Chapter 18 THE LION AND THE ZEBRA

Nature does not exist for us—we exist because of nature.

18.1 The Test

Here is a simple test.

A lion chases a zebra across the African savanna. The zebra runs in terror. The lion catches it, brings it down, begins to eat. The zebra is still alive as the lion tears into its flesh. The suffering is extreme.

Does this bother you theologically?

Do you ask: “Why does God permit this? How could a good God allow such cruelty? What possible justification could there be for the zebra’s agony?”

Probably not.

You probably see this as nature. The lion must eat. The zebra is food. This is how ecosystems work. Predation isn’t cruel—it’s ecological. The lion isn’t evil; it’s being a lion.

We don’t expect God to intervene. We don’t demand justification for the zebra’s pain. We accept that this is simply how the world is.

Now here’s the question: why do we treat human suffering differently?

When a child dies of disease, when a tsunami kills thousands, when an earthquake buries villages—we cry out. We demand explanation. We shake our fists at heaven and ask why.

What’s the difference?

The obvious answer: humans are different. We’re rational, moral, self-aware. We have dignity and worth that zebras lack. Our suffering matters in a way that animal suffering doesn’t.

But is this obvious answer true?

18.2 The Asymmetry

Let’s examine the asymmetry.

Differences between humans and zebras:

Humans are more intelligent
Humans are self-aware
Humans have language and culture
Humans make moral judgments
Humans create meaning
Humans know they will die

Similarities between humans and zebras:

Both are made of the same atoms
Both evolved by the same processes
Both are subject to the same physical laws
Both are mortal
Both can suffer
Both are part of the same web of life

The differences are real. But do they justify the asymmetry in our expectations?

Consider: if intelligence is the criterion, then more intelligent humans deserve more divine protection than less intelligent ones. If self-awareness matters, then babies and the severely cognitively disabled have less claim to cosmic justice. If meaning-making is the key, then artists and philosophers should suffer less than those who live without reflection.

These implications seem wrong. We don’t think intelligence or self-awareness or meaning-making determines who deserves protection from suffering.

So why do we think species membership matters?

Perhaps it’s just bias. We care about humans because we are humans. Our empathy extends naturally to our own kind and less naturally to others. The asymmetry reflects our psychology, not cosmic reality.

Or perhaps humans genuinely are special—created in God’s image, ensouled, chosen. But this would need to be argued, not assumed. And even if true, it wouldn’t obviously imply that God must prevent human suffering while permitting animal suffering.

18.3 The Copernican Move

There’s a pattern in intellectual history.

Before Copernicus: Earth is the center of the cosmos. The sun, moon, planets, and stars revolve around us. We are literally, physically central.

After Copernicus: Earth is one planet among many, orbiting one star among billions, in one galaxy among hundreds of billions. We are peripheral, cosmically insignificant.

Before Darwin: Humans are special creations, categorically different from animals, made in God’s image. We are biologically central.

After Darwin: Humans are one species among millions, evolved by the same processes as every other creature, sharing common ancestry with chimps and bananas. We are biologically continuous with nature.

Before modern cosmology: The universe is old but not incomprehensibly old, perhaps 6,000 years. Human history is a significant fraction of cosmic history.

After modern cosmology: The universe is 13.8 billion years old. Humans have existed for 0.002% of that time. We are temporally insignificant.

Each discovery displaced us from centrality. Each was resisted, then accepted. Each required adjusting our self-image.

Now consider the problem of evil. It assumes that human welfare is the standard by which we judge the cosmos. It assumes we are the center—morally if not physically.

Is this assumption due for revision?

The Copernican move in theodicy would be: stop assuming humans are the point.

Not: humans don’t matter. We matter—to ourselves, to each other, perhaps to God. But mattering doesn’t mean being the center. Mattering doesn’t mean the cosmos is arranged for our benefit.

The zebra matters too—to itself, to its herd, perhaps to God. But we don’t think the cosmos is arranged for zebras. We don’t demand that God prevent zebra suffering.

Why should we demand it for ourselves?

18.4 What Remains

If we’re not the center, what are we?

We’re participants. We exist within nature, not above it. We’re part of the web of life, subject to the same forces as every other creature. Our existence depends on processes that include predation, disease, death. Without these processes, we wouldn’t exist.

We’re significant without being central. A finger is significant to the body, but the body doesn’t exist for the finger. We may be significant to the cosmos—capable of consciousness, meaning, even wonder—without the cosmos existing for our sake.

We’re mortal. Every human who has ever lived has died or will die. This isn’t a cosmic mistake; it’s the nature of finite existence. Immortal creatures wouldn’t be human—they’d be something else. To be human is to be mortal, to be subject to time and decay, to exist within limits.

We’re capable of meaning. Even without centrality, we can create meaning, find purpose, experience joy. Meaning doesn’t require being the point of the universe. It requires being conscious in a universe where consciousness is possible.

We can choose how to respond. Suffering is real. We can reduce it—through medicine, justice, compassion. We can comfort those who suffer. We can rage against unnecessary cruelty. Accepting that we’re not the center doesn’t mean accepting suffering passively. It means locating our efforts within a realistic picture of what we are.

This is not nihilism. Nihilism says nothing matters. The Copernican move says: many things matter, but mattering doesn’t mean centrality. We can live meaningful lives, love deeply, work for justice—all without demanding that the cosmos be arranged for our convenience.

The shift is from entitlement to participation. From “why doesn’t the universe serve me?” to “how do I serve within the universe?” From demanding explanation to accepting mystery. From anthropocentrism to humility.

Coda: The Lion Within

There’s one more piece.

We ask why God permits lions to eat zebras as if we were outside the transaction. We identify with the zebra—the victim, the sufferer.

But we are also the lion.

Humans kill to eat. Even vegetarians rely on agriculture that displaces ecosystems and kills creatures. Our existence comes at the cost of other existences. We are predators in the web of life, not merely prey.

When we demand that God prevent suffering, we rarely mean our victims’ suffering. We mean our own. We want protection from being the zebra while continuing to be the lion.

This is the deeper asymmetry. We don’t question nature when it benefits us—when crops grow, when our immune systems fight disease, when our hearts beat. We question it only when it hurts us. We demand a universe tilted in our favor.

But a tilted universe isn’t what we have. We have a level universe—indifferent, perhaps, but equally indifferent to all. The laws that allow cancer also allow healing. The forces that cause earthquakes also form continents. The mortality that takes our loved ones also made room for us.

To rage against nature is to rage against the conditions of our own existence. To demand exemption from suffering is to demand exemption from being creatures.

The lion eats the zebra. We eat the grain that grew where the forest was. We build cities on floodplains and fault lines. We are nature, and nature is us.

The problem of evil asks why God permits suffering. Perhaps the answer is: because God permits nature. And nature—with all its beauty and terror, its creativity and destruction, its births and deaths—is not optional. It’s what existence is.

We are not above it. We are within it.

And within it, we find what meaning we can.