We can extend this notion beyond the ecological realm and into an evolutionary purview as well. It is differential success in survival and reproduction that enables populations of creatures to move toward adaptive peaks. For example, the stunning power and speed of cheetahs might never have arisen if slower individuals had been just as successful in hunting and reproducing as faster individuals were. The majestic running of gazelles might never have existed if slower individuals were not caught by predators more often than faster individuals were. The loss of these less-fit individuals leaves a higher proportion of individuals in the population with genes that will make the next generation better adapted to its ecological niche. In Science and Religion: A Critical Survey, Rolston writes, “the cougar’s fang has carved the limbs of the fleet-footed deer, and vice versa” (p. 134). In this sense, each creature not only contributes energy and resources to the ecosystem when it perishes, it helps enable its species to reach greater levels of adaptation. Rolston suggests that “There are sorts of creation that cannot occur without death, and these include the highest created goods. Death can be meaningfully put into the biological processes as a necessary counterpart to the advancing of life” (p. 217).

As this discussion makes evident, understanding biological death as integral to the functioning of the world God created is not a novel idea. But the question remains how this might fit into a theological framework that retains an overall arc of creation, fall, redemption, and consummation. In his chapter in Evolution and the Fall, James K.A. Smith engages in what he calls “a provisional model as a kind of imaginative experiment,” conceiving of a scenario in which this would be possible. He writes:

In the beginning, God created the heavens and earth. From what he seems to tell us via the book of nature, the mechanics of creational unfolding was an evolutionary process: the emergence of new life was governed by the survival of the fittest, such that biological death and animal predation are part of this process, even part of what can be acclaimed as a “good” creation. So some of the phenomena we might have traditionally described as “outcomes” of the Fall seem to be part of the fabric of a good, emerging creation. (p. 61, italics removed)

But if animal death and predation are not effects of the Fall, then what are we to make of passages like Romans 8:20-22 that imply that all of creation was critically impacted by human sin?

Smith goes on to write, “And things change in the ‘after’: there are cosmic effects of some discernible nature (cp. Colossians 1–2); there is also the cosmic fallout of humanity’s failure to cultivate and care for creation” (p. 62, italics removed). This notion retains the idea that the rest of the created order was impacted by the Fall, but places the emphasis on humanity’s relationship with the rest of creation rather than any fundamental changes in the non-human creation itself. R.J. Berry concurs, writing that “The ‘Fall’ is not primarily about disease and disaster … Rather, it is a way of describing the fracture in relationship between God and the human creature made in his image,” a fracture that produces “disorder within ourselves, with our neighbors, and with our environment” (p. 94). This notion of broken relationships is echoed by Rolston: “[H]uman sin can henceforth throw nature out of joint … We are made for fellowship at multiple levels: with God, with persons, with the Earth. When that sense of community breaks, the world begins to fall apart” (p. 226). Our sin has caused the rest of creation to fall into a sort of disarray, made increasingly evident today when we consider the global impacts of human activity that threaten myriad species and perturb sensitive ecosystems. We have failed to live up to our calling as God’s image bearers, sustaining and cultivating the creation. In emphasizing these effects of the Fall (in addition to the traditional kinds of sin and brokenness we recognize), we also can accentuate our call to restore the fragile ecological balance that allows all of God’s creation to thrive. In so doing, we can begin to retake one aspect of our role as his image bearers, living in the world in such a way that all of God’s creations can give him glory by playing their vital roles in the functioning of a good creation.

Some of the ideas presented here are certainly challenging, but I think they can be held within an orthodox Christian framework that includes a good creation, a disruptive Fall, the chance of restoration, and the hope of consummation in the eschaton. However, even if we are comfortable with the idea of biological death being a critical part of a good, functioning creation, there are still a number of difficult questions that must be considered. Why would God create a universe in which creaturely death was a key part of its very functioning? Beyond simply animal death, what are we to make of instances when creatures apparently suffer prior to death? How do we interpret eschatological visions of wolves and lambs feeding together and lions feasting on straw like oxen (Isaiah 65:25)?

It may strike some that trying to craft a sort of evolutionary theodicy is a rather fruitless path of inquiry. After all, Christians have continued asking some of the same basic sorts of questions regarding God and evil for millennia, and sometimes we do not seem any closer to having any answers. Indeed, as I work through these issues, I occasionally struggle to make sense of what I see in nature and read in Scripture. Sometimes the problems seem intractable. However, I think it is of utmost importance for us to engage with these questions, for they can hinder Christians from affirming modern science and prevent non-religious scientists from considering Christian faith. In considering these difficult issues, I am reminded, in the words of Cornelius Plantinga from his book Engaging God’s World (p. 66), that:

A faithful Christian will assume that the conflict is only apparent – that God doesn’t contradict himself in the two books that reveal him. But she will not assume that we’ll be able to resolve the conflict any time soon. Honest, patient scholarship refuses to manage conflicts of these kinds by forcing an early resolution. Instead, the patient Christian scholar puts issues of this kind into suspension for a time while she continues to think about them.

So let us continue together along these paths of inquiry: moving forward in the spirit of fides quaerens intellectum (faith seeking understanding); rooting ourselves in faith as we cautiously, carefully, and prayerfully consider these issues; and always maintaining a posture of humility as we try to work toward possible answers to some of the most vexing questions for people of faith.