Archive for the ‘Understanding Violence’ Category

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Reconciling Science and Religion by Britton Johnston

April 6, 2011

William Blake, The Body of Abel Found by Adam and Eve

 

Another reading selection from the article titled “How Girard’s Mimetic Theory Can Help Us Understand the Relationship Between Science and Religion” by Britton Johnston, a Presbyterian minister who lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The complete article is at Metanexus: The Online Forum on Religion and Science.

It might be helpful here to give an example or two of how mimetic theory can reconcile the claims of science and religion. Let’s explore the issue of creation, and the question of the existence of spiritual beings.

The question of Creation is fundamentally a question of the distinction between culture and cosmos. Archaic cultures, being unable to distinguish the two, use material realities to express cultural ones. The creation story in the first chapter of Genesis, is not a text about physics or biology, but about cultural origins — one that stands in contrast to pagan creation myths.

For example, in the ancient Babylonian creation myth known as the Enuma Elish, the warrior God Marduk forms the world from the dead body of his mother Tiamat after he has slain her. He hews her body into two pieces, and with the upper half of her body he forms the heavens, and with the lower half he forms the earth. For the ancient Babylonians, this is the story of the foundation of the world.

From the point of view of Girard’s mimetic theory, this myth is a disguised account of an actual murder (or, more precisely, of a series of ritual murders). The murder would have taken place as Babylonian culture was forming for the first time. There was a mimetic crisis, which was resolved only when one or more people were killed by the mob, bringing order out of the social madness.

This originary murder rescued these Proto Babylonians from a state of acute mass psychosis. As they emerged from the psychosis, it appeared to them as though the cosmos itself had been re-created. They described the event as best they could, given that they were emerging from a condition of total delusion; so what amounted in actuality to a lynching, came to be described as a divine event, a divine drama playing itself out in the heavens. Historically, there were probably more than one of these collective murders. This lynching was reproduced in sacrificial rituals. These ritual sacrifices came to be understood as re-enactments of the original divine event, enriching and refining the narrative into a creation myth.

All creation myths seem on the surface to be about the creation of the material world; but they are really about the origin of human culture. It would be natural to ask at this point, why cultures don’t just describe their origin literally and factually? Why don’t the Babylonians simply say, “we were in a crisis and we saved ourselves by lynching a member of our community.” Why the elaborate narrative? Why the obfuscation?

There are two reasons for this: first of all, as I indicated above, these events are generated on the boundary between psychotic delusion and sane reality; therefore, myths have a dreamlike, semi-delusional quality. Secondly, the culture has a stake in disguising the original murder. Every culture knows that murder must not be spoken of approvingly, because murder invites revenge and revenge escalates, plunging the whole society into bloody madness. Therefore the society must pretend that it is innocent of murder. Yet still the original murder must be remembered, because it brought the benefits of social order. Myths have this dreamlike quality because they are the result of a double-bind: they must simultaneously recall and hide the crime they trace.

The creation story in the first chapter of Genesis is not a literal description of the origin of species or of the origin of the planets; rather, this is a story which uses the concept of species and the image of the planets as symbols to describe something which was much more pressing to the ancient Israelites than the matter of scientific explanations. This is a story of the origins of human culture and consciousness. In this way it is not unlike the creation myth of the Babylonians. Yet it also differs sharply from the Babylonian story (and virtually every other creation story from ancient culture): it contains no sign of a murder!

In fact, scholarship has revealed that the first chapter of Genesis was composed while the people of Judea were in exile in Babylon. The first chapter of Genesis was the Jews’ response to what their captors insisted was the origin of the world. In their refusal to go along with the idea of a founding murder, the Jews became the first culture in the history of the world to claim that violence is not essential to the cosmic order.

There is no murder in the first chapter of Genesis. There is only a powerful God working hard to establish a place for everything and to put everything in its place. The language of creation in the first chapter of Genesis is the language of establishing boundaries. There’s a boundary between the light and the dark. There is a boundary between the dry land and the sea, there is a boundary between the different kinds of plants and animals. The story has the quality of the storekeeper taking care of his inventory, or of a housekeeper picking up clutter. Instead of a warrior God carrying out the sacred execution, the Jews revealed to history a worker God who establishes order not by killing somebody, but by cleaning house.

The principle of creation in the beginning of the Bible is the principle of difference. In the first chapter of Genesis, we do not have a description of a creatio ex nihilo, but an account of the imposition of difference on the primordial waters of chaos. The day is separated from the night; boundaries are set between the sea and dry land; the plants and animals are separated out, “each according to its kind.” The original creation was the ordering of chaos through the establishment of differences.

Why is this important? According to Girard’s mimetic theory, the primordial waters are an archetypical image representing the pre-cultural mimetic sacrificial crisis. The (pre)human community is in a state of crisis brought about by the imitation of everyone by everyone. This has produced a confusing maelstrom of desire, rivalry, hostility and violence within which life is impossible. Like a swimmer tossed in the chaos of a riptide, everyone finds it impossible to distinguish up from down, left from right, light from dark.

According to Girard, the first strategy to resolve this crisis is human sacrifice. But in the Hebrew scriptures, humanity begins to move away from human sacrifice. In order to defer the sacrificial crisis, the Hebrew strategy is to put in place a strong system of sacred difference.

Difference defers or delays the sacrifice by blocking the development of mimetic rivalry. It works because when boundaries are drawn between people, they tend to imitate each other less strongly. We are most strongly mimetic toward those whom we perceive to be like us. If we see the other as different, we are less likely to want what they want, return their insults, and so forth. Thus we are less likely to come into mimetic rivalry with people who are different (violence against those who are of a different ethnicity or who are differently abled is not technically mimetic rivalry; it is a kind of scapegoating that discharges mimetic rivalry and unifies the community).

Consider an ice cube tray, the kind that has the removable dividers. If you fill it with water without the dividers and try to carry it across the kitchen, chances are that the water will spill. But if you insert the dividers into the water before carrying it, you find it is much easier to carry it without spilling. Differences in culture are analogous to this. They prevent the free flow of mimetic rivalry from building up to a chaotic loss of control.

The first chapter of Genesis is a projection onto nature of precisely this concern for difference. As a subtle anti-Babylonian polemic, Genesis 1 substitutes a structure of differences for the violent structures built on human sacrifice. This is an enormous advance in human consciousness. The fact that it retains the archaic confusion between culture and cosmos should not be grounds to dismiss it. After all, we owe our very awareness of that difference to documents such as this.

Science still has some things to learn from Genesis 1. The theory of natural selection itself depends on the notion of the selfish competition for survival as essentially a “creative principle of the cosmos.” Numerous critics have pointed out that this idea is far too much like the Malthusianism and “social Darwinism” (which is misnamed – Darwin borrowed it from Malthus and Spencer and applied it to biology) to be entirely independent of cultural bias. Even in our scientific endeavors, we may be too susceptible to the tendency to project our culture onto nature. Perhaps science should stay a little closer to the insights of the Bible after all.

A Theory of Spirits
Mimetic theory opens up a new category for describing reality that hasn’t been available until now: “mimetic forces.” Such forces are recognized by every culture, but they are not described, merely named – spirits, angels, ghosts, demons, etc. These are forces with real power but that are unseen and hard to measure. Mimetic theory gives us the means to actually describe them.

A “mimetic force” exists in the relationships between people. A simple desire is a mimetic force. According to Girard, if one person makes an acquisitive gesture toward an object, another person nearby will tend to focus on the same object, with an impulse to make a similar acquisitive gesture. The original gesture, by stimulating a mimetic response in the neighbor, could be said to be a kind of “force.” The force draws people under its influence. They in turn add their own energy to the mimetic force, causing it to strengthen. One person wants the object, generating a weak mimetic force in the next person, who likewise comes to desire the object; now the mimetic force is twice as strong, so that a third person will desire the object even more readily than the first two people. The force propagates through the population, gaining power to affect individuals as each additional individual is affected.

If the desire so propagated is a desire for the well-being of others, it could be called an “angel”; on the other hand, if the mimetic force is a spirit of resentment, it will be called a “demon” – that is, after its violent denoument is done.

The definition of demons, spirits and angels as mimetic forces accounts for all the characteristics attributed to them. They are invisible, more “felt” than seen. They are personal, yet not contained within a body; they affect people to the point of taking over the human will; and they can be invoked or exorcised by ritual and prayer.

Such mimetic forces doubtless play a huge role in illness and disease. They can affect the functioning of the body and mind in profound ways. The “science” of managing such forces exists almost exclusively within religious traditions. It could be an extremely important advance in medical technology if we were to begin to explore the means by which such forces can be managed. If scientists are to learn how to do this, however, they will have to become students of religion.

Mimetic theory, if it is correct, offers a fresh and clear path for us to understand how science and religion are radically interdependent. I hope that those who read this article will be motivated to explore this new and potentially fruitful avenue of inquiry into the relationship between the two.

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Reading Selections From Girard’s Mimetic Theory And The Relationship Between Science And Religion by Britton W. Johnston

April 1, 2011

René Girard

This is from an article titled “How Girard’s Mimetic Theory Can Help Us Understand the Relationship Between Science and Religion” by Britton Johnston, a Presbyterian minister who lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Rev. Johnson earned his Masters of Divinity at the McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago, class of 1990 and organized the annual meeting of the Girardian Colloquium on Violence and Religion in June, 2004. The complete article is at Metanexus: The Online Forum on Religion and Science. I add this to my little collection of Girardian articles and summaries.

Culture And Truth
The question of the relationship between science and religion, like many other leading concerns of theologians today, has to do with the relationship between culture and truth.
It therefore seems appropriate to approach these theological issues anthropologically. Unfortunately, the field of Anthropology tends to be dominated by a “politically correct” suspicion of religion in general, and of theology in particular.

Fortunately, there is a new anthropological theory emerging. This new theory is congenial to theology, promising to give us powerful new concepts and tools to finally resolve these vexing theological questions. This theory is the “mimetic theory” of René Girard. It has been around for about 30 years, though it has made little progress among theologians and anthropologists until recently. What I would like to do with this essay is to introduce the basics of Girard’s theory, and to suggest how this theory might supply us with a fruitful new approach for reconciling science and religion.

Who Is René Girard
René Girard is what you might call a “literary” anthropologist — this despite the fact that his formal education was in neither literature nor anthropology. His Ph.D. is in history. His doctoral dissertation was on the subject of Franco-American relations after World War II. Although his “outsider” status might lead us to question the validity of his theories, in fact a lack of official credentials is common among those who bring revolutionary new ideas to a field of study.

Girard was born in France in 1923. He came to the United States in 1947, working on his doctoral dissertation at Indiana University. They put him to work teaching French literature, something for which he had little training beyond the fact that he was a Frenchman. In fact, he was often just barely ahead of his students, reading some of the novels for the first time, two chapters ahead of the class assignments. In the process of teaching literature, he began to notice certain patterns in the great novels, in their treatment of human desire

Deceit, Desire, and the Novel
His first book, Deceit, Desire, and the Novel, was published in French (with the title Mensonge romantique et vérité romanesque) in 1961, after he had become a professor at Johns Hopkins University. In that book he argues that great literature reflects awareness that human beings get their desires from one another. We are “mimetic” creatures, meaning that we internalize one another through imitation. A crucial aspect of the mimetic process is that it is the means by which we acquire our desires. Human desire therefore is not innate; rather, we “borrow” our desires from those we imitate. This brings us into conflict with those others. The person who is our model also becomes for us the greatest obstacle to getting what we want. Great literature, Girard argued, depicts its protagonists’ entanglement in these mimetic webs of desire and rivalry — but often with liberation at the moment of the hero’s death or expulsion.

Patterns Of Expulsion
Girard continued to examine the theme of expulsion, in ancient literature and primal myths. He found that every ancient myth contained traces of a pattern of expulsion. Every ancient myth, that is, except for the Bible. In 1972, he published La Violence et le Sacré, in which he argued that all religious myths are disguised accounts of actual historical events, specifically expulsions, the sacrifice of scapegoats.Even the Bible follows this same pattern, but with one important difference: the Bible is the first narrative to present the expulsion from the point of view of the scapegoat.

Girard went on to develop his mimetic theory in subsequent books, such as Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World (English edition, 1987), The Scapegoat (1986), To Double Business Bound (1978), and I See Satan Fall Like Lightning (English edition 2001). In these books and others, Girard and his followers have demonstrated that his theory has amazing power to clarify issues in anthropology, theology, biblical interpretation, psychology, political science, economics, linguistics, and on and on. It is truly a “grand theory,” simple yet powerful. Such theories are not in fashion in these postmodern and multicultural times; they are in fact regarded with suspicion. So far, there have been no grand theories that have worked. So far.

A Sketch Of Mimetic Theory
The preeminent characteristic of human beings is that we imitate each other (thus the term “Mimetic Theory”). This mimesis is not mere mimicry, but an instinctive and preconscious impulse. Even our desires–especially our desires–come from the imitation of others. Because we want the same things that others want, we come into conflict over who will possess the desired object. This rivalry is in turn imitated so that it escalates into violence. The rivalry does not remain limited to the first individuals involved, but others imitate it until it spreads to the entire community, generating a mimetic crisis. Violence threatens to destroy everyone involved, unless a solution is found.

The solution that our species stumbled upon was the mechanism of sacrifice. One individual is singled out by the community as the scapegoat whose death absorbs the violence in the community, delivering the community from this threat. The community mistakenly believes that the scapegoat was at once the cause as well as the all-powerful cure for the chaos of the mimetic crisis. The pagan concept of the gods emerges from this misrecognition. The deliverance brought about by sacrificial violence is the basis for the primitive sacred. It is also the basis of archaic religion and the foundation of human culture.

Human culture extends the power of sacrifice by creating myths and idols, which remind the people of the sacred event of the sacrifice, damping down the fires of the mimetic crisis. The function of a myth is to preserve and obscure the historical event of the sacrifice. By preserving the experience of the sacrifice, a myth reduces the need for frequent repetitions of it. But it is also important that myths obscure the murderous reality of the sacrifice, because to speak openly of murder is to risk triggering a new mimetic crisis.

Human culture inhibits the development of the mimetic crisis by also putting in place taboos, laws, and other forms of sacred differentiation so that the effects of mimesis are reduced, thus slowing the development of mimetic crises.

The biblical revelation (in both the Old and the New Testaments) breaks the power of this sacred violence by revealing it for what it is, the collective murder of an innocent victim. The voices of the prophets, and especially the revelation of Christ on the cross, demythologize human culture by forcing us to acknowledge our sacred sin. Because the sacred depends upon denial, the biblical revelation renders sacred murder unworkable. The Bible brings the workings of the sacred to an end. This is why Jesus is described in the Gospel of John as “the lamb of God who takes away the sin [singular] of the world.” (John 1:29)

The loss of the sacrificial mechanism would result in our self-destruction, if some alternate form of functioning were not provided. Fortunately, the Gospel also gives us new means to avoid mimetic rivalry, supplanting the old taboo systems, by calling us to imitate Christ. When we imitate Christ (“Set your minds on things that are above” Col 3:2), we are possessed by a desire for the well-being of our neighbors, in place of the old desire to have what the neighbor wants. This process of acquiring new desires transforms humanity and leads to a new and better non-sacrificial culture.

The Difficulty of the Sacred
One of the things that are hard to get used to with this theory is the idea that the “sacred” is a bad thing. It’s not as bad as the mimetic crisis, but it is nevertheless fundamentally bloody and violent. Violence seems to inhere in the sacred object like an electrical charge. Whoever draws too near runs the risk of inciting the crowd to attack.

Girard argues that without religion human beings could not exist. The greatest threat to our existence has never been starvation or predation, but our own violence. The origin and purpose of religion is to save us from this threat.

A Clear And Simple Scientific Hypothesis For The Origin Of Culture And Religion
The advantage of Girard’s theory is that it gives us a clear and simple scientific hypothesis for the origin of culture and religion. With this as an analytical tool, we can unpack theological problems in fresh ways, when they have to do with culture and violence. Most of the really difficult theological problems can now be taken apart in a few quick steps, like an encoded message that becomes easily readable once the key for the code is discovered.

Science and Religion
According to René Girard, the sacred is inseparable from the practice of sacrifice. In fact, the word “sacrifice” literally means to “make sacred.” This is “sacrifice” in the ancient sense, meaning taking someone (a person or an animal) and ritually killing them. The sacred comes into being with the spilling of reconciling blood.

For example, belief in witches is typical of the workings of the sacred in society. In virtually every primitive culture in the world, there is a belief in witches. Whenever things seem to be going wrong, when resentments build between people, and sickness seems to be everywhere, the primitive culture will posit that a witch is at work causing problems. The community sets to work identifying the witch. When they identify someone (usually whoever has the fewest friends in the community) in such a way that everyone believes the accusation, they put the witch to death. Upon the killing of the witch, the buildup of hostility in the community is discharged, and things seem to return to normal. It seems obvious that therefore the witch indeed was the cause of the problem. This in turn reinforces the belief in witches. This scenario could never function without a fundamental misrecognition of the situation. The “plague” that the witch supposedly caused was really a mimetic crisis. The witch was only a scapegoat, blamed and punished to help the community regain its harmony.

This cycle of crisis, execution, and renewal tends to reinforce the superstitious belief in witches, because experience seems to show that it works. People feel “deep down” that it is obviously true; that the world is filled with magical powers and that witches are a grave danger to society.

Jesus as Witch
The biblical narrative deconstructs these superstitions by presenting the familiar story of the witch from the point of view of the “witch.” Jesus occupies the same cultural location as the witch; but the narrative reveals that it is the crowd that is guilty, rather than the innocent – (and forgiving!) victim. As a result of this revelation, humanity begins (dimly at first) to realize that the founding “Truth” of culture is in fact a lie.

The historical and cultural project known as modernity, building on the influence of the gospel, is designed to demolish superstitious worldviews. Modernity begins with the assumption that what is purely cultural or purely a matter of what people feel “deep down” is not sufficiently trustworthy. Modernity applies principles of truth that it considers beyond culture, i.e., what one can observe in nature or what is consistent with the principles of logical reasoning.

Modern science is the result of the discovery that there is a difference between “culture” and “cosmos.” All archaic or “primal” cultures assume that the natural world is an extension or expression of their culture. They make no distinction between “culture” and “nature.” Animistic religions believe that every rock, tree and stream has its own “spirit” with its own will and power, and that this spirit must be treated with respect, even awe. The belief in spirits comes from cultural and religious experiences. These concepts are projected onto the natural world, so that the primal culture considers them intrinsic to nature. This is a confusion between culture and nature.

The reason that primal cultures have this confusion relates to what might be termed the “mythological imperative”: the sacrifice of the victim must be remembered (for its reconciling benefits), but it must also be forgotten (so that speaking directly of collective murder doesn’t generate violence). The description of the victim’s death is forgotten, but the spiritual power of the sacrifice is remembered, because the victim is said still to be present in the rocks, trees, or streams.

Or the stars. Many cultures, especially agrarian ones, put a lot of effort into the contemplation of the stars. This is useful because observation of the movements of celestial bodies is the best means of timing the changing of the seasons. The timing of the seasons is important especially in agricultural societies as the means of assuring a good harvest; an early thaw is less likely to tempt you to plant too early, if you know how to watch for the spring equinox.

It seemed as though the stars controlled the seasons. Did they control other things as well? The product of the sacrificial altar came to be projected onto the stars. The planets and constellations were said to contain the spirits of sacred beings — gods, monsters, and the hero-priests who killed them. These figures in the sky came to be seen as guiding life in society. The culture was written in the sky by people who believed that somehow the sky was writing itself into their culture. Thus did astrology — that entertaining but pathetic superstition — come into being. This confusion of culture with cosmos is common to all archaic cultures (and to a large extent it is found in Western modernity, even Western science, as well).

The biblical revelation is the force in human history that has made humanity aware that there is a difference between cosmos and culture. It has brought about this change by revealing that the sacrificial victim is not the cause of the society’s problems. Jesus, the crucified victim of the crowd, is revealed to be innocent. It is the crowd that is guilty. As the sacrificial myth is thereby demolished, the other myths and superstitions of the culture begin to follow one by one. We realize that we can’t trust ourselves to be right about what causes the rain to fall or how the stars influence our lives. So we begin to explore ways to know things apart from the influence of culture. Science, the effort to insulate our inquiry from cultural influence, is born. The rest of modernity emerges at the same time. Modernity challenges and tests our cultural assumptions about our world. Culture is regarded with a considerable amount of suspicion. Culture and cosmos begin to separate in our thinking. As René Girard has said, “We didn’t stop burning witches because we invented science; we invented science because we stopped burning witches.”

Biblical Revelation as the Source of Science
The apparent conflict between science and faith is the result of our discovery that culture and nature are not necessarily the same. Such an endeavor as modern science would be unthinkable without the insight that our culture may be a source of falsehood. This is precisely the insight that the biblical revelation brought into the world. Without the Bible, Western science would never have been possible.

Although science is the product of biblical faith, science in turn contributes to biblical faith, by accelerating the process of demythologization. Science acts as a powerful solvent to wash away the sacred superstitions that still cling to biblical religion. Science has put an end to our belief in the power of witches’ magic, for example. This is a good thing, because it removes one of the falsehoods that distract us from the message of mercy in the Bible.

Science has confirmed the biblical insight that illness is not necessarily a punishment from God, but a condition that has nothing to do with our moral standing. By helping to lift the moral stigma of disease, science has helped us to be more faithful to the revelation of Christ who calls us to be merciful toward those who are sick.

The scientific worldview made possible the “historical-critical” reading of the Bible, which in turn has liberated our reading of scripture from all sorts of violent superstition.

But science must be careful not to be arrogant in this. The insight that culture can be wrong is a tremendous advance. It has led us to find ways to explore the truth in things that are not influenced by cultural biases and superstitions. We know that an experiment well-constructed can lead us to solid insight. But we must be careful not to conclude therefore that religion is never to be trusted. The rituals, moral standards and narratives of religion contain real wisdom that has controlled human violence for millennia.

God As A Mimetic Force
Scientists should not assume that because the term “god” cannot be separated from its cultural fabric, then the notion of a god is purely false
. Mimetic theory suggests that indeed gods are very real, along with demons, spirits, and souls. But mimetic theory would describe them as mimetic forces, rather than metaphysical or supernatural beings. Science should be working on ways to describe gods scientifically, rather than dismissing the notion of a god as superstitious.

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An Introduction to the Work of René Girard By Peter Stork

January 13, 2011

Over the years, several authors have written comprehensive summaries of Girard’s oevre as well as book-length introductions. This article does not seek to repeat their work. Instead, Peter Stork attempts to introduce Girard by selectively engaging with his work. Beginning with the trajectory of Girard’s intellectual quest, Stork outlines first the main features and implications of his theory, followed by an account of his recognition as well as typical criticisms. Then he relates Girard’s anthropology to the Judeo-Christian tradition, and lastly — albeit briefly — address the question of relevance of Girard’s theory for the severity of the current global crisis. There are several articles about Girard and his theories on this site and I hope this article becomes a jumping off point for you to explore more of them.

The Trajectory of Girard’s Thought
The milestones of Girard’s intellectual quest are reflected in his major publications: Mensonge romantique et vérité romanesque (1961), La violence et le sacré (1972), Des choses cachées dépuis la fondation du monde (1978), and Le bouc émissaire (1982). In Mensonge, Girard links mimesis with desire and discerns its triangular structure or derivative nature. This discovery enabled him to unravel the hidden plot behind the human drama. Having located the motivational centre of humanity in mimetic desire and rivalry, Girard uses this insight to re-read cultural history in its entirety.

In La violence he proposes the theory of the sacrificial crisis and the collective killing of a victim as its resolution. He then claims that this mechanism lies at the root of all religion and culture. In his exploration of this anthropological phenomenon and its socialization, he acknowledges his indebtedness to Freud (but also criticizes him) and discusses the relation between mimesis and rivalry and how overcoming difference (which is the object of acquisitive imitation) also leads to rivalry.

From this he concludes that, for the imitator, the end of mimetic desire is the appropriation of the identity of the model. Because the imitator re-presents this appropriated identity as distinct or different from the original, such appropriation “eliminates” the other. According to Girard, this inevitable result of mimetic desire and its escalation becomes the defining act of humanity. Tragically, this cuts across the grain of social formation. Since conflict once unleashed will run its course until a victim is slain, sacrifice becomes the saving event in communities threatened by mimetic violence. The mechanism of mimesis assures that victims are seen as “monsters” responsible for the crisis. Their lynching thus promises a new beginning for the community after the chaos. Once slain, victims also become the saviors of the community.

In his later works, especially in Le bouc, Girard is no longer concerned with the definitive act of humanity or the “originary scene” but with testing his theory as he relentlessly probes many texts in relation to the scapegoat mechanism and the mythical concealment of violence.

In Des choses cachées and also in Le bouc, Girard turns his attention to the Judeo-Christian scriptures. In his view, the Old Testament begins a prophetic process that critiques the ancient mythological mindset of the sacrificial culture which always tells the story from the perspective of the persecutors. For Girard, this process comes to full fruition in the New Testament.

 Main Features and Implications
In Girard’s proposal, the “scene of [human] origin” lies in the horror of an outbreak of unstoppable violence within the archaic community. It is the internal crisis, the spilling over of violent reciprocity into the “interior” of their social space that fills the group with dread and now brings about the perception of an encounter with the “sacred”. This notion has important implications for Girard’s interpretation of the origin of sacrifice and the nature of religion.

First, sacrificial ritual originates with a human victim, not with animal sacrifices. For Girard, animal sacrifices belong to later substitutionary development. Second, Girard perceives violence as a reciprocal phenomenon, which, like vengeance, lends violence its self-perpetuating and interminable character. Therefore, the function of sacrifice and victimary substitution is the transmutation of reciprocal violence into a culturally “safe” ritual by venting it on a victim from whose death no one needs to fear reprisals. As long as this act is perceived by all as “sacred violence”, it breaks the destructive momentum of vengeance and transposes it into a protective one.

In other words, in primitive society sacrifice holds the impulse for revenge in check in the guise of religious violence. Third, this understanding throws light on the choice of sacrificial victims. To be “sacrificiable”, victims had not only to be sufficiently similar to allow substitution, but also sufficiently different and marginal to make them legitimate targets of collective violence that would draw the focus away from the community proper. This explains why slaves, prisoners of war, the deformed and children qualified. As they were not fully integrated into the community, their slaughter would not pose a reciprocal threat of revenge or blood feud.

Anthropologists have often related sacrifice to the notion of guilt. Girard denies this link. For him, sacrifice is ritualized vengeance, not an act of expiation. In primitive society, the orientation is not towards a wrongdoer but towards a victim designated to absorb the communal violence. Girard argues that the question of guilt only arises in judicially structured societies with their orientation towards the concepts of transgression and a guilty party.

Girard draws attention to the similarity between the sacrificial system of earlier civilizations and the judicial system of more advanced societies. He argues that they are functionally identical in that both fulfill the same purpose: to save society from its own violence. However, both will “work” only as long as they are perceived as having exclusive access to the means of vengeance. In the case of the sacrificial system this is established by the centrality of the “sacred”, and in the case of the judicial system by the “independent authority” of the law.

While each system declares its own violence “holy” and legitimate over and against any other source of violence, each equally obscures the fact that human beings need protection from their own reciprocal violence. Should this veil be lifted, both systems lose their efficacy. In another way, demystification robs both systems of their power to break the cycle of reciprocal violence. The ensuing weakening of the victimage mechanism leaves society open to loss of identity and to outbreaks of undifferentiated violence or anarchy. Under such conditions, society enters what Girard calls the “sacrificial crisis”.

When the notion of legitimate violence is lost, society is exposed to the irrepressible powers of reciprocal violence and its contagious escalation. Then, writes Girard, “man’s desires are focused on one thing only: violence”. The key to an understanding of this startling conclusion lies in Girard’s notion of desire and its relation to violence. To understand Girard’s notion of desire, it is important to grasp that in his scheme desire is “mimetic”. With this qualifier Girard means, on the one hand, that desire is distinct from appetite or biological needs such as hunger or thirst. On the other hand, it is to say that human beings imitate each other. They copy not only gestures, language and other cultural expressions but also each other’s desires. Conflict results when this process leads to convergence of desires on the same object.

If desire is mimetic, the conflictual nature of human interactions may be explained. It is a well-known tendency in ethology to extrapolate animal behavior into the human sphere. The idea that human aggression and violence are “instinctive” owes its existence to this tendency. However, violence in animals rarely leads to the death of an opponent or rival. A built-in mechanism terminates the combat before it reaches the lethal stage. Such a constraint is lacking in humans. Consequently, when faced with a rival, humans are defenseless against their own impulses which they do not know how to control. However, before we can understand Girard’s notion of “desire”, we need to trace his thoughts about the pivotal role he ascribes to the “rival” in relation to desire and its violent manifestations.

In Girard’s thought, desire does not arise in a subject as an autonomous and spontaneous attraction to an object, neither is a rival defined as the result of two autonomous desires spontaneously and concurrently converging upon the same object. Rather, “the subject desires the object because the rival desires it.” In other words, the desirability of an object for the subject lies not in the object itself, but in its desirability in the eyes of another. Girard explains: In desiring an object the rival alerts the subject to the desirability of the object. The rival, then, serves as a model for the subject, not only in regard to such secondary matters as style and opinions but also, and more essentially, in regard to desires.

We will not understand the intensity and significance of this “imitation of desire” until we see its essential motif. Desire not only seeks to possess the object to which the model points, but also seeks to be “possessed” by it, for the acquisitiveness of desire is not primarily directed at the object itself but at what it signifies, namely the model proper. In other words, this acquisitiveness aims at the very being of the one who finds the object so desirable.

According to Girard, it is the imitator’s perceived lack of being or his sense of ontological emptiness that drives the intensity of acquisitiveness. An existential void which the successful acquisition promises to remedy appears at the core of human desire. This acquisitiveness is therefore, as Fleming explains, “merely a path, the perceived privileged route, to the attainment of the ontological self-sufficiency detected in the rival”.

This dynamic renders desire essentially conflictual, and the ensuing conflict is irreconcilable, except at the expense of the model or a substitutionary victim. What is more, the outworking of this conflict locks both model and imitator into what Girard has called the double-bind in which they constantly signal contradictory messages to one another – “imitate me, but don’t desire my object”. This phenomenon, Girard contends, forms the basis of all human relationships and is, in the final analysis, the instigator of the sacrificial crisis where desire and violence are no longer distinguished. At the point of a mimetic crisis, violence begets more violence as each participant resorts to more violence to overcome the violence of his opponent. Under the dynamics of the double-bind, the distinction between model and imitator vanishes so that the mimetic crisis becomes a crisis of non-differentiation that threatens the cohesion of the community (which is built on distinctiveness) unless at the height of undifferentiated violence a surrogate victim is arbitrarily slain.

The unanimity of the collective murder causes the violence to subside and the vicious cycle of mimetic violence to be broken. This death and the ensuing peace (absence of violence) transmute the energies of reciprocal violence into sanctioned ritualistic forms so that their later performances occur as re-enactments of the scene of origin through which the cultural order is preserved. Religion is thus not an attempt to contact “the gods” but ritualized vengeance that prevents its uncontrollable outbreak.

The five chief elements of Girard’s “mimetic anthropology” may be summarized as follows:

  1. Mimesis In Girard, mimesis is not the copying of actions but the imitation of desire, or the replication of another’s attraction towards an object. In this definition, mimesis is acquisitive and desire is “suffered desire” that arises spontaneously when the object is valued by a mediator. Girard distinguishes between external and internal mediation. The greater the distance between the subject and the mediator, the freer is the relationship between them from the possibility of rivalry. In that case, Girard speaks of external mediation. If the distance diminishes, not only does the possibility of rivalry increase but its intensity also rises proportionately. Then Girard speaks of internal mediation, in which case the model or mediator has also become the obstacle. He or she now obstructs the desired acquisition while constantly signaling the desirability of the object. This model/obstacle dynamic shifts the value from the object itself to the obstruction which also explains why prohibition heightens the object’s desirability.
  2. Metaphysical Desire and Transcendence When mimesis progresses towards rivalry, the object becomes less and less important as desire focuses on the mediator become obstacle. At the height of the conflict the object is forgotten altogether. At this point, desire has become metaphysical and now seeks to possess not the object but the being of the other, in fact to become the other. The conflict is over recognition and prestige. Since human desire is mediated desire, i.e. it does not arise from within but from an external source, Girard interprets its triangular nature to mean that human beings are structured towards transcendence. Human desire is to be mediated by a truly transcendent spiritual source. Therefore, mimetic rivalry is the pathological variant of desire awakened by a false transcendence, that is, by the proximity of the desire of another human being.
  3. The Mimetic Crisis A further progression of mimetic conflict leads to the formation of doubles. The subject and the mediator of desire become more and more like each other. In this instance, the rivals copy each other’s desire and in the process erase their differences. Girard calls this point in the progression the “mimetic crisis”. Since mimetic desire is highly infectious, it affects groups and society to the point where it can spin out of control and threaten the existence of community. However, the operation of mimesis ensures that at the extreme the total reciprocal violence is vented unanimously on a surrogate victim which is killed. The murder of the victim brings peace. But if the cause for their unanimity is misattributed to the victim rather than to the function of mimesis aroused by the victim mechanism, the peace is based on a delusion. Because the resolution of the crisis demands the blood of a victim, the mimetic crisis is also called “sacrificial crisis”.
  4. The Victim and the Sacred According to Girard, this misattribution occurs spontaneously at the height of the crisis when the group transfers its violence to the victim. Violence is not repressed, but through the process of transference it becomes “detached”. This turns the victim into a god who miraculously transforms the destructive violence of the conflict into legitimate violence for the sake of peace in the community. The result is a double delusion. The victim is seen as “supremely active and powerful”,9 while its corpse has become the transcendent signifier of the “sacred” whose violence, like a double- edged sword, cuts both ways: it ensures the order of society but also has the power to destroy it. Under this delusion, the “sacred” masquerades as the cause as well as the cure of mimetic violence and as such represents “the transcendental pole of primitive religion”.
  5. The Scapegoat The term relates to the unconscious transference of violence onto another along with its associated guilt. In myths, the scapegoat is represented by “texts of persecution”, similarly in stories which tell the tale from the perspective of the persecutors. It is both a term in common language as well as a ritual act that communicates the dynamic and result of transference. By pointing indirectly to the need for transference, however, it partly discloses the underlying problem of the human subconscious which, since the originary scene is structured on the basis of a lynching, seeks to rid itself of violence and guilt by laying it on others. In short, Girard rejects the idealistic notion that it is natural for human beings to live in peace with each other.

Acclaim and Criticism
Girard’s seminal thinking has had wide-ranging impact on the debate about the origins of civilization and religious theory. Other disciplines have also found his thoughts attractive as the growing secondary literature indicates. On the other hand, his sweeping claims (all violence is rooted in mimetic desire, and human civilization is a prophylactic structure, a form of organized, albeit sophisticated, victimage that prevents mimetic violence) have understandably not met with universal acceptance.

Girard’s theory has caught the attention of a growing number of scholars. Not only has his work been widely read in his native France, where he was honored by being admitted in 2005 to the Académie Française, but also the English-speaking academy has begun to draw on his insights across a range of disciplines. International conferences have explored his ideas and the interpretive literature is growing. Girard’s collaboration with French psychologists Jean-Michel Oughourlian and Guy Lefort has produced a psychology of the “interdividual” that radicalizes the social dimension of the human self. Ourghourlian even attributes phenomena like hypnosis to human mimesis. Economist Paul Dumouchel and others have applied Girardian thought to such issues as market competition and scarcity.

The Journal of the Colloquium on Religion and Violence, Contagion, regularly publishes findings of research conducted with and on Girard’s theory. Biblical scholars Hamerton-Kelly and James Williams have applied Girard’s theory to the interpretation of the Bible, while Catholic systematic theologian Raymund Schwager makes wide use of the Girardian grid in his theological project. James Alison has examined the doctrine of original sin from a Girardian perspective while Gil Bailie has undertaken to bring Girard’s theory to a wider readership outside the academy.

While Girard has, no doubt, presented a most intriguing and compelling hypothesis, it is also controversial. When he and his followers proffer it as the ultimate explanation for all institutions of culture and religion, questions arise about the validity of assumptions, the nature of the evidence and the scientific method by which his arguments are sustained. One of Germany’s foremost Catholic theologians and Guardini-Award winner, Eugen Biser, dismisses Girard’s theory as an “absurd thesis”. German scholar Markwart Herzog has criticized Girard for drawing the Totalität der Geschichte from a single event-type. While he concedes that Girard has assembled much empirical material from mythology to support his “Kultopfer”-theory, Herzog remains skeptical whether the same material is capable of validating the assumption of an “Uropfer” the historicity of which cannot be validated. He also argues that Girard’s system is scientifically unsound in that is not open to critical evaluation and cannot be falsified by empirically grounded objections. This immunity comes at the price of being unscientific.

In an attempt to answer these charges, James Williams and Raymund Schwager have come to Girard’s defense. If Girard has called his theory “scientific”, it should be understood in the sense that it is “analytic” and not positivistic. Girard himself admits that his theory is not verifiable by the criteria of Karl Popper. James Williams has been careful to avoid the term “scientific,” and presents Girard’s proposal as a “heuristic model”, whose interpretive power should be tested rather than its factual accuracy. Similarly, the demand that it should account for every cultural detail is absurd simply because traditional variations inevitably develop over time. In this light, the charge of monism does not hold. Moreover, Girard has not claimed to write as a theologian, but has attempted to present an “anthropology of the cross”. Schwager has also defended Girard along anthropological lines and taken Girard’s model deeply into his dramatic theology.

Peter Oberhofer has taken up the question of the scientific status of Girard’s hypothesis again and observed that to pose the antithesis of a “scientific” and an “hermeneutical” reading of mimetic theory must remain unsatisfactory because the “scientific” issues raised are not likely to be cancelled by treating the theory as a heuristic model. This, however, is not to say that the latter negates the scientific character of the theory. It only draws attention to the inadequacies of its “scientific” categories to deliver on its own an adequate anthropological interpretation of its findings.

Bruce Chilton has been much more reserved in his evaluation of Girard, especially in respect to the notion of sacrifice. He also noted that Girard is frequently charged by his critics with “an excessively genetic concern with origins”. But Chilton credits Girard’s genius with the brilliant insight that mimesis is a renewable resource, which prompts the question whether humanity is inexorably tied to violence. Girard denies it. While scapegoats may be found as required, it is mimesis, not violence, that plays a primordial role.

Cheryl Kirk-Duggan, after examining Girard’s proposal from a blackfeminist perspective, echoes the concern that Girard’s theory is reductionist and onedimensional. Despite its claims to universality it lacks the capacity for an “adequate critique of women as protagonists and victims.” Theophus Smith has observed that Girard is disinclined to enter the realm of praxis and seems to leave the emergence of non-violent cultures to chance, while John Darr appreciates Girard’s unique approach that has “altered the landscape of such diverse fields as sociology, psychology, philosophy, literary theory, and religious studies”.

These are important observations. Most scholars acknowledge the significance and provocative nature of his contributions, while rejecting the universal nature of his claims. Girard has certainly provided the discourse on violence and religion with many profound insights and with a useful vocabulary. As the emerging literature shows, he has stimulated many disciplines including Christian theology to rethink certain areas that have been left unattended or excluded from the discussion. Therefore, Girard’s insights into mimetic conflict and the scapegoat mechanism must be ranked among the most penetrating intellectual discoveries. At the same time, I note that Girard’s theory, while elucidating the phenomenon of collective violence and envious murder, does not account satisfactorily for the depth of human evil.

Girard and the Judeo-Christian Tradition
In approaching the thought-world of the Judeo-Christian tradition, Girard has rigorously maintained his anthropological focus. This section traces his thoughts about religious relativism and the truth claims of the Judeo-Christian tradition. Already in antiquity paganism tried to relativize Christianity’s claim to uniqueness by pointing to the similarity between biblical stories and mythical accounts. The Passion account of Christ, it was asserted, differed little from the myths. Members of the pagan pantheon like Dionysus, Osiris and Adonis also suffered martyrdom at the hands of a frenzied mob. This violence too occurred at the height of a social crisis, and was followed by the triumphal reappearance of the slain victim. This “resurrection” was then interpreted as a revelation of its deity.

In search of a global, unifying theory of religion, ethnologists of the 19th and early 20th century drew similar conclusions. Although such attempts never succeeded, they displayed a form of intellectual imperialism reflective of the political and colonial imperialism of their time. Girard notes, that although many of these ethnologists were anti-colonialists, they were nonetheless motivated by the double passion typical of Darwinism: a passion for science coupled with a passionate antireligious bias. Both motivated their search for the essence of “religion” in order to discredit Christianity’s claim to uniqueness, to un-repeatability and particularity. The contemporary relativist claim that insists on the similarity of all religions has identical roots.

From Girard’s view point, even when differences between religions are discussed, they tend to miss the point because they omit the one difference that really counts, so that the conversation always ends with the similarity between myths and Christianity. Since these are too numerous and too obvious, the possibility that Christianity is unique is rejected.

What is then the essential difference between Christianity and myths? In the Christian presentation the victim is innocent and collective violence is self-evidently guilty, while in mythology the crowd is always innocent (even when the victims – as is sometimes the case – are also portrayed as innocent). Oedipus is really guilty and the crowd of Thebes has good reason for expelling him. But the Servant of God (Isaiah 53) and Jesus are indeed innocent. Their death is portrayed as an injustice.

According to Girard, Nietzsche has overlooked something decisive. The morality on which the Judeo-Christian defense of the innocent victim is based is not “slave morality”, that is, the malicious lust for vengeance of the weak against the strong. It is instead a morality which correlates to the truth that the victims are indeed innocent. This congruence of truth and morality escaped Nietzsche and those who follow him in his anti-Christian bias. What these critics of Christianity overlooked is the unanimity that the scapegoat engenders and its moral implications.

In other words, mimetic theory lays bare what goes on behind the superficial similarity of myths and the Judeo-Christian tradition. The chaos that precedes collective violence is the disintegration of human society which is the fruit of mimetic rivalry. To this all people are prone and, because it is contagious, rivalry and thus violence escalates. But mimesis also unites society against the “scapegoats”, who are thought to be responsible for the disorder. This apparent lucidity as to who is responsible is in fact the result of a delusion derived from mimetic contagion. The myth then is a phenomenon of the crowd. This delusionary construal is incapable of unveiling even the most improbable accusations which always centre on “oedipal” crimes, patricide, incest and plague-transmission. These crimes are projected on victims in an attempt to cover the crowd’s persecutor mentality.

Myths deceive in that they reverse the real and inescapable relation between isolated, powerless victims and society which persecutes them. The Judeo-Christian texts, however, unveil the truth of that relation which the myths seek to conceal. These texts re-establish the right relationship. Thus the Judeo-Christian tradition shakes the mythical system in its entirety. But this lie so exposed plays an important role in culture. Anthropologically, both the myths and the Christian story have their home in the same type of crisis. It is the same mechanism that produces the victims. What distinguishes the Christian tradition is its reaction to the crisis.

In the myths, the mechanism (Girard calls it “the machine”) works so efficiently that the unanimity it generates is total. No one is exempt from the violent contagion of the mob so that every opposition is excluded. The results are portrayed by the myths as “pure truth”. But under the impact of Judeo-Christian revelation, the “machine” no longer works efficiently. Indeed, in the Gospels it works so badly that the whole truth of the scapegoat mechanism is exposed. Girard argues that the extraordinary nature of the revelation is not undermined by the fact that in a global sense neither Jewish nor Christian communities have been more efficient than mythical communities in their resistance against violent contagion. That small minorities were, however, able to achieve it, testifies to the effectiveness of the revelation in a twofold way: it lends uniqueness to the tradition itself and then comes to life at its very centre when minorities resist contagion with mimetic violence.

While they were too small to carry the victory in history, they were nevertheless powerful enough to influence the redaction of the Christian texts decisively. Compared with mythical presentations, which always seek to preserve the unifying and purifying effect of violence, the Judeo-Christian narrative reveals that collective acts of violence lead to a “division” even in the gospel text itself. For instance, the synoptics let Jesus say that he brings war not peace, while the fourth Gospel depicts Jesus as bringing division wherever he presents his message. In other words, the revelation deconstructs a social harmony that is based on the lie of violent unanimity.

In respect of the crisis, the myths only represent the passive reflex, while the Judeo-Christian tradition actively reveals the collective scapegoat-producing machine behind it. This truth is inaccessible to myth. At the same time, Girard notes that the Judeo-Christian tradition is fully conscious of it. That tradition is, he writes, neither an ethnocentric stupidity nor rivalry with other religions from which it monopolizes and cashes in this truth claim. Nietzsche was correct on this point: No other religion defends victims in the same manner as the Judeo-Christian tradition. But if Nietzsche saw in it the mark of inferiority, we see in it an expression of superiority. Religious relativism is thus defeated on its own turf – anthropology.

However, from the perspective of incarnational religion, this anthropological emphasis cannot be thought of as independent of the theological dimension. As far as desacralization is concerned, Christianity is itself somewhat problematic. Is not the Passion story a throwback on archaic patterns whereby the saving activity of Jesus is mediated through a rehabilitated scapegoat, and is not Jesus himself a René Girard „Mimetische Theorie und Theologie“ in Vom Fluch und Segen der Sündenböcke, eds. Jospeh Niewiadomski und Wolfgang Palaver (Thaur: Kultur Verlag, 1995),  sacralized scapegoat?

If this were the case, argues Girard, the deity of Christ would have its roots in violent sacralization, the witnesses to his resurrection would have been the crowd that demanded his death rather than a small group of individual followers who protested his innocence, and the peace of Christ would be the same peace the world gives, namely the surrogate peace that follows the slaying of an innocent victim. The contrary is true. The Gospels proclaim an undermining of that false peace and the fragmentation of a sociality built on violent unanimity. In other words, the NT completes the process of desacralization by revealing the mimetic genesis of scapegoats and their founding and structuring function in human culture.

Mimetic Theory and Historical Christianity
As we have seen, Girard’s theory understands the effect of the Judeo-Christian tradition on history as one of a progressive desacralization of culture. This process is gradual and comprises several components. Myths are no longer being generated and give way to texts of persecution, sacrificial practices disappear, and surrogate victimage fails to bring social order even when the violence committed by persecutors is regarded as divinely ordained. But it would be a serious mistake to understand Girard’s argument as an apologetic for historical Christianity. For that, argues Fleming, Christianity had too readily absorbed into its own practices the sacrificial structures unveiled by the Gospels so much so that historical Christianity became “one of the principal mechanisms for hiding its own revelation”.

That the non-violent praxis of the early Church fell victim to the interests of the Empire under the fourth-century Constantinian alignment of state and church, is historically documented. In the context of examining the violence committed in the name of Christianity, this phenomenon has recently received renewed critical attention, stimulated largely by Girard’s anthropology.

Fleming’s comment that “Christianity absorbed Christ’s teaching in perhaps the only manner that it could: through the doctrine of the sacrificial atonement” may serve as an apt summary of these findings. This discovery does not excuse or minimize the atrocities of Christendom. The fact, however, that in the course of history Christians should have badly mistaken the message of Jesus does not subvert the message but rather corroborates it. : Yet the fact that the Gospel desacralizes the culture does not mean that scapegoating has come to an end. What it means is that the power of the scapegoat mechanism to unify the community and to hide its true origin has been permanently subverted manifesting as an inability to resacralize violence.

This powerlessness Girard attributes to the constraining influence of the Judeo-Christian scriptures. However, this influence will not lead to a reduction in violence or of its intensity in the foreseeable future. To the contrary, the ongoing failure of victimage will engender more violence as the “mechanism of the scapegoat” needs to function at higher levels of intensity as the social cohesion of collective violence loses efficacy. Because desacralization engenders a social environment where vengeance is more readily possible, humanity will experience heightened polarization and fragmentation. At this point in the discussion questions may be raised that highlight the severity of the current global crisis. If the generative mechanism of victimage has been unveiled, what is there to restrain the full revelation of violence? If rules of law are what holds modern society together, will they avert the crisis which the revelation of the victimage mechanism has let loose? Will such social constructs such as international human rights law prevent society from falling into apocalyptic violence and anarchy?

Today, humanity has at its disposal technological weapons capable of planetary destruction. For the first time in human history, the possibility of “limitless violence” exists. Girard calls it “absolute vengeance, formerly the prerogative of the gods”. According to strategists, this “pending” violence will – under the auspices of the United Nations and various non-proliferation instruments predicated on the values enshrined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights – keep global violence in check. Yet in the light of the foregoing, this looks like a fallacious conclusion. Modern victimage no longer unifies society. Such “unsuccessful victimage” leads instead to increasing tribalization. This demythifying result of Christian revelation generates concomitant pressure to use more violence. However, growing concern for victims – especially in the age of annihilation – also leads to political pressure to renounce violence altogether. It is from this perspective that we must understand Girard’s argument that humanity faces the fundamental choice between total destruction and the total renunciation of violence.

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Reading Selections from “René Girard for Holy Week” by Fr. Edward T. Oakes, S.J.

March 11, 2010

Edward T. Oakes, S.J., Ph.D.is Chester & Margaret Paluch Professor of Theology at the University of St. Mary of the Lake/Mundelein Seminary, the Catholic seminary for the Archdiocese of Chicago. As you know I have featured a number of posts on Girard, whose theories I find fascinating. In this article, published in First Things (You can find the original here.) back in 2007, he looks at Girardian theory from a Catholic perspective. Exactly what I was looking  for. I’ve grouped the posts on Girardian Theory in the category “Understanding Violence.”

A Key To All Mythologies
To read René Girard is to want to slap one’s forehead and say, “Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” If I might pump up the volume on my praise a bit more, he is the direct opposite of that sad figure in George Eliot’s masterpiece Middlemarch , the Rev. Mr. Casaubon, who spent his whole adult life pathetically trying to complete a “Key to All Mythologies,” a project that brought both him and his marriage to ruin. But Girard has pulled it off, at least in my estimation: Here we do have a key to all mythologies.

The Challenge of Blameless Tragedies
Although he started off as a medieval historian, Girard became more and more interested in literary criticism — to be sure, in the dreary debunking mode that would soon become the métier of the deconstructionists. But his outlook made a significant turn when, in the spring of 1959, he began work on a study of five novelists (Cervantes, Flaubert, Stendhal, Proust, and Dostoyevsky) that eventually was published as Desire, Deceit, and the Novel . He had been an agnostic for the previous twenty-six years, but a health scare forced him to reconsider his past convictions, abetted by the experience of his brother’s suicide earlier, where he noticed how difficult it was for his family to come to terms with that tragedy without apportioning blame.

The combination of these two events must have got under his skin while he was writing the book, for Desire, Deceit, and the Novel bears no resemblance to the poststructuralist efforts common in France at that time. As he recounted in an interview in 1997, he discovered that his earlier constant reliance on the “hermeneutics of suspicion” — always harping on the bad faith of the writers he was studying — was gradually leading him to a concept of original sin: “An experience of demystification if radical enough, is very close to an experience of conversion.” And so we are not surprised to learn that, while writing Desire, Deceit, and the Novel, he returned to his Catholic faith.

Mimetic Desire
As an added bonus, Desire, Deceit, and the Novel is brilliant, a tour de force of teeming insights, one piled on another — proof that literary criticism can sometimes make for a thrilling read. Taking a cue from Aristotle’s remark in his Poetics that “man is distinguished from the other animals by his capacity for imitation,” Girard saw how each of his chosen novelists depicted a protagonist who was besotted by a literary model he or she wanted to mimic.

Thus Don Quixote spent his life trying to emulate the fictional knight Amadis de Gaul; Madame Bovary modeled her life on the adulteresses she read about in romances; and the narrator in Proust’s In Search of Lost Time openly says, “I was incapable of seeing a thing unless a desire to do so had been aroused in me by reading.” In Notes from Underground , the narrator — a petty bureaucrat obsessed by what others (might) think of him — crashes a banquet put on by his former school chums (now mostly successful army officers) and tries to be noticed, all the while loathing them: “Smiling scornfully, I paced backwards and forwards on the side of the room opposite the sofa. . . . I was trying with all my might to show that I could do without them; meanwhile, I purposely made a clatter with my boots, coming down hard on my heels. But it was all in vain; they didn’t even notice.”

“Every man hath business and desire,” says Hamlet to Horatio, and that’s the key to Girard: Besides the needs we share with the other animals, we also have desires, or more exactly, learned desires — born purely out of imagination and mimicry — which Girard dubs “mimetic desires.” (Think here of the advertising and fashion industries, the “worship” of Hollywood stars, on and on, and everything Girard says falls into place.) But as Quixote, Bovary, and the “underground man” all show, these desires can never be fulfilled. In a deft formulation, Girard says that “masochists are always fascinated artisans of their own unhappiness.”

The Scapegoat
This inevitable frustration (trying to satisfy the demands of mimetic desires) always leads to resentment, which will collectively build up in society until it gets focused, like lightning in a charged atmosphere, and lands on a scapegoat. But the scapegoat can only purge this collective frustration when the sacrifice of the victim becomes society’s conscious act, meaning when the scapegoat is ritually slaughtered. This is the insight of Girard’s next great book Violence and the Sacred , whose title nicely encapsulates, and is encapsulated by, this central thesis: “Violence is the heart and secret soul of the sacred.”

Girard’s anthropological book is interesting in its own right, but I want to get to Girard’s later discussion of the Bible in perhaps his most theological work, I See Satan Fall Like Lightning . In this fascinating book, Girard shows no worries about some obvious formal parallels with the scapegoating rituals of other societies and the Christian doctrine of the Atonement.

Scapegoating And Christ’s Victimhood
He does not feel threatened by these parallels because he also sees a fundamental difference between scapegoating and Christ’s victimhood. In a provocative essay, “Nietzsche and the Crucified” (in The Girard Reader ), he remarks: “Resentment is the interiorization of weakened vengeance. Nietzsche suffers so much from it that he mistakes it for the original and primary form of vengeance. He sees resentment not merely as the child of Christianity, which it certainly is, but also as its father, which it certainly is not.”

Given the sordid history of Christian anti-Semitism, witch burning, heretic hunting, and the like, this gnomic passage might sound like special pleading on Girard’s part. But his retort to that more-than-obvious objection is subtle: Because of its doctrine of the Atonement, Christianity is uniquely placed to recognize these episodes as rank deviations from its true message; and thus it is from Christianity that society has learned to take the side of the victim. As he says in The Scapegoat:

The invention of science is not the reason that there are no longer witch-hunts, but the fact that there are no longer witch-hunts is the reason that science has been invented. The scientific spirit, like the spirit of enterprise in an economy, is a by-product of the profound action of the Gospel text. The modern Western world has forgotten [Christian] revelation in favor of its by-products, making them weapons and instruments of power; and now the process has turned against it. Believing itself a liberator, it discovers its role as a persecutor.

Liberalism’s Narcissistic Pro-Victim Indulgences
If you want to know why liberalism instinctively identifies with certain classes of favored victims but is so ruthless in its politics, there’s your answer. Crying crocodile tears over the genocide in Sudan is permitted provided we don’t do anything about it; and while we’re at it, let’s enjoy watching White House aides get their just deserts in court. Still, that’s better than approving the Islamist government of Sudan perpetrating the genocide. And that vestigial identification with the victim we owe to Christianity, however reluctant we are to act on our narcissistic pro-victim indulgences. As Michael Kirwin, author of a fine (if occasionally repetitious) monograph, Discovering Girard , says: When we see the scapegoating mechanism at work, this “makes us instinctive partisans for the victim. This history is the product not of an Enlightenment rationality, banishing the darkness of religious superstition, but of the evangelical impulse itself.” Even as early as Desire, Deceit, and the Novel, Girard was on to this liberal ruse:

Promethean philosophy sees in the Christian religion only a humanism which is still too timid for complete self-assertion. The novelist, regardless of whether he is a Christian, sees in the so-called modern humanism a subterranean metaphysics which is incapable of recognizing its own nature.

In another book, Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World , Girard drives home this point even more polemically, when he points out that utopianism (that ultimate project of imaginative mimetic desire, now become a full-blown monstrous Leviathan) issues directly out of modern humanism and is its true “subterranean metaphysic”:

The more people think they are realizing the utopias dreamed up by their desire — in other words, the more they embrace ideologies of liberation — the more they will in fact be working to reinforce the competitive world that is stifling them. . . . All modern thought is falsified by a mystique of transgression, which it falls back into even when it is trying to escape.

Again, if you want to know why contemporary art keeps preening itself on its “daring transgressions,” you’ll find the answer in Girard. Also, if you’re a puzzled secularist, wondering why religion is making such a comeback in the headlines, you need only go to Girard for the answer. As Kirwin rightly notes: “Girard has explicitly distanced himself from Marcel Gauchet’s claim that Christianity has brought about the end of religion in the world. Rather, he suggests our current humanism will be perceived as merely a short interval between two forms of religion.” (I don’t think Girard has been at all taken off-guard by the resurgence of militant Islam.)

Of course, that still leaves open the question of what that “second form” of religion will look like in the future, to which Girard has only this quintessentially Christian answer to give: “What makes our hearts turn to stone is the discovery that, in one sense or another, we are all butchers pretending to be sacrificers. . . . One thing alone can put an end to this infernal ordeal, the certainty of being forgiven.”

So What Is God Doing In All This?

All well and good. I hope readers of this short panegyric will find Girard as helpful in their Holy Week meditations as I have. But I can’t help but feel that he has left one question hovering unaddressed: theology. As he said in a passing remark in the introduction to I See Satan Fall Like Lightning, “[This] present book means to be a defense of our Judaic and Christian tradition, an apology of Christianity rooted in what amounts to a Gospel-inspired breakthrough in the field of social science, not of theology.”

Perhaps I say this because I’m a theologian by craft, but that concession seems to leave a lot of questions hanging — above all this one: What is God doing in all this? After all, the Bible says that “God so loved the world that he sent his only Son” and that Christ “did not regard equality with God something to be grasped but emptied himself of his divinity, taking on the form of a man, indeed of a slave, being obedient unto death, even death on a cross.” Both these verses use active verbs and thereby assert a direct divine involvement in the cross. Indeed, this is what the doctrine of the Atonement as understood by all the ancient fathers and medieval theologians means. (Anselm is especially clear on this point.)

Hans Urs von Balthasar’s Criticism
Not surprisingly, that most Anselmian of contemporary theologians, the Swiss Catholic theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar, took issue with Girard on just this point — most directly in the fourth volume of his Theo-Drama , subtitled The Action (or “plot”). There he points out, tellingly, that in Violence and the Sacred the words God and Christ never appear (although Balthasar concedes God and Christ are present throughout the book implicitly). But, more to the point, Girard adopts a position on the Atonement, Balthasar claims, that is oddly redolent of the early Karl Barth:

Girard’s synthesis is a closed system, since it wants to be “purely scientific,” jettisoning all “moribund metaphysics.” All philosophy is secularized religion, and religion owes its existence to the covert scapegoat mechanism. There is therefore no such thing as a “natural” concept of God. This brings us back to the “theology” of the young Barth (and also to Barth’s later theology insofar as he regards the analogy of being “as the invention of the Anti-Christ”); for Girard, religion is the invention of Satan.

Yes, Girard is surely Catholic in his deepest instincts. He accepts Christ’s divinity and his birth from the Virgin, for example. But by accepting these doctrines, Balthasar points out, Girard has “explode[d] his allegedly pure scientism.” Perhaps this is why we always hear the words power and violence in Girard but rarely the word justice. “Can it be proved scientifically,” Balthasar asks, “that the justice for which men long is nothing but power in disguise?” (Odd how Girard echoes here not just the early Barth but also the mature Nietzsche.)

Here’s the real problem: By completely bracketing out the question of divine involvement in the event of the cross, Girard cannot make clear how Christ can bear the world’s sin “unless we suppose that men themselves load this sin onto him.” But, for Girard, what are these “sins” that men pile on him? Without an adequate concept of justice, whether philosophical or theological, Girard cannot even speak of sin, properly defined:

Girard maintains a complete hiatus between naturalism and theology; they are not even linked by an ethics. In his view, the “omnipresence of violence” means that distinction between “good” and “evil” is illusory [another Nietzschean motif!]. Accordingly, he does not speak of “sin” but of “hostility.”

All that said (and I think Balthasar’s objections hit their target), Girard is no doubt an immensely fertile thinker, even — and perhaps especially — for the theologian. A careful study of this prodigious mind opens up vistas that are hard to gainsay. Not least, he shows how superficial are those liberal objections to the Atonement, now heard so often, that the New Testament’s doctrine of the Atonement is but a Jewish or pagan projection of patriarchal child abuse onto the godhead. (Not for nothing do many feminists object to Girard, prompting one dissenter in their ranks, Jennifer L. Rike, to wonder aloud if their criticisms might not indicate a reluctance to confront the issue of violence in women as well as in men, as Kirwin rightly notes.)

The issue of sacrifice, no matter how primitive it might seem to us in our sanitized culture — where we studiously ignore even so obvious a fact as how meat reaches our tables — just won’t go away; in fact, it comes close to reaching the very core of the gospel. For making that clear in our obtuse age, we owe a debt of gratitude to Girard. As Balthasar says, “Girard’s system, with its clear, inherent contradictions, has brought us face to face with this very concrete question [of God's involvement in the Atonement], and to that extent it has rendered us a service.”

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Selections from On War and Apocalypse by René Girard

February 19, 2010

I’ve been featuring various topics on a theory of violence promoted by Rene Girard, who is a French-born literary critic, anthropologist, and theologian. Elected to the Académie française in 2005, he is the author of such books as Deceit, Desire, and the Novel  and Violence and the Sacred . In the following essay originally in First Things, I’ve made selections, provided topics and emphasized significant points.  

A dense and complex essay, On War and Apocalypse, approaches the War on Terror from Girard’s theories of violence and his reading of the Gospels. As one reader wrote of our current situation:

The worst scapegoating episode of all human history took place in the lifetime of many living today. Only sixty-four years ago, hate and ideology combined with technology to “sacrifice” six million Jews. The Nazi “sacrificers” did indeed believe that the elimination of the Jews would solve the problems of their society. And they came so close to total success that Europe is now one of the most “Jew-free” of continents.

But today, sixty-four years later, Europe and the rest of the world (now, sadly, including our own country) are watching with only slight interest the preparations being made for the next round of the Holocaust. Iran, the world’s oldest “Islamic Republic” and arguably the only truly Islamist-jihadist power, is developing the modern weaponry that will permit them to take care of the “problem” of Jews in the Middle East. And thanks to the success of the “Zionist entity”, six million Jews are gathered together in an area the size of New Jersey, within mid-range flying distance of Iranian missiles.

It is clear that the Muslim world, at least throughout its Arab and Iranian spheres, regards Israel as the source of all their problems. Israeli democracy shames their primitive despotisms. Israeli economic prosperity contrasts painfully with their poverty and underdevelopment (even where petro-dollars spring from the very soil, their economies are embarrassingly weak and unproductive.) Israeli respect for human rights and human dignity offers endless humiliating contrasts. Arab citizens of Israel are better off, in every material and political way, than the “citizens” of any of Israel’s neighbors. And since 1947, the Muslim cry throughout the Middle East has been consistent: “Our problems (poverty, ignorance, despotism…) will not be solved until the Jews are pushed into the sea!” This fits Girard’s (or anyone else’s) definition of a scapegoat scenario.

Geo-political “realists” of course argue that a nuclear-armed Iran could be deterred from attacking Israel by the threat of retaliation. This was true of the Soviets, they argue. And it may be true of Iran, too, if the realists are correct in discounting the theology of radical jihad. If Islamist terrorists really don’t believe their own rhetoric, and are simply trying to bluff their way to some position of regional hegemony, then maybe Shoah Two will be indefinitely postponed.

But this “realism” all depends on refusing to take the Islamist Jihad movement at its word and imagining the solution to our Cold War with the Soviet state is going to be replicated again with the Iranian theocracy. European and American “realists” can safely think this way. Israelis cannot. In facing this imminent danger of another mass “sacrifice” of the Jews, Israel at least has its eyes wide open. Unlike Isaac, they do not wonder “Where is the sacrifice for the altar?” They know.

The question for Christians, and for all who recognize the scapegoat mechanism and its underlying injustice, is: Where do we stand? Not with the scapegoaters, of course. But are we content to stand on the sidelines, as spectators? Or do we recognize our obligation to stand against the forces of human sacrifice? Do we take our stand with the victim or, more Christ-like, in the stead of the victim?

The Process Of Hominization
My work has often been presented as a discussion of archaic religion through comparative anthropology. Its goal is to shed light on the process of hominization: the fascinating passage from animality to humanity that occurred thousands of years ago.

In all of this, my hypothesis has concerned mimesis: Because humans imitate one another, they have had to find a means of dealing with contagious similarity, which could lead to the pure and simple disappearance of their society. The mechanism by which they have done that is sacrifice, which reintroduces difference into a situation in which everyone has come to resemble everyone else.

What this means is that humanity results from sacrifice; we are the children of religion. What I call (after Freud) the “founding murder” — the immolation of a sacrificial victim who is both guilty of disorder and able to restore order — is constantly reenacted in the rituals at the origin of our institutions. Since the dawn of humanity, millions of innocent victims have been killed in this way to enable their fellow humans to live together or at least not to destroy one another.

This is the implacable logic of the sacred, which myths dissimulate less and less as humans become increasingly self-aware. The decisive point in this evolution is Christian revelation. Rituals had slowly educated humans; after Christianity, they had to do without. Christianity, in other words, demystifies religion.

And yet, demystification, which is good in the absolute, has proven bad in the relative, for we were not prepared to shoulder its consequences. We are not Christian enough.

The paradox can be put in a different way: Christianity is the only religion that has foreseen its own failure. This prescience is known as the apocalypse. Indeed, it is in the apocalyptic texts that the word of God is most forceful, repudiating mistakes that are entirely the fault of humans, who are less and less inclined to acknowledge the mechanisms of their violence. The longer we persist in our error, the stronger God’s voice will emerge from the devastation. This is why no one wants to read the apocalyptic texts that abound in the synoptic gospels and Pauline epistles. This is also why no one wants to recognize that these texts rise up before us because we have disregarded the Book of Revelation. Once in our history the truth about the identity of all humans was spoken, and no one wanted to hear it; instead we hang ever more frantically onto our false differences.

The Paradox Of Understanding Violence
Two world wars, the invention of the atomic bomb, and all the rest of the modern horrors have not sufficed to convince humanity, and Christians above all, that the apocalyptic texts might concern the disaster that is underway. Violence has been unleashed across the whole world, and our paradox is this: By getting closer to Alpha, we are going toward Omega; by better understanding the origin, we can see every day a little better that the origin is coming closer. Our fetters were put in place by the founding murder and unshackled by the Passion — with the result of liberating planet-wide violence.

We cannot refasten the bindings because we now know that the scapegoats of sacrifice are innocent. Christ’s Passion unveiled the sacrificial origin of humanity once and for all. It dismantled the sacred and revealed its violence. And yet, the Passion freed violence at the same time that it freed holiness. The modern form of the sacred is thus not a return to some archaic form. It is a sacred that has been satanized by the awareness we have of it, and it indicates, through its excesses, the imminence of the Second Coming.

Clausewitz’s On War
War, Heraclitus wrote, “is father of all and king of all.” That law of human relations was reformulated, a few years after Napoleon’s fall, in an office of the Berlin Military Academy. And the reformulation took the shape of a trend to extremes, the inability of politics to contain the reciprocal increase of violence. Its author, Carl von Clausewitz (1780–1831), left his book unfinished when he died, but it is perhaps the greatest text ever written on war: a treatise that the English, Germans, French, Italians, Russians, and Chinese have read and reread from the end of the nineteenth century until the present day.

Clausewitz’s On War claims to be a work on strategy. It discusses what was at the time the most recent example of the trend to extremes, which had occurred, as always, unbeknownst to those involved. Clausewitz spoke to us about his specialty as if it were not related to everything else that was going on around it, and the result has implications far beyond his discourse. He formulated and helped identify what might be called Prussianism in its most disturbing form, without considering the consequences of what he had identified.

Ours is the first society that knows it can completely destroy itself. Yet we lack the belief that could bear up under this knowledge. It is not theologians who set us on the track of the new rationality; that was done by a man who died in 1831 at the age of fifty-one. He was a military theorist whom France, England, and the Soviet Union detested, a feisty writer who left no one indifferent. His actual theses have no future. Yet there is a subcurrent running beneath them that needs to be read aloud, for it can reveal a hidden reality.

It would be hypocritical to see On War as only a technical book. What happens when we reach the extremes that Clausewitz glimpses before hiding them behind his strategic considerations? He does not tell us. This is the question we have to ask today. Clausewitz had a stunning intuition about history’s suddenly accelerated course, but he immediately disguised it and tried to give his book the tone of a technical, scholarly treatise. We therefore have to complete Clausewitz by taking up the route he interrupted and following it to the end. Completing the interpretation of On War is to say that its meaning is religious and that only a religious interpretation has a chance of reaching what is essential in it. Through Clausewitz’s text, the relevance of the apocalyptic texts becomes apparent with greater force.

We must not turn the author of On War into a scapegoat, as did, in their time, Stalin and one of Clausewitz’s most famous commentators, Liddell Hart. We shall also not be content with the timidity with which Raymond Aron tried to rehabilitate him. The reason the text is not yet fully understood is perhaps because it has been attacked and defended too often. It is as if we have not yet wanted to understand the central intuition that it seeks to hide.

This constant denial is interesting. Clausewitz was possessed, like all the great writers, by resentment. It was because he wanted to be more rational than the strategists who preceded him that he suddenly put his finger on an aspect of reality that is absolutely irrational. Then he retreated and tried to shut his eyes.

Clausewitz conceived relations among men as mimetic, in spite of his philosophical approach being that of Enlightenment rationalism. He provided all the means for showing that the world is tending more and more to extremes, and yet his imagination always thwarted and limited his intuitions. Clausewitz and his commentators are hampered by their rationalism. This is as good a proof as any that a different kind of rationality is needed to understand the reality of what he glimpsed.

Durch diese Wechselwirkung wieder das Streben nach dem Äußersten, he wrote in his first chapter: “War is an act of violence, which in its application knows no bounds; as one dictates the law to the other, there arises a sort of reciprocal action, which, in the conception, must lead to an extreme.” Without realizing it, Clausewitz discovered not only the apocalyptic formula but also that it is bound up with mimetic rivalry. Where can this truth be understood in a world that continues to close its eyes to the incalculable consequences of mimetic rivalry? Not only was Clausewitz right, in opposition to Hegel and all modern wisdom, but what he was right about has terrible implications for humanity. This warmonger alone saw certain things.

Christ And The Apocalypse
Christ allows us to face this reality without sinking into madness. The apocalypse does not announce the end of the world; it creates hope. If we suddenly see reality, we do not experience the absolute despair of an unthinking modernity but rediscover a world where things have meaning. Hope is possible only if we dare to think about the danger at hand, but this requires opposing both nihilists, for whom everything is only language, and pragmatic realists, who reject the idea that intelligence can attain truth: heads of state, bankers, and soldiers who claim to be saving us when in fact they are plunging us deeper into devastation each day.

By accepting to be crucified, Christ brought to light what had been “hidden since the foundation of the world” — the foundation itself, the unanimous murder that appeared in broad daylight for the first time on the Cross. In order to function, archaic religions need to hide their founding murder, which was being repeated continually in ritual sacrifices, thereby protecting human societies from their own violence. By revealing the founding murder, Christianity destroyed the ignorance and superstition that are indispensable to such religions. It thus made possible an advance in knowledge that was until then unimaginable.

Freed of sacrificial constraints, the human mind invented science, technology, and all the best and worst of culture. Our civilization is the most creative and powerful ever known, but also the most fragile and threatened because it no longer has the safety rails of archaic religion. Without sacrifice in the broad sense, it could destroy itself if it does not take care, which clearly it is not doing.

The Protective System Of Scapegoats
Was Paul a megalomaniac when he said in the First Letter to the Corinthians that “none of the rulers of this age understood this; for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of Glory”? I do not think so. The rulers of the age, and all that Paul calls powers and principalities, were state structures based on the founding murder, which was effective because hidden. In the context, the leading power was the Roman Empire, which was essentially evil in the absolute but indispensable in the relative — and better than the total destruction about which the Christian revelation warns us. Once again, this does not mean that Christian revelation is bad. It is wholly good, but we are unable to come to terms with it.

A scapegoat remains effective as long as we believe in its guilt. Having a scapegoat means not knowing that we have one. Learning that we have a scapegoat is to lose it forever and to expose ourselves to mimetic conflicts with no possible resolution. This is the implacable law of the trend to extremes. The protective system of scapegoats is finally destroyed by the Crucifixion narratives as they reveal Jesus’ innocence and, little by little, that of all analogous victims. The process of education away from violent sacrifice thus got underway, but it moved very slowly, making advances that were almost always unconscious. It is only today that it has had increasingly remarkable results in terms of our comfort — and at the same time proved ever more dangerous for the future of life on Earth.

To make the revelation wholly good and not threatening at all, humans have only to adopt the behavior recommended by Christ: Abstain completely from retaliation and renounce the trend to extremes. Indeed, if the trend to extremes continues, it will lead straight to the extinction of all life on the planet. This is the possibility that Raymond Aron glimpsed when reading Clausewitz. He then wrote an impressive work to expel apocalyptic logic from his mind and persuade himself at all costs that the worst could be avoided, that deterrence would always triumph. This budding religious clairvoyance is superior to what most people are capable of, but insufficient. We have to take the interpretation of the text further. The interpretation has to be finished.

A Founding Murder In Reverse
Since the beginning of the “novelistic conversion” in my 1961 study Deceit, Desire, and the Novel, all of my books have been more or less explicit apologies of Christianity. Christianity is a founding murder in reverse, which illuminates what has to remain hidden to produce ritual, sacrificial religions. Paul compared it to food for adults, in contrast with food for children, which is what archaic religions were. Nietzsche himself sometimes had intuitions of this kind regarding the Greeks’ “infantile” character.

To make the situation even more perverse, however, Christian revelation is the paradoxical victim of the knowledge that it provides. Absurdly, it is conflated with myth, which it clearly is not, and doubly misunderstood by both its enemies and partisans, who tend to confuse it with one of the archaic religions that it demystifies. Yet all demystification comes from Christianity. Even better: The only true religion is the one that demystifies archaic religions.

Participating In The Divinity Of Christ
Christ came to take the victim’s place. He placed himself at the heart of the system to reveal its hidden workings.
The second Adam, to use St. Paul’s expression, revealed to us how the first came to be. The Passion teaches us that humanity results from sacrifice, is born with religion. Only religion has been able to contain the conflicts that would have otherwise destroyed the first groups of humans. Mimetic theory does not seek to demonstrate that myth is null but to shed light on the fundamental discontinuity and continuity between the Passion and archaic religion. Christ’s divinity, which precedes the Crucifixion, introduces a radical rupture from the archaic, but Christ’s resurrection is in complete continuity with all forms of religion that preceded it. The way out of archaic religion comes at this price. A good theory about humanity must be based on a good theory about God.

People in the process of being educated, who are not yet fully human, can become so only by measuring themselves against the divine, and there comes a time when God can reveal himself fully to them. It is understandable that Christ frightened the apostles. He is also, however, the only model, the one that places man at just the right distance from the divine. Christ came to reveal that his kingdom was not of this world but that humans, once they have understood the mechanisms of their own violence, can have an accurate intuition of what is beyond it. We can all participate in the divinity of Christ so long as we renounce our own violence.

And yet, we now know, in part thanks to Clausewitz, that humans will not renounce it. The paradox is thus that we are starting to grasp the gospel message at the moment when the trend to extremes is becoming the unique law of history.

The Terrifying Meaning Of History
Christian revelation has confirmed all religions in its relation to the divine that is rejected by the modern world. It confirms what religions have glimpsed. In a way, it is because Christ accepted the mold of false resurrections that he is truly risen. The beneficiaries of archaic resurrections that reestablished peace and order were in a real relation to the divine. There was something Christian in all myths. By revealing the victims’ innocence, however, the Passion makes positive what was still negative in myths: We now know that victims are never guilty. Satan thus becomes the name of a sacred that is revealed and devalued through Christ’s intervention.

At present, the wise and the discerning (which I suppose now refers to academics) are furiously redoubling their attacks on Christianity and once again congratulating themselves on its forthcoming demise. These unfortunates do not see that their skepticism itself is a byproduct of Christian religion. While it is good to get rid of the sacrificial idiocies of the past in order to accelerate progress, eliminating obstacles to humanity’s forward march and facilitating the invention and production of what will make our lives more prosperous and comfortable (at least in the West), it is nonetheless true that sacrificial stupidity was also what prevented us from perfecting ways of killing one another.

Paradoxically, stupid sacrifice is what we are most in need of at present. Few Christians still talk about the apocalypse, and they usually have a completely mythological conception of it. They think that the violence of the end of time will come from God himself. They cannot do without a cruel God. Strangely, they do not see that the violence we ourselves are in the process of amassing and that is looming over our own heads is entirely sufficient to trigger the worst. They have no sense of humor.

Violence is a terrible adversary, since it always wins. Desiring war can thus become a spiritual attitude. We have to fight a violence that can no longer be controlled or mastered. More than ever, I am convinced that history has meaning, and that its meaning is terrifying.

In fact, the apocalyptic moment serves as a link between Clausewitz’s treatise and considerations on the destiny of Europe. If we take to its logical conclusion our analysis of a new global escalation of extremes, we have to consider the complete novelty of the situation since September 11, 2001. Terrorism has again raised the level of violence up a notch. It is one of the last metastases of the cancer that has torn the Western world apart. Terrorism is the vanguard of a general revenge against the West’s wealth. It is a very violent and unpredictable revival of conquest, which is all the more terrifying because it has encountered America along the way.

In this sense, everyone knows that the future of the idea of Europe, and thus also the Christian truth running through it, will be played out in South America, India, and China as well as in Europe. Europe has been playing a role analogous to Italy’s during the wars of the sixteenth century, except worse. It has been the battlefield of the entire world. Europe is a tired continent that no longer puts up much resistance to terrorism. This explains the stunning nature of the attacks, which are often carried out by people on the inside. Resistance is all the more complex because the terrorists are close to us, beside us. The actions are completely unpredictable. The very idea of sleeper cells corroborates everything we have said about the violent mechanisms by which cultures mediate themselves: the identity between people that can suddenly take a turn for the worst.

September 11th Violence
Atta, the leader of the September 11 group who piloted one of the four airplanes, was the son of a middle-class Egyptian family. It is staggering to think that, during the three last days before the attack, he spent his nights in bars with his accomplices. There is something mysterious and intriguing in this. Who asks about the souls of those men? Who were they and what were their motivations? What did Islam mean to them? What does it mean to kill oneself for that cause?

We are witnessing a new stage in the escalation to extremes. Terrorists have conveyed the message that they are ready to wait, that their notion of time is not ours. This is a clear sign of the return to the archaic, a return to the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries, which is significant in itself. But who is paying attention to this significance? Who is taking its measure? Is that the job of the ministry of foreign affairs? We have to expect a lot of unexpected things in the future. We are going to witness things that will certainly be worse. Yet people will remain deaf.

On September 11, people were shaken, but they quickly calmed down. There was a flash of awareness, which lasted a few fractions of a second. People could feel that something was happening. Then a blanket of silence covered up the crack in our certainty of safety. Western rationalism operates like a myth: We always work harder to avoid seeing the catastrophe. We neither can nor want to see violence as it is. The only way we will be able to meet the terrorist challenge is by radically changing the way we think. Yet, the clearer it is what is happening, the stronger our refusal to acknowledge it. This historical configuration is so new that we do not know how to deal with it. It is precisely a modality of what Pascal saw: the war between violence and truth. Think about the inadequacy of our recent avant-gardes who preached the nonexistence of the real.

We have to think about time in such a way that the Battle of Poitiers and the Crusades are much closer to us than the French Revolution and the industrialization of the Second Empire in France. The points of view of Western countries are at most unimportant background features for Islamists. They think of the Western world as having to be Islamicized as quickly as possible. Analysts tend to say that this is the attitude of isolated minorities cut off from the reality in their countries. They may be so with respect to action, of course, but with respect to thought?

Despite everything, does such thinking not contain something essentially Islamic? This is a question that we have to have the courage to ask, even though it is a given that terrorism is a brutal action that hijacks religious codes for its own purposes. It would not have taken such a hold on people’s minds if it did not bring up to date something that has always been present in Islam. To the great surprise of our secular republicans, religious thought is still very much alive in Islam. It cannot be denied that some of Muhammad’s theses are active in today’s world.

What we are witnessing with Islam, however, is nonetheless much more than a return of conquest; it is what has been rising ever since the French Revolution, after the communist period that acted as an intermediary. Indeed, Leninism had some of these features, but what it lacked was religion. Our new escalation to extremes is thus able to use all components: culture, fashion, political theory, theology, ideology, and religion. What drives history is not what seems essential in the eyes of Western rationalists.

Islamism
If we had said in the 1980s that Islamism would play the role it plays today, people would have thought we were crazy. Yet the ideology promoted by Stalin already contained parareligious components that foreshadowed the increasingly radical contamination that has occurred over time. We therefore have to radically change the way we think and try to understand the situation without any presuppositions and using all the resources available from the study of Islam.

The work to be done is immense. Personally, I have the impression that this religion has used the Bible as a support to rebuild an archaic religion that is more powerful than all the others. It threatens to become an apocalyptic tool, the new face of the escalation to extremes. Even though there are no longer any archaic religions, it is as if a new one had arisen built on the back of the Bible, a slightly transformed Bible. It would be an archaic religion strengthened by aspects of the Bible and Christianity. Archaic religion collapsed in the face of Judeo-Christian revelation, but Islam resists. While Christianity eliminates sacrifice wherever it gains a foothold, Islam seems in many respects to situate itself prior to that rejection.

Of course, there is resentment in its attitude to Judeo-Christianity and the West, but it is also a new religion. Historians of religion, and even anthropologists, have to show how and why it emerged. Indeed, some aspects of this religion contain a relation to violence that we do not understand and that is all the more worrying for that reason. For us, it makes no sense to be ready to pay with one’s life for the pleasure of seeing the other die. We do not know whether such phenomena belong to a special psychology or not.

We are thus facing complete failure; we cannot talk about it, and we cannot document the situation because terrorism is something new that exploits Islamic codes but does not at all belong to classical Islamic theory. Today’s terrorism is new, even from an Islamic point of view. It is a modern effort to counter the most powerful and refined tool of the Western world: technology. It counters technology in a way that we do not understand and that classical Islam may not understand either.

Clausewitz is easier to integrate into a historical development. He gives us the intellectual tools to understand the violent escalation. But where do we find such ideas in Islam? Modern resentment never leads all the way to suicide. Thus, we do not have the analogical structures that could help us understand. I am not saying that they are not possible, that they will not appear, but I admit my inability to grasp them. This is why our explanations often belong to the province of fraudulent propaganda against Muslims.

We do not experience this reality; we have no intimate, spiritual, phenomenological contact with it. Terrorism is a superior form of violence, and it asserts that it will win. There is no indication, however, that the work that remains to be done to free the Qur’an from its caricatures will have any influence on terrorism itself, which is both linked to Islam and different from it. We can thus put forward the tentative hypothesis that the escalation to extremes now uses Islam as it once used Napoleonism and Pangermanism. Terrorism is fearsome in that it knows how to use the most deadly technology outside of any military institution. Clausewitzian war is an analogy that can make only imperfect sense of terrorism, but it certainly does foreshadow it.

The Paradox Of Islam
In my 1972 book Violence and the Sacred, I borrowed the idea from the Qur’an that the ram that saved Isaac from being sacrificed was the same one that was sent to Abel so that he would not have to kill his brother: proof that in the Qur’an sacrifice is also interpreted as a means of combating violence. From this, we can draw the conclusion that the Qur’an contains understanding of things that secular mentality cannot fathom: that sacrifice prevents vengeance, for example. Yet, this topic has disappeared from Islam, just as it has disappeared in Western thought. The paradox that we thus have to deal with is that Islam is closer to us today than to the world of Homer. Clausewitz allowed us to glimpse this, through what we have called his warlike religion, in which we have seen the emergence of something both very new and very primitive. Islamism, likewise, is a kind of event internal to the development of technology. We have to be able to think about both Islamism and the escalation to extremes at the same time; we need to understand the complex relations between these two realities.

The unity of Christianity in the Middle Ages resulted in the Crusades, which were permitted by the papacy. And yet, the Crusades are not as important as Islam thinks. The Crusades were an archaic regression without consequences for the essence of Christianity. Christ died everywhere and for everyone. Seeing Jews and Christians as falsifiers is more irremediable. It allows Muslims to eliminate all serious discussion, all comparison among the three religions. It amounts to not wanting to see what is at stake in the prophetic tradition.

Collective Murder: Christianity and Islam
Why has Christian revelation been subject to the most hostile and ferocious possible criticism for centuries, but not Islam? There is an abdication of reason here. In some respects, it resembles the aporia (vocab: a difficulty encountered in establishing the theoretical truth of a proposition, created by the presence of evidence both for and against it.)of pacifism, which can be a strong encouragement for aggression. The Qur’an would thus benefit from being studied in the same way that Jewish and Christian texts have been studied. I think that a comparative approach would reveal that it contains no real awareness of collective murder.

By contrast, there is a Christian awareness of such murder. The two greatest conversions, those of Peter and Paul, are analogous: They are one with the awareness of having participated in a collective murder. Paul was there when Stephen was stoned to death. His departure for Damascus immediately followed that murder, which must have affected him terribly. Christians understand that the Passion has rendered collective murder inoperative. This is why, far from reducing violence, the Passion aggravates it.

Islamism seems to have understood this very quickly, but in the sense of jihad. There are forms of acceleration in history that are self-perpetuating. We have the impression that today’s terrorism is somehow the heir of totalitarianism, that terrorism and totalitarianism contain similar forms of thought and ingrained habits. One of the possible threads of this continuity is the construction of a Napoleonic model by a Prussian general.

The model was later taken up by Lenin and Mao Zedong (referenced by al-Qaeda). Clausewitz’s brilliance lies in his having unknowingly anticipated a law that has become worldwide. The Cold War is over, and now we are in a hot war, given the hundreds, and tomorrow perhaps the thousands, of victims every day in the Middle East.

Violence Belongs To A Form Of Corrupted Sacred
The trend toward the apocalypse is humanity’s greatest feat. The more probable this achievement becomes, the less we talk about it. I have come to a crucial point: that of a profession of faith, more than a strategic treatise, unless both are mysteriously equivalent, in the essential war that truth wages against violence. I have always been utterly convinced that violence belongs to a form of corrupted sacred, intensified by Christ’s action when he placed himself at the heart of the sacrificial system. Satan is the other name of the escalation to extremes. The Passion has radically altered the archaic world. Satanic violence has long reacted against this holiness, which is an essential transformation of ancient religion.

It is thus that God revealed himself in his Son, that religion was confirmed once and for all, thereby changing the course of human history. Inversely, the escalation to extremes reveals the power of this divine intervention. Divinity has appeared and it is more reliable than all the earlier theophanies, but no one wants to see it.

Humanity is more than ever the author of its own fall because it has become able to destroy its world. With respect to Christianity, this is not just an ordinary moral condemnation but an unavoidable anthropological observation. Therefore we have to awaken our sleeping consciences. To seek to comfort is always to contribute to the worst.

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A New Anthropos

February 18, 2010

Caravaggio's Salome

Avoiding The Prophetic Tradition’s Old Trap
Throughout the Old Testament the renunciation of sacrifice always took place sacrificially. If we are to take seriously the New Testament’s proposal for a new anthropos — an alternate way of engendering social and psychological stability — the text that proposes it will have to teach us how to avoid the trap into which the prophetic tradition fell from Moses to John the Baptist. It will have to decode and decommission the mechanism by which the old anthropology of sacrifice turned its fieriest critics into its most faithful perpetuators.

As illuminating as it is, it is not enough to recognize how the same mimetic forces that breed discord — the diabolos — restore social harmony at a later stage of the crisis — Satan — by transferring all the social poisons onto one scapegoat victim. We must better understand how even those who have begun to recognize this process and raise moral objections to it still get caught up in the social contagions choreographed by the diabolos and Satan. The New Testament cannot be humanity’s revelatory text par excellence unless it can show us how to keep from turning our moral outrages into newfangled versions of the thing that outraged us.

John The Baptist’s Fatal Collision With The Court Of Herod
If the fiery beginning of John’s prophetic career set in motion Jesus’ own vocation, another important factor in Jesus’ growing understanding of his mission seems to have been John the Baptist’s fatal collision with the court of Herod, the Jewish client monarch who ruled Judea at the time. Both personally and politically, Herod was a repulsive figure embroiled in endless plots and murderous intrigues, and John openly condemned him. Soon John was in Herod’s prison, and not long after that, dead. John’s fate seems to have had an effect on Jesus’ ministry comparable in many ways to the effect of the desert temptations. While in Herod’s prison, John sent his followers to Jesus to ask about the nature of Jesus’ mission:

Now John in his prison had heard what Christ was doing and he sent his disciples to ask him, “Are you the one who is to come, or have we got to wait for someone else?” Jesus answered, “Go back and tell John what you hear and see: the blind see again, and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised to life and the Good News is proclaimed to the poor; and happy is the man who does not lose faith in me.” (Matthew 11:2-6)

John took his spiritual challenge right to the core of Jewish apostasy and moral decay. With admirable courage, he challenged raw power and exposed himself to its cruelties. And what had Jesus done upon hearing of John’s plight? Had he been as bold to challenge? Had he faced the powers-that-be? Was he prepared to become, if need be, the resurrected John the Baptist, as Herod had feared at one point? Seen from the perspective of Herod’s dungeon, Jesus’ innocuous behavior left some doubt in the minds of John and his followers.

John urged contrition on his listeners and railed against their sinfulness. By contrast, it was Jesus’ conspicuous indifference toward his listeners’ prior moral failures that caused certain righteous elements in Jewish society to regard his mission as socially pernicious. Contrary to John, Jesus seems to have understood that the only real and lasting contrition occurs, not when one is confronted with one’s sins, but when one experiences the gust of grace that makes a loving and forgiving God plausible.

John warned of the approach of the kingdom and passionately enjoined his listeners to renounce their evil ways. Jesus inhabited that kingdom and made it a palpable reality for others by forgiving sins, restoring faith and hope to those around him, and bringing people he touched fully alive. What the encounter between Jesus and John’s disciples makes explicit, however, is that Jesus had consciously chosen not to do what John had done. John had raged at the shamelessness of the Herodian court in so bellicose a manner that the predictable reactions and counter-reactions were set off. Soon, John’s life and ministry became consumed — first morally and then literally — by the very thing he railed against.

Distinguishing Jesus From John The Baptist
When John’s disciples asked if Jesus was the one “who is to come,” using the words of the prophet Isaiah, Jesus spoke of his ministry of healing and reconciling, and he concluded by saying: “Happy is the man who does not lose faith in me.” In the literal Greek, he says: happy is he who is not scandalized by me. It is in this phrase that we find Jesus’ rebuttal to the critique of his ministry implied by John’s question. The Greek word skandalon is often translated as “stumbling block” or “offense.” There is as well, however, an implication in the word of an almost irresistible compulsion, an obsession.

When Jesus told John’s disciples that “happy is the one who is not scandalized by me,” he was responding to John’s implied critique of his more reticent missionary work. John had allowed himself to be scandalized by the moral and religious shamelessness of the Herodian court. The passion of his contempt eventually entangled him in the very delusions he was condemning. In his well-meaning attempt to usher in the kingdom he sensed- was imminent, John had become a player in the same melodrama whose insubstantiality and moral shabbiness he was condemning. Scandalized by Herod’s depravity, John merely became the occasion for another depraved act.

He accused Herod of the awful things that Herod did, but when the “diabolical” charade became “satanic,” it was John at whom the Accuser pointed. John’s accusations were certainly just, but they just as certainly gave the inevitable counter-accusations a thread of plausibility. John embroiled himself in the kind of sordid melodrama that destroys the moral coherence even of its despisers. If in the wilderness Jesus had come to appreciate something about the diabolical dynamic of mimesis, conflict, accusation, and scapegoating violence, John’s fate would have confronted him with a vivid and horrifying example of exactly that dynamic.

I feel, therefore, that there is in the Gospels a structural link between the diabolos, the skandalon, and the satan. They constitute what we might think of as a demonic trinity by which we humans are forever being drawn into the mimetic scenarios that blind us and lead eventually to violence.

The Fires Of Hell And The Depth Of The Problem Of Mimetic Rivalry
One episode in the Gospel of Matthew helps bring into focus what the New Testament means when it speaks of “scandal” and the need to avoid it if possible. In this story, Jesus’ disciples demonstrate how poorly even they understand his message by jockeying for position among themselves. Jesus rebukes them with what seems to be an extended non sequitur on the subject of scandalization:

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a child, whom he put among them, and said, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me. “If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were fastened around your neck and you were drowned in the depth of the sea.

Woe to the world because of stumbling blocks (stumbling blocks = scandal) Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to the one by whom the stumbling block comes! “If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble (causes you to stumble = is a scandal to you), cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life maimed or lame than to have two hands or two feet and to be thrown into the eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into the hell of fire.
 (Matthew 18:1-9) 

The first thing to notice is how the disciples’ lapse into mimetic rivalry evoked from Jesus a discourse on scandal and scandalizing. As I said, it seems at first a non sequitur. From the mimetic point of view, however, it is the perfect response. Jesus recognized his disciples’ anxiety about their relative social standing for what it was: an indication that they were becoming “stumbling blocks” for one another. They were becoming envious and rivalrous.

Ironically, Jesus here uses imagery that is scandalous in the conventional sense of being shocking in order to stress the dangers of scandal in the scriptural sense of something that arouses envious, covetous, or rivalrous desire. The image of gouging out one’s eye or crippling one self in order to avoid a dangerous possibility is so hideous, in fact, that there is no chance that it would be taken literally. At the same time, it dramatically underscores the scope of a danger of which Jesus’ disciples remain oblivious.

Here, however, it is only Jesus who understands the depth of the problem of mimetic rivalry. Only he had been to the desert. Only he had realized that the sower of discord dispenses satanic forms of camaraderie, and that all the kingdoms of this world owed their coherence to this satanic alchemist and his accusatory recipe for turning discord into harmony.

In the passage, Jesus uses two terms in speaking of the result of scandalization. In one verse he speaks of “endless conflagration” (my translation). Like all conflagrations in which the Bible takes an interest, this conflagration is no doubt a metaphor for violence. It is endless, obviously, because the violence cannot be effectively terminated. In other words, it is apocalyptic violence. The sacralized violence that had always been humanity’s instrument for terminating the deadly reciprocities of ordinary violence would be undermined by the Cross, and, during his lifetime, the man who was murdered on it implored his followers to avoid the scandals that led to reciprocities of rivalry and violence. What Jesus realized was that the only alternative the world would one day have to “endless conflagration” would be the renunciation of the highly flammable mixture of envy, rivalry, jealousy, and resentment for which the word “scandal” is a virtual synonym.

The other term Jesus used in this passage to warn against the effect of scandal was the Greek term here, as elsewhere, translated as “hell.” The Greek word is gehenna. The word has a literal as well as a symbolic reference. It refers to the garbage dump located in New Testament times southwest of Jerusalem. For better or worse, the smoldering fires that burned there “endlessly” gave the later Christian notion of “hell” its most enduring metaphor.

The deeper meaning of this passage surfaces, however, when we learn that gehenna was the Greek term that translated the Hebrew “valley of ben-hinnom” (the place where idol-worshiping Israelites had engaged in child sacrifice), the term that Jeremiah has used as a synonym for cults of human sacrifice generally. Seen against this larger scriptural backdrop, therefore, Jesus’ warnings become anthropologically intelligible. He sees rivalry leading to scandal, and scandal leading either back into the worst forms of cult sacrifice (gehenna) or, in a world whose sacrificial resources have been exposed and destroyed, to the endless conflagration of apocalyptic violence.

In this passage, astonishingly, Jesus responds to the most familiar and seemingly innocuous forms of scandal — the disciples’ petty rivalry for social status — with the direst of warnings about the dangers of human sacrifice and catastrophic violence. Either the passage is illogical or it is coherent at a level deeper than the one at which human behavior and its consequences are usually reckoned. Deciding whether it is one or the other is not a matter of idle curiosity. We live in an age in which we are encouraged from cradle to grave to maneuver for social or economic advantage vis-â-vis others, if Jesus’ rebuke to his disciples is not a clumsy mistake on his part or on the part of Matthew, then we flout his warnings about the need to avoid scandal at our peril.

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The Gospel Revelation of the Founding Murder

February 17, 2010

 

Cain and Abel by Titian

This is taken from The Girard Reader, an anthology of Professor Rene Girard’s work: “The Girardian theory is one of the great intellectual achievements so the late twentieth century — a comprehensive vision of the psychological, sociological, political and religious processes of sin and redemption.”

The capacity of the Bible to suggest ever deeper interpretation is sometimes referred to as its carrying a “sensus plenior.” In Biblical exegesis, the phrase “sensus plenior” is used to describe the “deeper meaning intended by God” but not intended by the human author. The phrase originates from the Latin, and means “fuller sense,” the plenary sense in the mind of its divine author.

The theological basis of such a claim lies in the fact that the Bible has to serve as our guide in the life of faith right until the parousia. Thus we have to believe that God has placed in Scripture a fullness of meaning, which will help and satisfy people very different from ourselves in the future just as it has helped and satisfied people very different from ourselves in the past. Scripture transforms us by turning us toward our ultimate future, our salvation.

Scripture, the word of God, uses the human words, but in terms of transformative power it is infinitely more effective than any purely human language. The word of God in Scripture brings to birth a new person. In more characteristically Catholic language for the life of grace, it generates supernatural faith, hope, and love, and in this way radically alters the pattern of human existence.

It is in this sense that we see the Bible as the Word of God: a very human product that is also a divine gift. In a saying no less true for being oft repeated, the Bible is the Word of God in the words of men. The plethora of meanings to be derived from Scripture illustrate this divine gift and presenting Dr. Girard’s reading of scripture is meant to fulfill that observation. I am not suggesting that it is the sine qua non of exegesis but simply one of many possibilities. I love it for its intelligence and depth.

The Curses against the Pharisees
The truth of the scapegoat is written for all to see in the text of the Gospels. In the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, there is a group of texts that used to be entitled the “Curses against the Scribes and Pharisees.” This title is no longer employed because of the embarrassment the reading of these texts usually provokes. In the literal sense, of course, such a title is perfectly valid. But it does tend to restrict unduly the vast implications of the way in which Jesus accuses his audience of Pharisees.

Obviously he is directing his accusations at them, but a careful examination reveals that he is using the Pharisees as an intermediary for something very much larger, and indeed something of absolutely universal significance is at stake. But then this is always the case in the Gospels. Every reading that restricts itself to particulars — however legitimate it may seem on the historical level — is nonetheless a betrayal of the overall significance.

The most terrible and meaningful “curse” comes right at the end of the text in both Matthew and Luke. I quote first of all from Matthew:

Therefore I send you prophets and wise men and scribes, some of whom you will kill and crucify, and some you will scourge in your synagogues and persecute from town to town, that upon you may come all the righteous blood shed on earth, from the blood of innocent Abel to the blood of Zechariah the son of Barachiah, whom you murdered between the sanctuary and the altar. Truly, I say to you, all this will come upon this generation.
(Matthew 23:34-36)

The text gives us to believe that there have been many murders. It only mentions two of them, however: that of Abel, the first to occur in the Bible, and that of a certain Zechariah, the last person to be killed in the Second Book of the Chronicles, in other words the last in the whole Bible as Jesus knew it.

Evidently mention of the first and last murders takes the place of a more complete list. The victims who belong between Abel and Zechariah are implicitly included. The text has the character of a recapitulation, and it cannot be restricted to the Jewish religion alone, since the murder of Abel goes back to the origins of humanity and the foundation of the first cultural order. Cainite culture is not a Jewish culture. The text also makes explicit mention of “all the righteous blood shed on earth.” It therefore looks as though the kind of murder for which Abel here forms the prototype is not limited to a single region of the world or to a single period of history. We are dealing with a universal phenomenon whose consequences are going to fall not only upon the Pharisees but upon this generation, that is, upon all those who are contemporary with the Gospels and the time of their diffusion, who remain deaf and blind to the news that is being proclaimed.

The text of Luke is similar, but it includes, before Abel is mentioned a further crucial detail. It identifies “the blood of all the prophets, shed from the foundation of the world, from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah” (Luke 11:50–Si). The Greek text has apo kataboles kostnou, The same expression comes up in Matthew when Jesus quotes from Psalm 78 in reference to himself:

I will open my mouth in parables,
I will utter what has been hidden
since the foundation of the world.

(Matthew 13:35)

On each occasion the Vulgate uses the translation a constitutione mundi. But kata boles really seems to imply the foundation of the world insofar as it results from a violent crisis; it denotes order insofar as it comes out of disorder. The term has a medical use to mean the onslaught of a disease, the attack that provokes a resolution.

We must certainly not lose sight of the fact that, for Jewish culture, the Bible formed the only ethnological encyclopedia available or even conceivable. In referring to the whole of the Bible, Jesus is pointing not only at the Pharisees but at the whole of humanity. Clearly the dreadful consequences of his revelation will weigh exclusively on those who have had the advantage of hearing — if they refuse to take its meaning, if they will not recognize that this is a revelation which concerns them in the same way as it concerns the rest of humanity. The Pharisees to whom Jesus is speaking are the first to put themselves in this difficult position, but they will not be the last. It cannot be deduced from the Gospel text that their innumerable successors will not fall under the same condemnation, even if they belong to a different religion named Christianity.

Jesus is very well aware that the Pharisees have not themselves killed the prophets, any more than the Christians themselves killed Jesus. It is said that the Pharisees were the “sons” of those who carried out the killings (Matthew 23:31). This is not to imply a hereditary transmission of guilt, but rather an intellectual and spiritual solidarity that is achieved by means of a resounding repudiation — not unlike the repudiation of Judaism by the “Christians.” The sons believe they can express their independence of the fathers by condemning them, that is, by claiming to have no part in the murder. But by virtue of this very fact, they unconsciously imitate and repeat the acts of their fathers. They fail to understand that in the murder of the Prophets people refused to acknowledge their own violence and cast if off from themselves. The sons are therefore still governed by the mental structure engendered by the founding murder. In effect they are still saying:

If we had lived in the days of our fathers, we would not have taken part with them in shedding the blood of the prophets.
(Matthew 23:30)

Paradoxically, it is in the very wish to cause a break that the continuity between fathers and sons is maintained.

To understand what is decisive about the texts in the synoptic Gospels we have just been considering, we need to confront them with the text from the Gospel of John that is most directly equivalent:

Why do you not understand what I say? It is because you cannot bear to hear my word. You are of your father the devil, and your wilt is to do your father’s desires. He was a murderer from the beginning, and has nothing to do with the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he lies, he speaks according to his own nature, for he is a liar and the father of lies.
(John 8:43-44)

Here the essential point is that a triple correspondence is set up between Satan, the original homicide, and the lie. To be a son of Satan is to inherit the lie. What lie? The lie that covers the homicide. This lie is a double homicide, since its consequence is always another new homicide to cover up the old one. To be a son of Satan is the same thing as being the son of those who have killed their prophets since the foundation of the world.

N. A. Dahl has, demonstrated that calling Satan a homicide is a concealed reference to the murder of Abel by Cain. It is undoubtedly true that Abel’s murder in Genesis has an exceptional importance. But this importance is due to the fact that it is the first founding murder and the first biblical account to raise a corner of the curtain that always covers the frightful role played by homicide in the foundation of human communities. This murder is presented to us, we have seen, as the origin of the law that sanctions murder as a sevenfold reprisal, the origin of the rule against homicide within the Cainite culture, and in effect the origin of that culture.

So the synoptic Gospels refer to Abel’s murder because it has an exceptional significance. But we should not wish to bring the Johannine text back at any price to the literal meaning of the synoptic text, which refers to a certain person called Abel or to a category of victims called “the prophets.” In writing “he was a murderer from the beginning” John’s text goes further than the others in disentangling the founding mechanisms; it excises all the definitions and specifications that might bring about a mythic interpretation. John goes to the full length in his reading of the text of the Bible, and what he comes up against is the hypothesis of the founding violence.

Biblical specialists are misled on this point in much the same way as ethnologists, and all other specialists in the human sciences, who move invariably from myth to myth and from institution to institution, from signifier to signifier in effect, or from signified to signified, without ever getting to the symbolic matrix of all these signifiers and signifieds — that is, to the scapegoat mechanism.

It is indeed the same mistake. But there is something more paradoxical and exclusive about the blindness of the biblical experts compared with those in the human sciences, because they have right under noses, in the text which they claim to be able to decipher, the key to the correct interpretation — the key to every interpretation — and they refuse to make use of it. They do not even notice the unbelievable opportunities staring them in the face.

Even with John’s text, the danger of a mythical reading is still present, clearly so, if we do not see that Satan denotes the founding mechanism itself — the principle of all human community. All of the texts in the New Testament confirm this reading, in particular the “Temptation” made by Satan the prince and principle of this world, princeps huius mundi. It is no abstract metaphysical reduction, no descent into vulgar polemics or lapse into superstition that makes Satan the true adversary of Jesus. Satan is absolutely identified with the circular mechanisms of violence, with man’s imprisonment in cultural or philosophical systems that maintain his modus vivendi (way of living, implies an accommodation between disputing parties to allow life to go on) with violence. That is why he promises Jesus domination provided that Jesus will worship him. But Satan is also the skandalon, the living obstacle that trips men up, the mimetic model insofar as it becomes a rival and lies across our path. For more on  skandalon in connection with desire read here. (Scroll down to Skandalon And Satan on the page.

Satan is the name of the mimetic process seen as a whole; that is why he is the source not merely of rivalry and disorder but of all the forms of lying order inside which humanity lives. That is the reason why he was a homicide from the beginning; Satan’s order had no origin other than murder and this murder is a lie. Human beings are sons of Satan because they are Sons of this murder. Murder is therefore not an act whose consequences could be eliminated without being brought to light and genuinely rejected by men. It is an inexhaustible fund, a transcendent source of falsehood that infiltrates every domain and structures everything in its own image, with such success that the truth cannot get in, and Jesus’ listeners cannot even hear his words. From the original murder, men succeed in drawing new lies all the time, and these prevent the word of the Gospel from reaching them. Even the most explicit revelation remains a dead letter.

Despite differences in style and tone, the Gospel of John says exactly the same thing as the synoptic Gospels. For the majority of modern commentators, the work of exegesis consists almost exclusively in trying to find the difference between the texts. Girard, on the other hand, looks for the convergence, since he believes that the Gospels represent four slightly different versions of one and the same form of thought. This form of thought necessarily escapes us if we start off from the principle that only the divergences are worthy of attention.

These divergences do indeed exist, though they are minor ones. Yet they are not without interest. In a number of cases they allow us to discover what might perhaps be called particular minor defects in respect to the entirety of the message that they are obliged to transcribe.

The Metaphor of the Tomb
We must now come back to the “Curses.” They testify to a concealed relation of dependence on the founding murder; they demonstrate a paradoxical continuity between the violence of past generations and the denunciation of that violence in contemporaries. Here we are getting to the heart of the matter; in the light of this mechanism the very one that has preoccupied us from the outset of these discussion — a great “metaphor” within the Gospel text becomes clear. This is the metaphor of the tomb. Tombs exist to honor the dead, but also to hide them insofar as they are dead, to conceal the corpse and ensure that death as such is no longer visible. This act of concealment is essential. The very murder in which the fathers directly took part already resemble tombs to the extent that, above all in collective and founding murders but also in individual murders, men kill in order to lie to others and to themselves on the subject of violence and death. They must kill and continue to kill, strange as it may seem, in order not to know that they are killing.

Now we can understand why Jesus reproaches the scribes and Pharisees for putting up tombs for the prophets who have been killed by their fathers. Not to recognize the founding character of the murder, whether by denying that the fathers have killed or by condemning the guilty in the interests of demonstrating their own innocence, is to perpetuate the foundation, which is an obscuring of the truth. People do not wish to know that the whole of human culture is based on the mythic process of conjuring away man’s violence by endlessly projecting it upon new victims. All cultures and all religions are built on this foundation, which they then conceal, just as the tomb is built around the dead body that it conceals. Murder calls for the tomb and the tomb is but the prolongation and perpetuation of murder. The tomb-religion amounts to nothing more or less than the becoming visible of the foundations, of religion and culture, of their only reason for existence.

Woe to you! for you build the tombs of the prophets whom your fathers killed. So you are witnesses and consent to the deeds of your fathers; for they killed them, and you build their tombs.
(Luke 11:47-48)

“For they killed them, and you build their tombs”: Jesus at once reveals and unambiguously compromises the history of all human culture. That is why he takes to himself the words of Psalm 78: “I will utter what has been hidden since the foundation of the world — apo kataboles kosmou” (Matthew 13:35).

If the metaphor of the tomb applies to all forms of human order taken in their entirety, it can also be applied to the individuals formed by that order. On the individual level, the Pharisees are absolutely identified with the system of misrecognition on which they rely as a community.

It would be foolhardy to call “metaphorical” our usage of the term “tomb,” since we are so close to the heart of the matter. To speak of the metaphor is to speak of displacement, and yet no metaphorical displacement is involved here. On the contrary, it is the tomb that is the starting point of the constitutive displacements of culture. Quite a number of fine minds think that this is literally true on the level of human history as a whole; funerary rituals could well, as we have said, amount to the first actions of a strictly cultural type. There is reason to believe that these rituals took shape around the first of the reconciliatory victims, on the basis of the creative transference achieved by the first communities. This also brings to mind the sacrificial stones that mark the foundation of ancient cities, which are invariably associated with some story of a lynching, ineffectively camouflaged.

Archaeological discoveries seem to suggest that people were really building tombs for the Prophets in Jesus’ period. That is a very interesting point, and it is quite possible that a practice of this kind suggested the “metaphor.” However, it would be a pity to limit the significance generated in our text by the different uses of the term “tomb” to a mere evocation of this practice. The fact that the metaphor applies both to the group and to the individual clearly demonstrates that much more is involved than an allusion to specific tombs, just as much more is involved in the following passage than a mere “moral” indictment:

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for you are like white-washed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within they are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness.
(Matthew 23:27)

Deep within the individual, as within the religious and cultural systems that fashion the individual, something is hidden, and this is not merely the individual “sin” of modern religiosity or the “complexes” of psychoanalysis. It is invariably a corpse that as it rots spreads its “uncleanness” everywhere.

Luke compares the Pharisees not just to tombs but to underground tombs, that is to say, invisible tombs — tombs that are perfect in a double sense, if we can put it like that, since they conceal not only death, but also their own existence as tombs.

Woe unto you! for you are like graves which are not seen, and men walk over them without knowing it.
(Luke 11:44)

This double concealment reproduces the way in which cultural differentiation develops on the basis of the founding murder. This murder tends to efface itself behind the directly sacrificial rituals, but even these rituals risk being too revealing and so tend to be effaced behind post-ritual institutions, such as judicial and political systems or the forms of culture. These derived forms give away nothing of the fact that they are rooted in the original murder.

So we have here a problem of knowledge which is always being lost, never to be rediscovered again. This knowledge certainly comes to the surface in the great biblical texts and above all in the prophetic books, but the organization of religion and law contrives to repress it. The Pharisees, who are satisfied with what seems to them to be their success in the religious life, are blind to the essentials and so they blind those whom they claim to be guiding:

Woe to you lawyers! for you have taken away the key of knowledge; you did not enter yourselves and you hindered those who were entering.
(Luke 11:52)

Michel Serres saw the importance of this reference to the “key of knowledge.” Jesus has come in order to place men in possession of this key. Within the perspective of the Gospels, the Passion is first and foremost the consequence of an intolerable revelation, while being proof of that revelation. It is because they do not understand what he proclaims that Jesus’ listeners agree to rid themselves of him, and in so doing, they confirm the accuracy and the prophetic nature of the “curses against the Pharisees.”

They have recourse to violence, to expel the truth about violence:

As he went away from there, the scribes and the Pharisecs began to press him hard, and to provoke him to speak of many things, lying in wait for him, to catch at something he might say.
(Luke 11:53)

Human culture is organized around a more or less violent disavowal of human violence. That is what the religion that comes from man amounts to, as opposed to the religion that comes from God. By affirming this point without the least equivocation, Jesus infringes upon the supreme prohibition that governs all human order, and he must be reduced to silence. Those who come together against Jesus do so in order to back up the arrogant assumption that consists in saying: “If we had lived in the days of our fathers, we would not have taken part with them in shedding the blood of the prophets.”

The truth of the founding murder is expressed first of all in the words of Jesus, which connect the present conduct of men with the distant past, and with the near future (since they announce the Passion), and with the whole of human history The same truth of the founding murder will also be expressed, with even greater force, in the Passion itself, which fulfills the prophecy and gives it its full weight. If centuries and indeed millennia have to pass before this truth is revived, it is of little consequence. The truth is registered and will finally accomplish its work. Everything that is hidden shall be revealed.

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Jesus’ Real Miracles

February 16, 2010
 

Lombard, The Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes

The miracle of the loaves and fishes was not getting a few loaves and dried fish to multiply – it was far more than that, as Gil Bailie points out in this wonderful piece of exegesis. Seen in the broader context of Jesus’ ministry, what the miracle actually was is very different from the obvious.

Avoiding Impurity
There is abundant evidence suggesting that both during Jesus’ life and at the time the New Testament was written the flash point of Jewish religious orthodoxy was the dietary laws. These proscriptions were an elaboration of the passages in the book of Leviticus whose original function had been to regulate the selection, preparation, and consumption of animals used for ritual sacrifice. The dietary laws to which the Pharisees and other orthodox Jews carefully adhered prescribed meticulous ritual washings deemed necessary to avoid contamination, and they carefully regulated how food was to be prepared and eaten and with whom it might be safely shared. Scrupulosity about defiling contact with sinners and the fear of ingesting unclean food combined to make the sharing of meals a particularly touchy issue.

For observant Jews of the time, it was a perilous thing to share a meal with those about whose moral and religious status they were uncertain. Conscious intention had nothing to with the all-important matter of avoiding impurity. Contact with sinners or the ingestion of forbidden or unsanctified foods would defile one and make it necessary to submit to ritual cleansings, regardless of how inadvertent the exposure to the impurity might have been. The safest course, under the circumstances, was to avoid all contact with outcasts and sinners and with pagans and non-observing Jews. For those who strove to observe every detail of the elaborate dietary regulations, meals shared with anyone other than one’s most intimate kin and co-religionists were occasions fraught with moral and religious dangers

In the first century, Greek and Roman influence in Palestine was pervasive, and mingling with non-Jews became a fact of life for Jews living in the cities of Judea and Galilee. Consequently, orthodox Jews found  the task of adhering to the dietary proscriptions more challenging, while at the same time they felt adherence to these customs more than ever essential for the preservation of Jewish cultural identity It is only by understanding the moral significance of sharing meals for the Jews of Jesus’ time, therefore, that one can fully appreciate what was one of the distinguishing features of his ministry: table fellowship. Again and again, the Gospels show Jesus and his disciples sharing meals, and Jesus’ eagerness to share these meals with “sinners” and the “outcasts” may have been the most conspicuous feature of his ministry.

By simply sitting at table with those widely regarded as morally contemptible, Jesus earned the scorn of the Pharisees and other strict observers of Jewish custom. By sharing meals with those considered by the religiously righteous to be outcasts and sinners, Jesus challenged “the central ordering principle of the Jewish social world.” As Geza Vermes put it, Jesus “took his stand among the pariahs of the world, those despised by the respectable. Sinners were his table-companions and the ostracized tax collectors and prostitutes his friends.” The meals Jesus shared with the outcasts were not, therefore, simply the occasion for the delivery of his message. They were the message. They served as “prophetic signs” meant to manifest the meaning of Jesus’ ministry. They involved what Borg speaks of as a “radical relativizing of cultural distinctions.” It is in this context of Jewish dietary concerns that I think one can best understand the miracle of loaves and fishes.

The Miracle of Loaves and Fishes
It seems clear to me that Jesus’ burning passion was to free those he encountered from the grip of religious mystification and scandalous delusion whose effects were to harden the human heart and turn people into accomplices in cruelty and lovelessness. In trying to bring about this liberation, Jesus seems to have found the popular appetite for miracles exasperating. At times he fled from crowds looking for a miracle worker, and he resolutely refused to perform miracles simply for the purpose of demonstrating his ability to perform them.

It is important, therefore, to remember that for a miracle to have genuine religious significance it must transform the human heart and that it was a transformation of the heart that Jesus brought about in those he deeply touched. Curing a crippled leg is not as miraculous as curing a hardened heart or a despairing soul. In approaching the miracles, therefore, we should look to their spiritual effect primarily and strive to understand them on that level first. The great miracle of Jesus’ ministry was reconciliation — with God and with others. This, I think, is the starting point for understanding the miracle of the loaves and fishes, and the other miracles as well.

The various Gospel accounts of Jesus feeding large crowds from scant supplies may be versions of one memorable event for which several accounts survived. In the present form, the accounts presuppose that those who had come to hear him, some from considerable distance, brought no food with them. Jesus’ audience would have been almost exclusively made up of Jews, and, as I pointed out, most religious-minded Jews of the time would have taken the precaution of bringing with them enough bread or dried fish to insure that they would not be forced to eat food whose ritual purity was in doubt.

But taking the precaution of bringing a supply of ritually clean food would have been only one hurdle, and perhaps not the largest one. For eating these provisions while in the company of others of uncertain moral and religious character would have placed one in jeopardy of moral contamination from sinners and pagans. The fact that Jesus had a reputation for attracting and tolerating the socially marginal would have added to the anxiety of observant Jews in this regard. Not knowing the moral and religious status of those sitting nearby would have made many reluctant to bring out whatever provisions they had with them.

In all the accounts of Jesus feeding the multitude, it is Jesus who takes the initiative and invites the people to sit down and prepare for a meal. Sharing a meal together was his idea, not theirs. For reasons I have already stated, Jesus’ audience probably found the idea unsettling. This wariness, on the other hand, would have been symptomatic of the niggling religious apprehensions from which Jesus was trying to liberate them. Given the role of table fellowship in Jesus’ ministry, it is my view that it was not primarily the lateness of the hour that made the unexpected sharing of a meal necessary, but rather that Jesus decided to drive home the points he had been making in his preaching by inviting his audience to sit down then and there for the purpose of sharing a meal with those around them. The point of the feeding, in my opinion, was not food; it was the breaking down of religious and social barriers that Jesus had been challenging as spiritually inconsequential in his preaching. It was hands-on learning. It was practice for living in the kingdom.

All the Gospel accounts speak of Jesus praying a blessing before the miracle occurred. In other words, he didn’t just go to the few loaves and dried fish and cause them to multiply; he gave thanks to God in words to which the people listened carefully. It was then that the miracle occurred. By now the reader will have guessed what I think the miracle was. Jesus opened their hearts, and they, in turn, opened their satchels, and the greatest miracle of all occurred.

Following a pattern that is still today embedded in the Catholic Mass, Jesus preached of a God of love and forgiveness and then invited those who heard his message to sit down together and live for a moment in the “kingdom” about which he was preaching. Changing the human heart and liberating those trapped in religious superstition is simply a greater miracle than pulling loaves and dried fish out of a basket. The feeding of the multitude was a real miracle. The miracle was a new kind of community, one generated by prayer and inclusion, a “new generation.” Transitory as it may have been, it remains a model for a new community, one on which all human culture will one day have to be based. The social bond that gave the community that Jesus inspired its coherence had one conspicuous feature: the breaking down of religious prejudice.

Exorcisms
Jesus performed other miracles. He cured the sick and cast out demons from those possessed by them. Just as in the case of the feeding of the multitude, however, we must not allow the greater — sometimes subtle — miracle to be eclipsed by more blatant but lesser miracles. Nothing deserves the name of miracle that does not renovate the human heart, and anything that does, deserves the name. Miraculously restoring a blind man’s sight is surely a most startling thing, inasmuch as it happens in defiance of what we think of as natural laws. But in and of itself simply making a blind man see may have little spiritual significance. In King Lear, old Gloucester, his eyes gouged out, says, “I stumbled when I saw.” On the other hand, Elias Canetti attributes the elation and conviction of a mob turning on its victim to “the excitement of blind men who are blindest when they suddenly think they can see.” This is the blindness that Jesus strove to cure.

Jesus cured those thought to be possessed by “demons,” but these cures were all features in his overall mission of exposing the perversities and ending the reign of “prince of this world” — the “Diabolos-Satan.” In New Testament times, to be diseased — whether physically or mentally — implied sinfulness. The good prospered materially and were rewarded with robust health, while the sinners, outcasts, and religious backsliders were fated to suffer for their apostasy and wickedness.

The logic of the underlying moral principle easily worked in reverse. A physical affliction was thought to be a divine punishment, perhaps for some sin that remained undetectable but that could be deduced from the fact of the affliction. A person in poverty or in ill-health or mentally ill or psychologicalIy distraught was thought to be marked by sin. Those with psychological or physical disorders suffered from a social stigma that may have been a greater source of distress than the. physical or mental affliction and that almost certainly placed the afflicted one in at least some social jeopardy.

Just as designation of a social crisis as a “plague” is often an early sign that a scapegoating episode is in the making, so the diagnosis of demonic possession indicates that those who have arrived at this diagnosis are slipping into the grip of the uncanny forces of primitive religion, forces whose eventual manifestation will be accusatory and violent.

When Jesus expelled the demon from the madman of Gerasene, the demon revealed his real name: Legion. The real demonic force under whose sway the “possessed” one begins to fall the moment his community designates him as “possessed” is the mob, which will eventually form to rid itself of the contaminated one. What is demonic is not the person suffering from this or that distress. What is demonic is the diagnosis of demonic possession. In healing the one possessed, Jesus effectively overrules the diagnosis or cancels its social consequences. He disarms the satanic (accusatory) power by restoring the dignity and social standing of those most in danger of becoming scapegoats.

Jesus’ whole life, ministry, and death had the effect of restoring to their senses those who had eyes but could not see and ears but could not hear. If the healing of disease or the. curing of afflictions involves a suspension of the “laws” of nature, softening the human heart or refashioning the human self requires that social and psychological reflexes relied upon and reinforced “since the foundation of the world” be overridden. So tenacious are these reflexes that they have often enough been thought synonymous with “human nature.” Transcending these reflexes, or suppressing their influence, is at least as arduous a feat as manipulating objects in the material order, and vastly more spiritually significant.

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Diabolos And Satan

February 15, 2010

 

Satan

 

In this reading selection from Violence Unveiled, Gil Bailie explains the heart of Jesus’ uniqueness in terms of Girardian theory.

and Satan bowing ‘ow
His grey dissimulation, disappear’d
Into thin Air diffus’d…
John Milton, Paradise Regained

 Christ came so directly from silence into the word…that the whole world between silence and language — the world of mythology — was exploded and bereft of its significance and value. The characters in the world of myth now became demons stealing language from man and using it to cast demonic spells. Until the birth of Christ they were the leaders of men, but now they became the mis-leaders, the seducers, of men.
Max Picard

From an anthropological point of view the uniqueness of the Gospels is structural. They perfectly reproduce and then decode the “Generative Mimetic Scapegoating Mechanism” by which human cultural systems have been structured since “the foundation of the world.” The Gospels show, for instance, the underlying relationship between the conviction of the crowd and the “convict” at its center, between adulation and accusation, between violence and religion, and so on.

At the narrative level, the level at which Christian believers revere the texts, the Gospels present us with a man whose relationship with God was so utterly profound, unique, and mysterious that the ordinary meaning of the word “relationship” broke down under the weight of it; a man whose incomparable understanding of the human dilemma could in no way be explained by reference to learning or genius or wisdom or experience. I wish to reflect here on the issue of Jesus’ understanding of his own mission and the forces against which he had to contend in trying to share that understanding with the rest of us.

John the Baptist, one of the most charismatic figures of his age, slammed into first-century Palestine’s cauldron of religious and social agitation with shattering force. The role he played in the onset of Jesus’ ministry was profound. John’s effect on Jesus’ awareness is summed up in the first words John speaks in the New Testament. Preaching in the outlying regions of Judea, John proclaimed: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is dose at hand.” Upon his own return from a period of desert solitude, one probably modeled on John’s, Jesus repeated these words virtually verbatim.

When Pharisees and Sadducees came to John for baptism, he rebuked them: “Do not presume to tell yourselves, ‘We have Abraham for our father,’ because, I tell you, God can raise children for Abraham from these stones” (Matthew 3:7-9). For John, the religious pedigree was next to worthless as an amulet for warding off the historical reckoning he sensed was about to occur.

Just as Israel’s great prophets of an earlier age had appeared at a time of crisis to challenge the religious and social routines of their age, so John stood as an unmistakable rebuke to the conventional Judaism of his day. “Implicit…in John’s whole movement,” writes Edward Schillebeeckx, “is an unprecedented disavowal of the Jerusalem Temple cult and propitiatory sacrifices.” To pious fellow Jews — whether of the Temple cult, the sectarian, or the politically zealous variety — John’s dismissal of Jewish distinctiveness represented a vehement attack on the centerpiece of their religious lives.

In the physical isolation of the desert, John had been far enough removed from the routine social fascinations to see how ultimately meaningless were the social and religious melodramas for which these fascinations served as the thematic warp and woof. Immediately after his baptism by John, Jesus headed straight for the lonely wilderness from which John had so recently returned with his vision of another reality.

The Devil and Satan
There can be little doubt that the most profound religious experience of Jesus’ early ministry — the one that brought that ministry into existence and into public view– was Jesus’ baptism by John at the Jordan. As embarrassing as it was for the early Christian community to have to admit that the man they claimed to be the messiah had so publicly deferred to another popular religious reformer, we can be sure that the story was not fabricated. Most likely, Jesus later reminisced with his friends and followers about the baptism and how it figured in his subsequent mission and the evangelists worked these reminiscences into the narrative accounts of Jesus’ baptism as they now appear in the Gospels. Were Jesus to tell his listeners that it was at the Jordan baptism that he first felt the power of God’s call, it would be quite natural for Matthew to express it the way he did:

As soon as Jesus was baptized he came up from the water, and suddenly the heavens opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and coming down on him. And a voice spoke from heaven, “This is my Son, the Beloved my favor rests on him.”
(Matthew 3:16-17)

Practically while these words calling him God’s son were still echoing, the Gospels tell us that Jesus went to the desert to be alone, to pray, and to struggle with the practical implications of the profound experience that accompanied his baptism in the Jordan. Since Jesus was alone during his desert retreat, had he not later spoken of it to his friends and disciples, nothing would be known of it. Furthermore, both Jesus and his disciples would have tended to understand his desert experience in terms of its religious and scriptural reverberations.

Jesus’ forty-day period of trial, for instance, obviously parallels the Israelites’ forty years of Exodus wanderings and the numerous scriptural echoes of it. And yet, as we shall now see, it is as much with the book of Genesis as with the book of Exodus that the wilderness story coincides. Matthew’s version of Jesus’ trials in the wilderness begins:

Then Jesus was led by the Spirit out into the wilderness to be tempted by
the devil.
(Matthew 4:1)

According to the synoptic accounts, at his baptism Jesus experienced being called “God’s son.” The devil begins each of his temptations with the words: “If you are the Son of God….” The devil tempts Jesus in precisely the same way that the serpent tempted Eve in the Genesis story.  Just as Adam and Eve — made in God’s image — were lured into envying God and striving to acquire that which would make them God’s equal, Jesus is tempted to “grasp at divinity” by a dazzling display of messianic power. The devil in the wilderness and the serpent in the garden both advertise their alluring offerings in the same way. In both stories, the “tempter” tempts by mimetic suggestion, and both stories revolve around whether or not one can remain God-centered enough in the presence of these mimetic decoys to be able to resist them.

In the desert, Jesus was tempted by the devil, the diabolos in Greek. This was a fairly common term for the demonic force in New Testament times, but it is a particularly apt one for understanding the forces against which Jesus contended throughout his public ministry. The prefix dia means across, and bollo means to throw or cast. It means one who maligns, or slanders, or sows discord and division. The devil breeds animosity; he sows resentment.

The New Testament personifies the diabolic force, and there is a good argument for doing so. By personifying the diabolic, we can better appreciate the autonomous way in which it actually functions. Since, however, demonizing is one of the devil’s most devious tricks, the mere fact that we personify the demonic involves certain dangers. Care must be taken. If, according to André Gide, the greatest ruse of Satan is to convince us that he does not exist, according to René Girard his second greatest ruse is to convince us that he does. In any case, one gets closer to the reality of this strange and compelling force by speaking and thinking of “the devil,” as the New Testament often does, than by trying to account for it in abstract terms or by invoking the familiar sociological or psychological idioms of our time. I will therefore follow the New Testament and personify the demonic force.

There is an unmistakable link between the call Jesus experienced at his baptism and his solitude in the desert that immediately followed the baptism. The story of the “temptations” is a story about Jesus wrestling with the nature of his vocation. It is as valid an affidavit as we will ever have for the mental and moral breakthrough that was to set Jesus’ ministry apart from that of other religious reformers of the time. In the desert, he rejected the temptations to turn his vocation into a religious sideshow, or to undertake yet another campaign of social or religious reform. He was tempted to turn stones into bread, to throw himself down from the parapet of the Temple, and to worship the devil in return for “all the kingdoms of the world.”

Matthew and Luke relied on the same source in constructing their respective accounts of the wilderness temptations. In Luke’s version of the temptations, we read that “leading him to a height, the devil showed him in a moment of time all the kingdoms of the world” (4:5). Luke understood that what appears as a “very high mountain” in Matthew’s Gospel was a metaphor, not for a panoramic vista, but for a moment of lucidity. He used the Greek word stigme, which comes from the verb meaning “to prick” or “to pierce,” and is often translated as “in a moment of time.” I feel that Luke provides the better account of the moment of clarity with which the trial by diabolic suggestion was brought to an abrupt end, while Matthew provides the better account of the reply that explodes out of the mouth of Jesus at that moment.

If it is not just a frivolous figure of speech, what might the gospel mean when it says that Jesus saw all the kingdoms of the world in an instant? Since Luke has replaced a spatial reference with a temporal one, the reference to “all” kingdoms implies all that have ever existed and all that ever will. To see all such kingdoms in an instant of time can refer only to one thing, namely, a flash of insight into the nature of these kingdoms, a revelation about the nature of human culture itself.

With the sketchy accounts of the wilderness temptations as a hint and with the whole of Jesus’ public ministry as a ramification of that hint, one can say that in the desert Jesus decoded the metaphysics of power and came to understand the demonic mechanisms by which culture itself is convened and perpetuated. Please note: this revelation need not have been a conceptual one in order to have been decisive for the life of the man to whom it was revealed. It wasn’t so much that Jesus had a concept, but rather that he apprehended the illusory and beguiling nature of the pre-conceptions upon which all cultures depend. All that the Gospels tell us of this revelation is that the kingdoms with which Jesus was “tempted” were at the disposal of the devil. Whatever the “kingdom of God” meant — and it was Jesus’ central proclamation — it did not mean a more magnificent or more Jewish version of the kingdoms of “this world.”

There was nothing in Jesus’ subsequent ministry to suggest the kind of Gnostic contempt for the material order that some later Christian sects adopted, but neither did Jesus concede any ultimate significance to conventional human culture. As Marcus Borg writes, “the Teaching of Jesus is world denying; indeed, the world of culture as the center of existence comes to an end.” According to Borg, “Jesus called his hearers to a life grounded in Spirit rather than one grounded in culture.” The poet W. H. Auden remarked wryly that culture was one of the things that belong to Caesar. Like nature, it is to be given its due, and one ought to be grateful for its blessings, but the worship of culture is just as pagan as the worship of nature, and just as likely to lead to the sacrificial altars.

What was really at stake in the wilderness comes to the surface at the end of the temptations. In Matthew’s version, the last temptation evoked from Jesus a powerful repudiation:

Then Jesus replied, “Be off, Satan! For scripture says:
You must worship the Lord your God
and serve him only.”
Then the devil left him, and angels appeared and looked after him.
(Matthew 4:10-11)

This is the first use of the term Satan in Matthew’s Gospel. Until this moment, the tempter was referred to only as “the devil,” the diabolos The fact that the terms satan and diabolos are used interchangeably in the New Testament has tended to obscure the structural significance of their interplay in Matthew’s account of the wilderness temptations. The force with which the exclamation “Be off, Satan!” exploded from Jesus cannot be explained merely as moral exasperation. For that matter, one could argue that morally exasperating temptations hardly qualify as temptations at all.

The force of Jesus’ “Be off, Satan!” is not the result of exasperation or moral revulsion alone. It is the result of a sudden recognition. It is spoken by one who has just fully recognized the identity of his interlocutor.

As I said earlier, Satan is a Hebrew term that means “the accuser.” The two terms — diabolos and satan — can be seen as the two complementary manifestations of the forces of delusion, despair, and violence. The diabolos sows discord by arousing mimetic passions and then exacerbating the social tensions and the psychological apprehensions that accompany such passions. The diabolos produces all the psychosocial complications for which Girard’s mimetic theory so ably accounts. The fundamental tool of the diabolos is what the author of the book of Wisdom called “the devil’s envy,” the mimetic incentives that generate the delusions and distractions of the social melodrama.

At the critical moment, when these passions have sown enough frenzy and reduced a society to pandemonium, the diabolos changes its modus operandi. The diabolos becomes the Satan. Suddenly, the accusing finger points, and a violent avalanche is set in motion, the end result of which is a pile of stones, a glorious memory, and the rudiments of yet another of the kingdoms of “this world.” What Hamerton-Kelly calls the Generative Mimetic Scapegoating Mechanism — a synonym for diabolos/satan — “generates” such kingdoms, but if its spellbinding myths were ever shattered, “this generation” would have to account for all the blood it shed since the foundation of the world.

What the diabolos divides, satan unites, minus the victim that makes the union possible. It makes sense, then, to say that in the desert Jesus discovered that social division and social unanimity had the same source, and that it was demonic. By recognizing both the essential link between the diabolos and satan and the subtle difference in their roles, Jesus of the synoptic Gospels accomplished an unparalleled anthropological breakthrough, and much of his ministry can be understood in light of it.

The English poet John Milton wrote of Jesus’ temptations in the wilderness in his Paradise Regained. For Milton, it was in renouncing the temptations in the desert that Jesus destroyed the satanic power. For Milton the crucifixion was the public exposé of the perverse truth of human sinfulness that Jesus had deciphered and conquered in the wilderness. After Jesus renounces Satan, the narrator in Milton’s poem simply adds: “his snares are broke.”

As I said, however, the breaking of these snares is by no means an intellectual feat. It was not Jesus’ superior understanding that made it possible for him to repudiate the tempter and his gaudy lures; rather it was his God-centeredness. Girard’s groundbreaking examination of the central role of mimesis in human experience may be the most important contribution to our understanding of the doctrine of “original” or universal sinfulness since Augustine, but the mimetic hypothesis does not replace the traditional idea that sin is alienation from God; rather it demonstrates the anthropological validity of that notion.

When the Christian tradition insists that Jesus was like us in all things but sin, what are we to think? As I have said, Jesus was no doubt a moral paragon, but as long as we understand the sinlessness of Jesus only on the level of behavior, we do not go to the heart of his uniqueness, which was his God-centeredness. As the story of the wilderness temptations shows, the essence of his sinlessness was his immunity to the contagion of desire.

His triumph over demonic snares in the wilderness was a triumph over the glamour of mimetic suggestion, but it was an achievement made possible, not by Jesus’ strength of will, but by the superior strength of another mimetic desire: the desire “to do his Father’s will,” to become the image and likeness of the One in whose image and likeness he knew himself to have been made. The temptation to emulate another’s desire — the devils — was unable to lure him away from his desire to imitate the God of powerless love in rapport with Whom he lived and moved and had his incomparable Being.

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Gil Bailie Interprets René Girard

February 12, 2010

Gil Bailie’s definitive work on René Girard is Violence Unveiled. While many counsel “Read the original!” I have always been one who has preferred to read interpreters and then read the originals. It gives me a sense of knowing the lay of the land or landmarks to observe as I read the original source material. Bailie brings a wealth of anecdote and other observations to Girard’s work which brings it more alive to me.

Joseph Bottum felt the same: “Of the four books, Bailie’s Violence Unveiled is the best introduction to the Girardian topics of violence, culture, and sacrifice. It is an easily accessible and beautifully crafted analysis that moves freely from Greek literature to current news stories, from Aztec myths to Captain Cook’s experience in Tahiti, and finds in them all the grounds for a persuasive biblical and anti-violent Christian apologetics. Specialist and nonspecialist alike will find Bailie’s book rewarding; I recommend it highly.”

————————————–

Beginning from literary criticism and ending with a general theory of culture, through an explanation of the role of religion in primitive societies and a radical reinterpretation of Christianity, René Girard has completely modified the landscape in the social sciences. Ethnology, history of religion, philosophy, psychoanalysis, psychology and literary criticism are explicitly mobilized in this enterprise. Theology, economics and political sciences, history and sociology — in short, all the social sciences, and those that used to be called moral sciences — are influenced by it.
Paul Doumachel

The Revolutionary Tribunal went to work, and a steady slaughtering began. . . The invention of the guillotine was opportune to this mood. The queen was guillotined, and most of Robespierre’s antagonists were guillotined; atheists who argued that there was no Supreme Being were guillotined; Danton was guillotined because he thought there was too much guillotine; day by day, week by week, this infernal new machine chopped off heads and more heads and more. The reign of Robespierre lived, it seemed, on blood, and needed more and more, as an opium-taker needs more and more opium.
H. G. Wells

In the case of tens of millions killed and the lives of entire nations subverted, a catchword simply won’t do….” Communism” was the breakdown of humanity and not a political problem. It was a human problem, a problem of our species, and thus of a lingering nature… Why don’t we simply start by admitting that an extraordinary anthropological backslide has taken place in our century?
Joseph Brodsky

Will we actually allow Auschwitz to be the end point, the disruption which it really was, the catastrophe of our history, out of which we can find a way only through a radical change of direction achieved via new standards of action? Or will we see it only as a monstrous accident within this history but not affecting history’s course?
Johann Baptist Metz

Sacred Violence
No summary could convey the subtlety of the Girardian theory, and an oversimplified presentation of it would lead to misconceptions, defeating the very purpose of an introduction. Suffice it to say that Girard has uncovered the role violence plays in archaic religion and the role these religious systems play in human culture. Human history is the relentless chronicle of violence that it is because when cultures fall apart they fall into violence, and when they revive themselves they do so violently. Primitive religion is the institution that remembers the reviving violence mythologically and ritually reenacts its spellbinding climax. Primitive religion grants one form of violence a moral monopoly, endowing it with enough power and prestige to preempt other forms of violence and restore order. The famous distinction between “sacred” and “profane” is born as the culture glorifies the decisive violence (sacred) that brought an episode of chaotic violence (profane) to an end and made warriors into worshipers. Distinguishing these two forms of violence is always an extremely arbitrary affair, but that does not keep the distinction from having beneficial effects. Religion makes possible these benefits by bestowing sacred status on a socially tolerable form of violence to which the culture can resort as an alternative to greater and more catastrophic violence. “It is better that one man should die,” said Caiaphas of Jesus, “than that the whole nation be destroyed.”

Caiaphas was invoking a mechanism for preserving culture that is as old as culture itself. Whether it is the Assyro-Babylonian myth declaring that Marduk created the world by killing the monster Tiamat; or the Teutonic myth telling how Odin formed the world by raising the corpse of Ymir from the sea of Ymir’s own blood, or Pope Urban II declaring that God willed the first Crusade; or Thomas Jefferson saying that the tree of liberty must be periodically watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants; or Lenin saying you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs — cultures have forever commemorated some form of sacred violence at their origins and considered it a sacred duty to reenact it in times of crisis. The logic of sacred violence is nowhere expressed more succinctly nor repudiated more completely than in the New Testament, where the high priest solemnly announces its benefits and the crucifixion straightaway reveals its arbitrariness and horror. The New Testament account of the crucifixion reproduces the myths and mechanisms of primitive religion only to explode them, reveal their perversities, and declare allegiance to the Victim of them. As the theologian Robert Hamerton-Kelly, one of Girard’s most astute interpreters, puts it: “Christian theology provides a trenchant critique of religion.”

The Waning Of Scapegoating Violence
There was, however, something profoundly true about what Caiaphas said. Up to this very day, cultures rely on scapegoating violence to a far greater degree than we realize. The reason culture is now in such disarray, however, is that this ancient recipe for generating social solidarity has ceased to have its once reliable effects. It has been gradually shorn of its religious mystifications, and, as a result, its ability to promote cultural order has waned. By mystifying human violence and attributing it to the gods, archaic religion endowed a certain form of physical might — usually the most powerful form — with metaphysical significance. As long as the myths that mythologized certain human violence remained in effect, this sacralized violence was able to ward off other violence or crush it with religious conviction when it arose. As the myths that divinized the violence were weakened, the difference between order-destroying violence and order-restoring violence likewise began to break down.

Which brings me back to the hole in the parlor floor (a metaphor used by the poet Richard Wilbur whereby a carpenter’s work in progress allows the observer to see the foundation of the house). As Girard explained in his next book — Things Hidden since the Foundation of the World — the hole in the parlor floor into which he had peered in Violence and the Sacred was made by the Galilean Carpenter who was publicly executed outside Jerusalem two thousand years ago. As profoundly novel as Girard’s insights seem, he insists that they simply clarify and explicate a revelation of sacred violence that has its seeds in the Hebrew Scriptures and its stunning climax in the New Testament passion story. The Carpenter made a hole in the parlor floor and Girard simply looked into it and saw there things hidden since the foundation of the world. “Thus,” writes Robert Hamerton-Kelly, “Girard points us to a possible restatement of biblical faith that places it at the center of the struggle for a culture beyond violence.”

The Cross As An Hermeneutic Principle
According to the currently fashionable school of literary deconstruction, literary criticism is in a tailspin that is too momentous to be interrupted. There is nothing but the text. One reading is as good as another. Girard’s work, however, articulates the terms under which the critical work might be revived, grounded once again in historical reality’ and made both anthropologically and spiritually significant. As the criteria for assessing cultural arrangements generally, and literary traditions specifically, Girard has proposed the victim and the truth about the victim. He has suggested that the real task of literary criticism has just begun, and that at its center is the Cross. With the Cross as his hermeneutic principle, Girard’s work deconstructs literary deconstruction and replaces its purely literary vertigo with intellectual and moral vigor.

The.phrase “things hidden since the foundation of the world” is taken from the Gospel of Matthew. In the passage from which it is taken, Matthew says that Jesus’ use of parables was linked to his mission to reveal those things hidden since the foundation of the world. The implication is that the practical meaning of revolutionary and “counter-intuitive” truths is more likely to be conveyed by anecdotes than by an abstract statement of the truths themselves.

Historical Developments And The Worldwide Crisis Of Culture
“Every historical development,” wrote the historian John Lukacs, “is inseparable from its recognition.” Almost by definition, a truly historic development is one that cannot be adequately assessed by the conventional wisdom and intellectual presuppositions whose historical relevance it is bringing to an end. The worldwide crisis of culture in the midst of which we now find ourselves is just such a historical development. If historical developments are inseparable from their recognition, and if the one we’re living through is having some terrible consequences in part because we have failed to recognize its true significance, then it is our responsibility to try anew to recognize it. Those who come after us may be better able than we to recognize the nature of the present crisis, but they may not have a chance to do so unless we begin to recognize it better than we have so far.

Explaining Away Violence
It has been said that “the Nazi experience tests the limits of what history can explain.” Nor is the Nazi holocaust alone in defying explanation. Today, we are constantly confronted by news of horrendous acts of collective violence for which our familiar explanations seem inadequate. If we are no longer able to explain away the violence that is upon us, it is because almost all of the interpretive and explanatory tools with which we have tried to explain it are those bequeathed to us by the European Enlightenment. The Enlightenment came into being by expelling or marginalizing the religious perspective without which some of the oddest vagaries of the human drama become incomprehensible. For perfectly understandable reasons, the Enlightenment had hoped to rid the world of religious superstition and the religious passions that had proven so destructive. It proposed to do so by placing an empirical rationalism at the spiritual center of the West’s cultural undertaking — a place once occupied by Christian moral and intellectual sensibilities, whose source of clarity remained unclear and whose historical and cultural effects were, shall we say, not uniformly edifying. In truth, however, what the Enlightenment did was to secularize a wariness about religion that has its roots in the Old Testament prophets, the Gospels, and the letters of Paul. For both the secularizing and rationalizing impulses it espoused were products of the Judeo-Christian tradition that the Enlightenment came into existence by underestimating and repudiating.

There may be no more urgent task today than that of renouncing religious superstition and freeing ourselves from its grip, but we’re not likely to do so by abandoning the spiritual tradition that taught us to be wary of religious superstition in the first place. Things have changed. Today, one is more likely to find people who have renounced religious superstition in monasteries and in synagogues, in church-sponsored soup kitchens, and at morning Mass than at the shopping mall, the fitness gym, the stock exchange, or the faculty lounge. Those who think that disdain for religion is an antidote for religious superstition haven’t sufficiently pondered the French Revolution or Madam Mao’s cultural revolution or Pol Pot’s bloody attempt at social engineering. On the other hand, if we could dispense with both the credulous forms of piety and the gullible forms of skepticism that combine to insulate the modern world from the biblical tradition, we might finally realize that the Hebrew prophets and the New Testament represent the world’s mother lode of anti-superstition.

The End Of “History”
As Girard’s seminal work indicates, and as I will try to show, we are in the midst of perhaps the greatest anthropological challenge in history. It is a challenge that goes to the heart of culture itself. So much so, that in order to approximate its historical and anthropological significance, I, too, want to begin by referring to the epochal shift this challenge is precipitating as the end of “history.” Let me stress that by “history” (in quotes) I do not mean the human enterprise on this planet, but rather one particular phase of that enterprise. By “history” (in quotes) I mean the stage in human history (without quotes) during which collective and cathartic acts of violence could be counted on to bring a period of social chaos to an end and, in doing so, to convince its participants and sympathetic observers of the truth of the myth that justified the violence. Since such rituals of collective violence have played a key role in generating the social solidarity necessary for ordinary cultural life “since the foundation of the world,” the waning of their power confronts us with an anthropological dilemma of the first magnitude. And so I shall speak of it as the end of “history” in order to underscore its significance.

The irony, of course, is that this end of “history” is being brought about by the same moral force that gave rise to the specifically Western experience of history in the first place. In the West, due to the influence of the biblical tradition, the term “history” refers neither just to the recollection of events nor to the passage of time during which they occur. Rather it implies a journey toward truth. At its core, the Western sense of history assumes the gradual emergence of something that is both radically new and the fulfillment of what preceded it. Modernity’s now-defunct notions of inevitable social “evolution” or historical “progress” were shallow and insubstantial ones, but the principle they misconstrued and underestimated is at the heart of Western civilization, and its roots are biblical. For the West, history is the future as much as it is the past, but it is also the mental and spiritual atmosphere in which we think about our lives. “Western civilization has now spread all over the world,” wrote Lukacs “Neither the scientific method nor the professional study of history are any longer European and American intellectual monopolies. Yet historical consciousness is still something specifically ‘Western.’ As Lukacs and most other historians — both Western and non-Western — acknowledge, the West’s historical consciousness is inextricably bound up with the historicity of the Judeo-Christian tradition. “Christianity is not one of the great things of history,” wrote Henri de Lubac, “it is history that is one of the great things of Christianity.” The biblical sensibility that shaped Western cultures endowed them with a palpable sense that something new was happening in history and an insatiable curiosity for finding out what it was. Western historical consciousness is concerned not only with what actually happened in the past but also with trying to understand the direction history is taking and what forces are driving it. It is a worthy undertaking, and one which Girard’s work allows us to take up with new zest.

Apocalypse
“Man creates what he calls history as a screen to conceal the workings of the apocalypse from himself,” wrote the literary critic Northrop Frye. This is a stunning insight. It cries out to be paired with the observation that the Nazi experience tests the limits of what “history” can explain. It implies that “history” pays a price in return for its explanatory power. It suggests that “history” conceals something in order to illuminate everything else. It implies what Cesareo Bandera made explicit when he called attention to “what literal historical reality itself hides or disguises in order to constitute itself as such, as meaningful historical reality? In other words, what makes “meaningful historical reality” meaningful is the concealing of something that might rob it of its meaning were it not concealed. If “the Nazi experience tests the limits of what history can explain,” it is because the explanatory power of “history” begins and ends with its ability to explain away the victims and the violence vented against them.

Equally remarkable in Frye’s lapidary (vocab: characterized by an exactitude and extreme refinement that suggests gem cutting) statement is its implication that the end of “history” was inextricably bound up with the Bible, and that the biblical texts could not be fully comprehended if their apocalyptic features were neglected. Frye even went so far as to suggest that the “vision of the apocalypse is the vision of the total meaning of the Scriptures,” though he erred when he took the next step, asserting that apocalyptic destruction “is what the Scripture is intended to achieve.” On the contrary, what Scripture is intended to achieve is a conversion of the human heart that will allow humanity to dispense with organized violence without sliding into the abyss of uncontrollable violence, the apocalyptic abyss.

The word “apocalypse” means “unveiling.” ‘What, then, is veiled, the unveiling of which can have apocalyptic consequences? The answer is: violence. Veiled violence is violence whose religious or historical justifications still provide it with an aura of respectability and give it a moral and religious monopoly over any “unofficial” violence whose claim to “official” status it preempts. Unveiled violence is apocalyptic violence precisely because, once shorn of its religious and historical justifications, it cannot sufficiently distinguish itself from the counter-violence it opposes. Without benefit of religious and cultural privilege, violence simply does what unveiled violence always does: it incites more violence. In such situations, the scope of violence grows while the ability of its perpetrators to reclaim that religious and moral privilege diminishes. The reciprocities of violence and counter-violence threaten to spin completely out of control.

The weakness of Frye’s analysis was that he treated the apocalyptic phenomenon as though it were exclusively a literary or psychological one, and he ignored its historical and anthropological implications. The “vision of the apocalypse,” he wrote, “may break in on anyone at any time.” For Frye, the apocalypse was ultimately a vision forming in the mind or psyche of the reader. Of course, Frye was right to reject the notion of the apocalypse as a lurid prophesy of God’s final orgy of vengeance, but whether Frye’s alternative — a purely literary and psychological apocalypse — better accounts for either the biblical texts or the historical events is doubtful.

The other literary critic who has argued for the unique relevance of the biblical tradition for our troubled times is, of course, René Girard. Like Frye, Girard has insisted that the apocalyptic language of the Bible cannot and should not be dismissed. “Apocalyptic prophecy,” Girard argues, “means no more and no less than a rational anticipation of what men are likely to do to each other and to their environment, if they go on disregarding the Gospel’s warning against revenge in a desacralized and sacrificially unprotected world.” “The idea of ‘limitless’ violence, long scorned by sophisticated Westerners, suddenly looms up before us,” writes Girard. “For the first time,” he says, humanity faces “a perfectly straightforward and even scientifically calculable choice between total destruction and the total renunciation of violence.”

For Girard, however, it was not “history” that humanity created to screen the workings of the apocalypse from itself. It was religion — archaic religion — that came into being in the first instance, Girard has argued, with the sacralization of a spontaneous act of scapegoating violence. In other words, archaic religion is humanity’s astonishing instrument for turning murder and madness into a sacralized bulwark against madness and murder. More or less refined forms of this same recipe for generating social solidarity and lending it the requisite solemnity have played a part in cultural existence since the dawn of human culture. The social stability of these cultures was determined to a considerable degree by the success with which they were able to experience and interpret the violence which brought them into being as holy. And any given culture’s attempt to endow its scapegoating violence with religious sanction depends on the degree of unanimity the violence inspires, and unanimity requires that all empathy for the victim or victims of the violence be extinguished. To use Frye’s evocative imagery, the screen that we have used to conceal from ourselves the workings of the apocalypse is the screen that has kept us from recognizing the humanity of our victims and the truth about the violence inflicted on them.

The generic term for the systematic misrecognitions that have veiled the victim’s face and silenced the victim’s voice is “myth.” if we live at a moment in human history when “history” is no longer able to screen us from the apocalypse, no longer able to explain away the violence it documents, it is because in our day “history” is exhausting the last vestige of its mythological power. In the foreseeable future, neither religious mystification nor the solemn and quasi-religious causes of “history” will sufficiently veil our violence from our own eyes nor keep us from seeing the faces of our victims.

Disruptive Empathy
In those cultures under the gospel influence, moral misgivings about scapegoating or sacrificial violence gradually arose and almost imperceptibly became their driving cultural and historical thrust. These societies are conspicuous for the degree to which a demand for social reforms arose within them. This never-ending parade of social innovations and political correctives is the defining characteristic of Western civilization, and at its core lies the biblical sympathy for victims. The moral discomfort that led to such reforms is a symptom of the weakening of the sacrificial system and its justifying myths. No such moral misgivings arise when a culture’s sacrificial mechanisms are operating with their original mystifying power. On the other hand, the very act of undertaking moral reforms has the effect of further awakening the moral acuity that led to the demand for reforms in the first place. In other words, the social reforms to which the empathy for victims gives rise have a progressively destabilizing effect on culture, arousing an empathy for the culture’s victims, bringing the plight of victims and the fact of victimization into sharper focus, undermining the moral legitimacy of the culture’s sacrificial rituals for restoring social solidarity, and insuring that eventually the reformed system will arouse more moral misgivings in later generations than did the unreformed system in earlier periods. The result of this, of course, is that new reforms will be required, and their implementation will have the same effect. As the modern world is finding out to its dismay, the process is inexorable.

Perhaps the first modern to sense the full significance of the empathy for victims the gospel revelation was awakening was Friedrich Nietzsche, the German philosopher who has had such an enormous impact on our time. He reacted with horror as he saw moral authority shifting from the powerful to the weak, the downtrodden, and the outcast. The West was becoming ambivalent about performing cultural routines that involved no moral dilemma for societies not under the influence of the gospel tradition. As Nietzsche saw so well, this cultural equivocation was a product of Christianity. “I condemn Christianity.” he declared, “I raise against the Christian church the most terrible of all accusations that any accuser ever uttered…The Christian church has left nothing untouched by its corruption…The “equality of souls before God,” this falsehood, this pretext for the rancor of all the base-minded, this explosive of a concept which eventually became revolution, modern idea, and the principle of decline of the whole order of society — is Christian dynamite.

In his characteristically truculent way, Nietzsche recognized how the Gospels were awakening an empathy for victims and outcasts, and he was appalled by what he felt that empathy was doing to the ancient  heroic virtues. He condemned Christianity as a religion of pity. “Christianity has sided with all that is weak and base,” Nietzsche wrote in The Antichrist. “Pity stands opposed to the tonic emotions which heighten our vita1ity~” he inveighed. “We are deprived of strength when we feel pity. .. . Some have dared to call pity a virtue (in every noble ethic it is considered a weakness); and as if this were not enough, it has been made the virtue, the basis and source of all virtues.”~

Nietzsche’s contempt for the idea of the conscience and its moral pangs, on one hand, and his romance with “the will to power,” on the other, are two aspects of one of his most brilliant and sinister realizations. Nietzsche understood that violence and sacrificial bloodletting had always been a part of humanity’s cultural existence. It was his realization that the world no longer had myths capable of endowing these bloody rituals with moral respectability that led him to oppose the “conscience” that harbored the moral misgivings, and to castigate Christianity for bringing this “conscience” into being. He proposed to replace it with a will-to-power that would carry out its sacrificial duties, moral qualms notwithstanding.

It was both perfectly natural and poetically brilliant for Auden, in his Christmas oratorio, to place a variation of Nietzsche’s tirade on Christian pity into the mouth of Herod. Like Nietzsche, Auden’s Herod recoils from the thought of a world in which pity — for Nietzsche the Christian virtue — would replace Roman justice. “Pity” is hardly the Christian virtue, but at least in terms of its historical effects, empathy for victims is Christianity’s cardinal virtue. This is so, not because Christianity is solely or even primarily concerned with making social or political improvements, but because it carries to its conclusion the biblical aversion for idolatry, and because idolatry’s core illusion — humanity’s oldest and most tenacious illusion — is the one that makes victimizers proud of what they’ve done. All human delusions lead to, or flow from, that one. Biblical revelation, especially the New Testament story of the crucifixion, challenges that primary illusion. It invites those it confronts to see scapegoating violence for what it is and to recognize their own complicity in it. By acclaiming the victim as Lord, the Gospels slowly begin to awaken an empathy for victims everywhere.

Again, this does not mean the world became, or is becoming, suddenly more virtuous, or that we have been cured of our scapegoating predilections. Rather it means that increasingly we can only lustily vent our violence against victims whom we can confidently regard as victimizers. Today, what is often called the “culture wars” is a struggle over which political or ideological or intellectual or religious camp can best claim to have been victimized in the past, or to have championed the cause of victims and outcasts, or to be the rightful heirs of those who did. In his Time magazine essay, Hughes alluded to this contest when he discussed the controversy, typical of so many, between those who laud and those who scorn the landing of Columbus in the Americas. Was Columbus, Hughes asked, “Manifest Destiny in tights” or a “Hitler in a caravel, landing like a virus among the innocent people of the New World?” In a marvelous phrase, Hughes described the historians on either side of this debate standing “with tarbrush and gold leaf,” ready to vilify and valorize according to which myth they choose to champion.

Tarbrush and Gold Leaf
As I will try to show in more detail in a later chapter, human culture as we know it begins when an act of unanimous violence brings the violence that preceded it to an end in such a breathtaking way that it gives birth to primitive religion. Myth remembers this strange event and its dramatic resolution from the point of view of those who derived social benefits from it, namely, those who discovered their first social solidarity when they joined in the common cause of expelling or eliminating their scapegoat. Myth camouflages the violence and recalls it in ways that make it seem valiant and divinely ordained. Here, as hereafter, I use the term “myth,” neither as a synonym for fiction nor as the pure figment of the primitive imagination. Rather I use “myth” to refer to a special combination of fact and fantasy, one that tells of an actual to-lent event, but that tells of it from the perspective of the society which benefited from the violence and that therefore veils and vindicates the actual violence. All mythological pictures of the world are painted with tarbrush and gold leaf, but no one in a society where the mythological system is still functioning is aware that any such tampering with the facts has taken place. Primitive peoples were not hypocrites. Once the myth can no longer effectively veil the reality of the violence — as is the case in cultures that have fallen under biblical influence — then even the culture’s solemnly sanctioned violence becomes morally problematic, and the moral authority of the culture is undermined.

Myth is like a stone that has been tossed by innumerable waves of the sea and that now lies glistening in the surf. Those who live in cultures still under the sway of such myths know better than to pick it up and examine it. As we in the West are now realizing, if you pick the stone up, scrutinize it, and put it in your pocket, it loses its luster. It looks like so many other stones. To understand why it shimmers in the surf is to realize how circumstantial is its mesmerizing power. When that power begins to wane, as it has in our world, we turn almost instinctively to gold leaf and the tarbrush in an effort to restore luster to our myths and righteousness to our causes, extending thereby for a little while longer our “ceremony of innocence.” As skillfully as partisans and propagandists have often applied the tarbrush and gold leaf, however, their task has been profoundly complicated by the fact that as the moral valence has shifted in the victim’s favor, the social distinction the gold leaf is meant to bestow has tended to be reserved almost exclusively for the past victims of the tarbrush. To be sure, few are eager to be tarbrushed, but to have been tarbrushed is to enjoy a social status that buckets of gold leaf could not hope to bestow. All of this is part of what Lance Morrow called the surreal confusion of the world in which we now live. The quirkiness and perversity aside, what is underway is the most astonishing reversal of values in human history. Today the victim occupies the moral high ground everywhere in the Western world. The cultural and historical force that caused this reversal is the gospel. Nietzsche was right at least about that.

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