of ideal love (such as loyalty, or selflessness, or passion) than her love for James. In other words, ‘more’ love (in this context) stands in for a qualitative difference in the love or type of love Susan has for John, and conveys a value judgement about the type of love that Susan has for James and John. Thus, in the context of at least some abstract nouns, language of ‘more’ or ‘less’ (if it is to be intelligible at all) is to be understood not in terms of quantity, but in terms of the value of the quality in question.

^[21] In the case of suffering, I think that it is meaningful to speak of ‘more’ suffering, if what is meant by it is not that there is a quantitative increase in suffering, but a qualitatively different sort of suffering, that corresponds more closely to that which we see as the epitome of suffering, i.e. that has more of the qualities that we associate with suffering. For example, the statement ‘the death of a loved one is likely to induce more suffering than toothache’ is intelligible if what is meant by it is not that there is a greater quantity of the particular thing we call suffering in the experience of the former, but that the experience someone is likely to have in the event of the death of a loved one embodies more of the particular qualities that we see as typical of suffering, and in a more intense way.

^[22] From this I conclude that it is intelligible to speak of an increase in suffering when this is understood qualitatively and not quantitatively. However, I suggest that a qualitative interpretation of the phrase ‘more suffering’ (and analogous references to the qualities of abstract nouns) must always refer to an individual, and can never be collectively understood. This is because any attempt to make a statement about the collective suffering of humanity (or any other group) falls back into a quantitative understanding of suffering, which is unintelligible for the reasons we have discussed above, and fails to recognise that humans have distinct consciousnesses and that no one experiences, in Lewis’ terms, ‘the sum of human suffering’. Thus, while it is intelligible to say, for example, ‘Jane suffered (qualitatively) more as a child than as an adult’, or ‘he suffered (qualitatively) more than she did’, statements about collective suffering (such as ‘The suffering of the world is (qualitatively) greater now than ever before’) are unintelligible. Given that when theologians speak of there being ‘more suffering in the world in the twentieth century’ they are employing a collective understanding of suffering, I suggest that the claim that suffering has increased over the last one hundred years in a qualitative sense is as unintelligible as the claim that suffering has increased over the past one hundred years in the quantitative sense. From this, I conclude that Bauckham’s suggestion that the rise of passibilism is due to an increase in suffering is inconclusive whether understood quantitatively or qualitatively, quantitatively because it is unintelligible to speak of suffering in quantitative terms, and qualitatively because the assertion implies a collective understanding of suffering that entails a quantitative view of suffering, and because it posits a sum of human suffering that in fact does not exist.

^[23] This renders untenable the argument that a greater amount of suffering in and immediately prior to the twentieth century made theologians more inclined to adopt a passibilist position. At the same time, it is undeniable that passibilist theology has often emerged out of situations of great suffering, and so it is likely that there is some other, less direct link between suffering and passibilism. Since we can no longer propound a direct link between an increase in suffering and the propensity for passibilism, we must look for an alternative explanation of why the experience of suffering leads much theology to assert passibilism where previously it did not.

^[24] One possible answer to this lies not in the idea that there is more suffering now than previously, but that people have a greater awareness of suffering from the end of the nineteenth century onwards. Writing about the context in which passibilism arose, Thomas Weinandy asserts that ‘With the demise of nineteenth-century optimism and in the face of the social suffering caused by the Industrial Revolution and the agony of World War I, the passibility of God found a cultural climate in which to sprout.’ [9] Ronald Goetz views the rise of passibilism as the combined result of the Darwinian revelation that the evolution of humanity occurred ‘only after eons and eons of “nature red in tooth and claw”’ and the brutalities of the First World War. [10] Added to the demise of moral optimism and the realisation of the human and animal suffering entailed by Darwinian theory is the fact that the way in which post-nineteenth century people experienced and experience suffering tends to be very different to the way in which people experienced suffering before this time. While food shortages, illness, meteorological catastrophes, infant mortality and poor sanitation were well-known aspects of everyday life for many people in many periods of history, it would not be naïve to say that since the turn of the twentieth century western people have, on the whole, increasingly had an easier time of it in these respects. However, the decline of familiarity with suffering in everyday life is in contrast to our increasing awareness of extreme instances of suffering on a global scale, mediated through television, the internet, radio and newspapers. The combination of the two – separation from first-hand experiences of suffering in everyday life juxtaposed with exposure to the alien sufferings of others – may mean that we are more aware of atrocious suffering, and that our reactions against it are more extreme.

^[25] However, it is difficult directly to link this different experience of suffering with the tendency for passibilism, since it is not clear why modernity’s different experience of suffering should tend us towards the particular response of passibilist theology, rather than (for example) to a revival of traditional responses to the problem of evil such as the free will defence, or an appeal to a concept of the overall beauty of creation that requires pain as well as pleasure. Therefore, while it may be true that modern people are more aware of suffering, and experience suffering very differently to pre-modern people, and that this different experience affects our response to suffering, the reason why this response is the proclivity for passibilism rather than another response remains unresolved, and we need to look for other factors providing us with an indication of why our response to suffering tends to take the form it does.

^[26] In contrast to other theological responses to the problem of evil, passibilism shares something with protest atheism, for both seek to maintain genuine protest against suffering in contrast to [other] forms of theodicy. For Moltmann, the meeting point of Christian theology and protest atheism is Jesus’ cry of desolation, since ‘All Christian theology and all Christian life is basically an answer to the question which Jesus asked as he died. The atheism of protests and of metaphysical rebellions against God are [sic] also answers to this question. Either Jesus who was abandoned by God is the end of all theology or he is the beginning of a specifically Christian, and therefore critical and liberating, theology and life.’ [11] In the cry of desolation Christ takes the protest against suffering and the inherent god-forsakenness of sufferers into God’s own Being. [12] In so doing, God ‘in his own being joins the atheist in protesting against human agony and against any conception of a God who does not.’ [13]

^[27] However, the relation between passibilism and protest atheism does not take us very far in discerning why theologians affirm passibilism whereas previously they did not. In fact, it simply intensifies the question, for that to which passibilism and protest atheism both attempt to respond (i.e. human suffering) existed prior to the emergence of both passibilism and protest atheism. Nor can the reaction of protest against suffering and outrage at God be held responsible for both protest atheism and passibilism, for it is not a uniquely modern phenomenon to react to suffering with outrage at God for allowing or even perpetrating it. Job responds to his suffering with acrimony at God, from Whom he demands to know why he and the poor as a whole should suffer. Here, the context is one in which the doctrine of divine retribution (represented by Job’s friends) means that Job and his contemporaries expect there to be a parity between an individual’s moral behaviour and their fortuity. When Job realises that suffering occurs without a retributive justification, his response is one of outrage at God for God’s unfairness. However, while many modern [a]theologians have maintained their outrage at suffering by turning to protest atheism or to passibilism, The Book of Job responds to outrage at suffering (and at God for allowing or causing it) by emphasising the transcendence of God in opposition to potentially anthropocentric theology. Thus, while protest atheism and passibilism are related in that both are born of a refusal to ‘justify’ suffering, neither protest atheism, nor the protest against suffering and outrage at God on which it is based, account for why modern theology tends to affirm passibilism when previously it did not. Once again, we must look elsewhere for an account of why theologians have responded to their increased awareness of suffering in the world with the particular response of passibilist theology.

^[28] The idea that the suffering of humanity entails that if God is to be morally credible He must suffer with humanity often presupposes that God’s empathetic suffering alleviates suffering, or is a consolation to victims. Moltmann, for instance, argues that in different ways God’s solidarity with victims transforms the character of suffering by overcoming the inherent god-forsakenness of sufferers through fellowship with Him in suffering. [14] Paul Fiddes speaks of God’s participation in our estrangement as having a persuasive power that moves us to trust God. [15] This line of thought raises a whole host of questions, but, for our current purposes, the important point to note is that theologians have increasingly felt that the empathetic suffering of God is a consolation to those who suffer. Given that suffering was a feature of the pre-modern world just as it is a feature of the modern, the question is raised: Why did pre-modern theologians not perceive that divine empathy is needed to console victims and alleviate suffering, when it is so clearly felt by many of their modern counterparts?

^[29] One possible answer to this lies in the prayers and devotions to saints and martyrs and reflection upon their sufferings, and in the meditations upon the Passion of Christ, that are decreasingly a part of Post-Reformation western Christianity. As the revisionist historian Eamon Duffy argues, late mediæval laity, at least in England, looked to the saints first and foremost as powerful helpers and healers in times of need. [16] However, reflection upon the suffering of the saints and martyrs also prompted people’s belief that there was someone who knew what their own suffering was like, and so the saints were also viewed as ‘soul-friends’, fellow sufferers and consolers. [17] Similarly, the very act of meditating upon Christ’s Passion and identifying with Him in it allowed people’s own sufferings to be taken up with Christ’s and may even have had a cathartic effect. The decline in much modern Christianity of reflection upon the saints’ suffering, and reflection on the Passion of Christ per se, means that the consolation people gained from reflection upon the suffering of holy people is often no longer available. In addition, the fact that prayer to saints has dwindled in favour of prayer to God alone means that only the empathetic suffering of God can fulfil the psychological need of having a transcendent ‘fellow suffer who understands’. [18] Thus, I suggest, modern Christians tend towards passibilist theology as a response to suffering partly because reflections upon Christ’s Passion and the sufferings of the saints decreasingly fulfil the need for an empathetic yet transcendent consoler.

^[30] In the early church the saints are described both as the αορατος φιλοι [19] and the γνησιος φιλοι. [20] Theodoret, the fifth-century Bishop of Cyrrus, writes of the supercession of the pagan world by the Christian in terms that make clear the extent to which the saints were dear to people: ‘The philosophers and the orators have fallen into oblivion; the masses do not even know the names of the emperors and their generals; but everyone knows the names of the martyrs, better than those of their most intimate friends.’ [21] Peter Brown speaks of the way in which Mediterranean men and women, from the fourth century onwards, ‘turned with increasing explicitness for friendship, inspiration and protection in this life and beyond the grave, to invisible beings who were fellow humans and whom they could invest with the precise and palpable features of beloved and powerful figures in their own society.’ [22] However, perhaps the most explicit instances of the way in which the psychological need for a transcendent empathiser was fulfilled through prayers to and meditations upon the sufferings of the saints come from the theology and religious practices of the thirteenth through to the sixteenth centuries.

^[31] One aspect of the mediæval devotion to saints is that, in addition to the fact that people who suffered turned generally to saints and martyrs who also suffered, individual people or small groups of people turned to particular saints whose plights closely matched their own. For example, St. Magnus, the martyred Earl of Orkney, appeared to Robert Bruce on the eve of Bannockburn, and was regarded by many Scots as the patron of Scottish resistance against England. [23] St. Wilgefortis, a bearded lady who protected her virginity by her prayers to be ugly, was in fourteenth-century Flanders ‘especially popular with wives who wanted to be rid of their husbands’ [24]. Duffy notes that the saints ‘could be appealed to as loving friends, who would not be too hard on poor weak flesh and blood. In the cases of saints like Archbishop Scrope or Henry VI, this emphasis was related directly to their own histories: the victims of persecution or juridical murder could be expected to have a special tenderness for those who suffered similar injustice.’ [25] The psychological identification of the suffering adorant with a particular saint is indicated by the fact that the subjects of saints’ patronage often corresponded with experiences in the saints’ own lives. St. Agatha, whose breasts were cut off but later reattached by St. Peter, is the patron saint of diseases and inflammations of the breast. St. Lawrence of Rome is the patron saint of firemen, since his own death involved being laid on a grill and held there with iron forks. The correlation between the saints’ lives and their patronage (the latter being developed organically rather than officially delineated) suggests the extent to which people wished to appeal to a transcendent companion who had experiential knowledge of their own ordeal or misfortune.

^[32] Duffy draws attention to the correspondence of particularity between the suffering of the adorant and the life of the saint to whom they appealed, and argues that this often arose not from a superficial recognition of the similarity between the saint’s experience and that of their own, but from a profound feeling of kindred spirit that arose as a result of the shared experience. According to Duffy, there is ‘some evidence that resort to a specialist saint might be the result of a deeper and more sympathetic intuition than such simple application to the recognized expert. It might also spring from a sense of empathy and intimacy….’ [26] Duffy goes on to relate the account of Henry Walter, a mariner who was gravely injured in a sea battle during the reign of Richard III. Due to the fetid stench of his wounds, his fellow sailors placed him in a small boat outside but attached to the main ship. After fifteen days of suffering, Henry VI appeared to Walter, wearing fifteen day’s growth of beard—interpreted as a mark of solidarity with Walter in his suffering. Walter then perceived that ‘the holy martyr Erasmus [for whom he had particular devotion] lay near him, as if with the pain of his sufferings renewed, just as he is often represented in churches, being tortured by his executioners.’ [27] The original account of Walter’s vision then continues that from the vision ‘the man conceived great gladness of heart, and from that time entertained no little confidence that he could hope for recovery.’ [28] Duffy concludes that ‘The whole incident illuminates vividly that sense of the saints as “kynd neyghbours and of our knowyng” of which Julian of Norwich wrote. In this case at least the power of the specialist saint was no mere arbitrary exercise. Instead it sprang from the fact that they themselves had shared the sufferings of their clients….’ [29]

^[33] In addition to the cult of saints, mediæval devotion to Christ’s Passion, while often focusing on the theological link between Christ’s sufferings and humanity’s sin, [30] also encouraged people to find consolation for their own sufferings by a process of reflection on Christ’s. One aspect of this was devotion to the five wounds of Christ, which were often portrayed in art as small troches that were detached from Christ’s body and rearranged into patterns in paintings, stained-glass windows, wooden and brass church furniture and even jewellery, as in the case of the fifteenth-century Coventry Ring. The ring seems to have been intended to inspire consolation and comfort as well as repentance of sins, for it bears the inscription ‘the well of pitty, the well of merci, the well of confort, the well of gracy, and by the wound in the side the well of everlastingh lyffe’ [31] Another tendency was to see the five wounds of Christ as represented here on earth by the poor, the outcast, and other victims of suffering, on the basis of the divine recipiency of charitable deeds suggested by Matthew 25.40. Margery Kempe reports that when she beheld ‘a lazer or an-other seke man, specialy he had any woundes aperyng on him’, it was as though ‘sche had sen our Lord Ihesu Crist wyth hys woundes bledyng.’ [32] This tendency had the effect of encouraging Christians to perform acts of mercy to victims of suffering as devotions to the wounds of Christ. [33] Again, reflections upon the seven words of Christ stress Jesus’ loving and tender nature, and His compassion for the suffering of humanity. Of the Fifteen Oes of St. Bridget, structured around the seven words of Jesus, Duffy observes ‘All fifteen of the “Oes” are conceived as pleas for mercy to a merciful Saviour whose understanding of the human condition is guaranteed by the fact that he took flesh and suffered for us, and whose suffering forms an enduring bond of endearment between him and suffering humanity.’ [34] The Crucifix itself, as the ultimate symbol of Christ’s sufferings, is described as being, for late mediæval Catholicism, ‘the icon of Christ’s abiding solidarity with suffering humanity’. [35] Of course, much modern passibilist theology (particularly that which is influenced by Luther’s theologia crucis such as Moltmann) also emphasises the Passion of Christ, and yet it concludes from its reflections that God is passible, moving away from the idea that Christ suffers in his human nature alone. However, this fact does not detract from the current argument, since Moltmann’s religious practice and theology (while drawing upon that of many churches, including the Roman Catholic and the Orthodox) is essentially rooted in the evangelical Lutheran tradition, which concentrates upon the fact of Jesus’ suffering rather than the particularities of that suffering (embodied in the stations of the cross, devotions to the five wounds, etc.). In contrast, mediæval religious practice focused upon recreating, as vividly as possible, the actual experiences of Jesus during His suffering and death, and it is this, I suggest, that fulfilled the need for an empathetic yet transcendent consoler in a way that much Post-Reformation religious practice does not.

^[34] However, in view of the fact that Christ’s consciousness remained ultimately mysterious due to His divinity, Christians also reflected upon the suffering of those who were near Him on the cross, who could appear more accessible due to the fact that they were not divine. The thirteenth or fourteenth century hymn, [36] Stabat Mater Dolorosa, induces empathy with the sufferings of Mary while she watches – and shares – her Son’s Passion. Arnold of Bonneval speculates that ‘what nails and spear did to the flesh of Christ, Mary’s natural compassion and motherly affection did to her spirit.’ [37] The ‘Obsecro Te’ implores Mary to have mercy and counsel Christians

^[35] After the Reformation and Counter-Reformation, Roman Catholic theology continued to affirm the importance of the saints and to encourage reflection upon Christ’s Passion, while eliminating some of the wilder forms of mediæval piety and ways in which devotional practice had been corrupted by parts of the Church. Protestant theology began to diverge from Catholic theology almost immediately with respect to the cult of saints, and it is interesting that as early as the Heidelberg Theses (1518) Luther laid down the groundwork for twentieth-century passibilist theology. While still rooted in Catholic devotions to the Passion, Luther anticipates some of modern passibilist theology’s cruciocentric and revelation-centred tendencies in his emphatic assertions that a theologian worthy of the name comprehends God not through God’s works and manifestations of power but ‘through suffering and the cross’. [39] Thus, while passibilism is a late-nineteenth and early twentieth- century phenomenon, its roots can be seen at the outset of Protestant theology’s rejection of the cult of saints.

^[36] The Roman Catholic Church in the twentieth century, which has been characteristically reserved about the possibility of divine suffering, has provided an alternative coping strategy for Christians in difficult situations. In the course of his career as Pope, John Paul II beatified 1,700 people, of whom at least 1029 were martyrs, and canonised 473 saints, at least 401 of whom were martyrs. The Catechism of the Catholic Church advocates appealing to these and all the saints as sources of strength and consolation for those who suffer in their own lives or struggle to overcome sin: ‘The saints have always been the source and origin of renewal in the most difficult moments in the Church’s history.’ [40] The cult of saints in the modern Roman Catholic Church has also drawn on the older saints and adapted them to new roles pertinent to the modern world: Paul the Apostle’s claim to be ‘all things to all men’ has proved to be prophetic in view of the fact that his patronage now encompasses evangelists, journalists and newspaper editorial staff, and public relations personnel, [41] while St. Clare, due to a vivid and accurate vision of the Christmas Mass in S Franceso experienced on her death-bed, is now the patron saint of television. [42] Rather more seriously, Maximillian Kolbe’s patronage spans such characteristically modern concerns and forms of suffering as drug addiction, political imprisonment and the pro-life movement. Thus while one strand of Christian theology deals with the suffering of the twentieth century by appealing to the idea of a suffering God, another strand responds to it by the more traditional appeal to the example of holy people who suffered on earth and so empathise with our own suffering.

^[37] Discussion of the reflection upon the suffering of Christ and the saints would not be complete without mention of the prayers accompanied by them, which could either request help (or inspiration, spiritual guidance etc.) in the adorant’s life, or else ask the holy person in question to pray or intercede for them before God. For instance, the last stanzas of the Stabat Mater Dolorosa turn to Mary’s role as intercessor: ‘Be to me, O Virgin, nigh, lest in flames I burn and die, in His awful Judgment Day.’ Here, Mary (rather than God the Father or even God the Son) becomes the ‘fellow sufferer who understands’, and the one who knows both what it is like to suffer and what it is like as a non-divine being to be tempted by sin. [43] Ivan Karamazov cites the example of the (actual) twelfth-century tale ‘The wanderings of Our Lady through hell’ in which Mary is shocked and weeps at the sight of sinners in a burning lake whom ‘God forgets’, and so falls before God’s throne and begs for mercy for all in hell, eventually winning from God a reprieve of the suffering of the damned every year from Good Friday to Trinity day. [44] The move from empathising with saints to calling upon their intercessory powers is also evidenced in the thirteenth century poem Maria Noli Flere, which recalls Mary Magdalene’s distress at the death of Christ and calls upon her to rejoice at the resurrection, before beseeching her to intercede. [45] Again, the saint in question (and not God Himself) becomes the compassionate helper who understands both the adorant’s suffering and their tendency to sin. [46]

^[38] Extending the idea of the intercessory role of Christ and the saints beyond mediæval Catholic piety to Christian theology more generally, a useful (but in practice not absolute) distinction may be made between Christian worship which views Christ as interceding for sinners to the Father, and that which emphasises the transcendence of Christ and His unity with the Father, and appeals instead to Mary the mother of Jesus and the other saints to intercede both to the Father and to the Son. The former often emphasises the humanity of Christ and the fact that He both suffered and was tempted by sin, while the latter lays stress upon Christ’s divinity and the assessment that particular saints’ sufferings and temptations closely match those of the specific worshipper or worshippers. In the case of the former, God the Father is often viewed as the divine Judge, while God the Son is seen as the merciful Advocate. For instance, the hymn ‘Alleluia, sing to Jesus’ beseeches Christ ‘Intercessor, Friend of sinners, earth’s Redeemer, plead for me’. [47] In the case of the latter, God the Son and God the Father personify justice, while Mary and the saints mediate and plead for the rest of humanity. For example, the Marian hymn ‘Hail, Queen of Heaven’ includes the lines ‘Remind thy Son that He has paid the price of our iniquity.’ [48] In both cases, the fact that the holy person is prayed to, and an appeal made to their own experiences (either of suffering or of temptation), consoles the person who is praying. It is possible that it is in part due to the decrease in language of intercession and the concept of compassionate mediators and mediatrices in modern theology and religious practice in favour of prayer made directly to God that has prompted Christians to turn to God for the sympathy and consolation previously supplied by those humans (divine and non-divine) who suffered on earth. [49]

^[39] In discussing assertions that the increasing popularity of the idea of a suffering God is due to suffering in the twentieth century I have attempted to move beyond potentially simplistic associations between human suffering and the propensity for passibilism, and to explore the way in which the psychological need for a transcendent sufferer who understands has been met by different strands of Christian theology at different times. I have suggested that the modern tendency for passibilism has arisen partly as a result of the decline of devotion to saints and Christ’s Passion, and the diminution of the role of heavenly beings who act as mediators and intercessors, and have pointed to Reformation theology as sowing the seeds for later passibilist thought. Without commenting explicitly on the theological value of the cult of saints, I hope I have also indicated that the way in which devotion to the saints can meet psychological needs can be valuable and insightful. With this in mind, I hope I have indicated that pre-modern Christianity could be far from insensitive to the suffering of humanity and far from oblivious to the need for a transcendent fellow sufferer, and that I have pointed to the value of reflection upon the particularity of Christ’s incarnate life, and the lives of the saints on earth, for Christian theology. I also hope that, in viewing the cult of saints and devotions to the Passion as, in some respects, the predecessors of the modern passibilist tendency, theologians will be enabled to contextualise and put into perspective recent trends in theology, and to approach the im/passibility debate with increasing self-awareness and understanding.