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Pastoral Psychol (2009) 58:167–180

DOI 10.1007/s11089-008-0181-7

Trauma and Grace: Psychology and Theology


in Conversation

Michael W. McGowan

Published online: 16 December 2008


# Springer Science + Business Media, LLC 2008

Abstract This paper explores the contours of a conversation between recent developments
in trauma theory and Christian systematic theology. Toward this end, I examine three levels
of theological discourse in a linear progression and responses based on the work of some
trauma theorists: (a) twentieth century conceptualizations of divine revelation using the
metaphor of a “bridge,” (b) configurations of evil, sin, redemption, and theodicies, and (c)
the use of sacraments and iconography as vehicles of solidarity and flourishing. As a
burgeoning area of inquiry in academic circles, trauma theory both resists and is in need of
the discipline of theology. I conclude that trauma theory and theology are not antithetical
disciplines, and a consideration of both brings greater insights than the disciplines
considered alone.

Keywords Trauma theory . Systematic theology . Revelation . Doctrine . Ritual

Introduction

Christian systematic theology in the twenty-first century is an interdisciplinary endeavor. If,


as theists maintain, “all truth is God’s truth,” one need not eschew this trend. In this essay, I
investigate one of the ways in which the disciplines of religion and psychology have begun
to interact and mutually illuminate one another. More specifically, I examine three levels of
Christian theological discourse (revelation, doctrine, and ritual) and examine the ways in
which their configuration and/or presentation is affected by recent developments in trauma
theory. This paper proceeds in three stages: first, I investigate doctrine’s source, divine
revelation, using a “bridge” metaphor from two twentieth century theologians; second, I
explore doctrine itself (specifically notions of evil, sin, and redemption), paying specific
attention to theodicies as attempts to systematize horrific events into one’s view of an
omnibenevolent deity; third, I assess some ritualistic actions and iconographic imagery
resulting from doctrine used in ecclesial settings. As the reader will see, revelation as God’s

M. W. McGowan (*)
Yale Divinity School, 409 Prospect St., New Haven, CT 06511, USA
e-mail: michael.mcgowan@aya.yale.edu
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inbreaking into the world, the reality of evil, narratives of redemption, and the sacraments
as vehicles to overcome evil legitimizes recent trauma theory as a fruitful dialogue partner
for contemporary Christian systematic theology, but not without its tensions. Otherwise
expressed, in what follows I attempt to demonstrate that there are ways in which one might
coherently explore “trauma and grace” (Jones 2004b) together for the advance of both.

Divine revelation: the bridge

As the primary source from which theists attain knowledge of God, divine revelation,
whether general or special in Christian parlance, is our first level of inquiry into the relation
between trauma theory and Christian theology. Historically, it was in response to Deist
attempts to discover truth through reason alone that unified Protestants and Catholics
developed doctrines of divine revelation whereby God revealed God’s self to humanity
(Dulles 1992). In the twentieth century, two perspectives on revelation were advanced in
particular, those of Karl Barth and Hans Urs von Balthasar, both of whom utilized the
metaphor of a “bridge.” In this section I investigate the interplay of trauma theory and the
significance and possibility of God’s self-disclosure in Barth’s (1968) Epistle to the Romans
and Balthasar’s (1979) Heart of the World. As the reader shall see, Balthasar addresses the
concerns of the survivors of traumatic events to a greater degree than Barth in their
respective doctrines of divine revelation, despite Balthasar’s unconventional locus of
soteriology (Holy Saturday).
Karl Barth wrote Der Römerbrief in response to two injustices he noticed within his
early twentieth century Europe, one specific and one general: (a) specific—the class
struggles and economic oppression faced by the parishioners of the church he was leading
in Safenwil; (b) general—World War I and his former teachers’ adherence to the war policy
of Kaiser Wilhelm (Jones 2004a; Grenz 1992). Both scenarios contributed to Barth’s
reevaluation of the dominant liberal agenda in which he was schooled, both theologically
and politically. Regarding the situation for which Barth wrote, he notes in the preface to its
sixth edition that, “a great deal of the scaffolding of the book was due to my own particular
situation at the time [Safenwil] and also to the general situation [World War I]” (p. 25). By
all accounts, this work “fell like a bombshell on the playground of the theologians” (Grenz
1992, p. 67).
In the first four chapters of The Epistle to the Romans, Barth (1968) develops several
themes that situate his views on divine revelation, about which trauma theorists will have
something to say: (a) God as inscrutable; (b) humanity as fallen; (c) Jesus as tangent; and
(d) history as collapsed. On the incomprehensibility of God, Barth interprets Paul as
purposefully conveying God’s wholly-otherness: “the essential theme of his mission is not
within him but above him—unapproachably distant and unutterably strange” (p. 27).
Moreover, Barth is quite clear that humanity is that which is both ungodly and incapable of
its own restoration; for Barth (and other Reformed theologians), this sinfulness consists
both in evil actions and the existential condition under which humanity finds itself:
“Everything which emerges in men and which owes its form and expansion to them is
always and everywhere, and as such, ungodly and unclean” (p. 56). Into this scenario of
depravity, Jesus acts as the hinge to the door of the divine, entering as a tangent from the
unknown realm into ours: “The name Jesus defines an historical occurrence and marks the
point where the unknown world cuts the known world” (p. 29). The resurrection of Jesus,
therefore, is that which collapses history—drawing on Kierkegaard’s notion of the infinite
and finite meeting in the person of Jesus—and provides the context for understanding
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Barth’s doctrine of revelation: “The new Day which has dawned for men in the
resurrection, the Day of Jesus Christ, this… is the day that ushers in the transformation
of all time into eternity” (p. 69).
Utilizing this framework, Barth imagines grace as God’s timeless act of breaking through the
barriers of human fallenness, thereby revealing God’s self by suspending and holding the sinner
in the place of unknowing: “In His utter strangeness God wills to make Himself known and can
make Himself known…. Beyond human good and evil the arm of God is extended in power”
(p. 70). In response to this divine self-revelation, humans “have encountered the grace of God;
have met the incomprehensibility of God… out of the whirlwind” (p. 59). Despite the inability
of humans to rescue themselves, or even to recognize that they are in need of rescuing, God
breaks through, and this provides the context for Barth’s views on revelation: “Grace exists,
therefore, only where the Resurrection is reflected. Grace is the gift of Christ, who exposes
the gulf which separates God and man, and, by exposing it, bridges it” (p. 31). In this
passage, the gulf itself is the setting of divine revelation. In the exposition of the gulf, God
“bridges it.” In this way, divine revelation is both the gulf and the bridge; they are one and the
same for the early Barth of Romans.
As representative of some of the tension between modern systematic theology and
trauma theory, Barth’s views on revelation negate four elements that theorists have
identified as vital to the healing of the survivor: (a) survivors’ privilege; (b) boundary
maintenance; (c) personal agency; and (d) the shattered self. First, for trauma theorists the
healing process of a survivor would be limited to a greater extent if the perpetrator was
afforded the same grace as those whom he violated, both legally and theologically. Due to
Barth’s insistence on the common depravity of all, he concedes no privileged position given
to survivors of traumatic violence. Second, the picture of divine revelation given by Barth
(1968) may be seen as intrusive: “The Gospel… demands participation, comprehension, co-
operation; for it is a communication which presumes faith in the living God, and which
creates that which it presumes” (p. 28). The boundaries of the victim, however, are vital to
her healing: “Secure boundaries create a safe arena where the work of recovery can
proceed” (Herman 1997, p. 149). Third, Barth can be criticized by trauma theorists for his
denial of human agency in reception of the divine revelation. Barth’s notion of total divine
sovereignty in the revelatory process would be strongly rejected by trauma theorists as an
adequate noetic framework for healing. Though “a rape survivor needs to establish a sense
of autonomy and control” (Herman 1997, p. 65), such a self-determining state is impossible
and arrogant in Barth’s system. The mature Barth (1957), however, mitigated the force of
his claims in Romans in the Church Dogmatics 2.1, as he assumes agency of the creature
(the second partner) at some level simultaneously with God (the first partner): “no self-
determination of the second partner can influence the first, whereas the self-determination
of the first, while not cancelling the self-determination of the second, is the sovereign
predetermination which precedes it absolutely” (p. 312; emphasis added). Last, Barth’s
explication of divine revelation in Romans may be criticized by trauma theorists for failing
to recognize that the self who would be shattered by God to break through is already
shattered by the events from which the divine shattering was intended to deliver her. The
unmentioned strengths of Barth’s system for trauma theory notwithstanding, his Epistle to
the Romans seems less than helpful to address the situation in which most survivors of
traumatic events find themselves for the four reasons mentioned here.
Representative of the ways in which theology and trauma theory may more fruitfully
cooperate, however, is another modern attempt to conceive divine revelation, Hans Urs von
Balthasar’s poetic theological treatise, Das Herz der Welt. Just as Barth wrote Romans in
response to two stimuli, one general and one specific, the impetus for Balthasar’s little book
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also follows a similar pattern: (a) specific—Balthasar’s observance of the mystical and
traumatic experiences of Adrienne von Speyr; (b) general—the experience of World War II.
Regarding Speyr, Andrew Louth claims that “The Heart of the World was… written out of
the initial impact of his friendship with that remarkable woman, whose influence on his
own thought Balthasar readily admits” (Riches, 1986, p. 147). Moreover, Erasmo Leiva
(Balthasar 1979), translator of Heart of the World into English, notes in his introduction that
this book was “steeled in the furnace of the Second World War” (p. 10). This text is useful
because, in the same way that Barth’s Romans adumbrated a theology made more explicit
in the Church Dogmatics, Balthasar’s Heart is a work “containing in outline the themes of
his mature theology” (Cross 2005, p. 148) that one finds in his theological triptych.
The Heart of the World is, moreover, a useful tool for discovering Balthasar’s doctrine of
divine revelation for its mention of a central theme figuring prominently in most of his
subsequent theological endeavors: Holy Saturday. The concept of “Holy Saturday” is used by
Balthasar to describe the space between Good Friday’s crucifixion and Easter Sunday’s
resurrection, the time during which Jesus descends into hell. This space is valuable for Balthasar
because it represents the greatest separation of the Father and Son, the “second death” following
the Jesus’ first death on the cross. Envisioned in Heart of the World as a deeply trinitarian
event, Balthasar asserts that what was once the triune God has been divided, now missing that
which was constitutive of its identity (three-in-oneness); God is, therefore, no longer living.
On Holy Saturday, the view from above indicates that “there is nothing more but nothingness
itself. The world is dead. Love is dead. God is dead” (p. 150; cf. Pitstick 2007).
While the view from above is bleak, a perspective with which trauma survivors may
identify, there is, nonetheless, a divine revelation of grace to be found in the view from
below. Far from being a divine tragedy, Balthasar (1979) mentions a divine spark that
proceeds from the point of separation: “What is this light glimmer that wavers and begins to
take form in the endless void?.. A nameless thing, more solitary than God, it emerges out of
pure emptiness” (p. 151). As to the identity of this “viscous flow,” Balthasar here speaks of
the Holy Spirit. Elsewhere, Balthasar (1989) imagines the Spirit as the builder of a “bridge”
over the abyss of hell: “It is a lightly built bridge, and yet it suffices to carry us…. So we
have no alternative but to trust in him, knowing, as we walk across the bridge, that he built
it. Because of his grace we have been spared the absolute abyss” (p. 91). Functionally, the
Spirit “maintains the infinite difference between them, seals it and, since he is the one Spirit
of them both, bridges it” (Balthasar 1994, p. 324). Whereas Barth viewed Christ as the
vehicle of God’s revelation, Balthasar uses the Spirit. Whereas Barth’s “abyss” is exposed
by God, Balthasar’s abyss is known prior to divine revelation.
In Balthasar’s work, one finds two helpful theological themes for understanding and
coping with traumatic violence: (a) Spirit as witness; (b) solidarity with Jesus. First, Shelly
Rambo (forthcoming) notes the way witnessing functions in Balthasar’s work: “Witnessing,
not suffering, is at the redemptive center of the Christian narrative of Holy Saturday. A
reading of Holy Saturday displaces the rhetoric of suffering, highlighting instead the rich
dynamics of witnessing taking place between death and life.” Balthasar’s (1979)
presentation of the Spirit is not unlike that of a close friend (i.e., witness) in a time of
recovery: the “Spirit is… the Consoler, whose tenderness makes the word of remorse be
muted unsaid, absorbed like a drop of dew in the sunlight” (p. 157). Second, Balthasar’s
poetic presentation of Jesus’ passion may be more appealing to the survivor than Jesus’
relentless inbreaking found in Barth’s system. Viewing Jesus as completely forsaken by the
Father gives the survivor solidarity with Christ in a way that is limited in Barth’s Epistle to
the Romans. The solidarity with Christ is also seen in the experience of hell during Holy
Saturday, in which Christ experiences effects similar to that of the survivor: “Chaos.
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Beyond heaven and hell. Shapeless nothingness behind the bounds of creation…. Is it the
end? Nothing that ends is any longer there. Is it the beginning? The beginning of what?...
What incomprehensible, formless, meaningless word?” (pp. 150–1). Here, Balthasar’s Jesus
experiences the same timelessness and utter incomprehensibility of violence as does the
survivor of a traumatic event.
Though The Heart of the World and The Epistle to the Romans were written prior to the
extensive treatises for which the two figures are known, both Barth and Balthasar retained
the use of the bridge metaphor with respect to divine revelation in their mature writings. In
his Church Dogmatics, Barth (1957) declares the following:
The object of the love of God as such is another which in itself is not, or is not yet, worthy
of His pleasure. The love of God always throws a bridge over a crevasse. It is always the
light shining out of darkness. In His revelation it seeks and creates fellowship where there
is no fellowship and no capacity for it….[W]hat He sees when He loves is that which is
altogether distinct from Himself, and as such is lost in itself, and without Him abandoned
to death. That He throws a bridge out from Himself to this abandoned one, that He is light
in the darkness, is the miracle of the almighty love of God. (p. 278)
Likewise, one finds the bridge metaphor in Balthasar’s (1982) Theological Aesthetics, as
he declares of the Holy Spirit’s self-disclosures that they fall, “down from heaven
vertically… [and] immediately blend into the landscape of tradition, there to lend new life
to the Biblical message, to bridge over the supposed distances between the time of
revelation and the present time, to act as a sign for the actuality and the loving proximity of
the true World to this our visionless existence” (p. 416).
To be sure, both theologians were similar in many regards, including their christocentric
theology, notions of the collapse of time (compare, e.g., Balthasar 1979, p. 150 with Barth
1968, p. 69), a shared appreciation for theological aesthetics, and a deeply trinitarian
understanding of divine revelation. But the way in which both theologians understand these
things differs, and the disparity impacts the extent to which their conceptions of revelation
are amenable to trauma survivors. For example, in Barth revelation is trinitarian in the sense
that the second member, Christ, reveals the first member, the Father; however, in Balthasar
revelation is trinitarian in the Spirit’s work of maintaining the connection between the
Father and Son. One notices an essential disagreement pertaining to the roles of each
member of the Trinity and for the revelation and creation of the gulf. For Barth, the gulf and
the bridge seem created, revealed, and traversed by Christ; for Balthasar, God is revealed in
the Spirit who traverses the gulf. Put another way, Balthasar seems to indicate that the
bridge is not a creation of God, but rather a preexisting condition, whereas Barth attributes
the entire revelatory process to God, a claim that many trauma theorists would be reluctant
to embrace. Based on these observations, we can conclude that of the two views on divine
revelation discussed here, Balthasar’s approach (poetics) and ideas (Holy Saturday) would
be more appealing to the survivor of traumatic violence. Thus, Balthasar’s theology lends
itself more easily to a helpful theological and pastoral response to a survivor of traumatic
violence as it relates to divine revelation.

Evil, sin, redemption, and theodicies

Once one has encountered divine revelation, often the process of systemization ensues
whereby attempts are made to synthesize the available data into a coherent picture of the
deity and the deity’s relation with/to the world. Our second area of inquiry, therefore,
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examines doctrine itself, specifically the ways in which trauma theory relates to Christian
theology’s concerns to systematize the doctrines of evil, sin, and redemption through
theodicies. For the purposes of this essay, I examine the ways in which theologians often
deploy narratives of redemption to make sense of unthinkable violence. As an obstacle
facing those outside the tradition and those within its ranks alike, these issues are worthy of
theologians’ attention because, as Reinhold Niebuhr (1965) incisively noted, the doctrine of
“sin is the only empirically verifiable doctrine of the Christian faith” (p. 24). Similarly,
Barth (1968) noted that the doctrine of sin is “the doctrine which emerges from all honest
study of history” (pp. 85–6).
In response to the problems that arise when the reality of evil is juxtaposed with the
traditionally understood incommunicable divine attributes of omnibenevolence and
omnipotence, theists have been quick to create theodicies, attempting to make sense of
unspeakable evils under narratives of redemption on both a macro and micro scale. These
multivalent attempts to explain evil’s existence have resulted in many differing theodicean
theories: from the Deuteronomist’s divine retribution theodicy to Reichenbach’s natural law
theodicy, from Plantinga’s free will theodicy to John Hick’s soul-making theodicy, from the
Manichean counterpart theodicy to Wendy Farley’s more recent “tragic vision and divine
compassion” theodicy.
Seemingly coming from a different level of inquiry, however, are new developments in
trauma theory. These new insights not only shed light on the victims of and witnesses to
traumatic events, but also on the theologian’s practice of systematizing and sense-making,
asking simultaneously both (a) whether some events are irredeemable and (b) what it says about
some theologians who appear to impulsively impose a narrative of redemption onto evil events.
Making sense of evil is not a new phenomenon, obviously, as the Christian tradition is
replete with assertions that evil and sin are part of a larger meta-narrative of redemption, at
times with blood. Paul comments that, in Jesus Christ “we have redemption through his
blood” (Eph. 1:7) and that “all things work together for good for those who love God”
(Rom. 8:28). Augustine (1991) confesses, “he, your only son, in whom are hid all the
treasures of wisdom and knowledge, has redeemed me with his blood” (p. 220). Aquinas
held that, “redemption is the free gift of God to man, who could not have redeemed himself
because of the supernatural character of the gifts lost by Original Sin” (Cross 2005,
p. 1382). Calvin (1994) states that, “God gives this grace to those whom he has elected…it
is a powerful impulse of the Holy Spirit which enables men to be willing to follow Christ,
men who had been unwilling and reluctant previously” (p. 164). Wesley (1874) describes
God’s transmutation of evil into good in this eschatological vision: “He seeth the ‘earnest
expectation’ wherewith the whole animated creation ‘waiteth for’ that final ‘manifestation
of the sons of God,’ in which ‘they themselves also shall be delivered’… ‘from the present
bondage of corruption into’ a measure of ‘the glorious liberty of the children of God’” (pp.
61–63). Barth writes, “Redemption is not the separation of spirit from matter; it is not that
humanity ‘goes to heaven,’ but rather that God’s kingdom comes to us in matter and on
earth” (quoted in Hunsinger, 1976, pp. 19–37). These and other monumental thinkers in the
history of Christian thought envision the whole of history as a drama in which God redeems
individual events and the meta-narrative itself from evil and sin through Jesus Christ.
However, much to the chagrin of not a few theologians, the practice of reconfiguring evil
into narratives of redemption through theodicies is viewed as impulsive and inappropriate
by some trauma theorists, and is resisted on several levels. For our purposes, we can group
their concerns under the following rubrics: (a) amputation; (b) trivial pursuits; and (c)
control. (It should be noted that I am systematizing that which resists systematization. With
this in mind, these “groupings” of similar concepts in trauma theory is loose due to the
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nature of trauma studies and the varied experiences of those who have experienced
traumatic events.)
First, taking the Holocaust as representative of trauma, the theologian readily notices
the strong claim by those reflecting on the events therein that the testimonies of
witnesses are irredeemable, and the shattered self is, in a very real sense, left with an
amputation. Lawrence Langer (1995) notes that, “The one theme that weaves through
these testimonies like a scarlet thread is the utter irreconcilability of the death camp
experience with any prior consoling system of values…. Although the present anguish of
these witnesses for a past they could do nothing to alter or prevent seems endless, it
teaches us nothing about developing an enduring attitude toward suffering that might
eventually lead toward some form of healing, forgiveness, or redemption” (p. 30).
Moreover, Langer suggests that the Holocaust, and one might imagine the traumatic
experiences of others included, “was a kind of physical and spiritual amputation, leaving
parts of the self intact, requiring others to be mended with artificial ‘limbs’” (p. 30).
Langer concludes that the narratives of redemption only “sustain life, but they do not and
cannot replace what has been lopped off” (p. 30). Similarly, Joanne Rudof (personal
communication, October 4, 2006), administrator of the Yale University Fortunoff Video
Archive, which compiles the testimonies of survivors of the Holocaust, notes that in
nearly three decades of compiling testimonies of hundreds of Holocaust survivors, only
five have attributed the horrific events they experienced to God or entertained the idea
that the Holocaust was in any sense part of a divine plan. Granted, there are levels of
trauma and the Holocaust reveals the worst of humanity, but this resistance to a narrative
of redemption is not limited to survivors of the Holocaust, as noted by Van Der Kolk et al.
(1996): “After having been traumatized, only a minority of victims seem to escape the
notion that their pain, betrayal, and loss are meaningless… they often feel godforsaken
and betrayed by their fellow human beings. Usually, suffering does not bring an increased
sense of love and meaning; rather, it results in loneliness and disintegration of belief”
(p. 26). Viewing the experience of trauma in this way, the theologian who asserts
Christian doctrine’s claims to a meta-narrative of redemption may seem to a survivor or
trauma theorist as inappropriate at best, and simply untrue at worst. From the perspective
of some trauma theorists, the practice of imposing redemptive narratives onto the
Holocaust and other unimaginable evils simply does not attend to the perspectives of
countless victims who courageously share their stories. Due to the fact that survivors may
view theodicies as imposing a narrative of redemption onto an event that feels to them
irredeemable, it is not difficult to see, then, why Langer (1995) and many others believe
that “the destruction of European Jewry [or, one might add, any other traumatic event]
was not part of a divine plan, but a human one” (p. 26).
Second, in addition to the Holocaust survivors’ views of narratives of redemption,
survivors of extreme sexual violence react in a similar way to such theodicizing, asserting
that theodicies trivialize the nature and magnitude of the traumatic event as well as its
aftermath. Susan Brison (2002), who chronicled her rape and attempted murder as well as
the path to recovery, recalls her reactions to the explanations others gave for her suffering:
“Such attempts at a theodicy discounted the horror I had to endure. But I learned that
everyone needs to try and make sense, in however inadequate way, of such senseless
violence” (p. 11). The intentions of the consolers aside, Brison views theodicies as “trivial
pursuits,” unable to address her trauma. Speaking about the nature of “retelling” her
traumatic event, Brison (2002) concludes that, “[r]ecovery no longer seems to consist of
picking up the pieces of a shattered self (or fractured narrative). It’s facing the fact that there
never was a coherent self (or story) there to begin with” (p. 116). For Brison, the traumatic
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event and its aftermath fracture notions of consistency and resist any attempt at
categorization, especially those assigning a “good” or “redemptive” meaning to it through
the work of theodicy.
Third, an additional difficulty that narratives of redemption create for those studying or
experiencing trauma involves the relinquishment of control. As mentioned above with
respect to the tension inherent in Barth’s system when juxtaposed with trauma theory, the
recent literature on trauma studies is quite clear that the recovery of control in a traumatized
individual is essential to the healing from that traumatic event, as it was a central element of
selfhood lost in the traumatic event: “The lack or loss of self-regulation is possibly the most
far-reaching effect of psychological trauma in both children and adults” (Van Der Kolk et
al. 1996, p. 187). Discussing the healing process, Judith Herman (1997) notes that, “no
intervention that takes power away from the survivor can possibly foster her recovery, no
matter how much it appears to be in her immediate best interest” (p. 133). So important is
control to trauma survivors that “traumatized people employ a variety of methods to regain
control over their problems with affect regulation. Often these efforts are self-destructive
and bizarre; they range from self-mutilation to unusual sexual practices, and from bingeing
and purging to drug and alcohol abuse” (Van Der Kolk et al. 1996, p. 188).
If the recovery of control to replace what has been lost in the traumatic event is essential
to healing, one wonders what place attempts at maintaining systemization and doctrinal
claims concerning divine sovereignty (i.e., control) through theodicizing have in
consideration of trauma theory. One might conclude that in situations with a victim whose
sense of agency is compromised, it is more inappropriate to maintain divine sovereignty
than to encourage her to become reborn, as it were, open to the formation of a new self. In
Brison’s (2002) case, after being advised that she cannot return to her former “self,” she
was told that she “can be better.”
To be sure, not all theologians and not all parishioners immediately theodicize. In fact,
many modern and contemporary systematic theologians have suggested that any
speculative attempts at theodicy as presented above will inevitably result in frustration.
Consider Paul Tillich’s (1951) assessment of pain and evil, namely, that “[p]hysical evil is
the natural implication of creaturely finitude” and “[m]oral evil is the tragic implication of
creaturely freedom. Creation is the creation of finite freedom; it is the creation of life with
its greatness and its danger” (p. 269). Tillich’s compatibilism is shown in his affirmation
that “the paradoxical character of faith in providence is the answer to the question of
theodicy” (p. 269). Similarly, Kathryn Tanner (2005) suggests that the reality of evil in the
world does nothing to diminish the benevolence of God, as the lines of causality are
different: “Two orders of efficacy become evident: along a ‘horizontal’ plane, an order of
created causes and effects; along a ‘vertical’ plane, the order whereby God founds the
former” (2005, pp. 89–90). Elsewhere, she summarizes this non-competitive relationship as
follows: “God does not give on the same plane of being and activity as creatures, as one
among other givers and therefore God is not in potential competition (or co-operation) with
them” (2001, p. 3). In Tanner’s (2001) and Tillich’s view, theodicies are essentially flawed
questions, failing to recognize the difference between causal planes. To the same point but
from a different angle, Miroslav Volf (1996) argues that a purposeful forgetting, a
“nontheoretical act of nonremembering” (p. 135), is the only way to address suffering, not
attempts at synthesizing the suffering with notions of a good God. Volf asserts that “since
no final redemption is possible without redemption of the past, and since every attempt to
redeem the past through reflection must fail because no theodicy can succeed, the final
redemption is unthinkable without a certain kind of forgetting. Put starkly, the alternative is:
either heaven or the memory of horror” (p. 135). Such insights as Tillich’s, Tanner’s, and
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Volf’s are valuable for an investigation into the interplay of trauma theory and theology
because they show that theology from certain perspectives does not require theodicies.
Therefore, a theologian’s response to trauma theory as it relates to the interconnected
doctrines of evil, sin, and redemption might be more appropriately ministerial than
academic for both noetic and psychological reasons. That is, no theodicy has achieved
ubiquitous acceptance, and as the aforementioned examples demonstrate, even if it had, the
survivor would likely resist a “redemptive” description of her suffering. Experiences such
as these should caution theologians against the impulse to force redemption on events that
seem irredeemable to their subjects.
If the history of Christian thought has been virtually unanimous in understanding evil as
part of a grand, divine, meta-narrative; if some events are seen as irredeemable by some
trauma theorists and victims; if claiming these theodicies at a time of crisis trivializes the
experience of the traumatized or disables their ability to determine themselves, one needs to
ask why some theologians (or anyone, for that matter) are at times quick to theodicize. One
needs greater clarity on both (a) the perception on the part of some survivors that all
narratives of redemption are inappropriate/incorrect, and (b) those theologians or
parishioners whose initial impulse actually is to theodicize without paying attention to
the needs of the survivor in the present. What might it indicate about the church’s and some
theologians’ ineffectiveness that this is perceived as an immediate reaction, and what is a
more appropriate response in the face of such evil?
One possible response concerns the nature of witnessing another’s testimony. Felman and
Laub (1992) explains the role of a witness to trauma: “The listener... by definition partakes
of the struggle of the victim with the memories and residues of his or her traumatic past.
The listener has to feel the victim’s victories, defeats and silences, know them from within,
so that they can assume the form of testimony” (p. 58). If witnessing trauma is, in some
sense, to be traumatized as well, it is reasonable to assume that the witness is attempting to
systematize what has now become his own trauma. In this scenario, the witness attempts to
regain “control” of himself and his previously undamaged mental framework, and his
newfound loss of control results in an initial impulse to theodicize. When this occurs, the
witness has imposed a narrative of redemption onto his own inability to understand.
While it is beyond the scope of this paper to psychologize historical and contemporary
theologians in an attempt to mine their work for the underlying causes of theodicizing on
their part, I offer only one suggestion regarding the practical-theological endeavor of
ministering in the present to the traumatized in the church’s midst. Put plainly, attention to
the healing of survivors must precede attention to the theodicies explaining their
experience. Let me be clear: for those of us who do not hold a compatibilist stance on
divine sovereignty and the human will or with respect to those for whom the notion of
omnibenevolence is incompatible with the data of evil’s reality, it is appropriate to maintain
God’s goodness and sovereignty in the face of suffering; however, theologians to a great
extent risk the ability of a survivor to heal when the initial impulse is to theodicize rather
than contribute to healing by patiently waiting until the survivor is ready. Well-intentioned
though we may be to maintain God’s goodness, theodicies have the potential to speak more
negatively than positively to those who are traumatized. Theodicies ask survivors to
envision an impossible future in the face of their “amputation,” potentially trivialize their
trauma, and force the relinquishment of control from the victim to the divine; not everyone
is ready for these steps at the same time. So while the efforts to theodicize are noteworthy,
even required for those in the incompatibilist camp, one must concede they are often
inappropriate as an initial pastoral response. Indeed, in response to traumatic events,
theologians must theoretically “grapple anew with the meaning of beliefs not only about
176 Pastoral Psychol (2009) 58:167–180

grace, but also about such things as sin, redemption, hope, community, communion,
violence, death, crucifixion, and resurrection” but first proclaim “grace in the midst of this
often hidden legacy of violence” (Jones 2004b, p. 14).
Representative of the ways in which systematic theology and trauma theory may
illuminate one another in, at the very least, practical measures, knowledge of trauma may
help theologians and parishioners prioritize these impulses and delay theodicies if they must
speculate at all. In the event that healing requires some cognitive assent to a theodicy, the
two, healing and theodicizing, may work hand in hand. However, when healing is at odds
with theodicean speculation, the former takes priority, as theodicies will not be productive
unless the work of healing has already begun. What is more, giving primacy to healing first
is doctrinally supported by the gospel accounts of Jesus’ ministry. Finally, the effects of a
delayed theodicy rather than an immediate one may surprise theologians, suggests Rebecca
Chopp (1998), as new insights may be gleaned through focusing on the healing:
“Understanding theology as engaged in continually negotiating to sanctify life may enable
us to keep theology more fluid and more multi-dimensional—indeed, more Spiritual”
(p. 144). She continues to talk about the new situation in which theology finds itself:
“Theory is itself now summoned by the moral imperative of testimony” (p. 144)

Christian ritual—He is you

Mining the primary source of theology (revelation) for insights (doctrine) inevitably leads
to behaviors commensurate with common tenets of the Christian tradition. Therefore, our
third angle from which we can explore the interplay of trauma theory and theology is found
in Christian ritual; more specifically, we examine in this section the doctrine of the
sacraments and the use of Christian iconography. Ritual has remained a part of the Christian
tradition since its beginning, and has been powerfully illustrated in aesthetic and disciplined
endeavors. To note just one, Toni Morrison (1998) powerfully demonstrates a pastor’s
attempts to foster in his congregation a sense of solidarity with the crucified Christ in her
prizewinning novel, Paradise. One of her characters, the Reverend Richard Misner “stood
there and let the minutes tick by as he held the crossed oak in his hands, urging it to say
what he could not: that not only is God interested in you; He is you” (p. 147). Morrison
allows the reader to be privy to the inner thoughts and motivation of a pastor whose actions
may be construed as conveying the radical immanence of God and consequent solidarity
with Christ through a visual representation of the crucifix. However, one wonders from the
angle of trauma theory whether it is appropriate to hold a violent event as central in any
attempt to define the self, clearly a goal of Misner’s assertion that “He is you.” Do these
and other rituals enable or disable a sense of solidarity in present-day Christians, and how
might some trauma theorists respond to what appears to be a repetition and/or celebration of
violence? Are there ways to conceive the notion of repetition from the perspective of
healing with respect to the sacraments and iconography? In what follows I argue that there
are, specifically with respect to the three rituals this essay explores.
Despite the diversity of those existing under the banner of Christianity, some practices
are common to those professing Christ as Lord and, therefore, seemed appropriate to pair
with trauma theory: (a) baptism, (b) the Eucharist, and (c) iconography. First, the practice of
baptism is intended to demonstrate a dying to the self and rebirth to a new way of being.
This new way of being is one in which an individual will live according to God’s
principles, an experience not unlike Augustine’s (1991) recollection of “the old Victorinus”
in the Confessions, who was “not ashamed to…bow his head to the yoke of humility and to
Pastoral Psychol (2009) 58:167–180 177

submit his forehead to the reproach of the cross” (p. 135). Second, the Eucharist is intended
to foster remembrance and commemorate the sacrifice made by Jesus on the cross. The gospel
of Mark narrates of Jesus that, “[w]hile they were eating, he took a loaf of bread, and after
blessing it he broke it, and gave it to them, and said, ‘Take; this is my body.’ Then he took a cup,
and after giving thanks he gave it to them, and all of them drank from it. He said to them, ‘This is
my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many’” (14:22–25). Third, Christian
iconography figures heavily into the ritual of the tradition. Note, I do not mean “iconography”
in the sense of practices involving the “writing” of icons found in some Christian traditions such
as Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Anglican settings. Rather, I use “iconography” in a general
sense to refer to imagery of the crucifix, as will become apparent below. The narrative of Jesus’
death on the cross is found in nearly every church calling itself Christian as “a sign of complete
resolution between the vertical life force and the horizontal death or ‘rest’ force. Perhaps most
importantly, it represents life’s polarities: the spiritual or otherworldly (vertical) and the physical
or worldly (horizontal)” (Steffler 2002, pp. 26–31).
The three aforementioned examples of Christian ritual (of which there are many more)
are intended to commemorate the death of Jesus as the event through which Christians are
atoned for their sins, and as such they are experienced regularly in the life of most churches.
To note just two examples, the sacrament of baptism is often used in Baptist churches as
“an outward sign of inward faith” once one has “made a decision” for Christ, and in
Catholic churches (here following Cyprian’s argument) “infant baptism procured remission
of both sinful acts and original sin” (McGrath 2003, p. 529). Therefore, as often as an infant
is born into a Catholic family or a person has a conversion moment in a Baptist
congregation, the sacrament of baptism is soon to follow. Second, the Eucharist is
performed with even greater regularity. Taking our two prior examples, many Baptist
churches observe the Eucharist (calling it “communion”) on the first Sunday of each month,
and most Catholic masses observe the Eucharist weekly. Last, iconography is even more
present than the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist, as it is common to find the image
of the cross, with or without the crucified Jesus upon it, in jewelry, on front lawns of
churches, magnets, Bible covers, not to mention the cross’s presence in the interior of
nearly every ecclesial building in Christianity’s ranks.
Why, one wonders, is the symbol of the cross so prevalent in the Christian practices and
iconography mentioned above, and how would some trauma theorists respond? That these
rituals are intended to commemorate Jesus’ death at the hands of Roman and Jewish
authorities while making humanity right with God is not a novel assertion. And indeed, any
investigation of the violence portrayed in the crucifixion must necessarily investigate
exactly what happened on the cross; that is, one’s soteriology is crucial in understanding
one’s sacramental theology. While a full investigation of the common models of atonement
with their attending fruitfulness and/or liabilities is beyond the scope of this paper, it
suffices to say that any view Jesus’ death as that which is being commemorated in these
practices as opposed to Jesus’ life and ministry. Though I assert here that Jesus’ death is
commemorated as opposed to Jesus’ life and ministry, if one holds a view that Jesus’ sole
ministry was to die a sinner’s death, then one might coherently conclude that the cross does
memorialize his ministry. For the purposes of this paper, though, we explore the prevalent
notion that the sacraments celebrate, memorialize, and/or commemorate Jesus’ death.
Whereas Christian theology has often viewed the cross as the event by which humanity is
healed from its plaguing original sin, trauma theory raises questions on these practices which
are so central to Christianity; indeed, one common effect of a traumatic event is the repetition of
that event in the psyche and body of the survivor. Herman (1997) comments on the repetitive
nature of trauma victims: “Reliving a traumatic experience, whether in the form of intrusive
178 Pastoral Psychol (2009) 58:167–180

memories, dreams, or actions, carries with it the emotional intensity of the original event. The
survivor is continually buffeted by terror and rage” (p. 42). Otherwise expressed, the
unwilling repetition of a traumatic event can quite possibly be as traumatizing as the event
itself. Other trauma theorists agree, as “repetition causes further suffering for the victims and
for the people around them” and they worry that the “reenactment of victimization is a major
cause of violence in society” (Van Der Kolk et al. 1996, p. 11). Quite clear from these
treatments of trauma’s aftermath is that a common effect of traumatic events is the
unintentional, intrusive repetition of the traumatic event in the mind and body of the survivor.
The process of healing from a traumatic event, therefore, may proceed in two stages as it
relates to repetition: first, the breaking of unwilled repetition; second, healing through
willed repetition. First, as a factor contributing to the healing of a survivor, trauma theorists
assert that breaking the repetitive cycle is necessary to regain control of the body and mind.
Again, Herman (1997) comments that, “Once basic medical care has been provided, control
of the body focuses on… reduction of hyperarousal and intrusive symptoms,” (p. 161) and
is intended to address the unintentional, unwilled repetition of the traumatic event. In this
way, a victim’s “compulsion to repeat” the violence is limited.
Second, however, once the victim feels safe in her surroundings, some trauma theorists
maintain that minimal, sustained, and increasing exposure to an event similar to the
traumatic event may actually contribute to healing. Herman (1997) notes that “it is a
behavioral therapy designed to overcome the terror of the traumatic event by exposing the
patient to a controlled reliving experience” (pp. 181–2). Again, Van Der Kolk et al. (1996)
agrees: “Posttraumatic reenactment and repetition compulsion are by no means simple
pathological manifestations; they also facilitate the mastering of the trauma… a more active
and controlled remembrance of traumatic events is a prerequisite for a successful recovery
from trauma” (p. 368). Other psychologists term this process “systematic desensitization,”
and suggest its usefulness when utilized in conjunction with relaxation techniques:
“Systematic desensitization is an appropriate technique for treating phobias… [and] it has
also been used effectively in dealing with nightmares, anorexia nervosa, obsessions,
compulsions, stuttering, and depression” (Cory 1996, p. 293).
As one can easily observe, the crucial difference between the two cycles of repetition
mentioned above involves the agency of the survivor or witness. On the one hand, if the
survivor is victim to haunting flashbacks or dreams, as Herman mentioned above, then one
might view these repetitions as detrimental, a part of trauma’s aftermath to be overcome. On
the other hand, if a survivor or witness purposefully replicates the event in order to regain
control or reclaim agency, the event looses the power which made its repetition possible,
thereby desensitizing the victim and contributing to her healing.
In order to evaluate the extent to which the ritualistic practices of Christians are
amenable to the insights reached in trauma theory, one must decide to which end the
practices strive; that is, one must decide whether the rituals are best understood as
contributing to healing or detrimental to progress. If the practices of baptism, the Eucharist,
and iconography are vehicles by which one celebrates and/or relives both Christ’s and the
survivor’s trauma through the commemoration and exaltation of the cross, then some
theologians would suggest that these practices either be re-imagined or reshaped altogether
so as to enable the Christian community to view God in the best light possible (indeed,
many Christians want evil and suffering to originate with humanity, not with God).
However, if, as Jesus commanded, the church is to remember him through these practices,
then any Christian theology should assert that positive value must come as a result of their
usage. It is in this context one may synthesize trauma and sacramental theology—as willful,
purposeful practices functioning as part of the healing process, while creating solidarity
Pastoral Psychol (2009) 58:167–180 179

with the figure who reveals God’s love through the incarnation and sustained obedience. It
seems to me, moreover, that for the insights gained in trauma theory and Christian theology
to interact in this area, one must maintain an incarnational model of atonement (see, e.g.,
Tanner 2004). With this framework, if trauma was the event of the crucifixion in all its
horror, then grace (i.e., healing) is realized in the motivation to live a better life, as one
controls the event through willed repetition (i.e., remembering). As often as the event is
narrated to oneself, the motivation grows to act in ways that will not replicate the trauma in
an unwilled atmosphere ever again.
Despite these interesting ways in which sacramental theology relates to Christian
systematic theology, questions still linger as to how to assess the sacraments that are
unwilled as in the case of infant baptism, unless, of course, the willing participant is
considered to be the guardian whose decision it was to baptize the infant. Further inquiries
may also explore whether the “dying to self” commandments in the gospels are a moral
mandate to suffering. However, the ritual of baptism, the Eucharist, and iconography are
useful ways to experience solidarity with the Word incarnate, practices which motivate one
to obey as Jesus obeyed, “even unto the point of death” (Phil. 2:8) thereby encountering
God through them. In this way, the practices are vital for human flourishing. Remembering
the Life, mission, and service the cross commemorates, not the violent death resulting from
that life, truly enables survivors of trauma to realize and take comfort in the notion not only
that God is interested in you, but also that “He is you.”

Conclusion

This paper has examined some of the recent literature on trauma theory and explored the
contours of a conversation with Christian theology in several areas: for the source of doctrine
(divine revelation), doctrine itself (evil, sin, redemption, theodicies), and the practices resulting
from doctrine (Christian ritual). In comparison with other academic disciplines, trauma studies
is still relatively nascent; however, if “all truth is God’s truth,” regardless of the vehicle through
which it is discovered, theologians must square trauma’s conclusions with the church’s
understanding of God and God’s relationship with the world. As the reader has seen, these two
academic fields are deeply personal in a way that other academic disciplines are not. Therefore,
further work is still needed on these branches of learning to better serve clients in therapeutic
settings and parishioners in ecclesial settings, and both when the two intertwine in the same
person. It is the task of both the psychologist and the theologian, both the clinician and the
pastor, to demonstrate through word and deed that trauma is not antithetical to grace. Indeed,
both trauma and grace are part of the narratives of Christian lives until that day when “God will
wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Rev. 7:17).

Acknowledgements The author of this paper would like to express his appreciation to Serene Jones and
Shelly Rambo, the former of whom offered counsel on the interaction of trauma and theology and the latter
of whom shared portions of her unpublished work on this topic. The author eagerly anticipates both of their
forthcoming publications.

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