Some of the intelligentsia of The Enlightenment hoped to
refashion the governing class in their own image; but for the governing class
to hold one world-view, while its underlings hold another, is scarcely
conducive to political stability. It is imprudent for the rulers to worship
Reason while the masses pay homage to the Virgin Mary. There were those then,
who thought it desirable to enlighten the masses as well. The problem with
this, however, was that the common people were widely considered to be
impervious to Reason,. The more radical Aufklarer
like Paine and Godwin held to the possibility of general enlightenment, but
this faith was conspicuously lacking among their more conservative colleagues,
some of whom accordingly settled for what has been called the ‘double truth’
thesis.
According to this doctrine, the skepticism of the
educated must learn not to unsettle the
superstition of the populace. It must be sequestered from the common folk, for
fear of the political unrest it might
incite. There can be no common ground between the more rational and more
barbarous species of religious faith. This was thought true of the relations between
eighteenth-century gentlemen and the pagan hordes of antiquity, as it was between
these men and their less privileged contemporaries. Others took a less
jaundiced view of the past, seeing prelapsarian Adam and Eve as essentially
eighteenth-century rationalists without clothes. Even so, they had spawned down
the ages a monstrous progeny of idolaters, crafty clerics, brutal zealots and
crazed mystics.
John Toland, despite being portrayed in Irish legend as the
bastard offspring of a priest and a prostitute, takes a dim view of the common
people in his Pantheisticon, urging
the need to keep the truths of Reason and the doxa of the mob rigorously distinct. There must be one God for the
rich and one for the poor. There is the genteel religion of love, justice and
the adoration of the Supreme Being, and then there is the benighted,
bloodthirsty cult of the priests. Orthodox religion is a matter of primitive
terror and a priestly lust for power.
Hume is another who insists on the gulf between the reasons
for religious faith advanced by the learned and those offered by the ignorant.
Even so, the two camps must learn to live cheek by jowl, neither interfering
with the other, if the truths of Reason are to be protected from the myths of
the populace, and the piety of the people preserved from the subversive truths
of Reason. As Charles Taylor observes, ‘ for the common people, a little superstition
could be a good thing, satisfying their religious impulses without inculcating
rebellion.” Thomas Jefferson considered that there could be no Republican
virtue among the masses without a belief in God, a belief he signally failed to
hold himself. One may contrast this divided vision with the republican views of
Baruch Spinoza, who held that the common folk labor in delusion but wished to
illuminate them. Spinoza believed that people were educable, that their desires
were malleable enough to be remolded, and that this, rather than the fostering
of consoling lies and politically convenient fictions, was the task of the philosopher.
For Toland, by contrast, truth, which in rationalist style
is plain and lucid, must darken if it is to preserve itself from the grubby
paws of the unlettered. This is one reason among several why Toland’s writings
are such an extraordinary mélange of rationalism and escotericism – why the
author whose most renown work is entitled Christianity
Not Mysterious also produced a History
of the Druids and probably belonged to a secret Dutch society known as the
Knights of Jubilation. It is a mixture of the hermetic and excoteric which can
also be found in Freemasonry. Only a coterie of cognoscenti can be entrusted
with the most momentous truths. The free-thinker, a title which Toland is said
to have invented, thus enjoys something of the privilege of the very clerics he
detests.
Condorcet abhorred this intellectual double dealing, though
he located it in the benighted past rather than the enlightened present. ‘What
morally can really be expected,’ he asked, ‘from a system one of whose
principles was that the morality of the people must be founded on false
opinions, that enlightened men were right to deceive others provided that they
supply them with useful error, and they may justifiably keep them in chains
that they themselves knew how to break?’ In his view, it was both inevitable
and desirable that progressive principles should gradually penetrate ‘even unto
the hovels of . . . slaves, and inspire them with that smouldering indignation
which not even constant humiliation and fear can smother in the soul of the oppressed.
This, one might add, is the voice of a movement decried by some postmodern thinkers
as a lamentable outbreak of authoritarianism.
Not all of Condorcet’s confreres
endorsed his views. A.O. Lovejoy remarks that ‘since the Deists had joined
ranks in a war against credulity, they were often involved in a war against the
people.’ Schiller, who was rattled by the prospect of popular sovereignty, was
also deeply pessimistic about the prospect of Bildung or spiritual education for the masses. He reacted with skepticism
to the outbreak of the French Revolution, and doubted that the populace in
their current state were capable of the civic virtue required for a republic.
As one commentator astutely remarks, Schiller ‘intended his aesthetic education
not only to stabilize revolution but to replace it.’ Voltaire held that the
multitude would always be benighted. It would be impossible to civilize them
without subverting the state. Indeed, he doubted whether they were worthy of
such a favor in the first placed. Swift held much the same opinion.
There was, then a clear dilemma. You could opt for a
politically docile populace, whose backward religious views implicitly question
your own faith in the universality of Reason, or you could plump for a
rationally-minded citizenry who might confirm your own faith in the scope of
Reason, but only at the cost of potential political disaffection. Were the
savants to see themselves as the vanguard, safeguarding truths which in time
would become available to all, or as an elite, shielding such doctrines from
the common herd?
‘They courageously discussed atheism,’ Carle Becker comments
tartly of some Enlightenment thinkers, ‘but not before the servants.’; Voltaire
was notoriously nervous of the effects of his own heterodoxy on his domestic
staff. Religion, for him as for many of his colleagues, was a useful device for
preserving morality, and to that extent social harmony. The Enlightenment
yearned for universal illumination, yet desired nothing of the kind. Diderot,
who probably ended up as an atheist, wrote scurrilously that if Jesus had
fondled the breasts of the bridesmaids at Cana and caressed the buttocks of St
John, Christianity might have spread a spirit of delight instead of a pall of
gloom. Yet he supported natural religion on account of its socially unifying
effects. Montesquieu, similarly, did not believe in God himself, but considered
it prudent that others should do so.
Perhaps the dangers of mass infidelity were exaggerated. Hume
considered that religion had much less of an everyday influence than was
commonly assumed. He was not prepared to settle for a rational version of
Christianity, trusting as he did neither in reason nor in Christianity. In
fact, he regarded almost all religion as actively inimical to political virtue,
a view also taken by Shaftsbury in his Inquiry
Concerning Virtue. Virtue must be
autonomous, not strategic. Religion corrupted morality by fostering
self-interest (fear of punishment, the desire for immortality), as well as by
eroding the natural sources of our passion for justice and sense of
benevolence. For one commentator, religion in Hume’s estimate posed a grave
danger to society. Yet he also seems to have held that a moderate,
non-superstitious version of it is an aid to political stability. As with many
an Enlightenment sage, religion is judged in terms of its utility. It is
acceptable only if it promotes the kind of morality one could still endorse
without it. This, for Hume, was ‘true’ religion, which could only ever be that
of a cultured minority, as opposed to what he derided as the sick dreams of the
masses. Hume’s social conservatism trumped his intellectual skepticism. Indeed,
he himself acted out a version of the double truth thesis in his everyday life,
famously setting aside his subversive anti-foundationalism for the sake of
social convention.
Holbach concurred with Hume’s low opinion of religion’s
value as political ideology, observing that it was the hangman rather than the
priest who underpins the social order. In any case, he scornfully inquired, who
reads the philosophers? Joseph de Maistre also maintained that public order
depended in the end on a single figure: the executioner. His Holy Trinity was
said to consist of Pope, King and Hangman. Since he held that human beings were
evil, aggressive, self-destructive, savagely irrational creatures in need of
being terrified into craven submission by an absolute sovereignty, the public
executioner played no mean role in his political imagination. He even had a
sneaking admiration for the Jacobin’s guillotine, believing as he did that all
power was divine. With his lauding of instinct, prejudice, war, mystery, absolutism,
inequality and superstition, de Maistre is a graphic example of everything the
Enlightenment set out to eliminate.
Perhaps society had need of a civic religion, though Gibbon
thought Islam might fill the bill more effectively than Christianity. He, too,
considered religion largely in the light of social utility, as a celebrated sentence
from his work suggests: “The various modes of worship which prevailed in Roman
times, were all considered by the people as equally true, by the philosophers
as equally false; and by the magistrates as equally useful." The more radical of
the philosophes, by contrast,
insisted on a complete divorce of religion and morality, maintaining that an
atheistic society might prove more morally admirable than a Christian one.
Perhaps a group of atheists could consort more amicably together than a bunch
of stiff-necked believers. In the long run, the Enlightenments fear of a domino
effect – that the collapse of religion would topple morality as well, which in
turn would fatally undermine political cohesion – was to prove groundless. Belief, whether religious or otherwise, is
not what welds liberal capitalist societies together. As Marx points out, the
dull compulsion to labor is generally sufficient for that. Religious faith
survived into later modernity, and continued to flourish among sectors of the
common people. Politically speaking, however, it was reduced often enough to a
spot of window dressing for secular
governance - just as the long-dreamed of marriage of art and life, which for
the revolutionary avant-garde was consummated in political murals and agitprop
theater, is now found in fashion and design, the media and public relations,
advertising agencies and recording studios - more façade
than foundation.
True to its Baconian bent, the Enlightenment can still lay
claim to some formidable practical achievements. Quite apart from its
incalculable influence on the course of modern civilization, it had a hand in a
range of political revolutions, played a role in the abolition of serfdom and
slavery, help- to unseat colonial powers and through the political economists
of the Scottish Enlightenment left an enduring mark on British polity. Jeremy Benthham’s Utilitarianism was to become
a cornerstone of the ruling ideology of nineteenth-century England. Enlightened
thinking also transformed the public sensibility and filtered down into
everyday life. Pub wisdom such as ‘Everyone is entitled to their own opinion’, ‘It’d
be a funny world if we all thought the same’ or ‘It takes all kinds to make a
world’ (a motto which Ludwig Wittgenstein considered ‘a most beautiful and
kindly saying’) are informal testimony to its influence.
Thomas Paine’s best-selling The Rights of Man gives lie to the assumption that the
Enlightenment was the monopoly of scholars and noblemen. It also served to discredit the prejudice that the
common people are able to grasp ideas only if they are first converted into iconic
or mythological terms.
We have seen that reluctant atheism has a long history.
Machiavelli thought that religious ideas, however vacuous, were a useful means
of terrifying and pacifying the mob. Voltaire feared infecting his own domestic
servants with impiety. Toland clung to a ‘rational’ Christian belief himself,
but thought that the rabble should stay with their superstitions. Gibbon
considered that the religious doctrines he despised could nonetheless proved
socially useful. So did Montesquieu and Hume. So in our own tine does Jurgen Habermas.
Mathew Arnold sought to counter the creeping godlessness of the working class
with a poeticized version of the Christian doctrine he himself spurned. Auguste
Comte, an out-and-out materialist, brought this dubious lineage to the acme of
absurdity with his plans for a secular priesthood. Durkheim had no truck with the deity himself, but thought
that religion could be a precious source of edifying sentiment. The philosopher
Leo Strauss, father of American neo-conservatism believed that political rulers
must deceive the common people for their own good, keeping from their ears the
subversive truth that the moral values by which they live have no unimpeachable
basis. They must conceal this lack of foundation from the credulous gaze of the
masses, drawing a veil over it as over some unspeakable indecency. Religious faith
was essential for social order, though he did not for a moment credit it
himself.
There is something unpleasantly disingenuous about this
entire legacy. ‘I don’t happen to believe myself, but it is politically expedient
that you should’ is the catch phrase of thinkers supposedly devoted to the
integrity of the intellect. One can imagine how they might react to being
informed that their own most cherished convictions –civil rights, freedom of
speech, democratic government and the like – were, of course, all nonsense, but
politically convenient nonsense and so not to be scrapped. It took the
barefaced audacity of Friedrich Nietzsche to point out that the problem was
less the death of God than the bad faith of Man, who in an astonishing act of
cognitive dissonance had murdered his Maker but continued to protest that he
was still alive. It was thus that men and women failed to see in the divine
obsequies an opportunity to remake themselves.
If religious faith were to be released from the burden of
furnishing social orders with a set of rationales for their existence. It might
be free to discover its true purpose as a critique of all such politics. In
this sense, its superfluity might prove its salvation. The New Testament has
little or nothing to say of responsible citizenship. It is not a ‘civilized’
document at all. It shows no enthusiasm for social consensus. Since it holds
that such values are imminently to pass away, it is not greatly taken with standards
of civic excellence or codes of good conduct. What it adds to common-or-garden
morality is not some supernatural support, but the grossly inconvenient news
that our forms of life must undergo radical dissolution if they are to be
reborn as just and compassionate communities. The sign of that dissolution is a
solidarity with the poor and the powerless. It is here that a new configuration
of faith, culture and politics might be born.
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