Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Reza Aslan DESTROYS Biblical Literalism

I’m going to do the unthinkable and discuss a Salon article. The lede:
Professor Reza Aslan, who holds a master’s in theological studies and a Ph.D. in sociology focusing on religion, has bad news for biblical literalists: The Gospels are “replete with historical errors and with contradictions,” and for over a thousand years, religious leaders did not take the Bible as literal fact.
Even though I don’t have a master’s in theological studies, I think I’m prepared to call that last clause into question. But first, a little more from the article:
“We come from a world in the 21st century in which we assume that biblical literalism, the notion that the Bible is literal and inerrant, is just sort of an inherent part of belief in the Bible.”  
Aslan explains that biblical literalism is actually a relatively modern phenomenon.
“Let me just say that one more time,” Aslan continued. “In the 2,000 year history in which the Gospels have existed, the idea that what you are reading in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John is literal and inerrant is a little more than 100 years old. It was the result of a very interesting movement, a backlash to Christian liberalism and the Scientific Revolution at the end of the 19th century … by a group of American Protestants who began a movement that was launched by a series of tracts that were written called ‘The Fundamentals’ and that is where we get the term ‘fundamentalism’ from. It’s a very new phenomenon.”
There are three stages to this argument. First, the Bible is an error-ridden document, both in that it says false things about the world and in that it contradicts itself. Second, the proper method of interpreting the Bible is therefore to find a deeper truth in its words that stands apart from its superficial factual claims. Third, pre-modern interpreters of the Bible believed both of those theses, and a reading of the Bible as both true and literal is an invention of the modern world.

All three of these theses are extremely common in liberal religious circles. Born of a desire to simultaneously condescend to ignorant Alabamans and shore up faith in the face of the four horseman of the non-Apocalypse, they add up to a religious system that affirms the value of the Bible, disputes Fundamentalists’ claims to represent the authentic Christian tradition, and firmly rejects a superstitious, anti-scientific attitude to the world. I want to say here that the first thesis is obviously true, that it’s up to us whether we accept the second, and that the third is a laughably gross historical falsification. It’s that one which I’m going to argue against.

The claim that Fundamentalism is new is an ingenious piece of historical narrative, and is more than compensated for its lack of truth by its comforting implications. What if the medievals were actually on the side of Liberal Protestantism? What if the ancient church was filled with partners in our skepticism? That would imply that Darwinism and modern Biblical criticism are no real obstacles to faith; that we have just as much of a religious foundation to rely on as Maimonides and Aquinas.

But the claim is wrong, and ironically wrong to boot: as it happens, not taking the Bible literally is the phenomenon that’s actually recent. The reason that few people talked about the factual truth of the Bible before the early modern period is not that said factual truth was considered unimportant. It’s that it was taken completely and utterly for granted. With the possible exception of parts of Genesis and books like Esther and Judith, denying that the Bible was a source of literal historical truth would have been like denying today that microscopes tell us anything about molecules. (Actually, the one exception was the very early Christians, who made a fierce and concerted effort to convince the gentile world that their Messiah really had performed miracles and risen from the dead.)

Historical Christian belief in Biblical inerrancy is hard to demonstrate, if only because the evidence for it is so ubiquitous that it’s hard to know where to start. It might be helpful, though, to note how much of the entire medieval cosmology of Christianity was based on the literal truth of Scripture. For example: without the historical factuality of the Adam and Eve story, almost nothing that Augustine (or Aquinas or Luther or Lombard or Tertullian or Irenaeus) says about Christ’s redemptive mission makes any sense. By Augustine’s account, that is, man was mired in sin by his own fault, and faces destruction absent Christ’s intervention. But this fault was incurred in a distinct historical moment: Adam’s disobedience in the Garden of Eden. If that moment never occurred, all of Augustine’s Christianity falls apart. And that’s just on one point—I don’t even need to mention the importance that the literal Resurrection had to early Christianity.

But, Aslan objects here, what about the more minor points of the narrative? The Church fathers, he says, were so unconcerned about the inerrancy of the minor details of the gospels that they deemed them dispensable in their emphasis on the story’s deeper truth. But for a better treatment of how Christians dealt with the the internal contradictions in the gospels, I refer you to a fantastic Wikipedia article on the subject. Before the eighteenth century, as it turns out, Christian interpreters found more ways to harmonize the gospels with each other than our decency allows us to even think of. In fact, what struck the ancient Christian far more than the contradictions in the gospel was the extent to which they related the same basic story. Nor should we underestimate the power of a determined effort to ignore inconvenient elements of the text. Marcion, for instance, uncomfortable with the Old Testament references in Luke and the letters of Paul, simply chopped them out of his editions of those texts. As far as I can tell, Aslan sees the contradictions in the text and concludes that they must have been obvious to everyone. In fact, no one who wasn’t actively hostile to the New Testament—Jews and Muslims, for instance—was at all capable of seeing them.

In any case, before the eighteenth century, even the atheists, who believed that religion was at best a noble lie crafted by princes to keep their populations in check, had no reason to doubt the general factual foundation of the Bible. The author of Theophrastus Redivivus, a seventeenth-century screed against religion, thus drew conclusions about Judaism from the Old Testament, which was held to testify to the Jews’ original instruction at Moses’s feet. Moses by Theophrastus’s account might have been a clever prince rather than a true prophet, but he certainly existed.

At this point, the objection usually comes up: weren’t there allegorical readings of the Bible dating back to the beginning? What about Augustine’s reading of Genesis? And don’t Jesus and Paul themselves give explicitly non-literal interpretations of the Old Testament?

The first part of the answer is that yes, pre-modern Christians and Jews obviously laid allegorical meaning onto their texts. Nevertheless, it was commonplace to the ancient and medieval mind that a text could contain many stacked layers of meaning, including a literal one. God, for instance, tells Abraham to go out of his land. No self-respecting Early Christian would have denied that this was a real event that took place. But that didn’t stop Paphnutius, John Chrysostom, and others from reading it as an allegorical injunction to leave Earth itself; that is, to despise the cosmos and take refuge in spiritual life. (The Greek gē has the double meaning of “country” and “Earth”.) Much later, Pico della Mirandola, who never once doubted that Jacob really spent a night in Bethel, was able to give an elaborate allegorical interpretation of the ladder-vision, saying that “all things appeared in figures to the men of those times.”

The reason no one doubted the Bible’s basic, literal truth was that there were no possible criteria against which it could be measured. This is difficult for us moderns to grasp, who are raised with the tools to find external evidence for every text’s reliability; and with the instinct to discount the text if we can’t. But before the early modern period, there were no means of questioning the historical circumstances supplied by tradition for a given ancient work’s composition. Thus even the most ardent atheist in 1650 had to reckon with the Bible as a true record of history. (Spinoza, for instance, gave a long list of naturalistic explanations for the supposed miracles recounted in Exodus.)

Clearly just algae.
And in the case of believing Christians—who represented the overwhelming majority of European society—the Bible was itself the criterion by which truth was to be judged. This belief could take two forms. The first was that natural reason always leads the clear thinker to accept the gospels’ truth, and that there was no such thing as a truth that departed from Scripture. The second, more radical form, was that any evidence at all apart from the word of God is a seduction by the devil. John Calvin thus says this about the Holy Supper:
I do not at all measure this mystery with the measure of human reason, or subject it to the laws of nature. I ask you whether it is from physics we have learned that Christ feeds our souls from heaven with his flesh.
In other words, Jesus’ words to his followers at the Last Supper, as recorded in the Synoptic Gospels, are to have more weight with a Christian than the most persuasive doubts of a scientist. The modern method of evaluating the Bible is thus completely—and perfectly logically—inverted. Instead of measuring the Scripture by the evidence of our senses, Calvin would have us measure our senses by the Scripture. When an evangelical today asks why he should he should believe the Origin of Species over the Bible when the former was written by an Englishman and the latter by God Himself, he’s participating in an extremely old epistemological tradition.

So yes, if you asked a medieval Christian whether the Bible was literally true, he probably wouldn’t have understood the question. But that’s not because he didn’t believe in the Bible’s literal truth; it’s because its falsity would have been a meaningless proposition.

By the way, as for Aslan’s odd claim about the modernity of the word “Fundamentalism”: he seems to be bizarrely conflating the existence of a phenomenon with the existence of our contemporary word for said phenomenon. No one uttered the word “theism” either before the seventeenth century, clear proof that no one ever believed in God before then. And Jesus never used the English word “ruckus”, which means that there’s no way he could have possibly overthrown the moneychangers’ tables in the temple.

Aslan seems to be arguing that ancient and medieval Christians held by Rudolf Bultmann’s early-twentieth-century interpretation of the New Testament. Bultmann is famous for arguing that the spiritual truth of the New Testament—that is, God descending to earth to save mankind—is so important that we shouldn’t allow ourselves to get caught up in the sordid details of what he did on Earth, and certainly shouldn’t get fixated on the miracles. I think this is a perfectly fine way of looking at things. There is, after all, no disembodied logical hand that will suddenly throttle us for applying bizarre hermeneutics to our sacred texts.

And after all, a nonliteral reading of both testaments does have the advantage of soothingly affirming a liberal religious mindset. It allows us to gleefully cleave to what we see as the inner truth of the Bible while jettisoning the parts we don’t like, like all the weird rules and scientific oddities. (Those uneducated and homophobic Southern Baptists, of course, aren’t wise enough to separate grain from chaff, and could do with a few educational brunches in Cambridge, MA.) As I’ve said before, I don’t have anything against buffet religion.

am, though, opposed to any historical falsification committed for the sake of picking-and-choosing with a clean scholarly conscience. We can believe what we want, but we shouldn’t say that our ancestors believed it too. There is, of course, no logical or even moral demand to stand up for historical truth either, but that’s what backbones are for.

Finally:

THE DEATH OF CHRISTIANITY, AD 120.

A summer villa in Tibur. 6:30 p.m. on Tuesday.

RUFUS: I’m home!

AGRIPPINA:  Welcome! I have something to tell you. It’s very good news.

R: I like the sound of that! Is your sister finally pregnant?

A: Even better, if you can believe it. We’ve been rescued from death!

R: I didn’t know we were in trouble in the first place.

A: That’s not what I mean. Just before the Jewish War, there was a man in Jerusalem—named Jesus—who died and came back from the dead, and went up to heaven. But Jesus is the king of the world, and more powerful than all of the gods. If we only agree to repent and be his servants, we get eternal life too!

R: Who told you this fairy tale?

A: Cinnama, and at first I didn’t believe it. But then I thought some more...

R: If you believed everything the slaves said, you’d end up drinking hemlock to cure your gout.

A: But it makes so much sense!

R. All right. First of all, how do we know Jesus actually came back from the dead?

A. Whoa, whoa. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that he literally came back from the dead. That’s what the closed-minded fundamentalists in Antioch say.

R. What? It’s just a story?

A. Not just a story, Rufus. It’s a metaphor that has the power to change our lives if we interpret it spiritually.

R. Oh. Well, so is the play I saw last night. Have I told you about this yet? The main character ended up sleeping with his mother, who had disguised herself as his mistress!

Curtain.

Spark of the Gods

WQXR, New York City’s classical-music station, holds an annual New Year’s Eve countdown. Starting a few days after Christmas, the station plays a list of the hundred most popular pieces of music as voted by its listeners. The list includes the obvious ones—Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik, Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, Vivaldi’s Gloria, and the overture to the Marriage of Figaro.

But every year without fail, by far the most obvious piece comes out on top, bursting into full bloom
as the fireworks crackle over Central Park:



Beethoven’s 9th Symphony is the rare work of art whose greatness is only amplified by the fact that literally everybody knows the tune. It’s also a setting of one of Schiller’s Ode to Joy, one of the finest German poems ever written, and worth quoting in full:

Freude, schöner Götterfunken
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
Deine Zauber binden wieder
Was die Mode streng geteilt;
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
Joy, beautiful spark of divinity,
Daughter from Elysium,
We enter, burning with fervour,
heavenly being, thy sanctuary!
Thy magic brings together
what fashion has sternly divided.
All men will be brothers,
wherever thy gentle wings hover.
Wem der große Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein;
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer’s nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!
Whoever has been lucky enough
to be a friend to a friend,
Whoever has found a beloved wife,
let him join our songs of praise!
Yes, and anyone who can call one soul
his own on this earth!
Any who cannot, let them slink away
from this gathering in tears!
Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Brüsten der Natur;
Alle Guten, alle Bösen
Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,
Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod;
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.
Every creature drinks in joy
at nature’s breast;
Good and Bad alike
follow her trail of roses.
She gives us kisses and wine,
a true friend, even in death;
Even the worm was given desire,
and the cherub stands before God.
Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen
Durch des Himmels prächt’gen Plan,
Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,
Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.
Gladly, just as His suns hurtle
through the glorious universe,
So you, brothers, should run your course,
joyfully, like a conquering hero.
Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!
Brüder, über’m Sternenzelt
Muss ein lieber Vater wohnen.
Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?
Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?
Such’ ihn über’m Sternenzelt!
Über Sternen muss er wohnen.
Be embraced, you millions!
This kiss is for the whole world!
Brothers, above the canopy of stars
must dwell a loving father.
Do you bow down before Him, ye millions?
Do you sense your Creator, O world?
Seek Him above the canopy of stars!
He must dwell beyond the stars.
Sadness, in other words, is a false strain, and clangs dissonantly against the music of the spheres. The universe really dances to a joyful waltz. Melancholy is extremely good at convincing himself that he’s less deluded than Joy; that he’s more morally justified, but Joy knows herself to be a god; knows that she is eternally exalted over her malformed, disfigured older brother.

I’m a pessimist, who thinks that the pain in the world in general far overpowers what little pleasure there is to be had. That doesn’t stop me, though, from being infected in December by the spirit that filled Schiller and Beethoven; and raised up to a height from which I can say, with Emerson:
There are moods in which we court suffering, in the hope that here, at least, we shall find reality, sharp peaks and edges of truth. But it turns out to be scene-painting and counterfeit. The only thing grief has taught me, is to know how shallow it is. ... In the death of my son, now more than two years ago, I seem to have lost a beautiful estate, — no more.
Of course, this kind of joy relies on illusion; on a systematic forgetting of pain. But what an illusion! All the sorrow in the world burns up like stubble, and grief sinks like lead in the mighty waters. And at the end, once all humanity is swept up in glee, the author of all this delight reveals himself: all human beings bow to their Creator. Our God is a god of happiness, and despises the mourners.

Note something about the way the Ode celebrates joy: it angrily, disgustedly casts the bearers of misery away. Whoever has found a beloved wife, let him join our songs of praise! Yes, and anyone who can call one soul his own on this earth! Any who cannot, let them slink away from this gathering in tears! This is hideously—though in Schiller’s dialect, gloriously—inegalitarian. It’s the happiness of the high-born elves, who can say to the world: “you dwell in damp and smelly caverns, vainly trying to convince yourselves that the rotting fish you choke down and the cold you shiver in makes you somehow morally vindicated. But we, far away from you, dine in vast manors; our slaves bring us steak and stack our fire with wood; we sing the songs of our ancestors, and our laughing children crawl over our laps.”

The Ode to Joy is an attempt to include the entire community in this happy race, and instead of the low-born, it casts the lonely in the role of the cave-dwellers. (Not evil people, though: “Good and Bad alike follow joy’s trail of roses.”) The future, it insists, belongs to massed humanity, finally triumphant over the fetid morality and superstition of the past. Beethoven’s genius, meanwhile, in setting it to music was to envelop even the most cynical human beings in its message, so that they could see the world through the lens of gladness for a few minutes. No one, that is, who listens to WQXR at midnight is excluded from this gleeful throng.

So our New Year’s festival is thus our collective exaltation of Joy over misery, of the seemingly bright future over the painful past. It is, of course, a fiction: January will be here in just a moment, and sadness and loneliness will have their day. Not tonight. Happy New Year!

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

The Unconquered Son

In AD 274, when the Roman Empire seemed on the brink of collapse, the emperor Aurelian declared the creation of a new feast: the festival of Sol Invictus, the “unconquered sun.” The holiday, which was first held 1,740 years ago to the day, was a celebration of the very heavenly event that we’re experiencing right now: in the days after the winter solstice, the days are gradually, and extremely slowly, beginning to get longer. This was a profoundly happy event in the Roman consciousness, not least because the lightbulb hadn’t been invented yet. Sol Invictus was a symbol of the triumph of light over darkness; of life over death.  Unlike Apollo, the older sun-god, Sol was not associated with poetry, beauty, or anything human or refined. He was a simple personification of light, warmth, and joy. The fact that his feast-day was in the middle of the dark winter was especially poignant: it was an affirmation that though he might hide, he would never die, and that his day would come again.

Meanwhile, it’s Christmas Eve today. As I write this, it’s a gray, dripping day outside in New York. But I’m inside with a mug full of warm tea and an inbox full of warmer emails. And Handel’s Messiah is playing on WQXR:


You’ve almost definitely heard that the current date of Christmas was meant to correspond with a pagan holiday. Sol Invictus’ feast happens to be that supposed pagan holiday. The theory goes like this: early Christian bishops in the Roman Empire, seeing their flocks so attracted to the ubiquitous candlelighting rituals in honor of Sol, decided to take advantage of this folk practice, and to redirect the Christians’ superstitious energies to the celebration of Christ’s birth. So they fixed the date of Christmas on December 25th, and that’s how it’s been ever since.

There’s a second, much more interesting hypothesis, which a professor suggested to me: since Christianity was already widespread in the Empire by 274, it’s possible that Aurelian himself was attempting to capitalize on Christianity’s success. In other words, it could be that the pagan holiday of Invictus Sol was based on Christmas. This theory is just as unsupported by any evidence by the first, and slightly less probable, but much more entertaining. 

A relief of Sol Invictus.
Any resemblance to enormous statues, oxidized or unoxidized, is purely uncoincidental. 
I would like to propose a third theory: the two holidays are indistinguishable, and commemorate exactly the same events.
First, consider what’s being celebrated on the day of Sol Invictus: for the month of December, the world had seemed like it was going to be swallowed up forever by darkness. (It never gets cold in Rome, but the days get just as short as they do in the States.) And there’s almost no force as unstoppable as human pessimism. So even though it had happened countless years before, the return of the sun was surprising—so impenetrable had endless night come to seem. The bewildering victory of life over death had been acted out in heaven. The shadow was just a passing thing; it would be only a matter of time before the entire world was covered in sunlight and spring blossoms.

But daylight wasn’t the only thing that seemed doomed to extinguishment to the ancient mind. Human life was in the same danger of permanent darkness. Ancient Europe, like modern Europe, was immersed in an atheist, fatalist philosophy: the only spiritual comfort around was bitter embrace of the overwhelming fact of death. “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die” was on the lips of emperors and slaves alike. Invictus Sol might be invictus, but human beings only had eyes to see him for threescore years and ten.

And then, in a manger in Bethlehem, light really came to the world, and human life triumphed over death. A child had come to earth with the news of eternal life; a message that would soon be taken seriously by the most learned philosophers. All of a sudden, for thousands of souls—soon to be billions—there was hope for a life that would overcome winter. Christmas is an expression of the most radical optimism conceivable.

So the two holidays are really responses to the same thing. Actually, not quite the same: even though the feast of Sol Invictus commemorates an enormous, cosmic event, it comes with a promise of only temporary relief from darkness. There will be another winter. Christmas, meanwhile, celebrates something that happened in the arms of a mother. But it promises a far more permanent, mirthful triumph over the dark: the death of death.



As a dutiful pagan, then, I’ll be toasting tonight to the lesser soli invicto atque maxumo. But a merry Christmas to everyone in God’s flock. And even though there’s no real war on Christmas, I’d like to suggest starting one with a preemptive strike on its behalf.