Crisis Narratives, Climate Change, and the Politics of Storytelling: the Sense of an Ending and Ecologies of Fear

Crisis narratives shape how we understand history, politics, and even our own existence. Whether religious or secular, these narratives impose a sense of order on chaos, framing the present as a critical moment in a larger story of decline, transformation, or redemption. From biblical apocalypses to contemporary political rhetoric, the impulse to narrativize crisis is not merely a way of making sense of uncertainty—it is a powerful tool that structures belief, justifies action, and reinforces ideological positions. This essay explores the ways in which crisis narratives function, particularly in relation to Frank Kermode’s theory of apocalyptic storytelling, Mike Davis’s critique of disaster mythologies, and the very real existential crisis of climate change. By examining how these frameworks intersect with contemporary issues—such as climate change, urban fear in 1990s Los Angeles, and the eschatological politics of Christian Zionism—this essay argues that crisis narratives are not passive reflections of reality but active forces that shape political, social, and environmental outcomes.

Frank Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending (1967) explores the ways in which humans impose narrative structures on time, particularly through the lens of literary and religious eschatologies. Religious eschatologies, which encompass theological doctrines and belief systems concerning the ultimate destiny of humanity and the world, often revolve around concepts of divine judgment, salvation, and the fulfillment of prophetic events. These narratives typically structure history as a teleological progression toward a climactic resolution: the Second Coming in Christianity, the arrival of the Messiah in Judaism, or the cyclical destruction and renewal of the universe in Hinduism and Buddhism.

Kermode argues that we do not simply experience time passively but rather structure it into stories with a beginning, middle, and end. This narrative impulse extends beyond literature and into human consciousness itself, shaping the way we perceive historical events. In particular, he highlights how societies rely on apocalyptic myths to navigate uncertainty and crisis, framing historical moments as leading inevitably to a revelatory conclusion. This tendency, he suggests, is a fundamental aspect of meaning-making: by imposing a sense of order on history, we transform chaos into coherence. Political and cultural discourses frequently employ this logic, interpreting historical ruptures as part of a larger narrative of crisis and resolution, thereby reinforcing a sense of inevitability and purpose.

Mike Davis’s Ecology of Fear (1998) extends Kermode’s framework into a contemporary urban context, revealing how 1990s Los Angeles was cast as a site of perpetual disaster, both in reality and in the cultural imagination. Davis critiques the ways in which environmental catastrophes—earthquakes, wildfires, and urban unrest—are mythologized into a grand narrative of inevitable doom, reinforcing a fatalistic view of the city’s future. This aligns with Kermode’s insight that societies construct eschatological narratives to make sense of disorder, scripting contingent events into an overarching story that presupposes catastrophe. However, Davis takes this critique further by demonstrating that such narratives serve ideological functions. They do not merely provide a way of understanding crisis; they also mask structural inequalities and environmental mismanagement. The apocalyptic rhetoric surrounding Los Angeles in the 1990s, he argues, was not just a cultural habit but a deliberate tool for justifying neglect, reinforcing class divisions, and naturalizing crises that were, in many cases, the direct result of human decision-making rather than cosmic fate.

Freud’s concept of kettle logic provides another lens for understanding how crisis narratives function. Kettle logic describes a mode of argumentation in which contradictory justifications are presented simultaneously, undermining their own coherence. Freud’s famous example is a man accused of returning a damaged kettle who offers three conflicting excuses: he never borrowed the kettle, it was already broken when he got it, and he returned it in perfect condition. Each claim contradicts the others, yet they are deployed together in an attempt to overwhelm critique rather than resolve the issue logically.

Building on Kermode and Davis, I aim to analyze how the existential crisis of climate change intensifies and transforms crisis narratives, generating new forms that function as political technologies—used alternately to deny climate change outright, to reframe it within the logic of religious eschatology, or, in kettle logic fashion, to claim both at once: that climate change does not exist and that it exists only as a fulfillment of a preferred prophecy.

Specifically, I will examine how climate change fits within Kermode’s and Davis’s theories of crisis, exploring how it reshapes the ways we construct and deploy such narratives. To ground this analysis, I will first consider how Christian Zionism has instrumentalized crisis-driven imagination as a political technology—one that has played a role in the establishment of the modern state of Israel, the recent attempts at ethnic cleansing in Gaza, and the dystopian vision of a "Mar-a-Gaza" as a proposed eschatological endpoint.

In Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster, Mike Davis reveals how crisis narratives shape not just urban life but also the political and economic structures that govern it. Fear of disaster, he argues, is not simply a reaction to external threats but a story carefully constructed to justify policies, reinforce hierarchies, and divert public attention away from deeper structural causes. Whether in the form of earthquakes, wildfires, or social unrest, these narratives function to naturalize instability, making it seem inevitable rather than the product of human decisions.

By framing disaster as an ever-present force, these narratives obscure how economic policies, social inequalities, and political agendas create and exacerbate vulnerability. This is not just about disaster preparedness or urban resilience—it is about power. The ability to control the way crises are framed and understood determines who will be blamed for them, who will profit from them, and who will suffer the consequences. Rather than allowing for systemic solutions, crisis narratives work to legitimize increased policing, gentrification, and militarization under the guise of security and stability.

Davis’s argument aligns with Frank Kermode’s exploration of how we construct crisis narratives to make sense of time, history, and power in The Sense of an Ending. Kermode argues that humans impose structures on chaotic reality through apocalyptic storytelling, giving history a beginning, middle, and end to make sense of the uncertainty of the present. These stories provide a comforting illusion of coherence, transforming random or contingent events into a meaningful progression toward an ultimate resolution. Apocalyptic narratives, whether religious or secular, follow a predictable pattern: a world in crisis, a moment of transformation, and a final revelation or reckoning that redeems or destroys.

The power of such narratives lies in their ability to impose necessity onto history. They do not merely explain past and present events; they give them an aura of inevitability, making it seem as though the course of history could not have unfolded in any other way. In this sense, apocalyptic narratives are not just interpretations of reality but instruments that shape reality itself, determining what kinds of futures are considered possible—or impossible.

This framing is central to both Ecology of Fear and to contemporary political crisis narratives. Apocalyptic stories allow elites to structure fear, frame political decisions as inevitable, and foreclose alternative futures. Crisis is not simply an emergency to be resolved but an essential component of narrative control. Whether in religious eschatology, political propaganda, or corporate misdirection, apocalypse provides a script that serves power. The structure of apocalyptic narratives does not just explain events; it gives them an aura of inevitability, making it seem as though history could never have unfolded any other way.

The same logic of crisis storytelling operates within Christian apocalyptic traditions, particularly in the political theology of Christian Zionism. Evangelical eschatology frames history as a cosmic struggle in which crises—wars, environmental catastrophes, and social breakdowns—are signs of the end times rather than problems that demand solutions. This sense of urgency, the belief that collapse must precede redemption, produces a historical fatalism. When disasters are framed as necessary steps in a divine plan, there is little incentive to address their root causes. Instead, crises become confirmation of prophecy, justifying political action, particularly in shaping American foreign policy toward Israel.

Christian Zionism has long been a driver of geopolitical policy, dating back to the Balfour Declaration of 1917, in which Britain formally supported the establishment of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. While often presented as a secular diplomatic maneuver, the agreement was deeply influenced by Christian Zionist ideology. Lord Arthur Balfour himself was sympathetic to these ideas, but it was Lord Shaftesbury, a prominent Christian Zionist, who had been advocating for Jewish restoration to Palestine since the mid-19th century. For Christian Zionists, Britain’s role in establishing a Jewish state was not simply an act of diplomacy but the fulfillment of biblical prophecy. The foundation of Israel in 1948 and its subsequent territorial expansions have continued to be interpreted in this framework—not as political history, but as apocalyptic inevitability.

Kermode’s insights help explain why this narrative has been so powerful. The Christian Zionist vision of history follows the structure of the "imminent apocalypse"—the idea that the world is always on the brink of transformation, and that each crisis is another step toward the ultimate resolution. This creates an endless deferral of the ending itself, sustaining the narrative without ever allowing it to reach full closure. Every war, every diplomatic move, every territorial expansion of Israel is framed as an acceleration of history toward the eschaton. But the end never actually comes—because the power of the narrative lies in its perpetual anticipation. The constant expectation of crisis gives Christian Zionism its momentum, ensuring that its adherents are always prepared for an imminent, earth-shattering transformation that never quite arrives.

This logic remains alive today in the evangelical right’s unwavering support for Israeli expansion, particularly under figures like Donald Trump. For many Christian Zionists, Trump embodies an Antichrist-like figure—not because he opposes biblical prophecy, but because his corruption, immorality, and authoritarianism are paradoxically useful in accelerating the Second Coming. By recognizing Jerusalem as Israel’s capital, pushing for greater Israeli sovereignty over Palestinian territories, and ignoring settler violence, Trump has become an instrument of the divine timeline. The proposed ethnic cleansing of Gaza, reframed as an economic redevelopment plan where Trump’s business empire could convert the ruins into a luxury resort, extends this apocalyptic narrative to its most grotesque conclusion. In this vision, suffering is not only justified but actively celebrated as a means to an end—a world remade in preparation for Christ’s return, with the Palestinians erased as part of a divine cleansing.

The Biden administration’s climate policy exemplifies this contradiction. On one hand, it promotes domestic electric vehicle manufacturing, solar and wind energy development, and emissions reduction targets, creating the appearance of bold climate leadership. On the other, it has granted more fossil fuel drilling leases than even Donald Trump, ensuring that oil and gas extraction remains central to the U.S. economy for decades to come. This is a textbook example of crisis storytelling as political misdirection—giving the illusion of progress while ensuring that nothing fundamentally changes.

At its core, crisis storytelling is about control. It is a way of managing uncertainty, turning structural injustices into unchangeable facts of life, and ensuring that power remains where it has always been. When the crisis is fabricated, as in the context of urban fear in 1990s Los Angeles or the apocalyptic imagination of Christian Zionism, these narratives tell us that disaster is inevitable and that the only way forward is to trust those who claim to see the future. When the disaster is real, as with climate change, these narratives tell us that the disaster is not real, and, as with Freud's kettle-logic, that the powers that be know best how to deal with it while they continue to feed the beast of the fossil fuel industry and American overconsumption.

But as Kermode reminds us, the apocalypse never truly arrives. It is always deferred, sustaining power through perpetual crisis. When the crisis is real, as scientists have been yelling at us since the 1980s—when Carl Sagan told Congress about climate change and its dangers and how they were a very real crisis soon to happen—expect crisis storytelling to both downplay the crisis and to continue to act as if it were not real, all while governing according to their own interests.

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