Sacramental history

 

"We must be consumed either by the anger of the storm god or by the love of the living God. There is no way around life and its sufferings. Our only choice is will we be consumed by the fire of our own heedless fears and passions or allow God to refine us in his fire and to shape us into a fitting instrument for his revelation, as he did Moses. We need not fear God as we fear all other suffering, which burns and maims and kills. For God's fire, though it will perfect us, will not destroy, for 'the bush was not consumed.' 

This insight into God is the unearthly illumination that will light up all the greatest works of subsequent Western literature. From the psalms of David and the prophecies of Isaiah to the visions of Dante and the dreams of Dostoevsky, the bush will burn but will not be consumed. As Allen Ginsberg will one day write, 'The only poetic tradition is the voice calling out of the burning bush.'"

Thomas Cahill, The Gifts of the Jews, 164.

I've been drawn to this quote for several years now. It brings to mind recurring themes of fortitude and hope that I never seem to stray very far from in my reading. Cahill's statements are reminiscent of Peter Leithart’s notion of “deep comedy,” which, in a literary context, is analogous to Shakespeare's genre of the tragicomedy. Although I’ve previously written on the reassuring nature of a “literary” reading of history, I hadn’t thought till now of this as also being an eminently sacramental practice as well (You can probably blame my recent medievalist joyride for this one).

A sacramentalist conception  of history is one with a high view of providence.

A high, sacramental view of providence offers an alternative perspective to the conventional idea of history as a series of events carried out by us. We do not create history - it is something we receive. This is not to mitigate our role as agents in the plan of God’s providence. We receive, but we are not passive. When engaging in baptism or the Lord’s supper, we are active participants - there isn’t a supernatural tsunami of water that envelops us, nor are we force-fed the elements. However, even though we truly partake in the sacraments, the focus is not on our actions as such, but on what God does for us through them. It’s the same in history. To view it primarily as a transcript of human actions can only lead to despair; it is an endless, steadily-escalating spiral of self-destruction. However, if we consider it a record of God’s gracious intervention in this cycle, drawing our attention by types and shadows to a promised restoration, it is great cause for hope.

Not only does a sacramental view of history consider providence as something we receive, it is also an emphatic belief that we will be helped by what we experience in life. If the sacraments are not meant to be seen as things we do, they must be something more than mere memorials; rather, they are the means of grace by which God strengthens our faith. To see history sacramentally, we stand confident that God will use these events both for his glory and our benefit. It’s easy for me to assent to this claim when I can see the direct connection between what I’m going through and a positive trajectory in my spiritual life; when I’m encouraged by fellowship with other Christians or witness new converts join the church, I have no problem believing that I will benefit from what I see. It’s much more difficult to trust this when providence pushes me to rely on God’s promises. The times when God seems to be working against his revealed will, when a hopeful explanation for what is happening to me is impossible to recognize, when people go through apparently senseless suffering - these are the moments that force us to live in faith. We must look back in history, not only to times when good this came out of evil, but also to God’s promises that, though there might never be a satisfying explanation in this life, all will be made well in the one to come. It is both forward and backward thinking.

I find that in my life, viewing history sacramentally means that I must be stubbornly submissive to God’s will. Trusting him doesn’t always make sense, and it often feels more terrifying than comforting in the moment. It requires me to go against all of my fallen instincts. Sometimes the only thing keeping me going is stubbornness (which itself is a divine intervention in my life). But it is the only way we can view history as a deep comedy, as an experience in which God sacramentally draws us closer to himself. Suffering is an inevitability in a fallen world, and as Cahill writes, we can either entrust ourselves to God’s hand or else plunge ourselves deeper into destruction. Grace may be painful, but that is not a fault on the part of God; it is ours for distorting it in our perception. Gracious fire perfects rather than destroys.

Medieval safari

Leaving grad school, I vaguely knew that the brave new world of Nine-to-Five Desk Job I was stepping into would introduce changes into the lifestyle of the beautiful and fabulous that I had grown accustomed to, but, as everything goes in life, it doesn't quite hit you until you're in it. WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN'T SPEND THE AFTERNOON RESEARCHING?* Several weeks of not reading recently made me realize that intellectual stimulus is forever tied to my mental health, and so out came those life-long, marketable skills liberal arts graduates always gush about: reading scheduling and annotating. Somehow, things got out of control and I find myself in the middle of a medieval literary extravaganza. Even so, I've still felt out of sorts lately, which I'm diagnosing as a major case of writer's block; I thought I'd force some writing out of me by talking about what I've been reading.

After steady urging by my peers, I read Craig Carter's Interpreting Scripture with the Great Tradition, which is based on the assumption that the Enlightenment has undermined the foundation of Western culture by attacking its hermeneutic of reading, specifically in a biblical context. Carter had me at: "This book tries to restore the delicate balance between biblical exegesis, trinitarian dogma, and theological metaphysics that was upset by the heretical, one-sided, narrow-minded movement that is misnamed 'the Enlightenment'" (26). I've been saying for years that the Enlightenment ended Western Civilization, so I find it extremely satisfying to have this prejudice validated in an academic, peer-reviewed text. ANYWAY, Carter devotes the rest of his book to advocating a return to a medieval ethic of interpreting Scripture, specifically its use of allegory in tandem with literal readings of the texts. Much of this would be familiar to old-school English students, who are taught to approach reading as Keats did, as something that is self-reflexive and that necessarily changes those who encounter it. I'm still not entirely sure about how much I track Carter on his (reductionist?) analysis of Nominalism as the ultimate culprit (though as a Realist I have no sympathy for the movement), but it gives much to think about. I was also particularly interested in the juxtaposition of his extensive use of Tolkien and Lewis and his deflationary discussion of the idea of the "Christian Myth" - I think there are a lot of potential nuances waiting to be teased out here. All in all a book I thoroughly enjoyed reading.

I just finished Ian Levy's Introducing Medieval Biblical Interpretation. We share an alma mater, which thus gave him instant credibility with me. As you might suspect from the title, he takes a different approach from Carter by producing a survey of medieval writers, rather than pursuing a thesis-driven argument. While I would have enjoyed the latter more, I appreciated the chance to read this as a companion text to Carter, as it gave me the chance to see what the literary milieu Carter describes was doing on the ground. In the recurring game I play with myself, if I were a professor, I would definitely assign the two texts together.

Other books I’ve gotten through lately have been Madeleine Miller’s Circe, Rosaria Butterfield’s The Gospel Comes with a House Key, and The Church’s Book of Comfort (a collection of essays on the Heidelberg Catechism  put out by Reformation Heritage), and I’m currently reading Trueman’s Grace Alone. However, to keep these medieval vibes going, I’ve got my eye on Chris Armstrong’s Medieval Wisdom for Modern Christians and Christine de Pisan’s The Treasure of the City of Ladies. I still owe the blog my thoughts on Marie de France, because, months later, she is still a legend in my mind. But I’ll have to schedule all this writing in.

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*you know, chasing that dopamine high we all get when we encounter an out-of-print lyric text by Hercules Collins