History, Tragedy, and Hope
For the first part of this series on Faith Among the Fractures, click here.
History's often presented as a grand narrative of progress—a steady journey from ignorance to enlightenment, oppression to freedom, and darkness to light. This idea is comforting. It tells us that things are getting better and that our hard work will lead to a brighter future. But what if history doesn’t follow a straight path upward? What if, instead, history is a mix of victories and failures, of great achievements but also deep suffering?
What if history's not triumphant but tragic?
To see history as tragic doesn’t mean ignoring our great achievements. The wisdom of Greek philosophy, the legal systems of Rome, the beautiful cathedrals of medieval Christianity, and the technological advances of today all show what people can accomplish. But these accomplishments often came at a cost. Almost all of them have also brought suffering, loss, or unintended harm. No new technology, political movement, or social change can erase the brokenness of the humanity. We programme, as it were, that brokenness into everything we do.
This challenges the modern faith that history naturally bends towards justice and goodness. The truth is, history is full of broken dreams. It more often resembles a graveyard of unfulfilled promises, where each revolution contains the seeds of its own corruption and every empire, however noble in its aspirations, eventually crumbles. The optimism that each step forward represents an unqualified good ignores the sobering reality that every advancement exacts a price. What’s built with one hand is often destroyed with the other.
Take Western history, for example. Democracy in ancient Athens existed alongside slavery. The Roman legal system, which shaped modern law, was built on conquest and violence. The Enlightenment’s celebration of human rights unfolded alongside colonial exploitation. The Industrial Revolution brought prosperity to millions but also introduced unprecedented environmental destruction and deep social dislocation. Even the scientific advancements we cherish have unleashed both healing and devastation—modern medicine's saved countless lives, but scientific progress has also produced weapons of mass destruction and technologies that undermine community and tradition.
This pattern isn’t unique to any one civilisation. The very freedoms enjoyed in modern democracies are the product of past injustices and conflicts. America, for instance, enshrined principles of liberty and self-governance while simultaneously benefiting from slavery and displacing or eradicating indigenous peoples. The British Empire, rightly criticised for its oppression, was also essential for Britain’s defiance of Nazi tyranny. The same paradox exists in nearly every historical development: moral compromise and noble aspiration walk hand in hand. The tragic nature of history is that there’s no accounting that can balance the scales between good and evil. Instead, history demands that we wrestle with complexities that defy easy moral conclusions.
Perhaps the clearest lesson history teaches is that hubris always leads to downfall. Overconfidence and moral blindness have brought ruin to civilisations across time. Every great power, believing itself to be the exception, has ultimately faced destruction. The cycles of history—of rise and fall, conquest and collapse—suggest that no human institution or ideology can permanently escape the fate of decay. Moral ambiguity is inescapable, and even the best intentions can lead to unforeseen suffering.
For Christians, recognizing history’s tragedies doesn’t mean losing hope. Jesus never promised that earthly kingdoms would succeed, but that his Kingdom would reign forever. His Kingdom isn’t built on power or wealth but on love, sacrifice, and redemption. It turns the world’s values upside down—the last will be first, the weak will be strong, and God’s wisdom will outshine human knowledge. Our true hope isn’t in human history but in God’s promise of a future beyond history’s failures.
The Eschaton: Transformation, Not Culmination
Christianity offers a perspective on history that challenges the modern faith in progress. The eschaton—the final reality of God’s Kingdom—isn’t the culmination of human history but its radical transformation. It’s not the end of the story we’re writing but the moment when God interrupts our narrative and reveals its true meaning. The eschaton isn’t something we can plan for or control; it’s a rupture in the fabric of history, a moment when the divine breaks into the human narrative, upending its logic and exposing the foolishness of its wisdom.
As St. Paul reminds us, “For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength” (1 Corinthians 1:25). The cross itself is the ultimate sign that history doesn’t unfold according to human expectation. It’s not the triumph of a great empire but the apparent defeat of the Son of God that becomes the moment of redemption.
This’s a truth that’s both comforting and unsettling. It’s comforting because it reminds us that God’s ways are not our ways, that his Kingdom isn’t built on human power or wisdom. But it’s unsettling because it challenges our desire for control, our belief that we can shape the future according to our own plans, that we can provide the ultimate solutions to the world’s problems. The eschaton is a reminder that history isn’t ours to master; it’s God’s to redeem.
The Role of Tradition: Memory and Witness
Yet, this rupturing of human history isn’t ahistorical—it creates its own tradition, which points us towards the God who makes all things new. Tradition, when it’s rightly understood, isn’t history written by the victors. It’s the memory of those who’ve rejoiced to “share in Christ’s sufferings” (1 Pet. 4.13), who bore witness to their Saviour in the midst of tragedy. The Church’s tradition doesn’t begin with worldly triumph but with the apparent defeat of the cross and the blood of the martyrs. This is a different kind of history—not one of inevitable progress but of faithful witness in the face of suffering.
This is tradition as defined by Hebrews 11. It’s version of history isn’t a list of triumphs. The “great cloud of witnesses” are those people who endured unimaginable hardships, who “were stoned to death, sawed in half, and killed with swords” (Heb. 11:37). And yet, as the writer reminds us, “These all, having obtained a good report through faith, received not the promise: God having provided some better thing for us, that they without us should not be made perfect.” (Heb. 11:39-40). Their lives are implicated in ours and those of our children, their story unfolds in us today. In this way, the Church’s tradition is eschatological—it looks forward to the fulfilment of God’s promises by seeking in the present to hold to the faith we’ve inherited from our forebears.
To live eschatologically isn’t to escape history but to engage it fully, embodying the hope and vision of God’s Kingdom while awaiting its ultimate completion in Christ. The Church, living in the tension between the “already” of Christ’s inaugurated Kingdom and the “not yet” of its final consummation, is called to be a sign, a foretaste, and an instrument of the coming Kingdom. This is a calling that requires both hope and humility, a willingness to confront the brokenness of the world while holding fast to the promise of redemption.
The Church as a Sign, Foretaste, and Instrument
So what does this mean for the Church? If history is tragic and the eschaton is a radical transformation, how are we to live in the meantime? I think the answer lies in the Church’s calling to be a sign, a foretaste, and an instrument of God’s Kingdom.
The Church is called to be a sign of God’s Kingdom, embodying its values—love, justice, mercy, and reconciliation—in ways that contrast sharply with the world’s values. In a history marked by hubris and violence, the Church’s witness is to live as a community of humility and peace.
Humility: The Church must reject alignment with power or prestige, embracing instead the way of the cross—self-emptying love. This means standing with the marginalised and acknowledging its own complicity in historical injustices.
Reconciliation: The Church is to be a community of reconciliation, breaking down divisions and working toward healing and restoration.
The Church also offers glimpses of the Kingdom’s fullness, pointing to the ultimate fulfilment of God’s promises in a world where human efforts are always provisional.
Community: The Church is called to live as a community that shares resources, cares for the vulnerable, and practices radical hospitality. In a world of individualism, the Church’s life together should reflect the unity of the Body of Christ.
Worship: Worship is an eschatological act, proclaiming God’s sovereignty and celebrating Christ’s victory over sin and death. It anticipates the day when his Kingdom comes.
And finally, the Church participates in God’s redemptive work, advancing His purposes of healing, justice, and renewal, while recognising that ultimate fulfilment lies beyond human efforts.
Justice and Mercy: The Church works for justice and mercy, advocating for the oppressed, challenging exploitation, and caring for creation. These efforts aren’t attempts to build a utopia but acts of witness to the coming Kingdom.
Proclamation: The Church proclaims the gospel through both words and deeds, bearing witness to the transformative power of Christ in every aspect of life.
Hope and Humility
Christian hope doesn’t deny the tragic quality of history—it transforms it. A tragic view of the past need not lead to despair but to wisdom, shaping us with humility as we acknowledge both the brilliance and brokenness of human endeavour. True hope is not in our ability to perfect the world but in our willingness to face the truth—about ourselves, our past, and our need for grace.
The Church’s hope doesn’t avoid tragedy; it confronts it with the certainty of God’s ultimate victory. This hope fuels courage, resilience, and faithfulness in the small, ordinary acts of obedience that plant seeds of the Kingdom. It calls us to live not as passive observers of history but as faithful witnesses, trusting that even in our weakness, God is at work. We don’t hope because the world is improving on its own, but because we believe in the One who redeems what is broken and brings life where there was none.
This hope anchors us. It allows us to uphold justice without despair, to grieve without losing heart, and to love even when it feels costly. It teaches us to wait—not with resignation, but with expectation—knowing that God’s promises will not fail. This is the hope that sustains us. It is enough—not because we are strong, but because God is faithful. And in Him, all things will be made new.
In the next instalment of this series, I’ll turn from the past to our present, looking particularly at how I think the Church can bear faithful witness in an age increasingly shaped by technologies and corporate power. Please join this conversation either on social media or by leaving a comment below.
