In reality, no aspect expresses the essence of monotheism more succinctly than the willingness of the zealots to be hated by their fellow humans if that is how they can please God more. With his carefree equation of ‘agreeable to God’ and ‘popular among people’, Lessing was perhaps misled by early Enlightenment optimism, which took the convergence of elite and mass interests for granted as a natural result of progress. The actual development of modernity paints a completely different picture: it deepens the divide between high culture and mass culture with each new generation, making the hatred of high culture, or at least the majority's suspicion towards it, reveal itself ever more openly as a fundamental characteristic of recent events in civilization. If one draws the logical conclusions from this, one will understand why monotheism will one day be forced to lay its high-cultural cards on the table – and if it does not admit to its elitist streak, and indirectly also its polemogenic nature, it risks having others do so for it.4
The religion of the exclusive One must then admit, as if at the last minute, what it was never supposed to say openly: that it would go against its very nature to be popular. Any kind of popularity it enjoys stems from sentimental misunderstandings – the most famous example is Chateaubriand's rousing promotion of the ‘genius of Christianity’. To him, the Romantic poet, even the strictest Catholic sacraments seemed like ‘paintings full of poetry’,5 and he read the life stories of the saints as if they were the most fascinating novels. To balance out this idealized view, one should call to mind certain culture-historical principles: a monotheistic religion that defends the extent of its claims can only come to power and remain in power by forcing the masses implacably to yield to its norms – which is impossible without a clerical dictatorship (usually under the patronage of a sacred or semi-sacred monarchy). In such an order of things, gentle and less gentle methods are equally in evidence. A regime of this kind was firmly established in Europe from the early Middle Ages to the eighteenth century – and it took long, extremely hard battles from the start of the Modern Age on to break the ubiquitous power of the church. Since then, the only way for both religious and aesthetic ‘high culture’ to reach the emancipated masses has been to switch to the mode of inner mission and dream of the golden age of mediaeval dominion.
The perspective of general cultural theory can help us to understand why the acceptance of monotheism by entire peoples and cultural circles has always required an extensive system of coercive methods. Once at the helm, a clericocracy stabilizes itself through the usual and inevitable ‘culture-political’ means: first and foremost, control of education6 and an inquisitorial monitoring of orthodox obedience in all social strata. In addition to this, popular semi-Pagan compromises provide what is necessary to pacify the sensual needs of the masses. If high religion succeeds in converting the general antipathy towards them into rituals of admiration, this is the greatest possible achievement that lies within its means. A popular monotheism is a contradiction in terms.
In a corrected version of the ring parable, the father would have to order two completely identical new rings that would be tested practically for their power to make their wearer hated among people. Furthermore, the ring should convey to its wearer the certainty of his election. The bearer of the magic symbol, however, will receive the confirmation of his special status at no extra charge: the antipathy of the many, who play their role more or less reluctantly in the comedy of admiration, will show him beyond doubt that he has chosen the right path. In this experiment, the monotheistic religions would be freed from any considerations of wanting to please one's fellow human beings – they could devote themselves unreservedly to their main project, i.e. being pleasing to the transcendent God alone. Each of the three would be at liberty to present itself as the most perfect form of personal supremacism; and if there were no way around a coexistence with the two other versions of the one-god-cult, each religion would at least be free to claim the crown of hatefulness for itself.
The history of the existing monotheisms fits unmistakably into a more clearly contoured picture if one takes this second version of the ring parable as its secret script. Behind the façade of a dispute over metaphysical truth, these religions have de facto waged a bitter contest of noble hatefulness – each one having the others as its audience, whose predictably negative reactions confirm their own respective successes. Admittedly, the ranking of the contestants has clearly fluctuated throughout history. While Judaism seemed for centuries to be the sure winner, and had to tolerate corresponding reactions on the part of the others, more recent history has seen dramatic changes of position – without a thorough examination of these, the spiritual and intellectual development of the West since the Renaissance is all but incomprehensible. When the Enlightenment thinkers of the eighteenth century turned their attention back to the fires of the holy inquisition and its learned instigators, Catholicism suddenly leapt far ahead: its apologists now seemed like shady characters, rising from the torture chambers of clerical absolutism and declaring terror the only way of forcing people towards salvation – one cannot help thinking of the figure of Naphta from Thomas Mann's novel The Magic Mountain, who was intended to embody a satirical synthesis of Jesuitism and Communism. In the course of the twentieth century there was, surprisingly, another change at the forefront of the field. Islam, usually noted here only for its more violent expressions, had seemingly taken leadership overnight – which at least testifies to its undiminished capacity for provocation. It is now followed at some distance by Christianity, which gambled away its chances of taking the title of the most unpopular religion through the highly successful sympathy offensives of recent decades. Far behind the rest of today's field lies Judaism, which is almost being overwhelmed by hordes of admirers from all camps.
It can be said of all forms of zealotic monotheism that they are inconceivable without the figure of the scoffer, the one who rejects salvation and resolutely refuses to participate in its cults – in a word, the shadowy figure of the unbeliever. Such monotheism has thus shown two faces from the outset. It not only sets itself apart aggressively from all other cults, but also makes the rejection it encounters through its non-participants one of its driving motives – or more than that: it pragmatically assumes from the start that it will be unacceptable for many. To use one of Luhmann's phrases: it speculates on rejection. In order to reap its profits, it relies on the schema of exclusion through inclusivity: thanks to this, it can state with a clear conscience that it was never the one to turn others away – on the contrary, those people isolated themselves by refusing to participate. It shares this tactic with all avant-garde movements, which cannot possibly consider themselves at the vanguard without the majority lagging behind. In this sense, monotheism is only possible as a counter-religion in the first place, just as the avant-garde always constitutes a counter-culture. In fact, the development of a monotheistic position defined by the majority's resistance to it is constitutive, and without the constantly maintained awareness of the non-assimilable others, it would not be able to raise its internal tension to the necessary level. There can be no universalism without set-theoretical paradoxes: one can only invite everyone if one can be sure that not everyone will come.
The fully formed monotheistic cult stabilizes its metaphorical muscle tone by constantly reminding its followers of heresy within and the Pagan threat outside. Certainly it does not tire of invoking the virtue of humility before the Lord, but the sermon would be incomplete without the injunction that heathens and false teachers must be met with proud intransigence. If no real threat from without can be found, it can easily be replaced by imaginary sources of hatred. Without the daily state of emergency provoked by the temptations of the enemy, the high tension of religious life would rapidly decline into a state of ponderous non-aggression. Normally this field is characterized by the development of a two-enemy-economy that allows a back and forth between real and imaginary stressors. The highly current Islamic concept of a near and a remote enemy (in w
hich the USA and Israel currently occupy the role of the external evil) is derived from this. Only Judaism managed largely without the devil, as it had the Egyptians and, after them, the Canaanites. These were followed by a long line of concrete oppressors, from the Babylonian kings to the German racists, who spared their victims the effort of merely imagining evil.
As a rule, however, one can always be sure of non-imaginary opponents, as the monotheistic provocation inevitably stirs a backlash among those provoked, sooner or later. There can be no Aten cult without the reaction of the Amun priesthood, no Judaism without the displeasure of the other peoples, no Christianity without the scepticism of the non-Christians, and no Islam without the unwillingness of the non-Muslims. Even in the early days of the Empire, educated Romans were so disturbed by the separatism of the Jews that they gave them the title ‘enemies of the human race’ (originally coined by Cicero to ostracize pirates). The young Hegel still noted, entirely conventionally: ‘A people who spurns all other gods must carry the hatred of the entire human race in its heart.’7 The two later monotheisms also provided their detractors with ample material for disapproval. In all cases, one can assume a co-evolution of thesis and antithesis. Here too, as is generally the case with over-determined and fed-back processes, reality seems to be dancing to the tune of the symbolic structure.
The consequences of these reflections for the trialogue of the monotheistic religions are obvious. At this point they need each other too much to fight any longer. In order to adjust from hostile coexistence to some kind of discussion, they must strike themselves from the list of ‘hate providers’, on which each has so far been the most important item for the others. This gesture is only conceivable on two conditions: either the moderately zealous monotheisms agree on a common foreign policy in relation to the non-monotheists – which would mean casting the role of the infidels with the indifferent (of which there is no lack in our times) in future, and replacing the heathens with the exponents of polytheisms, meditative cults and ethnic religions, whom one considers inferior from the outset. The advantage of this position for its defenders would be that of putting their rivalry on hold while still keeping universalist provocation alive: while shifting from mission to dialogue at the internal level, one could insist on expansion and spiritual priority at the external level.8 Or, to posit the second condition, each monotheism can divest itself of the zealotic side of universalism and change into a non-zealous cultural religion – as has been the case in liberal Judaism since the eighteenth century, in the great majority of Protestant churches since the nineteenth century, and in the liberal manifestations of Roman Catholicism since the Second Vatican Council. There have been analogous developments in Islam, especially in Turkey since 1924, but also in the Western diaspora, where it is always advisable to present oneself as capable of dialogue. This option demands no more than a transition from militant universalism to a civilized ‘pretend’ universalism – a tiny shift that makes all the difference. One can recognize the incorrigible zealots because they would carry out such a change tactically, but never out of genuine conviction; that would mean giving up the privilege of radicality that alone satisfies their pride. Those who remain zealous to the end would rather die than be simply one party among others.
When the path of civilization is the only one still open, the transformation of the zealotic collectives into parties must be put on the agenda. If one says ‘parties’, that automatically means a competition between them. Amidst such competition, the candidates must at least sacrifice their claims to universal dominance, if they are not going to stop believing in the superiority of their convictions. At the same time, exposing oneself to comparisons implies an admission that human standards are binding at their own level. It is inevitable that the popularity criteria of everyday humanity will also apply once more, and – why not? – the rules of play in a mass culture fluctuating between sentimentality and cruelty. It is one thing to strive to please the zealous God; it is another matter when one is dealing with a rediscovered necessity to please the common people in spite of everything, always bearing in mind that zealous monotheisms are not generally to their taste.
This takes us back to the ring parable in its original version. On our excursion into the secret history of unpopularity, we have discovered motives to find out more precisely who that wise judge who finally assesses the results of the competition might be – a contest that will turn out to have been a double fight for both popularity and hatefulness. Lessing's information that the final test will be taken ‘after one thousand times one thousand years’ removes any reasonable doubt that he is thinking of a large-scale world trial. This would involve not only the apocalypse of guilty souls, but also a final judgement of the guilty religions. Although Lessing's first referee speaks discreetly of a future colleague who would have to know much more than he does – which seems to point to a human – it is absolutely clear that the figure of the second judge is intended to be equated with God. What God is he then referring to? Can the second judge in the ring parable really be the God of Abraham, who was supposedly also the God of Moses, the duo of Jesus and Paul, and the prophet Mohammed? It must be permissible to doubt these identities in both directions – retrospectively, because equating Abraham's El with the YHWH of the Mosaic religion, the father of the Christian trinity and Mohammed's Allah cannot be more than a pious convention, or rather an echo effect that appears beneath the resonating domes of religious semantics – and prospectively, because the entire history of religion proves that, even within monotheistic traditions, the later God retains only a very slight resemblance to the God of the early days.
This makes it uncertain whether God the judge can still be the ally of his earliest zealots at the moment of the final trial. Has he himself remained the zealous and jealous God? In the end, his benevolence towards his earlier partisans can no longer be unquestioningly assumed, as he has clearly moved beyond an immaturely wrathful phase. At the most, he would acknowledge extenuating circumstances – for his followers, and via this detour also for himself – by pardoning their zealotry as a transitional neurosis that served an evolutionary purpose. The first exponents of zealous mono-truth may genuinely have had legitimate motives for snubbing their fellow humans and burdening them with a fundamental opposition in the name of the totally other. For the cultural historian, it is certainly understandable why primitive monotheism had to attack both the natural and the cultural thusness of humans. Its task was to destroy their overly self-assured rooting in lineage, their trust in the world and love of images, and their life in a state of moral approximation, in order to confront them directly with the steep wall of the law. It is at this wall that the worldling nature fails – and it is supposed to, for the holy warriors firmly believe that worldly self-satisfaction as a whole must be destroyed. For any true zealot it is evident that humans can only be heathens at first, and forever if one leaves them alone – anima naturaliter pagana. Without a collision with the ‘true God’ and his demanding messenger, the most they will ever achieve are splendid vices. Hence one must never leave them alone, and should interrupt their habits whenever possible. As pre-monotheistic habits somehow always happen to be bad ones, the re-education of the human race became the order of the day after the monotheistic caesura. Then the following dictum applies: ‘The Lord disciplines those he loves’ (Proverbs 3:12 and Hebrews 12:6). Hegel still referred to this as ‘the higher standpoint that man is evil by nature, and evil because he is natural’.9 Without the punitive resistance of the law, known in other contexts as the ‘symbolic order’, humans cannot, in the view of their monotheistic disciplinarians, become what they are supposed to. Robespierre's trend-setting dictum ‘whoever trembles is guilty’ is still very much in the spirit of this sublime pedagogy, where punishment is considered the honour of the blasphemer. In a related sense, Kierkegaard would later instruct his readers that whoever wishes humans well must place obstacles in their path.
Everything else transpires from the duty
of scandal. One has to admit that the followers of the One God have not made things easy for themselves in this respect. The offending peoples, the chosen, the baptized, the militant and, last but not least, the analysed, carried the burden of their task along with them and undertook the daring, but thankless, business of advancing spiritualization by unpopular methods. In their eyes, humans are creatures to whom one can only do justice by overtaxing them. They are creatures that only come to their senses when one demands more of them than simply what is customary among speaking apes.
Then, however, something happened that no old-style zealot could have reckoned with: once provoked, people suddenly began to learn more quickly than their provocateurs had believed possible. The European Renaissance marked the start of a cycle of new examinations of God and the world that points beyond the historical monotheisms. The thinkers of the century after the Reformation discovered the general of which monotheism was the particular. What we call the Enlightenment was, from a religion-historical perspective, no more or less than a rupture of the symbolic shells that had imprisoned the historical style of zealous universalisms. To put it as paradoxically as it appears: with its growing self-assurance, the Enlightenment not only broke away from the historically developed monotheisms; it in fact produced a higher-level monotheism in which various universal articles of faith attained dogmatic validity. These include the a-priori unity of the species, the indispensability of the state under the rule of law, the destiny of humans to control nature, solidarity with the disadvantaged and the disabling of natural selection for Homo sapiens. ‘Enlightenment’ is simply the popular name for the perpetual literary council in which these articles are discussed, fixed and defended against heretics.
God's Zeal Page 14