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.