Paul’s Philosophy of History, Part Two

I believe in a sovereign God who ordains all things and knows all things. He knew humankind, our actions, and our inmost thoughts from before the foundation of the world, in other words, before the beginning of history. The trajectory of history was foreordained. You can see the basic arc laid out in Scripture starting with “in the beginning God created” and ending with the second coming of Christ (well, I guess that depends on your eschatology, but you get my point). The medieval chroniclers incorporated this grand sweep of history into their works. A chronicler might have been writing a chronology of the Anglo-Saxons in the 9^th century, but he would start by linking his work with the time of Christ.

Most Christians hold to some grand narrative of history. The concept of the “grand narrative” is properly called teleology, the idea that there exists an end of history. I believe that all history has a beginning and an ending. A biography begins and ends with birth and death. An institutional history might show the triumphant maturation or the slow decline of a school. As William Cronon has noted, even environmental historians find themselves turning the eruptions of earthquakes and other natural events into narratives. We shape our stories into narratives because narratives are “fundamental to the way we humans organize our experience.” This fact shouldn’t worry Christian historians. As Cronon further explained, “this commitment to teleology and narrative gives environmental history – all history – its moral center.” Narratives tell the reader what is good or bad, right or wrong.

All historians employ narratives. Fine, but how do we determine the shape of our narratives? Ought history to be an ascension narrative or a declension narrative? Do we highlight progress or regress? Lincoln alluded to this tension in his last post. The theological differences between dispensationalism and reformed theology result in very different historical narratives. I am purposefully simplifying (and to some extent distorting) the difference between the two viewpoints. This is not the place for a detailed discussion of the Kingdom of God and what, when, or where it is. The dispensationalist views history as a declension narrative. In each dispensation, or age, humankind is given instructions by God that we inevitably fail to follow. The dispensationalist views society and humankind as regressive. Our world becomes ever worse until the return of Christ. Reformed theologians, on the other hand, often construct a progressive narrative of history. The believing elect work to usher in the Kingdom of God by redeeming souls and transforming culture. Thus the reformed historian gravitates toward ascension narratives.

I find myself unconvinced by either grand narrative. I think we presume too much when we try to streamline the working of God in history to fit into our human-constructed teleologies. I do believe that history is linear, that it began with God’s creation of the world and will end when He destroys it. But as to the shape of the intervening years…well, we all make history, and often our theology, fit our preconceptions. Please indulge me this quick illustration: The reformed ascension narrative took a hit during World War One. Industrialized slaughter on a global scale did not fit particularly well into a progressive framework. Thus the darker dispensationalist outlook on society had its heyday during the post-WWI period. The point of this digression is to illustrate how historical events and cultural change can cause shifts in our theology and narrative of history. Being aware of humankind’s mutability makes me question convenient, tidy, overarching narratives. I can accept by faith that the redemptive narrative of Scripture is true, but I feel no similar urge towards manmade systems like dispensationalism or reformed theology.

My apathy towards grand narratives leads me to a form of teleological agnosticism. I’m satisfied with saying that history begins and ends with the Alpha and Omega. God is ahistorical because He transcends history. He is bound by neither space nor time. He always was and always will be. History, on the other hand, is bound by time, space, and humanity. The confusion comes when one posits, as I do, that all history is God’s history. By faith I accept the overarching themes of history revealed in Scripture (among other themes, humanity’s need for redemption and the offer of salvation), but the context of most of human history is lost to us because we are finite creatures. We can only scratch at the surface of historical truths. We sketch rude outlines of what happened and formulate theories of why things happened without ever really grasping the grander context of that which gives history meaning. Within that broader, inscrutable context lies the purpose and fuller truth of history.

Plato used the allegory of the Cave to illustrate his Theory of Forms, the idea that what humanity sees as real on earth is not true reality. Plato described people sitting in a dark cave watching shadows of objects projected on the wall in front of them. These individuals had no knowledge of the true forms of these objects and so they supposed them to be real. This allegory accurately describes fallen humanity. We think that what we see around us is real, but true reality exists only in eternity. (CS Lewis’s Great Divorce is a modern update to Plato’s “Theory of Forms.”) The apostle Paul was classically-trained and used Platonic imagery in several of his letters: “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

As a historian then, I believe that history is the shadow of reality. We describe as best we can God’s working in human lives and through historical events. We pluck at the strands making a connection here and there, but the full tapestry will not be revealed until the end of history. I make it my goal, as a historian, to describe historical events without worrying about understanding its deepest meaning, its place in the “Ultimate Scheme of Things.” It would be presumptuous of me to assume that I, Paul Matzko, have the ability to fit everything in its place (see also Lincoln’s earlier post). I am compelled to leave history unembellished. It may be linear, but that doesn’t make it a straight line. Rather than constructing grand ascension or declension narratives we must make room for the twists and turns of history. History should not read like a Sunday School story. In the scope of history the good do not always triumph and the bad often prosper (ironically, an anti-Platonic idea). As historians we must describe what happened in this life as accurately as possible and leave the sorting of the just from the unjust to God. This doesn’t mean that we cannot allow our faith to influence our work, but it should constrain us from forcing history to affirm our moral order.

On a different note, I find it ironic that historians argue about the same questions as theologians. In a class at Temple I found myself defending a Marxist historian because I sympathized with his argument about ahistorical concepts. Sure, the Marxist’s Deus ex machina was the “Mode of Production” rather than God, but at least he recognized that all of history is given meaning by something or someone outside of history. A common topic in classes on historiography and historical philosophy is the tension between determinism and contingency. In theology we describe this as the tension between election and free will. Whether or not you prefer to frame the question in theological rather than historical language, your beliefs concerning determinism and contingency dramatically affects your historical interpretations. Do the actions of one individual influence history? Or are our actions simply the result of deep-rooted cultural, geographical, and ideological influences?

On the one extreme, there was a group of mostly French historians called the Annales School which argued that historical structures dictated historical events. In other words, meta-historical forces like geography, religion, and economics so influence individual decision making that contingency is really an illusion. Thus, Annales historians, like Fernand Braudel and Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, thought that individual historical events were less important than these structural forces. Over the past thirty years, the Annales School has declined in popularity. As postmodernism became more influential in the academy, historians have tended to elevate contingency over determinism. In reaction to the way in which modernism stifled minority opinion, many contemporary historians, especially those who would describe themselves as postcolonial, look to rescue subaltern peoples and belittled worldviews. These historians seek to empower subjugated people groups by revealing the ways in which they resisted oppression. Postcolonial historians believe that even seemingly powerless people can make choices that influence history.

Let me give an example of the interpretational tension between these two schools of thought. Slavery was widespread in the antebellum South. The determinist-leaning historian would emphasize the economic basis of slavery, the geography of the South that encouraged plantation slavery, and the pro-slavery mentalité of the dominant culture. Note that the determinst never discusses the feelings of those actually enslaved. The historian who seeks to emphasize contigency might instead highlight the attitudes of slaves towards their masters and the daily acts of slave resistance. The determinist’s interpretation implies that slavery was inevitable and irresistible. His opponent is likely to see slavery as historical circumstance, that slavery as a historical event could have turned out differently.

So which is right? Yes. If you can come up with a better answer, let me know. I suspect that both contingency and determinism hold some validity and that a historian should not be bound to either extreme. In a certain situation, broad, structural forces might compell a certain pattern of behavior. Yet I cannot believe that contingency is a complete illusion, that all choices are totally constrained. Without some form of contigency there is no moral imperative, right or wrong. I use the analogy of a river to make sense of contigency and determinism. Most of the things which we could throw into that river, like a stick or stone, will make a ripple but do nothing to change the course of the river. Yet if we drop in a log or boulder at the narrowest junction we might temporarily dam and divert the course of the water. Even so, we can do nothing to change the fact that the river will inevitably find its way to the sea. So, for the historian, peoples’ choices matter, they can change the course of history, but the ultimate end of history remains fixed. Our work should reflect both contingency and determinism.

In conclusion, I offer this thought. History is a means to an end. This is an unavoidable truth. We construct, or emplot, history to tell a story. Our preconceptions and prejudices, our fears and hopes, and our aspirations and failures are all reflected in our work. We each have a goal in mind when we write. The historian must ask, to what end do we write history? Or, better yet, to Whom do we write history? As a Christian historian I seek to glorify a great God. What does He require of me? That which he requires of all mankind:  ”To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”