WHO TO BLAME WHEN NO ONE IS TO BLAME

Over the past few weeks we have opened up a discussion about suffering in a way that tries to avoid the classic pitfalls people fall into when trying to reconcile a belief in God with the tragedies that often occur during the course of a life. One such pitfall, for example, is to assume that every painful circumstance is prescribed by God as a kind of “test” of faith or strengthening of character. Another approach might be to consider suffering as inherently meaningless - not capable of giving rise to anything at all, just ethereal. 

These options are appealing - particularly to those trying to hold onto their faith during very difficult seasons - but I wonder whether there might be wisdom somewhere in-between the polemic. The approach we have been hinting at in our articles is: don’t assume that everything needs to make sense, but rather look for ways that your situation can give rise to hope. 

Not everything can “make sense,” and sometimes our attempt to force tragedy into some kind of meaningful frame can do more damage than good. This quote from David Bentley Hart is a helpful beacon. I’ll include the whole section as it is worth quoting in full:

Whilst long, what he is communicating is as simple as it is relevant: whilst explaining suffering using divine providence may be comforting, it can transform God into a ‘moral monster.’ Is it possible that God is neither responsible for our suffering, nor abdicating responsibility for caring for his children in the midst of it? Whilst this is a difficult and almost paradoxical thing to conclude, it moves us in the direction of what Brian described in his very first post as a ‘thick theodicy” - a way of articulating suffering that is neither cheap nor conclusive. 

One of the challenges, however, is that when we are unable to explain the reasons behind our suffering in concrete terms we tend to find it more difficult to know where to direct our anger. If the terminal diagnosis or fatal accident wasn’t “all part of the plan” but rather is consigned to the level of unexplainable tragedy, or ‘fortuitous mystery,’ we are unable to sanctify our suffering with providence (or rather, an overly simplified caricature of providence). This can make us angry, and when we are angry we need someone or something to be angry at. We need someone to blame.

Just like my children who, when caught writing on the walls in permanent marker, are quick to throw their siblings under the proverbial bus, I still find myself in adulthood trying to absolve myself of the responsibility for my mistakes or explain away seasons of difficulty by finding who is at fault. It is easy to see why this is such an appealing strategy when you are actually in the wrong, but what happens when no one is wrong, but tragedy and suffering still occur? 

Who then do we blame?

Who is there to take responsibility?

Anyone with even a mildly theological mind will be able to see the necessary “off ramps” that these questions have to concepts like atonement and sin - but these discussions are not for now. The question in focus here is: who is to blame when no one is to blame? If suffering can genuinely be a “fortuitous mystery” then what do we do with our need for justification and certainty?

Looking for someone to blame is nothing new. It echoes all the way back to the Garden of Eden. The serpent tempts the humans with the spoils of a tree they had yet to be given access to and when questioned by God they immediately cast aspersions; first on each other and then onto the serpent who tempted them. The notion that they had made a choice themselves was, even then, a slippery and elusive concept.

More challenging than the initial blame, however, is the precedent it has set for others to rather casually blame their own actions on the “temptations” that come from the evil one. It is far easier to see the serpent as the external embodiment of evil than to consider that it may simply be the whisper of our own internal conflict. To internalise the temptation requires us to be responsible for its effect on us, which is often too high a price to pay. This seems to happen regardless of whether we are genuinely complicit in the wrong. 

And so the story goes. Something wrong happens, and we look for someone to blame. This is a simple and yet remarkably effective mechanism not only for shifting our own feelings of complicity but also for focusing the enmity of the group. We don’t just blame as individuals, we do it as groups too. 

There is a powerful quote from anthropologist Rene Girard, who warns us that: “everywhere and always, when human beings either cannot or dare not take their anger out on the thing that has caused it, they unconsciously search for substitutes, and more often than not they find them.”

One of Girard’s major theories is commonly known as the scapegoat theory. He simply (and this is a very simple rendition) claims that the way human beings deal with anger - or internal chaos - is to find a “scapegoat” onto whom we can project all of our feelings of anger, betrayal, and hate. Whilst this victim may well be blameless (at least of the specific thing to which we are holding them responsible), the ones doing the blaming are not necessarily aware of it (or interested). They just need someone to be responsible, and are grateful for an outlet. Grateful for the momentary release from the angst that suffering brings. 

The fact that the scapegoat may be innocent is inconsequential. It/they provide a satisfactory answer to our many questions, and a seemingly appropriate location for our rage. 

This plays out in many different ways. When economies struggle people find it easier to blame refugees than home loans. It is easier to blame people who rely on Centrelink payments than rampant consumerism. In the Christian church I’ve known people who can’t understand why their prayers failed to prevent a person dying of cancer and instead conclude that some hidden sin must be to blame. Pastors struggle to explain why their congregants still go through divorce, have affairs, come out as gay, and so they put it all down the fault of broad abstractions such as “culture” or “media” or “the world.” 

And then there is COVID. 

For anyone under the age of 40, particularly in the West, it is likely that COVID-19 will be one of the more challenging experiences they will have gone through. Lockdowns, global panic, mandatory vaccinations, restrictions on previously assumed liberties, less toilet paper than we might have liked. It’s been a hell of a ride, and far more challenging for most than for me, given the relative freedom of where I live. The reason COVID is a fascinating case study when it comes to suffering, however, is that it is difficult to direct our anger when there is no discernable locus of blame. 

As Girard predicted (although his predictions were much broader than a pandemic), without the ability to blame, we go in search of scapegoats. And many have found them. Depending on who you are and what you read, the objects of your anger might range from the nation of China, to the “draconian” measures taken by state governments, to the malevolent intentions of big pharmaceutical companies. Some push it even further, engaging in deep conspiratorialist thinking. The problem that arises with each of these examples has less to do with truth and falsity, and more to do with the passionate need for a scapegoat that alleviates the painful reality of a confusing and often unexplainable situation.

A recent ABC article by Josh Roose looks into the fear and anxiety that lies at the heart of some of this kind of thinking and its inevitably aggressive follow up action. 

Whilst it might feel dystopian, this kind of situation is nothing particularly new. It is the inevitable result of needing someone to blame, and being unable to take out our frustration on that which has caused so much heartache and interruption. It is the natural byproduct of fear and anxiety. It is an attempt to try and make sense of the world, even if the sense we make is terrifying. 

Recall the story in John 8 where the woman is pulled out into the middle of the street to account for the sin of adultery that she - and apparently she alone - had been complicit in. Those gathered around her were no doubt from all kinds of places and spaces but they were united in one thing: that she is the blameworthy victim in need of cleansing. There is remarkable power in feeling as though the sins of another are responsible for the fractures in society. 

Like many of us, I know people who believe that COVID is a hoax designed to give total control to a government who have introduced the vaccine at the bidding of a global kabal, who are now using it to purge the population, steal our property and established an elite class of citizens to rule over everyone else. After accidentally wading into one of these one-way conversations recently, I found myself asking one simple rebuttal question:

“So what are you going to do? It sounds terrifying! They’re coming for your property, your family, your everything. What are you going to do to avoid being another victim in their plan?” 

The response was: "nothing." There was nothing to do. Nothing could be done.

A strange response given the magnitude of the claims. But when we understand that these lines of thinking are less about genuine truth and more about a feeling of certainty and security, then it makes more sense. Ironically, people have lived in such a state of flux and uncertainty that even a belief as morbid and horrifying as this provides more comfort than the idea that something like a pandemic is, genuinely, a ‘fortuitous mystery,’ an uncertain and confusing reality.

I’m certainly not suggesting that we must simply consign ourselves to the notion that nothing can be explained and sometimes bad things just happen. Searching for meaning is part of the human quest and to abandon it would be to embrace despair. We are not people of despair, we are people of hope, but to call ourselves people of hope requires something particular from us.

It requires us to reject the mechanisms that lead to blame and scapegoating. The words of Jesus (Luke 6:35-38) provide us with a powerful antidote to the relentless system of blame by imploring us to pray for those we think stand against us:

Notice how prayer and forgiveness are so interconnected, not just for others but also for ourselves. 

This still leaves us with the question of where to place our anger. It would be too naive for me to suggest that when you pray your anger will dissipate. This has certainly not been true for my own life. What I want to suggest is something that might seem a bit strange.

Allow your anger, and pain, and confusion, and hurt, and betrayal, and despair, and hopelessness, and all of the other things you feel to fall before God. Wrestle, argue, scream, fight. Shake your fist. Say the bad words. Blame God for all of the things you cannot understand, and for the things you think that you think you understand. 

One of the paradoxical features of Scripture is that it is a story that invites us to wrestle with God through all facets of life. The challenge when it comes to speaking about suffering is that hope itself is an eschatological category. It speaks of the things yet to be, and so to pretend that we know what comes next is simply not true. We don’t know, we can only trust; but to trust is also to hold someone ultimately responsible. 

This doesn’t mean that God orchestrated your suffering, nor that God will somehow take it all away. It is an acknowledgment that God is big enough to hold your anger and pain without letting you go. It's a sentiment which acknowledges that God, not us, is the one who will ultimately wipe every tear away and whilst that isn't my reality for now, that doesn't meant I can't be upset by that fact. 

I’m always reminded of the rage and violence of Psalm 137; a song that culminates with an expression of aggression and hatred. The writer doesn’t seek to explain away their suffering, nor do they temper their rage.

And perhaps at the end of our rage, we might be able to find some kind of peace;

amidst the fortuitous mystery that is life, and faith.