The House of Government

3

THE FAITH

The most obvious question about Sverdlov’s, Osinsky’s and Mayakovsky’s luminous faith is whether it is a religion. The most sensible answer is that it does not matter.

There are two principal approaches to defining religion: the substantive (what religion is) and the functional (what religion does). According to Steve Bruce’s deliberately conventional version of the former, religion “consists of beliefs, actions, and institutions which assume the existence of supernatural entities with powers of action, or impersonal powers or processes possessed of moral purpose. Such a formulation seems to encompass what ordinary people mean when they talk about religion.” The question, then, is whether the Marxist drama of universal degradation and salvation (preordained, independent of human will, and incapable of falsifiable verification) is an impersonal process possessed of moral purpose and whether communism as the end of recognizable human existence (all conflicts resolved, all needs satisfied, all of history’s work done) is in some sense “supernatural.” The usual answer is no: because the Marxist prediction is meant to be rational and this-worldly; because the “supernatural” is usually defined in opposition to reason; because “ordinary people” don’t think of Marxism as a religion; and because the whole point of using the conventional definition is to exclude Marxism and other beliefs that assume the nonexistence of supernatural (science-defying) entities.¹

The problem with this formulation is that it also excludes a lot of beliefs that ordinary people and professional scholars routinely describe as “religions.” As Durkheim argues in The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, most human beings for most of human history had no basis for distinguishing between the “natural” and the “supernatural”; no way of questioning the legitimacy of their ancestors’ ways; and no objection to sharing the same world with a variety of gods, spirits, and more or less dead forebears, not all of them human. Such beliefs may seem absurd in a world with a different sense of the “ordinary,” but they are not about the supernatural as opposed to something else. In Christian and post-Christian societies, they have been seen to comprise “pagan religions,” “primitive religions,” “traditional religions,” “primary religions,” or simply a lot of foolishness. According to the definitions centered on the supernatural, such beliefs are either uniformly religious or not religious at all.²

One solution is to follow Auguste Comte and Karl Marx in associating religion with beliefs and practices that are absurd from the point of view of modern science. What matters is not what “they” believe, but what we believe they believe. If they believe in things we (as rational observers) know to be absurd, then they believe in the supernatural, whether they know it or not. The problem with this solution is that it offends against civility and possibly against the law without answering the question of whether communism belongs in the same category. If “animism” is a religion whether it realizes it or not, then Marx’s claim that the coming of communism is a matter of scientific prediction (and not a supernatural prophecy) is irrelevant to whether rational observers judge it to be so. The problem with rational observers is that they seem unable to make up their minds and, according to their many detractors, may not be fully rational (or they would not be using non sequiturs such as “secular religion” and would not keep forgetting that “religion” as they define it is the bastard child of Christian Reformation and European Enlightenment). Some newly discovered “world religions” are named after their prophetic founders (Buddhism, Mohammedanism, Christianity); others, after the people whose beliefs they described (Hinduism, the Chukchi religion); and yet others, by using vernacular terms such as Islam (“submission”), Sikh (“disciple”), Jain (“conqueror”), or Tao (“path”). Most of the rest are usually grouped by region. Some regions (including China for much of its history and large sections of Europe in the “secular age”) may or may not have religion, depending on what the compilers mean by the “supernatural.”³

An attempt to stretch the definition (and accommodate Theravada Buddhism, for example) by replacing “supernatural” with “transcendental,” “supra-empirical,” or “other-worldly” provokes the same questions and makes the inclusion of Marxism—something the advocates of substantive definitions would like to avoid—more likely. Just how empirical or non-transcendental are humanism, Hindutva, manifest destiny, and the kingdom of freedom?

Durkheim suggests another approach. “Religion,” according to his definition, is “a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things.” Sacred things are things that “the profane must not and cannot touch with impunity.” The function of the sacred is to unite humans into moral communities. Religion is a mirror in which human societies admire themselves. Subsequent elaborations of functionalism describe religion as a process by which humans create a sense of the self and an “‘objective’ and moral universe of meaning”; a “set of symbolic forms and acts that relate man to the ultimate conditions of his existence”; and, in Clifford Geertz’s much cited version, “a system of symbols which acts to establish powerful, pervasive, and long-lasting moods and motivations in men by formulating conceptions of a general order of existence and clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic.” Whatever one’s understanding of the “sacred,” “ultimate,” or “general” (Mircea Eliade describes the sacred as a “fixed center” or “absolute reality” amidst “the never-ceasing relativity of purely subjective experiences”), it seems impossible to avoid the conclusion that every society is by definition religious, that any comprehensive ideology (including secularism) creates and reflects a moral community, and that Osinsky’s luminous faith provides a fixed center in the swamp of subjective experiences and relates humans to the ultimate conditions of their existence.⁴

In sum, most people who talk about religion do not know what it is, while those who do are divided into those who include Marxism because they feel they have no choice and those who exclude it according to criteria they have trouble defining. Compromise terms such as “quasi-religion” make no sense within the functionalist paradigm (a moral community is a moral community whether its sacred center is the Quran or the US Constitution) and raise awkward questions (Taoism, but not Maoism?) for the champions of the “supernatural.” By extension, states that are “separate from the church” have no idea what they are separate from. The First Amendment to the US Constitution fails to define its subject and violates itself by creating a special constitutional status for “religion” while prohibiting any such legislation. In 1984, a University of California–Berkeley law professor, Phillip E. Johnson, surveyed the field and concluded that “no definition of religion for constitutional purposes exists, and no satisfactory definition is likely to be conceived.” Three years later, he read Richard Dawkins’s The Blind Watchmaker, had an epiphany, and founded the “intelligent design” movement.⁵

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One reason for the trouble with definitions is the desire to apply the same name to two very different belief systems: one that did not know it was a belief system and one that did—and felt very strongly about it. In the first millennium BCE, much of urban Eurasia was afflicted with an epidemic of reflexivity and self-doubt. The arrival of Zoroaster in Iran; the Buddha, Jain dharma, and the Upanishads in India; Confucius, the Tao, and the “hundred schools” in China; classical tragedy and philosophy in Greece; and the prophetic era in ancient Israel had inaugurated what Karl Jaspers has called the “Axial Age”—an age “of standing back and looking beyond.” They were not all about the “supernatural” in the strict sense, but they all posited an “absolute reality” radically distinct from a world inhabited by humans and their gods and ancestors. They shipped off as much of the sacred as they could to another plane or another time, allowing themselves occasional glimpses; posited an abyss separating humans from their true nature (as expressed in concepts or commandments); and made “alienation” the universal law of existence (leading a lot of people to believe that it had always been so). They proclaimed or implied, in other words, that humans were living incorrectly; that human life was, in some fundamental sense, a mistake, and possibly a crime.⁶

Ever since, these “Axial civilizations” and their numerous descendants—including Christianity (an offshoot of prophetic Judaism) and Islam (their close relative)—have been preoccupied, above all else, with the tasks of restoration, reformation, and “redemption” (as an escape from a human existence newly revealed to be misguided or meaningless). This has led to the emergence of “reason” independent of social ascription; the perception of the contingency—and, therefore, reformability—of the political order; the appearance of moral communities bound neither ethnically nor politically; the unification and codification of the sacred through written compilations of original solutions; the rise of elites specializing in interpreting the scripture and monopolizing access to salvation; and the possibility of the rise of counter-elites proposing alternative interpretations or entirely new solutions. Different traditions have different conceptual repertoires and escape routes, but all have offered more or less consistent and self-sufficient ways of “standing back and looking beyond.”⁷

The fact of having lost one’s way suggests the possibility of being able to find it again. All societies and the worlds they inhabit have had their beginnings, but it is only when human life turned out to be a problem that endings became solutions, and thus matters of serious concern. In ancient Greece, they tended to be political, metaphysical, provisional, and unintegrated. In southern Asia, the focus on individual reincarnation and escape allowed the collective resolution to remain remote (or perhaps it was the remoteness of the collective resolution that helped focus individual minds). In eastern and southeastern Asia, Confucian world-improvement and Buddhist and Taoist world-rejection came together to produce a tradition of expecting both at once (occasionally in the shape of an immediate world improvement by means of a violent world rejection). But even as they imagined an eventual return to wholeness and wondered about the effect of human choices on the unfolding of the cosmic drama, most heirs to the Axial predicament continued to expect a perennial cycle of corruption and rebirth. All final solutions were temporary. For the sun to rise, spring to return, hunted prey to submit, and the earth to give up its fruits, the hero had to keep killing the serpent and humans had to keep making mistakes and sacrifices. Holding chaos and its many agents at bay was a daily effort and the closest life could get to having a meaning. Everything was forever.⁸

Until it was no more. Sometime around the turn of the first millennium BCE, Zoroaster made history—literally, as well as figuratively—by prophesying the absolute end of the world. There was going to be one final battle between the forces of light and darkness and one last judgment of all human beings who had ever lived—and then there would be nothing but an all-encompassing, everlasting perfection: no hunger, no thirst, no disagreement, no childbirth, and no death. The hero would defeat the serpent one last time; chaos would be vanquished for good; only the good would remain—forever. This meant, among many other things, that time had become linear and irreversible (and thus, in a sense, properly historical). It also meant that the cost of individual moral choices had become almost impossibly high: not everyone was going to make it into timelessness, and no one was going to get a second chance.⁹

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Perhaps influenced by Zoroaster, the ancient Israelites also came to think of time as a straight plot line. In some sense, Exodus is a conventional migration narrative explaining the legitimacy of a group’s territorial claim. Such stories (themselves versions of a questing hero’s return from the netherworld) tend to describe a hazardous march from a wrong temporary home to the right permanent one, indicated by the gods and discovered by the anointed leader-founder. But Exodus does much more than that. The story it tells is one of a final liberation from politics and a permanent solution to the “standing back and looking beyond” problem. Having escaped the Pharaoh, the Israelites did not establish a new state: they created a virtual one. Instead of a this-worldly king, they got themselves an other-worldly one, as powerful as their imagination would allow. The Israelites bridged the “Axial” chasm between the real and the ideal by submitting to a single ruler of unlimited power. They did not simply inherit him from their ancestors: they handed themselves over to him as part of a voluntary contract. They did not worship him through a polity that embodied his will: they worshipped him directly, as individuals (the Ten Commandments are in the second person singular) and as a community of the elect. After Moses, political and spiritual representation—indeed, any mediation between the Hebrews and their true ruler—became problematic or dispensable. They became “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Observance of the law became a matter of personal devotion and inner discipline. The Heavenly Father was to be loved, not simply served, and he was always watching and always listening: “Now what I am commanding you today is not too difficult for you or beyond your reach. It is not up in heaven, so that you have to ask, ‘Who will ascend into heaven to get it and proclaim it to us so we may obey it?’ Nor is it beyond the sea, so that you have to ask, ‘Who will cross the sea to get it and proclaim it to us so we may obey it?’ No, the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart so you may obey it.”¹⁰

The key to the one-on-one relationship with the absolute was that it be the only one (that is, truly absolute). “Do not worship any other god, for the LORD, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.” The Israelites escaped a rule that was transitory, contingent, and mostly tolerant of golden calves and local cults by subjecting themselves to a rule that was eternal, self-sufficient, and utterly inescapable. They fled a tyranny that was gratuitously arbitrary for a tyranny that was arbitrary out of principle—and thus, one hoped, just. When Job insisted on his innocence, he was questioning God’s goodness. When Job’s three friends defended God’s goodness, they were questioning Job’s innocence (because punishment, they reasoned, must be proof of sinfulness). But they were all wrong, as God himself explained. The Almighty was simply too mighty, too powerful, and too busy with matters of life and death to justify himself to anyone. He did as he pleased for reasons only he understood. Job had to “repent in dust and ashes” and do as he was told. He had no moral agency at all. The price of political freedom was absolute moral slavery.¹¹

Absolute moral slavery to the source of all morality may equal freedom (although Job’s possession of an independent moral sense seems to suggest otherwise), but even if it does not, the Hebrew god was remote and inconsistent enough to allow for some uncertainty. Unlike earthly kings and specialized gods, an all-powerful transcendental despot cannot be cheated (“there is no dark place, no deep shadow, where evildoers can hide”), but he just might be in a forgiving mood or otherwise engaged (he has so much more to do, after all). And of course the God of Israel gave Job and his friends plenty of reason to believe that the Covenant was well within human understanding and that all that was required of them was that they follow a few simple rules. “For I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.”¹²

Whatever the predicament of the individual subject, the fate of the chosen people as a whole was clear. The logic of the Book of Job did not apply to the Israelites as a group—or rather, the logic of the Book of Job seemed to suggest that individual moral slavery was a fair price for the guarantee of collective redemption. Some members of the tribe would be put to the sword, devoured by wild animals, or die of a plague (for breaking the law or for no reason at all), but the tribe as such would triumph no matter what. Its “great rebellions” and “many backslidings” might postpone the final deliverance, but they could do nothing to prevent it. The original election and final outcome were beyond morality or understanding: “The LORD your God has chosen you out of all the peoples on the face of the earth to be his people,” and that was the end of it. Or rather, that was the beginning. The end was the restoration of the chosen people to the promised land, where “they will neither hunger nor thirst, nor will the desert heat or the sun beat upon them.” Everything in between was history.¹³

The most obviously remarkable thing about the Hebrew God is that he was the first transcendental ruler to successfully eliminate all customary allegiances and proclaim himself an absolute monarch. But he did not stop there. After banning all rival cults and exterminating their adherents within the house of Israel, he denied the existence of all foreign gods, too. From being the only god of the Israelites, he became the only God, period. A few vestiges of traditional tribal relativism persisted for a while (you take “what your god Chemosh gives you,” and we’ll take “whatever the LORD our God has given us”), but the tendency was clear enough. “I am the LORD, and there is no other; apart from me there is no God. I will strengthen you, though you have not acknowledged me, so that from the rising of the sun to the place of its setting men may know there is none besides me. I am the LORD, and there is no other.”¹⁴

Some tribal gods are universal creators; the Hebrew God was the first universal autocrat. A small tribe repeatedly conquered by its much larger neighbors retaliated by conquering the world conceptually. Rather than recognizing the demonstrable superiority of their masters’ spiritual sponsors, switching loyalties, and dissolving in the multitudes of fellow opportunists, the Israelites extended ad infinitum the powers and jurisdiction of their own patron. Everything that ever happened anywhere was part of a universal design centered on the drama of their wanderings and eventual deliverance. All human beings, including the rulers of the great empires, were pawns in the hands of Israel’s heavenly pharaoh. History as the meaningful unfolding of time was the result of the Israelites’ collective moral choices. Human life past and present was one continuous reason for the postponement of the Day of the Lord.¹⁵

There was not much mystery or inscrutability on this score. The End was predetermined; the Israelites kept making wrong choices; and the Lord kept blaming them for his continued unwillingness or inability to fulfill his promise. The world’s first heavenly autocrat was also, by virtue of his chronic theodicy problem, the world’s first Underground Man (or Adolescent). Constantly snubbed by his spiritual inferiors, he bragged about his great accomplishments, promised even greater accomplishments, nursed his many grudges, feigned humility, relished his ability to cause pain and thwart expectations, and fantasized obsessively about a spectacular public humiliation of the strong, the arrogant, and the well-connected. According to Isaiah, among others, he was not going to simply take his people to the assigned place and help them defeat the Hittites, Girgashites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusites who lived there. “The LORD is angry with all nations; his wrath is upon all their armies. He will totally destroy them, he will give them over to slaughter. Their slain will be thrown out, their dead bodies will send up a stench; the mountains will be soaked with their blood.”¹⁶

As for those who will survive the slaughter (said the Sovereign Lord to his people), “They will bow down before you with their faces to the ground; they will lick the dust at your feet. Then you will know that I am the LORD; those who hope in me will not be disappointed…. I will make your oppressors eat their own flesh; they will be drunk on their own blood, as with wine. Then all mankind will know that I, the LORD, am your Savior, your Redeemer, the Mighty One of Jacob.” All those who had ever offended against the Israelites and their mighty redeemer would get their comeuppance and eat their words. “And those tall Sabeans—they will come over to you and will be yours; they will trudge behind you, coming over to you in chains. They will bow down before you and plead with you, saying, ‘Surely God is with you, and there is no other; there is no other god.’” And in case they were still unconvinced, Gog, of the Land of Magog, would be tricked into attacking the chosen people one last time: “I will summon a sword against Gog on all my mountains, declares the Sovereign LORD. Every man’s sword will be against his brother. I will execute judgment upon him with plague and bloodshed; I will pour down torrents of rain, hailstones and burning sulfur on him and on his troops and on the many nations with him. And so I will show my greatness and my holiness, and I will make myself known in the sight of many nations. Then they will know that I am the LORD.”¹⁷

The happy ending was subject to the same inflation as the violent resolution. The promise of a safe homecoming and peaceful life in the land of milk and honey evolved into a prophecy of entirely “new heavens and a new earth”:

Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped.

Then will the lame leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy. Water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert.

The burning sand will become a pool, the thirsty ground bubbling springs. In the haunts where jackals once lay, grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.

And a highway will be there; it will be called the Way of Holiness. The unclean will not journey on it; it will be for those who walk in that Way; wicked fools will not go about on it.

No lion will be there, nor will any ferocious beast get up on it; they will not be found there. But only the redeemed will walk there, and the ransomed of the LORD will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away.

Sorrow and sighing would not simply flee away—they would disappear forever. The ferocious beasts would not simply walk off—they, too, would be overtaken by gladness and start feeding on milk and honey. “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them.”¹⁸

Meanwhile, the Israelites’ earthly lot had not improved very much. The end of the Babylonian exile and the return of the ransomed was followed by a succession of more or less egregious Gogs. The worse the offenses against Zion and less likely the prospect that it would “no longer be plundered by the nations,” the more cosmic and urgent the visions of the final retribution. The three centuries that were centered on the birth of a “new era” and bounded by the Maccabean Wars of the 160s BCE and the Bar Kochba revolt of the 130s CE were a time of a dramatic flourishing of Jewish apocalyptic eschatology (“revelations” of the End). All such revelations, beginning with the Book of Daniel, told the same story: the position of the righteous is worse than ever before; the history of their oppression is entering its highest and final stage; the corrupt ruling empire is about to fall; the ensuing time of troubles will involve general lawlessness, fratricidal wars, and natural disasters; God will finally intervene, directly or through a special representative; his army will defeat the united forces of evil; and the righteous will live happily ever after. “The sovereignty, power and greatness of the kingdoms under the whole heaven will be handed over to the saints, the people of the Most High. His kingdom will be an everlasting kingdom, and all rulers will worship and obey him.”¹⁹

There were different ways of welcoming the inevitable. The members of the Qumran sect withdrew to the shores of the Dead Sea, renounced property and marriage, condemned Jewish appeasers along with Roman invaders, and strove after absolute ritual purity in preparation for the approaching slaughter. Others, often collectively known as “zealots,” took up arms on the assumption that, as Josephus put it, “the Deity does not cooperate in restoring liberty otherwise than by influencing man’s decision, and God will be much more ready to assist us if we do not shirk the toil entailed by the great cause which we have at heart.”²⁰

First-century Jewish Palestine was teeming with teachers, preachers, prophets, healers, exorcists, messiahs, and miracle workers inspired by the expectation of the imminent End. “A certain impostor named Theudas,” writes Josephus, “persuaded the mass of the rabble to take their belongings with them and follow him to the river Jordan; for he said that he was a prophet and would by a word of command divide the river and afford them an easy passage; and by these words he deceived many.” A “charlatan” from Egypt “gained for himself the reputation of a prophet,… collected about thirty thousand of his dupes, entered the country and led his force round from the desert to the mount called Olivet.” A “body of villains … under the pretense of divine inspiration fostering revolutionary changes … persuaded the multitude to act like madmen and led them out into the desert under the belief that God would there give them tokens of deliverance.”²¹

According to Mark, a preacher named John “wore clothing made of camel’s hair, with a leather belt around his waist,” ate “locusts and wild honey,” and preached “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” And according to Celsus, a second-century Greek writer,

there are many, who, although of no name, with the greatest facility and on the slightest occasion, whether within or without temples, assume the motions and gestures of inspired persons; while others do it in cities or among armies, for the purpose of attracting attention and exciting surprise. These are accustomed to say, each for himself, “I am God; I am the Son of God; or, I am the Divine Spirit; I have come because the world is perishing, and you, O men, are perishing for your iniquities. But I wish to save you, and you shall see me returning again with heavenly power. Blessed is he who now does me homage. On all the rest I will send down eternal fire, both on cities and on countries. And those who know not the punishments which await them shall repent and grieve in vain; while those who are faithful to me I will preserve eternally.” … To these promises are added strange, fanatical, and quite unintelligible words, of which no rational person can find the meaning: for so dark are they, as to have no meaning at all; but they give occasion to every fool or impostor to apply them to suit his own purposes.²²

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Jesus of Nazareth was a mostly traditional Jewish healer with a mostly traditional eschatological prophecy. “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes in various places, and famines…. Brother will betray brother to death, and a father his child. Children will rebel against their parents and have them put to death…. The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from the sky, and the heavenly bodies will be shaken.”²³ The “days of distress” will be followed by the kingdom of God, which is described as a feast for those who have not feasted before. The only definite thing about the new order is that social roles will be reversed: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied…. But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry.”²⁴

None of this is meant for another world, another time, or another generation. In Mark’s account, Jesus’s first words are: “The time has come. The kingdom of God is near. Repent and believe the good news!” And the good news—the news that suffuses the prophet’s message and his followers’ lives—is that “this generation will certainly not pass away until all these things have happened.” “Some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God.”²⁵

As in most prophecies, predestination and free will are finely balanced. The End is ineluctable, but its nature and, possibly, its timing depend on human actions. Jesus, human or not, is both the messenger and the agent, and some of his listeners may still be able to affect the course of the divine juggernaut. “If the Lord had not cut short those days, no one would survive. But for the sake of the elect, whom he has chosen, he has shortened them.” Nor is it too late now: “Make every effort to enter through the narrow door, because many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able to.” Jesus’s closest disciples, in particular, will be rewarded for their loyalty and sacrifice. Providence is, in part, the result of their efforts. “At the renewal of all things, when the Son of Man sits on his glorious throne, you who have followed me will also sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel. And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.”²⁶

What could one do in order to inherit eternal life? How was one to welcome, and perhaps help bring about, the days of distress and the kingdom of the Lord? First, one had to leave one’s house and brothers and sisters and father and mother and children and fields—the way Jesus himself had done.

Then Jesus’ mother and brothers arrived. Standing outside, they sent someone in to call him. A crowd was sitting around him, and they told him, “Your mother and brothers are outside looking for you.”

“Who are my mother and my brothers?” he asked.

Then he looked at those seated in a circle around him and said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.”²⁷

To ensure salvation, one had to renounce one’s family and join a new one. “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple.” Membership in the sect promised the ultimate reward in exchange for the ultimate sacrifice. It meant accepting a world in which all strangers were “neighbors”; all neighbors were brothers; and all brothers were the eternal children of one all-powerful Lord. According to Jesus, the two main commandments were: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind”; and, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” The only people to be hated (at least at first, during the trial period for new members) were one’s erstwhile father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters—and yes, even oneself.²⁸

It was a universal message that allowed for multiple distinctions. Some—the weak, the meek, and the humble—were more likely to join and more deserving of membership (“I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children”). Those who did join were more deserving than those who did not. Ideally, all neighbors from among the chosen people were to become brothers (Jesus was not talking to Gentiles). In the meantime, the rich were trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle, while those who had abandoned their families were looking forward to judging the twelve tribes of Israel.²⁹

“Repenting” meant “changing and becoming like little children.” Changing and becoming like little children meant submitting fully and unreservedly to God the Father. God the Father was to become more consistent in his total claim on his people:³⁰

“You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.’ But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgment….”

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Do not commit adultery.’ But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart….”

“Again, you have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘Do not break your oath, but keep the oaths you have made to the Lord.’ But I tell you, Do not swear at all…. Simply let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No.’”³¹

The Hebrew God tended to dilute his totalitarian claim—an absolute, undivided, unmediated, and randomly capricious domination of individuals in exchange for a guarantee of collective triumph—by multiplying legal regulations and occasionally emphasizing the contractual nature of his relationship with his subjects (some of whom might be excused for concluding that they were living in an ethical Rechtsstaat). Jesus would have none of that. He was a radical fundamentalist and a consistent enemy of the “Pharisees and the teachers of the law”: “‘You hypocrites!’ [he railed at them for insisting on the observance of kosher rules.] ‘For Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you: “These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men.”’ Jesus called the crowd to him and said, ‘Listen and understand. What goes into a man’s mouth does not make him “unclean,” but what comes out of his mouth, that is what makes him “unclean.”’”³²

It is not what you eat—it is what you say. It is not what you say—it is what you think (because your no is a no, and because “your Father knows what you need before you ask him”). It is not about your lips—it is about your heart. It is not about loving your “loved ones” (“are not even the tax collectors doing that?”)—it is about loving the tax collectors. It is not about forgiving someone you are angry with—it is about not being allowed to be angry. It is not about not sleeping with your neighbor’s wife—it is about not being allowed to have the desire. It is not between you and the law (as interpreted by the Pharisees and other would-be mediators)—it is between your Lord and your thoughts, all of them, all the time. “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both.” The Big Father is watching you, and the only way to escape punishment is to be watching, too—and yes, even yourself. “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”³³

The fact that Jesus died before he got the chance “to drink of the fruit of the vine in the kingdom of God” was interpreted by his followers not as a failure of the prophecy but as an episode in the drama of divine rebirth, in the Osiris-Dionysus tradition—except that Jesus, in accordance with the Jewish eschatological expectation, was to come back only once—when “the time has come,” this time truly for the last time. His resurrection was a preview of the coming resurrection for all.³⁴

The orphaned members of the sect expected Jesus’s return with the same degree of urgency and intensity with which Jesus himself had expected the original kingdom of the Lord. The Second Coming was to be a successful—and immediate—reenactment of the first one. As Paul wrote in First Corinthians, “What I mean, brothers, is that the time is short. From now on those who have wives should live as if they had none; those who mourn, as if they did not; those who are happy, as if they were not; those who buy something, as if it were not theirs to keep; those who use the things of the world, as if not engrossed in them. For this world in its present form is passing away.” So quickly was the world in its present form passing away that Paul had to reassure his followers that their imminent redemption would not separate them forever from their dead brothers and sisters:

We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According to the Lord’s own word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever.³⁵

In the meantime, they were to take ritual baths, have common meals (any supper might be the last one), and be “alert and self-controlled” lest the day of the Lord surprise them “like a thief in the night.” They should also make haste to welcome non-Jewish converts—because faith is above the law and because the failure of most Jews to recognize Jesus as the Messiah could mean only one thing: that God wanted his adopted sons to join the fold before his “natural” sons (the ones of Paul’s “own race”) could complete the fulfillment of the prophecy on Judgment Day.³⁶

The description of the end days that made it into the Christian canon as the Book of Revelation uses images from the Jewish apocalyptic tradition but limits the ranks of the chosen to the followers of Jesus; 144,000 of them (still identified by membership in one of the twelve tribes of Israel) have seals put on their foreheads, so that the divine avengers do not slaughter them by mistake. (The concept of labeling and classifying is central to the Apocalypse: the minions of the beast are branded accordingly, and everyone is registered in a special book as belonging to either of the two categories. There are no abstentions, hesitations, or middle ground. “I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth.”)³⁷

Having returned to earth, Jesus “treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty” by destroying Babylon (the Roman Empire) and subjecting its agents to elaborate tortures. Their bodies are covered with “ugly and painful sores”; their rivers and springs are turned to blood; and their kingdom is plunged into darkness as they are “tormented with burning sulfur” and “gnaw their tongues in agony.” (In keeping with the vision of two irreconcilable camps and the plot of violent retribution, none of the victims repents, reconsiders, or begs for mercy.) After the battle of Armageddon, Christ and those who have been martyred in his service rule the nations “with an iron scepter” for a thousand years. At the end of the “millennium,” the dictatorship of virtue is attacked by the devil’s armies, which are devoured by a fire from heaven. At the Last Judgment that follows, the dead are resurrected and “judged according to what they have done as recorded in the books.” Those not found in the book of life are thrown into the lake of fire, to suffer for ever and ever; the rest are reunited with God, who wipes every tear from their eyes. “There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” And the good news is the same as that proclaimed by Jesus at the beginning of his ministry: “The time is near…. I am coming soon.”³⁸

But time passed, and still he did not come. As Peter wrote to his flock, “You must understand that in the last days scoffers will come, scoffing and following their own evil desires. They will say, ‘Where is this “coming” he promised? Ever since our fathers died, everything goes on as it has since the beginning of creation.’” And so it did. Generation after generation passed away, but the sun did not darken; the stars did not fall from the sky; children did not rebel against their parents; and perhaps most remarkably, scoffers did not come, scoffing and following their own evil desires. An exclusive millenarian sect formed in the expectation of a violent destruction of the world and a brutal humiliation of the proud and the arrogant grew into a universal church at peace with the state, family, property, priestly mediation, and a continued separation of humankind from God. The immediate salvation of a saintly community on earth turned into the eventual liberation of an individual soul in heaven. The thousand-year reign of Christ over the nations became, thanks to Augustine, a metaphor for the really-existing institution of the Christian Church.³⁹

Jesus’s solution to the “Axial” split between the real and the ideal (earth and heaven, the observable and the desirable) was a revolutionary transformation of the world through the imminent coming of the Lord. His disciples’ solution to the Axial split was a revolutionary transformation of the world through the imminent return of Jesus. Christianity as a set of doctrines and institutions was an elaborate response to the failure of its two founding prophecies. Most scoffers seem to have been convinced by Peter’s explanation. “Do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.”⁴⁰

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Muhammad, like Jesus, was a radical renovator of the Hebrew scriptural tradition. He insisted, above all, on the unlimited and undivided nature of divine autocracy (“there is no god but God,” who knows “how ye move about and how ye dwell in your homes”); accepted the legitimacy of Abrahamic succession; recognized Moses and Jesus as God’s messengers; urged his followers to separate themselves from the nonmembers (“take not into your intimacy those outside your ranks: they will not fail to corrupt you”); and warned his audience of the approaching catastrophe, the return of Jesus, the resurrection of the dead, and the final Day of Judgment, when all humans would be divided into two clearly defined categories and dispatched accordingly. “Do they then only wait for the Hour—that it should come on them of a sudden? But already have come some tokens thereof, and when it (actually) is on them, how can they benefit then by their admonition?” The answer was the familiar combination of faith and works, action and intention, what goes into a man’s mouth and what comes out of it.⁴¹

Both Jesus and Muhammad were apocalyptic millenarian prophets (in the broad sense of predicting an imminent and violent end of the world followed by a permanent solution to the real-ideal problem understood as a coming together of heaven and earth). The most important difference between them—in addition to the obvious ones of time, place, and audience—is the fact that Muhammad, whose ministry was much longer (about twenty-two years) and much more successful at attracting followers, found himself in charge of a growing state and a conquering army. Jesus never left the confines of a small egalitarian sect unencumbered by women, children, and property; never became king of the Jews by either popular acclaim or formal recognition; never got to rule the nations during his first stay on earth; never outlived the poised-on-the-brink intensity of the last days; never saw his disciples form a self-sufficient society; and never had a chance to explain what a complex polity should look like. Muhammad, whatever his original intentions, had no choice but to do all these things. God was no longer a virtual Big Father with a monopoly on knowing “how ye move about and how ye dwell in your homes”: thanks to Muhammad and his immediate successors, he became the uncontested legislator of a large empire, with the power to enforce his rules on how human beings should move and dwell, love and hate, live and die.⁴²

Islam inherited a sacred beginning that was well-developed legally, politically, and militarily—and thus much more similar to the Jewish golden age of King David’s reign than to the New Testament story of the ministry and martyrdom of a mendicant preacher. It is also much better documented than its two predecessors, providing a would-be fundamentalist renovator with a ready-made (if obviously contested) blueprint for a proper Islamic state. All human societies periodically recover and relive their sacred beginnings: the “traditional” ones do it through ritual; the Axial ones imagine—each in its own way—a total or partial resacralization of human existence. In Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, which represent the institutionalized embodiments of unfulfilled millenarian prophecies, such attempts at resacralization are associated with renewed expectations of imminent fulfillment. In post–Second Temple Judaism, episodes of intense messianic hope were not uncommon, but, in the absence of a Jewish polity to reform or liberate, were relatively muted. Indeed, the viability of the Mercurian (“middleman minority”) specialization of diaspora Jews depended on their continued existence as strangers in Egypt/Babylon/Rome. After the collapse of that specialization, radical Jewish fundamentalism reemerged with great force (or was redirected into communism and other new dispensations). In Islam, renovation movements have been both frequent and diverse, but the political ideal rooted in visions of the Prophet’s reign has remained stable and within reach. Most latter-day Islamic states are not fully legitimate because they do not live up to the Prophet’s model; most restorations are political revolutions with explicit agendas; and most Muslim political “utopianism” is scrupulously historicist. The Abbasid and Safavid empires began as militant millenarian movements seeking divine justice. The possibility of nonpolitical politics, or of a perfectly just, this-worldly state composed of mortal men and women, is one of Islam’s most fundamental assumptions.⁴³

The founding act of political Judaism was an escape from slavery, and most of the Hebrew prophetic and apocalyptic tradition is about the imminent, violent destruction of “Babylon,” real or symbolic. In Islam, foreign rule is worse than an abomination: it is not a part of the formative experience or the traditional conceptual repertoire (except when a bad Muslim ruler is the functional equivalent of an infidel, as argued by the Wahhabis, among others). Early Islam’s Babylon was “Rum” (Byzantium), an evil empire to be conquered, not an evil conqueror to be destroyed. When, in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, most Muslims found themselves in a world governed and defined by non-Muslims, the millenarian intensity of the response was reinforced by the sheer novelty of the experience. In the words of Osama bin Laden, “the umma is asked to unite itself in the face of this Crusaders’ campaign, the strongest, most powerful, and most ferocious Crusaders’ campaign to fall on the Islamic umma since the dawn of Islamic history.”⁴⁴

Christianity’s sacred beginnings are limited to Jesus, his sect, and his teachings (the Old Testament tradition serving as a prophecy to be realized or prologue to be transcended). There is no guidance on how to run a state, an army, or a justice system, no clear indication of what life outside the sect should look like. The point, of course, is that there should be no state, no army, no justice system, and no life outside the sect. Or rather, the point is that there should be no state other than Jesus’s millennial reign, no army other than the heavenly host of Armageddon, no justice other than the Last Judgment (salvation or damnation), and no life other than the eternal kind. All Christian societies are improvisations (concessions, inventions, perversions) to a much greater degree than their Judaic or Muslim—let alone Confucian—counterparts. Most earnest attempts at returning to the source of Christianity have led to a radical denial of non-sectarian (nontotalitarian) forms of human existence. At its sacred core, Christianity is incompatible with politics, but, unlike Hinduism or Buddhism, it foresees—and, in some sense, remembers—a redemption that is collective, violent, and this-worldly. Imitation of Christ suggests a sectarian or monastic existence (in the world but not of the world); faith in Christ’s prophecy suggests the expectation of the imminent coming of the kingdom of God.

This congenital condition has three principal consequences. The first is the inbuilt tension—unique among Axial civilizations—between the City of God and the City of Man (“the church” separable from the state and the state separable from the church). The second is the variety and flexibility of political institutions with a potential claim to divine legitimacy. The third is the essential illegitimacy of all these institutions. The fact that Jesus did not envisage a just society before the End meant that, in the meantime, any society might qualify. Or none could. All avowedly Christian states have to mount a more or less unconvincing defense of their Christian credentials; all have to contend with more or less convincing millenarian challenges.

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During the Middle Ages, such challenges bubbled up repeatedly and often violently, but the church managed to isolate and suppress them as heresies, incorporate and discipline them as monastic orders (that is, legalized and institutionalized sects), or contain and channel them into more acceptable activities, such as the extermination of Jews and Muslims (most prominently during the first two crusades).⁴⁵

The Reformation was a massive revolt against the rites, symbols, and institutions that claimed to mediate between Jesus’s prophecy and life in the world. Few were warranted and, ideally, none would remain. As Luther wrote to the Duke of Saxony, “If all the world were true Christians, that is, if everyone truly believed, there would be neither need nor use for princes, kings, lords, the Sword, or law.” But all the world was not made up of true Christians—indeed, “scarcely one human being in a thousand is a true Christian.” Accordingly, and on a strictly temporary basis, “God has ordained the two governments: the spiritual [government], which fashions true Christians and just persons through the Holy Spirit under Christ, and the secular government, which holds the Unchristian and wicked in check and forces them to keep the peace outwardly and be still, like it or not.” Each had its own subjects, laws, and procedures. “Secular government has laws that extend no farther than the body, goods and outward, earthly matters. But where the soul is concerned, God neither can nor will allow anyone but himself to rule.⁴⁶

The doctrine of a clear line separating the inward and outward inclined many of Luther’s followers toward pietism and provided political liberalism with one of its most productive and enduring fictions. The separation of church and state was possible only if one assumed that the state could occupy itself with “the body, goods and outward, earthly matters” without ruling over the soul—or rather, that “taxes, duties, honor, and fear” (among many other things Luther mentions) had nothing to do with virtue.⁴⁷

Calvin and the Puritans accepted the need for the distinction but argued that “Christ’s spiritual rule establishes in us some beginnings of the celestial kingdom.” Civil government could not yet be fully dissolved in the spiritual life of a Christian community, but it could—and should—be as godly as the saints’ pursuit of righteousness would allow. Members could not be expected to abandon their “houses and brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers and children,” but they could be asked to make their families as open, transparent, rule-bound, churchlike, and church-dependent as possible (ultimately constituting the primary unit of a godly commonwealth). They could not be counted on not to be angry with their brothers or commit adultery in their hearts, but they could be expected to demonstrate ceaseless self-restraint indicative of inner discipline. They could not be trusted not to let up occasionally in their efforts at self-observation, but they could be urged to monitor each other by means of formal surveillance and mutual admonition. Politics was a matter of public piety, which was a matter of laborious self-improvement, which was a matter of active participation in moral-political self-government (by means of attending endless meetings, sermons, votes, and debates, while also “keeping diligent watch, both by day and by night, each in his own place, of all comings and goings”). Official regulations reinforced self-generated activism: under Calvin’s prodding, Geneva’s magistrate not only banned gambling, dancing, begging, swearing, indecent singing, game-playing on Sundays, and the owning of unlicensed books and popish objects of any kind, but also prescribed attendance at Sunday sermons, the religious instruction of children and servants, the number of courses at public banquets, the proper attire of artisans and their families, the number of rings to be worn on various occasions, and the kinds of ornaments and hairstyles compatible with Christian decorum (silver belts and buckles were permitted, but silver chains, bracelets, collars, embroidery, necklaces, and tiaras were not).⁴⁸

Those who could not be reformed through participation or even excommunication were to be turned over to the secular authorities for appropriate punishment. Some might ask if magistrates could “be dutiful to God and shed blood at the same time.” Calvin thought that they could. “If we understand that when magistrates inflict punishments, it is not any act of their own, but only the execution of God’s [own] judgments, we will not be inhibited by any scruple on this score.” Christians who steadfastly resisted sanctification had no place in a Christian commonwealth. As Calvin’s friend Guillaume de Trie wrote of the antitrinitarian Miguel Servetus, Christendom should be “purged of such filth” (Servetus was burned at the stake). And as the Oxford Puritan Francis Cheynell told the House of Commons in May 1643, “these are purging times; let all the malignant humors be purged out of the ecclesiastical and political body.”⁴⁹

For most Calvinists, purging was a last resort and a sign of defeat. Their duty in an imperfect world was to do battle for the souls of the unrighteous, to touch their hearts with persuasive speech, and to teach self-discipline through godly discipline. But there were other reformers—“reformers” in the original sense of “going back to the source”—who stood for a universal purge, expected the Second Coming, and believed, on very good evidence, that Jesus had preached a life of sectarian equality and prophesied a violent apocalypse on the eve of a great feast for the hungry.

According to the radical German preacher Thomas Müntzer, the violent apocalypse and the great feast for the hungry were one and the same thing. Christ’s warriors were the plowmen; the Antichrist’s servants were the lords; and the end of time was now. The only way to receive the Holy Spirit was to follow Jesus along the path of poverty and suffering, and the only ones who understood the meaning of poverty and suffering were those who suffered on account of their poverty. “The stone, torn from the mountain without hands, has become mighty. The poor laymen and peasants see it more sharply than you do,” he told the Duke of Saxony (the same one to whom Luther had addressed his letter on secular authority). The kingdom of heaven was for those with nothing but their chains to lose.⁵⁰

There was but one way to enter. According to Jesus, the kingdom of heaven was prefigured in the story about a man who sowed good seed and told his servants to begin the harvest by burning the weeds:

“The one who sowed the good seed is the Son of Man. The field is the world, and the good seed stands for the sons of the kingdom. The weeds are the sons of the evil one, and the enemy who sows them is the devil. The harvest is the end of the age, and the harvesters are angels.”

“As the weeds are pulled up and burned in the fire, so it will be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send out his angels, and they will weed out of his kingdom everything that causes sin and all who do evil. They will throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. He who has ears, let him hear.”⁵¹

Müntzer had ears, and he heard. “At the harvest-time one must pluck the weeds out of God’s vineyard,” he wrote, “but the angels who are sharpening their sickles for that work are no other than the earnest servants of God.” The problem, as foretold in Jesus’s parable, was that most servants of God had ears but did not hear. They were first by virtue of being last, but, like all the biblical proletarians from Moses’s Israelites to Jesus’s heavenly army, they needed to be awakened, instructed, and disciplined. “In truth, many of them will have to be roused, so that with the greatest possible zeal and with passionate earnestness they may sweep Christendom clean of ungodly rulers.” Müntzer’s role was to show the way. “The Living God is sharpening his scythe in me, so that later I can cut down the red poppies and the blue cornflowers.” In May 1525, a large army of poor laymen and peasants followed him to Frankenhausen, where his promise to catch the enemy’s cannonballs in the sleeves of his cloak seemed to be confirmed by the sudden appearance of a rainbow. In the ensuing massacre, about five thousand rebels were killed. Müntzer was found hiding in a cellar, forced to confess under torture, and beheaded in the camp of the princes. Luther found his confession to be “a piece of devilish, hardened, obduracy.” ⁵²

Müntzer was the most articulate advocate of popular millenarianism since Jesus and the first popular millenarian to turn the fantasy of brutal retribution into an explicit and consistently argued program of class warfare. Like Jesus, however, he was not a successful proselytizer and never got the chance to live in a field free of red poppies and blue cornflowers. The first Christian millenarians to turn the City of Man into the City of God were the Anabaptists of Münster. Anabaptists (“re-baptizers”) were programmatically radical because of their rejection of infant baptism. For the early Christians, baptism was a rite of induction into the sect—an act of purification symbolizing repentance of sins, acceptance of Christ, and entry into the community of believers. If the Protestants wanted to return to the days of the early Christians (and they all claimed they did), and if they believed, with Peter, that they were “a royal priesthood” (and therefore, according to Luther, “all equally priests”)—then they could no longer acquiesce in the baptism of those who were incapable of understanding the Word. This sounded reasonable until one stopped to think of the implications, as most Protestants did. The prohibition of infant baptism meant that one could not be born into a community of faith—that there could be, in effect, no such thing as a church coterminous with society. Four hundred years later, Ernst Troeltsch would base his distinction between a church and a sect on this very point: a church is an institution one is born into. The Anabaptists were determined, above all else, to remain a sect—a group of believers radically opposed to the corrupt world, dedicated to the dispossessed, and composed of voluntary members who had undergone a personal conversion and shared a strong sense of chosenness, exclusiveness, ethical austerity, and social egalitarianism.⁵³

In 1534–35, the Münster Anabaptists expelled all Lutherans and Catholics, burned all books except the Bible, destroyed altars and sculptures, renamed streets and days of the week (and named their city the New Jerusalem), abolished money and feast days, banned monogamy and private property, rationed food and clothing, enforced communal dining, decreed that all doors be kept open, and demolished all church towers (“all that is high shall be made low”). “Amongst us,” they wrote to Anabaptist congregations in other towns, “God has restored community as it was in the beginning and as befits the Saints of God.” Those unfit for saintliness were to be “swept from the face of the earth.” Offenses punishable by death included envy, anger, avarice, lying, blasphemy, impurity, idle conversation, and attempts to flee.⁵⁴

Monotheism had made the chosen people collectively guilty by attributing the perpetual postponement of salvation to their failure to obey the heavenly autocrat. Christianity had made all human beings guilty by emphasizing thoughts over actions and inner submission over outward obedience. Protestantism had made everyone permanently and inescapably guilty by instituting an austere god who could not be lobbied or bribed. The saints of the New Jerusalem made everyone guilty before the law by decreeing that true Christians should be “perfect as their heavenly Father is perfect.” By the time government troops entered Münster in June 1535, two-hour court sessions followed by executions were being held twice daily.

In post–Civil War England, the saints came close to becoming the government. Inaugurating Barebone’s Parliament (the Parliament of Saints) on July 4, 1653, Oliver Cromwell said: “Why should we be afraid to say or think, That this may be the door to usher in the Things that God had promised; which have been prophesied of; which he has set the hearts of his People to wait for and expect? … We are at the threshold;—and therefore it becomes us to lift up our heads, and encourage ourselves in the Lord. And we have thought, some of us, That it is our duties to endeavor this way; not merely to look at that Prophecy in Daniel, ‘And the Kingdom shall not be delivered to another people,’ and passively wait.”⁵⁵

Cromwell would eventually decide to wait, but some of the “Fifth Monarchists” (named after Daniel’s last and everlasting kingdom) would not be deterred. As the “roaring” Puritan preacher John Rogers put it, “it is not enough to change some of these Lawes, and so to reforme them”: the point was “to provide for the Fifth by bringing in the Lawes of God.” Such work could not be entrusted to parliamentary majorities, for “how can the kingdom be the Saints’ when the ungodly are electors, and elected to Govern?” The Saints were to bear witness themselves—“preaching, praying, fighting” (praedicando, praecando, praeliando), and, when necessary, bringing “terrour to them that do evil.” Evil was as obdurate on the eve of the Second Coming as it had been during the First. “A Sword is as really the appointment of Christ as any other Ordinance in the Church,… and a man may as well go into the harvest without his Sickle, as to this work without … his Sword.” Having failed in the Parliament of Saints, the Fifth Monarchists staged an armed rebellion, but were defeated by Babylon, perhaps because they did not wait until the year 1666.⁵⁶

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In Orthodox Christianity, millenarian outbursts tended to be less frequent because churches were either nationalized by local Christian kings or, after the Islamic conquests, maintained as nation-bearing institutions in more or less silent opposition to the mostly hands-off infidel rulers. The greatest “schism” occurred in Russia in the mid-seventeenth century, when the church and the rapidly expanding absolutist state launched a far-reaching overhaul of ritual practice. What began as a top-down reform in the interests of uniformity ended as a reformation in the sense of a broad-based revolt against the established political and ideological order. Both sides appealed to primeval purity but traced different genealogies: the original Greek in the case of the official church and the original Muscovite (and thus the original Greek) in the case of the “Old Believers.” Both were traditionalists and innovators: the Old Believers, like Western Protestants, set out to correct abuses and impurities within the existing church but became radicalized by the momentum of confrontation. The rejection of the high priest led to the rejection of the whole priestly hierarchy, and the rejection of the whole priestly hierarchy posed the problem of how to consecrate a new clergy or what to do without any clergy at all. The Russian schismatics covered the entire Protestant spectrum, from the episcopalian “priestly” Old Believers, who built a new Orthodox Church without the patriarch, to the endlessly subdividing sects that abandoned all priestly mediation and kept debating the fate of the sacraments, especially marriage. The peculiarity of the Russian Reformation was the absence of alternative potentates to appeal to or foreign brethren to join; the remaining options included flight “to the desert,” armed resistance, and mass suicide. The schismatics who believed that the last days had arrived saw all government officials as servants of the Antichrist and battled them accordingly. Salvation by way of martyrdom in the fire of Armageddon came in two varieties: at the hand of the Beast or through self-immolation. In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, more than eight thousand people burned themselves to death.⁵⁷

The surviving Old Believers (about 10 percent of the empire’s population at the turn of the twentieth century) continued to wait for the apocalypse in remote settlements around the edges of the empire or reached an accommodation with the state and applied themselves to money-making. Russia’s most successful capitalists who were not Germans or Jews were Old Believers.⁵⁸

The “spirit of capitalism” tends to thrive in communities of the chosen that separate themselves from the unclean world. There are two types of such communities: the Mercurians, or middleman minorities such as the Jews and Overseas Chinese, who cultivate inner cohesion and outward strangeness in the exercise of their mediating function; and the sectarians, who do it in the interest of exclusive salvation. The first are based on tribal unity, enhanced by the need for protection from polluting surroundings; the second, on the rejection of kin in favor of a community of faith. In the first, internal trust is based on blood ties renewed through ritual and endogamy; in the second, on constant self-discipline, mutual surveillance, and a suspicion of procreation as the nemesis of sectarian purity. Both value ceaseless toil: the first, because Mercurian occupations depend not on natural cycles but on the perpetual pursuit of gain through symbolic manipulation in a hostile human environment; the second, because sectarian commitments require constant struggle against worldly temptations. Mercurian tribes are protocapitalists by definition; “saints” have to beat plows into shares and earn salvation through accumulation. The point of connection is the prohibition of idleness and devotion to work as duty and virtue. Everything a sectarian (and his domesticated cousin, a monk) does—eating, drinking, mating, talking, reading, writing, listening, gardening, farming—is godly work for a heavenly wage. When the intensity of the expectation wanes, and the sectarian warily reenters the world, work as prayer may displace prayer as work, but aversion to leisure and the habit of vigilance and self-discipline remain constant—and turn lucrative. Meanwhile, ongoing procreation and the kinship bond it engenders continue to undermine the sectarian principle of a voluntary circle of the righteous, transforming metaphorical brothers into blood relatives, love of neighbors into nepotism, and saints into money changers. The chosen people of the second type join the chosen people of the first type. The Old Believers who continue to live “in the desert” and separate themselves from the world are among the first peasants to turn into farmers; the Old Believers who move to Moscow and engage in industry and philanthropy are among the first merchants to turn into capitalists. Those who abandon tribal and confessional exclusivity but retain a commitment to ceaseless work and vigilant self-discipline become “modern.”

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Having been defeated, tamed, or marginalized in Europe, Christian millenarianism moved to America, where it became a permanent feature of national life—as the raison d’être of the Puritan colonies, the wellspring of state messianism, a ready response to political and economic distress, and one of the ways to structure a national existence unprotected by a common folk or ecclesiastical tradition. In the absence of an ancien regime, an established church, or a claim to tribal cohesion, much of American communal life was built around Christian “denominations”; most outbursts of social and political creativity were accompanied by Christian revivals; and most Christian revivals (“awakenings”) had to do with the expectation of the last days.⁵⁹

The “First Great Awakening” of the 1740s saw the launching of “postmillenialism,” or millenarianism without Armageddon (first proposed in England more than half a century earlier). Babylon was so far away, the army of Antichrist so small, and the “showers of grace” so plentiful that the new kingdom “must needs be approaching” (as Jonathan Edwards put it). There was no need for Jesus to bring perfection amidst trumpet calls and rivers of blood: it would be “gradually brought to pass” as the result of a natural spread of the Holy Spirit. The Methodist-influenced Second Great Awakening, from 1800 into the 1840s, effectively destroyed the Calvinist doctrine of predestination by making saving grace available to anyone determined to obtain it. As the prophet of new revivalism, Charles Finney, put it, “sin and holiness are voluntary acts of mind.” And since sin equaled selfishness, and selfishness could be overcome by an act of conversion, it would be “a sad, dreadful mistake” to expect God to deliver redemption “chiefly without human agency.”⁶⁰

One consequence of salvation optimism was political millennialism and the reform activism associated with it. “I believe,” said Andrew Jackson in 1828, “that man can be elevated; man can become more and more endowed with divinity; and as he does he becomes more God-like in his character and capable of governing himself. Let us go on elevating our people, perfecting our institutions, until democracy shall reach such a point of perfection that we can acclaim with truth that the voice of the people is the voice of God.”⁶¹

Another was a series of attempts to hasten the return of Jesus by imitating the life of his sect. The key to saintliness was selflessness, and the key to selflessness was isolation from the world, regimentation of behavior, mutual surveillance, and strict control over reproduction. In the end, everything came down to control of reproduction, because nothing threatened selflessness as much as romantic love, exclusive sexual unions, parental and filial attachments, and inherited (private) property. The Harmonists and the Shakers enforced celibacy; the Oneida “Bible Communists” instituted “complex marriage,” whereby all males were married to all females, all births were planned, and all children were raised communally.⁶²

The largest, most original, and, in some sense, most successful American attempt to realize a Christ-inspired kingdom of God on earth was launched in the 1820s by Joseph Smith, a farmer’s son from upstate New York. His original message was a conventional Christian apocalyptic revelation of an angel “glorious beyond description” informing him “of great judgments which were coming upon the earth, with great desolations by famine, sword, and pestilence; and that these grievous judgments would come on the earth in this generation.”⁶³

Smith went much further than other Christian prophets, however. He did to Christianity what Jesus had done to Judaism, but much more thoroughly and self-consciously. Indeed, he did to Judaism and Christianity what Muhammad had done to both of them, but even more thoroughly and self-consciously. Muhammad had accepted the Hebrew God and the sacrality of both testaments (including the prophecy of Jesus’s imminent return and the ensuing slaughter) and added to them his own actions, instructions, and revelations. Smith accepted the Hebrew God and the sacrality of both testaments; added to them his own actions, instructions, and revelations; and discovered a new old testament containing a complete sacred history of his promised land. His scripture (the Book of Mormon, published in 1830) includes the original exodus, two new ones, and the promise of a third one, which he and his successors went on to fulfill. It also includes Jesus’s preliminary Second Coming to America (“the prints of the nails in his hands and his feet”) in preparation for his final Second Coming to America, and a limited continental holocaust as a prefigurement of the final universal one, which Smith was going to witness and perhaps help bring about.⁶⁴

Americans had ears, and they heard. Within a few years, a small millenarian sect had become a complex society involving thousands of men, women, and children. For the first time since Münster, a Christian doomsday prophet faced the task of preserving apostolic communalism beyond a small band of brothers. In the absence of any guidance from Jesus, the only appropriate model was Moses. Moving around the Midwest, Smith founded two temples, attempted property redistribution, introduced “plural marriage” and the baptism of the dead, and created a complex hierarchy of lay priests. His successor, Brigham Young, led the “latter-day saints” across the desert to the New Jerusalem, where they established a state “under the immediate, constant, and direct superintendency of the Almighty.” Within several decades, the expectation of an imminent collective redemption had been replaced by a belief in eventual individual perfection, and Utah territory had become a state under the indirect but steady superindentency of Washington, DC.⁶⁵

Another farmer, William Miller in Massachusetts, was a much more conventional prophet of the last days and a consistent critic of “that doctrine which gives all power to man.” He was also a rationalist who relied on demonstrable mathematical proof rather than divine revelation. According to his calculations, the world was going to end sometime in 1843. When it did not, he admitted his mistake, revised his timeline, and rescheduled doomsday for October 22, 1844. Thousands of sermons, lectures, and newspaper articles were dedicated to the event; thousands of Second Adventists (or “Millerites”) sold their property, forgave their debts, abandoned their fields, and, on the appointed day, came out to be saved. What happened next is known as “the Great Disappointment.” According to Hiram Edson,

We confidently expected to see Jesus Christ and all the holy angels with him; and that his voice would call up Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and all the ancient worthies, and near and dear friends which had been torn from us by death, and that our trials and suffferings with our earthly pilgrimage would close, and we should be caught up to meet our coming Lord to be forever with him to inhabit the bright golden mansions in the golden home city, prepared for the redeemed. Our expectations were raised high, and thus we looked for our coming Lord until the clock tolled 12 at midnight. The day had then passed and our disappointment became a certainty. Our fondest hopes and expectations were blasted, and such a spirit of weeping came over us as I never experienced before. It seemed that the loss of all earthly friends could have been no comparison. We wept, and wept, until the day dawn.⁶⁶

“The Great Disappointment” produced a variety of responses. Some returned to a life of permanent expectation, others accepted “the agency of man” and joined the Mormons or the Shakers. Yet others followed the example of the early Christians by claiming that the prophecy had, in fact, come true, but not quite as expected. The Seventh-Day Adventists, founded by the disappointed Hiram Edson, believed that Miller’s calculations were accurate but that Jesus had not been able to return because of the practice of Sunday worship; instead, he had entered a special place in the heavenly sanctuary in order to go over the books and decide who deserved to be saved. The Jehovah’s Witnesses moved the date to 1874 and then to 1914, arguing that Jesus did return as prophesied but remained invisible while he—along with some members of his “anointed class”—cleansed the temple in preparation for the coming bloodbath. The early Pentecostals returned to the idea of the imminent Second Coming but connected the event to the direct personal experience of God’s presence. In April 1906, hundreds of people danced, screamed, moaned, prophesied, rolled on the floor, and sang in unknown languages on Azusa Street in Los Angeles. Among them were several Molokans, who had arrived from Russia a few months earlier. According to a report in the Los Angeles Herald, “there were all ages, sexes, colors, nationalities and previous conditions of servitude.”⁶⁷

They knew those were the last days because it had all happened before. After Jesus was taken up into heaven, his disciples gathered together in one room. “Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them.” A large crowd assembled, and in that crowd were Jews out of every nation under heaven, and every one of them heard the sound of his own language, and some of them asked if the apostles were drunk. Then Peter stood up and said that they were not drunk, and quoted the prophet Joel: “In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams.”⁶⁸

Every disappointment was followed by an awakening. The greater the disappointment, the greater the awakening.

■ ■ ■

Millenarianism is the vengeful fantasy of the dispossessed, the hope for a great awakening in the midst of a great disappointment. Nowhere was Christianity-inspired apocalyptic millenarianism more common or more desperate than in the non-Christian societies that Christians had damaged or destroyed. As livelihoods were ruined, gods and ancestors humiliated, and symbolic worlds overturned or shattered, some of the explanations and solutions were provided by the people who had ushered in the calamity (and proved the power of their gods). Combined with local beliefs in the return of a Promethean hero or the journey to a land without evil, the biblical idea of cosmic retribution produced powerful social movements, many of them violent and self-sacrificial.⁶⁹

The collapse of the Inca Empire was followed by an epidemic of “dancing sickness” (Taqui Onqoy), in the course of which the temporarily defeated local spirits moved from the rocks and trees into the bodies of the dancing humans in preparation for a flood that would obliterate the Spaniards and all memory of their existence. In North America, several Plains Indian groups (some of them familiar with Mormon and Shaker teachings) performed a special ghost dance in the expectation that the world of injustice would collapse, death and the whites would disappear, and the eternally young ancestors would return, driving before them thick herds of buffalo. The Lakota (Sioux), the last big group to have been defeated and confined to a reservation, danced the last dance before being massacred by the US Army at Wounded Knee on December 29, 1890. In northeastern Brazil, amidst the massive migrations and dislocations triggered by the abolition of slavery, the fall of the monarchy, and a series of severe droughts, several followers of an itinerant preacher known as “the Counselor” settled in the village of Canudos, renamed it “Belo Monte” (Beautiful Hill), renounced the republic, refused to pay taxes, rejected civil marriage, collectivized their animals, divided most of their possessions, and set about waiting for the End. Four years later, on the eve of being burned to the ground by the Brazilian army in October 1897, Belo Monte had thirty thousand inhabitants and 5,200 dwellings.⁷⁰

In Latin America, most European settlers and their descendants became involved in various nation-building efforts. In Africa, where they almost never did, millenarianism became a permanent feature of political life. In southern Africa, the Xhosa were defeated in eight “Kaffir wars,” driven from much of their land, and plagued by persistent droughts and cattle epidemics. In 1856, a teenage girl, whose uncle had been the first Xhosa to be confirmed as an Anglican, had a vision, in which the Xhosa ancestors ordered their people to destroy any remaining cattle, corn, tools, and other unclean possessions. In return, they were going to bring limitless supplies of everything, including health and youth, and drive the British beyond the seas. Helping them would be the “new people” known as “Russians.” The Xhosa had recently heard that the much-hated former Cape governor, George Cathcart, had been killed in the Crimean War, and concluded that the people who had killed him were strong, black, and—since they were fighting the British—Xhosa ancestors, too. After two dates set for the resurrection passed without consequence, the believers blamed those who had refused to slaughter their cattle and embarked on a massive campaign of killing and destruction. About four hundred thousand cattle were slaughtered and about forty thousand Xhosa starved to death. The British authorities provided famine relief in exchange for contract labor in the colony with no right of return. Xhosaland ceased to exist.⁷¹

More than half a century later, after more alienation of land and a great deal of missionary activity in what had become the eastern Cape, a former Methodist preacher by the name of Enoch Mgijima began prophesying an imminent Armageddon that would result in the annihilation of white people. His followers called themselves “Israelites,” kept the Sabbath, celebrated the Passover, believed that the New Testament was a forgery written by whites, and considered the exodus an allegorical foretelling of their own deliverance. In 1920, Mgijima’s annual Passover celebration attracted more than a thousand converts who sold their possessions, built a communal settlement, and refused to pay taxes or register births or deaths. They founded their own Bible school and nursing station, maintained a security force, disciplined those who lapsed in their faith, and did a lot of praying and military drilling in the expectation of the apocalypse. “The whole world is going to sink in blood,” wrote Mgijima to a local official, “the time of Jehovah has now arrived.” On May 24, 1921, when a large police force surrounded the compound, the Israelites, armed with clubs and spears and protected by magic white robes, hurled themselves at machine guns. One hundred eighty-three of them were killed and about a hundred wounded. The tombstone erected by the survivors bears the inscription: “Because they chose the plan of God, the world did not have a place for them.”⁷²

A much larger and more successful millenarian sect that identified Africans with the biblical Israelites were the Jamaican Rastafarians, who believed that they were the true Hebrews exiled for their sins (long since forgiven), and that the coronation of Ras Tafari as Haile Selassie I, the emperor of Ethiopia, had ushered in the era of final liberation and the gathering of Israel. The Bible, originally written about the Africans, had been falsified by the whites in order to trick and enslave the chosen people. Haile Selassie was “the Ancient of Days” from Daniel and the “Lion of the tribe of Judah” from the Book of Revelation. His mission was to remake the world, punish the whites, and deliver his people from Babylon to the promised land of Zion in Ethiopia. “One bright morning when my work is over, Man will fly away home.” In the meantime, “Rasta Man” was to withdraw from society, organize for immediate repatriation, or “get up, stand up, and fight.” As the intensity of the expectation waned, “liberation before repatriation” became an increasingly common option.⁷³

One of the starkest expressions of millenarian yearning were the so-called cargo cults, which arose in Melanesia after the arrival of the European missionaries and spread widely after the massive invasions and dislocations of World War II. In a society apparently overcome with self-doubt and a sense of the world’s injustice, there appeared many men who, in Celsus’s formula, “with the greatest facility and on the slightest occasion, assumed the motions and gestures of inspired persons.” They disagreed on the particulars but agreed on the main claim—that the Europeans’ wealth, known as “cargo” (after the term used by the newcomers to refer to the manufactured goods that kept arriving by sea or air) had been meant for the local communities but hijacked en route, and that very soon, and certainly in this generation, the ancestors were going to come back amid thunder and lightning and deliver the cargo—chocolates, radios, watches, mirrors, flashlights, bicycles, and countless other things, including eternal idleness and youth—to its rightful owners. The Book of Revelation brought by the newcomers revealed the source of their excessive luxuries: “cargoes of gold, silver, precious stones and pearls; fine linen, purple, silk and scarlet cloth; every sort of citron wood, and articles of every kind made of ivory, costly wood, bronze, iron and marble; cargoes of cinnamon and spice, of incense, myrrh and frankincense, of wine and olive oil, of fine flour and wheat; cattle and sheep; horses and carriages; and bodies and souls of men.”⁷⁴

All millenarianisms are cargo cults at heart. What the Melanesians lacked in metaphoric complexity they gained in the clarity of exposition. “We have nothing,” said one group of believers to their prophet, “no aircraft, no ships, no jeeps, nothing at all. The Europeans steal our cargo. You will be sorry for us and see that we get something.”⁷⁵

There were many ways of getting something. Different sects—and sometimes the same sect at different times—tried out different approaches: going back to the old ways or adopting new ones; mandating sexual promiscuity or abstaining from sex altogether; destroying property (to realize the metaphor of having “nothing at all”) or stockpiling provisions (to welcome the returning ancestors); organizing elaborate dancing rituals or asking for cargo directly (praying); speaking in tongues and foaming at the mouth or goose-stepping with wooden rifles and straw insignia; learning from the rich so as to discover their secrets or trying to take the cargo by getting up, standing up, and fighting. Some prophets claimed that the goods had already arrived; others blamed the failure of the prophecy on sinful individuals and staged public confessions and exemplary punishments. One of the doomsday prophecies in New Guinea came true when the Japanese bombed the area on the day of the predicted Second Coming (in 1942).⁷⁶

The most successful doomsday movement inspired by Christianity took place in an area where biblical eschatology merged with the only powerful millenarian tradition born outside of Mediterranean monotheism. Chinese millenarianism had been mostly Taoist and Buddhist in inspiration. New challenges brought new prophets. Effective prophets are men or women whose personal madness resonates with the social turmoil around them and whose spiritual rebirth is equally convincing to the prophets themselves and those who believe they have “nothing at all.” In 1837, a man by the name of Hong Xiuquan failed in his second attempt to pass the second-level Confucian examination, collapsed, went into a delirium, and had a vision about establishing the heavenly kingdom on earth. Another look at the Christian missionary tract that may or may not have inspired the vision in the first place convinced Hong that he was God’s Chinese son and Jesus’s younger brother. Having failed two more examinations, he followed his older brother’s example by telling his parents that they were not his real parents and becoming an itinerant preacher of repentance and deliverance. Unlike his brother, however, he succeeded in attracting hundreds, later thousands, and eventually hundreds of thousands of converts and proceeded to battle Babylon on his own terms. His followers were the beleaguered Hakkas of southern China, and his ideologues were failed examination candidates, hired-out examination candidates, pharmacists’ apprentices, and other marginal intellectuals. In March 1853, Hong’s army of more than a million heavenly warriors captured Nanjing and declared it the heavenly capital of the heavenly kingdom (Taiping). As Hong, the heavenly king, wrote in a commentary on the Book of Revelation, “God’s Heaven now exists among men. It is fulfilled. Respect this.”⁷⁷

Hong’s solution to the sectarian problem—of having a complex society imitate thirteen or so unencumbered men—was to admit women but to keep the sexes strictly segregated and ban all “exchanges of personal affection,” including “the casting of amorous glances and the harboring of lustful thoughts about others.” Another way of maintaining equality among “brothers and sisters” was to abolish trade and private property. Taiping officials at various levels were to determine optimal subsistence levels and requisition the rest for communal needs. The same officials were to stage regular public recitations of Hong’s commandments, enforce bans on selfishness and lustful thoughts, preside over a mutual surveillance network, lead troops into battle, burn false books (especially those by Confucius), and promote the reading of true ones. “The stupid, by reading these books, become intelligent; the disobedient, by reading these books, become good.”⁷⁸

Because those who would not become good and intelligent were “like men contaminated by sickness,” Taiping’s task was to cure them by all means necessary. “Wherever we pass we will concentrate on killing all civil and military officials, and soldiers and militiamen. People will not be harmed …, but if you assist the devils in the defense of a city and engage in fighting, you will definitely be completely annihilated.” Within the heavenly kingdom, the same logic applied: “If we want you to perish, you will die, for no one’s punishment will be postponed more than three days. Every one of you should sincerely follow the path of truth, and train yourselves in goodness, which will lead to happiness.”⁷⁹

In 1864, after about twenty million people had died in the war, the heavenly capital was besieged by government forces. When its residents began to starve, Hong ordered them to “eat manna,” then picked some weeds in the palace courtyard, chewed on them by way of example, and died shortly thereafter. After the fall of the city, Hong’s sixteen-year-old son told the interrogators that he had managed to read “thirty or more volumes” of ancient books forbidden by his father and that his only wish was to pass the Confucian examination that his father had failed. The government officials were not amused by the irony and had the “Young Monarch” executed.⁸⁰

■ ■ ■

Jesus’s Chinese brother was not destined for a Second Coming. But was Jesus? Back in the Christian world, Christianity was steadily losing its hold on human life. The retreat was slow and mostly dignified, with solid rearguard action on the American front, but the overall trend, especially among the elite, appeared irreversible. Fewer and fewer people referred to biblical precedents, interpreted life’s events in terms of the Christian doctrine, or believed in the literal veracity of the scriptural accounts of creation, resurrection, and original sin, among many other things. The Christian solution to the Axial predicament was showing signs of age.⁸¹

But the predicament itself—the sense of standing back and looking beyond—was not going anywhere. God was not dead. Most lax, lapsed, and iconoclastic Christians seemed to assume that the hope for salvation would outlive the failure of the prophecy. The Second Temple Jews had rejected their would-be Messiahs (Theudas, John, and Jesus, among many others) and continued to wait—and wait, and wait. Those few who had accepted Jesus as the son of God did not lose hope even after he died without any of his predictions coming to pass. Millions of their followers, unmoved by the repeated postponement of the prophecy, had continued to wait for his return and the millennium of his rule. In the seventeenth, and especially in the eighteenth century, some of them had concluded that the millennium would happen by itself and that Jesus would not need to come except at the very end, to sum things up. In the late eighteenth, and especially in the nineteenth century, a new breed of prophets and lawgivers left Jesus out altogether without feeling compelled to change the plot. Providence had become history, progress, evolution, revolution, transcendence, laws of nature, or positive change, but the outcome remained the same. As the speculative geologist and William III’s chaplain Thomas Burnet wrote in 1681, “If we would have a fair view and right apprehensions of Natural Providence, we must not cut the chains of it too short, by having recourse, without necessity, either to the First Cause, in explaining the origins of things, or to Miracles, in explaining particular effects.” Through their own efforts, humans would find “the Scheme of all humane affairs lying before them: from the Chaos to the last period…. And this being the last Act and close of all humane affairs, it ought to be the more exquisite and elaborate: that it may crown the work, satisfie the Spectators, and end in a general applause.”⁸²

The Enlightenment (descended, like Burnet, from the marriage of the Protestant Reformation and the Scientific Revolution), produced several exquisite and elaborate drafts of the last act. Turgot proved the inevitability of human progress toward total perfection by demonstrating the historical consistency of technological and moral improvement, its obvious acceleration in recent years, its steady spread outside Europe, and its codification in the unimpeachable language of mathematics. The Christian theodicy problem was solved not so much by God’s retirement from active duty as through the discovery of history’s invisible hand: “The ambitious ones themselves in forming the great nations have contributed to the design of Providence, the progress of enlightenment, and consequently to the increase of the happiness of the human species, a thing which did not at all interest them. Their passions, their very rages, have led them without their knowing where they were going.”⁸³

Providence, like the wealth of nations, was the wondrous sum total of countless blind egoisms. Just as the apocalypse required the presence of the Antichrist and his demonic army, the “progress of enlightenment” required the passions and rages of ambitious humans. Once reason had triumphed, however, the passions and rages would become not only unnecessary but, by definition, impossible. Reason would reign supreme as the self-perpetuating cycle of self-understanding and self-improvement. Condorcet, Turgot’s pupil and biographer, developed the scheme further by equating Providence with history, calling history a science, converting a godless theodicy into a historical dialectic (according to which every retrograde undertaking objectively produces its opposite), and arguing that the scientific inevitability of perfection did nothing to diminish the pleasure and duty of accelerating its approach.⁸⁴

The Jacobins, who arrested Condorcet as he tried to flee Paris in 1794, believed that they could accelerate its approach all by themselves and that the present generation would not pass away until all these things had happened. The much abbreviated road to perfection lay through virtue, which, in Robespierre’s formulation, stood for “the love of the fatherland and the high-minded devotion that resolves all private interests into the general interest.” To attain virtue was “to tread underfoot vanity, envy, ambition, and all the weaknesses of petty souls,” so that the only passions left would be “the horror of tyranny and the love of humanity” (fatherland and humanity being, in the final analysis, one and the same thing). “We wish, in a word, to fulfill the intentions of nature and the destiny of man, realize the promises of philosophy, and acquit providence of a long reign of crime and tyranny.”⁸⁵

It turned out, however, that most men were “dastardly egoists” with petty souls, and that the only way for morality to triumph over egoism was for the forces of morality to wage war on the forces of egoism. Virtue was to be “combined with terror”: “virtue, without which terror is destructive; terror, without which virtue is impotent.” In the Law of 22 Prairial (June 10, 1794), crimes punishable by death included most weaknesses of petty souls. In the forty-seven days that elapsed between the publication of this law and the execution of its chief sponsor, 1,376 people were guillotined in Paris. Condorcet had been found dead in his cell in March. “We know how to die, and we will all die,” said Robespierre. And so they did.⁸⁶

The Jacobins’ self-immolation disillusioned some believers and inspired countless alternative visions, but it did little to discredit the faith itself. The Romantic “blue flower” was to Condorcet’s redemption by progress what Christian mysticism had been to Thomas Aquinas’s Summa theologica; in between lay most of nineteenth-century thought. Wordsworth, who lived to the age of eighty, moved his earthly paradise from the Jacobin “management of Nations” to “the discerning intellect of Man.” The second version promised a consummation as noble as the first one; both dispelled “the sleep of Death”; and neither, according to Wordsworth, was any less heavenly than its Christian predecessor. Both were transcendental but not supernatural.⁸⁷

The same was true of Faust’s victory over Mephistopheles (who, as “part of that power which would the evil ever do, and ever does the good,” represents Condorcet’s self-defeating anti-Progress), of Hegel’s Universal Spirit (which needs the Mephistophelean dialectic to reach full self-realization), and of the sundry “utopian” sectarians who fused the social and contemplative paradises in perfect communities of imperfect human beings (by combining needs, wants, and abilities in a harmonious balance). Robert Owen inherited the Harmonists’ settlement of New Harmony; Charles Fourier provided the mold and the foil for the Oneida Bible Communists; and Claude de Saint-Simon proclaimed himself the new Messiah and told his disciples from his deathbed: “The pear is ripe, you must pick it…. The only thing that the attack on the religious system of the Middle Ages proved is that it was no longer in harmony with the progress of positive sciences. But it was wrong to conclude that religion was going to disappear; in fact, it simply needs to conform to the progress of the sciences. I repeat to you, the pear is ripe, you must pick it.”⁸⁸

They were all priests and prophets tending to whatever lay “beyond.” In Christian societies, the tightly unified sacred realm was defined by priestly professionals, who manned the official paths to salvation, and self-appointed prophets, who policed priestly performance or proposed entirely new paths. In the post-Christian world, the universal church developed ever-widening cracks, and the sacred trickled out, attaching itself to human souls, bodies, products, and institutions. Access became more democratic but remained unequal, and most of the work of spiritual guardianship was taken up by the new entrepreneurs of the sacred, the “intellectuals.” Some of them served as priests, creating legitimizing myths and rituals for newly reconstituted communities and imaginations; others offered themselves as prophets, ridiculing the “Pharisees and the teachers of the law” and discerning new heavens and a new earth. Human life was still felt to be inadequate; “salvation,” in a variety of forms, was still the desired (expected) outcome; and prophets, as freelance guides to the sacred, were still in demand when full-time guides appeared lost.⁸⁹

Depending on the nature and language of the message, nineteenth-century prophets could be divided into artists (of many different kinds, but mostly bards), scientists (of both the falsifiable and nonfalsifiable variety, but mostly the latter), and artists who drew on science as part of their creative repertoire. Depending on how ripe they thought the pear was, these prophets spanned the range between Jesus-style urgent millenarianism and various mystical and allegorical compromises. There were no two distinct liberal and totalitarian political traditions any more than there were two distinct Christian traditions of Augustinian liberalism and Anabaptist totalitarianism. Once the intensity of expectation subsided, the Anabaptists evolved into the meekly quiescent Mennonites. Everyone expected redemption; the question was how quickly and by what means; the answers were spread over a broad continuum.⁹⁰

In other words, Christianity is inherently “totalitarian” in the sense of demanding unconditional moral submission (the coincidence of God’s will and human desires) and emphasizing thought crimes over formal legality; the rest concerns the nature and intensity of enforcement and the degree of eschatological impatience. For most of Christian history, enforcement has been slack and the last days a metaphor. The modern state of more or less equal, interchangeable, and self-governing citizens has no founding injunctions to go back to, but its two main sources were uncompromisingly total in both practice and aspiration. The Puritan Revolution was a Christian revival that sought to eradicate impure thoughts by means of mutual surveillance (“brotherly admonition”) and ostentatious self-control (“godliness”). The French Revolution was an Age of Reason revival that sought to eradicate impure thoughts by means of mutual surveillance (“vigilance”) and ostentatious self-control (“virtue”). Both required universal participation and ceaseless activism while dividing the world into saints and reprobates (and the saints, into true and false ones). Both were defeated by the non-arrival of a New Jerusalem (“liberty”) and the return of old regimes (“tyranny”), but both won in the long run by producing liberalism, the routinized version of godliness and virtue. The inquisitorial zeal and millenarian excitement were gone, but mutual surveillance, ostentatious self-control, universal participation, and ceaseless activism remained as virtues in their own right and essential prerequisites for democratic rule (the reduction of individual wills to a manageable uniformity of opinion). Novus ordo seclorum was overshadowed by e pluribus unum, and the expectation of imminent happiness was replaced by its endless pursuit.

The history of the new order, like that of the old one, is a story of routinization and compromise punctuated by sectarian attempts to restore the original promise. One can—with Augustine—rejoice in the permanence of the temporary and claim that compromise is all there is (and that the really existing nation is really indivisible, with liberty and justice for all), but faith in progress is just as basic to modernity as the Second Coming was to Christianity (“progressive” means “virtuous” and “change” means “hope”). “Totalitarianism” is not a mysterious mutation: it is a memory and a promise; an attempt to keep hope alive.

The relative ripeness of the pear is a matter of judgment. Millenarians are usually divided into quietists, who wait for the End in catacombs, real or symbolic, and activists, who believe that “the Deity does not cooperate in restoring liberty otherwise than by influencing man’s decision.” In fact, no one—not even a Calvinist—believes that man’s decision is of no consequence whatever, and no millenarian does nothing at all in the face of the approaching End. Jesus had to say what he said and do what he did in order for the time to be fulfilled, and his disciples had to repent, become humble like children, and, if they really wanted to rule the nations, leave behind their houses and brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers and children and fields. The quietest of prayers is a mighty weapon in the hands of true believers, and all forms of salvation are both inevitable and dependent on man’s decision. All millenarians—indeed, most human beings—believe in some combination of faith and works, fate and hope, predestination and free will, the inexorable tide of Providence and purposeful human action, the locomotive of history and the “party of a new type.” As the end nears, some people pray, some sing, some starve, some make furniture, some study genealogy, some dance the ghost dance, some don’t dance at all, some kill their cattle, some kill themselves, and some kill the forces of darkness variously defined as priests, lawyers, money-lenders, “lords and princes,” and any number of Hittites, Girgashites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusites.

Post-Christian perfection, like the Christian kind, can manifest itself within particular human beings or in chosen communities. Individuals can be saved by therapies; communities can become indivisible through a combination of “national” and “social” emancipation. The Old Testament’s chosen people were proletarians among nations, who were promised a tribal victory that was also a revolutionary transformation of slaves into masters. The New Testament equated the social revolution with the national one. Babylon (or Egypt, or Rome, or whatever imperial “whore” was oppressing the chosen people) was going to fall and receive “as much torture and grief as the glory and luxury she gave herself,” but the same thing was going to happen to the Israelites who were too fat to squeeze through the eye of the needle. “Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep.” Jesus was not casting his pearls before the Gentiles, but he was not talking to all the Jews either.⁹¹

Depending on the nature of their “distress,” both Christian and post-Christian millenarians could represent themselves as tribes facing other tribes (like Enoch Mgijima’s “Israelites”) or as the hungry facing the wellfed (like Thomas Müntzer’s “League of the Elect”), but they were always a bit of both and usually represented themselves as such. The English Puritans’ Holy Commonwealth was England (and later America), and Robespierre’s universal happiness of free and equal men was equal to the hope “that France, once illustrious among enslaved nations, might, by eclipsing the glory of all free countries that ever existed, become a model to nations, a terror to oppressors, a consolation to the oppressed, an ornament of the universe.” The liberal descendants of the two revolutions preserved the remnants of both the priesthood of all believers (the rights of man) and the holy commonwealth (the republic of virtue). Rights were guaranteed and enabled by nationalism, and the greater the insistence on the sacred immediacy of these rights (as in the self-admiring, Augustinian America), the more messianic the nationalism.⁹²

The societies in which successful reformations had coincided with the defeat of old regimes (Britain, Holland, the United States, and, in a more muted form, Lutheran Scandinavia) could continue to enjoy the fruits of routinization by absorbing most forms of radical creativity into Protestant sectarianism, official nationalism, and franchise extension. The societies in which an unreformed church was subordinated to an infidel foreign state (Poland, Ireland, Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece) could continue to accommodate modern radicalism within biblical nationalism and its updated Romantic version (for as long as Babylon continued its depredations). Elsewhere, the ruins of Christendom were teeming with post-Christian prophets who, “although of no name, with the greatest facility and on the slightest occasion, whether within or without temples, assumed the motions and gestures of inspired persons.” Germany, whose new and ambitious state could never quite discipline a society split by the Reformation or a Europe divided by old borders, produced a particularly large number of such prophets. So did France, Italy, Spain, Russia, and other societies in which relatively unreformed churches linked to old regimes, dead or alive, were confronted by new urban coalitions increasingly open to post-Christian millenarianism. Russia, whose unreformed church was most closely linked to the old regime and whose old regime was both politically alive and economically ambitious, gave birth to a particularly vibrant tradition of millenarian sectarianism, “the intelligentsia.” Many of the new prophets, especially in Germany and Russia, were Jews, whose traditional legitimizing faith had collapsed along with their traditional economic role, and whose entry into nonmillenarian communities was often not welcome.⁹³

As the French Revolution retreated into a recoverable past, apocalyptic prophecies tended to cluster at the poles of the national-to-socialist continuum. At the peak of millenarian hope and despair, the distance between tribal and social deliverance could grow as wide as the difference between Moses and Jesus. The chosen people constituted as tribes spoke the Old Testament language of escaping from Egypt and getting to the promised land by exterminating the internal enemies who threatened the indivisibility of the nation and the external Perizzites who threatened the purity of milk and honey. The chosen people constituted as those who wept and hungered spoke the New Testament language of toppling those who were cheerful and well-fed. Both were about a particular struggle leading to universal happiness, but the scale of the universal depended on the nature of the particular. Mazzini’s prophecy that Italy was destined to hold “the high office of solemnly proclaiming European emancipation” primarily concerned the Italians, and Mickiewicz’s prophecy that “a resurrected Poland would weld and fuse the nations in freedom” primarily concerned the Poles. Marx’s prophecy of socialist revolution spoke to all those who had nothing to lose.⁹⁴

■ ■ ■

Marx began in the same way as Mazzini and Mickiewicz. “The emancipation of the German,” he wrote when he was twenty-five years old, “is the emancipation of man.” Or rather, as he had written a month or two earlier, “emancipation from Judaism is the self-emancipation of our time.” The emancipation of man was to proceed in stages.

The root of all evil was private property and money. “The view of nature attained under the domination of private property and money is a real contempt for, and practical debasement of, nature…. It is in this sense that Thomas Müntzer declares it intolerable ‘that all creatures have been turned into property, the fishes in the water, the birds in the air, the plants on the earth; the creatures, too, must become free.’” To become free was to abolish private property and money. “Money degrades all the gods of man—and turns them into commodities.” No one worships it more than the Jews, who are the living embodiment of egoism. “The god of the Jews has become secularized and has become the god of the world.”

What is the secular basis of Judaism? Practical need, self-interest. What is the worldly religion of the Jew? Huckstering.

What is his worldly God? Money.

Very well then! Emancipation from huckstering and money, consequently from practical, real Judaism, would be the self-emancipation of our time.⁹⁵

Whether Marx wanted to abolish money by abolishing the Jews or abolish the Jews by abolishing money, the real question was how it would be done. Or, as it turned out, where it could be done. The answer was that the emancipation of man was the emancipation of Germany because Germany was “an anachronism, a flagrant contradiction of generally recognized axioms, the nothingness of the ancien régime exhibited to the world.” And what was a modern ancien régime? “The comedian of a world order whose true heroes are dead”; “nothing but wretchedness in office.”

Fortunately for Germany, this was not all. “If … the whole German development did not exceed the German political development, a German could at the most have the share in the problems-of-the-present that a Russian has.” But Germans were not Russians: their philosophical development did exceed their political development, as well as the philosophical development of the more advanced nations. “In politics, the Germans thought what other nations did. Germany was their theoretical conscience. The abstraction and presumption of its thought was always in step with the one-sidedness and lowliness of its reality.”

The more profound the wretchedness, the better for the final outcome. Marx’s History was Faust’s Mephistopheles—“part of that power which would the evil ever do, and ever does the good.” The lowliness of German reality had sharpened its thought, and the sharpness of Germany’s thought would help bring about the revolution, which would usher in the emancipation of man. The proliferation of people who, with the greatest facility and on the slightest occasion, assumed the motions and gestures of inspired persons and prophesied the approaching end, signified that the end was, indeed, approaching. The greatest achievement of German philosophy would be to dethrone religion (by which Marx meant Christianity): “The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness. To call on them to give up their illusions about their condition is to call on them to give up a condition that requires illusions. The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo.”

The performance of this task had begun—like most things in history—with an attempt to accomplish the opposite. It had begun in “Germany’s revolutionary past,” the Reformation:

Luther, we grant, overcame bondage out of devotion by replacing it by bondage out of conviction. He shattered faith in authority because he restored the authority of faith. He turned priests into laymen because he turned laymen into priests…. But, if Protestantism was not the true solution of the problem, it was at least the true setting of it…. And if the Protestant transformation of the German layman into priests emancipated the lay popes, the princes, with the whole of their priestly clique, the privileged and philistines, the philosophical transformation of priestly Germans into men will emancipate the people.

Just “as the revolution then began in the brain of the monk, so now it begins in the brain of the philosopher.” Much of the work had been done by Hegel; it was up to the twenty-five-year-old Marx to complete the task by bringing history and politics together. One of the two 1843 essays that launched Germany’s—and the world’s—ultimate philosopher was the introduction to A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right.

The fundamental questions were clear:

Can Germany attain a practice à la hauteur des principes—i.e., a revolution which will raise it not only to the official level of modern nations, but to the height of humanity which will be the near future of those nations? Will the monstrous discrepancy between the demands of German thought and the answers of German reality find a corresponding discrepancy between civil society and the state, and between civil society and itself? Will the theoretical needs be immediate practical needs? … Can [Germany] do a somersault, not only over its own limitations, but at the same time over the limitations of the modern nations?

The answer was, by now, familiar: it was precisely the monstrosity of the discrepancy that would allow Germany to rise to the height of humanity. “Germany, as the deficiency of the political present constituted a world of its own, will not be able to throw down the specific German limitations without throwing down the general limitation of the political present”—its own and everyone else’s.

But how could it be done politically? “Where, then, is the positive possibility of a German emancipation?”

Answer: In the formulation of a class with radical chains, a class of civil society which is not a class of civil society, an estate which is the dissolution of all estates, a sphere which has a universal character by its universal suffering and claims no particular right because no particular wrong, but wrong generally, is perpetuated against it; which can invoke no historical, but only human, title; which does not stand in any one-sided antithesis to the consequences but in all-round antithesis to the premises of German statehood; a sphere, finally, which cannot emancipate itself without emancipating itself from all other spheres of society and thereby emancipating all other spheres of society, which, in a word, is the complete loss of man and hence can win itself only through the complete re-winning of man. This dissolution of society as a particular estate is the proletariat.

Just as the Jewish spirit was embodied in capitalism, the spirit of Germany was embodied in the proletariat. Just as the Jews stood for unbridled acquisitiveness and self-interest, the Germans stood for the creativity of absence and innocence. “As philosophy finds its material weapon in the proletariat, so the proletariat finds its spiritual weapon in philosophy. Once the lightning of thought has squarely struck this ingenuous soil of the people, the emancipation of the Germans into men will be accomplished.” And once the emancipation of Germans into men was accomplished, the emancipation of man would be assured:

Let us sum up the result. The only liberation of Germany which is practically possible is liberation from the point of view of that theory which declares man to be the supreme being for man. Germany can emancipate itself from the Middle Ages only if it emancipates itself at the same time from the partial victories over the Middle Ages. In Germany, no form of bondage can be broken without breaking all forms of bondage. Germany, which is renowned for its thoroughness, cannot make a revolution unless it is a thorough one. The emancipation of the German is the emancipation of man. The head of this emancipation is philosophy, its heart the proletariat. Philosophy cannot realize itself without the transcendence of the proletariat, and the proletariat cannot transcend itself without the realization of philosophy.

When all the inner conditions are met, the day of the German resurrection will be heralded by the crowing of the cock of Gaul.⁹⁶

The solution to the German question followed from the solution to the Jewish question: “Once society has succeeded in abolishing the empirical essence of Judaism—huckstering and its preconditions—the Jew will have become impossible, because his consciousness no longer has an object, because the subjective basis of Judaism, practical need, has been humanized, and because the conflict between man’s individual-sensuous existence and his species-existence has been abolished.” On the one hand, “the social emancipation of the Jew is the emancipation of society from Judaism,” and the emancipation of society from Judaism is the emancipation of mankind from oppression. On the other, the emancipation of the German from all forms of bondage is the alliance of German philosophy with the universal proletariat in the name of the emancipation of man. The emancipation of man ultimately depends on the reformation of the Jews and the resurrection of Germany.⁹⁷

The entire edifice of Marxist theory—complete with its Mephistophelian frame and rich rhetorical ornamentation—was built on these foundations. Hegel’s Preface to his Philosophy of Right ends with the owl of Minerva spreading its wings at the approach of dusk. Marx’s introduction to his critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right ends with the cock of Gaul (the gallus from Gallus) crowing at the dawn of a new day—the same one, presumably, that awoke the god of day and chased off the ghost of Hamlet’s father. As Marx himself would explain, the philosophers had only interpreted the world in various ways; the point was to change it—through revolution and resurrection. Marx’s discovery of the proletariat had accomplished this task.

The question of why Marx, of all the cocks heralding the German resurrection, ended up conquering much of the world is just as impossible and irresistible as the question of why Jesus, of all the Jewish prophets who assumed the motions and gestures of inspired persons, ended up founding one of the world’s most owl-resistant civilizations. One possible answer is that they were, in fact, quite similar. Marx, like Jesus and unlike Mazzini or Mickiewicz, succeeded in translating a tribal prophecy into a language of universalism. He was his own Paul (in case Engels proved ineffective): the emancipation from Judaism and the resurrection of Germany were buried under the weight of the emancipation from capitalism and the resurrection of humankind.

Perhaps most remarkably, he succeeded in translating a prophecy of salvation into the language of science. As Celsus wrote about Jesus and other would-be messiahs and their visions, “To these promises are added strange, fanatical, and quite unintelligible words, of which no rational person can find the meaning: for so dark are they, as to have no meaning at all; but they give occasion to every fool or impostor to apply them to suit his own purposes.” Marx, too, combined an extremely straightforward promise of deliverance with obscure oracular formulas that defied the comprehension of his future followers—much to their satisfaction, apparently. But Marx did not just alternate simplicity with complexity, clarity with obfuscation, striking metaphors with commodity-money-commodity equations; he expressed his eschatology in the form of a scientific forecast based on falsifiable claims and, most important, involving sociologically defined protagonists.

One of the greatest challenges for Christian millenarians trying to enact the New Testament apocalyptic scenario had been to distinguish between the saints and the reprobates and to understand the secret of Babylon’s power and whoredom. Marx solved this problem by using categories—the “bourgeoisie” and the “proletariat,” above all—that firmly bound the moral to the scientific, the subjective to the objective, and the individual to the collective. If society consisted of “classes” of people; if class belonging could be determined by a minimally trained believer; if conviction (inner righteousness) was directly related to membership; and if the new, non-illusory Armageddon was a class war, then the Anabaptist problem of lashing out at the Antichrist’s self-regenerating “cunning army” (not to mention the Jacobin problem of trying to keep up with the hydra of counterrevolution) would be solved once and for all—by means of science. Jesus’s “rich” and “poor” would be neatly classified, and Müntzer’s descendants could “cut down the red poppies and the blue cornflowers” in the absolute certainty that, as originally predicted, all the participants would be color-coded and registered in special books. “Do not harm the land or the sea or the trees until we put a seal on the foreheads of the servants of our God.” Marx, like Jesus, died a failed prophet, with few disciples and fewer signs of an imminent German resurrection. Like Jesus, he was rediscovered posthumously by barbarians who found his prophecy congenial (owing, at least in part, to “the problems-of-the-present that a Russian has.”)⁹⁸

The prophecy itself was utterly familiar. There was the prelapsarian fraternity of the innocent, the original sin of discovering distinctions, the division of the world into the hungry and the well-fed, the martyrdom and resurrection of a universal redeemer, the final battle between the forces of good and evil, the violent triumph of last over first; and the eventual overcoming of the futility, unpredictability, and contingency of human existence. The emotional center of the story was the contrast between the suffering of those with nothing but their chains to lose and the “wonders far surpassing Egyptian pyramids, Roman aqueducts, and Gothic cathedrals.” The new Babylon, like the old, had reduced everything to the naked pursuit of cargoes of gold and “compelled all nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt the bourgeois mode of production”—by, among other things, forcing all women into “prostitution both public and private” and “stripping of its halo every occupation hitherto honoured and looked up to with reverent awe.” Once again, “the kings of the earth committed adultery with her, and the merchants of the earth grew rich from her excessive luxuries.”⁹⁹

But the end was near. “In one day her plagues will overtake her,” and “the great city of Babylon will be thrown down, never to be found again.” The great conflagration was going to happen both because it was inevitable and because Marx’s disciples—the Communists—“have over the great mass of the proletariat the advantage of clearly understanding the line of march, the conditions, and the ultimate general results of the proletarian movement.” Like all millenarians, they would work hard to bring about the ineluctable. Free will and predestination were one and the same thing. “The theoretical conclusions of the Communists are in no way based on ideas or principles that have been invented, or discovered, by this or that would-be universal reformer. They merely express, in general terms, actual relations springing from an existing class struggle.” Jesus had been both the messenger and the subject of the message; his disciples had had to both believe the message and help fulfill it by joining the messenger. The Communists merely expressed, in general terms, actual relations springing from an existing class struggle, but “they never ceased, for a single instant, to instill into the working class the clearest possible recognition of the hostile antagonism between bourgeoisie and proletariat” and never forgot that their practical mission consisted in the “formation of the proletariat into a class.”¹⁰⁰

The original mission was an internal German affair. The Communists, according to their Manifesto (written when Marx was thirty and Engels, twenty-eight), needed to spread the good news “in order that the German workers may straightway use, as so many weapons against the bourgeoisie, the social and political conditions that the bourgeoisie must necessarily introduce along with its supremacy, and in order that, after the fall of the reactionary classes in Germany, the fight against the bourgeoisie itself may immediately begin.” But the German victory was everyone’s victory, and the Communist Manifesto was—ultimately—addressed to the Gentiles, as well as the Germans: “The Communists turn their attention chiefly to Germany, because that country is on the eve of a bourgeois revolution that is bound to be carried out under more advanced conditions of European civilisation and with a much more developed proletariat than that of England was in the seventeenth, and France in the eighteenth century, and because the bourgeois revolution in Germany will be but the prelude to an immediately following proletarian revolution.”¹⁰¹

The scheme was strictly trinitarian: the “childlike simplicity” of primitive communism was to be followed by the age of class struggle, which was to be followed by the kingdom of freedom. Likewise, the English Revolution of the seventeenth century had been followed by the French Revolution of the eighteenth century, which was to be followed by the German revolution of the last century of the world as we know it. Marxism itself, according to Lenin, had three sources and three main components: English political economy, French socialism, and German philosophy.¹⁰²

Like most millenarian prophets, Marx and Engels acknowledged their predecessors as inspired but blinkered forerunners. They had all—from Thomas Müntzer to Robert Owen—represented “independent outbursts” of proletarian insight and realized the need for the abolition of private property and the family. Indeed, “the theory of the Communists,” according to the Manifesto, “may be summed up in the single sentence: Abolition of private property.” As for the family, it “will vanish as a matter of course when its complement [prostitution] vanishes, and both will vanish with the vanishing of capital.” In the meantime, “all children, from the moment they can leave their mother’s care,” must be educated “in national establishments” that will combine instruction with production. Like most millenarian prophets (as well as millenarian sectarians and their institutionalized heirs, monks and nuns), Marx and Engels focused on the elimination of private property and the family as the most powerful and mutually reinforcing sources of inequality. Like most millenarian prophets, they wanted to turn the transitional, premillennial world into a sect—which is to say, to transform a complex, unequal society organized around property and procreation into a simple, fraternal society organized around common beliefs, possessions, and sexual partners (or sexual abstinence).¹⁰³

Like most millenarian prophets, but unlike their acknowledged “utopian” predecessors (and many unacknowledged ones, including the Marquis de Sade and Restif de la Bretonne), Marx and Engels were extremely vague about what the kingdom of freedom would look like, with regard to either possessions or sex. As Engels wrote in Anti-Dühring,

To the crude conditions of capitalist production and the crude class conditions corresponded crude theories. The solution of the social problems, which as yet lay hidden in undeveloped economic conditions, the utopians attempted to evolve out of the human brain. Society presented nothing but wrongs; to remove these was the task of reason. It was necessary, then, to discover a new and more perfect system of social order and to impose this upon society from without by propaganda, and, wherever it was possible, by the example of model experiments. These new social systems were foredoomed as utopian; the more completely they were worked out in detail, the more they could not avoid drifting off into pure fantasies.¹⁰⁴

This is true. It makes perfect sense to apply the term “utopian” to those who discover a new and more perfect system of social order and try to impose it upon society from without by propaganda, and, wherever possible, by the example of model experiments. Marx and Engels were not utopians—they were prophets. They did not talk about what a perfect system of social order should be and how and why it should be adopted or tested; they knew with absolute certainty that it was coming—right now, all by itself, and thanks to their words and deeds. Unlike Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen, and like Jesus and his many descendants, they had a lot less to say about future perfection than about how it would arrive—and how soon. And, of course, it would arrive very soon and very violently, and it would be followed by the rule of the saints over the nations with an iron scepter, and then those who had overcome would inherit all, and the old order of things would pass away, and there would be a new earth, and the glory and honor of the nations would be brought into it, and nothing impure would ever enter it, nor would anyone who did what was shameful or deceitful.¹⁰⁵

In a higher phase of communist society, after the enslaving subordination of the individual to the division of labor, and therewith also the antithesis between mental and physical labor, has vanished; after labor has become not only a means of life but life’s prime want; after the productive forces have also increased with the all-around development of the individual, and all the springs of co-operative wealth flow more abundantly—only then can the narrow horizon of bourgeois right be crossed in its entirety and society inscribe on its banners: From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs!¹⁰⁶

Unlike Fourier and Saint-Simon, Marx never explained how abilities were to be measured and what, besides unforced and undivided labor, constituted legitimate human needs. Marx’s own sample list included the freedom “to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticise after dinner, just as I have a mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, herdsman or critic.” Ultimately, it seems, needs were to coincide with desires, and desires were to reflect “natural necessity.” The transition to Communism was “humanity’s leap from the kingdom of necessity to the kingdom of freedom,” and freedom, as Hegel had discovered, was “the insight into necessity.” In Engels’s formulation, “Freedom does not consist in any dreamt-of independence from natural laws, but in the knowledge of these laws, and in the possibility this gives of systematically making them work towards definite ends…. Freedom therefore consists in the control over ourselves and over external nature, a control founded on knowledge of natural necessity.”¹⁰⁷

Allowing for the customary substitution of “natural laws” for “God,” this is a traditional Christian understanding of freedom as the coincidence of human will with the will of God. When Dante entered the lowest sphere of Paradise and met the spirits of inconstant nuns, he asked one of them if she longed for a higher place:

Together with her fellow shades she smiled

at first; then she replied to me with such

gladness, like one who burns with love’s first flame:

Brother, the power of love appeases our

will so we only long for what we have;

we do not thirst for greater blessedness.

Should we desire a higher sphere than ours,

then our desires would be discordant with

the will of Him who has assigned us here,

but you’ll see no such discord in these spheres;

to live in love is here necessity,

if you think on love’s nature carefully.

The essence of this blessed life consists

in keeping to the boundaries of God’s will,

through which our wills become one single will;

so that, as we are ranged from step to step

throughout this kingdom, all this kingdom wills

that which will please the King whose will is rule.¹⁰⁸

To quote from another divine comedy, “It was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.”¹⁰⁹