It's Providence All the Way Down: On Reading Genesis (and Exodus) as a Calvinist

Calvinism is a word that can mean all sorts of things, both where I grew up in the United States and where I now serve as a missionary in Brazil. As a Baptist, I have often found myself blushing over the years at some of the proud Calvinists among us. Too often they offer certainty where humility would be more fitting. Instead of mystery and restraint before the weightiest questions of our faith, they often claim to possess simple answers.

But in Grand Rapids I encountered another branch of Calvinism, a much older branch that always has and always will baptize its babies. From them I learned to appreciate the load-bearing role of divine providence for Calvinism.

Along those lines, Marilynne Robinson’s book, Reading Genesis, offers a beautiful meditation on providence throughout the entire book of Genesis. Robinson does not begin with systems or arguments. Instead, she begins where Genesis begins with the universe being spoken into existence and ends where Genesis ends with Joseph’s bones eventually being carried out of Egypt. In between she peels back the fabric of the story to suggest that providence may be present all the way down.

Simply put, providence is a way of looking at events that recognizes both human freedom and divine purpose. People still act according to their own motives and character, and from our perspective things often seem as though they could have unfolded differently. Yet, somehow these same acts also serve the hidden ends of sacred history. As Robinson writes, “the earthly and the providential are separate things in theory only” (p. 214).

One of the most striking features of Genesis is how naturally it moves from the creation of the cosmos to the griefs and dysfunctions of one wandering family. Robinson marvels at this movement, but she insists there is no contradiction in it. Human beings are at the center of the story. Love, grief, jealousy, loyalty, and longing in one family are not distractions from creation’s grandeur, but rather, they are part of it.

For Robinson, the earth is interesting because it hosts life, and the most fascinating expression of life on earth is humanity itself. Yet even more astonishing is the God who remains faithful to these deeply flawed people through every turn in the story. Somehow, amid countless decisions and failures, providence still allows “people to be who they are” while also allowing “humanity to be what it is” (p. 133).

This becomes especially clear in Genesis’s family narratives. Isaac’s household is not noble or heroic in the way we might expect from the family chosen to carry on God’s covenant. Rebekah schemes. Jacob deceives. Isaac is aloof. The whole family seems painfully adrift. Robinson observes that Scripture never tries to blur the difference between divine holiness and human frailty by giving us demigods like other ancient stories do. Instead, the Bible remains intensely interested in ordinary people — the children of Adam — who remain both mysterious and strangely beloved by God.

That realism is part of what makes Genesis feel so alive. The Bible does not rush to explain away mystery or tension. As Robinson says, it “does not exist to explain away mysteries and complexities but to reveal and explore them with a respect and restraint that resists conclusion” (p. 19).

After finishing Robinson’s reflections on Genesis, I found myself wandering naturally into Exodus, hearing her voice echoing in the background. There too providence seemed quietly, stubbornly at work.

Time passes. Politics change. Empires rise. Oppression hardens. Yet the God who saw Hagar weeping in the wilderness also sees Israel suffering under forced labor. He hears their cries and knows their pain.

Then we meet Moses, one of the unlikeliest heroes in Scripture. He never truly belongs anywhere. He is out of place in Pharaoh’s palace. Out of place trying to “help” his own people. Out of place as a shepherd in Midian. Even at the end of his life, he is denied the rest of entering the promised land himself. He can merely see it, but is never allowed to step foot in it.

No wonder that he names his son Gershom, literally a name that means “a stranger there”—as Moses explains “I have become a foreigner in a foreign land.” (Ex 2:23) And yet this displaced and restless man encounters God in the fire, removes his sandals on holy ground, confronts Pharaoh, parts a sea, ascends Sinai, receives the law, and hears the glory of God pass by.

At the same time providence is still quietly at work, through Joseph, through Pharaoh, through frightened mothers, courageous sisters, unnamed midwives, wandering shepherds, and reluctant prophets. And after Moses, providence continues still, centuries later, with you and with me.

Near the end of Reading Genesis, Robinson reflects that any one of us, if we truly understood our lives, “would realize that there was a role that required our assuming it, uniquely, out of all the brilliant constellations of human families” (p. 227). That vision produces humility. Robinson is reluctant to divide people too quickly into successes and failures under providence. In time, most of us will be forgotten as our graves will go unvisited. Like countless figures in Genesis, our names too will fade into obscurity. And yet, somehow, none of us is unnecessary in the unfolding of sacred history. It’s not just the Moseses, but the Gershoms too. God sees to it that our numbers rival the stars in the sky and the grains of sand on the shore.

That is the strange comfort of providence. It teaches us to see humanity — both within and beyond our little tribes — with something closer to the patience and tenderness of God himself. I admit non-Calvinists can also do all this and more, but the heart of Calvinism is mystery and the heart of biblical narrative is mysterious providence. Such things seep deep into my heart, thankful for a God who continues to covenant with us unreliable, imperfect, frail creatures.