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QUASH, B. Theology and The Drama of History
QUASH, B. Theology and The Drama of History
Edited by
Professor D a n i e l W. H a r d y , University of Cambridge
Cambridge Studies in Christian Doctrine is an important series which aims
to engage critically with the traditional doctrines of Christianity, and
at the same time to locate and make sense of them within a secular
context. Without losing sight of the authority of scripture and the
traditions of the church, the books in this series subject pertinent
dogmas and credal statements to careful scrutiny, analysing them in
light of the insights of both church and society, and thereby practise
theology in the fullest sense of the word.
B e n Q ua s h
Dean and Fellow of Peterhouse, Cambridge
cambridge university press
Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of urls
for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not
guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
This book is dedicated to my father, John,
my sisters, Samantha and Meg,
my brother, Toby,
and most of all
to my mother,
Marilyn.
Contents
Acknowledgements page xi
List of abbreviations xiv
Introduction 1
Why history matters to theology 2
Introducing the cast, the stage and the action 3
Principal conversation partners 10
Summary of chapters 16
1 Dramatizing theology 26
The genre question: the Greeks 30
The genre question: an emerging profile of the ‘dramatic’ 35
The genre question: Hegel 39
Theodramatics contra modernity 46
[ix]
x Contents
Postscript 219
[xi]
xii Acknowledgements
[xiv]
Introduction
[1]
2 Theology and the Drama of History
So, then, it is in certain key areas that the dramatic emphasis of a theodra-
matics will have its most obvious theological effects – and all of these have
implications for the way that history is conceived. Drama displays human
actions and temporal events in specific contexts.2 Theodramatics concerns itself
with human actions (people), temporal events (time) and their specific
2 These three areas of concern are not entirely unrelated to the concerns of neo-classical
drama with‘three unities’ (a concern developed from Aristotle’s Poetics) – namely, with action,
time and place.
4 Theology and the Drama of History
3 ‘Structure’, in this usage, can refer both to the ‘stage’ of the action and to its emplotment.
4 Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, 3 vols. (trans. Kathleen McLaughlin and David Pellauer),
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984–8). Ricoeur’s mammoth study addresses the
difficulty in speaking of the ‘oneness’ of time, and yet the simultaneous pressure (often
practical and ethical in character) to continue to do so. The shared narratability of agency and
of events in and through time (history conceived as narrative) is essential to any idea that
subjects can act coherently and manifest constancy in time. Yet no narrative identity is a
‘stable and seamless identity’ (Time and Narrative, vol. 3, p. 248), and one cannot ever claim
exhaustive and definitive explanation of the meaning of a subject’s action, or the events in
which such action is embedded. My own project is very much in sympathy with Ricoeur’s in
this regard – opposing (as Ricoeur’s poetics of narrative does) ‘the ambition of thought to
Introduction 5
bring about a totalization of history entirely permeable to the light of concepts’ (p. 255),
while refusing the idea that there are only private histories (separate temporalities)
belonging to separate human communities or individuals, and with no possibility of contact
or overlap with each other. If temporality has a unity, it is a ‘multiform unity’ (p. 256), better
acknowledged in the ‘imperfect mediation [i.e., the complex, sometimes ragged, discursive
and open-ended mediation]’ of narrations of a poetic kind (p. 256) rather than in some total,
conceptual mediation.
5 Hardy, Finding the Church, pp. 64–5. By ‘life-like explanations’ Hardy means explanations
that work by appeal to organic models.
6 Theology and the Drama of History
Hardy goes on to indicate some of the ways in which these different con-
ceptions of history have direct social consequences. He traces a habit of
mind in continental Europe that concentrates on ‘large-scale systemic
issues’. In this model it is in the operation of rational systems, to which
individuals are relatively-speaking subordinate, that historical develop-
ment will work itself out – or else in the rational harnessing of systemic
forces. Policies about tax, public services, the environment, and so on are
formulated accordingly. In America, Hardy argues that it is to the individ-
ual and the defence of individual interests that primary attention is paid.
This gives rise to ‘the notoriously “litigious” society found there, the pro-
duct of a combination of individualism and the search for simple causes
for any problem’.6 Historical development works itself out through the
interaction of individual interests, choices and initiatives, as in the model
of the free market.
Hardy identifies another way (which he argues is embodied in a dis-
tinctively English view of history). Such a view is best seen in ‘complex
narrative histories’, in which ‘complex – often local – connections of peo-
ple, movements and events’ are allowed to become visible, and ‘primacy is
given neither to individuals nor to grand narratives with a clear outcome’.7
My argument in this book will be that not only ‘complex narrative histo-
ries’ but, more particularly, dramas offer the best literary correlate here for
the distinctive view of history that Hardy wants to promote. With the help
of sensibilities learnt from attention to drama, it is possible to approach
history in a way that is alert to the importance of ‘delicate fabrics of trust,
learning and productivity’8 – fabrics in which subjects and structures do
not wrestle with one another in a sort of competition for dominance, but
in which they interrelate and flourish in forms of (for example) family life,
local community and education. In these contexts it can be seen how ‘[t]he
quality of our individuality is inseparable from the quality of the society in
which we exist’.9 Subjects and structures can be seen mutually informing
one another in appropriately complex ways.
Such a conception of history, informed by a dramatic understanding of
how cast, stage and action need each other, will have a density to it which
will cause both the ‘systemic’ and ‘individualist’ conceptions of history
identified by Hardy to look ‘thin’. This is because, in his words, ‘[b]oth
views – systemic and individualist – privilege and implement abstractions
and principles that lead in quite different directions from the carefully
10 Ibid., p. 68.
8 Theology and the Drama of History
about it, these thinkers debated the nature of drama. To take up the term
‘drama’ in the wake of these debates in order to put it to work theo-
logically was to take up a contested term. In choosing its second major
conversation partner, therefore, this book looks beyond von Balthasar’s
work – acknowledging the significant diversity of theory in its
background18 – and separates what was formative in his cultivation
of the idea of a ‘theodramatics’ from what was inessential. It identifies
one particularly important debt – a source of theory that influences all
the particular readings of drama which make up Volume I of Theodramatik
(the Prolegomena) and whose character inevitably affects, for good or ill,
the theology von Balthasar subsequently seeks to convey. It suggests that
understanding this source places one in a better position to assess the
value of von Balthasar’s overall project for an historically sensitive theo-
dramatics. This source is the thought of Hegel: a singularly significant
influence from among the variety which inform von Balthasar’s dramatic
theory.19
Hegel, therefore, is my second conversation partner for developing a
theodramatics geared to serious thought about history (the one I labelled
20 Kevin Mongrain, in his book The Systematic Thought of Hans Urs von Balthasar: An Irenaean
Retrieval (New York: Herder and Herder, 2002), p. 225 note 1, worries that in my highlighting
of ‘formal similarities’ between Hegel’s and von Balthasar’s thought I may not be aware of
his ‘anti-Hegelian agenda’. I hope that much of this book – perhaps particularly the final
section of chapter 3 – will reassure him that I do not by any means wish to ignore this agenda.
Contrary to Mongrain’s charge that I ‘refuse to take von Balthasar’s explicit anti-Hegelian
arguments seriously’, and contrary to his assumption that the suggestion of implicit patterns
of Hegelian influence in von Balthasar is a priori an illegitimate suggestion given von
Balthasar’s explicit rejection of specific Hegelian positions, I would argue for something more
complex. Von Balthasar’s disagreements with Hegel are to be taken with real seriousness, and
they succeed in setting some clear theological water between his position and that of the
philosopher of Spirit. But this cannot be allowed to blind one to the effects of a manifestly
sympathetic instinct for Hegel’s thought at other points – many of them openly
acknowledged by von Balthasar himself.
21 Hegel accompanies von Balthasar’s thought everywhere in his trilogy. Special
engagements are to be found in Volume iii/1 of Herrlichkeit, ‘Im Raum der Metaphysik’ (H iii/1,
pp. 904–21/GL 5, pp. 572–90), and in Volume ii of Theologik (TL ii, pp. 42–5). These alone
would indicate that von Balthasar regards Hegel’s legacy to the history of Western thought as
absolutely not to be bypassed – it must be gone through. But beyond these treatments, there
are even more frequent appearances of Hegel’s thought in Theodramatik, the central part of
the trilogy. He is brought into the discussion in every volume. Some of the times when he is
most decisively present are, as will become clear, only lightly acknowledged by von Balthasar.
But there are also explicit and concentrated encounters with him. For example, in the final
volume, von Balthasar discusses the question of hope with reference to Hegel and the
Hegelian tradition (TD iv, pp. 152–3/ThD 5, p. 173) and, later, the kenotic tradition in its
Hegelian manifestation (TD iv, pp. 201–8/ThD 5, pp. 223–31). And in Volume i – perhaps the
most important volume for the task of establishing who von Balthasar identifies his principal
conversation partners to be when formulating a theory of drama – Hegel’s presence is most
pervasive of all. It should be acknowledged that of course von Balthasar spends more time on
dramatists than philosophers in this volume: in particular, he gives time to Grillparzer,
Hebbel, Ibsen, Shaw and Pirandello in the modern period, and to his beloved Calderón in an
earlier time. He readily acknowledges the Greeks and Shakespeare as high points of dramatic
art, and devotes attention to them. But where philosophers are concerned – despite serious
interest in Fichte, Schelling and Nietzsche – it is Hegel who dominates. Two entire sections
are devoted to him, one near the beginning in which Hegel’s simultaneous appreciation and
relativization of dramatic insight are discussed (TD i, pp. 50–64/ThD 1, pp. 54–70; this section
will be looked at very closely in chapter 3), and one near the end in which von Balthasar
considers Hegel’s philosophy of the individual, especially in relation to his community or
‘ethical world’ (TD i, pp. 542–53/ThD 1, pp. 578–89; this will be part of the discussion of
individuality, freedom and community in chapter 2). We do not find von Balthasar agreeing
Introduction 13
One of the things that makes Hegel distinctive among the philosophers
of his period, and makes him so important to von Balthasar’s theology, is
that he takes the unusual step of claiming drama to be art’s most deve-
loped expression of the movement of Spirit (Geist), and an exceptional pre-
cursor of a purer philosophy. This was not the case for Schopenhauer and
Nietzsche, for example. They favoured music’s greater freedom from the
restrictions and demands of physical representation, which for them gave
it a more ideal status.22 For Hegel, however, music was too one-sidedly the
‘negation’ of externality, whereas poetry (of which dramatic poetry was
the most developed form) was able to reincorporate externality as well as
the ‘inwardness’ of the subject.
Hegel’s immense respect for drama – unique among philosophers with
a comparable interest in the arts – is, I think, an especially persuasive argu-
ment for his importance to this study, just as it is a powerful indication
of his relevance to von Balthasar’s Theodramatik. Indeed, the importance
drama has for Hegel, as for von Balthasar, turns out to be a doorway into
a host of common concerns. Von Balthasar is the first to admit that both
he and Hegel are in their distinctive ways consumed with the question ‘In
what sense is all drama a drama of God himself?’ (TD I, p. 64/ThD 1, p. 69).
Both long to say that although the end is not yet known and the final act
has yet to be played, yet the great drama of the world has a telos, and the
goodness, truth and beauty of human action and interaction with other
human beings (and, as Hegel in his own way admits, with God) will find
their vindication or judgement in the light of that telos. These are claims
which, from the point of view of this book, open up theological questions
of the most compelling kind: about how human freedom can operate with
integrity in a drama that seems teleologically determined, as well as about
with Hegel in all these places: the frequency of the references to him should not be seen as an
index of von Balthasar’s acceptance of his ideas. Indeed, as we will show, Hegel is very often a
foil for the developing theology of Theodramatik. But the immensity of von Balthasar’s respect
for Hegel’s thought is made clear by his choice of him time after time as a worthy partner in
dialogue.
22 For Schopenhauer, the enjoyment of beauty involved the observer finding himself
removed ‘from the entire network of personal concerns and individual interests’ (Roberts,
German Philosophy, p. 175). The advantage of music was that – while ‘representational art
shows will’s eternal and irreconcilable conflicts through the struggle of particular
individuals’ – music was ‘completely independent of individuals’ (ibid., p. 176).
Schopenhauer wrote: ‘Music . . . is quite independent of the world of appearance, simply
ignoring it, and could in a sense continue to exist even if the world didn’t exist at all . . .’
(Schopenhauer, World as Will, p. 257; cited in ibid.). Hegel’s contemporary and associate
Schelling can be contrasted with him on not entirely dissimilar lines. He saw art as
‘disengaged from the material and political concerns of humanity’ (ibid., p. 144).
14 Theology and the Drama of History
how, in the light of this, Christian life should articulate and communicate
the dynamics at its heart (judgement, reconciliation, celebration, antici-
pation, and so on).23
To achieve its purpose, part of the book’s concern in the earlier stages
will be with what may be called an excavation, during which our atten-
tion to the Hegelian legacy in von Balthasar’s thought will be at its most
acute. This will result in the identification of three central concerns to
which drama draws our notice, and in which Hegel’s philosophy, too, has
a widespread and characteristic interest. These are the concerns we have
already outlined in terms of cast, stage and action: they are concerns with
the character of agency; its necessary conditions (or ‘context’); and the way
in which such agency may or may not be related to (and narratable in
the form of) a wider ‘plot’. They are crucial to a good understanding of
any kind of dramatic theory, theological or not (although they may find
themselves transformed by a consciously theological account). We can see
how von Balthasar acknowledges the importance of all three in his con-
cern with dramatis personae (the ‘cast’, or subjects of the theo-drama), with
the acting area in which they perform (the ‘stage’) and with what may be
identifiable as the movement of the play (the ‘action’). All three are cen-
tral to Hegel’s treatment of drama as well, and indeed of the historical and
social dimensions of human life to which drama corresponds. Hegel works
out a way of dealing with questions of cast, stage and action by exploring
the embeddedness of individual destinies in the medium of Sittlichkeit (or
‘ethical life’). There are valuable theodramatic resources to be mined here.
The third major interlocutor plays his key role in chapter 4. He is Karl
Barth – and is the representative of the ‘Reformed’ tradition mentioned
above (although as von Balthasar was the first to acknowledge, Barth was
23 In Volume ii/2 of Theodramatik, in a footnote (TD ii/2, p. 125, note 11/ThD 3, p. 137, note 17),
von Balthasar writes that ‘the precise distinction between our theodramatic approach and
that of Hegel’ can be found set out in Emilio Brito’s ‘Hegel und die heutigen Christologien’ (in
Internationale katholische Zeitschrift (1977), pp. 46–58). What that article in fact highlights is
something to which von Balthasar himself frequently draws attention in his own writings:
the claim that his theodramatic approach honours both the total freedom and the love of God,
neither of which is to be found in Hegel’s speculative logic. ‘The Son’s mission and
obedience’, writes Brito, ‘are topics for which there is no room within the negative
christology of Hegel’ (ibid., p. 55). Unlike Hegel’s, von Balthasar’s ‘absolute christology’ is
‘open towards an unfathomable freedom of God as well as towards relative, created
autonomy’ (ibid., p. 57).
Most commentators on von Balthasar follow Brito’s approach, and so reinforce von
Balthasar’s own self-definition against Hegel. The present work is unusual in that, while it
recognizes the limitations of Hegel’s logic, and its undramatic features, it does not move as
quickly as Brito does to portray von Balthasar as having solved Hegel’s difficulties and made
good an escape from his influence. Instead it takes a second look at whether von Balthasar’s
theology really succeeds in what Brito and von Balthasar himself claim him to have achieved.
Introduction 15
24 Bruce McCormack, Karl Barth’s Critically Realistic Dialectical Theology: Its Genesis and
Development 1909–1936 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), p. 454.
25 Barth., p. 210/ET, p. 197.
16 Theology and the Drama of History
of Christ. In a way von Balthasar was to imitate, Barth saw Christ as the
concretissimum, and not latent or passive but vibrantly active as such, in
a dramatic personal history which animates and gives meaning to every-
thing else: that means ‘the vibrancy of both Scripture and tradition and
the development of dogma’,26 as well as the life of the creation in its order-
ing to (or for the sake of) the covenant between Christ and his Church.
Barth’s account of revelation, like von Balthasar’s, sees it as a moment in
a drama ‘in Christ’, between the believer and God, which decisively recasts
the way history is accounted for and understood. His theology seeks to
convey the full implications of this insight:
Barth focuses on the Word, fully and exclusively, that its full splendour
might radiate out to the reader. Who but Barth has gazed so
breathlessly and tirelessly on his subject, watching it develop and
blossom in all its power before his eyes?27
It should be clear that in his concern with the ‘actual’, and in his mani-
fest influence on von Balthasar, Barth’s work has much to contribute to
the idea of a theodramatics. The presumption of this present study is
that in revisiting Barth’s thought directly (and not just in its Balthasar-
ian mediations), it continues to have much to contribute to the idea of a
theodramatics – and especially to that idea’s repair and reinforcement
at crucial points where von Balthasar and Hegel fail it. For his concern
with the ‘concrete and historical aspects of ontology’ is in the end per-
haps even more tenacious than theirs, and his determination ‘to draw all
intraworldly being and essence . . . to the concrete, personal and histori-
cal Logos’ perhaps even more radical – though he has genuine weaknesses
too as a theological dramatist, which von Balthasar was among the first to
point out.28 Both Barth’s weaknesses and his corrective strengths will be
looked at in the second half of the book.
Summary of chapters
and history, while ignoring the political seed-bed of his thought. Admit-
tedly, it is harder to argue for an explicitly Hegelian influence on von
Balthasar in the area of his understanding of freedom, and of its presup-
positions and entailments, than it is with specific regard to drama. But if
there is an Hegelian influence at all on von Balthasar, then the political
is at least covertly part of it. Hegel was a political thinker from his very
earliest writings, and his concern with maintaining the full reciprocity of
individual human freedoms was never developed in isolation from a con-
cern with institutions. Chapter 2 will show that this concern is matched
in von Balthasar’s thought by a developed ordering of creaturely free-
dom to participation in the positive institutions of Church life. In argu-
ing for the significance of this similarity, it will suppose that to borrow
the Hegelian construal of drama (as that which expresses the interrela-
tion of acting subjects in a wider unity) is already to have imported a back-
ground of thought about the character of freedom that has political fea-
tures. Drama gives a representation (Vorstellung) of the same movement of
Spirit that informs Hegel’s conception of freedom-in-society. You cannot
have one and be unaffected by the other. And this means that a very fruitful
and important comparison can be opened up between Hegel’s treatment
of the State and the individuals within it, and von Balthasar’s treatment
of the Church and Christians (especially Christian saints). In precisely this
area, the chapter will point to the significance of a parallel between Hegel’s
and von Balthasar’s commendation of the virtue of ‘indifference’29 as (in
part) a solution to the difficulty of how multiple freedoms can be brought
into the service of something more substantial than their own whims or
idiosyncratic goals.
The approach has the ‘sympathetic’ character that is a distinguishing
mark of the chapter. But the material which such an approach makes it
possible to retrieve and identify will be returned to in later chapters, and
considerably more critically. This will be particularly true of the notion of
‘indifference’ just mentioned, along with the approach to freedom in and
through institutions which emerges in its distinctive Balthasarian and
Hegelian emphases. Furthermore, at the close of the chapter, a question
will be brought to the fore that has been implicit in what has gone before,
and this, too, will prepare for a more critical stage of the book yet to come.
It will raise the question of the form of narration appropriate to telling
In a way that maintains this book’s interest in how literary art identi-
fies and depicts such problems, we will spend considerable time in this
chapter considering the challenges to historical narration of what we call
the ‘tragic’ question. We do this principally because of the way it focuses
characteristics of the dramatic genre in a peculiarly effective way. It helps
us to develop (following chapter 1) what begins to be a crucial contrast
with narrowly ‘epic’ forms of interpretation and narration, and especially
(at this stage) the form they take in Hegel’s thought.
The distinction of real concern, here, will be between the ‘dramatic’
(some of whose crucial features the chapter uses tragedy to illustrate) and
the narrowly ‘epic’; it is not between ‘tragic’ and ‘comic’, nor is comedy, in
our terms, identifiable with ‘epic’. This is important. Like von Balthasar, I
do not work with a view of comedy as the all-reconciling comprehension
of difference, nor do I see it as asserting (in contrast with tragedy) a ‘higher’
and more serene view-point on the world and its conflicts. Rather, I agree
with von Balthasar that tragedy and comedy, though equally tempted by
translations into epic, are equally (at their best) able to offer alternatives
to it. In this respect, ‘there is no clear distinction’ between them (TD I,
p. 397/ThD 1, p. 424). Neither trumps or sublates the other, and ‘man can-
not see where their lines intersect in infinity’ (TD I, p. 409/ThD 1, p. 437).
Both tragedy and comedy deal in ‘the unexpected and unhoped-for’ (TD I,
p. 408/ThD 1, p. 436). Von Balthasar can see an ‘idealist’ tendency to make
comedy into something less than dramatic, just as it does in the case
of tragedy. Many nineteenth-century commentators celebrate what they
see as comedy’s assertion of a great (and perceptible) identity behind the
interactions of characters: an ‘epic’ vision in which we are peaceful, clear,
autonomous onlookers. But he denies the adequacy of this view in favour
of ‘the great tradition of genuinely interpersonal conflict’ (TD I, p. 415/ThD
1, p. 443) which is as much the birth-right of comedy as of tragedy. He does
not, in short, wheel out a facile notion of comedy as the genre of ‘happy
endings’.
It is at the end of chapter 3 that the book most explicitly examines von
Balthasar’s category of ‘glory’, and introduces the resources of trinitarian
theology, which will remain to the fore from then onwards.30 It is in the
context of his trinitarian theology that von Balthasar’s delicate ordering
31 Some critique is sorely needed here. Much of the recent work on von Balthasar contributes
to what might be called a ‘eulogistic’ genre of Balthasarian studies, often identifiable with
the journal (and movement) Communio of which von Balthasar was a co-founder. These books
avoid raising the really critical challenges to von Balthasar which would allow new
developments of his thought, and open him to a wider audience. They often set out simply to
rehearse many of von Balthasar’s own opinions, and include Angelo Scola’s book Hans Urs von
Balthasar: A Theological Style (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1995), Breandan Leahy’s The Marian
Principle in the Church according to Hans Urs von Balthasar (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1995) and
the majority of essays in (eds.) Bede McGregor’s and Thomas Norris’s The Beauty of Christ: An
Introduction to the Theology of Hans Urs von Balthasar (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1994). John
Saward’s book The Mysteries of March: Hans Urs von Balthasar on the Incarnation and Easter
(London: Collins, 1990) also tends to remain satisfied with the (very elegant) restatement of
what von Balthasar himself has already said, as do Aidan Nichols’s three companions to von
Balthasar’s trilogy, The Word Has Been Abroad: A Guide Through Balthasar’s Aesthetics (Edinburgh:
T and T Clark, 1998); No Bloodless Myth: A Guide Through Balthasar’s Dramatics (Edinburgh:
T and T Clark, 2000); Say it is Pentecost: A Guide Through Balthasar’s Logic (Edinburgh: T and T
Clark, 2001).
Introduction 23
not relativize the claims of particular people and events however tempting
it might be to impose on them a reductive theory or superordinate ‘grand
plan’. Barth shows himself by the end of the chapter to be a vigorous cham-
pion of the particularity of creaturely freedom, above all in the medium of
his ‘close readings’ of situations and texts, where the challenge not to rel-
ativize is at its most acute. By way of an examination of von Balthasar’s
literary-critical skills, we find him, by contrast, wanting. He is often a dis-
appointing or irresponsible reader – not only of dramas, nor even just of
certain of his philosophical or theological sources,32 but of the dramat-
ically generative texts of scripture. And the reason for this seems to be
an instinct, despite all his protestations, to bring ‘subjects’ into a narrat-
able framework of structured legibility, which will always have identifi-
ably Christian hallmarks.
The category of the ‘existential’, the contrast with Barth, and the
literary-critical tests which are put to von Balthasar lead back in a fresh
way to the heart of the question of freedom and therefore of history – and
of how both are best to be respected in Christian theology. Von Balthasar’s
promotion of ‘indifference’, whose Hegelian resonances were attended
to in chapter 2, can now be subjected to a much more serious critique,
as his attempt at a theodramatics reveals itself to have an identifiably
‘epic’ strain. For all von Balthasar’s advocacy of the importance of crea-
turely freedom, indifference (issuing in obedience) seems to operate as a
mechanism for coping with what von Balthasar finds an unwholesome
provisionality and diversity in the collective human negotiation of exis-
tence. (It is observed that his characterization of human sin as, princi-
pally, ‘pride’ – or, often, ‘Prometheanism’ – is much narrower than Barth’s
additional considerations of ‘sloth’, ‘falsehood’ and so on. This narrow
identification of the ‘problem’ seems to correlate with the restrictiveness
of the ‘solution’: namely, indifference, or obedience. It is, moreover, a
hard ‘problem’ to answer with a really wholehearted commendation of
32 In this connection, a good example has been highlighted recently by John Webster in
his chapter on ‘Balthasar and Karl Barth’ in Edward T. Oakes and David Moss (eds.), The
Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs von Balthasar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).
Webster remarks of von Balthasar’s brilliant but flawed reading of Barth’s ‘development’ that
‘[t]he strength of his interpretation (its “sense of the whole”) is also its weakness, in that it
leads Balthasar to read Barth too schematically, searching for his “deepest intuitions”, on the
basis of this hermeneutical principle: “before attending to a particular theological object, we
will have to take great care to bring to light the unity underlying inner intention and outer
language”. As a means of resisting the well-worn paths of Catholic polemic, and as an
attempt to see Barth whole, the point is well taken. But when deployed in constructing a
genetic account, it is at certain key points an insufficiently complex presentation, and one
which sustains its interpretation only at cost to the full scope of Barth’s concerns’ (p. 248).
24 Theology and the Drama of History
and relationships in history. God gives gifts to guide and help with both
insight and construction; gifts to guide and help with thinking theologi-
cally about history so that we may live wisely within it. One of those gifts is
worship through the Holy Spirit. The chapter concludes by showing how
a pneumatological theodramatics sensitive to this historical vision of crea-
turely life and interpretation can go hand in hand with a vibrant eucharis-
tic theology.
This is a book which does far more than summarize the thoughts of
Hegel, von Balthasar and Barth on theology and history. It uses points
of similarity and difference between them to go to the heart of what a
theodramatics might be. It aims to develop and pursue through its con-
versations with them a simultaneously appreciative and critical theology –
which is creative in its own right. What it can bring with it to this task as
a result of its conversations is the appreciation of drama as a more ade-
quate source of categories for giving voice to the truth of creaturely life
before God than other genres (archetypally, ‘epic’ or ‘lyric’) can ever be – let
alone the categories of analytic philosophy and the scholastic textbooks. It
is able to argue that theological dramatic theory can yield a more nuanced
understanding of the ‘shaped’ character of Christian existence, and its
corporate context, than might otherwise be possible. It can also bring to
bear a more acute sensitivity to the relative importance of ‘diachronic’ and
‘logical’ (or ‘synchronic’) modes of evaluating actions and events in history.
We begin, then, with an examination of how drama might best be
understood, and its distinctive aspects best articulated.
1
Dramatizing theology
Like Dante, we are bound to take up the interpretative task from a position
always already ‘in the middle’ of life. We are always already players in the
movement of this drama.
In his celebrated meditation on a public execution and the crowd which
gathers around to see it, Michel Foucault also articulates this condition
of all our interpretative endeavours. ‘The eternal game’, he writes, ‘has
already begun.’ The drama of life and death displayed on and around the
scaffold invites us to consider this fact in a particularly concentrated way.
It prompts us to ask with a certain urgency how we are to read this ‘eternal
game’, when we do not have a clear view of where its beginnings were, and
what its true end ought to be. Some gain from the experience a glimpse of
justice and some of martyrdom, some an intimation of paradise and some
of damnation. There is, as Foucault says:
an ambiguity in this suffering that may signify equally well the truth
of the crime or the error of the judges, the goodness or the evil of the
criminal, the coincidence or the divergence between the judgement of
men and that of God. Hence the insatiable curiosity that drove the
spectators to the scaffold to witness the spectacle of sufferings truly
endured; there one could decipher crime and innocence, the past and
the future, the here below and the eternal. It was a moment of truth
that all the spectators questioned: each word, each cry, the duration
of the agony, the resisting body, the life that clung desperately to it, all
this constituted a sign.1
1 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The birth of the prison, Alan Sheridan (trans.)
(Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1979). For his stimulating reading of the Foucault passage I am
[26]
Dramatizing theology 27
In the middle of the journey of our life, all our experience comes to us in
some way like this: inviting but not satiating our curiosity; activating us
as readers (or interpreters) but not eradicating the ambiguities of what we
witness; leaving it unclear how the ‘signs’ are to be read. The excitement as
much as the difficulty stem from the fact that we do not stand outside, or
above, the drama. Its lineaments – its shape (if it has one) – are not available
to us in toto. We do not have a clear view of its beginnings or of its end. So
when Foucault reminds us that the drama on his scaffold is a game ‘already
begun’, to which we subsequently come, he reminds us of what is true of
all our experience: as interpreters, we do not ‘precede’ our material.
There is more to be taken into account, however, than this simple
denial of our ‘precedence’ can convey. Though we do not supervise its ori-
gins, we do not simply ‘arrive’ at our experience like spectators. We are
invested in our experience, and it is invested in us. As well as being con-
stituted as interpreters by our experience, our experience is also in its
turn constituted by our interpretations. Our practices of ‘reading’ affect
it. Our ‘poetic’ (constructive) imagination has an influence on what is
subsequently communicated to our senses.2
The scaffold itself can be seen as a metaphor of this. Whether the plat-
form for an execution like the one Foucault describes, or the stage for a
theatrical play (or even the apparatus and method chosen for a particu-
lar scientific experiment), the ‘scaffold’ is a means of conveying the drama
of life and death to the crowd gathered around it. But it is the spectators
themselves, in a sense, who construct the very stage on which their experi-
ence comes to them. They themselves have put the scaffold there – as well
as the drama which takes place on it. The scaffold is set up by a society for
the staging of its shared experiences and common search for the truth, and
it does not stand in neutral isolation from the play of passion and interro-
gation which presses around it.
This reveals yet another dimension to the ‘middle’ from which we try
to read the world. It is a social, and discursive, middle: one in which ‘all the
spectators question’. Because new circumstances are always arriving, the
grateful to Adrian Poole. His lectures on ‘Tragedy’ in the University of Cambridge played a
very significant part in shaping my approach to von Balthasar’s theology, and I am indebted
to him at a number of points.
2 John Milbank articulates this powerfully in his chapter entitled ‘A Christological Poetics’
in The Word Made Strange: Theology, Language, Culture (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997), pp. 123–44; see
especially p. 130. He describes the ‘poetic’ existence of humankind as related (as ‘a mode of
knowledge’) to the ‘integral activity’ by which we develop as human beings. Our products
(which are the scaffolding for our own experiences) carry ‘the presence of our human
community’ (ibid., p. 125), even as they ‘dispossess’ us and act in new ways upon us.
28 Theology and the Drama of History
questions do not stop coming – the truth is always, so to speak, ‘under con-
struction’. It is socially borne, subject to continuous review, and so never
absolutely framed.
Those commentators who link an interest in drama to such convictions
about how we know and interpret truth are, I believe, right. In Rowan
Williams’ words, it is because:
knowledge is essentially participatory (not in the sense of a
transcendental pre-conscious union of subject and object, but as
recognition of a place within a network of relations), [that] it is
inseparable from history and praxis . . .3
And that is the spirit in which we are to read von Balthasar’s assertion that
in anything other than a most basic sense there is ‘no neutral “teachable”
truth’ (TD i, p. 16/ThD 1, p. 16; translation amended). The essential connec-
tion between this view of knowledge and the way that language works is
also an explicit feature of von Balthasar’s theology. In order to understand
anything, we must belong in a world, and one of the key ways in which that
happens is by the fact that we are first ‘admitted’ to language.4
It is the aim of this chapter to show why theology might seek to draw
so heavily on drama’s resources. The first outline of an answer is already
beginning to emerge: it is a response to the need to read the world from
the middle: passionately, socially and discursively. But we are bound to
give more substance to this outline. We need to take account of the detail
of what an option for drama would actually involve: to ask (rather than
to take for granted) what makes drama drama. Our way of approaching
this ‘genre question’, therefore, (a way which seeks to avoid the danger of
abstraction, and of moving too quickly to concepts) will be to attend first
to dramas themselves.
Von Balthasar’s value as a central dialogue partner in this area has
already been established in the introduction to this book. Here he sets
3 Rowan Williams, ‘Balthasar and Rahner’ in John Riches, The Analogy of Beauty: The Theology
of Hans Urs von Balthasar (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1986), p. 26.
4 Von Balthasar stressed the importance of language as a gift from God, and a sign of the way
persons are embraced by a shared system of communication from the very beginning in which
the Divine is implicit. He writes that ‘the word of God must be written into the word of Being,
the word of Being into the words of creatures which are exchanged as comprehensible words
among existent creatures’ (H iii/1, p. 961/GL 5, p. 631; cf. also H iii/1, pp. 962–3/ GL 5,
pp. 633–4, and Ganze, chapter 7). This gift of language is a parallel to the way the child
receives a consciousness of self, and of a wider realm of Being, from the smiling face of its
mother (H iii/1, pp. 945–7/GL 5, pp. 615–17). As we shall see (see chapter 2, note 128 below),
both Hegel and von Balthasar place much emphasis on the fact that language is
simultaneously communal and constitutive of the self; it is external to the individual and yet
the medium of his or her self-expression.
Dramatizing theology 29
5 Werner Löser, Im Geistes des Origenes: Hans Urs von Balthasar als Interpret der Theologie der
Kirchenvater (Frankfurt: Knecht, 1976), p. 11; quoted in Louis Roberts, The Theological Aesthetics
of Hans Urs von Balthasar (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1987), p. 34.
6 Romano Guardini, Die Sinne und die religiöse Erkenntnis: zwei Versuche über die christliche
Vergewisserung (Zürich: Arche, 1950); quoted in H i, p. 377/GL 1, p. 390.
7 Francesca Murphy, Christ the Form of Beauty: A Study in Theology and Literature (Edinburgh:
T and T Clark, 1995), p. 156. We will return at the end of this chapter to suggest some of the
remarkable ways in which von Balthasar defines himself against the ‘modern’ precisely by
making a commitment to the mobile and particular dramatic form as a medium for truth.
30 Theology and the Drama of History
Agamemnon has vanished off stage into his palace to meet an unsuspected
death. The warrior king is freshly returned from victory in the Trojan
Wars, to his adulterous wife Clytemnestra and to her bitter fury at him
for sacrificing the life of their daughter so as to win a fair wind for his
becalmed fleet. Agamemnon has not, it seems, seen through the pretended
warmth of her welcome, and does not know what awaits him across the
threshold of his own home. It is a moment of high tension, in which the
intensity of anticipation provides a ground for the poetry to take effect.
Cassandra enters a frenzy and this alarms the chorus intensely. Why?
Because the chorus clings to a hope that it will be able to read its ex-
perience straightforwardly and without itself being implicated in the dark
prelude and ghastly entail of what it is witnessing. But Cassandra suggests
powerfully to the chorus that in truth it stands in a far more profound and
disordered relation to this experience than it likes to acknowledge. This
disturbing possibility that their reaction is actually an evasion, and hers
the more authentic response, presents itself forcefully in the medium of
her impassioned plunge into wild song.
Like the execution on Foucault’s scaffold, the clash of perspectives ini-
tiated by Cassandra’s song precipitates a crisis in how to read: it blurs the
boundaries of an experience that the chorus is trying to frame. The chorus
seeks to maintain a (supposedly) objective distance from the substance of
Cassandra’s prophecy:
Indeed we had heard of your prophetic fame;
but we seek no interpreters of the gods.
(lines 1098–9)9
possibly be. In Euripides’ Medea, the audience first hears the agonized,
primal (yet recognizably ‘lyrical’) groanings of the protagonist, coming
from off stage:
Ah, wretch! Ah, lost in my sufferings,
I wish, I wish I might die.
(lines 96–7)10
10 Euripides, The Medea in Euripides I: Four Tragedies, David Grene and Richmond Lattimore
(eds.) (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1955).
11 Ibid., lines 324, 709–10.
34 Theology and the Drama of History
city walls, while the ‘civilized’ figures are themselves implicated in the mon-
strousness (witness the cruelty of Creon’s refusal to recognize Medea’s
case, plausible though it is in every aspect). The mixture of poetic forms –
wild song and clear argument – stand in their interweaving combinations
as evidence that clear distinctions between outside and inside are not to be
made in this dramatic situation. The audience responds, then, both intel-
lectually and emotionally to the powerful figure of Medea on stage, but is
rocked between both kinds of response.
Several things emerge from this initial foray into drama which clarify
and consolidate our earlier reflections on how we interpret all our experi-
ences. The first is the fact that pretensions to analytical distance militate
against the emergence of the ‘truth’ of drama; drama, in fact, makes it its
task to show the unsustainability of such pretensions. The truth of which
drama speaks is true in, and not apart from, a process of negotiated, dis-
cursive and emotional reception. It communicates a kind of truth not just
‘brutely given’, to use John Milbank’s phrase,12 but in motion in the imagi-
nation and interpretative activity of all those who participate in it. It is
not plausible in abstraction from the in-forming particulars of the human
characters who are implicated in one another and in the events and circum-
stances in whose middle they are. If we hope for the truth of this drama to
be disclosed to us, we must not try to step out of it, but must be drawn into
it more deeply.
Alongside the undercutting of attempts at analytical distance, these
brief encounters with Greek tragedy show emphases on the complex social
embodiment of truth. From this one may see that the alternative to the
‘brutely given’ is not the ‘banally free’ – a romp of private fancy and
indulgence without responsibility. Despite being uniquely hers, there-
fore, Cassandra’s lyrical song must (in drama) take its place as part of
a collective attempt to read the signs of what is being played out. The
search for truth – even the truth that resides in the particulars of human
experience – is a dramatically social search. The task of a certain kind
of framing, however inadequate it turns out to be, has to call us back
from the spurious belief that we can be left alone with ourselves (in an
unconstrained ‘inner space’, as it were). To deny this responsibility is a
flight from the stage – from what we have in common; from temporality,
embodiment and language; and so from the truth which drama seeks to
manifest.
12 John Milbank, ‘Magisterial . . . and Shoddy?’, Studies in Christian Ethics 7:2 (1994),
pp. 29–34.
Dramatizing theology 35
The good which God does to us can only be experienced as the truth
if we share in performing it (Jn 7:17; 8:31f.); we must ‘do the truth in
love’ . . . not only in order to perceive the truth of the good but, equally,
in order to embody it increasingly in the world.’
(TD i, p. 19/ThD 1, p. 20)
Finally, (iv) anticipation plays a vital role in drama. There is, as I have
argued, a vital unframeability to the dramatic experience. But the admis-
sion that ‘the end we do not know’ cannot, for drama to work, be
Dramatizing theology 37
God’s life itself, then, as revealed to us, is somehow dramatic. Equally, our
relationship to that life, because it has inescapably dramatic features, is
singularly well-expressed in the terms which drama offers – and for all the
reasons that we have indicated in a preliminary fashion: the revelation of
God’s gracious favour is existentially involving (it calls for response), par-
ticular (it participates in the temporality and contours of our life, and not
only safeguards but enhances our personhood), social (which is to say, at
the least, ecclesial), and anticipatory.
Our relation to God comes to be by God’s action, that is, the ‘good’ in
which we, too, are permitted to share by our actions. As von Balthasar puts
it:
the divine ground actually approaches us unexpectedly; from its side;
paradoxically – and it challenges us to respond. And although this
unique phenomenon was described [in Herrlichkeit] in terms of ‘glory’,
it was increasingly clear from the outset that it withdrew farther and
farther away from any merely contemplative gaze and hence could not
be translated into any neutral truth or wisdom that can be ‘taught’.
What was manifest was a ‘light’ that cannot be bypassed and yet is
invisible; a word of incomparable precision, yet which can be expressed
equally well in the cry of a dying man, in the silence of death and in
what is ineffable . . .
(translation amended)
14 For more discussion of the meaning of this prefix, see p. 148 below.
Dramatizing theology 39
Von Balthasar is after language, concepts and a register which will com-
municate a dramatic faith in a living God, founded in ‘a narrative both
particularizing and mobile’, drawing out ‘the imaginative meaning of the
metaphysical affirmations of Christian tradition’.15 In this narrative, ‘infi-
nite freedom accompanies man . . . in God’s plan for the world’, rather than
bypassing his particularity and his existence in time (TD ii/1, p. 256/ThD 2,
p. 282).
The examples from drama at which this chapter has looked, and
my own provisional identification of certain general characteristics of
the genre, have been shown to bear a substantial resemblance to von
Balthasar’s own appreciation of what constitutes the ‘dramatic’ – but only
at the most general level. It is now necessary to fill out the content of these
conceptions of drama, and in relation to them to examine the philosophy
which of all the philosophies of the nineteenth century most explicitly rec-
ognized the dignity of drama as the art form truest to life: that of G. W. F.
Hegel.
The truth towards which the Agamemnon and the Medea pointed is that each
of the epic and lyric perspectives is important but insufficient in itself if
a properly dramatic perspective is to be opened up. As we saw, the pre-
tension to ‘epic’ distance belonging to one kind of poetic stance militates
against the involving unframeability of drama, while the self-involving
‘lyricism’ belonging to another kind denies the discursive, embodied
sociality of drama. This is also, ostensibly, the truth to which Hegel tried
to do justice in the section on poetry in his lectures on aesthetics (or the
philosophy of fine art) – henceforth referred to as his Aesthetics.
Hegel, indeed, made this boldly worked out and subsequently
highly influential typology of the three genres – epic, lyric and
16 G. W. F. Hegel, Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art (2 vols.), T. M. Knox (trans.) (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1975); from now on referred to as Aesthetics.
17 Francesca Murphy, ‘“Whence comes this love as strong as death?”: The Presence of Franz
Rosenzweig’s “Philosophy as Narrative” in Hans Urs von Balthasar’s theodrama’ in Journal of
Literature and Theology 7:3 (1993), p. 236; Form of Beauty, p. 163.
18 TD i, pp. 50–64/ThD 1, pp. 54–70 (and, in fact, pp. 64–9/pp. 70–5 too).
19 TD ii/1, pp. 48–55/ThD 2, pp. 54–62.
Dramatizing theology 41
deep debt to Hegel’s typology of poetry, without feeling the need to draw
attention to the fact in a laboured discussion. This point of contact with
Hegel is of much greater interest than the explicit (and often highly crit-
ical) treatments of his thought which occur elsewhere in von Balthasar’s
work.20 It shows von Balthasar taking Hegel’s dramatic theory, without
being bound to the letter of its original formulation, and creatively reap-
plying it for richly suggestive theological ends.
Epic
Von Balthasar takes up Hegel’s distinction between epic, lyric and dra-
matic, shows how each can be used to characterize the relation of God’s
action to the world and to people, and concludes that the dramatic (in this
case the theodramatic) must have priority. Each of the first two perspectives
(epic and lyric) is important but incomplete without its joint presence in
the third, dramatic perspective.
Epic, says von Balthasar in this passage, ‘smooths out the folds’ of past
history by reporting it under closure, so to speak. It assumes a standpoint
from which one can observe and report impartially on a given sequence
of events. Hegel had provided a precedent for this statement when he
described epic as presenting us with ‘an action complete in itself and the
characters who produced it’, in the form of a ‘broad flow of events’.21 For
Hegel, the effect of a ‘broad flow’ was to be yet further heightened by the
metre:
the finest measure for the syllables in epic is the hexameter as it
streams ahead uniformly, firmly, and yet also vividly.22
Epic is all measured progression – this was Hegel’s view. Von Balthasar
begins to weave this theme theologically. Confronted by Jesus’ suffering,
he says, the epic view regards it as ‘past history’. Epic’s attitude to eucharis-
tic celebration, accordingly, is to keep its distance. It prefers to make the
eucharistic action narrowly an anamnēsis of Jesus’ suffering, and ‘a mere
calling to mind of a past event’ (TD ii/1, p. 48/ThD 2, pp. 54–5). System-
atic (systematizing) theology, for similar reasons, is prone to using this
voice. Its concerns are often with the careful appropriation of the histori-
cal and textual traditions about God’s action, and their redescription in
terms of some kind of abiding ‘universal significance’. By extension, the
epic voice is also the voice used for ‘external’ relations, ‘at councils and in
20 See especially H iii/1, pp. 904–21/GL 5, pp. 572–90, and TL ii, pp. 40–57.
21 Hegel, Aesthetics, p. 1037. 22 Ibid., p. 1136.
42 Theology and the Drama of History
the theological and polemical treatises dealing with heretics or the threat
of error’. In the epic mode, God is referred to in the third person, as ‘He’,
and the subject matter of the discourse is ‘His’ nature and action. In such
cases – ‘with a kind of bad conscience’, as von Balthasar puts it – one must
speak ‘about’ (über) God, as though one were able to stand somehow ‘over’
(über) such subject matter. A theology which relies exclusively on the Bible
for its norms and authority, says von Balthasar, is all the more inclined
to this epic voice. It does not allow itself to be caught up into the ongo-
ing revealed action which that book mirrors and participates in. What von
Balthasar calls an ‘epic-narrative theology’ along these lines will ‘assume
the role of judge over the events and their actualization’ (TD ii/1, p. 50/ThD
2, p. 56).
That there are lines of continuity with Hegel’s conception of epic is
clear: epic summons up an entire narrative world in a way that proceeds
tranquilly and steadily, comprehending all kinds of detail. An under-
standing of individual action as the direct expression of a broader teleo-
logy is the established criterion on which a reading of epic is grounded.
The particular action and the individual agents are always, to use Hegel’s
phrase, ‘conciliated’ with ‘the general world-situation’.23 There is an ele-
ment of necessity at the heart of the events and happenings that take place
(Hegel also calls this element of necessity ‘fate’). And this is one way of
choosing to read the interaction between God and his creatures. But from
von Balthasar’s point of view, it will almost certainly be an inadequate way
of reading the world. At its worst, according to von Balthasar, epic is the
genre of a false objectification. It reifies what is given to it to know. It sub-
stitutes monological narration for dialogue, without supposing that this
is a loss for truth. And it tends towards determinism.
This view of epic captures the character of the Agamemnon’s chorus as it
attempts to keep its distance from the events playing out before it, and to
preserve its status as observer and commentator. It wants to put a frame
around its experience. We are reminded, too, of the quality of articulate
account-giving by which Medea draws an illusory veil over the really far
more blurred and dangerous question of her presence in the city (and the
presence of a wild rage in her heart).
Lyric
Von Balthasar continues his appropriation and reapplication of Hegel as
he turns to the lyric genre. The lyric voice stands at the opposite pole from
the epic. Hegel had described lyric as the genre of the self-contemplating
mind ‘that instead of proceeding to action remains alone with itself as
inwardness’. Its telos, Hegel had said, is ‘the self-expression of the subjec-
tive life’:
Here therefore there is no substantive whole unfolded as external
happenings; on the contrary, it is the intuition, feeling, and meditation
of the introverted individual, apprehending everything singly and in
isolation, which communicate even what is most substantive and
material as their own, as their passion, mood, or reflection, and as the
present product of these.24
We will sense the spirit of Cassandra evoked here: the whole substance
of an action is transposed into a volatile, highly individual, immediate,
and emotionally coloured mode of response and expression. The present
moment utterly dominates the foreground of lyrical subjectivity. ‘What
matters’, Hegel had said, ‘is only the soul of feeling and not what the object
of the feeling is’;25 and ‘what is satisfied . . . [is the need] for self-expression
and for the apprehension of the mind in its own self-expression’.26 The
lyric artist ‘is in himself a subjectively complete world so that he can look
for inspiration and a topic within himself and therefore can remain within
the sphere of subjective situations, states, and incidents and the passions
of his own heart and spirit’.27
Drawing on this characterization, von Balthasar is able to show how,
in the lyric moment, an individual finds him or herself able to enter into a
vivid re-presentation of some past event, and to be enriched there imagina-
tively. The objective circumstances of the past event are filtered and appro-
priated by the subjective consciousness. They act as the ‘external stimu-
lus’, to quote Hegel, which the individual uses ‘as an opportunity for
giving expression to himself, to his mood of joy or sorrow, or to his way of
thinking and his general view of life’. In lyric mode, the subject can be seen
entirely to ‘assimilate and make his own the objective subject-matter’.28
Von Balthasar puts it this way: ‘“Lyrical” . . . means the internal motion of
the devout subject, his emotion and submission, the creative outpouring
of himself ’ ( TD ii/1, p. 49/ThD 2, p. 55). Eucharistic celebration in such a
voice is an entirely different thing from its epic counterpart. Not only is
the past event awakened by memory, its content is made present through
reflection and imaginative participation, and brought alive ‘just as if the
event itself were here and now’. The lyrical is not the voice of councils
Dramatic
Hegel had said that drama brought us nearer than any other form of
poetry to ‘the spirit in its wholeness’, because it does justice to the ‘objec-
tivity which proceeds from the subject’ as well as to ‘subjectivity which
gains portrayal in its objective realization and validity’.30 Drama, in other
words, joins the dimensions of both epic and lyric into a new whole, which
shows the relationship between certain kinds of events (or ‘objective deve-
lopments’) and their ‘origin in the hearts of individuals’:
The result is that the object is displayed as belonging to the subject,
while conversely the individual subject is brought before our eyes . . . in
his transition to an appearance in the real world.31
The significance of the acting subject, therefore, is the key difference
between epic and dramatic poetry. Happenings that arise from external
29 Early examples from the pre-modern period, in which God is addressed in devotional
intensity as ‘Thou’ without necessarily collapsing into purely ‘inward’ self-expression, show
what theology can be like when the ‘river of Christian utterance’ is still a single river. Many of
Augustine’s or Anselm’s writings, for example, show what today would be classified under
dogmatic theology being undertaken in the mode of prayer addressed to God.
30 Ibid., p. 1039.
31 Ibid., p. 1038. It is important to note, too, that drama also shows the passivity (or ‘passion’)
of the subject in relation to the very deeds which he or she has authored. A deed made
objective occasions effects, of which a dramatic agent may be the recipient.
Dramatizing theology 45
circumstances and not from an agent’s ‘inner will and character’ are not
dramatic, in Hegel’s terminology.
Von Balthasar’s theological transformation of Hegel’s concept of the
acting subject focuses on the figure of the apostolic witness, as the dramatic
‘person’ whose voice is most nearly a unifying and heightening of both
epic and lyric ways of speaking. The faith of the apostle speaks to those
within faith and to those outside faith – his witness is not one of impartial
report, but is witness vouched for by the participation of his whole life.
Paul’s letters put God’s action at the centre, but include himself (taken
over by this action on the Damascus road) as part of the testimony to the
truth of revelation. Paul ‘pulls out all the stops of his existence in order
to convince those to whom he is writing that they too are drawn into this
action just as much as he is’. In this dimension alone can it be seen how
Jesus’ death and resurrection are alive and present. The evangelists, too,
‘do not recount stories in which they are not involved; in fact, they know
that their only chance of being objective is by being profoundly involved
in the event they are describing’. Imaginative participation is actually the
proper form of their objectivity, to the extent that God is not ever simply
spoken of as ‘He’, without the ‘Thou’ (which acknowledges that the one
spoken of is always present) being implicit at every point. The essentially
dramatic activity of bearing witness before both Church and world – of
personally handing on the drama of Jesus’ life even as it lives in oneself –
overcomes the epic/lyric distinction. (Thus the drama is equally alive in all
good catechēsis.) Meanwhile, Scripture does not ‘stand at some observation
post outside’. It is inside the drama as well. Its content points beyond itself
to the Spirit who makes the drama present and alive in each new scene.
Scripture mirrors the drama which is manifested by the Spirit, and Scrip-
ture ‘can only be understood in reference to’ this drama (TD ii/1, p. 52/ThD
2, p. 58).
Von Balthasar is here living and breathing Hegel’s analysis of drama.
When Hegel says that in drama ‘the entire person of the actor is laid claim
to’ and that ‘the living man himself is the material medium of expres-
sion’,32 he sets a pattern for von Balthasar’s apostolic witnesses who ‘with
their lives . . . vouch for the testimony they must give’ (TD ii/1, p. 51/ThD 2,
p. 57).
We find here, too, more detailed confirmation that von Balthasar’s
notion of drama – inspired in these vital ways by Hegel – is in accord
32 Ibid., p. 1039.
46 Theology and the Drama of History
with the profile of drama which was outlined towards the beginning of
the chapter on the basis of an engagement with Greek tragedy. Drama
has among its defining marks its involving, particular, social, and anticipa-
tory characteristics. These are all true of the ‘drama’ of Christian life and
speech, of participation in eucharistic community, and of apostolic wit-
ness as von Balthasar describes them. The particularity of an individual
is taken up into an all-consuming, corporate, life-long enactment of wit-
ness to God’s drama, and oriented in hope towards the promise which that
drama holds out.
The next chapter will build on Hegel’s insights into drama – taken up
so positively by von Balthasar at this crucial stage of Theodramatik. Before
this chapter ends, however, it is important to look further than Hegel
for a moment, to what von Balthasar sees as the great movement of ‘mo-
dern’ philosophical thought in the West, and place the theologian’s cham-
pioning of drama – and all the ways it transforms our attitude to the inter-
pretation (or ‘reading’) of the world – in relation to a legacy of ideas about
how we experience and how we know which is less than dramatic. This
will put a final piece in place in our account of why it is that von Balthasar
insists on enlisting drama to bring home the fact that we always speak, act
and think ‘from the middle’ of our life, and ‘in the middle’ of a relation-
ship with the one who creates, preserves and sustains us.
33 Oliver O’Donovan, The Desire of the Nations: Rediscovering the roots of political theology
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 272.
Dramatizing theology 47
34 Amos Funkenstein, Theology and the Scientific Imagination: from the Middle Ages to the
Seventeenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986).
35 Michael J. Buckley, At the Origins of Modern Atheism (New Haven: Yale University Press,
1987).
36 Stephen Toulmin, Cosmopolis: The Hidden Agenda of Modernity (New York: Macmillan, 1990).
37 Ibid., pp. 7–8. 38 Ibid., p. x. 39 Funkenstein, Scientific Imagination, pp. 28–9.
40 O’Donovan, Desire of the Nations, p. 274. 41 Toulmin, Cosmopolis, p. 201.
48 Theology and the Drama of History
prayer and so loses ‘the accent and tone with which one should speak of
what is holy’. At the same time, the breathing world is disowned by the
subjectivity to which it gave birth – the subject asserts its autonomy and
self-subsistence, so that the world is concomitantly devalued as ‘but an
appearance and a dream’. This produces (in art) ‘a romanticism remote
from reality’, and (in the Church) a pious but emptily ‘affective’ theology
(Skizzen i, p. 224/ExT 1, p. 208). These evasions – ‘epic’ and ‘lyric’ alike – can
only be a prelude to a very modern despair: the world resists both moves
(is ‘unmastered’), and the human creature is left ‘to live with the object of
his impotence’, which he cannot bear (H i, pp. 15–16, 17/GL 1, pp. 18, 19).
It is this rift (between the brutely given and the banally free) which
von Balthasar tries to answer by a turn to drama; and that is what this
chapter has been concerned to depict. Drama offers neither the perspec-
tive of immediate feeling and individual association; nor an unruffled
perspective on the objectively given. As von Balthasar observes, the most
successful artists of life (the saints) ‘have always been on guard against
such [attitudes], and immersed themselves in the actual events of revela-
tion’ (Skizzen i, p. 221/ExT 1, p. 205). Drama breaks out in such cases, as
we have seen. The ‘subject matter’ of reality reaches out and claims the
self-involved (‘lyric’) person. And this is a theological moment: it makes
saints of people, in the sense that they cease to see themselves as ‘atom-
istic’ individual knowers, or else as part of the manipulated matter of an
‘epic’ world; they cease to entrust themselves to imagined ‘strict scientific
laws’ (like those of the ‘market’);48 they cease to pursue mere informa-
tion and ‘a thoughtless knowledgeableness’ by ‘undercutting the ascetic
and reflective disciplines which make wisdom possible’.49 Instead, they
allow themselves to become living witnesses to wisdom. (This appeal to
the witness of persons, of course – so central to Christianity – is, as Buckley
points out, inadmissible by modernity as ‘a common basis for rational
discussion’!50 ) The great achievement of drama, in Hegel’s words, is ‘to
strip externals away and put in their place . . . the self-conscious and active
individual’51 as the living embodiment of truth.52
So we come to the end of this chapter wanting to say that the devel-
opment of a theological dramatic theory could offer a corrective to mas-
sive trends in modern thought. But we also need to say that the specific
attempt at such a theory undertaken by von Balthasar is a theory devel-
oped under the very substantial influence of Hegel, and sharing some of
the features of Hegel’s own thought. Given that Hegel is often character-
ized as the prime exemplar of modernity’s quest for absolute knowledge,
this may seem paradoxical. But the following chapters will show that in
a variety of ways Hegel’s position is more complex than the caricature
allows, and more friendly to theodramatic adaptations of it. As we shall
see, Hegel is not a pedlar of illusions about an asocial autonomy of the self.
The subjectivity which Hegel articulates is not an egoistic but rather a dra-
matic one. He is a nuanced student of embodied particulars, and the dra-
matic interchange of human beings in their shared existence – in history.
In these respects, Hegel is not so much an icon of modernity’s limitations
as a prophet of their subversion.
This is not, of course, to deny that Hegel has his deficient side. In cer-
tain (key) respects his is a very modern betrayal of drama, even drama as
understood in his own terms, and this will be something against which a
theological dramatic theory has to guard. As far as von Balthasar is con-
cerned, Hegel is both mentor and foe, and the same may need to be true of
other theodramatic models developed in von Balthasar’s wake.
The deficiencies of a Hegelian approach will emerge gradually dur-
ing the course of the book – partly under the pressure of von Balthasar’s
critique, and partly through our independent critique of both of them,
particularly where their ideas are closely shared. We move now to look
at a cluster of ideas where just such close sharing is apparent, and begin
the substantial work of the book, by looking at the question of freedom in
relation to a theodramatic approach to history.
2
[52]
Freedom and indifference 53
2 It is one of Gillian Rose’s main concerns to stress this point in her book Hegel contra Sociology
(London: The Athlone Press, 1981). If Hegel presents us with truth as system in the
Phenomenology, it is nevertheless not a system that can be grasped from any one partial
position. Rose sees a concern with critical discipline in Hegel’s thinking about thinking, and
not blithe theorizing about a total, reconciled historical unity. Rowan Williams has
developed and commented on Rose’s insight. Hegel’s thinking, he points out, ‘insists on the
“speculative” projection of a continually self-adjusting, self-criticizing corporate practice’
(Rowan D. Williams ‘Between Politics and Metaphysics: Reflections in the Wake of Gillian
Rose’, Modern Theology 11:1 (1995), p. 14). Thinking, on this account of Hegel, has the character
of ‘engagement’, and of ‘converse, conflict, negotiation, judgement and self-judgement’. We
shall discuss this further in chapter 3.
3 Cf. Hegel, World History, p. 55: we infer ‘the freedom of the subject to follow its own
conscience and morality, and to pursue and implement its own universal ends’ in history
from the fact that ‘the substance of the spirit is freedom’ (my emphasis).
Freedom and indifference 55
make that respect seem.) Hegel’s thought fully acknowledges that practi-
cal realities are not in the end extrinsic to our concepts of freedom and con-
sciousness, but actually shape and determine them by giving them con-
tent. As one commentator puts it:
the whole point of Hegel’s philosophy . . . is precisely that it does
not shun or in any way devalue the objective world, of fact and
contingency and finitude, the historian’s world and the natural
scientist’s world and the world of every-day experience; its whole
object is to show how necessary all this is to the life of the Spirit. . . .
[R]eality, which is not just substance but active subject as well, is a
perpetually re-enacted process of self-realization, and the result
includes the process . . .4
For the Spirit to be truly absolute (to be as ‘all-embracing’ as Hegel claims),
the finite cannot be excluded from it. No philosophy that seeks to give
a true account of the field of consciousness (in which we and the things
we experience are found by each other) can afford to work only with the
kind of treatment (a system of logic, for example) which removes itself
from the particular, concrete manifestations of Spirit. (Hegel’s philosophy
tries to make a place for the two kinds of treatment together.) To put it
another way, it is no use talking about ‘the world Spirit’ or ‘the universal
Spirit’ unless one is also prepared to talk more concretely of the ‘links in
the chain’ of its actual development.5
It is particularly evident in his early work that Hegel is a man with
practical concerns about real communities. These concerns play a part in
the formation of his philosophy of Spirit. It was Hegel’s concern to see
the shaping of the ethical totality of a nation (his own) so that it could
inspire and sustain a life of political freedom for its citizens. There is
a convincing argument, made with particular force by Laurence Dickey,
that Hegel’s intentions were significantly shaped by a tradition of Protes-
tant piety which identified strongly with the political concerns of Old
Württemberg. It is Dickey’s contention that ‘for most of the eighteenth
century the Protestant culture of Old Württemberg was governed by an
ideal of civil piety that required extensive vigilance vis-à-vis an absolu-
tizing and catholicizing duke’.6 The Pietists found they had a powerful
convergence of interests with the upholders of the Good Old Law in the
Württemberg Estates when they began to envisage ‘social discipline and
18 G. W. F. Hegel, The System of Ethical Life 1802/3: First Philosophy of Spirit (Part III of the System of
Speculative Philosophy 1803/4), H. S. Harris and T. M. Knox (eds. and trans.) (Albany: State
University of New York Press, 1979), p. 109; from now on referred to as Ethical Life.
19 Ibid., p. 151. 20 Ibid., p. 144. 21 Hegel, World History, p. 97.
22 H. S. Harris, ‘Hegel’s System of Ethical Life: An Interpretation’ in Hegel, Ethical Life, p. 61.
Freedom and indifference 59
23 Ibid. 24 Hegel, World History, p. 65. 25 Ibid., pp. 56–7. 26 Hegel, Right, p. 338.
60 Theology and the Drama of History
Saints
Saints are vital to von Balthasar’s theology. He devotes two entire volumes
of Herrlichkeit to studies of particular Christian lives – both clerical and
lay. He wrote important studies of the saints Thérèse of Lisieux and Elisa-
beth of Dijon. A very substantial section of his treatment of christology in
Theodramatik, Volume ii/2, (his principal treatment of christology) is given
over to a discussion of how Jesus Christ’s own mission is the embracing
mission (the ‘acting area’) within which the missions of individual Chris-
tians (and archetypally the saints) receive their definition. In this way, he
shows how Christ’s mission admits of transposition into the lives of individ-
ual believers.27
Christ’s is a humanity which expressed itself in perfect obedience to the
Father’s will. Saints, for von Balthasar, communicate this mysterious and
wonderful quality of Christ’s humanity in a way that none of the anthro-
pological sciences can. Christ’s is a humanity that resists deconstruction;
but the concrete, personal character of individual saints and their lives
opens a way to the living heart of that divine-human fit which christology
tries to bring to light. The entire thrust of von Balthasar’s aesthetic project
was to say that God’s revelation ‘concretizes’; it is a radiancy which takes
form. The thrust of Theodramatik is to say that such forms are not static
but mobile. They have narrative extension. The analogies between what
is divine and what is human are to be found in relationship, not in a meta-
physics of essential being. The saints’ relationships to God are the life-
blood of the Church’s corporate being. ‘The Church’, as von Balthasar puts
it, ‘is built on disciples’ (Geschichte, p. 111/ET, p. 146). They are the Church’s
27 Lewis Ayres has discussed this in his article ‘Representation, Theology and Faith’ in
Modern Theology 11:1 (1995), pp. 23–46.
Freedom and indifference 61
28 Larry S. Chapp, ‘The Theological Method of Hans Urs von Balthasar’ (doctoral
dissertation: Fordham University, 1994), p. 314; the dissertation was subsequently published
as The God Who Speaks: Hans Urs von Balthasar’s Theology of Revelation (San Francisco:
International Scholars Publications, 1997).
29 ‘The most grandiose attempt to master the realm of fact and history through reason was
undertaken by Hegel; he interpreted the whole sequence and constellation of facts in nature
and in human history as the manifestation of an all-embracing rational spirit, rational
precisely in its factual manifestation’ (Geschichte, p. 10/ET, p. 7).
62 Theology and the Drama of History
This uniting of the absolute and the relative can be attributed to the
Church only secondarily. But it is attributed quite genuinely and properly
nonetheless. As von Balthasar writes elsewhere, the Church is ‘the coin-
cidence of the historically particular and the humanly universal’ (H iii/1,
p. 558/GL 5, p. 212). In this, it is an extension or transposition of Christ’s
life, which is ‘the “world of ideas” for the whole of history’ (Geschichte,
p. 69/ET, p. 89). It can participate in his concrete universality, and reflect
it in its own distinctive way. The Church becomes an arena for appli-
cations of the life of Christ to every Christian life and the whole life of
the Church. Christ’s commands (for instance, ‘Love one another as I have
loved you’ (John 15:12)) are kept from becoming abstract laws because the
Church, in the power of the Spirit, can transform them into laws of ‘con-
crete discipleship’: it can reveal ‘the meaning, the validity’ of Christ’s law
for each person as ‘something concrete and individual’.
But (as Hegel would certainly also emphasize) the ‘self-realization’ of
individuals in their obedience to the motive power of Christ’s will (com-
municated by the Spirit) is never solipsistically accomplished, apart from
the body of the faithful:
[T]he disciple cannot himself select the particular thing in the Lord’s
life which he wants to follow (for this would mean exalting himself to
the level of one who possesses and evaluates that life).
For this reason, ‘a higher power is needed to bring the situations in the life
of Christ and of the believer into accord: and that power is the Holy Spirit’
(Geschichte, p. 76/ET, pp. 97–98).
Like Hegel’s Spirit (despite the caricatures of Hegel to which von
Balthasar himself is not entirely immune) here is a Spirit too subtly
and intimately experienced to be dismissed as a ‘wholly supra-empirical,
supra-individual objective entity, or super puppet-master’.30 And yet, as
with Hegel, this intimate Spirit, which is present in the very consciousness
of individual human beings for Hegel, and in the ‘new minds’ of Chris-
tians for von Balthasar, has an ‘objective’ form as well. Its objective form
is not ultimately different from its life in the subject, and it does not, as
a consequence, quell the ‘freedom’ of life in the Spirit. In the Church, as
in Hegel’s State, one must experience and act in relation to an embracing
context. One’s actions will be determined and realized (made concrete) in
such a context, or not at all. They will be ‘free’ in the terms of such a con-
text or else they will not really – realistically – be free. The movement of
the whole – for Hegel as for von Balthasar – generates a certain ‘measure of
The Church requires ‘her basic structure of the secular and religious states
[i.e., states of life] and the offices of laity and hierarchy, her sacraments, her
catechesis, her organs of Scripture and tradition . . . ’ (Geschichte, p. 78/ET,
p. 100):
[And] because it is the same Holy Spirit who creates both subjective and
objective holiness, the two belong most intimately together, and only
the spirit of dissension would try to sow suspicion between them or to
affirm that they cannot be united.
(g e s c h i c h t e , p. 83/ET, p. 106)
Mission
What is needed to get these ‘redeemed sinners’ to embrace ‘consenting
participation’ is the awakening of a freedom which cannot come from act-
ing ‘roles’. Roles may be subjectively chosen; the result of mere preference;
unaccountable to others; destined to fade away without contributing to
the movement of God’s will for history (without, that is, being ‘eternal’).
The real freedom of redeemed sinners will come from undertaking a
mission. For it is only in a mission that individual particularity and divine
will are united in the medium of corporate, ecclesial practice. Accordingly,
in von Balthasar’s view, that thing which is most personal to the saint –
her mission – is generated, shaped, and held in place by the determinate
forms of collective life – the external ‘organs’ of the body which is the
Church.31
31 Von Balthasar is clear that this case can be made because being a ‘person’ is not the same as
being an individual. Personhood is not ‘inwardness’; it is that which is constituted by
relationship, and above all by being ‘someone’ for God. Being a ‘person’ in this list of
dramatis personae is attending to God’s reply to the question ‘who am I?’. And God’s reply is
mediated through other people and the structures which we inhabit with those other people.
In that reply – and through those structures and other people – we find our freedom.
Freedom and indifference 65
Now it is quite clearly the case that von Balthasar does not suppose the
Church to be ‘subject to transience’. The Church is the counterpart of
Christ’s singular subjectivity, and exists in a complementary and respon-
sive relation to him, even into eternity. But having said that, von Balthasar
is quite ready to admit that:
the believer in the Church must always be ready to make the leap from
the old and familiar into the essentially new – the metanoiete which lies
at the very source of the Gospel – in order to be obedient to the Holy
Spirit . . .
(g e s c h i c h t e , p. 81/ET, pp. 103–4)33
The Church, then, is frequently to be taken ‘by surprise’, and the saints
play a crucial role here, too. For the saints can become the vehicles or
agents of the movement of the Church onwards to a new stage of its repre-
sentation of Christ in history (its transposition of the Christ-form into his-
tory). They can represent with crystal clarity the ‘spirit’ of a newly gener-
ated and (in turn) generative context. This does not, of course, make them
innovators who are free of their shaping environment: it is not a relapse
into the fantasy of freedom as unmediated individual autonomy. It simply
means that they are in tune with the shaping Spirit which transcends the
particularities of its contemporary institutional forms (what Hegel might
call the absolute Spirit beyond the particular national spirit). They are in
tune with a Spirit so vibrant that it bursts out of its particular vessels, and
32 Ibid., p. 60.
33 Von Balthasar may have been more reluctant to celebrate the embrace of ‘newness’ in
quite such unguarded terms after 1967, when he became concerned that the innovations of
Vatican II were undermining the distinctiveness of traditional Christian identity and
commitment. See pp. 73–4.
66 Theology and the Drama of History
they are in tune with it at the point of its bursting. Their missions, therefore,
attain a particular quality of ‘genius’ – something we shall return to below.
What von Balthasar has to say here is of such profound importance, that
it is worth quoting him in full. For he is presenting us with an interpreta-
tion of the saints which brings him extraordinarily close to Hegel’s theory
of ‘world-historical individuals’ (die grossen Welthistorischen Individuen):
Whenever the Spirit takes the Church by surprise . . . it is going to be, in
the main, by the proclamation of some truth which has a far-reaching
meaning for the particular age to which it is given, in both Church
history and world history. The Spirit meets the burning questions of
the age with an utterance that is the key-word, the answer to the riddle.
Never in the form of an abstract statement (that being something that
it is man’s business to draw up); almost always in the form of a new,
concrete supernatural mission: the creation of a new saint whose life is
a presentation to his own age of the message that heaven is sending to
it, a man who is, here and now, the right and relevant interpretation of
the Gospel, who is given to this particular age as its way of approach to
the perennial truth of Christ . . . The saints are tradition at its most
living, tradition as the word is meant whenever Scripture speaks of the
unfolding of the riches of Christ, and the application to history of the
norm which is Christ. Their missions are so exactly the answer from
above to the questions from below that their immediate effect is often
one of unintelligibility; they are signs to be contradicted in the name of
every kind of right-thinking – until the proof of their power is brought
forth. St Bernard and St Francis, St Ignatius and St Theresa were all of
them proofs of that order: they were like volcanoes pouring forth
molten fire from the inmost depths of revelation; they were irrefutable
proof, all horizontal tradition notwithstanding, of the vertical
presence of the living Kyrios here, now and today.
(g e s c h i c h t e , p. 82/ET, p. 105)
34 Ibid., p. 76.
Freedom and indifference 67
tells us in his lectures, are ‘geistreich’. They both know and shape them-
selves in accordance with the spirit of their nation (their embracing con-
text), and also lead it onwards ‘in accordance with the dictates of the univer-
sal spirit’.35 It is not, Hegel is anxious to assert, that the universal Spirit is
reliant upon and reducible to these great men – for ‘no individuals can pre-
vent the preordained from happening’. Nevertheless, ‘the universal sub-
stance . . . creates for itself the individuals it requires to carry out its ends’.
Hegel calls these individuals ‘world-historical individuals’, and it is their
defining characteristic (to echo Nicholas Lash)36 that they ‘know what time
it is’:
[They are those] who have willed and accomplished not just the ends of
their own imagination or personal opinions, but only those which were
appropriate and necessary. Such individuals know what is necessary
and timely, and have an inner vision of what it is . . . [R]ight is on their
side, for they are the far-sighted ones: they have discerned what is true
in their world and in their age, and have recognised the concept, the
next universal to emerge . . . [T]hey are admirable simply because they
have made themselves the instruments of the substantial spirit.37
Von Balthasar reminded us that the saints, in fulfilment of their missions,
are liable to meet with resistance or incomprehension (‘their immediate
effect is often one of unintelligibility; they are signs to be contradicted in
the name of every kind of right-thinking’). The same is true of Hegel’s
world-historical individuals. Because these individuals are ahead of the
majority of men and women in what they envision, the ‘power within
them’ can appear ‘something external and alien’.38 In consequence, they
must resolve ‘to challenge all the beliefs of their fellows’, and this will
result, not in happiness, but ‘exertion, conflict, and labour in the service of
their end’.39 But, however ‘right-thinking’ a course of action it may seem
to be to resist these world-historical individuals, resistance is in the end ‘a
futile undertaking, for they are irresistibly driven on to fulfil their task’.
They are agents of Spirit.
And here, in turn, we see a point of similarity with von Balthasar‘s theo-
logy of mission, in which person and work (principally the person and
work of Christ, and all other persons and works in participation with him)
are inseparably joined. For the actions of world-historical individuals ‘are
their entire being, and their whole nature and character are determined by
their ruling passion’40 – their pathos, to echo the word which Hegel uses of
dramatic characters in the Aesthetics. Moreover, a world-historical indivi-
dual – in fulfilling his work in accordance with the movement of the uni-
versal spirit – can be seen to be ‘inseparable from the cause he promoted’.
He is invested so wholly in his task that he prefigures the Balthasarian
description of the apostolic witness, whose dramatic importance lies in
the extent to which he stakes the integrity of his mind and character in a
sequence of events which he supposes to have meaning and direction, and
to which he tries to be faithful. He is not a mere role player.
Here, too, we find important preparatory material in the earlier essay
on Ethical Life, and especially in Hegel’s presentation and discussion of
what he calls the ‘first class’ of individuals, in whose hands it is to under-
take the labour of ‘government and courage’. The first class – also called
the absolute class – are those people who are free from the system of needs
which constitutes the second (bourgeois) class. The bourgeoisie are reliant
on the relations of ‘possessions, gain, and property’.41 Relations of this
kind restrict their capacity to attain to the true ‘indifference’ which is
beyond such objectifications (beyond any separation of the subject from
the true substance of life together). The bourgeoisie must look to the first
class if it wants to see the indifference (the absolute identity of persons
with ethical life) beyond its own relative identifications of people with
things, and of people with other people through things. It sees this abso-
lute indifference represented with a ‘clear, mirror-bright’ quality by the
first class, for these are people who display without resistance the uni-
versal aspects and processes of ethical life, which transcend all indivi-
dual particularities. The ‘objective’ functions of government are essential
to this whole. The ‘might of the whole’42 depends upon certain essential
‘objective’ functions of government, and the first class enacts those func-
tions. The people recognize the indifference (i.e. the collective identity)
which belongs to them as a whole Volk, by recognizing themselves in these
particular and special individuals: individuals who are in the position of
having nothing to stop ‘absolute and pure ethical life’ from being their
‘principle’.43
We are bound to register the fact that this first class is conceived by
Hegel, in the first instance, as a military nobility. And this is quite in
keeping with the detail of his later account of the world-historical indi-
viduals in The Philosophy of World History, where the examples he gives are
of Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar and Napoleon. These are men who
came to embody the destiny of their national spirits in ways that do not
permit a separation of individual and collective telos. Moreover, they do
not need to earn their keep. The people keeps them even as it recognizes
them and their authority, and informs them with its own consent. We
might be inclined on this basis to dismiss a substantive similarity with
von Balthasar’s saints. Comparison of the saints with a military nobility
seems far-fetched. But in the terms of a comparison between citizen and
Christian believer, which we have already carefully elaborated, there is in
fact a close analogy between the two, which can be understood all the bet-
ter by the fact that Hegel’s vision of the practical interconnection of reli-
gion and politics makes his State impossible to contrast straightforwardly
with a merely ‘institutional’ idea of the Church (it is the renewal of a col-
lective body united in belief and practice with which he is concerned).44
In this case, the nobles as (in their freedom from the system of needs)
the ‘clear, mirror-bright identity’ of the whole body of people in a State
begin to seem nearer to the exemplars of sanctity whose power to repre-
sent the identity of the Body (the identity of Christ in his head and in his
members) the Church acknowledges and honours. And, indeed, we find
von Balthasar himself using the language of ‘nobility’ and ‘aristocracy’ in
describing the saints:
Those who withdraw to pray and fast in silence and high places are, as
Reinhold Schneider made so vividly credible, the pillars bearing the
spiritual weight of what happens in history. They share in the
uniqueness of Christ, in the freedom of that nobility which is conferred
from above; that untamed and serene freedom which cannot be caged
and put to use [for ‘caging’ and ‘putting to use’ are bourgeois activities,
in Hegel’s terms]. Theirs is the first of all aristocracies, justification for
all the others, and the last yet remaining to us in an unaristocratic age.
(g e s c h i c h t e , p. 92/ET, p. 122; translation amended)
Here, von Balthasar seems to make the claim that his saints are a nobility
that simply trumps Hegel’s (deceased) military one. It is, so to speak, the
first class of all first classes. And perhaps even Hegel admitted something
like this, for alongside his initial characterization of the military nobility,
there emerges another example of the same absolute and noble indiffer-
ence, which is the intuition of the collective in oneself, and the readiness
to abandon oneself to it. These are ‘the Elders and the Priests, two groups
who are strictly one’ – and they are people ‘who have, as it were, sacrificed
their real being in one class and who live purely and simply in the ideal’.45
Like warriors, as one commentator points out, these are men who ‘live in
the presence of death’, and it is partly because of this, and because of the
wisdom that comes with it, that ‘they can achieve the practical indifference
which is both the highest form of political consciousness and the practical
side of religious contemplation’.46
So the gap is not as great as it might initially seem. The class of indiffer-
ent men – the men who intuit the collective in themselves, and in whom
the collective too recognizes itself – is in some sense ‘God’s appearance’. ‘It
is the direct Priesthood of the All Highest.’47
We can pause to note, at this point, the convergence of von Balthasar’s
ideas with Hegel’s when the former discusses ecclesial life. We observed
earlier in this study how, for Hegel, the most real and substantial
events were those which turned out to accord most successfully with
the demands of the system (using ‘system’ here to mean the dynamism
of Spirit, with its dimension of ongoing ‘corporate practice’).48 Persons
find themselves in an embracing context (a context significantly articu-
lated in the institutions of the State) rather in the way, perhaps, that they
find themselves always already embraced by language.49 And only in this
context is their subjective freedom possible. Thus their freedom is made
objective in line with a telos. Another way of putting this is to say that
the ‘truth’ or ‘falsity’ of individual freedoms is made apparent in rela-
tion to the embracing context and the movement of the rationality of the
whole.
Here we may detect an approach – perhaps even a paradigm – shared
in many of its features by von Balthasar’s theology of mission. For we
can say with some justice that for von Balthasar the most real missions
are those which accord with the mission of the Church. Mission, for von
Balthasar, is the moment in which human freedom finds a space opened
up for its self-expression against the background of the Catholica. Hegel
wrote about individual freedom in a way that has strikingly close paral-
lels with von Balthasar’s own thought and writing on this theme. Hegel
45 Ibid., p. 158. 46 Harris in ibid., p. 70. 47 Ibid., p. 163. 48 Williams, ‘Rose’, p. 14.
49 Hegel argues for a strong identification of language and Spirit: ‘. . . language [is] the
existence of Spirit’ (Phenomenology, p. 395), and elsewhere: ‘Language [is] an outer reality that
is immediately self-conscious existence . . . the fluidity and the universally communicated
unity of the many selves . . .’ (Phenomenology, p. 430). This is similar to von Balthasar’s sense of
the importance of language, as we had cause to remark in chapter 1 (see chapter 1, note 4
above).
Freedom and indifference 71
wrote, for instance, that ‘whatever worth and spiritual reality [an indivi-
dual] possesses are his solely by virtue of the state’. Von Balthasar makes
the analogous claim that an individual’s ‘spiritual reality’ and ‘worth’
stem from his dramatic part in the Church, which is the (partly – though
not exclusively – objective) medium in which God confers ‘personhood’
on him, and so a sense of self. We find further close parallels: Hegel wrote
that ‘[the individual] has spiritual reality only in so far as his being . . . is
his object and possesses objective and immediate existence for him; only
as such does he possess consciousness and exist in an ethical world . . .’
For von Balthasar correspondingly, it is in the medium of the Church that
an individual’s being comes to him as an ‘object’, in the form of a definite
task. And the parallels can be deepened yet more. As for Hegel ‘the state
is the unity of the universal, essential will and the will of the subject, and
it is this which constitutes ethical life’, so for von Balthasar, the Church
is the harmonious interaction of the divine will and the will of the sub-
ject, and it is this which constitutes ‘living holiness’. Both in their descrip-
tions of the ‘medium’ of human freedom, and in their analysis of how this
medium yields personal identity and concrete possibilities and goals for
action, Hegel and von Balthasar overlap significantly.
Indifference revisited
Both Hegel and von Balthasar (each in his own way) must resort to a par-
ticular unfolding of the command ‘be subject to one another’ as the source
and condition of freedom. Hegel writes:
For Hegel, individuals must be brought into unity out of their dispersal
into private interests, and the State will play a crucial part in achieving
such unity. It is dangerously easy to overvalue the individual’s freedom (or
even capacity) to do what she wants. For von Balthasar, the Church repre-
sents an analogous ‘community of existence’. As for Hegel, authentic free-
dom can never be the same thing as abstract free will (in this – as we shall
see in chapter four – he also echoes Augustine). Our ‘dramatic’ freedom is
freedom ordered to obedience – it is the ‘homecoming of [the creature’s]
50 Ibid., p. 97.
72 Theology and the Drama of History
own freedom to the freedom of God’51 (Skizzen iv, p. 427/ExT 4, p. 439), and
is thus freedom viewed in a christological (and therefore trinitarian) con-
text.52 There is an ‘authored weight’ to the incarnate state that provides
the particular definiteness required for such freedom, and like Christ we
need freely to accept (or ‘allow’) the mission we receive there.
The heart of the attitude of the good citizen in Hegel’s account, as I have
shown, is that which he calls ‘indifference’. It is a principal product of the
all-important work (individually consented to; rooted in the collective) of
Bildung. In order, eventually, to be able to see whether its apparent con-
gruity with ideas of christological self-surrender is sustainable, this sec-
tion will consider the genealogy and significance of the concept a little
more closely.
In his book Erster Blick auf Adrienne von Speyr, von Balthasar gives us a very
direct account of the disposition which he considers to be at the core of the
Church’s existence. It is the attitude of pure consent; self-abandonment;
loving obedience. (Loving obedience, we recall, is the expression of the
unity of subjective and objective Spirit: the absolute identity beyond
apparent difference of external authority and personal volition.) In the life
of the Church, it is archetypally represented in Mary:
[T]he higher unity, the absolute identity [N.B.] between love and
obedience is to be found in Mary, where love expresses itself in this will
to be nothing other than the handmaid of the Lord. No light falls upon
her, all falls upon God; no accent falls upon her consent, the entire
emphasis lies upon God’s Word. Pure transparency. Pure flight from
self. Pure emptied space for the Incarnation of the Word, and in this
state of emptiness, obedience, poverty and virginity are all one.
(a d r i e n n e , p. 45/ET, p. 52)
Hegel had written in his System of Ethical Life that after the ‘adoption into
indifference’53 which an individual participating in absolute ethical life is
51 The standard English translation loses some of the poetry of this phrase in rendering it
‘the mystery of making the freedom of God one’s own’, so I have preferred the translation to
be found in Reader, p. 321.
52 Our freedom, in von Balthasar’s terms, depends on the transcription into creaturely life
(in the person of Jesus Christ and in the area of the Church) of the trinitarian self-surrender.
This is made possible by the mediation of the Holy Spirit. The kenotic mutual outpouring in
God’s trinitarian being – an outpouring which ‘lets’ the Son ‘be’ in his incarnate state, and
an outpouring through which the Son accepts his mission (or ‘lets it be’) – is what makes
available the ‘space’ for freely accepted obedience in the terms of creaturely life: a context for
others to enter and participate in the event of Jesus Christ. Von Balthasar discusses this at
length in Volume iv of Theodramatik (see especially pp. 65ff.), and it is presented well by
O’Hanlon in his book on The Immutability of God.
53 Hegel, Ethical Life, p. 109.
Freedom and indifference 73
Hegel had a distinctively political objective in mind when he used the idea
of ‘indifference’. He was concerned – if Dickey’s case56 is persuasive, as I
think it is – with the re-establishment of a collective socio-religious iden-
tity in the face of the apparent disintegration of that identity’s shaping
tradition. He wanted to inspire a new vision of how an individual gained
his sense of self by being part of a people, and of how instinctive habits of
mutual recognition and service might guard against social fragmentation.
He wanted to inspire – at least in his early political philosophy – the will
to put the collectivity (in his case, a Protestant, covenanting people) first.
How questionable a ploy is it to set Hegel’s Protestant politics and von
Balthasar’s Roman Catholic vision of the Church alongside one another?
It is not, I suggest, as peculiar as it might at first seem. For von Balthasar’s
theology of the Church – particularly in his later, Cordula years57 – is
54 Ibid., p. 143. 55 Hegel, World History, pp. 56–7. 56 See p. 55, note 6, above.
57 Cordula was published in 1967, when many of the effects (often ill effects, in von
Balthasar’s eventual view) of the Second Vatican Council began to tell.
74 Theology and the Drama of History
Hegel’s use of ‘indifference’ (in the particular sense already iterated, i.e. a
refusal to self-determine, and an indicator therefore of a particular kind
58 I wholly accept Nicholas Lash’s point (‘The Church in the State We’re In’ in Modern
Theology 13:1 (1997)) that talk about the Church’s structure ought not to substitute for talk
about the Church (as that ‘fruit of God’s self gift’ which gives ‘sacramental utterance’ to
‘God’s promised healing of the human race’ (p. 122)). But this dichotomy need not apply here.
In von Balthasar’s Church, as in Hegel’s State, we are to some extent dealing with questions
about positive institutions, but neither von Balthasar nor Hegel is interested in institutions
for their own sake.
59 We are faced with two commensurable visions of how (God’s) people might be gathered
and ordered in a visible expression of the human race’s health. Indeed, precisely inasmuch as
(in both cases) von Balthasar’s Church and Hegel’s State ‘narrate, announce and dramatise the
origin, identity and destiny of humankind as common life’ (p. 122), they do not lend
themselves to a crude Church-State contrast.
60 Von Balthasar goes on to suggest that Hegel fails to meet the standard of a truly Christian
vision of community. This critique will be allowed space in the next chapter.
61 For another view of the State as parasitic on the Church, see also William Cavanaugh ‘The
City: Beyond Secular Parodies’ in John Milbank, Catherine Pickstock, and Graham Ward
(eds.), Radical Orthodoxy: A New Theology (London: Routledge, 1998), pp. 182–200.
Freedom and indifference 75
62 The qualification which Schelling’s idea of artistic genius seems to lack, however, is the
crucial importance of time and of institutions and of other people in attaining this point. It is
highly subjective; there is no ‘project’ entailed. This sets him at one remove from Hegel (and,
probably, from von Balthasar, too). As Dickey puts it, Hegel is ‘much more a collectivist in a
socioreligious sense than an individualist in an aesthetic sense’ (Dickey, Hegel, pp. 283–4).
76 Theology and the Drama of History
This, for von Balthasar, makes extremely clear what are the roots of
the Ignatian Exercises, and most especially the roots of Ignatian indiffer-
ence. The Christian contemplative who seeks to hear a ‘personal call from
Christ himself’ will hear that call on the condition that his contempla-
tion is being done ‘in an attitude of “indifference” and readiness for any-
thing God may ask. It will imprint and bestow on each person a form of
life which descends from above as a gift of grace. In that form of life the
Christian, as matter totally receptive to being conformed to God, can con-
form to his will and so attain the perfection of the Christian life’ (H iii/1,
p. 456/GL 5, p. 103).
The development of thought about indifference in German philosophy
displays its abundant indebtedness to this tradition of thought and exper-
ience, and helps enrich our appreciation of the sheer wealth of the poly-
math von Balthasar’s sources and influences. It confronts us with what is
clearly a crucial knot of ideas. For the ‘in-betweenness’ of Schiller’s ‘mid-
dle state’ between the sensuous and the spiritual, which gives a person the
possibility of acting in an ‘eternal’ or universal mode, is an aesthetic and a
moral version of the medieval Christian insight that:
All human freedom begins here, or never comes to birth at all. And as
Hegel takes the Schillerian insight and turns it to the service of a ‘practical,
collective possibility’ – with institutional and pedagogical dimensions –
so von Balthasar follows Ignatius in his belief that the ‘fundamental act,
this fundamental work, of contemplation [can] also now be translated,
without compromising its Christian integrity, into specific deeds in an
active apostolate’ – an active apostolate ‘in the Church and the world’
(H iii/1, p. 459/GL 5, p. 106).
Lest we think him to be advocating a kind of hylemorphism whereby
the creature is just formless matter which waits to receive God’s imprint,
and whose abandonment has no co-operative dimension in active surren-
der and service (this is a claim we shall return to below), von Balthasar
moves quickly to assure us that contemplation leads to action; theological
aesthetics to theodrama. Heroic effort comparable to that of Hegel’s self-
sacrificing first class of warriors is demanded in this drama, and modelled
Freedom and indifference 79
for us by the saints in their Bildung (their discipline and ecclesially attuned
sensorium) and the missions that result.
Indeed, it might be said that Ignatius is specifically an inspirer of
von Balthasar’s theodramatic instincts in this regard, along with so many
other things (his ‘Christocentric mysticism’, his ‘incarnational spiritual-
ity’ and his ‘desire to find God in all things’).70 That the Spiritual Exer-
cises are potentially generative of ‘dramatic’ activity is more than evident.
It is not a scholastic text, nor straightforwardly a spiritual treatise. It is,
as Philip Caraman puts it, ‘a manual with the practical purpose of help-
ing a man to save his soul and find his place in the divine plan. Even in
its final revision in 1541 it is . . . not a book to be read but a guide to be
translated into practice.’71 Ignatian spirituality is mission-orientated; the
Exercises a propaedeutic to mission, geared wholly to bringing the indi-
vidual face to face with her eternal calling and destiny. The Exercises are
designed to generate Christian life by negotiating and surpassing ‘epic’
(the ‘normativity’ of the Gospel narratives) and ‘lyric’ (my interpretative
freedom) components alike. In George Schner’s words, ‘Making the nar-
rative present through the integration of it by the work of creative imagi-
nation into “my” time and space perpetuates the story’s life.’72 The indi-
vidual who has really become a theological person by the reception of a
mission will enter the drama.
Conclusion
It is only in the context of being sent upon a mission that any moment
of time can finally ripen in which – by the grace of living faith – a full
correspondence is attained (on the pattern of Christ) between what is
demanded of us and what we manage to do.
(g e s c h i c h t e , p. 90/ET, p. 120)
Like the Hegel who made drama the epitome of poetic art, and who
insisted that the identifying of the individual citizen with the movement
of world spirit was something that could only take the form of engage-
ment with the concrete particularities of ethical life, and who called for
such ethical life to be enacted courageously and practically in the company
of a people, von Balthasar wants to think about absolute (divine) freedom
in a way that respects the significance of the materially and historically
real. He wants to unite the freedom to interpret with the discipline of cer-
tain given finalities and a communal relationship to other interpreters. In
other words, like Hegel, he thinks like a dramatist.
Or is it as simple as that? How convincing does Hegel seem, in the end,
in his role of patron and sponsor of drama? How much of a stage, ulti-
mately, do the terms of his philosophy permit him to open up for the free
interplay of his characters? And will his failings, as well as his strengths,
have correlates in von Balthasar’s theological approach – thereby affecting
von Balthasar ’s credentials as an advocate of drama?
These questions come to the fore because there is another figure look-
ing over the shoulder of the Hegel whose sympathies (in the realm of art)
appear to be with drama; someone whose influence may be stronger than
is superficially apparent. He is a figure from the ‘epic’ world of the ancient
Greek city state, whom Hegel calls the minstrel (der Sänger). And his con-
cerns are very like those which dominate Hegel’s early political philoso-
phy. He, too, is concerned to give an account of (to narrate) what is involved
in collective life in the State. The minstrel’s song (like Hegel’s thought)
is about ‘the middle term’ of the State’s particularity; and it is about ‘the
nation in its heroes’ (echoes of the first class) ‘who are individual men like
the Minstrel, but presented only in idea, and . . . thereby at the same time
universal, like the free extreme of universality, the gods’.
All the Hegelian concerns which this chapter has traced are there. The
great (and disturbing) difference, though, is that the song of this minstrel
is essentially a monological, narrative form (an epic account) and not a
drama at all:
The Minstrel is the individual and actual Spirit from whom, as a
subject of this world, it [the world] is produced and by whom it is
borne . . . . what counts is . . . his universal song.73
He is equipped to sing this song on behalf of the collectivity with which
his subjectivity is bound up: the collectivity which is the polis or nation.
74 He sings his song in a world that has moved beyond the need for representational
thinking (Vorstellung), and presses forward to grasp the very Idea or Notion (Begriff ) of things
which informs all such partial representation. He speaks in a world which has become
capable of ‘the thinking of thinking’.
Freedom and indifference 83
line with a ‘whole context’. Individual characters and their aims on the
one hand and the shared realm of action on the other have to be fitted to
one another. But although Hegel tries to assert the continued importance
of the subject’s mind and character in its interdependence with the move-
ment of the action, it is a basically teleological view of things that is dis-
cernible behind his portrayal of drama’s ideal form.
To phrase it another way: despite his intention to preserve the mutual
importance of individual initiative and corporate context in drama (and
more than just in drama, as we shall see), it is the latter that has the
advantage in Hegel’s thought. Because a consistent and convincing bal-
ance between the two is virtually impossible to strike – because of the
enormous difficulty of depicting the operation of genuine freedom in an
individual’s dramatic interaction with her circumstances and with the
freedoms of others – the contextual claim (the situating of freedom in a
context that will make sense of it) tends repeatedly to get the upper hand.
Sometimes intentionally and sometimes unwittingly, individual actions
are interpreted as needing orientation in relation to what is more
embracing than them, which is another way of saying that they are shown
to be determined teleologically in certain respects. A goal (or goals), or an
end, or a necessary direction, is implicitly assigned to them. The minstrel
makes his appearance.
Thus, in his theory of the dramatic genre, Hegel says that the actions
of the various characters in the drama find their realization in line with
some kind of dramatic justice or necessity. ‘Teleologically’, an embracing
dramatic justice sets the standard for each individual action and particu-
lar event. Even when events occur which appear at first to be mere acci-
dent, nevertheless ‘we feel a pressing demand for a necessary correspon-
dence between the external circumstances and what the inner nature of . . .
[the] characters really is’.75 The characters can only realize themselves in
relation to an embracing ‘rationality’ whose self-realization is the absolute
goal of Spirit. This is the meaning of teleology in Hegelian terms. Because
Hegel believes this, he can talk about ‘the inner and universal element
lying at the root’ of particular dramatic actions,76 and about ‘the spiritual
substance of will and accomplishment’ as depicted in drama.77 Dramatic
actions which are ‘truly human’ are those which ‘actualize this their [spir-
itual or divine] essence’.78 This is a crucial part, for him, of why people find
value in watching drama. They will only be satisfied if the requirement is
met that ‘something absolutely rational and true shall be clearly realized
and achieved’.79 When this happens, then ‘the Divine’ is ‘made real in the
world’.80
What now begins to become clear is that this strong teleology which
emerges from Hegel’s treatment of drama has corollaries in the way he
‘places’ human freedom in all its various manifestations. The question
therefore becomes pressing: is an account such as Hegel’s, in which the
shaping claims of the environment are so strong, bound to be an epic one?
Does it inherently militate against drama? Does the Spirit which sings its
universal song through this minstrel always, in the end, simply suppress
individual initiatives and the possibility of radical oppositions or contin-
gent, bountiful novelties? Can an account of human freedom in history be
given in the terms that Hegel sets out in such a way that it does not simply
relapse into an epic perspective; an epic way of conceiving and of telling it
(and perhaps, at one extreme, of enforcing it, too)?
We raise this massive question as a preliminary to the next stage of this
book, in which we must begin to prise von Balthasar’s and Hegel’s thought
apart a little more, to see the main divergences which exist (or which von
Balthasar is most anxious to assure us exist) in the way that dramatic free-
dom is conceived by each thinker. Our findings will have major implica-
tions for the way that von Balthasar’s attempt to envision an account of
Christian life in the terms of dramatic freedom comes to be understood
and assessed.
This chapter, and the one after it, continue to be about the cast, the stage
and the action of Christian life (or ‘mission’) in the world, with an increas-
ingly focused concentration on the nature of the action – in other words,
the way that historical events and history’s ‘end’ are best understood. In
that connection, the chapter will continue to be concerned with the impor-
tance of the Church and the saints (especially Mary) in their relation to the
historical unfolding of events. The great difference between this chapter
and the previous one is that it begins to press much harder both on von
Balthasar’s and on Hegel’s thought, to see whether fissures are opened up
between them and weaknesses exposed within the thought of each by the
force of a new kind of challenge. It begins to trace von Balthasar’s attempts
to define himself against Hegel. It looks at the grounds on which he asserts
such differences, and it assesses how convincing, in the end, his arguments
seem.
At the head of this chapter stands a choric utterance from the same
work with which we began our treatment of drama in chapter 1: Aeschylus’
Oresteia:
1 Aeschylus, Oresteia, David Grene and Richmond Lattimore (eds.), Richmond Lattimore
(trans.) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1953).
[85]
86 Theology and the Drama of History
In a sense, this chapter wants to put a coarse, Greek tragic question to the
refined teleology of Hegel, and then to turn the question back onto von
Balthasar, to see how his own attempt to do a theology which takes drama
seriously (and in significant measure a theological reading of history which
takes drama seriously) withstands the same scrutiny. As a Christian theolo-
gian, von Balthasar is committed to ‘believing there’ll be better’. But that
is only one pole of a tension. In a perspective like Donald MacKinnon’s,
the Christian theologian is actually under an equal obligation to ‘batter
the doom drum’ when the ‘belief that there’ll be better’ takes on a com-
placent or triumphal quality. MacKinnon sums the matter up like this:
one could claim that Christianity, properly understood, might provide
men with a faith through which they are entitled to hold steadfastly to
the significance of the tragic, and thereby protect themselves against
that sort of synthesis which seeks to obliterate by the vision of an
all-embracing order the sharper discontinuity of human existence . . .3
MacKinnon saw himself and contemporary theologians standing under a
responsibility to resist the legacy of Hegel, and he thought he saw in von
Balthasar the resources to make such resistance possible. The question is:
was he right, and does the Balthasarian approach succeed in taking such
a stand? The dark intractability of the circumstances in which humans
have to play out their parts is the other pole of the tension in which von
Balthasar’s theology finds itself, and again is a pole which will help us to
judge the adequacy of his theology as a source of categories for thinking
theologically about history.
This chapter will show von Balthasar to be a powerful advocate of a cer-
tain open-endedness in the way he construes Christian life before God. In
other words, he is concerned to proclaim himself very definitely a ‘drama-
tist’ and not an ‘epic minstrel’. (A demonstration of this public resis-
tance to dimensions of Hegel’s thought will display interesting and close
similarities to the way von Balthasar characterizes himself against a fel-
low theologian – his friend and inspiration, Karl Barth – and here too a
2 Aeschylus, Oresteia, Tony Harrison (trans.) (London: Collings, 1982); again, my gratitude to
Adrian Poole for introducing me to the Harrison translation.
3 D. M. MacKinnon, The Problem of Metaphysics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1974), p. 135.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 87
a way that re-vivifies the usefulness of drama at exactly the point where Hegel
declares drama to be dead.
We need to explore briefly what the notion of ‘prose’ means for Hegel.
For him, the ‘prosaic’ age is inaugurated by the rise of thoughtful reflec-
tion in the modern period of European history. ‘Prose’ is the medium of
a purer kind of thinking than that which still cannot get beyond images
from the sensory realm in its depiction of ultimate truth. The ‘prose’ of
thinking does not feel the need to set up for itself a concrete (and there-
fore limiting) representation of the divine. ‘Prose’ is associated with what
Hegel calls Spirit’s ‘self-contained phase’,4 and is accompanied by ‘the
manifestation of Religion as Human Reason’.
It seems as though the development of this ‘prosaic’ age is very closely
related, for Hegel, to the rise of a new kind of historical consciousness.
Historical writing (a different and apparently non-poetic genre) acquires
a particular interest for him as a nearer relation to philosophy. This is
because of the contribution it can make to the process by which humanity
understands itself and its activity; a contribution which does not deflect
its account-giving into the intuition and imagery of art or the modes of
‘feeling’ and ‘representation’ which characterize religion.
Hegel proclaims drama to have been superseded, therefore, because it
is a poetic art form. He is still concerned with the relationship that exists
between individuals’ self-expression and the universal dimension that
embraces them. But he transfers his consideration of this relationship
away from the field of poetry.
Of course, Hegel is fully aware of rich analogies between dramatic
poetry and the representation of history, analogies that Hayden White has
further demonstrated in his book Metahistory.5 Just as Hegel sees drama as
the mediation between epic and lyric sensibilities in art, so he sees history
as a comparable prose representation of the dialectic ‘between external-
ity and internality, as that interchange is lived’.6 ‘In fact’, as White puts it,
‘Hegel left very little doubt that, in his mind, the formal aspects of both
historical and dramatic representation are the same.’ It is perhaps no acci-
dent that Hegel’s lectures on the philosophy of history (first delivered in
the winter of 1822–3) came so soon after his lectures on aesthetics (first
4 G. W. F. Hegel, Philosophy of History, J. Sibree (trans.) (New York: Dover, 1956), p. 335; from
now on referred to as History.
5 Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore
and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973).
6 Ibid., pp. 88–9.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 89
redressing. But such redress can never be achieved by a return to the lost
and illusory divinizations of poetic drama. Once the self-conscious subject
arrives on the scene, and establishes the new terms on which Spirit must
move forward, the old forms of poetic representation will no longer do. If
the self-conscious subject is to recover (to ‘re-cognize’) its bond with the
‘absolute’ (ethical substance: that which poetic art conceived as the ‘gods’
or the ‘divine’), then it must do so in new and ‘prosaic’ terms. It must do
so in a way that is free of the stylized divine/human grammar of represen-
tation of which poetic drama made use. The Weltzustand – the ‘state of the
world’ – is now conceived as in principle a field that can be understood his-
torically, in terms already and universally available to human conscious-
ness. This is another way of saying that our experience can in principle
yield the tools for its own interpretation. On this account, the relations of
belief, thought and practice in a society – its ethical ground – will be more
than adequately articulated in the terms offered by ‘history’ than by art;
they will be better articulated in such terms, because such terms are free of
any suggestion that we need help from ‘outside’ our own experience and
thought (and our own ‘aims’).
The writing of history as a consequence will bring the self-thinking
of humanity nearer to its issue in a comprehensive philosophical vision
where the ‘Notion’ (Begriff ) of the world’s reality and of our place in it
reaches maximum clarity for us. The writing of history characteristic of
a ‘prosaic’ age will contribute to (and be shaped by) a philosophy of Spirit,
which sees the individual and the universal as both equally manifesta-
tions of Spirit and as both situated in the same field of consciousness. This
will entail the insight that all tensions or oppositions between the indi-
vidual and the embracing context can have no ultimately significant conse-
quences. ‘Prosaic’ (as opposed to dramatic) tension merely reflects the way
the movement of Spirit is advancing to a new stage. This is what is often
meant by calling Hegel’s philosophy an ‘immanentist’ one: it seems to be
entirely reconcilable (because entirely ‘thinkable’) from ‘inside’.
It is a matter of great interest to von Balthasar that Hegel sees Christ-
ianity as playing a key role in the demise of drama (and of the ‘poetic’ age
more generally). According to von Balthasar, Hegel regards God’s becom-
ing man in Jesus Christ as an image of the world’s abandonment of the
gods; or, put another way, of God’s manifestation of himself in the form of
self-conscious humanity and within history. Thenceforth, in Christianity
and the new phase of historical development that it initiates, it is human
subjectivity which presumes to determine the content of the ‘divine’, and
92 Theology and the Drama of History
Now von Balthasar does not fundamentally disagree with Hegel’s under-
standing that drama (and situations that are dramatic by analogy) work
by showing individuals in relation to an encompassing ground of some
sort. This is something we have already seen. However, von Balthasar does
take issue with Hegel over the claim that a stark and essentially dramatic
dimension has now been left behind, that Christianity is ‘prosaic’. He
claims that what is true in relation to, for example, a Greek tragedy, is still
as true in relation to the story of Christ (a story which is emphatically not a
depiction of the abandonment of the divine):
In tragedy, initially, we . . . see the Absolute at play with itself: in the
Christ-event it will be seen to be at play in all earnest; but the
framework in which the Christian reality is conceived . . . is basically
the same. Both tragedy and the Passion have the same basic nature . . .
(TD I, p. 61/ThD 1, p. 66)
Von Balthasar really does believe that individuals stand before a divine real-
ity other than themselves (that this is not mere ‘picture-thinking’), and he
believes that God’s becoming man intensifies the confrontation. Christ
is not significant only as an historical ‘moment’, from which a univer-
sal meaning can be derived. He is also more than the trigger of certain
advances in our self-consciousness. ‘The Lord who works is a person and
remains this particular person after his Resurrection.’ Hegel’s belief that
Christianity marks the moment in the history of Spirit when dramatic
depictions of the world in art are no longer appropriate arises from his
allowing ‘Christ’s contribution to the total process to be subsumed into
it’ (TD I, p. 60/ThD 1, p. 65). Christ is seen as merely the initiator of a new
subjectivity, a new self-consciousness, rather than as its continuing, form-
ative, grounding presence. Von Balthasar will not allow any such reduc-
tion. Catholicism demands that we go beyond this (or so he claims in a
section of the discussion entitled ‘Der katholische Überhang’). Why? Because
it keeps drama alive to Christian belief and practice in a way that makes
Hegel’s analysis of drama’s mediating function between individual will
and telos (‘ethical powers’, ‘the gods’, etc.) still relevant in absolute terms
to the Church. Hegel can only be thought right if ‘personalist Christology,
with its notion of a real acting and being on behalf of others and of a real
participatory mission’ is allowed to dwindle away, instead of being a lived
reality:
if it were to be genuinely lived, would not Christian drama (whether in
terms of life or on the stage) be presented with quite different
situations from those indicated by Hegel, that is, the mystery plays,
‘chivalry’ and its disintegrated middle-class form? Indeed, would not
this very tension between the total, secularized world and the
universality of the Christian mission in this world – would this not
maintain a living interplay?
(TD I, p. 62/ThD 1, pp. 67–68)
So the Christian drama as von Balthasar sees it is more than just one
between man and God, it is crucially also a drama between (true) Church
and (godless) world, portrayed vividly in Scripture as a battle between
light and darkness. Catholicism, says von Balthasar, preserves the sense
of a choric ground in relation to which Church and world, and the indi-
viduals within them, find their place. And von Balthasar’s christology pre-
serves the sense of an unassimilable divine otherness in relation to which
all Christian action receives its definition (and this in a way that is far from
being ‘prosaic’).
History
It is apparent that it is not only Hegel who wants to draw out parallels
between the character of the concrete, literary dramas he studies and the
all-embracing, continuing drama which is world history. Von Balthasar
does, too. Von Balthasar does in Theodramatik what Hegel does in the trans-
ition between his lectures on aesthetics and his lectures on the philoso-
phy of history. He claims to see patterns in drama that have analogies in
history.
As much as at any other point, the pressure of our questioning in this
area must derive its force from the Greek tragic question that we posed in
chapter 1. Is it not the case that, like the chorus in the Agamemnon, we can-
not properly frame our experience – we do not know its boundary or ‘end’?
Surely we should regard with deep suspicion any talk of a rational whole
or system (however dynamic that system is conceived as being) that seems
to provide such a frame, in which suffering and negation are made sense
of ? The ‘finality’ which is the epic component of our situation is not, if
we choose at this point to make a strategic MacKinnon-like assertion once
again, a simple closure, and a shutting out of the resonances of the ‘doom
drum’. On the contrary, part of the finality of the Christian story is an actu-
alization of ‘the whole tragic potentiality’ of human history on the cross.14
Part of the finality (part of the ‘ontologically ultimate’) is the realization
in history of God’s eternal attitude of response,15 which in its very ultimacy
preserves the value of the questioning – questioning which frequently has
a tragic quality.
In one Greek tragic formulation, the question might be this: how does a
teleologically governed view of history treat the devastating irreducibility
of a particular human being’s pain? An unacceptable answer from a trage-
dian’s point of view – the merits of which we are going to have to question
in relation both to Hegel and to von Balthasar – might be something like
Ovid’s in his treatment of the story of Marsyas in Metamorphoses.16 There,
Ovid manifests a certain way of coping with what is actually grotesquely
horrifying: Marsyas is flayed for challenging Apollo’s musical supremacy.
The tale is told like this:
. . . someone recalled
The satyr who had lost to Leto’s son
The contest when he played Minerva’s pipe,
And paid the penalty. ‘No! no!’ he screamed,
This is a good man who evades the full intensity of some of what he is faced
with in the course of the play, perhaps lest it overwhelm him. It is consis-
tent with his reluctance to reveal his true identity to his broken-hearted
father until he feels in sufficient control to do so – and that means when
armed, when bolstered by a public role once more, and (desperate sadness)
when his father’s life is nearly completely spent. It is consistent with his
behaviour in the final scene, when of those present he finds it the hardest
to accept the truth of Lear’s death: ‘He faints’, he announces as the king
dies, and then calls out to his corpse ‘Look up!’ (v.iii, lines 311–12).19
It is time to put the question raised by these two tragic examples to
Hegel: in relation to his view of history, to be sure, but first in relation
to his reading of plays, for one approach mirrors the other. Hegel’s great
assumption seems to be that reconciliation and resolution are necessary
18 William Shakespeare, King Lear, Peter Alexander (ed.) (London and Glasgow: Collins,
1978).
19 This is a suggested reading of Lear which I owe to the late J. W. Sanders of the University of
Cambridge.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 97
Marsyas would have ended (as it did at Ovid’s hands) further down the river
of events, with an essential equilibrium restored.
34 G. W. F. Hegel, The Philosophy of History, J. Sibree (trans.) (New York: Dover, 1956), p. 323.
35 Hegel, Phenomenology, p. 64.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 101
and the ‘infinite’. All such dichotomies (not only between finite and infi-
nite, but between practical and theoretical reason, between morality and
legality, and so on) are dichotomies within consciousness, and to see them as
such is to imply a level on which reality (which is also to say conscious-
ness itself ) is not divided in this way. Thus the theoretical dichotomy
between finite and infinite implies a unity which is present; just as the prac-
tical distinction made between morality and legality implies a unity which
underpins both. But this ‘whole’ can only become known as a result of the
process of the contradictory experiences of consciousness that gradually
unfold – and in every case the ‘whole’ cannot be pre-judged. It is in process.
The philosopher’s role is to begin to show the deformations and reforma-
tions of consciousness in the hope that a new stance towards its false and
absolutized dichotomies will emerge. And the emergence of recognition
(‘re-cognition’) in the Hegelian vision issues from the experience of social
and historical forms of misrecognition which his philosophy traces.36
On one significant point however – and in specific relation to drama –
Rose questions the traditional interpretation of Hegel’s teleology as the
expansive overcoming of all antitheses. Traditionally, as I have said, Hegel
is interpreted as implying that the subject’s mind and character on the one
hand, and the telos of the action on the other, will not be in any kind of ulti-
mate conflict, and that this is as true of drama as it is of historical experi-
ence. Against this, Rose asserts that:
[Hegel’s] is a tragic view of human life as eternal conflict, and it is at
odds with any interpretation of Hegel’s philosophy of history which is
based on the resolution and reconciliation of all contradictions.37
But what does Rose mean by the extraordinary phrase ‘eternal conflict’?
Precisely in its supposed quality of eternity, this principle of conflict lapses
into a strange kind of stasis, particularly when locked into the imma-
nent unity which is the Hegelian model of consciousness. Furthermore,
Rose seems to undercut her own case by her argument for an assumption
implicit in Hegel’s scheme that there stands a basically un-tragic recognition
beyond all the forms of misrecognition. ‘[T]he absolute is present’,38 she says,
and although it is not ‘pre-judged’, she admits that we can still anticipate
36 It is only the philosopher, in Hegel’s view, who is equipped with the speculative
sensorium necessary to the task of tracing the possibility and (on some level) the presence of
reciprocal recognition. Art and religion fail where philosophy may succeed, because they
remained trapped in the dichotomy between the abstract idea and the concrete form, in
answer to which they seek the illusory panacea of ‘representation’.
37 Rose, Hegel contra Sociology, p. 134. 38 Ibid., p. 158.
102 Theology and the Drama of History
conflicts’ – this would make ‘negation’ something that led ‘of itself ’ to
new, positive upshots (in this case, the opening of a definite new level of
self-consciousness); it would make it ‘the primary instrument of . . . social
and historical critique’. In the case of the Master-Slave dialectic, other pos-
sibilities than those Hegel displays are entirely thinkable. For example,
‘a different imagination would have conceived . . . a conjoining of labour
to political power’, rather than ‘a denial which reaches back to the pure
depths of internal subjectivity’.42
We now turn specifically to Rowan Williams, and to an essay enti-
tled ‘Logic and Spirit in Hegel’ which is unusual in the degree to which
it makes sense of the apparent tension between Hegel’s logical (seem-
ingly ‘ahistorical’) projects and his historically sensitive ones.43 Williams
presents a Hegel who knows his need of God, and is not the propagator
of ‘a total and implicitly totalitarian scheme’.44 He begins by endorsing
Hegel’s case that we can think no thing except in contrast to other things.
These other things therefore become essential to mediating the identity of
the first thing – they realize and maintain its identity. Otherness and iden-
tity are seen to be essential to each other – mutually implicated in the act
of thinking:
To think a particular is to think ‘this, not that; here, not there; now, not
then’: to map it onto a conceptual surface by way of exclusions or
negations, yet in that act to affirm also its relatedness, its
involvement . . .45
When this idea is pushed at, explains Williams, we realize that it implies
at its outer limit a comprehensive relatedness between all things, the
46 Ibid., p. 128. 47 Ibid., p. 120. 48 Ibid., pp. 121, 127. 49 Ibid., p. 118.
50 He is prepared to be far more critical of Hegel in his recent chapter in Oakes and Moss,
Cambridge Companion, pp. 48–9, and it is noteworthy that he does so in the context of a
comparison with von Balthasar from which von Balthasar emerges much more favourably.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 105
51 Milbank, Theology and Social Theory, p. 171. Yet another instance is highlighted by Milbank
in Hegel’s basically arbitrary raising of quality ‘above’ quantity in the dialectic which
generates the synthetic category of ‘measure’ (ibid., p. 159).
52 Admittedly, Williams is clear that he does not want to get bogged down in a discussion of
whether Hegel is Christianly orthodox or not in relation to questions like these; and he does
not make it his task to discuss the ‘compatibility’ of Hegel’s scheme with the traditional
self-understanding of Christian doctrine (Williams, ‘Logic and Spirit’, p. 126).
106 Theology and the Drama of History
the broadest context of all, the context of ‘Spirit’. The risk here is one that
Phillip Blond identifies: the suggestion in Hegel that God is reducible to
‘the level and shape of our own mental life’. Against this it can only be
emphasized – as it certainly would be by von Balthasar – that:
the inexhaustibility of the Trinity, its infinity, requires that being (and
it need not necessarily be being, it could be beauty or goodness) is not
fully exhausted in being known, not even in being known as infinite
negation.53
There are further implications to this equation between God and human
cognition, which bring tragedy to the fore again. Tragedy – even though
narration of a kind – testifies nevertheless (like theology) to what can nei-
ther be narrated nor thought. It has its own apophatic constraints. After
the story of Marsyas, with all its context, we are left with the uncomfort-
able conviction that something has escaped us. The absence of the dead
man – the silence where the scream was – indicates dark space: the gaps left
whenever something (for someone) was unendurable, and beyond recon-
ciliation in the form of the thinkable. There is an irretrievable cost to such
confrontations with things that cannot be thought. Dumbnesses, insani-
ties, disintegrations, suicides: in each case, lives seem to slip between the
meshes of the thinkable into places we cannot comprehend and into which
we cannot reach. This, I think, underlies Blond’s critique of Hegel in what
follows:
For Christianity, all that has occurred in history, all the satanic
negations of human life, all the death and crushed possibility, is not
a negative that can be turned into a positive . . . For there are some
events, some death events, that one should never be reconciled
with.54
What does the linking of the work of divine reconciliation with the possi-
bilities of human cognition offer in the face of a quality of pain that sim-
ply obliterates thinking? What reconciliation does it offer (and what con-
straints on God does it imply) when faced with human persons who are
beyond the reach of ‘thought’ or debarred from ‘mental life’ as we nor-
mally mean it: those who are comatose, or unborn, for example – those,
even, who are dead?
All these things place a question mark against the adequacy of Hegel’s
model of the circling ‘dispossession and recovery that is mental life’55
53 Blond, ‘Introduction’, p. 18. 54 Ibid., p. 18. 55 Williams, ‘Logic and Spirit’, p. 125.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 107
(after each round of which there is a kind of gain to be had) – its adequacy to
a truly Christian understanding of the goodness and power of God, and of
what reconciliation really is. Certain kinds of reconciliation ‘within think-
ing’ seem impossible: the thinking together of different perspectives – and
of the blank spaces which some have confronted – seem wholly beyond
our imagining. We cannot call Marsyas back; we can never think or rethink
with him the place of his story in the scheme of things. His perspective and
ours are not – it seems absolutely not – reconcilable. Nor are those of the
other people who have ‘gone out into the night’ under the weight of the
unendurable; of things in excess of all reason.
There may, of course, be another kind of confrontation with what can-
not be thought – one which is not tragic (in the current sense of the word),
but a kind of rapture. It may be the encounter with the living God. But
in this case, too, reconciliation may not be available to us if reconciliation
is only defined as ‘thinkability’. The experience of falling into the hands
of the living God, like tragic experience, has to do with the limits of our
‘grip’, as much on ourselves as on our place in the world’s story. Both have
to do with what in existential terms is radically unfinalizable to the extent
that how the presence of tragedy in history is dealt with by any one thinker
can also serve as an extraordinarily sensitive index to how the encounter with
God in history is likely to be construed.
Von Balthasar himself makes this close connection between tragic
experience and the experience of falling into the hands of the living God.
An Hegelian attempt at ‘reconciliation’ is wholly rebuffed in each case.
In both tragedy and the sovereign divine approach which constitutes the
world’s story as ‘theodramatic’, the human being is set:
in an exposure that, as it were, holds his whole existence out into the
abyss and upward into the air . . .
(s k i z z e n iii, p. 350/ExT 3, p. 394)
Here is a placing of the human situation ‘into the light of truth’. This is
a ‘placing’ which is consummately dramatic, and a ‘truth’ which entirely
exceeds any attempt we might make to organize or get the measure
of it. It was, says von Balthasar, to the credit of ‘the incomprehensible
power of the Greek heart’ that it celebrated this existential tension, and
he implies that it has a sacramental – even a gracious – character, pre-
cisely because its end ‘does not lie in the mastering and abolition of
the fundamental contradictions of existence’ (Skizzen iii, p. 352/ExT 3,
p. 397).
108 Theology and the Drama of History
Excursus: conclusion
Rose and Williams, it must be acknowledged, warn us to be alert to a ten-
dency towards caricature where Hegel is concerned – one from which von
Balthasar’s rhetoric is not exempt. Hegel appears in von Balthasar’s work
in many cases as a straw man, whose function is to further the theological
case that is underway – and an unqualified claim that Hegel’s philosophy
is one of universal determinism or of calm impassivity is simply not ade-
quate to its subtlety. In this sortie into thicker readings of Hegel which
penetrate beyond caricature, we have become aware of the resilience and
continuing vigour of his thought, and we should not relinquish our appre-
ciation of this, any more than our appreciation of what the earlier chapters
have established as his formative influence on some of the most impres-
sive principles of von Balthasar’s theodramatics. The great virtues of the
Hegelian approach stand: its concreteness; its presentation of the Spirit as
perpetually active and alive; the fact that Hegel was able to make his essay
on Ethical Life a call for courage and for historical action (giving it the char-
acter of something dramatic); the fact that Bildung (education in a culture)
was, for him, rehearsal for collective participation in this drama, enacted
within something like a covenant, and enacted by individuals who intu-
ited themselves as themselves ‘in every other individual’56 – enacted so
that ‘all things – body and spirit, the one and the many, intuitions and con-
cepts, universals and particulars, subjectivity and objectivity, the organic
and the inorganic, the infinite and the finite’ might converge in ‘one very
pregnant . . . historical moment of “dramatic action”’.57
But, that said, even Rose and Williams have been unable to get us
past Hegel’s too determinate principle of negation in the dialectic, even
in our attempt to allow full play to a ‘thick’ description of his thought.
Nor have they allayed the suspicion that – for Hegel – if thought is not
adequate to something, then that something is of no importance. This
should convince us that there is enough truth in von Balthasar’s case
against Hegel’s depiction of unfolding process to substantiate his endeav-
our to recover a sense of God’s majestic and sovereign freedom in the
face of it. Whereas Hegel ‘downplays the mysterious, violating, numinous,
revealing/concealing power of Being vis à vis human consciousness’,58 von
Balthasar uncovers the theological roots of this ‘power’, in order to accen-
tuate it all the more. And it is to this end that he undertakes his genealogy
(and eventual reassertion) of the experience of divine glory.
Glory
In one aeon the outer man dies daily, in the other aeon the inner man
continually rises to new life; in the one he must stand guard,
responsible for the destinies of the world, which has to prepare itself
for the coming Kingdom, while in the other he has a hidden
homeland – which seems to stamp him as a foreigner in this world and
a traitor to it.
(TD i, p. 28/ThD 1, p. 30)
And von Balthasar adds – importantly for our concerns in this chapter –
‘this dramatic tension between the times cannot be maintained using the
mere category of “history”’; it needs development into the category of
theodrama.
Von Balthasar refuses to move beyond the moment of great dramatic ten-
sion in the Christ-event: he refuses to relativize it as a single and passing
moment in a larger process. It is actually the definitive moment in that pro-
cess, says von Balthasar. The Christ-event is what transforms the concept
110 Theology and the Drama of History
time before the move is made to construe all being in terms of that point of
identity in the intellect where God and creature coincide’ (H iii/1, p. 404/GL
5, p. 45). Identity of this kind has replaced what was for faith an analogy
between (on the one hand) the representations of glory and manifestations
of Spirit that we experience in the world, and (on the other) the glory and
Spirit themselves. Hegel’s philosophy has ‘identity . . . concealed within
it’, and its ultimate historical destination is ‘the ever more consistent re-
presentation’ of this identity (H iii/1, p. 791/GL 5, p. 454). Even the
Aesthetics, says von Balthasar, ‘is virtually no more than the portrayal of an
awareness of the radiant blessedness of absolute knowledge itself, which
can comprehend all things (even the most difficult and the most painful),
justify all things and approve all things’ (H iii/1, pp. 917–18/GL 5, p. 586).
As there is no place for tragedy within the frame of a conception of
world history which is trapped in immanence, so there is no room for
judgement or atonement in the all-embracing reconciliation of the ideal-
ists, for a concept of atonement has to acknowledge its own inadequacy
before the unfathomable; it must honour a transaction that cannot be
‘thought’, and the exchange of things that cannot be ‘thought together’.
In Hegel’s thought, according to von Balthasar, judgement and atone-
ment are lost in the confusion that occurs ‘where the events of historic-
ity between God and man (to which also the event of an alienation of man
from God belongs) are equated with . . . the inner dialectic of the absolute
Spirit’ (H iii/1, p. 959/GL 5, p. 629). And this is what leads von Balthasar
to remark that ‘“Reconciliation” of . . . antagonistic forces – rather than
“atonement” – is the aim of all idealist drama’ (TD i, p. 360/ThD 1, p. 386).
As we have already suggested, Hegel cannot confront the problem of evil;
his tendency is to dissolve it into dialectic, and to regard it as ‘a moment
in the achievement of absolute knowledge’.60 In Hegel’s scheme, if a par-
ticular individual is destroyed in the course of the ‘self-unfolding of God’s
“goodness”’, then this ‘judgement . . . ends by becoming mercy in the mys-
tery of universal integration’ (H iii/1, p. 909/GL 5, p. 577). For the Christian,
meanwhile, ‘guilt and wrongfulness have a quite different appearance’.
They appear as sin, which is something beyond the grasp of:
60 Roberts, German Philosophy, p. 111. ‘Whether something is held to be good or bad,’ writes
Hegel in Phenomenology, ‘it is in either case an action and an activity in which an individuality
exhibits and expresses itself, and for that reason it is all good; and it would, strictly speaking,
be impossible to say what “badness” was supposed to be’ (Hegel, Phenomenology, p. 241; cf.
also p. 468). J. N. Findlay, in his notes on the text, remarks on the line of Hegel’s thought as
follows: ‘That God becomes alienated from himself in angelic and human evil does not mean
that such evil really lies outside of God . . . Evil is nothing but . . . the first step in the direction
of good’ (ibid., p. 588).
112 Theology and the Drama of History
61 This move, of course, owes a great deal to Erich Przywara too, as we shall see in chapter 5.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 113
62 The full and unusually dense and off-putting passage from von Balthasar I have been
trying to expound here runs as follows: ‘beyond the still conditioned, mutually dependent
freedom of the existent with regard to Being, and the freedom of Being to shine
unconstrainedly as a light within the existent [is] an unconditioned freedom, or one which is
at most one which is conditioned through itself, and which is untouched by nothingness,
an actus purus, which is posited in the first instance only in order to preserve the light of
openness between Being and the existent as a free and unconstrained light so that the
individual entity is not submerged within the exigencies of a process of explication and
Being does not lose its freedom in the same ‘Odyssey’ of its cosmic evolution towards itself ’
(H iii/1, p. 965/ GL 5, p. 636).
114 Theology and the Drama of History
meaning’ in a rational way. Von Balthasar does not dismiss this attempt
out of hand. But he implies that the ‘spiritual horizon’ opened up by his own
vision of God’s ‘bestowing freedom’ maintains a sense of the dramatic (and the dra-
matic as conceived largely in Hegel’s own terms) better than Hegel himself
ever managed. Hegel sees with great clarity what is needed for drama to
take effect: a situation in which neither individuals with their desires and
actions nor the realm of ‘externality’63 in which they operate ought to be
able to subsume the other. The trouble is, he has no conclusive way of sus-
taining the ontological difference between beings and ‘Being’ in such a way
that the freedom and independence of beings will ultimately be preserved in
their integrity.
Hegel’s characterization of drama, so von Balthasar seems to imply,
always has epic undertones. Hegel’s dramatic persons – even in the full
extent of their freedom – are shown to be subordinated to a wider realm of
operative circumstances (poiēsis subordinated to the myth of negation). ‘A
genuine end’, writes Hegel, ‘is . . . only attained when the aim and interest
of the action, on which the whole drama turns, is identical with the indi-
viduals and absolutely bound up with them . . . and at the denouement,
every part of the whole thing must be closed and finished off.’64 Thus, for
von Balthasar, Hegel’s understanding of tragedy fades into a vision which
is merely epic in its immanence. That is surely why, as we have just seen, he
asserts that ‘Being’ in Hegel and the other philosophers of Spirit ‘loses its
freedom’ in the ‘“Odyssey” of its cosmic evolution towards itself ’. All the
characteristics of epic are there in Hegel. Despite all his merits, his ends
up being a presentation of ‘the broad flow of events’; it has a strong uni-
fying principle with which the individual protagonists are in accord; the
particular action and the individual agents are always ‘conciliated’ with
‘the general world situation’, and there is an element of necessity at the
heart of the events and happenings that take place. His very assumption
that a world process is underway which is capable of leaving poetic drama
behind makes Hegel vulnerable to a relapse into epic. The characterization
of epic which he presents in the Aesthetics would, on the basis of a Balthasar-
ian interpretation, read like an indictment of himself:
an epic character has his fate made for him, and this power of
circumstances, which gives his deed the imprint of an individual form,
allocates his lot to him, and determines the outcome of his actions, is
the proper dominion of fate. What happens, happens; it is so; it
65 Ibid., pp. 1070–1. 66 Ibid., p. 1064. 67 Ibid., p. 1062. 68 Hegel, Right, p. 36.
116 Theology and the Drama of History
69 P. Szondi, Versuch über das Tragische (Frankfurt: Insel, 1961), p. 60; quoted in TD i,
pp. 405–6/ThD 1, p. 433.
Epic history and the question of tragedy 117
In the Christian perspective, the dichotomy between the lyric and the
epic is overcome: the epic pull of the Hegelian dialectic is surmounted
at the same time as lyric individualism is kept at bay. With a Christian
perspective, we can with greater confidence attempt to negotiate a ‘safe
passage between the brutely given and the brutally, banally free’.70 The
self-revelation of the Christian God warrants a particular kind of human
self-understanding and a particular kind of ‘performance’ of the human
task. It is one in which it must be asserted that there can be no meaning (no
meaning which is free of illusion) for the private subject in isolation from
the wider world of relationships and the movement of history. The things
that happen to an individual do not matter only to him and only in a series
of discrete moments (a ‘lyric’ view which at its worst degenerates into the
‘brutally, banally free’). Nor, at the other extreme, do the things that hap-
pen to an individual have meaning only in relation to vast and impersonal
forces that underlie the world as we know it (the ‘epic’ or ‘brutely given’).
No ‘superordinate sphere’ is set over against the significance of individual
lives in the Christian vision. As von Balthasar puts it, ‘the divine dramatic
answer’ has taken place ‘in the form of the human dramatic question’ (TD i,
p. 20/ThD 1, p. 21). The cry from the cross ‘is the very antithesis of that kind
of religious resignation which surrenders to an undramatic, absolute hori-
zon’. And the answer that is given in response to it is:
present to [simultaneous with] all ages, being both the answer to this
particular cry and eschatologically, ultimately, the answer to every cry.
It cannot lose its relevance because it is itself entirely act, although
admittedly it only shows itself to be such where people are themselves
acting and questioning dramatically. The precise meaning of eph-hapax,
then, is that there is a unique answer to all instances of the question.
Not an answer definitively known and kept safe, obviating the
question.
(TD i, p. 21/ThD 1, p. 21)
The real truth of God and man is valid when God and man are engaged
in eye-to-eye and mouth-to-ear encounter.
(k a r l b a r t h , Church Dogmatics iv/3.1, p. 458)
Part of this chapter’s work will be to introduce our third major interlocu-
tor in developing a theodramatic view of history: Karl Barth. There are two
important reasons for looking carefully at Karl Barth and his theology in
relation to the Balthasarian paradigm of theodrama which has been a prin-
ciple focus of attention in the book so far. The first is simply that Barth was
interested in the same sorts of things that von Balthasar was: they had a
mutual interest in a theodramatic reading of history, and this is one of the
supreme reasons that Barth’s influence on von Balthasar was as immense
and seminal as it was. The second is that von Balthasar’s main disagree-
ments with Barth seem to parallel his struggle with the philosophical
inheritance most powerfully embodied in Hegel. Indeed, when in his 1951
book he described Karl Barth as a theologian who had ‘gone a bit too far
into the light’ (Barth, p. 368/ET, p. 358), he readily acknowledged this to be
an Hegelian failing on Barth’s part.1 What von Balthasar has to say to Barth
gives extra subtlety, therefore, to an appreciation of what he was saying to
Hegel, and what he meant by trying to recast history as a genuine drama,
in which the in-breaking of glory is not screened out, and individual des-
tinies are permitted an importance that cannot be relativized. Looking
in a more than superficial way at the theological relationship between
[119]
120 Theology and the Drama of History
von Balthasar and Barth can be part of our broader attempt to discern what
the ‘theodramatic’ might actually be, and adapting it for continued con-
temporary use.
Von Balthasar’s criticisms of Barth, though, will prompt a turning
point in the book: for Barth’s theology has certain in-built resistances
to the Balthasarian attack. This is particularly true of his later theology.
Indeed, Barth’s theology brings certain of von Balthasar’s own weaknesses
into the open, some of which, curiously, we may even begin to recognize
as Hegelian in character. As the Greek tragedies never cease to remind
us, debts are debts. The past to which we owe ourselves, and the inheri-
tance which flows in our blood, can always reclaim us in a sudden, virulent
moment, just when we have forgotten where our origins were, and just
when we are confident of being free. Von Balthasar’s debts to Hegel keep
alive an Hegelian strain in his theology which will have to be acknowl-
edged before the chapter is out. To test whether we are justified in identi-
fying such epic tendencies in von Balthasar’s theodramatics, we will look
closely in the second part of this chapter at a number of examples of how he
reads – not only how he reads literary drama, but also poetry, philosophy
and Scripture.2 Afterwards, we will ask whether Barth’s theology actually
has the resources for a kind of come-back, offering in turn its own correc-
tives to von Balthasar’s vision. Barth will assist us in asking whether in the
end the tying of freedom to an attitude of ‘indifference’ (even with all von
Balthasar’s Christian qualifications – or enhancements – of that notion)
need be the only way of conceiving the origins and character of freedom.
We will ask whether what is lost to von Balthasar in this commitment to a
particular portrayal of Christian freedom is something that Barth’s theo-
logy manages to retain: a sense of responsibility and even joy, in which
Christians are called by God in ever new ways into a future they cannot
anticipate.
The biographical details of the relationship between Barth and von
Balthasar are well documented elsewhere, so I will not retrace them here.3
Instead, I will now attempt the delicate job of identifying where the theo-
logical disagreements between the two thinkers are.
Such a concentration on the differences should not, of course, obscure
the fact that in von Balthasar and Barth kindred spirits are at work. Indeed,
2 We do this recalling the importance we attached in chapter one to learning how to ‘read’
(or interpret) properly and sensitively, in a way that does not do violence to the subject matter
by its demand for ‘clear and distinct ideas’, by its presumption of a ‘view from nowhere’, or
by its undisciplined idiosyncracies.
3 Cf. Eberhard Busch, Karl Barth: His Life from Letters and Autobiographical Texts, John Bowden
(trans.) (London: SCM, 1976).
Eschatology and the existential register 121
such differences as there are will be well appreciated only in the context
of a recognition of the widespread agreement between the two men. For
example, there is a mutual and developed sense of the sovereignty of the
divine initiative (also traceable in an earlier form in Erich Przywara’s ‘von
Gott her’). This represents a form of theological ‘realism’, which does not
deny the role played by the knowing and critical activity of the human
subject, but which maintains that ‘the divine being [is] real, whole, and
complete in itself apart from the knowing activity of the human subject;
indeed, the reality of God precedes all human knowing’.4 It could be said
that the whole of Herrlichkeit – and in particular the opening volume, and
the volume on the history of metaphysics (Volume iii/1) – is an exercise in
such critical realism. It springs from a major area of sympathy with Barth.
Then, after Barth’s move from an early stress on a relatively formal
notion of the ‘otherness’ of revelation to a more substantial, historically
extended appreciation of the incarnate form of Christ, there is in both
theologians a common ‘christocentrism’. Each has a vision of how
all things are comprehensively illuminated and transformed by the
particularity of Christ. Von Balthasar, paraphrasing Barth with approval,
writes that:
Whenever a person thinks he knows what life is all about because of an
acquaintance with the general, then we know right away that he lacks
the ear for the message of the special and particular. Or, to phrase it with
more nuance: whoever wants to start with the general must do so in the
strictest obedience: by interpreting everything in view of the particular,
expecting wisdom and direction from its concrete indications.
(b a r t h , p. 208/ET, p. 195)
Like Barth, von Balthasar knows Christ to be the most concrete and reve-
latory of historical particulars, vibrantly active in a way that animates and
gives meaning to the whole creation in all its aspects.
Then there is what might be called a shared ‘actualism’: a belief that
‘the content of revelation can never be cut off from the act of revealing, that
is, from the God who freely and sovereignly chooses to reveal himself’ (Barth,
p. 56/ET, p. 48). This is something at which the following chapter will look
more closely, in the context of a comparison with Przywara.
These major convergences (and there are many lesser ones too) keep the
theological differences between Barth and von Balthasar in perspective.
The differences often, indeed, seem relatively minor in relation to their
context of shared conviction. Nevertheless, from the point of view of what
is the main concern of this chapter, the differences are profoundly impor-
tant. What may be quite subtle differences – even only differences in tone
– affect the way in which an ‘existential’ register is kept alive in a theolog-
ical account of the ways of God with man, and therefore the way in which
the stage, the cast and the action of this theodrama are done justice to.
The differences between Barth and von Balthasar will come particu-
larly clearly into view in relation to two aspects of Barth’s theology –
both of which can be read as over-confidence in the way that God’s salva-
tion ‘works’. First, von Balthasar will argue that Barth lacks sensitivity to
historical contingency. Second, von Balthasar will argue that Barth sup-
presses the importance that ought to be accorded to creaturely integrity.
A consideration of both criticisms will keep alive in this chapter (as in the
two previous ones) the question of human freedom in history – as impor-
tant a theme in von Balthasar’s discussions with Barth as it was in his reac-
tion to Hegel.
Both Barth and von Balthasar at different points make very similar state-
ments about the relationship between creaturely obedience and freedom,
and yet there remains a distinct difference in what they are in fact prepared
to countenance on the creature’s part. Both have what in chapter 2 (p. 71)
we saw von Balthasar acknowledging as an ‘Augustinian concept of free-
dom’, in that authentic freedom is construed never as a kind of abstract
free will apart from the invitation and attractiveness of God, but only as ‘a
form of living within that mysterious realm where self-determination and
obedience, independence and discipleship, mutually act upon and clarify
each other . . . . this domain is that of the Trinity, which grace has opened
up for us’ (Barth, p. 140/ET, p. 129). Both share this vision, and yet, as Noel
O’Donoghue has stressed, there seems in Barth a more narrow construal
of the obedience of faith as a passivity without any genuinely active dimen-
sion of creaturely cooperation (a kind of ‘monergism’) and, on the Catholic
side, greater room for ‘a creative response to the enabling divine grace’
(a kind of ‘synergism’).5 This is how von Balthasar presents the contrast
at a number of points in his book on Barth. One of the substantive crit-
icisms of Barth developed at the end of that book is precisely this: that
5 Noel O’Donoghue, ‘A Theology of Beauty’ in Riches, Analogy of Beauty, p. 4; cf. also John
Riches and Ben Quash, ‘Hans Urs von Balthasar’ in The Modern Theologians, 2nd edn
(Cambridge, Mass. and Oxford: Blackwell, 1997), p. 144.
Eschatology and the existential register 123
6 In the terms which Przywara set up (Erich Przywara, Polarity: A German Catholic’s
Interpretation of Religion, A. C. Bouquet (trans.) (London: Oxford University Press, 1935))
pantheism represents the divinization of the universe, and theopanism views the world as a
divine emanation. James Collins summarizes Przywara’s thought on this subject as follows:
‘If God alone is all that is and acts, then we must either identify man with God or God with
man. All halfway houses are as illusory as they are temporary: we must choose theopanism
(God alone is everything) or pantheism (everything is divine), and indeed the first choice
leads eventually to the second since the terms become at last interchangeable’ (James Collins,
‘Przywara’s “Analogia Entis” ’ in Thought 65:258 (1990), p. 272). Thus idealism and certain
strands of Protestant thought approximate in their apparent monism (their collapsing of the
distinction between God and world).
We hear von Balthasar echoing this theme in Barth as follows: ‘[In the Barthian view] nature
– by definition, what has been set at a distance from the Creator – staggers between ecstasy
and catastrophe, between total identity with the Creator, without distance or mystery, and a
falling away from him in absolute nonbeing’ (Barth, p. 73/ET, p. 66; translation amended).
7 G. C. Berkouwer, The Triumph of Grace in the Theology of Karl Barth, H. R. Boer (trans.)
(London: Paternoster, 1956)). Barth wrote: ‘I’m a bit startled at the title, The Triumph . . . Of
course I used to use the word and still do. But it makes the whole thing seem so finished,
which it isn’t for me. The Freedom . . . would have been better. And then instead of . . . Grace I
would much have preferred . . . Jesus Christ.’ (Quoted in Busch, Karl Barth, p. 381.)
124 Theology and the Drama of History
Barth (von Balthasar suspected) presumed too much that he had got
his eschatological bearings, even while warning others of ‘eschatologi-
cal exuberance’ (cf. Barth, p. 199/ET, p. 186; translation amended). The
question von Balthasar poses is whether this is merely a manifestation of
the ‘courage of faith’, properly disciplined by an acceptance of the provi-
sionality of all theological statements and the need for perpetual critical
reservation; or whether it is the very un-existential perspective of a ‘vast
panoramic view’ (something that Bultmann, too, criticized in Barth, call-
ing it ‘spectator theology’).8 Von Balthasar speaks critically of ‘the audac-
ity with which the “symmetry” of judgment’ is here described as having
been annulled, in that Barth apparently refuses to admit any qualification
of God’s definitive decision to save. He senses in Barth the presumption
of ‘a gnosis, a theosophy; in short, a philosophy’ (Barth, p. 199/ET, p. 185;
translation amended), when in fact ‘the idea of being able to see and know
is absolutely excluded’ by the Christian revelation. The question of judge-
ment and redemption is:
a mystery that must stand as a ‘holy and public mystery’ in the
principle and presuppositions of the totality of the Church’s
proclamation. It cannot be held in our minds in any other way than in
faith, hope and love.
(b a r t h , p. 368/ET, p. 359)
There seems ample evidence of this in the way that Barth treats the fig-
ure of Judas in the second volume of Church Dogmatics. In contrast to Don-
ald MacKinnon – whom we have allowed (along with Aeschylus) to formu-
late what we have called ‘the tragic question’ – Barth’s seems here to be
a theology in which the tragic in human experience is wholly relativized
(even denied to be real at all) because viewed from the perspective of the
divine Passion and its outcome. Judas, though unwittingly, even parti-
cipated in an ‘outstanding’ way in ‘the positive task of the apostolate’ by
handing Jesus over:9
The act of Judas cannot . . . be considered as an unfortunate episode,
much less as the manifestation of a dark realm beyond the will and
work of God, but in every respect (and at a particularly conspicuous
place) as one element of the divine will and work.
As for Calvary, it preempts any of the individual’s own pretensions to
agony:
[W]e can no longer try to experience and bear . . . an as it were, divine,
eternal, irremovable weight of sorrow . . . . a divine pain of this kind
is not only taken away from us, but forbidden to us as something
presumptuous – a tragic consciousness to which we may not pretend.10
Here, Barth’s register is that appropriate to the Christian’s ‘assured’ and
‘evident’ intimation (though ‘precarious’ and ‘beyond comprehension’)
‘of resurrection, of a justice and a love that have conquered death’ (these
are the words of George Steiner).11
Von Balthasar, it seems, is the advocate of a far more radical existential
irresolution: an arena for human possibilities to determine themselves in
various directions:
Von Balthasar does not think he is disagreeing with Barth on any principle
when he says this. He knows that Barth is quite serious in his repudiations
of neat and artificially systematic statements about the ways of God, all
of which must stand under the sign of failure. But he thinks that in
9 Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics ii/2 (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1957), p. 503.
10 Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics ii/1 (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1957), p. 374.
11 George Steiner, Real Presences: Is there Anything in What we Say? (London: Faber and Faber,
1989), p. 231.
126 Theology and the Drama of History
12 The weight placed on the idea of an ‘existential’ register originates with von Balthasar
himself. Faith and Christian life are depicted by him as having a crucially ‘existential
character’ (Barth, p. 231/ET, p. 221).
13 D. M. MacKinnon, ‘Masters in Israel iii: Hans Urs von Balthasar’ in The Clergy Review 54:11
(1969), p. 862.
14 Ibid., p. 868.
Eschatology and the existential register 127
Similarly, if we read von Balthasar’s fine essay on ‘Die Tragödie und der
christliche Glaube’ in Volume iii of the Skizzen, we find a powerful recog-
nition of the marred and sinful aspects of the Church: the wound of the
Reformation, the division from Israel, the atrocities and corruptions of
the Church’s history and practice. And within this Church – inasmuch
as the Christ of revelation does not prematurely foreclose or artificially
encompass the tragic fissures and the incomprehensible abysses in human
existence and experience – room is left open for the tragic and the incom-
prehensible in the lives of those who participate in and mediate the glory
of the Christ-form.
In relation to Christ’s cross and resurrection above all, von Balthasar
seems to resist any premature resolution. He insists ‘how paradoxical’ they
must be, and refuses to make them submit to a ‘formulation’. Christ’s
death, he says, is ‘truly a tragedy that ends in the uttermost darkness’. The
fact that ‘this end leads incomprehensibly into the Resurrection’, he goes
on, does not make it ‘in any way a fifth act with a happy ending added on
but stands in an utterly incommensurable relationship to the conclusion
of the tragedy’ (Skizzen iii, p. 357/ExT 3, p. 402). The cross of Christ, he con-
cludes at the end of the essay:
can never become one element of a larger synthesis, since it is the
ultimate, tragic contradiction in existence, as this stands before the
gods, before the living God.
(s k i z z e n iii, p. 365/ExT 3, p. 410)
A return to von Balthasar’s short book Theologie der Geschichte, which we first
encountered in chapter 2, will make absolutely explicit why this resistance
to synthesis – this concern with the existential – has a significant bearing
on the way that history is understood and depicted in Theodramatik. In the
chapter of Theologie der Geschichte entitled ‘Die Zeit Christi ’, von Balthasar
establishes what (looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, from
Theodramatik) is clearly his genuine theodramatic concern:
128 Theology and the Drama of History
What tells us more than anything else that Jesus’ mode of time is
indeed real is the fact that he does not anticipate the will of the Father.
He does not do that precise thing which we try to do when we sin,
which is to break out of time, within which are contained God’s
dispositions for us, in order to arrogate to ourselves a sort of eternity, to
‘take the long view’, and ‘make sure of things’.
(g e s c h i c h t e , p. 28/ET, p. 30)
‘Taking the long view’ and ‘making sure of things’ are the characteristic
features of epic points of view and discourses. It is ‘taking the long view’
and ‘making sure of things’ to which von Balthasar takes most exception
in his treatment of Barth, and which fuels his much more comprehensive
critique of Hegel. It is ‘taking the long view’ and ‘making sure of things’
which von Balthasar actively resists by his positive statements about the
paradoxical quality of the Christian revelation, about the compromised
character of the Church, and about the role that suffering has still to play
in the Christian life.
The sin of our first parents, von Balthasar points out, taking his cue
from Irenaeus and Clement, was anticipation of an illegitimate kind: of
a kind that Christ himself eschewed (perhaps we may call it ‘epic’ antic-
ipation). The sin of our first parents was the attempt to consolidate for
themselves a position that would soften the exigencies of time; that would
mitigate or even abolish the requirement that they receive all things at
God’s hands and in God’s time, trusting that their own flourishing would
be best served by such a relationship. Von Balthasar’s sympathy with this
view leads him to make the decisive observation that ‘all disobedience,
all sin, consists essentially in breaking out of time’ (Geschichte, p. 28/ET,
p. 30).
By contrast, Jesus, the second Adam, lives in absolute trust. He is alto-
gether available for his ‘hour’ (a key notion also in Theodramatik’s more
developed Christology), yet without seeking to know (in some kind of epic
presumption) the details of its imminence or its content. He is prepared to
enact his mission dramatically. As von Balthasar has it:
[Jesus’ ‘hour’ has its character] as something that cannot be
summoned. Not even by knowledge (Mk. xiii 32), for that too would be
an anticipation, disturbing the sheer, naked, unqualified acceptance of
what comes from the Father.
(g e s c h i c h t e , p. 29/ET, p. 31)
This is a forceful and persuasive evocation of the Christian life as lived into
an open future – or at least a future that is experienced as open, however
God’s fore-ordination may be conceived in relation to it.15 The ‘virtue that
lies beyond heroism’ is the seed for precisely that model of dramatic virtue
which von Balthasar will nurture and develop in Theodramatik. Such virtue
is never enacted alone (never ‘titanically’ or ‘heroically’), but corporately;16
it is rooted in faith, hope and love; and it is rooted in faith, hope and love
not – it should be remarked – as in things which are provisional and which
have to do only with our temporary perspective, but as things which must
characterize any relationship to the will and work of God – even that of the
eternal Son. Faith and hope, as intrinsic to the mystery of love itself, can-
not and must not ‘be reduced to provisional things belonging to this world
[lit.: ‘this side’]’, for ‘that is an attack on the basic phenomenon of Christ-
ian existence: the perfect christological openness to every word which
17 My emphasis.
18 This is in fact a view von Balthasar holds absolutely in common with Barth, as
Volume iii/2 of Church Dogmatics demonstrates (Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics iii/2 (Edinburgh:
T and T Clark, 1960), pp. 437 ff.). There Barth talks of ‘Easter time’ (particularly manifested
in the forty days of resurrection appearances) as our unequivocal warrant for talking about an
‘eternal time’ in God which is a more real form of time than our own, but which does not
prevent God from taking our own time to himself (ibid., pp. 455–6).
Eschatology and the existential register 131
God, because they are (in a way impossible to define exhaustively) char-
acteristics of God’s life itself.19 God’s life, in which we may find our place
with and in Jesus Christ through the power of the Spirit, is still in some
way a drama, in which each part is played out, as it were, ‘for the first time’,
received ‘by inspiration, scene by scene, word by word’ (Geschichte, p. 31/ET,
p. 33). No epic anticipation here. No original sin, in von Balthasar’s terms.
Simply ‘assent to the Holy Spirit, by whom, moment by moment, the will
of the Father is mediated’ (Geschichte, p. 30/ET, p. 32).
We will return explicitly to the theme of time in the following chapters.
Sufficient for our present purposes is the fact that ‘indifference’ has made
its return here (predictably, perhaps, given the centrality of the notion to
what von Balthasar thinks Christian existence involves). It has returned in
a more polemical guise than before: not simply as a way of negotiating the
tension between individual will and the conditions of circumstance and
sociality (a question more ‘internal’ to the elaboration of von Balthasar’s
theology), but as a counter-proposal to the epic ‘long view’ and ‘assurance’
which he identifies in both Barthian and Hegelian varieties. This gives the
notion of indifference a role in the more ‘external’ debates von Balthasar
conducts with those with whom he differs. Indifference, von Balthasar
argues in these contexts, is the proper attitude to adopt when living Chris-
tianly in time. It generates the proper reserve when talking about history
and where it is going (respecting the unpredictability of historical occur-
rence), and it concerns itself with the individuality of creatures and the
importance of their search for a mission.
This at least is the theory. But it brings us to a turning point, not only in
the contrast we have been drawing with Barth, but in the book as a whole.
This is the peripateia. For the return of indifference in the context of von
Balthasar’s advocacy of the ‘existential’ and the ‘dramatic’ should cause
us to pause. If indifference has really in von Balthasar’s mind the charac-
ter of ‘sheer, naked, unqualified acceptance’, to quote again Theologie der
Geschichte, then we might wonder whether it is really so very plausible
as a quality contributory to good drama, which we might think involves
energetically committed creativity, imagination, poiēsis. Is it really the case
that being indifferent (even in the special sense of being actively receptive
which von Balthasar gives it) is the only alternative to being epic? Might
it in fact be that von Balthasar’s persistence in promoting the virtues of
indifference signals precisely his failure to escape from epic and find an
alternative in drama? Is it, indeed, a clue to a more pervasive epic quality
to his thought?
Of course we must recognize, as we did in chapter 2, the value of the
ends which ‘indifference’ is enlisted to serve both by Hegel and by von
Balthasar. It is meant to issue in life lived freely and corporately – free
(Hegel intends) from anti-social entrapment by private interests, and free
therefore (von Balthasar intends) for a genuine mission on the stage where
the theodrama plays. But faced now with the resurgence of the concept,
and more conscious than ever of its association with an Hegelian thought-
world which looks epic, we must ask in a newly critical vein whether it is
capable of achieving all that it is meant to in a worthwhile theodramatic
scheme. Is its persistence at the point when von Balthasar wants to leave
Hegel behind an indicator that he cannot get free of Hegelian habits of
thought as much as he hopes? And will a theodramatics intending to do
justice to historical complexity need therefore to learn from this mistake,
and avoid the pitfalls of an uncritical commendation of indifference?
‘context’ (artificial and insensitive ‘context’ being the sort that occludes
the particular contours and claims of the things which make it up), so,
here, it is only ‘reductive’ theory that is resisted. Sophisticated theory
can be an energizing articulation of its subject matter, which opens more
(rather than fewer) insights into it. Neither ‘cast’ nor ‘action’ (‘subjects’
and ‘structure’ respectively) need necessarily suffer at its hands, nor
will good theory always favour the second at the expense of the first.
Nevertheless, bad theory (‘premature’ or ‘facile’ theory) is an ever-present
temptation to the theologian as to the philosopher. This is the sort of
reductionism we are alert to here.
Our joint concern with individual action and eschatology as part of this
chapter’s interest in the existential has been precisely an affirmation of
‘subject and structure’ together. Freezing the structure is a sign of failure in
one dimension – and we have seen how von Balthasar identifies such fail-
ure in Hegel’s strong assertion of the telos of reason, and in Barth’s making
the primal election of Christ into the foundation for a whole epic of divine
providence.21 But freezing the subject is a failure too. Indeed, freezing the
subject is often precisely a means of getting the individual agent to accord
with a structure similarly frozen. The two kinds of reduction frequently
accompany each other.
What begins to seem curious in von Balthasar’s case – and fuels a sig-
nificant question about his adequacy to his own categories – is that when
dealing with Hegel he ostensibly rejects the freezing of structure that he
perceives, but hangs on to exactly the mechanism which tailors subjects
to it: the summons to ‘indifference’. Now at the very least there seems to
be a lack of daring in making indifference the supreme mode in which the
actors are to realize the drama of Christian life before God. But there might
be graver implications than that in von Balthasar’s promotion of it as the
only serious alternative to ‘titanism’ or eschatological arrogance. Indiffer-
ence might actually make for the freezing of subjects, by a suppression of
the things that make human individuals into active, responsible, joyful
players in the drama of God and in the arena of the Church. And given
that, as we have just said, the two kinds of freezing generally accompany
each other, we have to consider the possibility that a form of freezing of
structure also persists in von Balthasar’s thought, even after all his protes-
tations and safeguards. It might be that his theology sometimes forgets
the ongoing, historical, often contingent aspects of all the patterns that
emerge in Christian life. It might therefore be that he slips back towards
an epic perspective.
The new ambivalence that ‘indifference’ begins to take on for us here
raises questions in turn about von Balthasar’s Ignatian inheritance – the
Ignatian tradition being the prime locus for the spirituality of ‘indiffer-
ence’ (indiferencia). In chapter 2, we had cause to acknowledge that this tra-
dition seemed potentially to be generative of drama, just as indifference
seemed to want to lend itself to the ‘dramatizing’ of Christian life. But
Ignatian ‘dramatics’ is not without its own ambivalence, and this is a good
moment to note the fact. There is in Ignatius a strongly ‘lyrical’ strain.
Even von Balthasar recognizes this. The Exercises’ invitation to ‘Imagine
Christ our Lord present before you on the Cross, and begin to speak with
him . . .’22 is turned to by von Balthasar in precisely that crucial passage in
Theodramatik where he illustrates the genres, because it exemplifies a par-
ticularly lyrical kind of spirituality. In short, he uses it to show what lyric is.
It may be no coincidence that Ignatius is often accused of a concentration
on the individual (to the detriment of the ‘discursive character of life’23 )
which is not fully dramatic.
Almost as a correlate to this, Ignatius also strongly advocates submis-
siveness to what might be called ‘epic’ organising principles in Christian
life. Along with his developed emphasis on the individual and his or her
experience, he is a believer in the authoritative operation of the Spirit in
the structures and institutions of the Church. To be fair to him, there is
never an attempt to make institutions a substitute for the fullness of the
life of grace in all its diversity: the letter is there to be filled by the Spirit.
But the fact remains, to use Saward’s words, that:
of events that ‘dominates’ all the plays (H iii/1, p. 102/GL 4, p. 110). There
follows a catalogue of examples. First, there are those characters who are
submitted against their will to such ‘unshielded horror’ – for example, the
Women of Troy, who:
are presented in extreme abandonment: the queen and her daughters
are distributed ‘by lot’, like goods, among the victors and one after
another are led away. The situation is beyond all beseeching; it is the
unmitigated darkness of meaningless destruction.
(H iii/1, p. 104/GL 4, p. 112)
And then there are those ‘who give themselves up, who willingly sacrifice
themselves’ (H iii/1, p. 104/GL 4, p. 112). It is here, von Balthasar argues, that
a certain glory is perceptible in Euripides’ vision:
From the beginning of the Peloponnesian War the motif of a sacrificial
death for community, city and people comes to the fore but not
exclusively so. It is frequently initiated by the late archaic thought that
the gods demand a human sacrifice, whether for the expiation of guilt
(Iphigenia in Aulis) or for the gaining of a favour (Heracleidae, Phoenissae)
or as an institutionalised ritual (Iphigenia in Tauris, in which even the
poet himself questions the reasons, as we have seen). But there is also
the death for love, which is inspired not by a god but by personal love,
and is either offered (by Pylades in Orestes) or carried out (Evadne in The
Suppliant Women, Laomedeia in the lost Protesilaus).
And in Euripides’ work – more than that of the other tragedians – he finds
this ‘valour of the unshielded heart’ appearing to stand in a particularly
‘direct relation to Christ’ (H iii/1, p. 96/GL 4, p. 103). His descriptions of
what Euripides does are laden with Christian associations:
Euripides’ souls . . . sensitive in their defencelessness, wage a . . . bitter,
desperate but secretly loving, struggle with the god who tortures them,
whose personal countenance they both desire and reject.
(H iii/1, p. 126/GL 4, pp. 136–7)
28 Ibid.
Eschatology and the existential register 141
engineer something which she has until then been resisting on her own
behalf at the greatest personal cost; and in this light the bed trick cannot
simply strike the audience as a knockabout practical joke.
The Duke, as a consequence, must appear to us as a thoroughly sus-
pect figure. His activities are artificial and emblematic when offered as
the solutions to the grim and plausible interactions of human belief and
prejudice which first engendered the dilemma. While the first half of
the play ‘moves swiftly towards the tragic calamity, twisting deeper and
deeper into the quick’, the Duke’s intervention as Deus ex machina appar-
ently changes everything, and (as A. P. Rossiter puts it) ‘the puppet master
makes all dance to a happy ending, with a lot of creaking’.29 We cannot be
satisfied at Shakespeare’s glossing over of the very serious moral problems
which he has raised. Real wounds cannot be healed by artificial means.
Furthermore, the Duke’s methods are sometimes not only artificial but
seemingly cruel. Part of his intrigue involves keeping Isabella under the
delusion that her brother is dead; and we are bound to ask whether it is a
Christian Providence which is operating on the Duke’s terms:
I will keep her ignorant of her good,
To make her heavenly comforts of despair
When it is least expected.
(iv.iii, lines 105–6)
The problem at the heart of Measure for Measure is its superficially resolved,
but actually very disturbing, ending, in which the shallowly treated char-
acter Mariana is encouraged to act in a fearfully inconsistent way and then
married off to a man who does not love her. As a result, the ‘outward-
sainted deputy’ who ‘is yet a devil’ (iii.i, lines 90–3) undergoes a perfunc-
tory conversion and is given an amnesty: all, it seems, to allow the play to
end as happily as can be contrived. What Shakespeare has woven at the end
(and we must leave room for the possibility that he knew exactly what he
was doing) is a tissue of comic fabric which is simply not strong enough to
bear the weight of the human problems that press on it.
Yet von Balthasar sees in this play a message redolent of mercy, and a
clear figuration of the operation of grace. He describes it as ‘perhaps the
greatest parable of Christian literature, a true divina commedia, a drama that
casts light into the dirtiest corners of sin and that can succeed in doing this
because it sheds the light of the highest love on everything’ (Skizzen iii,
p. 359/ExT 3, p. 404). ‘Angelo can be forgiven’, in von Balthasar’s eyes,
29 A. P. Rossiter, Angel with horns: fifteen lectures on Shakespeare, Graham Storey (ed.) (London:
Longman, 1989).
Eschatology and the existential register 143
for the simple reason that ‘[Claudio] is still alive’ – not through any good
intention on Angelo’s part, it should be noted. This refusal to worry about
questions of will and intention when absolving Angelo is then matched (as
von Balthasar’s reading progresses) by quite the opposite strategy of invent-
ing intentions on the Duke’s behalf (which are quite unwarranted by the
text) in order all the better to absolve him, too. Von Balthasar (who, aston-
ishingly, looks at the Duke ‘as if he were the Son of Man appearing again’
(Skizzen iii, p. 359/ExT 3, p. 404)) wants to see the artificiality of the Duke’s
contrivances (and also his deception of Isabella) as motivated by a deep seri-
ousness. How does he justify this? On the wholly speculative grounds that
‘it cannot be a matter of indifference to him to let Isabella go on thinking
for so long that her brother is dead’ (TD i, p. 443/ThD 1, p. 472). The force of
that ‘cannot’ is unclear: are we not invited to entertain precisely the fear-
ful possibility that the Duke, even in his self-styled providential activities,
may at bottom be merely indifferent? Von Balthasar forecloses our doubts
in a way that Shakespeare, in his wisdom, has declined to do.
We must conclude, I think, that von Balthasar’s treatment of this drama
does indeed show him tempted by a strain of epic relativization to be at
work in his theology – not always as the dominant strain, but as one which
can rear its head unexpectedly. Thus, he can close his long excursus on
Shakespeare with the words:
Von Balthasar, to be sure, says this in a way that seeks to take account
of the sovereign sustainer of all existing things in their particularity. He
is most impressed when the Good is shown to predominate without the
dramatist ‘feeling it necessary to reduce the totality of world events to
some all-embracing formula’. But it is frankly not true to the dark ambi-
guity of Shakespeare to say that ‘all the time he is utterly certain that the
highest good is to be found in forgiveness’ (TD i, p. 449/ThD 1, p. 478;
my emphases). It smacks too much of the ‘victorious, all-conquering Yes’
which von Balthasar criticized in Barth.
There is not space here for a proper consideration of Calderón and his
high place in von Balthasar’s estimation. Suffice it to say that Calderón
is not entirely free of the baroque theatre’s unease with questions of
individual identity, and its fancy for miraculous intervention. Calderón
has been contrasted with Shakespeare on the grounds that the English
dramatist has ‘the profounder thoughtfulness, the more introverted eye’,
and that ‘in [Shakespeare] the action is subservient to the character, while
144 Theology and the Drama of History
30 Richard Chenevix Trench, ‘His Life and Genius’ in Calderón de la Barca, Life’s a Dream; The
Great Theatre of the World (London: John W. Parker and Son, 1856), pp. 73–4.
31 Riches, Analogy of Beauty.
32 Martin Simon, ‘Identity and Analogy’ in Riches, Analogy of Beauty, p. 81; quoting H iii/1,
p. 660/GL 5, p. 315.
33 My emphasis.
Eschatology and the existential register 145
Balthasar prefers to recall as ‘the heart is holy since love came to it’. Simon
concludes from both examples of ‘vagueness’ in the treatment of the defi-
nite article that it is:
not so much an irritating lapse, occasional or frequent, as a
methodological tool whose purpose is now amply clear: to transform
the private, subjective, individual statement into public, objective,
universal statement.34
What Simon alleges here is a combination of two tendencies – the ten-
dency to universalize and the tendency to Christianize – in von Balthasar’s
rather invasive treatment of the text. He disregards much of the particular-
ity of reference and the ambiguity of nuance that is there in order to isolate
something clear and useful for his scheme. This is familiar to us now from
our examination of how he read Measure for Measure.
Then – similar to his identification of the ‘secret’ loving of Euripides’
heroes, and the ‘secret’ motives of the Duke in Measure for Measure – there is
the ‘secret’ devotion to Christ that von Balthasar reads in Hölderlin. Simon
proceeds to point out that this, too, is unjustified. Hölderlin, according
to von Balthasar, is superficially trapped in a dichotomy between a vision
(shared with the ancient world) of ‘theophanous reality’, and the ‘cold
reflection and speculation’ which operates through idealist philosophy
(H iii/1, p. 645/GL 5, p. 299). His painful inhabiting of this dichotomy –
neither pole of which he will abandon – is, according to von Balthasar,
‘because in secret it always has been and always will be the third, Christian
position that determines the way he feels and lives’ (H iii/1, p. 660/GL 5,
p. 315), this being the position where heart and mind, feeling and reason,
unite. Simon is surprised at this claim. It suggests in a quite unwarranted
manner (one which does not pay attention to the historical way in which
ideas develop) that the polarity between idealism and Greece somehow
necessarily implies a Christian position, like the third angle of a triangle;
whereas, as Simon says, ‘the history of ideas is not geometrically symmet-
rical but linear’,35 and the relationship between Greece, Christianity and
idealism involves a highly complex historical progression that must be
traced from Judaism and the ancient world through medieval times, the
Renaissance and the Enlightenment. Hölderlin’s poetry certainly reflects
a conflict between ‘reason’ and ‘feeling’, but Christianity cannot be deduced
from it. Moreover, ‘Christian interpretation is simply too blunt an instru-
ment for its analysis’. The use of the contrast between idealism and Greece
its victory. The analogies drawn with any kind of dramatic resolution or
harmony of form ought to be disciplined and limited by this intuition of
the christological supra-form, which is more dissimilar from, than similar
to, any worldly counterpart.
Von Balthasar knows this, as we have seen in the response to Karl Barth
which this chapter has already traced. He admits, moreover, the way that
Christ’s supra-form is unlike any other form: he admits that its fullest
dimensions are completely beyond our grasp. The supra-form embraces
the rupture of the cross and the un-form of Hell. We should expect, then,
that the ‘“necessary” unity of form’ which von Balthasar intuits in Scrip-
ture will (like the Christ-form it mediates, and like the form of the Church
in which it has its roots) remain ungraspable in its fullest dimensions;
it will leave room for the tragic fissures which the Christ of revelation
does not suppress or abolish, but into which he enters. It is, indeed, just
such theological delicacy – or reservation – which the prefix ‘supra-’ is
designed to serve in von Balthasar’s theology, and he uses it frequently
(along with inverted commas and phrases like ‘in some way’ or ‘something
like’) to mark the points at which our language and our concepts are inade-
quate to what they seek to describe. As Gerard O’Hanlon has demonstrated
well, the prefix ‘supra-’ is for von Balthasar a way of negotiating the path
between the complete denials of negative theology (we can know nothing
of God; he is absolutely unlike anything else) and a rashly positive identifi-
cation of God with creatures or creaturely experience.40 Here, the reserva-
tion calls to be deployed specifically as we stand before the form of Christ’s
revelation in the case of Scripture. It demands that Scripture’s fragments
must be allowed at times to remain as fragments. Not every loose end, it
says, may responsibly be tidied up by the disciple. A stringent critical reser-
vation must be maintained – something that even Barth recognized in his
characterization of faith in God’s revelation as risk.41
Von Balthasar, however, is simply not consistent in his attempts to
safeguard the vital unfinalizability of the supra-form. He betrays him-
self. His harmonizing readings of Shakespeare are far from being isolated
instances with no serious theological corollaries. If we look to his exegesis
of the New Testament, we find similar examples of such harmonization (or
40 We will explore the implications of this a great deal more thoroughly in our next chapter,
on the subject of analogy.
41 Cf. McCormack, Dialectical Theology, p. 419: ‘a proper understanding of the Word of
God . . . ensures that faith can only be ventured as an act of daring, and therefore as
existential in the highest degree’.
Eschatology and the existential register 149
Job
Scripture itself, of course, harbours an alternative to what we have been
calling ‘the tragic question’. In the story of Job, it presents us with a
quality of suffering that challenges us not to relativize or contextual-
ize it artificially; a quality of suffering which we can only struggle to
45 Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics iv/3.1 (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1961), p. 453.
46 Ibid., p. 454.
Eschatology and the existential register 151
to think of the majesty of the divine wisdom and the consequent limits
of his human knowledge, and therefore not to give free vent to his
complaints and entreaties, nor to be so arrogant and omniscient and
defiant in relation to God . . . as if his fate were the problem of all
problems and his violent attitude the key to its solution, nor to throw
the alleged and perhaps in fact very doubtful justice of his cause into
the scales, but rather to be converted – which is surely necessary – and
thus to learn afresh the goodness of God as one who is humbled by
Him.
In short, they counsel ‘indifference’: by a contextualization of Job’s prob-
lems, they invite him to a proper humility before, and submission to, God.
‘What fault can we really find with all these things?’, says Barth. ‘Hardly a
statement which they make is not in its own way meaningful and does not
have parallels not only in the rest of the Old but also in the New Testament.
And many of their sayings leave nothing to be desired not only in thought-
fulness and perspicuity but also in noteworthy profundity.’47
And yet what they say is no better than a ‘pious lie’.48 What they say may
very well be true generally, but that is exactly its problem, and exactly why,
for Barth, it is ‘perverted and dangerous’ – because it is general and not
particular. It does not speak with any consideration of the existential real-
ity of Job’s terrible situation. It does not have a language adequate or even
sensitive to ‘the middle’ of the particularity of his plight, and the partic-
ularity of their friendship with him. Instead, it presumes to speak from
a position ‘looking over the shoulder of God’. This makes Job’s friends
‘physicians of no value’ (Job 13:4). This is precisely that ‘theorizing of the
providence of God’ referred to above, in the opening of this section. Barth
says that they have abstracted from God’s unique encounters with indi-
vidual people in time – in his freedom and in theirs – in order to develop
a patterned notion of the ways of God with humanity, and stern direc-
tives for the proper response of humanity to God. They have, in other
words, ‘frozen’ a ‘structure’ of divine-human relationship (and it is there-
fore singularly appropriate that Job should compare his friends’ efforts to
a stream which is frozen in winter (6:15)). The corollary to this – which we
see in their advice to Job to fit himself to the pattern they suppose them-
selves to have uncovered and stop his turbulent wrestling with God – is a
strong impulse also to freeze the free expression of Job’s subjectivity: to
make a frozen subject of him. They do not accept the ‘existential register’
in which he speaks. They will not accept that ‘they and he are at very differ-
ent points’, and that this is a significant difference. Job does not doubt the
truth, at one level, of what his friends tell him, but it has become falsehood
in its abstraction:
Their representations . . . rest on the assumption that . . . they have
information about God to which they have only to refer back to be able
to speak appropriately concerning Him . . . He is to them an open book,
from which they have only to read to their friend, who obviously is not
at the moment able to read for himself, and they may rightly expect
that he will hear the truth which will answer all his questions and
bring him to a better mind.49
This is an unmitigatedly epic perspective. Job, meanwhile, is the one actu-
ally witnessing to God. In fact, in this situation, he is the only true witness.
In a stubborn exercise of his own freedom, he clings doggedly to a ques-
tion whose answer he does not have beforehand: whether God is or is not
‘for him’ in this unique train of events into which his whole life has been
caught up. And in thus exercising his own freedom, he is a better witness
to the unique freedom of God too.
The friends speak about God and about their friend’s situation in
terms which are, as Barth points out, ‘strikingly unhistorical’. They preach
‘timeless truths’. These truths may once have been genuine in their own
context. They may have been God’s Word at particular points in the his-
tory of Israel, and in particular concrete ways. Barth admits that just as
they were once luminous with divine communication, and alive to their
hearers, so they may one day ‘shine out again’ in the context of new and
‘definite happenings between God and man’. But Job’s comforters are pro-
ducing mere ‘deductions’ from them, which ‘in abstraction can only . . .
bloom like cut flowers’.50
In Job’s speeches, by contrast, there is a vigorous and often violent per-
sistence in the existential register. He falls back on no ‘secret’ information,
and has recourse to no ‘consciousness in excess of the story’.51 What he
says is dominated by exclamation, interrogation, and a great deal of direct
speech to God (rather than about God). This is far better conveyed as a drama
than as an epic:
In Job’s speeches we are plunged into the strain and stress of the
ongoing history of Yahweh with him. Everything that he says, whether
right or wrong, is baptised in the fire of a painful encounter with Him.
Almost every word is related to the situation in which he now finds
himself placed. At every point he is either describing the
And again he says that ‘Job has come adrift from the old relationship to
God, and all the arguments drawn from this relationship have no further
power to reach him’ (H iii/2.1, p. 263/GL 6, p. 284).
But we seem at other points to encounter something quite differ-
ent. With Barth’s imprecations on the three friends still ringing in our
ears – his charge that ‘somewhere behind the laborious mildness which
controls their instructions there is already prepared an auto-da-fé to be cele-
brated ad maiorem Dei gloriam . . . [and which] disqualifies their speeches
in advance . . .’,54 and that ‘they . . . lay down a moral world order estab-
lished and maintained by God, a universal history which is also universal
judgment’55 – we find von Balthasar ready to affirm (of Job’s fall into ‘inner
spiritual darkness’) that ‘a hidden intervention of the heavenly world is at
least one of the presuppositions of this fall’ (H iii/2.1, p. 261/GL 6, p. 282).
He implies that although Job’s suffering may not be explicable in terms of
any pre-existing explanatory doctrine, it may yet be in terms that are sub-
sequently provided for the Christian. He is, of course, concerned to hon-
our the fact that Job’s story ‘rejects every solution that would too quickly
transfigure harsh reality’, but he nonetheless proposes that it gives ‘a very
exact outline (in negative form) of the conditions of the possibility of a
redemptive synthesis’ – even though this ‘will not be available at any price
lower than Job’s experiences of abandonment and his terror’ (H iii/2.1,
p. 267/GL 6, p. 289). He takes the suffering of Job, in all its unimaginable
proportions, and talks of it as a ‘step’ in the power of the Spirit (TD ii/1,
p. 96/ThD 2, p. 107 – this presumably being a step from a vision where
there is no redemption, towards a vision where there is; a step on the path
of the dissolution of the Old Covenant). Job’s suffering is therefore situ-
ated by von Balthasar as part of some kind of progression (‘in terms of ideas it
belongs between Ezekiel and Lamentations on the one hand and Deutero-
Isaiah on the other’ (H iii/2.1, p. 260/GL 6, p. 281)), the final stage of which
is the cross. Von Balthasar invites us to suppose that in the wake of Job ‘the
building-blocks have been gathered together for the final synthesis which
a fortiori only God can achieve: the unity of the glory of God and uttermost
abandonment by God, Heaven and Hell’ (H iii/2.1, p. 269/GL 6, p. 290). The
pull towards seeing an integrity in the whole has here proved to be even
stronger than it is in Barth: ‘the fulness of the Bible crystallises concen-
trically around a human and divine centre’ and von Balthasar finds a war-
rant here for seeing in the Old Testament, as in the history of thought, ‘an
“évolution homogène” (Marin-Sola)’ (H i, p. 532/GL 1, p. 554).
Francesca Murphy remarks, furthermore, how in von Balthasar’s
account ‘Job’s character disappears’56 – and this is a tremendously telling
59 Some of the section which follows can be found in my chapter ‘Exile, freedom and
thanksgiving: Barth and Hans Urs von Balthasar’ in John C. McDowell and Mike Higton
(eds.), Conversing with Barth (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004).
60 Fergus Kerr, Immortal Longings: Versions of Transcending Humanity (London: SPCK, 1997),
p. 41; quoting Barth, Church Dogmatics iv/2, p. 404.
Eschatology and the existential register 157
61 It is important to be fair to von Balthasar here, and to acknowledge that his criticisms of
Barth could only have been based on what Barth had published up to that point (1951). Most
commentators agree that the theology of iv/1 of the Church Dogmatics was significantly
different from, say, volumes i and ii, not least in its shift from a minimalized appreciation for
the creature to a much more developed one.
62 Barth, Church Dogmatics iii/2; quoted in Barth, p. 128/ET, p. 118.
63 Cf. Barth, Church Dogmatics iii/2, p. 580, where Barth writes that ‘God’s own Word, of
election, covenant, salvation and hope . . . [is] valid for all . . . The testimony to each and all is
that each and all . . . come from here and may live as those who do so [even though] [i]t is to be
noted that this is never a self-evident reality or natural condition . . .’
158 Theology and the Drama of History
There can be no doubt that both Barth and von Balthasar order freedom
to obedience. They both, as we have said, have an ‘Augustinian’ concept
of freedom. But there is a fine but important difference in how they do it,
and what they bring to the discussion in terms of presuppositions and con-
cerns. The difference between them can, I think, be suggested in a kind of
formula. Barth wants in the creature the obedient embrace of freedom – he
says ‘obedience’ in order then to be able to say ‘freedom’. Von Balthasar,
on the other hand (and inasmuch as the relative freedom and autonomy
of the creature permits it), wants the free embrace of obedience, obedience
seeming at times to be what has the last word.
Barth presupposes that there is initially not-much-to-speak-of in the
creature – all is owed to the positing work of the Holy Spirit. The crea-
ture becomes interesting as a subject only when he or she stands under
the divine call or injunction and responds appropriately. He character-
izes the divine call as something which summons the whole person; some-
thing which claims one’s entire existence. But from this initial restriction
of what we might think of as creaturely entitlements or faculties, there
opens up a great domain of freedom in Christ – life in a dynamic and open
space (which is how he envisages the Church):
We can live life with head held high, with a free heart and a clear
conscience, proclaiming to God, ‘Lord, how good are your works!’
(Ps. 104:24).64
laid claim to apart from this Word’s ‘striking against it’? A ‘natural theol-
ogy’, he admits, is, ‘justified – indeed, necessary – inside revealed theol-
ogy’, but why concern oneself with a natural theology apart from revealed
theology? It is inconceivable in any case.66 People answer Christ’s call: why
look anywhere else if we want to see the meaning and implications of cre-
ated freedom? He focuses, in short, on the freedom that follows upon the
fact of obedience, rather than reading anything back from it (a theory about
the human potentia obedientalis, for example).
When we understand this, we will perhaps see the tendencies of Barth’s
theology as less ‘epic’ than von Balthasar supposes them to be, and Barth
himself as more the ‘joyous partisan’ that he hoped to represent. He did
not feel the need to defend a set of human entitlements in principle, when
he could celebrate countless human endowments in fact. He hated abstract
certainty. He thought that neo-Protestant theology suffered from a cer-
tainty that was ‘unheard of’ in the world of Anselm’s intelligere. He loathed,
eventually, the complacency of Gogarten who was too certain about the
grounds and warrants of a theology which ought properly to be under-
taken only in faith. And he wrote his commentary on Romans not for the
sake of unbelievers, but for the sake of believers who were too confident. This
urge remained as much a feature of the later Barth as it was of the earlier,
and it was this urge that shone so fiercely through his treatment of the
Book of Job. ‘Theoretical reduction’ is not his aim. The risk of obedience
to the Word of God as it speaks to his understanding is.
The ‘freedom’ for which Barth first says ‘obedience’ is spoken ‘under
the sign of failure’, and so ‘freedom’ construed in quite a specific and
distinctive way in the context of a theological ethics – one which makes
possible a wrestling altogether as intense as Job’s. Von Balthasar, on the
other hand, says ‘freedom’ in a rather more general way in order then to
be able to say ‘obedience’ rather specifically, i.e. rather ecclesially. He is
much more preoccupied about conditions in the human being which are
notionally ‘prior’ to the gracious encounter with God (for example, the
potentia obedientalis that, he assumes, must at least logically precede obe-
dience itself). He wants to safeguard (indeed, sometimes simply presup-
poses) certain things about the human (human nature and human sub-
jectivity) in principle, so that they can be asserted in aid of a distinctively
‘Catholic’ point of view. To achieve his aim, he expends enormous time
66 Karl Barth, Die Theologie und die Kirche (Munich, 1938), pp. 374–6; quoted in Barth,
pp. 104–5/ET, p. 96.
160 Theology and the Drama of History
more available in God’s service than any other person in the drama. Even
though von Balthasar tries to give a distinctively activist twist to this
apparently passive depiction of a mission, Mary’s renunciation neverthe-
less also grounds his call for respect towards the shaping structures of
objective Spirit, that is, the institutional Church. These, when accepted
obediently, will direct our own renunciations and make them fruitful –
just as (he argues) they have done in the lives of countless saints, all of
whom were attuned to the keynote of obedience.67
But the pressure which von Balthasar puts on his ecclesial subjects in
such cases seems really to stem from an inclination to try to give shape to
material that is more disparate and intractable than he will allow. Marian
self-abandonment (echoing the Hegelian call for a sacrifice of the individ-
ual ‘pathos’) is made to advertize a sort of ecclesial resolution of the inter-
action of God and the creature, which reflects in turn von Balthasar’s great
desire to see a generalizable shape in the life of believers. Von Balthasar
writes that ‘[t]o the extent that the Church is Marian, she is a pure form
which is immediately legible and comprehensible . . .’ (H i, p. 541/GL 1,
p. 562). And by the fact that the ecclesial ‘constellation’ of saints and their
exemplary relations are included within this Marian form of the Church
(as we shall see in the next chapter), we are encouraged to draw the con-
clusion that this Marian Gestalt archetypally represents the ideal role of all
humans in the theodrama.68 This is the ultimate issue of Balthasarian free-
dom (or ‘active potency’). It is an issue into a legibility which the Church
brings about in the medium of obedience, ordered in turn (as receptivity)
by its inescapable relationship to (‘Petrine’) church office.
67 Cf. Christian State of Life, pp. 257ff.: ‘the last formal element in the gift of self in love – the
element that not only is now, but always has been, the most essential component of the love
of Father and Son and that must continue to be, in the future, the formal element of the
Christian gift of self since the Lord has bequeathed to the Church his own love – [is]
obedience . . . [and] if Christians are actually to achieve this radical and extreme obedience, they
must be given an authority that is or can become for them as concrete, intimate and inevitable, as
demanding and unrelenting, as the Father’s authority was for the Son on the Cross’. Von
Balthasar adds a few pages later that: ‘an authentic priestly office must embody for the whole
Church . . . divine authority’ (ibid., p. 260).
68 Barth, by contrast, predicates sanctity of the Church in the medium of the plurality of her
membership, and not by pinning it on a single (putative) ‘subjectivity’. Here, again, he places
the accent on differentiation. ‘The truth is that the holiness of the community’ is predicated
‘as of its individual constituents’ (Barth, Church Dogmatics iv/2, p. 513). Barth has a
characteristically Protestant sense of the contingency of the Church, which is tied to his sense
of the discontinuity of the divine appeal (a feature of God’s sovereignty). The Church is a
people whose existence is temporal, diachronic. It has no greater claim to sanctity than that
yielded by a constitutive ‘common history’ in relation to God. The grammar of the Church’s
being is the grammar of providential care within the ongoing movement of a covenant. It is
not the grammar of essential being, infallibility or immaculateness.
162 Theology and the Drama of History
Conclusion
The present chapter has given us not only literary-critical and exegeti-
cal, but theological reasons for asserting the frequently ‘epic’ character of
von Balthasar’s thought, and thus the vitiation of what his theodramatic
scheme might contribute to a genuinely satisfactory theological approach
to history. While recognizing that it is almost entirely to him that we owe
the sense of the value of the theodramatic task, we are nonetheless in a
position to raise certain questions about his adequacy to it. The compar-
ison we made between von Balthasar and Barth left us with a provoca-
tive contrast between the latter’s blithe disregard for creaturely claims on
integrity which paradoxically celebrated wholeheartedly what the crea-
ture is once claimed by God, and the former’s early proclamation of the
creature’s dignity which equally paradoxically ended in a slightly tetchy
summons to individual persons that they submit to authorized patterns
of behaviour.
We should not, of course, forget the power and attractiveness of the
vision that von Balthasar holds out to us, and the resources it holds for
a resilient and open quality of Christian mission in the world. These last
three chapters have enabled us consistently to display these resources in
von Balthasar’s thought. He is very often a most powerful advocate of
what he calls ‘the kinetic variety of forms and styles’ which can be used ‘to
express the one truth . . .’ This, he says, ‘arises because of the unimaginable
fullness of individual traits in peoples, epochs and personalities in their
unique talents and missions’ (Barth, p. 263/ET, p. 251). ‘Catholic theology’,
he goes on:
Eschatology and the existential register 163
This is a von Balthasar who resents ‘the obdurate people for whom time
seems suddenly to have stood still because, after all, everything neces-
sary has already been thought and said with such exhaustive sufficiency
that nothing new need be generated even to the end of the world’ (Barth,
p. 21/ET, p. 11). This is a von Balthasar whose own theology is a ‘thinking
after’ (Nachdenken) the history of God with his people, and therefore, at its
best, a building where the subject matter is allowed to ‘do its own edifying,
build its own edifice’ (Barth, pp. 35–6/ET, p. 25).
Nevertheless, in certain key places, he imposes his own plan on the
building, and this is what makes him unequal to his self-assigned task
of providing a corrective to Barth’s vision of the cast, the stage and the
action of human life in the world’s story. His implicitly Hegelian asso-
ciation of drama with the notion of harmonious resolution invites the
charge that he is often in danger of looking for an innate stability in the
constitution of human life and its interactions which it is not theirs to
possess. It is a habit all too reminiscent of Hegelian theory. Dramas, on
an Hegelian model, give formed, generalized expression to human pat-
terns of encounter (and therefore, by extension into theodramatic terms,
can be expected to do the same to divine/human patterns of encounter).
That von Balthasar is indebted to such habits of thought in a way that has
eschatological as well as ecclesiological implications is perceptible when
he talks of drama’s ‘unificatory endeavour that sheds light on existence’
(TD i, p. 241/ThD 1, p. 262) as mirroring ‘the eternal, divine plan’ (TD i,
p. 109/ThD 1, p. 119), of ‘the indivisible unity of the play’s ideal content’, or
of ‘the pleasure of being presented with a “solution”’ (TD i, pp. 242, 243–
4/ThD 1, pp. 262, 264). This is a very different side of von Balthasar from
164 Theology and the Drama of History
69 Barth ought not to get off scot free, even in our re-evaluation of how he handles freedom
in the creature. For all the developments in his theology, Barth resists that most crucial
aspect of Catholic (and, more particularly, Balthasarian) anthropology, the ability of the
creature to participate in Christ’s work, his sufferings and merits. For von Balthasar, it is
important that we can ‘be “with” [Christ’s] being “for” us . . . thereby helping to be “for”
others’ (Barth, p. 255/ET, p. 243). It is a corollary of von Balthasar’s assertion of the human
being’s ability to receive an imprint that he has room (a room which Barth seems not to have)
for an abundance of transpositions of Christ’s work, and even his characteristics, into the
lives of the saints. Individual missions interact with the mission of Christ, and share many of
its features, so that they become vehicles of revelation in their own (relative) right.
5
JACOB
A clear night in the desert
And even the camels are blinking in wonder:
The ladder is too famous
To be anything other than golden
glorious, great before God,
Unless you were there
In which case it shone
In a ray of moon made sun
Softly enmetalled and yet
A thing of wood
Angled from earth
To heady nothingness.
What the last chapter raised was the crucial question of whether the
force of theodramatics – with all its potential in the service of a vibrant
[165]
166 Theology and the Drama of History
2 Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics i/1, 2nd edn (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1975), p. xiii. The
accusation is conditionally retracted in Church Dogmatics ii/1 (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1957),
p. 82.
168 Theology and the Drama of History
and will ensure that there is indeed a final act (Endspiel). He holds that the
Christian ‘belief there’ll be better’ is warranted, and that a certain posi-
tive expression of that fact is possible because analogies between God’s
life and love and our experience of those things are to be had. Analogy is
more than just a via negativa: as we saw on p. 148, von Balthasar uses the
prefix ‘supra-’ so much precisely because it suggests more than the prefix
‘non-’.4 In mounting a critique of the legitimacy (or not) of a teleological
narration (such as von Balthasar’s placing of the Book of Job as part of an
‘évolution homogène’) in which suffering is always displayed as being re-
lative to the emergence of the good, there is no need to deny that there may
indeed be a telos; such a critique need not undermine the faith that God
intends the good of his children, and will accomplish it. There is certainly
an obligation laid on the Christian theologian at certain points to ‘batter
the doom drum’, and this ought to affect the way he speaks about the ‘end’
that is hoped for. But in exercising a right caution about teleologies of any
kind, and a disciplined avoidance of decisive and complete ‘framing’ from
this side, the theologian need not imply God’s deficiency or ‘entrapment’
in history. In this light, statements about God and God’s action may be
responses not to God’s deficiency, but to his surplus, and may therefore
become (properly used) an appropriately creaturely way of honouring that
divine excess and living in and for it. Analogical statements in particular
may achieve this.
Recalling the sort of unframeability which was discussed at the begin-
ning of chapter 1 will help reiterate the point. The sort of unframe-
ability looked at then was typical of the unframeability of most human
experience: Foucault’s crowd, or the Agamemnon’s chorus, could neither
plumb its experience, nor prevent itself from being surprised and mysti-
fied by it. Likewise, it was argued soon afterwards, there is an unframeabil-
ity about history from the perspective of human experience: we cannot see
into the future, nor exhaustively into the past. But it needs now to be borne
in mind that these are ‘subjective’ or ‘existential’ unframeabilities. They
do not deny that history might in fact have an ‘end’, or that there might
be ‘a final source of meaning’ in the world. They simply acknowledge that
no one has the vantage point that will enable him or her fully to know such
finalities. The ‘measure’ of them is not in human hands. Inasmuch as the
‘meaning’ of time is only to be found in eternity, and one’s own ‘meaning’
4 And, as will be seen, the prefix ‘supra-’ is, for von Balthasar, the doctrine of analogy at
work (and at its best) in theological speech.
170 Theology and the Drama of History
All these things are held out promisingly by a doctrine of analogy, and
von Balthasar is acutely alive to this promise. It will be possible to evaluate
his success in responding to it before the chapter is out.
A great deal of careful scholarly work has already been done surve-
ying the development of analogical thought in the history of western
thought.7 I do not propose to repeat that work here, except to stress
that in medieval thought (and quintessentially in Thomas Aquinas’
thought) analogy came to serve disciplined speech about God. Analogy
in this theologically developed form consistently worked to prevent capit-
ulation to inadequate ‘closures’ of sense. It struck a balance between uni-
vocity and mere equivocation in what humans attributed to God, and
encouraged a proper humility in them when they attempted to talk about
the divine.8
This is not to deny that there were significantly different developments
in the theological use of analogy that emerged in the post-Aquinas tradi-
tion. In some of these developments, ontological claims moved from the
background to the foreground, and (accordingly) there was an increased
temptation to see in analogy a warrant for deducing content-full know-
ledge of God from experience of the world (Barth’s greatest fear). The ques-
tion became more than one simply of striking a balance in the way we use
language; it became concerned with what (if anything) could be supposed
about the reality of the God-world relation on the basis of the forms by
which that reality is mediated to us in experience. Perhaps more than any-
one, it was in the hands of Erich Przywara that analogy was refined to serve
a nascent metaphysics, and this in turn became the spark which would
ignite the well-known debate with Karl Barth. It is to this debate alone,
because of its more immediate relevance to von Balthasar’s theodramatics,
that we will give necessarily brief consideration here.
7 See, for example, Paul Ricoeur, The Rule of Metaphor: Multi-Disciplinary Studies of the Creation of
Meaning in Language, Robert Czerny (trans.) (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978), p. 271.
8 Aquinas classically strikes this balance in Question 13 of his Summa. He is concerned to
avoid that ‘closure’ of meaning that would come about if one were to try to make the
applicability of certain ‘perfection terms’ a frameable applicability. He resists, in other words,
a univocity which would be unsustainable (enforcing such univocity would at the very least
involve denying all the usages of terms like ‘wise’ and ‘good’ which occur in worship of God).
He also resists the mere equivocity which would make absurd the use of such terms to refer to
God. The logic of Aquinas’ position makes analogy a magnificent safeguard against
‘framing’ the God–world relation in linguistic propositions. It maintains (in a way that
metaphor does not) the possibility of real reference – it does not need to pass through a prior
denial of the literal sense. Nevertheless, its highly disciplined function is not to
describe.
172 Theology and the Drama of History
9 Hugo Rahner, Ignatius the Theologian, Michael Barry (trans.) (London: Geoffrey Chapman,
1968), p. 2.
Analogy’s unaccountable scaffolding 173
12 Aidan Nichols, The Word Has Been Abroad, p. xiii. He is in fact referring to Przywara and von
Balthasar, here – but it describes Barth’s understanding of analogia entis too.
13 Henri Bouillard, The Knowledge of God, Samuel D. Femiano (trans.) (London: Burns and
Oates, 1969), pp. 120–1.
14 It is not an accident that Przywara’s doctrine of analogy (for it is, by now, a ‘doctrine’) is
partly hammered out in the context of a theological commentary on the Spiritual Exercises.
15 Bouillard, Knowledge of God, p. 121.
Analogy’s unaccountable scaffolding 175
priority of God which was implicit in Aquinas’ per prius et posterius rule
when using analogy. For Przywara, analogia entis transposes what appear
to be mere contradictions in the human condition (both in its existen-
tial, experienced condition, and in its very ontological make-up) into a
context in which these apparent contradictions can be seen as what they
truly are: as tensions (or polarities-in-tension) which are there, and are
held together, by virtue of God.
The polarities which Przywara theorizes in terms of analogia entis are
those we observed as informing the spirituality of Ignatius: God’s imma-
nence and transcendence with respect to the creature. They also corre-
spond to Augustine’s Deus interior and Deus exterior. God’s inmost pres-
ence is required to maintain the creature in existence; but at the same
time his transcendence is never compromised. This is the ‘explanation’ of
why human existence is so widely experienced (both in and outside Chris-
tian faith) as unresolvable in some way: suspended, as James Collins says,
between ‘autarchy’ and ‘indigence’.16 Something in the constitution of the
human creature (the Christian recognizes this ‘something’ as the intimate
presence of God) presses her to go beyond herself (towards the God who
is also transcendent). Przywara believes this to be a sort of invitation – an
invitation ‘inscribed in the very nature of our being’, as Nichols says –
to enter God’s mystery.17 In this way, our own being – and the ‘suspen-
sion’ (the finite ‘openness’) which we observe in the being of all created
things – becomes a disclosure of the divine life and movement. Our being
‘corresponds’ to the fact that it is the gift of the ‘ever-greater Lord’. ‘The
more man is permitted to live his life from out of this divinely impelled
movement’, the more he realizes the ‘ever-greater quality of God’. ‘The
more intimately he shares the divine life, the firmer his grasp of the divine
transcendence as infinitely above him.’18 The polarity, therefore, does not
become an identity any more than it is a dichotomy; rather, it is sustained
in a ‘unity-in-tension’. God is immanent in the world. But the world and
God remain different (otherwise there is a collapse into either ‘pantheism’
or ‘theopanism’ – see p. 123 above). The creature has a relation to the Cre-
ator (the Creator’s transcendence is not such as to make it impossible), but
the divine immanence does not extend to complete identification with the
world. In maintaining this bipolarity, the standpoint of analogia entis:
16 Collins, ‘Analogia Entis’, p. 271. 17 Nichols, The Word Has Been Abroad, p. xiii.
18 Ibid.
176 Theology and the Drama of History
In other words, over time Pryzwara makes more room for the unframe-
able, ‘event’ character of God’s relationship to reality within what he says
about being, and this makes a difference to how he says it.
Barth’s emphasis, meanwhile, is so much on ‘event’ that to begin with
he seems almost to deny that any ontology at all is necessary to his use
of analogy. (We are reminded here of von Balthasar’s stringent criticism
that Barth denies the reality of the creature.) For Barth, as von Balthasar
says:
It is not Being as such that the creature has in common with God . . .
Rather it is an action (inaccessible to all theory): it is human decision
that is similar to God’s action, despite their fundamental dissimilarity.
(b a r t h , p. 117/ET, p. 108)
Now Barth does not mean this ‘action’ (by which man responds with
faith to God’s grace) to be a free-floating, or ‘discrete and discontinuous
momentary event’ (punkthaft Ereignismoment) (Barth, p. 204/ET, p. 191). It
is meant to be the highest determination of the existence of the whole
creature: it makes the creature most truly what it should be, in every
aspect. Faith in Jesus Christ, in other words, is the fullest realization (the
point) of human being itself. But he can seem to talk about the event of
faith in a way that suggests it is the mere insertion of a truth about God
into the realm of the creaturely (sometimes, it seems, specifically into the
‘conscious and cognitive’ realm of the creaturely), complete and sufficient
in itself. He can seem, when he talks like this, to have no regard for the pat-
terns of thought, the human languages and discourses, and the material
substance of the world which is meant to receive this ‘truth’. It is hard to
see how this could possibly constitute communication. Von Balthasar sees it
178 Theology and the Drama of History
22 It was, of course, a feature of Aquinas’ thought all along that being has an
‘event-character’ (it is caused, and its esse relates to God’s esse, though not univocally). In
Ricoeur’s words, ‘The discovery of being as act [was] the ontological keystone of the theory of
analogy’ (Ricoeur, Rule of Metaphor, p. 275).
23 This renders peculiar McCormack’s claim that in Barth’s theology ‘the “being” of the
human subject is not altered through the experience of faith’s knowledge of revelation’
(McCormack, Dialectical Theology, p. 17).
Analogy’s unaccountable scaffolding 179
From Aquinas, von Balthasar takes above all the emphasis on the proper
humility of analogical usage of any kind. From Barth, he takes something
similar – perhaps especially the emphasis on act, and an alertness to the
danger of forgetting, when one talks about the ‘being’ of God and the
‘being’ of humankind, that all must be referred to God’s ‘doing’.
From Przywara, as the fourth and final volume of Theodramatik makes
abundantly clear, he takes his unremitting attention to the maior dissimili-
tudo of the Fourth Lateran Council: God’s quality of being ‘ever-greater’.
Von Balthasar finds he must speak of the divine life as complete peace
which is nevertheless ‘not rigid, but rather “eternal eventfulness”’ (TD iv,
p. 67). God is not only ‘ever-more’ than humanity can grasp; he is ‘also
the ever-more for himself’ in a kind of perpetual ‘overflow’ (TD iv, p. 68).
There is in God a movement of something like anticipation and fulfilment,
so that what is unsurpassable is nevertheless always being surpassed: the
‘fulfilment’ in all its ‘gratuity’ overtakes and wonderfully surprises the
original anticipation. There is a ‘letting-free’ of the ‘other’ in love which
yields the realization of untold possibilities (TD iv, p. 85). The Father lets
the Son ‘surpass’ (übertreffen) him, accepting (even as divine ‘source’) his
own kind of ‘receptivity’ or ‘responsiveness’ (thus von Balthasar can say
that ‘receiving’, or ‘letting-happen’, is just as essential for absolute Love
as ‘giving’). Even in God – perhaps in God more than anywhere – there
is the endless superaddition of ‘a “divine ever-more”, an “intensification,
surprise” [Steigerung, Überraschung], an “effusion” [Überschwang]’ (TD iv,
p. 78).
And ‘the becoming of the world’, says von Balthasar, ‘is grounded in
[this] “supra-becoming” of the inner-divine event’ (TD iv, p. 70). This is
where analogy must come in, for this ‘inner-divine law of life’ makes a dif-
ference to our own existence. It is what makes the drama of our life, which
we glimpsed in the figure of the Pauline apostolic witness in chapter 1,
and in the disciplines of the mutual submission of the faithful in chap-
ter 2, conceivable as a kind of ‘correspondence’ to the divine life (TD iv,
p. 78).
The attitude of looking outwards to the ‘always more’ is primary in
human being. Von Balthasar is sure of this. It is an attitude of being able to
listen and be affected (an ‘affective openness’).27 His use of analogy, in the
wake of Przywara, is intended to show how human experiences of freedom
or of love (indeed, of ‘drama’ in all its various forms) can make apprehensi-
ble a divine Giver – a free and freedom-imparting trinitarian love. In such
cases, the ‘world’ points one in the direction of seeing the form of God’s
revelation, though it is never adequate to yield the form fully. This is what
underlies his use of the prefix ‘supra-’. Von Balthasar’s vision, in other
words, is one in which God simultaneously bestows and withdraws from
our creaturely being, calling us ever onwards whenever we experience and
contemplate the existing things of the world. He never suggests that there
can be ‘a kind of synthesis’ of creaturely being and God (that being Hegel’s
transgression). Analogy’s preservation of the dramatic polarity is unsur-
passable. But this is still a warrant to take creaturely things with immense
seriousness. God’s revelation is incarnate and the manifestation of the
‘supra-form’ of Christ respects worldly forms and allows them their own
relative integrity.28
27 Francesca Murphy, ‘The Sound of the Analogia Entis Part II’ in New Blackfriars 74:877
(1993), p. 563.
28 The theologian is permitted to explore what is concrete and distinctive (indeed, ‘all
human thinking’ can profitably become his concern) because this proliferation, when
contemplated aright, is an expression of the greater dissimilarity on which all created
distinctions are founded.
Analogy’s unaccountable scaffolding 181
The power to assent to the clarity and radiance of such forms, of course,
comes only from God, and the frame for experiencing the divine which
we might expect worldly data to give us is blurred and compromised by
this dependence. The emphasis in the doctrine of analogy, therefore, is
on a human receptivity made possible by the movement towards it (in
active freedom) of the divine revelation. Admittedly, says von Balthasar,
the capacity for seeing any object is given along with the object (whose
‘objective’ status is therefore revealed as far more complicated then we ini-
tially realize). But when the ‘object’ of our experience is nothing less than
God’s loving freedom itself, then the frame for our seeing which is given
along with it is complicated exponentially. Humans experience a dynamic
engrossing in the trinitarian movement of free out-pouring.
Von Balthasar describes this as ‘the positive aspect of the analogia entis’
which ‘makes of the finite the shadow, trace, likeness and image of the Infi-
nite’. The finite ‘constitutes itself as such through the letting-be of Being
by virtue of an ekstasis out of its own closed self, and therefore through
dispossession and poverty becomes capable of salvaging in recognition
and affirmation the infinite poverty of the fullness of Being and, within it,
that of the God who does not hold on to Himself ’ (H iii/1, pp. 956–7/GL 5,
p. 627). But at the same time as God approaches, he also perpetually recedes
into the ‘always more’ (for the sake of active freedom in the creature). And
this receding draws creaturely freedom onwards again into the mystery.
As Murphy writes, ‘In order to be freely related to something, one has to
be other from it. . . . Only a God Who is wholly diverse from creatures
can reveal Himself to them, as opposed to mechanically discharging
His effects or pronouncements.’29 This makes the ‘primal’ creaturely ex-
perience impossible to fix, and its very ‘non-fixability’, in von Balthasar’s
words, is ‘but the noetic reflection of the ontic indeterminateness of being
in its totality over against God’:
This is why this primal attunement to him is not an intuition in the
epistemological sense, nor is it the result of a purely logical inference
from the finite to the infinite. . . . Being as such . . . directs us to the
inaccessible Fount.30
(H i, p. 236/GL 1, p. 245)
31 Lucy Gardner and David Moss in Gardner, Moss, Quash and Ward, Balthasar at the End of
Modernity (Edinburgh: T and T Clark, 1999), p. 115.
Analogy’s unaccountable scaffolding 183
Thus von Balthasar himself asserts what I have already supposed his theo-
logy to imply: the fittingness of temporality’s motive incompleteness (and
the never-finalized creaturely exploration of truth in time) to the analogi-
cal expression of God’s otherness. There is a ‘fit’ between diastasis in time
and the diastasis of God’s otherness. The restless heart’s hoping and loving
through time are not wholly distinguishable from its restlessness in (‘ver-
tical’) relation to God’s ungraspable plenitude. This acknowledgement of
temporality is an important one in von Balthasar’s thought – particularly
in conjunction with the suggestion that ‘unaccountably’ the ‘scaffolding’
of the temporal constructions of human experience may form a ladder by
which heaven draws near. There is a reminder here of what was evident in
chapter 1: that von Balthasar’s task in Theodramatik must be to reconceive
form as more than just pulchritudinous structure. He must demonstrate
something other than the ‘spatialization’ of time. He must communicate
a notion of form which is not architectonic but diachronous.
Lucy Gardner and David Moss are optimistic that von Balthasar’s theo-
logy does not entail ‘any riveting of “parts” onto an empty frame, nor . . .
any correlation of God to his creature’.37 And indeed, at first blush, it
seems as though von Balthasar’s turn to drama gives his notion of Gestalt
added mobility. But even Gardner and Moss must admit that he manifests
a tendency to ‘encode temporality’ (and they know, moreover, that ‘this
move is not unconnected with a general feature of the logic of modernity’).
Gender is an area in which Balthasar is particularly tempted to attempt
this ‘structuration’ – but the larger question raised is whether all his ges-
tures towards diachronicity do not in the end fall back into an organi-
zation of the flux which is ‘strategic and studied’.38 For the terms of a
rather static idea of form can be used to interpret even the relations which
drama displays. Dramatic interchange can succumb to a composite pat-
terning, and because this patterning aspires to the wholeness of Gestalt,
it becomes precisely a pseudo-spatialization. Such form – such composite
patterning – can be almost as architectonic as anything implied by the
aesthetics. It can become a matrix (and therefore an intermediate middle
ground) which regulates the properly unframeable relation of Creator and
creature (as well as the relations between creatures and creatures). To allow
this to happen is to deny dramatic insights with regard to human exis-
tence. It shares the deficiencies of modernity’s epic perspective in its ambi-
tion to read the ways of God in the world.
The alternative has the potential to be dangerous, too. The ‘flux’ which
is the passage of time can invite the ‘lyrical’ interpretation that it is just
flux – in other words, ‘banally free’. Christian theology which seeks not to
be epic faces the problem of how to interpret the ‘flux’ as not totally ran-
dom and undefined (which is to say unjudgeable and unredeemable).
A good way of doing this will be one which does reintroduce an element
of dramatic articulation, but does not bring us back in subjection to epic’s
attempts at marshalling command. This will mean working on the basis
that epic need not be the only alternative to lyric. Yes, the successiveness
of time (and our conceiving of analogies in time) calls out to be treated
theologically in a way that allows it a certain integrity and coherence,
because God creates and sustains it through his redemptive faithfulness.
Augustine, and theologians after him, have used an analogy with music to
show how flux can be thus articulated without ceasing to be open-ended.39
But (theology has the resources to say) this is not necessarily an epic perspec-
tive. It derives its life from the trinitarian God, whose divine life of love is
both the absoluteness of love (there is no greater love) and yet never ceases to
overflow itself (it is always greater). Another, more ‘existential’, safeguard
against the epic tendencies of a belief that ‘all . . . limited perspectives . . .
are themselves beautifully integrated into the cosmic poem’ is that it is
belief – it is participatory faith, not epic sight. That is how we relate to the
trinitarian God of love. The flux may be articulated, but it seems we can-
not (ever) view the totality of those articulations, because they are intimated
only in the flux. We learn to read ‘from the middle’, and this is necessarily
an activity of faith.
Nicholas Lash takes the idea of ‘metachronics’ from Bishop Christo-
pher Butler to illustrate this. Music for him too provides a reminder that
‘temporality has structures’. He reflects, then, that:
If we take metaphysics to mean our general sense and understanding of
the structure of the world, beyond particular categories and things and
instances, then we might describe as ‘metachronics’ our attempts to
understand the whence and whither of the world, its ‘metatemporal’
structure beyond particular episodes, epochs, stories and occasions.40
Now Christians, because of the fact that they have an ‘unsurpassable par-
ticularity of memory’ which furnishes their faith with its ‘defining cen-
tre’, are bound to seek a certain ‘metachronic understanding’ around
which their activities of ‘remembrance and expectation’ structure them-
selves.41 But this is faith seeking metachronic understanding. Metachron-
ics is every bit as vulnerable as metaphysics to ‘quite unwarranted impe-
rialistic claims to theoretical finality’. The restraint a Christian theology
must exercise is governed by the fact that ‘metachronics will remain, as
long as there is time, unfinished!’42
Making the relations that emerge in time ‘accountable’ by forcing
them through a supposed matrix which is pre-emptively exhaustive of all
their possible combinations is an overweeningly epic gesture – it is bad
metachronics, and therefore a false reading of the world. The mere notion
of ‘harmony’ or ‘resolution’ can act as a matrix of this prefiguring kind,
and so occlude the significance of time. And on the basis of all that we have
acknowledged about the dynamic, forward-moving, cultivated, sensitive
and social character of good analogical speech (its ‘time-taking actuality’,
to reiterate Williams’ words), we can say that where time suffers, so does
40 Nicholas Lash, The Beginning and the End of ‘Religion’ (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1996), p. 30.
41 Ibid., p. 31. 42 Ibid., p. 70.
Analogy’s unaccountable scaffolding 187
Von Balthasar’s failure only comes into view when one begins (as we have
begun) to be sensitive to the way in which a dynamic conception of ana-
logy can turn into an act of reification; time’s movement can end up being
construed as bad metachronic architecture; the pluriform nature of crea-
turely interactions can end up obscured by a matrix which believes that it
contains in itself (in logically prior fashion) all the relevant possibilities for
human relationship. Of course, the material resists it, and that means that
in practical terms the only way of sustaining an impulse to ‘frame’ things
in abstraction from the contingencies and bountiful vagaries of time is
through a forgetfulness of history – what P. J. FitzPatrick in his book on
the eucharist calls ‘selective amnesia’.43 In this section, I want to suggest
that this is what enables von Balthasar in his ecclesiology to structure
Insofar as the Woman plays the part allotted to her in [the eucharistic]
drama, she can be drawn in the most intimate way into the Man’s
fruitful activity; she can be fructified by him. Thus (and only thus) can
we say that, in the Eucharist, the community is drawn into Christ’s
sacrifice, offering to God that perfect sacrifice of Head and members of
which Augustine spoke in celebrated terms.
It will have become clear that von Balthasar’s treatment of the eucharist
as a theological topos is complex, and that we would be foolish to see in
it a complete evacuation of the area in which human participation comes
to expression. That would be to go too consciously against the grain of
his theological project, which – inasmuch as it is theological dramatics –
seeks to recognize all the scope and wealth that is proper to human free-
dom. But his treatment of the eucharist nevertheless manifests many
of the tendencies which we have identified as problematic in his theo-
logy. The eucharist may not be a theologoumenon which can or should
be dealt with exclusively in terms of its impact on human existence (on
our aspirations, emotions, compulsions, practices and so on). But though
not exclusively existential in significance, it is at least existential. By giv-
ing it a Marian still centre which operates, apparently, as the resolved
a priori condition for its human dimension, von Balthasar makes the
eucharist less dramatic than the terms of his theology encourage us to
expect, undercutting its existential significance. This ought to make us
concerned.
As well as being the Marian Ecclesia Immaculata, animated inwardly by a
subjective holiness like Mary’s, the Church also, of course, has an objective
and institutional ‘casing’. It is, to use von Balthasar’s words, necessarily ‘a
positive institution’. In relation to the Church’s structures and ministry, as
in relation to the eucharist, von Balthasar has an opportunity to admit –
even celebrate – the derivedness and situatedness of the forms they have
taken – forms poetically (which is to say constructively) participated in by
believers in the power of the Spirit and down the ages. But here, too, he
elides time. The Church’s structure, he says, like her basis, ‘cannot grow’
(Skizzen ii, p. 348/ExT 2, p. 331). Her forms of ministry are not to be re-
lativized (whether ‘in a liberal manner or by means of a theology of his-
tory (Tertullian, Joachim of Fiore, the Protestant Reformers)’ (Skizzen ii,
p. 336/ExT 2, p. 319)):
We may ask how long this period is, in which the Church’s structure has
this crystalline stasis. The answer von Balthasar gives is a stern delimita-
tion of the difference time makes. He denies here what elsewhere he tan-
talizes us with as a remedy for the ills of modernity (that is to say the dra-
matic reinstatement of time as the medium of our involvement in the true,
192 Theology and the Drama of History
the good and the beautiful). He states that the time of the crystallization
of love is the whole of time, until the end of time. The time of this crystal-
lization is:
the time of the winter that lasts until the Last Day, the time when ‘we
are on pilgrimage far from the Lord’ and need discipline and
impersonal severity because we are not yet separated from the sinful
world.
(s k i z z e n ii, p. 335/ExT 2, p. 318)
The preceding critique of von Balthasar has emerged from careful atten-
tion to his characteristic modes of thought and ways of managing his
material, and shows how the best possibilities of a theological ‘dramat-
ics’ are in practice insulated against on two different fronts by this pio-
neer of theodramatics, as well as by his precursor Hegel in similar ways.
The two different fronts are those we have identified as important all the
way through the book as a whole: the treatment of ‘subjects’ and the treat-
ment of ‘structures’ in relation to the ‘stage’, the ‘cast’ and the ‘action’ of
the theodrama.
So in fact, the critique developed so far will be even better described
as a twofold critique – or a critique with two prongs. The first – which
pinpointed the area in which von Balthasar most typically fails to hon-
our the full, ‘poetic’ capacity of saintly subjects – was a critique of his advo-
cacy of ‘indifference’ as occupying a supreme position among Christian
virtues. The excavation of this notion was largely undertaken in chapter 2,
and it became focused as a critique in chapter 4. The second investiga-
tion – which signalled the area in which von Balthasar most typically
fails to accept the role that time and its contingencies play in producing
the structure of the theodrama – demonstrated his compromise of an oth-
erwise sensitive theological discussion of history, an otherwise eloquent
resistance to premature ‘clarifications’ of the eschatological mystery, and
an otherwise vigorous theological defence of the sovereign glory of God
in his relation to the world of creatures (all of which are recognized in
chapter 3), by embedding, in the pathway of the dramatic unfolding of
49 Ibid., p. 236.
194 Theology and the Drama of History
50 Gary Morson and Caryl Emerson, Mikhail Bakhtin: Creation of a Prosaics (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1990), p. 420.
Analogy’s unaccountable scaffolding 195
struggle, suffering and death, it also becomes most mythological. The hell
of von Balthasar’s theology of Holy Saturday is, in effect, ‘totally remote’.
And it is this hell which is emphasized as the realm in which the trini-
tarian relations are acted out for us and for our salvation. Here again, I
think, we see the recurrent epic tendency in von Balthasar’s thought that
is prepared to sacrifice some of the dialogical seriousness of human exis-
tence. Gerard O’Hanlon remarks in this vein how critical von Balthasar
can be of ‘a position which ascribes relevance to the future, “horizon-
tal” history of the world after the Christ-event as an object of theologi-
cal hope’.51 Von Balthasar, he goes on to suggest, risks ‘downgrading the
reality of temporality’, reducing it to ‘a twinkle in the eye of eternity’.52 In
the account of the descensus, instead of a real attention to the great ‘time of
God’s patience’ in which the world lives and strives, we find von Balthasar
concentrating on intuiting the wholeness and integrity (the resolved dra-
matic shape) of the Christ-form – a form which is now confidently seen to
stretch to include even that which is utterly contrary to God.53
The task facing us now is to see whether there might be a way of mak-
ing theodramatics work better, in a way that does not have all the fault
lines of the Balthasarian model (nor, where it approximates to them, of
the Hegelian attempt at dramatic historical thought) precisely because it
does not ‘downgrade the reality of temporality’, but which retains all the
remarkable strengths that close conversation with von Balthasar, Hegel,
Barth, Przywara and others has made available to us. This is the task that
the final chapter sets itself to achieve.
This final chapter begins with a line from a dramatic poem: Gerard Manley
Hopkins’s The Wreck of the Deutschland. With the help of this poem, and
of some of Rowan Williams’ reflections on tragedy, time and the Trinity,
it will supplement the theodramatics that arises from Hegel’s and von
Balthasar’s thought (and that finds analogies and correctives in Barth’s
work) – the theodramatics traced and critiqued in the book so far. The sup-
plementation is intended to meet some of the deficiencies I have identified
in the theodramatic model bequeathed by its main proponent, Hans Urs
von Balthasar (and latent in his sources), whilst continuing to affirm the
value of a theodramatic approach overall; it aims not to deny what the idea
of theodramatics owes to those who have been my main conversation part-
ners in this book, but rather to take the idea further and make it even more
fruitful for the way theology thinks about history.
The problems bequeathed by the Balthasarian model have the power
utterly to disable a theodramatics’ value as a heuristic for theological
thought about history. It is worth summarising those problems here. They
include (i) the evacuation of time of much of its significance as the carrier
of divine revelation and as the medium for human encounter with life-
giving and death-dealing questions – therefore of time as an ethical and
what I have called an existential space. They also include (ii) the habitual
neglect of awkward or resistant material, and especially of particulars that
do not seem assimilable to a unified vision of history and theology in their
interrelation. More specifically (iii) there is the subjugation of one class
of ‘particulars’, namely persons, to institutions or what are identified as
[196]
Theodramatics, history and the Holy Spirit 197
1 Not by any means ignored by von Balthasar, but not made central to his project either;
pneumatology is only given any sort of extended room to unfold in the final volume of his
Theologik.
198 Theology and the Drama of History
I have chosen The Wreck of the Deutschland as the focus of this section for
a number of reasons. It is not, of course, a play; but it is dramatic, for
the precise reasons set out in chapter 1. It sets in tension with one another
the world of interior associations characteristic of a lyric standpoint,
and the fully mastered narration of all complexities characteristic of an
epic standpoint. The poetry’s voice is a voice attempting to speak ‘from
the middle’ of the events concerned, in a way that does not simply make
them a vehicle for the expression of some private state of consciousness,
but is impacted upon and changed by the events. Moreover, the poet’s reac-
tion to those events is far from resolved; it is in process, and it invites the
reader into the heart of that process. A second reason for concentrating
on this poem is that it is theological. Hopkins, like von Balthasar, writes
as a Roman Catholic priest with a faith in God’s providential activity and
self-disclosure. He believes in the continuing presence in the midst of the
material and human world of the God who became incarnate in Jesus
Christ. As both dramatic and theological at once, the poem is thus a sort
of theodramatics, though in a literary medium. A third reason for con-
centrating on the poem is that it is historical in its concerns. That is to say,
the events surrounding the wreck of the ship, the ‘Deutschland’, in early
December 1875 are not chosen because they easily serve ‘mythological’
or parabolic purposes; they are chosen precisely because they actually
3 Norman H. MacKenzie, A Reader’s Guide to Gerard Manley Hopkins (London: Thames and
Hudson, 1981), p. 28.
4 Ibid., pp. 30–1.
200 Theology and the Drama of History
Because the storm did not abate, the ship was beyond help from the main-
land for two nights and the intervening day. Only on the morning of the
second day did a tug from Harwich finally manage to reach them. It was
about thirty hours after the ship hit the sandbank. Some sixty of the pas-
sengers on board had died – ‘over a quarter of those who had embarked’.5
Forced from the lower decks to the main deck, many had drowned. ‘One
woman hanged herself; and a man committed suicide by cutting a vein’;6
many took to the rigging, from which some fell.
Among those drowned were five Roman Catholic nuns from West-
phalia – already victims of Bismarck’s anti-Catholic legislation in
Prussia which confiscated church property, closed religious houses and
withdrew the constitutional rights of the Catholic church. Forced into
exile, the nuns were on their way to Missouri. Reports from survivors of
the wreck recall one of the nuns – the tallest of them – ‘thrusting her head
through [a] skylight’ in the middle of the storm and ‘calling to God to
come quickly’.7 The bodies of four of the nuns were taken to a Franciscan
friary in Essex, and Cardinal Manning preached at their funeral. His
sermon was widely reported; Hopkins would have been familiar with it.
It is an eloquent piece which seeks above all to strike a note of assurance:
He depicted the nuns as unaffected by the confusion about them, so
resigned in the peace, and quiet, and confidence of God, that they
showed not the slightest sign of fear or agitation. When urged to
retreat for safety into the rigging [Manning claimed], the nuns left to
others the vacant places which they might have filled. ‘We have reason
to know that the calm, composed resignation, the Christian faith and
happiness of those holy Sisters, were an example to all those who were
in the like danger.’ The Cardinal expressed his conviction that their
intercession had helped many others to prepare themselves for a
peaceful death, and he ended with a prayer for the salvation of all those
who had been called into God’s presence by the wrecking of their ship.8
Cardinal Manning’s sermon made unreliable claims (possibly not inten-
tionally, but maybe because the pressure to make sense of the events led
him to take a ‘short cut’ to a certain interpretation of what happened). The
sermon is quick to claim that the nuns displayed a form of Christ-like obe-
dience which is instantly recognizable Christian currency – almost stock
imagery (dying to make room for others to live). The sermon does not, on
the other hand, do much to suggest the difficulty of what happened. It falls
on a modern ear as though from a great height – from a point where some
sort of acceptable overview of the horrific events of the wreck has been
attained and can now be shared with other faithful listeners.
Of course, Cardinal Manning was a man of his time, and his sermon
bears the marks of Victorian expectations about what a sermon should
be, as well as of theological habits of mind more common in his context
than in that of most twentieth-century theology. But the contrast between
his response to the disaster in sermonic mode, and Hopkins’ response
in poetic mode, is startling, and even though (as we shall see) Hopkins
shares with Manning a desire to ‘see the form of Christ’ in the events of
the wreck, Hopkins emerges as the man with the considerably more com-
plex, ambiguous and hard-won response. Words almost fail Hopkins at
a number of points, whereas there is no danger of this in Manning’s ser-
mon. Whereas Manning’s instinct is to ‘step back’ from the events in their
turmoil and immediacy, and find a place to make sense of them which is
somewhat apart from or above them (this being a common move in many
theodicies), Hopkins decides to go more deeply into them; to risk being
overwhelmed in the hope of finding something at the heart of them which
will not necessarily tidy up all the edges of the picture. To put it in a way
that is now familiar, Manning’s approach has the marks of an epic reading;
Hopkins’ is dramatic.
Furthermore, the decision to go into the events rather than to step back
from them is itself a theological one. It corresponds to the poem’s preoccu-
pation – set up at length in Part I of the poem – with the nature of the incar-
nation. If God is to be ‘read’ at all then that legibility will be in the midst
of human, material and historical reality, and not in abstraction from it.
This instinct is often expressed in eucharistic imagery: when galvanised
into uncertainty about where to find a standpoint (‘where, where was a,
where was a place?’ (stanza 3)), Hopkins tells us how he plunged inwards
(‘I . . . fled with a fling of the heart to the heart of the Host’). The mystery of
God’s presence in Christ is by no means apparent, as the conditional lan-
guage of stanza 5 implies (‘For I greet him the days I meet him, and bless
when I understand’). There are times, we realize, when no ‘meeting’ seems
to come, or when understanding eludes the poet, however much he longs
to ‘bless’. Instead, the mystery of God’s presence in Christ is an ‘instress’:
some inner, shaping dynamic. The ‘stress’ is located not in heaven, but is
(through the incarnation) at work at the world’s heart, growing in pres-
sure as though at a dam-head until it will burst forth with enough power
to flush the world clean of all the sins of humanity:
202 Theology and the Drama of History
And again, in stanza 31 of the poem, what could have been a pious state-
ment remains a question:
9 Ibid., p. 33.
10 Kenneth Surin (ed.), Christ, Ethics and Tragedy: Essays in Honour of Donald MacKinnon
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989).
204 Theology and the Drama of History
‘What did she mean?’, asks Hopkins (stanza 25); and what did her ‘single
eye’ see? After the jostling for a place from which to read what is apparently
‘unshapeable’, legibility seems suddenly possible in the light of the faith
of the nun:
The nun seems to have ‘read’ the ‘shock night’, and to have known ‘the
who and the why’:
We might say that the nun’s act of witness, divinely enabled, makes pos-
sible for others (Hopkins, and then through his poem further people too)
a new way of interpretation – a new ‘reading’ of the storm – that was not
there before. Her witness contributes to the formation of an interpreta-
tive environment, or ‘world’, in which certain experiences can be seen and
endured differently from the way they might otherwise have been. She
does this because she too has been the beneficiary of certain interpreta-
tive resources in the Christian tradition – especially, perhaps, interpreta-
tions of previous situations of suffering – but in having her power to ‘read’
expanded by these resources from the past, she also helps to create further
possibilities for future ‘readers’.
Her discernment of Christ in the events of the shipwreck, it should
again be emphasized, is not neatly transferable to any subsequent event
that resists easy acceptance; the attitude of acceptance even of devout
Christians must expect to be ‘almost unmade’ (stanza 1) by other ter-
rible events still to come; and their readings will have to put them-
selves at risk and develop accordingly. But the nun’s discernment of
Christ is nonetheless part of a continuing and communicable tradition
of reading – one which is responsible towards what, with Williams, we
may call the ‘unassimilably particular’ and to the reality of unconsoled
pain.12
12 Ibid., p. 88.
206 Theology and the Drama of History
Divine legibility
13 Surin, p. 76.
Theodramatics, history and the Holy Spirit 207
too, is to ask what account of God’s life can we give such that events like
this can be possible:
We do not begin with the trinitarian God and ask how he can be such,
but with the world of particulars, Cross, empty tomb, forgiven and
believing apostles, asking ‘How can this be?’. Hence MacKinnon’s
image of ‘transcription’: what we first know is the reality we
subsequently come to know as derivative, transposed from what is
prior.14
Just so, for Hopkins, Christ in his relationship to the Father and the Spirit
is to be thought in and through the very difficult, resistant particulars of
the wreck: this immensely painful story. Hopkins does not allow a pre-
formed Christian explanatory framework to be set up as a sort of platform
above the event, from which he can peer down at it (he is not, in that sense,
doing a Cardinal Manning). On the contrary, he enters into the event as
much as he can, in what we might see as a sort of risk: to see if he can
think this event and think Christ together in some way. This is an exam-
ple, I believe, of what Williams calls in his essay ‘commitment without eva-
sion’.15
So, then, there are important analogies between the way that the
particular – or the ‘narratively specific’16 – functions to discipline a too-
easy theoretical explanation of suffering (or, indeed, of any historical event
or series of events) and the way that the ‘narratively specific’ functions to
discipline the language and concepts used of the Trinity. But the Christian
conviction is that something genuinely true of the inner divine life is made
‘legible’ in this way, as the ground of what Christ’s life displays in the
twists and turns of its narratable specifics. A transcription has been accom-
plished in Christ: ‘trinitarian reflection begins in the recognition that the
encounter of Jesus with the God of Israel “transcribes” the encounter that
is intrinsic to the life of God’.17
Left like this, however, there remains the profound risk we have consis-
tently noted, of freezing a particular narrative configuration, along with
a single interpretation of that configuration (or restricted set of interpre-
tations of it), and claiming to ‘have’ the secret of the divine life. There are
parallels here to the story Michel de Certeau traces in his book The Mys-
tic Fable, following de Lubac’s lead, whereby the Church’s authenticity is
made dependent upon a supposed possession of (the meaning of) Christ in a
fixed form: for Protestants, in the form of the corpus of Scripture, ‘rightly’
interpreted; for Roman Catholics, in the form of the true sacraments and
the right (and power) to administer them.18 The greatest danger in han-
dling the central Christian stories of the Gospels is that these too become
handled as fixed narrative configurations with final meanings – and that
this is a danger with a Hegelian aspect needs little argument:
what is wrong with an Hegelian view of the Trinity is that it projects
the ‘achieved’ character of Christ’s union with the Father as enacted in
history on to eternity (and so destroys the proper contingency and
unresolved or tragic limitedness of that and every history).19
To recall the points made in chapter 3, this ‘generalizes’ Good Friday into
a ‘necessary moment in the universal dialectic’ – for all that is admirable
in Hegel’s ‘desire to take history seriously, to bridge the gap between a
remote eternity and the concrete temporal world’.20 It gives the past a spe-
cial kind of power (as what is ‘achieved’, and therefore not provisional or
revisable) and restricts the openness of the present and the future to new
arrivals of meaning which transform the way the past itself looks and the
way it continues to have effects through time. This is where, as suggested
above, the importance of pneumatology comes to light (the Spirit being
the one who continues to lead us into truth), grounded in wider trinitar-
ian reflection.
But before turning to pneumatological matters, a brief acknowledge-
ment of von Balthasar’s own discussion of Hopkins seems appropriate at
the close of this section, in the context of a chapter which has in many
ways contrasted the two men – presenting Hopkins as having the power
to spring Balthasarian theology from a number of its sticking points.
Hopkins’ poetry (and not least what von Balthasar himself recognizes
as the ‘great shipwreck poem’ (H ii, p. 725/GL 3, p. 359)) is far from
unknown to von Balthasar. Indeed, Hopkins’ work is held up as exem-
plary by von Balthasar in his selection of ‘Lay Styles’ of theology in vol-
ume ii of Herrlichkeit. The similarities between the two men are multiple:
the way that Ignatian spirituality informs their thought and their atti-
tudes to devotion; their desire to restore the role of images (and of imagi-
nation) in Christian thought alongside the use of concepts; the presence
in their thought of a strong belief in the value of self-denial; and per-
haps most importantly their passionate view that Christ is written into all
18 Michel de Certeau, The Mystic Fable: the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1992).
19 Ibid., p. 84. 20 Ibid.
Theodramatics, history and the Holy Spirit 209
being – that the creation must be understood via the incarnation, which
is its eternal presupposition, and that the sacrifice of Christ is ‘imprinted
upon nature’ like a sort of watermark through everything that is, under-
pinning its relationship to God, whatever may befall it.21
Von Balthasar is, moreover, inspired by Hopkins’s development of the
theme of legibility, which we have ourselves been exploring with partic-
ular reference to the role played by the tall nun in the Wreck. He likes the
way that Hopkins’s poetry advocates a ‘learning to read’ (H ii, p. 759/GL 3,
p. 391). It is on the face of it only a short step away from his own great theme
of ‘seeing the form’, and perhaps we should not be in the least surprised
to find von Balthasar greeting Hopkins as a kindred spirit with regard to
this theme, as here:
21 These similarities are well discussed in John Riches, ‘Balthasar’s Sacramental Spirituality
and Hopkins’ Poetry of Nature: The Sacrifice imprinted upon Nature’ in David Brown and
Ann Loades (eds.), Christ: The Sacramental Word: Incarnation, Sacrament and Poetry (London: SPCK,
1996), pp. 168–80.
210 Theology and the Drama of History
Pneumatology
God of Israel ‘transcribes’ the encounter that is intrinsic to the life of God.
God is constitutive of the identity of Jesus. But it does not finish there. God
is also constitutive, in a different sense, of the process by which in entirely
new, specific, unique and particular sets of circumstances (like those of the
wreck of the ‘Deutschland’) we come to new judgement about the Son,
Jesus Christ, in his relationship with the Father and his meaning for the
world.
As Williams writes:
God is ‘other to himself’ or ‘himself in the other’ not only in the
difference of Father and Son, but in that ‘second difference’ . . . that
enables the communication of the Gestalt of Jesus’ life . . .22
The tall nun in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem represented just this sort
of ‘second differentiation’ – a further transcription of the form of Christ,
for Hopkins, in a quite unique set of new circumstances whose particular-
ity is not ‘reduced’ or ‘assimilated’ just because of what happened on the
cross, but is the arrival of a new reading of the suffering and significance
of Christ. The wreck, despite its horror, becomes part of a new reading of
the movement of God. It did not all just happen ‘then’. As Hopkins might
argue (though the words are Williams’), ‘[n]ot only Jesus’ distance from the
Father but our distance, our critical “absence”, from Jesus, is included in
the eternal movement of God in and to himself ’.23
The poem is therefore one in which a serious doctrine of the Spirit is
implicit, as the divine condition for truthful ‘coming to judgment’. The
poem allows an insistent attention to historical events (including their
costliness), and an acknowledgement of historical pain. It allows a morally
truthful vision alongside and integrated with trinitarian language.
The task of thinking Christ in and with singularly new sets of histori-
cal circumstances is a task the Holy Spirit makes possible. That this task
is taken seriously does not imply that the truth that was in Christ has
changed, or that it was in some way only ‘partial’ truth. At the same time, it
indicates that new sorts of Christian thought become possible – and should
become possible – in history. And when new sorts of thought become pos-
sible, so do new forms of action, relationship and institution: new align-
ments of people, place and time. These can be just as much related to
Christ as earlier alignments were, through the work of the Spirit.
22 Ibid., p. 88; the idea of God’s ‘second difference’ is most fully worked out by John Milbank
in The Word Made Strange, pp. 171–93.
23 Ibid., p. 88.
212 Theology and the Drama of History
The Spirit makes history a medium of revelation, and not just an inter-
val, or gap, between revelation and its recipients. In fact, it might be said
that true history (which is to say history in its God-given character, under-
stood as the place in which human beings are intended to discover and
be united to Christ) is nothing less than the gift of the Spirit. The Spirit
releases human beings by opening them up to historical movement, and
confirms history for human beings as the place where they ought to be
if they are to know and respond to God. This means that the Holy Spirit
is appropriately described as the ‘God who sets us free’, to use Barth’s
words24 – more specifically, the ‘God who sets us free in history’, which
is perhaps a tautology (for in what other medium could we be free?), but
guards against the rush to locate freedom in some other, transcendent
realm. Barth writes:
In the Holy Spirit the history manifested to all human beings in the
resurrection of Jesus Christ is manifest and present to a specific human
being as his own salvation history.25
Eugene F. Rogers has written a deeply illuminating critique of Barth’s
neglect of the Spirit – a curious neglect given the rich promise of the
passing remarks just quoted, with their hints at the crucial relationship
between Spirit and history.26 Rogers shows just a little of what might be
extrapolated from these hints, in a way that magnificently ties together
the immanent life of the Trinity and the historical reality of human life –
safeguarding at once the fully co-equal divine role of the Spirit in the
former, and the intrinsically existential character of the latter. The Holy
Spirit is not just the by-product of the love between Father and Son, ‘wait-
ing upon’ them, so to speak. The Father and the Son ‘wait upon’ the Spirit
too. The Spirit delivers something to both, which is intrinsic to the divine
fullness. As Rogers points out, we see hints of this in Jesus’s conception,
his baptism, his being driven into the wilderness, his transfiguration, and
so on. The Spirit emerges in the New Testament as one who clothes, glori-
fies, crowns and consummates the work of Father and Son (and therefore
Father and Son themselves). We see a Spirit who does not just give gifts to
creatures, but, in a sense, bestows gifts within the life of God – above all,
according to Rogers, the gift of gladness. The effective working of the Spirit
is not a ‘grinding mechanism’ in the Trinity; to the contrary there is on the
24 Barth, Church Dogmatics i/1, pp. 448, 456. 25 Barth, Church Dogmatics iv/4, p. 27.
26 Eugene F. Rogers, Jr, ‘The Eclipse of the Spirit in Karl Barth’, in Mike Higton and John
McDowell (eds.), Conversing with Barth (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), pp. 173–90.
Theodramatics, history and the Holy Spirit 213
part of Father and Son a ‘joyful waiting in trust and thanksgiving upon the
Spirit to work’.27
It is this ‘antecedent’ (to echo Barth), inner-trinitarian ‘interval’
between Spirit and the other persons of the Trinity that becomes the con-
dition for the movement of creaturely witness to what the Son has done
in obedience to the Father. The difference of the Spirit from the differ-
ence between Father and Son (the ‘second difference’) is the condition
for a second response with and in addition to the response of the Son – one
which incorporates the myriad further responses of creation. These are the
‘over again’ responses of history, which Hopkins’ ‘over again’ response
to Christ in the face of new suffering and new Christian faithfulness has
been allowed to exemplify for us in this chapter. In Rogers’ words, the
‘interval’ which makes the Spirit’s consent different from the Son’s or the
Father’s:
makes room for the operation of human gladness and witness at the
advent of the Son, over long periods of history, stretches of geography,
and varieties of experience. The interval of the Spirit makes the
history to which Barth refers, and guarantees its contingency,
unpredictability, novelty and surprise: the Spirit makes all things new,
crowning the Father’s initiatives with a surplus of gladness in the
Trinity as in the economy. The guarantee of the Spirit in the economy,
that history will continue to surprise, and geography will continue to
vary, and personality will continue to delight, does not have to
undermine the infallibility of election, but allows the Spirit time and
space and psychology to overcome the resistance that we so richly if
vainly afford it.28
Human response – human witness – is part of the fullness of the divine
gladness that the Spirit delivers in the life of God. New human ‘readings’,
new human acts of faith and love, new human praise: all are gifts of the
Spirit, not only to us, but from us to God. The human glorification of God
in creation, and the multiplication of varied, praising witnesses – all of
which are the work of the Spirit – are geared to the ‘good pleasure of the
Father’,29 and indeed of the Son. In this work of the Spirit the fundamental
integrity of history is grounded and disclosed. In fact, as Barth puts it, ‘the
execution of this activity . . . is history’.30 Endorsing Barth’s view, Rogers
writes:
The Spirit in Genesis hovers over the face of the waters; it moves in
creation, and it moves over a creation perceived as fluid. Its movement
and the movement of creation in response to its blowing is historical.
The prophets proclaim in the Spirit the Lord’s response to the concrete
history of Israel. The Spirit in Luke inaugurates the birth of Jesus Christ
in history. The Spirit drives Jesus into the wilderness for a history
of temptation. At Pentecost the Spirit initiates the history of the
church – and so on. It is appropriate to the Spirit to arrange concrete,
particular circumstances and states of affairs, the messy details of
history, to suit the divine purpose. It is appropriate to the Spirit to
apply (‘applicator’) the work of the Son to concrete, particular people. If
it is appropriate to the Spirit to empower (‘liberator’) the human
response to the Word, then it is appropriate to the Spirit to do so
historically.31
The doctrine of the Spirit outlined here – of the Spirit as the guarantor of
historical integrity and the animator of authentic historical life – meets
the demand of a theodramatics that the ‘unframeability’ of human exis-
tence in time be respected. It meets this demand by endorsing (more con-
vincingly than either the Hegelian or Balthasarian attempts at historical
dramatization managed to) what this study has also established as essen-
tial to a theodramatics: the connection between the ‘unframeability’ of
human existence in time, and the ‘surplus’ of the divine life. The Spirit
brings the ‘more’ of the creation’s response to God into its own move-
ment of glorification within the divine life, and this bursts the bounds
of the human capacity exhaustively to map and explain the full signi-
ficance of its own actions, and their ends. Hence the previous chapter’s
emphasis that the only valuable sort of analogical approach to the divine-
human relationship was the dynamic sort that would allow God’s approx-
imation to our experience and understanding to be the approximation
of an opportunity; of an enticing divine accord; of a space to become a
dramatic historical agent.32 Hence too, in this pursuit of a historically
sensitive theodramatics, the previous chapter’s resolute conviction about
what we have called the ‘fittingness of temporality’s motive incomplete-
ness’ (and the always-unfolding creaturely exploration of truth in time) to
the analogical expression of God’s otherness.33
In preparing to bring this chapter to a close, we might ask whether
the pneumatological theodramatics outlined here – taking inspiration
as it does from the example of Hopkins’s poem – can be political and
34 Gerard O’Hanlon, ‘Theological Dramatics’, in Bede McGregor and Thomas Norris (eds.),
Beauty of Christ, p. 109.
35 Morson and Emerson, Creation of a Prosaics, p. 398. 36 Cf. p. 101.
37 Cf. Lash, ‘Friday, Saturday, Sunday’, p. 115.
38 Francesca Murphy, ‘Inclusion and Exclusion in the Ethos of von Balthasar’s Theodrama’
in New Blackfriars 79:923 (1998), p. 61.
39 Oliver Davies touches on both these points in his essay ‘Von Balthasar and the Problem of
Being’ in New Blackfriars 79:923 (1998), pp. 15–17.
Theodramatics, history and the Holy Spirit 217
If on the other hand we recall some of the reflections of our first chapter,
which dwelt on the way that the truth of our social existence must nece-
ssarily be part of a process of imaginative, interpretative and collective
construction, we may begin to see how a theodramatic description of history
might take shape: a theodramatic description of history with all the re-
quisite sensitivity to time, to politics, to institutions and to contingency as
elements which a responsible attitude to history demands be recognized
and articulated.
So far as Hopkins’ poem is concerned, the final stanza scotches any
suggestion that his own ‘reading’ of Christ stops short of larger social con-
cerns. A poem that has shown itself acutely conscious of its modern, indus-
trialized setting, and that acknowledges the play of political, economic
and religious forces in putting the nuns where they are on the night of
their death, ends with a vivid sense that the historical event of the wreck,
and of the nun’s Christian witness in this new historical setting, has the
potential to contribute to the transformation of a society and its relations.
He does not think the effect of her witness (and that of his own poem) is
just a matter of ‘reading’ – transformed Christian reading bringing about
a new legibility. Transformed reading cannot be separated from trans-
formed action, transformed relationship. Cast onto the sandbanks at the
mouth of the Thames, the tall nun is a ‘Dame, at our door’ (stanza 35) –
the door of a national consciousness – knocking and asking for a kind of
admittance for ‘her master and mine’. Such admittance will not leave a
‘rare-dear Britain’, with its complacency, its elegant agnosticism, its pur-
suit of wealth and empire, unchanged.
Rowan Williams writes:
The concern in this book with how theodramatics makes possible new
ways of seeing or reading – and especially in this chapter with how the
Spirit is intrinsic to such new readings – should not give the false impres-
sion that these new readings are not fully historically engaged, or that they
are without historical import. Theodramatics is as much concerned with
‘reconstructed relationships’ and how they conduct people into God’s
truth in Christ as it is with seeing things a certain way. In fact, when prop-
erly understood, the two necessarily appear as linked:
if we see the Cross [and to Williams I would add, not only the cross, but
Christ’s whole incarnate life] as the identification of God with the
limits of time, and learn from this a different reading of the temporal
world, this ‘seeing’ of the Cross, and through it of the world, is
concretely made possible through the existence of ‘reconstructed
relationships’ – not an internal shift of attitudes but the coming into
being of a community with distinctive forms of self-definition.41
Such historical embodiments of complex truth within the Church are
themselves part of a theodramatic hermeneutic – disclosive of what needs
to be recognized if the dynamism and subtle potential of historical life
before God (both inside the Church and outside it) are ever to be done jus-
tice to. As Christians have always known, these embodiments too are the
work of the Spirit. For as Williams says, the Spirit does not only form and
sustain the ‘new world of perception’ that unfolds in historical relation to
Christ; the Spirit makes it possible to relate this world of perception to ‘his-
torical, public transformation’.42 It is only by the Spirit that truth can find
expression, as John Milbank puts it, in a ‘genuinely public’, ‘traditioned’,
‘collective’ but ‘embodied’ voice.43 And this is another way of saying:
historically.
Postscript
[219]
220 Theology and the Drama of History
The way drama achieves its ends, as we saw right at the beginning in
attending to the dramatic wealth and intensity of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon,
is to explode the fantasy that one can have ‘careful hold of time’. Drama
shows that the self-assertion involved in the modern quest to measure time
has a dark irony: it may be that the only possession it will achieve is pos-
session of deadness. The ‘sureness of the hour’ so obsessively sought can
be a hollow gesture against a lost ability to know what (and whose) ‘hour’
it is. Modernity has taught us to ‘pocket our own continuum’ – epically
to commodify time, lyrically to privatize it. To modernity, it often seems,
the ‘angel does not speak’, and there is no ‘unaccountable scaffolding’ to
convey the divine light’s appearance.
However one quantifies and specifies time (calling this moment, for
example, ‘March’), one cannot, without recovering a more real investment
in it, articulate its quality, in which all the senses participate, and ‘green
explodes’ and there is ‘warmth upon the back’. Only then, dramatically,
does ‘March’ become ‘a yellow-while’.
And ‘while’ is a concept that cannot be pocketed: it is a blurring of the
boundaries of experience; more an invitation than a concept, in fact. It is
something one is ‘in the middle of’. It is not a word that modernity cele-
brates. Yet, as Jesus Christ told his closest disciples (his first constructive
interpreters), it is just this sort of time that is the time in which Christian
life must be lived:
A little while and you will see me no more; again a little while, and you
will see me.
(j o h n 16:16)
With these words he initiates the time of the Church, which is a time
dynamic in every way; a time where the disciples must learn new ways of
asking and new ways of receiving (vv. 23–4), in a historically transforma-
tive process (v. 20) which leads towards fullness of joy.1
Theology has long had the resources to school Christ’s disciples in citi-
zenship of this ‘while’ – in all the existential, unfinalizable, dialogical seri-
ousness of human self-determination in history. Theology has known the
importance of time’s passing, of history, in manifesting Christ’s presence.
Christ is given to the Church never as an object of manipulation or some-
thing ‘under the command of our gaze’; never ‘in the mode of a punctual
moment’, but as a continual gift (eucharistically), through the movement
1 I have developed this idea at greater length in my article ‘Making the Most of the Time:
Liturgy, Ethics and Time’ in Studies in Christian Ethics 15:1 (2002).
Postscript 221
of rituals made new time after time, and displaying many of the quirks and
accidents of our poetic reception of that gift.
That is why it was so disappointing that the Balthasarian theodramatic
project at key points kept alive the destructive polarization of epic and
lyric. One of the tasks of this book has been to assess how von Balthasar in
giving articulation to the idea of a theodramatics (and thus making possi-
ble a subsequent enquiry like our own) dealt with strains both of epic and
lyric in his inheritance. The conclusion we seemed bound to draw was that
while his instincts about the importance of drama were good – and are in
great measure realized (for example in his essays on the eucharist, which
stress how the commanding activity of ‘seeing’ must be complicated by
the more receptive and uncertain function of ‘hearing’ and the highly par-
ticipatory activity of ‘eating’)2 – nevertheless he sought at other times to
‘have luminosity controlled’. He would not accept the full implications
of his own choice of drama – particularly in the area of ecclesial life –
and so he would not allow that hope to open up which theological dra-
matics might yet offer: the reconstitution of life in which Christians learn
to speak and to ‘read’ with authenticity because their memories, under-
standings, passions and wills are permitted to interact in ways that are not
predetermined, while still embedded and sustained in social and institu-
tional forms.
But this cannot, and should not, be allowed to occlude the good
reasons why theology might make a potentially vitalizing move to
drama – the fact that good theology (including von Balthasar’s theo-
logy at its best) is bound to acknowledge the ever-greater dimen-
sions of that drama which includes every other: the drama between
God and human beings in and beyond history. Such theology speaks,
acknowledging that in every approach to truth a person operates from
within the drama, before the end of the play. Because the drama (made
present most compellingly in the eucharist) is indeed a drama wider
than any other conceivable drama – the drama of God’s action –
then it cannot completely be ‘framed’. It is a wonderful and profoundly
dramatic insight. This book has tried go a little further in realizing some
of its potential.
2 ‘Seeing, Hearing and Reading within the Church’ and ‘Seeing, Believing, Eating’, in
Skizzen ii, pp. 484–513/ExT 2, pp. 473–502.
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Index
[231]
232 Index