At the end of the sixteenth century, however, the intolerant strain of modernity came to the fore in Italy, the home of the Renaissance. The Protestant Reformation had been traumatic for all Catholics, but Italians had also witnessed the sack of Rome by German mercenary troops in 1527, the collapse of the republic of Florence in 1536, and, finally, the Spanish domination of the Italian peninsula. Put on the defensive, the Catholic hierarchy became fanatically intent on achieving absolute control over their subjects—many of whom were willing in these fearful times to trade the burden of freedom for the consolations of certainty. The theology of Thomas Aquinas and the philosophy and science of Aristotle, transformed beyond all recognition into a rigid system of dogma, became Catholic orthodoxy; all other schools of thought were regarded with deep suspicion. In 1559, Pope Paul IV had issued the first official Index of Prohibited Books and Pope Pius V (1566–72) set up the Congregation of the Index to supervise the Vatican program of censorship. As a result, at the turn of the seventeenth century, there was a spate of condemnations. It was now extremely dangerous to criticize Aristolelian cosmology. The work of the Italian philosopher Bernardino Telesio (1509–88) and the Dominican Tommaso Campanella (1568–1639) was condemned because of their opposition to Aristotle, and Campanella was imprisoned for twenty-seven years. Francesco Patrizi (1529–97) was forced to abjure the now “subversive” philosophy of Platonism and was condemned for teaching the infinity of interstellar space; Francesco Pucci (1543–97) was executed for his heterodox views on Original Sin; and in 1600, Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for preaching the occult heresy that the stars had souls and that there existed an infinite number of worlds.67
It was in this grim political climate that the Italian astronomer Galileo Galilei (1564–1642) announced that he had proved Copernicus right. Unlike Kepler and Bruno, Galileo had no interest in the occult; instead of seeing the universe as a numinous reflection of the divine mystery, he described it as a cosmic mechanism ruled by mathematical laws. By observing the oscillation of a swinging lamp in the cathedral of Pisa, he had inferred the value of a pendulum for the exact measurement of time. He had invented a hydrostatic balance, written a treatise on specific gravity, and proved mathematically that all falling bodies, whatever their size, descended to earth at the same velocity. One of his most famous achievements was to perfect the refracting telescope, through which in 1609 he observed the craters of the moon, sunspots, the phases of Venus, and the four moons of Jupiter. The spots on the sun and the pitted surface of the moon proved that these were not the perfect bodies described by Aristotle. It was now clear that Jupiter was a moving planet and was circled by satellites similar to our own moon. All this, Galileo concluded, was proof positive of the Copernican hypothesis. In 1610, he published The Sidereal Messenger to immediate acclaim. All over Europe, people made their own telescopes and scanned the heavens themselves. When Galileo visited Rome the following year, the Jesuits publicly confirmed his discoveries and, to enormous applause, Prince Federico Cesi made him a member of the Accademia dei Lincei.
The case of Galileo has become a cause célèbre, emblematic of what is thought to be the eternal and inherent conflict between science and religion. But, in fact, Galileo was a victim not of religion per se but of the post-Tridentine Catholic Church at a time when it felt an endangered species. Pope Urban VIII (1568–1644) made an appalling error when he silenced Galileo, but Galileo also made mistakes. Each represented the intolerance of modernity, which was beginning to overtake the more open, liberal, and healthily skeptical spirit of the Renaissance.
Galileo exemplified the precision and practical orientation of the emerging modern spirit. He insisted that it was impossible to understand a single word of the Book of Nature without knowing the language of mathematics. First the scientist should isolate the phenomenon he was observing—the swinging pendulum or the falling body. Next he must translate the problem into mathematical theorems, axioms, and propositions. Finally, his mathematical conclusions must be tested to ensure that they were an accurate fit with the physical phenomenon that had sparked the investigation. Instead of losing himself in mystical theories, the scientist should concentrate on an object’s measurable, quantitative characteristics—its size, shape, number, weight, or motion. Other qualities—taste, color, texture, or smell, which was what a nonspecialist would notice first—were irrelevant, because they were merely subjective impressions.68 Scientists were beginning to develop an entirely different way of contemplating the world. When he looked at an object, Galileo bypassed its sensual properties—whether it was “white or red, bitter or sweet, sounding or mute, of a pleasant or non-pleasant odour”—and explored instead the abstract, mathematical principles that accounted for it.69 A scientist could believe in something that did not exist in his actual experience and could never be realized in the physical world, because his mathematical calculations had given him absolute confidence in its existence. Galileo was no longer content to speak hypothetically. Hypotheses were mere conjectures, matters of opinion, and it was the task of science to provide unequivocal certainty. Convinced that the sun-centered universe was a physical fact that could be established empirically, he committed himself to finding an incontrovertible proof that was “necessary,” that is, self-evident, irrefutable, and backed up by carefully observed physical evidence.70 If a scientist’s conclusions left any room for doubt, they were not, in his view, scientific.71
But of course it was not possible to prove religious truth in this way. To his dying day, Galileo adhered to the traditional relationship of mythos and logos and insisted that his theories did not in any way contradict religion. Mechanics (the study of motion) had nothing to say about theology. They were two entirely distinct disciplines, each with its own sphere of competence. Other early modern scientists would find it necessary to invoke God as an explanation for their theories, but not Galileo. In his famous “Letter to the Grand-Duchess Christina,” which set forth his views on the relationship of science and religion, he wholeheartedly endorsed Augustine’s principle of accommodation. Science focused on the material world, theology on God. The two disciplines should be kept separate and must not encroach upon each other’s domain. God was the author of both the Book of Nature and the Bible, and “two truths cannot contradict one another.”72 If scientists made statements about religion and if the devout claimed that scripture gave infallible information about the hidden structures of nature, there could only be the worst kind of confusion.73 Copernicus had understood this perfectly: he had always limited his remarks to “physical conclusions based above all on sensory experience and very accurate observations.”74 But in cases where there was no conclusive proof, Galileo argued that we should bow to the authority of the Bible: “I have no doubt at all that, where human reason cannot reach, and where consequently one cannot have a science, but only opinion and faith, it is appropriate piously to conform absolutely to the literal meaning of scripture.”75
What Galileo did not seem to have realized was that the political climate had changed. The Vatican no longer regarded theology as a speculative science but was systematically reducing the teachings of Aristotle and Aquinas to an inflexible set of propositions formulated in such a way as to end all discussion and maximize certainty.76 In 1605, the Jesuit cardinal Robert Bellarmine (1542–1621), who epitomized this new attitude, had become papal theologian. For Bellarmine, the task of theology was simply to organize doctrines into neat systems that could be marshaled effectively against the enemies of the Church. The execution of Bruno had made it horribly clear that papal officials were ready to enforce the new orthodoxy using the same coercive methods as any early modern monarchy.
Galileo was not a lone voice; he belonged to a “family” of Catholic progressives who supported his Copernican ideas but constantly advised him not to tangle with the Vatican authorities.77 And yet despite his conviction that theology and science were entirely separate disciplines, he seemed perversely intent on reconciling his discoveries wit
h scripture. In his Letters on Sunspots (1612), he produced biblical quotations proving that his theory was “most agreeable to the truths of holy writ”78 and was furious when the papal censors insisted that he delete them. When opposed, Galileo could be just as scornful and impatiently self-righteous as any cardinal. But why, given his clearly stated views, had he included the quotations in the first place? Hypothetical thinking had been acceptable to Copernicus and would continue to be essential to scientific procedure. Was Galileo’s insistence on absolute certainty another sign of the dogmatism of the age?
In 1615, the learned Carmelite friar Paolo Foscarini arrived in Rome to make a calm but forceful plea for the heliocentric universe. In the Bible, Foscarini argued, God revealed only those truths that could not be discovered by natural reason and had left the rest to human beings. When Bellarmine read his treatise, he replied that as far as he knew there was no definitive proof of the Copernican theory. If there were, it would be a different matter: “Then we would have to use great care in explaining the passages of scripture that seem contrary. … But I cannot believe that there is such a demonstration until someone shows it to me.”79 Galileo immediately pointed out that the Council of Trent upheld the authority of the Bible only in matters of faith and morals and that heliocentric theory fell under neither category. It did not seem to have occurred to him that it was probably unwise to correct Bellarmine, the principal spokesman of reformed Catholicism, about the Council’s rulings. He then further muddied the waters by overstating his case, arguing that his experiments had provided the definitive proof that Bellarmine declared to be missing.80 But this was not the case: Galileo’s observations on sunspots, the phases of Venus, and the tides were suggestive but not conclusive. On both sides, there was a clash of misplaced certainty.81
Galileo was right to argue that poetical remarks in the Bible should not be read as definitive scientific observations; this had been standard exegetical practice in the West since the time of Augustine, and in failing to recognize this, Bellarmine was theologically at fault. But Galileo had not been able to meet his own high standards of scientific verification and had not fully appreciated the importance of hypothetical and probable reasoning in science. In mixing science and religion, he had violated his own principles and entered the now dangerous minefield of scriptural interpretation.82 If he had presented his view as the probable theory it actually was, he could have remained at peace with the Church. Instead, he insisted that he was in possession of a proof that he had not achieved. In 1616, Copernicus’s De revolutionibus and Foscarini’s treatise were put on the Index. Galileo himself was not threatened, and Bellarmine even gave him a certificate stating that he had not been asked to recant any of his theories.83
But in 1623, Galileo entered the lists again when his old friend Maffeo Barberini became Pope Urban VIII. When they met in Rome, Urban feted Galileo and agreed that he could write what he chose about heliocentric theory, as long as he presented his theories as hypothetical in the usual way. Galileo returned to Florence to work on his Dialogues on the Two World Systems. But after this promising beginning, two of Galileo’s patrons were implicated in Spanish political intrigues at the papal court and were disgraced, and Galileo was damaged by association.84 To make matters worse, he had added a final paragraph to the Dialogues. “Simplicio,” the character who represented the new Aristotelian orthodoxy and performed throughout the dialogue as the “fall guy,” argued that Copernican theory was “neither true nor conclusive” and that it “would be excessive boldness for anyone to limit and restrict the divine power and wisdom to one particular fancy of his own.”85 These words were a direct quotation of published remarks by Urban himself, who would not have been pleased to see them on the lips of Simplicio, whose name was an insult in itself. On April 12, 1633, Galileo was summoned to the Holy Office and was judged guilty of disobedience. On June 22, he was forced to recant on his knees, and returned to Florence, where he was confined to his country estate.
When Copernicus had presented his ideas in the Vatican, the pope had given his approval; ninety years later, De revolutionibus was placed on the Index. In 1605, Francis Bacon (1561–1626), counselor to King James I of England, had declared that there could be no conflict between science and religion. But that openness was giving way to dogmatism and suspicion. There would soon be no place in the new Europe for the skepticism of Montaigne or the psychological agnosticism of Shakespeare. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, the notion of truth had begun to change. Thomas Aquinas would not have recognized his theology in its post-Tridentine guise. His apophatic delight in unknowing was being replaced by a strident lust for certainty and a harsh dogmatic intolerance. The spirituality of silence was giving way to wordy debate; the refusal to define (a word that literally means “to set limits upon”) was being superseded by aggressive definitions of ineffable dogma. Faith was beginning to be identified with “belief” in man-made opinions—and that would, eventually, make faith itself difficult to maintain.
The first modern Western atheists, however, were not Christians who had been alienated by the terrible convictions of their clergy but Jews living in the most liberal country in Europe. Their experience tells us a good deal about our current religious predicament. By the early seventeenth century, while the rest of Europe was in the grip of severe economic recession, the Dutch were enjoying a golden age of prosperity and expansion. They did not share the new sectarian dogmatism. Toward the end of the sixteenth century, some of the Marrano Jews had been permitted to leave Portugal and migrated to Venice, Hamburg, London, and, above all, Amsterdam, which became their New Jerusalem. In Holland, Jews were not confined to ghettos, as they were elsewhere in Europe; they became successful businessmen and mingled freely with gentiles. When they arrived in Amsterdam, the Marranos were eager for the opportunity to practice their faith fully.
But they found conventional religious life bewildering. For decades the Iberian Jews had lived without communal religious life and had no experience of ritual observance. The Dutch rabbis had the difficult task of guiding them back into the fold, making allowances for their problems without compromising tradition, and it is a tribute to them that most of the Marranos were able to make the transition.86 But initially their reaction was similar to that of people today who find the “beliefs” of religion arbitrary and incredible because they have not fully participated in its transformative rites. The abstruse laws of diet and purification must have seemed barbaric and meaningless to the Marrano sophisticates, who found it difficult to accept the rabbis’ explanations because they were used to thinking things out rationally for themselves. According to Isaac Orobio de Castro, a philosophy professor who had lived in Iberia for years as a closet Jew, some of them had become “unspeakable atheists”:87 they were “full of vanity, pride and arrogance,” loved to display their learning “by contradicting what they do not understand,” and felt that their expertise in the modern sciences put them above “those who are indeed educated in the sacred laws.”88
A tiny minority of the Marranos found the transition to full cultic observance impossible. One of the most tragic cases was that of Uriel da Costa, who had experienced Portuguese Christianity as oppressive, cruel, and composed of rules and doctrines that bore no relation to the gospels.89 He had formed his own idea of Jewish religion by reading the Bible, but when he arrived in Amsterdam he was shocked to find that contemporary Judaism was just as far removed from scripture as Catholicism. Outraged, he published a treatise attacking the Torah and declaring that he believed only in human reason and the laws of nature. He caused such ferment that the rabbis were forced to excommunicate him. There was as yet no notion in Europe of a “secular Jew,” and as an excommunicate da Costa was shunned by Jews and Christians alike; children jeered at him in the street. In despair, he returned to the synagogue, but he still could not adapt to a faith that seemed incomprehensible. In 1640, he committed suicide.
In 1655 Juan da Prado, who had been a committed member o
f the Jewish underground in Portugal for twenty years, arrived in Amsterdam. He too had found that without the spiritual exercises that produced them, the ideas of conventional religion lacked substance and had succumbed to Marrano deism, seeing God as identical with the laws of nature.90 He too was shocked by his first encounter with a fully functioning Jewish community and was loud in his complaints. Why did the Jews think they were God’s chosen people? Was it not degrading to imagine that the First Cause was a Personality? Two years after his arrival, Prado was excommunicated and became more extreme in his views, arguing that all religion was rubbish and that reason, not “revelation,” was the sole arbiter of truth. We have no idea how he ended his days.
The unhappy stories of Prado and da Costa show that the mythos of confessional religion is unsustainable without spiritual exercises. Reason alone can produce only an attenuated deism that is easily abandoned, as its God is remote, abstract, and ultimately incredible. And yet at the same time as the Jewish community in Amsterdam was being torn apart by these conflicts, the Christians of Europe had begun to develop their own form of deism; like Prado, they too would regard scientific rationality as the only route to truth and would seek a rational certainty that Jewish, Christian, and Muslim philosophers had long held to be impossible in matters of faith.
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