Archive for the ‘Understanding Violence’ Category

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Reflections on Girard: When Desire Turns Ugly — Fr. Michael Kirwan

July 5, 2012

Antonio Salieri from Amadeus

In a further part of these posts on Girard, we will expand and deepen our understanding of Girard’s discovery of mimetic desire, most especially concerning its darker or conflictual aspects. As well as the novelists whom Girard has been considering, such as Cervantes and Dostoevsky, another important literary source needs to be introduced. Not for the last time in this book, I will refer to Girard’s use of Shakespeare in order to illustrate his theory, in particular his collection of essays entitled A Theatre of Envy: William Shakespeare (1991). Girard himself stresses the significance of the dramatist for his entire project, when he writes in the Introduction to that book: `My work on Shakespeare is inextricably linked to everything I ever wrote, beginning with an essay on five European novelists: This is , quite a large claim, so we must see what it entails.

The argument of A Theatre of Envy is that Shakespeare, early in his career, made precisely the same discovery as Girard — that desire is mimetically configured, though Shakespeare uses his own terminology: `suggested desire’, ‘jealous desire’, `emulation’, and above all, ‘envy’. As his dramatic career progresses, Shakespeare not only learns to present more and more complex versions of this phenomenon, he does so in such a way that they can stand alongside the more standard `non-mimetic’, that is, more popular, interpretations of the plays.

The challenge Shakespeare sets himself, according to Girard, is to write about emulation and so forth, but in an indirect or hidden fashion, so as to appeal to different levels of sophistication in his audience. Girard notes, wryly: `As for Shakespeare, he quickly realized that to wave mimetic desire like a red flag in front of the public is not the sure road to success (as I myself have never managed to learn, I suppose)’ (1991, p. 4).

The plays which most attract Girard’s attention are A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Troilus and Cressida. Before this, the basic mimetic pattern is set out in Two Gentlemen of Verona, in which two very close friends become rivals, because they have aroused in each other a passion for the same girl. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the treatment of this same theme is more sophisticated and effective.

Of the 38 chapters in A Theatre of Envy, six deal with scenes from this play alone: Girard rates it so highly as an exposition of mimetic desire that he declares it should be `compulsory reading for anthropologists’. According to Girard’s mimetic reading of the Dream, the classic notion of stable and autonomous love — what we have been calling `the Romantic Lie’ — is ruthlessly and persistently held up to ridicule. The plot centers on two pairs of lovers whose relationships become entangled, so that the young men fall hopelessly in love with each of the girls in turn, at the same time.

Why does this happen, and why should erotic wires get crossed in this way? One of the lovers, Lysander, does famously declare that `for aught that ever I could read/ Could ever hear by tale or history/ The course of true love never did run smooth’. (Yet again, we have someone bowing to the authority of fictional literary examples, in order to declaim what `true love’ is like!) Lysander is saying that the barriers traditionally placed in the way of true lovers have always been imposed from outside: either parental opposition (as it appears so threateningly at the beginning of the play), or disparity of age or social status, or simply fate (if we think of the `star-crossed lovers’ in Romeo and Juliet). Beneath this luxuriant verbiage lies the shaky syllogism which Shakespeare is keen to question: `these fictional true lovers all endured hardships; we too are having to endure hardships; therefore we must be true lovers’.

As it happens, the plans of the lovers in the Dream are sent awry, not by any of these imposing obstacles, but by a bunch of incompetent and mischievous fairies who are a little too clumsy with their love potion. The play can be enjoyed on this child-like level, but if we read the play as grown-ups, says Girard, Shakespeare is really presenting before our eyes the volatility of mimetic desire. (When Puck declares at the end of the play: `And Jack shall have Jill’, he is being particularly sardonic.) We must not take these tripping fairies too seriously: this is an adult play, the roots and causes of the lovers’ discords are to be found within and among themselves, and nowhere else.

To return, however, to the analysis as it unfolds in Deceit, Desire and the Novel. So far we have looked in general at the mechanics of mimetic desire, which are to be found as a common feature in the writers Girard has selected. The true significance of this discovery can only be appreciated, however, when we look at the differences between the authors as well as their similarities.

The five writers are not quite placed in chronological order, according to which Proust should come after Dostoevsky but we have a general survey of the novel, spanning the modern period from the early seventeenth to the twentieth centuries. Each writer configures the theme of mimetic desire differently, Girard maintains, because extreme mimetic pressures and influences make themselves increasingly felt during the modern period, pressures which are manifest in the social interactions recorded in his chosen novels.

Rather than look successively at Cervantes, Flaubert, Stendhal, Proust and Dostoevsky, let us examine the argument by comparing the first and last of these. On the face of it, Cervantes’ character Don Quixote and the tormented heroes and anti-heroes of Dostoevsky’s novels seem to occupy different planets. Don Quixote, we have always thought, is a comic tale of a misguided buffoon, who embarks on ludicrous adventures, but thankfully comes to no harm.

The reason is the hierarchical relationship between the model and the imitator. Because the model is a fictional character, there can never be a rivalrous conflict between Don Quixote and Amadis; the gap between them cannot be transgressed. In the same way, the social distance between Don Quixote and his acknowledged pupil and servant, Sancho Panza, prevents any conflict between them. The novel ends without violence.

This `safe’ form of mimesis is called `external mediation’ or ‘external mimesis’. As long as social differences or other distinctions are able to channel mimetic desire, the conflictual potential of mimetic desire is never actualized. This can be expressed once again by means of the triangle which is the principal geometric figure of mimetic desire: if we think of an isosceles triangle, with the model or mediator at its apex, then degrees of mediation can be expressed in terms of the distance between the apex and the base. In `safe’, external mediation, we have a tall triangle, with a clear distance between mediator and subject. If the triangle is made more squat, then we have the more perilous situation of `internal mediation’, where the subject and model are, literally, too close for comfort.

In Dostoevsky, we have just such a triangular pattern. The characters move on the same social level, and we are confronted with a much more frenzied world of destructive mimetic interaction — culminating in the alleged father-murder in The Brothers Karamazov. Here we find a rivalistic desire between individuals, frenziedly struggling for the same social space. Meet `Underground Man’:

`I am a sick man … I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my liver . .

The speaker is the unnamed, splenetic anti-hero of Notes from Underground, whom Dostoevsky describes as `this real man of the Russian majority’. He is a petty bureaucrat, a man consumed by a ferocious obsession with other people’s opinion of him, who finds himself nauseated by the company of his peers at the same time as he is hopelessly fascinated and attracted by them. He spends months considering how to get revenge on an army officer who has publicly humiliated him.

Later, in a richly comic scene, the Underground Man drunkenly gate-crashes a banquet of former school companions, now army officers and civil servants like himself, whom he loathes and despises, yet whose company he cannot bear to be without. He exasperates and offends by his presence, like a moth crashing continuously into a lamp:

Smiling scornfully, I paced backwards and forwards on the side of the room opposite the sofa, along the wall from the table to the stove and back. 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 the heels. But it was all in vain; they didn’t even notice. I had the patience to walk about straight in front of them in this fashion from eight o’clock till eleven, always in the same track, from the table to the stove and from the stove back again to the table: `I am walking to please myself and nobody can stop me.’ . . .

To humiliate oneself more shamelessly and willfully was impossible, and this I fully, all too fully understood, yet all the same I continued to pace from the table to the stove and back. `Oh, if only you know what thoughts and emotions I am capable of, and how enlightened I am!’ I thought sometimes, turning in imagination to the sofa where my enemies sat. But my enemies acted as though I wasn’t even in the room. Once, and only once, they turned towards me, and that was when Zverkov began to talk about Shakespeare and I let out a sudden contemptuous laugh.

It was such a vilely artificial snort that they all ceased talking at once and silently watched me for about two minutes, attentively and seriously, as I walked along the wall from the table to the stove, without paying them the slightest attention. But nothing happened; they did not speak to me and after two minutes they ignored me again.

Compare this passage with Proust’s description (from Within a Budding Grove, quoted in Things Hidden, p. 301) of holiday-makers, strolling by the sea at Balbec:

All these people … pretending not to see, so as to let it be thought that they were not interested in them, but covertly eyeing, for fear of running into them, the people who were walking beside or coming towards them, did in fact bump into them, became entangled with them, because each was mutually the object of the same secret attention veiled beneath the same apparent disdain.

Girard draws on another story by Dostoevsky, The Eternal Husband. The `eternal husband’ of the title is Trousotsky, whose wife has just died. She had had two lovers, one of whom also dies: Trousotsky attends his funeral procession, where he displays quite extravagant grief. The widower then attaches himself in the most bizarre fashion to the other lover, Veltschaninoff, with whom he is clearly fascinated. He visits him uninvited in the middle of the night, drinks his health, kisses him on the lips … in short, his wife’s lover has become his model, mediator and obstacle. Trousotsky moves round him like a planet circling the sun.

The plot becomes even more bizarre when Trousotsky falls in love again, and declares that he wishes to remarry. He asks Veltschaninoff to help him choose a present for his beloved, and even to accompany him on a visit to her. The predictable happens: Veltschaninoff easily charms his way into the affections of the fiancée and her family, so that Trousotsky himself is now totally disregarded.

This looks like the most masochistic kind of behavior; in fact, the Eternal Husband is incapable of loving someone unless his choice has been ratified and approved by his model-rival. Veltschaninoff is an accomplished `Don Juan’, and without his seal of approval, the girl will appear to be worthless to Trousotsky. He yearns to be like, or even to surpass, his rival, to have his success with women, but because he only encounters failure he can never escape from Veltschaninoff’s influence.

The triangularity of the Eternal Husband’s desire is reaffirmed at the end of the novel, when the narrator (who is Veltschaninoff himself) meets Trousotsky, years later, together with his charming new wife … in the company of a dashing young officer. As Girard observes in his later book on Dostoevsky: `Masochists are always fascinated artisans of their own unhappiness’:

Why does [Trousotsky] rush into his own humiliation? Because he is immensely vain and proud. This response is paradoxical only in appearance. When Trousotsky discovers that his wife prefers another man to him, the shock he experiences is dreadful because he makes it a duty to be the center and navel of the universe. The man is a former serf owner; he is rich. He lives in a world of masters and slaves and is incapable of envisaging a middle term between these two extremes; the least failure condemns him to servitude. A deceived husband, he pledges himself to being a sexual zero. After having thought of himself as someone from whom power and success naturally radiated, he now sees himself as human waste from whom impotence and ridicule inevitably ooze.
(Girard, 1997, p. 49)

It should be clear from these two stories alone that the Russian novelist offers very striking expositions of the most extreme kind of mimetic interaction, which justifies Girard putting Dostoevsky at the climax of Deceit, Desire and the Novel. Because the distance between hero and model has been shortened, the potential for both morbid fascination, and for rivalry and violence, is intensified.

The contrast between mimetic interaction in Cervantes and Dostoevsky is like day and night. And yet both writers, according to Girard, are seeking to illustrate the same psychological mechanism: mimetic desire. Why, then, is there such a shocking difference between them?

One answer is to look at the social and cultural differences which set the seventeenth-century writer apart from the nineteenth-century one. This period sees the erosion of precisely those hierarchical boundaries which prevented Quixote and Sancho Panza from coming into conflict. We alluded to this in Girard’s distinction between `external’ and `internal’ mediation. In this increased potentiality of mimetic desire from Cervantes to Dostoevsky is mirrored the development of our modern world, a world in which long-established differentiation is eroded in the face of equality and democracy. Mimesis therefore encounters fewer and fewer barriers; in place of external mediation we have more and more internal. This world is characterized by intense competition, rivalry, envy and jealousy.

Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan puts forward a diagnosis of this condition. The problem begins, for Hobbes, with the competitive nature of the modern world, and its unavoidable logic of acquisitive mimesis. In Chapter 13 of Leviathan, `Of the Naturall Condition of Mankind, as concerning their Felicity, and Misery’, he wrote:

From this equality of ability, ariseth equality of hope in the attaining of our Ends. And therefore if any two men desire the same thing, which nevertheless they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies; and in the way to their End, (which is principally their owne conservation, and sometimes their delectation only,) endeavor to destroy, or subdue one another …Againe, men have no pleasure, (but on the contrary a great deale of griefe) in keeping company, where there is no power able to over-awe them all. For every man looketh that his companion should value him, at the same rate he sets upon himselfe … so that in the nature of man, we find three principall causes of quarrell. First, Competition; Secondly, Diffidence; Thirdly, Glory.

(But on the contrary a great deale of griefe) in keeping company, where there is no power able to over-awe them all. For every man looketh that his companion should value him, at the same rate he sets upon himselfe … so that in the nature of man, we find three principall causes of quarrell. First, Competition; Secondly, Diffidence; Thirdly, Glory.

By `diffidence’, Hobbes means the wariness which people show towards each other, precisely because they are of equal ability, with no one noticeably stronger than the others. This diffidence is at the same time a source of self-assertion, since each desires the esteem or `recognition’ of the others. As Hobbes memorably describes just after this passage, this means that the `natural’ state of humanity is one of all-pervasive warfare.

According to Girard, these mimetic pressures build up intolerably, so that by the nineteenth century the disease has its own name: the Underground Man and Trousotsky, along with numerous other Dostoevskian heroes, are suffering from ressentiment. The French word is preferable to the English `resentment’, because it conveys better this sense of emotional ricochet, where the affective life of the hero is borrowed from or dictated by someone else — with turbulent consequences.

Perhaps a more familiar example here would be the character of Antonio Salieri in Peter Schaffer’s play and film, Amadeus. The play is about the life of Mozart as told from the perspective of Salieri, the imperial court composer. He has dedicated his life and music to God, only to find himself confronted in rivalry by a dissolute yet brilliant genius. The comparison is a disastrous one: Salieri, now convinced that God is mocking him, renounces his piety and determines to frustrate God’s purposes by destroying his `creature’. At the close of the drama, Salieri (incarcerated in an asylum because of his jealous obsession) declaims himself to be the `patron saint of mediocrity’. More accurately, he ranks alongside the Eternal Husband and the Underground Man as one of the patron saints of ressentiment.

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Fr. Robert Barron, one of our faves here at PayingAttentionToTheSky, takes up the summer mega hit, The Hunger Games (a retelling of the mythological story of Theseus and the Minotaur), and Girardian Theory in an article in the National Review.

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René Girard’s “Mimetic Desire” — Fr. Michael Kirwan

July 4, 2012

Don Quixote is a 1955 sketch by Pablo Picasso of the Spanish literary hero and his sidekick, Sancho Panza. It was featured on the August 18-24 issue of the French weekly journal Les Lettres Françaises’s in celebration of the 350th anniversary of the first part of Cervantes’s Don Quixote. Made on August 10, 1955, the drawing Don Quixote was in a very different style than Picasso’s earlier Blue, Rose, and Cubist periods.

A couple of years ago I had my first encounter with René Girard when I was dealing with theories of violence and particularly Christ’s passion. As someone who has observed violence so often I found myself befuddled at times as to the why, particularly as it impacted myself and the rages I was victim to. While I am undergoing treatment for PTSD at the VA for my Vietnam experiences, I still seek answers both in a personal and also cultural way. Fr. Kirwan’s book Discovering Girard  is one of the best I’ve read and has a broader sweep than just Girard because he contrasts some of the latter’s theories with recent work in the field.

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Girard’s theory begins with a realization of the importance of mimesis in human desire, a conviction that he arrived at while working on his first book, Deceit, Desire and the Novel in 1959. So we need to start with an explanation of what he understands by `mimesis’.

The five novelists whom Girard considers in this book deal with nothing less than `the collapse of the autonomous self’. The first and perhaps clearest example of what this means is Don Quixote, whom we will turn to shortly. As mentioned in the Introduction, however, this literary study was accompanied by a `collapse’ of an immediate kind for Girard himself, or at least a profound shake-up of his beliefs and values. In an interview he tells how he approached this study `in the pure demystification mode: cynical, destructive, very much in the spirit of the atheist intellectuals of the time’.

Such an attitude of `debunking’, however, can eventually turn back on itself. If all one finds in other people is inauthenticity and bad faith, something very like the religious concept of original sin will emerge into view: `An experience of demystification, if radical enough, is very close to an experience of conversion.’ Girard saw that the lives of a number of great writers manifest precisely this pattern, and by the time he came to write the last chapter of the book, he realized that he was undergoing his own version of the experience he was describing. This caused him to return to reading the gospels, and to acknowledge that he had now become a Christian.

Girard stresses that this was as yet only an intellectual-literary conversion, and a fairly comfortable one. When he had a health scare in early 1959, namely the discovery of a cancerous spot on his forehead, the issue became much more existential. His conversion was now a genuinely religious one, and he returned to the Catholic Church during Lent of that year, in time for a `real Easter experience, a death and resurrection experience’. He describes himself now as `an ordinary Christian’.

Here, then, is the key to understanding the writers under consideration in Deceit, Desire and the Novel. In spite of their diverse backgrounds and religious affiliations, they have in common an experience of conversion, which is also to be thought of as a `death and resurrection experience’. For the authors themselves, this experience of collapse and recovery may be implicitly or explicitly religious. For Girard, the kind of event that he is describing (whether it is understood religiously or not) is so pivotal to their works, that he takes it to be constitutive of the genre we call the `novel’. He therefore sets up a contrast between `novel’ and `romance’; the novel tells us the truth about human desire, whereas romantic literature perpetuates only untruth about the autonomy and stability of human desire.

The first author considered in Deceit, Desire and the Novel is Miguel Cervantes, the creator of Don Quixote. Quixote has decided that he wishes to be a knight errant. He has decided upon this as a result of reading courtly literature, and he explains to his servant, Sancho Panza, why he has chosen to take as his model Amadis de Gaul, the most prominent of the literary heroes he has been reading about:

I want you to know, Sancho, that the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most perfect knight errants. But what am I saying, one of the most perfect? I should say the only, the first, the unique, the master and lord of all those who existed in the world … when a painter wants to become famous for his art he tries to imitate the originals of the best masters he knows … In the same way Amadis was the pole, the star, the sun, for brave and amorous knights, and we others who fight under the banner of love and chivalry should imitate him. Thus, my friend Sancho, I reckon that whoever imitates him best will come closest to perfect chivalry.
(Don Quixote, cited in Girard, 1965, p. 1)

By allowing this fictional character to choose for him all the things he should desire, Don Quixote effectively abandons any independent judgment of his own. He has no independent `self’. Girard illustrates this state of affairs geometrically, by declaring that desire has a triangular structure. Instead of desire being a single linear relation (subject A desires object B — `Quixote desires to be a perfect knight’), we have three elements: A only desires B because C (in this case, Amadis de Gaul) has directed his attention towards it. Since Quixote’s desires are channeled or mediated by Amadis, point C of the triangle is called the `mediator’ or `model’.

Cervantes is not the first writer to consider the theme of mimesis, of course. A long Western philosophical tradition has followed Aristotle in the Poetics — `man is distinguished from other life-forms by his capacity for imitation’. All human learning, and especially the acquisition of language, takes place through imitation. What Girard insists has been neglected is an understanding of imitation which is expansive enough to include desire.

Not just language and external gestures, but desire is also conditioned by our imitative human nature. Girard notes that some writers are inexplicably ambiguous or hostile towards mimesis; for example, no satisfactory explanation has been offered as to why Plato (Republic, Book 10) considers mimesis to be dangerous or problematic, and it is precisely this mystery which Girard thinks he has solved. Before seeing why this might be so, we may first consider another description of mimesis, offered by J. M. Oughourlian, a psychiatrist and collaborator with Girard:

Just as in the cosmos, the planets, stars, and galaxies are simultaneously held together and kept apart by gravity, so also mimesis keeps human beings together and apart, assuring at one and the same time the cohesion of the social fabric and the relative autonomy of the members that make it up. In physics, it is the force of attraction, gravity, that holds bodies together in space. They would be pitilessly hurled against each other into a final fusion if gravity did not also preserve their autonomy, and hence their existence, through motion. In psychology, the movement of mimesis that renders one autonomous and relatively individual is called ‘desire’. . .

I have always thought that what one customarily calls the `I’ or `self’ in psychology is an unstable, constantly changing, evanescent structure. I think, to evoke the intuitions of Hegel on this point that only desire brings this self into existence. Because desire is the only psychological motion, it alone, it seems to me, is capable of producing the self and breathing life into it. The first hypothesis that I would like to formulate in this regard is this: desire gives rise to the self and, by its movement, animates it. The second hypothesis, which I have adopted unreservedly since I first became aware of it, is that desire is mimetic.
U. M. Oughourlian, 1991, pp. 11-12)

This model of universal gravitation is memorable and easily understood, and neatly refers us back to Quixote’s description of Amadis as `the pole, the star, the sun’, for anyone who wishes to be a perfect knight. It even hints at the way we speak about modern celebrity culture — the `stars’ and ‘megastars’ who populate the world of entertainment, media and sport are the focus of seemingly infinite fascination for mere ordinary human beings, so that we speak of their `pulling power’ at the box office, their rising and falling, and so on.

Also, the planetary model sums up well the spirit of Girard’s whole enterprise. Girard insists that with the idea of mimesis he has hit upon a simple but key organizing idea, one which will transform our way of thinking about the human sciences, just as the theories of gravity and evolution have drastically altered our understanding of physics and biology.

Lastly, this model alerts us to the darker side of desire. `Mimesis keeps human beings together and apart.’ As well as attraction, there is repulsion. Girard’s investigation of desire relates to a wider question: why, of all life-forms in creation, are humans apparently the most violent and prone to conflict? Girard wishes to distance himself, on the one hand, from theorists who posit an aggressive drive or instinct as the source of human conflicts. One reason for his disagreement is that Girard is working with a distinction between needs or appetites, which are ‘natural’, on the one hand, and desire, which is much more conditioned by culture and social interaction, on the other.

A second type of theory against which Girard is reacting is the romantic or liberal celebration of desire per se, according to which all human distress and negativity is an effect of the distortion of natural desire by external forces. The cause of conflict and aggression is located outside of the self, either in alienating social conditions, or in a repressive father-figure, and so on.

If the external factor is removed, the self is `liberated’ to express its desires unhindered. As the description offered by Oughourlian implies, this conception of the self as an autonomous unit is now being widely questioned by philosophers. Girard and others refer polemically to it as `the Romantic Lie’. The self is, rather, `an unstable, constantly changing, evanescent structure’, brought into existence by desire.

St Augustine expresses this theologically: `Lord, our hearts are restless, till they rest in Thee!’ The fact is, people do not know what they want — therefore they imitate the desire of others. We need only reflect upon the vast expenditure and creativity which goes into advertising — a medium, incidentally, which is becoming ever more forthright about its own mimetic strategies. Recent examples include the slogan in a major English department store, which declared unashamedly: `You want it — you buy it — you forget it!’, while my own favorite is a poster selling jeans, in which a scantily clad model scowls defiantly over the slogan: No one tells me what to wear!’

In fact, any kind of market is nothing other than a mechanism for the harmonious mediation of desires. If we think of a currency market where everyone wants to buy euros, my `desire’ will be to buy euros also. As soon as the market switches to dollars, my own preference will `mysteriously’ change accordingly. A number of economic theorists have in fact attempted to utilize mimetic theory in their analyses of market behavior.

From an evolutionary perspective, the mimetic adoption of another’s desire has replaced instinctual behavior as the prime determinant of human action. This is part of Girard’s explanation of why humans seem to be much more prone to deadly conflict than other life-forms. The instinctual `braking’ mechanisms which will normally prevent an escalation of conflict among animals, for example, are not present for humans. As if this were not worrying enough, the convergence of two or more desires upon the same object has, inevitably, a potential for conflict. Girard summarizes as follows:

We find ourselves reverting to an ancient notion — mimesis — one whose conflictual implications have always been misunderstood. We must understand that desire itself is essentially mimetic, directed toward an object desired by the model.

The mimetic quality of childhood desire is universally recognized. Adult desire is virtually identical, except that (most strikingly in our own culture) the adult is generally ashamed to imitate others for fear of revealing his lack of being. The adult likes to assert his independence and to offer himself as a model to others; he invariably falls back on the formula `Imitate me!’ in order to conceal his own lack of originality.

Two desires converging on the same object are bound to clash. Thus, mimesis coupled with desire leads automatically to conflict. However, humans always seem half blind to this conjunction, unable to perceive it as a cause of rivalry. In human relationships words like `sameness’ and `similarity’ evoke an image of harmony. If we have the same tastes and like the same things, surely we are bound to get along. But what will happen when we share the same desires? Only the major dramatists and novelists have partly understood and explored this form of rivalry.
(Girard, 1977, p. 146)

As long as the object of yearning is not closed off to general use – for example, if my friend and I want to learn the same language, or read the same book, or listen to the same piece of music — then conflict need not arise. But as soon as the object is cordoned off from this possibility of shared enjoyment, as is the case with sexual relationships, or jockeying for social prestige, mimesis will lead to competition. Once the desiring subject wants to possess the object for him or herself, the person who first brought the desired object to recognition becomes a rival and an obstacle. One word which Girard uses to describe the model who has become a rival is the biblical Greek word skandalon, scandal, or `stumbling block’.

Two hands reach, not quite simultaneously, for the same object. The outcome is bitter rivalry, even outright conflict.

It is striking how often this simple formula or image is used by Girard, especially with reference to children. He often cites the example of children playing in a roomful of toys, when an argument breaks out because two or more infants want to play with the same toy, even though there are plenty to go round. To repeat, desire possesses a triangular structure. Along the base of the triangle we find the desiring subject (who is also the imitator), and the desired object. At the apex of the triangle we have the model, the one who has indicated in the first place that the object is desirable.

It is also worth noting that the model/obstacle/rival need not in fact be an actual person. In fact, in three of the novelists considered by Girard, mimetic passions are aroused by the subject’s reading of fictional literature. Don Quixote imitates a fictional hero, Amadis de Gaul, as we have seen. Similarly in Flaubert: when Madame Bovary embarks on the first of her adulterous affairs, she recalls ecstatically the romantic literature which had nourished her desires up to that point:

Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and was amazed by the way she looked. Never had her eyes been so enormous, so dark, so deep: her whole being was transfigured by some subtle emanation.

`I have a lover! I have a lover!’ she kept repeating to herself, reveling in the thought as though she were beginning is a second puberty. At last she was going to know the joys of love, the fever of the happiness she had despaired of. She was entering a marvelous realm where all would be passion, ecstasy, rapture: she was in the midst of an endless blue expanse, scaling the glittering heights of passion; everyday life had receded, and lay far below, in the shadows between those peaks. She remembered the heroines of novels she had read, and the lyrical legion of those adulterous women began to sing in her memory with sisterly voices that enchanted her.

Now she saw herself as one of those amoureuses whom she had so envied: she was becoming, in reality, one of that gallery of fictional figures; the long dream of her youth was coming true. She was full of a delicious sense of vengeance. How she had suffered! But now her hour of triumph had come; and love, so long repressed, was gushing forth in joyful effervescence. She savored it without remorse, without anxiety, without distress.
(Flaubert, Madame Bovary, p. 153)

This link between reading and desire is also made explicit by the narrator in Marcel Proust’s A La Recherche du Temps Perdu: `But I was incapable of seeing a thing unless a desire to do so had been aroused in me by reading … I knew how often I had been unable to give my attention to things or to people, whom afterwards, once their image had been presented to me in solitude by an artist, I would have gone leagues and risked death to rediscover.’ As Girard points out, the printed word has a magical power of suggestion for the young Marcel, evident in his adulation of the writer Bergotte, and extending even to the theatrical posters he reads on the Champs Elysées.

To complete this initial survey of mimetic desire, we should add two further considerations. We have seen that Girard posits a triangular structure for desire: the subject’s desire for an object is mediated by that of the model, so that A desires B because C desires it. However, it is not strictly true that the subject always desires an `object’ at all. What really drives the individual may be something much more elusive and imprecise: the search for a quasi-transcendent state of well-being, of fulfillment, of self-actualization, which goes beyond simple possession of any object or set of objects.

Girard notes this distinction by referring to two kinds or degrees of mimetic desire: one is `acquisitive’ mimesis, where the desire is centered on a specific object (the child’s toy, for example), and the second is `metaphysical desire’, where no specific object is aimed at, but rather an indeterminate but insistent yearning for the fullness of `being’.

Secondly, we have seen that Girard talks about a `conversion’ experience which his chosen novelists experience (even though this does not necessarily involve an explicit religious adherence on the part of the author concerned). Girard considers this experience to be crucial to the effectiveness of the novel genre. He contrasts `novel’ and `romance’ as types of literature which, respectively, reveal the truth about (mimetic) desire, and perpetuate the `Romantic Lie’ about desire’s autonomy.

The Czech writer Milan Kundera, in his Theory of the Novel, has written appreciatively of Girard’s treatment of mimetic desire. Girard quotes Kundera as saying that mimetic desire is the distillation of `a particular kind of wisdom’, which contemporary culture and instrumental reason has difficulty in recognizing (Assmann, 1996, p. 289). Kundera’s most important novel, The Joke, in fact lends itself very well to a Girardian analysis, since the plot centers on the humiliating public ‘scapegoating’ of the protagonist by a zealous Communist tribunal.

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René Girard’s `Thriller’ About Culture, Violence And The Sacred – Fr. Michael Kirwan S.J.

July 3, 2012

Without publicizing it, Sancho Panza succeeded, over the years, in diverting his demon (whom he later called Don Quixote) away from himself. This he did through reading many novels of chivalry and crime in the evening and night hours, so that this demon set out unstoppably to do the craziest things. However, because of the lack of a preordained object (which should have been Sancho Panza himself), these harmed no one. A free man, Sancho Panza serenely followed Don Quixote on his ways, perhaps out of a certain sense of responsibility, and had of them a great and edifying entertainment until the end of his days.
(Franz Kafka, The Truth about Sancho Panza)

We have no choice but to go back and forth, from alpha to omega. And these constant movements, this coming and going, force us to construct matters in a convoluted, spiraling fashion, which eventually runs the risk of being unsettling and even incomprehensible for the reader … I think one needs to read [my work] like a thriller. All the elements are given at the beginning, but it is necessary to read to the very end for the meaning to become completely apparent.
(Rene Girard, Celui par qui le scandale arrive, pp. 87-8)

***************************************************

For over forty years the French American cultural critic, Rene Girard, has been writing a `thriller’ about culture, violence and the sacred. In a dozen books, and in numerous articles and interviews, he does indeed seem to shuffle obsessively back and forth, between a few key insights — like a detective or a spy-catcher, looking for the vital clues.

The question which possesses him is both ancient and still relevant: what are we to make of religion? This means asking about the origin and function of religion, and it also means getting to grips with a curious paradox. The paradox is this: in pre-modern societies, religion was accepted as the force which united a society and gave it cohesion (the Latin word is religare, `to bind’), but in the modern era religion is largely treated with anxiety and suspicion, because it is seen as a source of division and conflict.

For most people today, religion is safest when regarded as a matter of purely private concern. Professor Girard offers a way of understanding this paradox, though it is a theme which he feels can only be approached in an indirect way. To many who have tried to engage with his work, his admission that there is a necessary difficulty and obliqueness about his style will come as no surprise. Whether things are made any easier by reading Girard with the same gusto as we might read Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy or a classic Agatha Christie novel, is another question.

This intriguing comparison should not mislead us into seeing Girard’s work as entertainment or literary escapism. Just the opposite is true: the urgency, the `thrill’ of Girard’s work is the possibility of gaining original and challenging insights into some of our contemporary world’s most agonizing problems. Can we learn something about the complex interrelation between secular modernity and the religiously inspired terrorism which conceived the September 11th atrocity? Or about patterns of provocation and resistance, entrenched and ritualized in long-term conflicts such as Northern Ireland or the struggle for Palestine? Or about the bitter polemics concerning the `sacredness’ of life and reproductive `rights’ in the United States? Or about the kinds of stigma which attach to people living with HIV/AIDS?

The excruciating questions about religion’s ambiguous relation to different forms of violence are not new at all, but in the last four years have literally exploded into our awareness with a new ferocity. In fact, Girard’s work has anticipated this very recent development by four decades — all the issues mentioned above have been addressed, either by Girard himself or by thinkers inspired by him, using the theoretical approach he has been developing.

In its literal sense, theoria means a `looking at’ evidence from a particular perspective. Or, to put this another way, a special kind of `imagination’, as this word is used by Archbishop Cauchon in the epilogue of George Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan (1924). Here is a conversation between two churchmen, one of whom, de Stogumber, is speaking of the traumatic effect upon him of witnessing St Joan’s martyrdom:

DE STOGUMBER: Well, you see, I did a very cruel thing once because I did not know what cruelty was like. I had not seen it, you know. That is the great thing: you must see it. And then you are redeemed and saved.

CAUCHON: Were not the sufferings of our Lord Christ enough for you?

DE STOGUMBER: No. Oh no: not. at all. I had seen them in pictures, and read of them in books, and been greatly moved by them, as I thought. But it was no use: it was not our Lord that redeemed me, but a young woman whom I saw actually burned to death. It was dreadful: oh, most dreadful. But it saved me. I have been a different man ever since, though a little astray in my wits sometimes.

CAUCHON: Must then a Christ perish in torment in every age to save those that have no imagination?

There is surely a touch of racism here: Cauchon is French, so he naturally feels superior to the less sophisticated, less `imaginative’ Englishman. And Cauchon does seem to be right, up to a point. When human beings behave cruelly and atrociously — `man’s inhumanity to man’ — their actions suggest something like a catastrophic failure of imagination, a sheer incapacity to put themselves in the place of the victim who is being abused, tortured, or made to disappear. In the worst cases, such as genocide, there is even a refusal to acknowledge that the victims are human beings at all. As for de Stogumber, there is pathos in what he says about the inadequacy of even the holiest representation compared to `the real thing’, and about his capacity for deceiving himself, even about his own experience: `I had been greatly moved — as I thought:

Girard is concerned with some of the same issues explored in Shaw’s play: the representation of martyrdom and suffering, the adequacy of the Christian revelation. But there is one important difference which we can point to straightaway. Shaw’s character Cauchon rather superciliously implies that this `imagination’, the correct and humane way of looking at things, is somehow an obvious or natural point of view. Christ has shown us the meaning and reality of suffering, and that should be enough. Only the asinine dullness of (other) people stands in the way of our creating a truly sympathetic and harmonious world. Those like Cauchon (and of course Shaw!), who happen to be blessed with intelligence and sensitivity, can only roll their eyes in exasperation with the de Stogumbers of the world.

Rene Girard’s tone is different, and more humble. His interest in this `perspective of the victim’ began as a close reading of important works of literature, from authors such as Proust, Dostoevsky and Shakespeare. Later he turned his attention to anthropological and mythical texts (especially the Oedipus and Dionysus cycles), and later still to close readings of the Jewish and Christian scriptures. These varied sources have convinced him that this power of empathetic imagining, far from being something that we should expect of human beings, much less take for granted, is actually something miraculous.

If we look at the history of the world and its civilizations, imaginative sympathy for the victim is in fact a very rare quality. In most cultures, the exact opposite applies, because the weak and vanquished have no rights at all. If and when this sympathy comes about, it does so as the result of a titanic struggle within a person and within a society. The struggle is nothing less than what de Stogumber describes as a kind of `conversion’. And it is not just for the dull and unimaginative; it is a conversion which even some of the most sensitive and creative spirits known to humanity have had to undergo.

In the spring of 1959, after 26 years as an agnostic, Girard’s work on five European novelists (Cervantes, Flaubert, Stendhal, Proust and Dostoevsky) had led him back to an interest in Christianity. To varying degrees, the life and work of each of these authors displayed a similar pattern: each author underwent a `conversion’ experience, which liberated him to go on and write his most important works. At the same time, Girard was impressed by a common concern in these writers, namely their understanding of the nature of desire as `mimetic’ or imitated (a concept we will explore in more detail below).

The more mature the works of each of these authors, the more explicit and developed is their understanding of the mimeticism of desire. But even this interesting discovery by Girard would have remained on a purely intellectual level, if a sudden health scare had not intervened and caused him to reassess his own beliefs. The questions were now real-life and not just `literary’. Girard returned to the Catholic Church he had left behind in his childhood, and `mimetic theory’ was born.

Put very simply, this is a theory which seeks to elucidate the relationships — one might say the complicity — between religion, culture and violence. It has become standard to describe the theory as having three parts: the mimetic nature of desire; the scapegoat mechanism as the way in which societies regulate the violence generated by mimetic competition; and the importance of the Gospel revelation as the way in which this scapegoat mechanism is exposed and rendered ineffective.

It would not be too schematic to suggest that the three phases correspond to three academic disciplines or approaches with which Girard has been involved: literature; cultural anthropology; and theology or biblical study. At the risk of being even more schematic, one could match off each of the three phases with one key book by Girard, namely Deceit, Desire and the Novel (French original, 1961), Violence and the Sacred (1972), and Things Hidden since the Foundation of the World (1978). It is the second of these books that caught and staggered the imagination, with Le Monde declaring that `the year 1972 should be marked with an asterisk in the annals of the humanities’. A philosopher, Paul Dumouchel, sums up:

Beginning from literary criticism and ending up with a general theory of culture, through an explanation of the role of religion in primitive societies and a radical reinterpretation of Christianity, Rene Girard has completely modified the landscape of 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.
(Dumouchel, 1988, p. 23)

There are three structural elements of mimetic theory:

1.    That our desires are to a large degree imitated or derived through `mimesis’;

2.   That societies have a tendency to channel the violence which arises as a result of mimetic interaction by means of a process of `scapegoating’, which underlies not just religious practices (such as sacrifice) but also secular institutions;

3.    And finally, that the revelation which occurs in the Jewish and Christian scriptures is the primary force responsible for showing us the truth about this hidden violence, and for enabling alternative ways of structuring human living.

There are some more abstract methodological reflections, as well as some of the principal objections to the theory (Chapter 4); and lastly to consider how the theory might develop in the future (Chapter 5). Each of the three expository chapters begins with a precis of its content.

In the remainder of this writing, I would like to address some particular features which help us understand why mimetic theory is so energizing for some people, and so easily and vigorously dismissed by others. I hope light can be shed here by establishing five pointers or characteristics which will orientate us in the delicate task of `discovering Girard’.

Firstly, as we have seen, Rene Girard admits to a difficulty within his own work, which he appears to suggest is unavoidable. The insight that is to be won is inseparable from a particular kind of intellectual struggle which the reader has to undertake — precisely like reading a challenging and convoluted espionage novel. Anyone diving headlong into Violence and the Sacred or Things Hidden can soon find themselves disoriented and discouraged by the sheer fertility of ideas and references. This difficulty should not be overstressed, however.

Michel Serres has remarked that Girard’s ideas can be understood by an 11-year-old child, and one gets the impression that this simplicity and accessibility is more off-putting for some academics than the alleged convolution of Girard’s thought. Unlike some other contemporary theorists, who view language with such a mistrust that they seem to be working against the very medium in which they communicate, Girard believes in the possibility of communicating his ideas lucidly, and attempts to do so with humor and style.

Secondly, and related to this first point, there needs to be a clear distinction between Rene Girard’s work, and `mimetic theory’ as such. The theory now has a life of its own, as other scholars take on its central insights and re-fashion them, even if they disagree with Girard on significant points. Since the early 1990s a Colloquium has been in existence for literary scholars, theologians, psychologists, lawyers, etc. `to explore, criticize, and develop the mimetic model of the relationship between violence and religion in the genesis and maintenance of culture’, so it has become very much a collaborative and interdisciplinary effort. One example of this should be mentioned here: Girard has in several contexts expressed his indebtedness to the work of the Swiss Jesuit theologian, the late Raymund Schwager, who made a highly significant theological appropriation of Girard’s anthropology. While my book Discovering Girard is above all an elucidation of the thought of Girard, it will also seek to be attentive to these important collaborative influences, including that of Schwager and his colleagues at the University of Innsbruck.

The third point is a stylistic one, which affects the way Girard’s writings should be approached. Girard has been described as the `hedgehog’ thinker who `sees one thing’, as opposed to the fox who `sees many things’. Sometimes his eagerness to give testimony to his insight has led to over-reaching generalizations, which have then to be retracted or qualified. A prime example would be the discussion of `sacrifice’, which at first he refused to acknowledge as a suitable term to be used in the context of Christianity. Discussion with Schwager brought about a change of opinion on this, as he has readily acknowledged on a number of occasions.This in itself is unproblematic, except that the `retractions’ often appear in sources which are less accessible than his major works.

As is customary with French intellectuals, he will often develop or nuance his theory in interviews (the 1986 Festschrift for Girard lists 29 published interviews, and there have been many more since then). So, anyone reading Things Hidden for an account of what Girard believes about sacrifice would be seriously misled, because of his change of emphasis since this book appeared in 1978.

For this reason, I have proposed a threefold division of Girard’s work:

  • Three `classic’ texts (Deceit, Desire and the Novel; Violence and the Sacred; Things Hidden since the Foundation of the World)
  • Girard’s other books, consisting mainly of literary or biblical ‘readings’ in which mimetic theory is put to work (such as the books on Job, Dostoevsky, Shakespeare)
  • Important but less accessible sources, such as interviews in journals, or in books not translated into English, where significant developments of Girard’s thought are set out. As it is the literature in this third category which will be least familiar to a general English reader, I try to make special reference to it.

Fourthly, and to schematize this presentation even further, it is important to see the three parts of the mimetic theory as a conversation with some of the `big guns’ of modern thought. Much of what Girard has written is dependent upon the insights of three authors: Hegel, and more crucially Sigmund Freud, and Friedrich Nietzsche. Girard’s judgment on the last two of these authors is the same: they come very close to the truth about mimetic desire, but do not quite make it over the finishing line, and in fact mislead us all the more because they are so near yet so far.

This is why Girard’s thinking may well have a familiar feel to it: his account of mimetic desire has clear affinities with Hegel’s desire for `recognition’ by the other (‘desiring the desire of another’) as this is set out in the Phenomenology of Spirit; his account of violence as the origin of culture (otherwise referred to as  ‘originary violence’) bears a strong resemblance to Freud’s description of the primeval murder in Totem and Taboo; and Girard’s endorsement of the Christian revelation is very precisely an acceptance of Nietzsche’s challenge, `Dionysus versus the Crucified’ — except that where Nietzsche opts for Dionysus, Girard chooses the Crucified. As a coda to each of the individual chapters — on mimetic desire, scapegoating, biblical revelation — I will offer a brief analysis of each of these three important philosophical themes, in so far as they have an impact on Girard’s project.

A fifth and final point returns us to the literary theme with which we began. Girard is not afraid to think on the large scale: he offers a general theory of religion, and is prepared to take issue with major figures like Freud and Nietzsche. Much of the critical resistance to Girard stems from a judgment that this kind of thinking is outdated and inappropriate. This charge will be examined more closely in Chapter 4 below, but in any case it can be said that Girard’s main interest, his passion, lies elsewhere. From his earliest training as decipherer of medieval manuscripts, Girard has always been, quite simply, a reader of texts. He enjoys writing and talking about the great novelists and playwrights (at least those whose writings promise fertile ground for his theory), and seems in the end to be more comfortable discussing Dostoevsky,Joyce, and above all Shakespeare, than doing just about anything else. And it is here that a much humbler type of activity is under way, since Girard’s approach to literary texts is not much more than the application of two common-sense principles.

  1. First, great literature refers us to the `real world’, and should be taken seriously as a commentary on the conflicts and passions of real people and real societies.
  2. Secondly, the most articulate critic of a writer will be the writer himself, looking back from a standpoint of mature and tranquil reflection, so that the later works of Shakespeare or Camus can and should be used as a critical guide to the earlier ones.

One has to ask whether such an approach amounts to a `theory’ at all. It draws us once again to the question as to what kind of a body of knowledge we have here, which startles us with its mixture of psychology, anthropology, biblical revelation, literary-critical judgment. Does Girard offer a `system’ which floodlights the whole of human reality with a searing white light, or is this not rather an anti-systematic array of carefully angled spotlights illuminating particular texts and situations — this novel or that play, a historical chronicle, a newspaper article, an Amnesty International report?

Where is the authentic contribution of Girard’s version of mimetic theory to be found: is it in the earthquake and whirlwind of his evangelical clarion call in the face of both modernity and post-modernity — his heroic `voyage to the end of the sciences of man’ — or should we listen out for the still small voice of his close and judicious literary readings?

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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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