Philosophical Religions from Plato to Spinoza: Reason, Religion, and Autonomy 9780521194570, 2012018820

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgments
Translations, conventions, abbreviations
Al-Frb
Aristotle
Augustine
Averroes
Avicenna
Cicero
Clement
Diogenes Laertius
Epicurus
Eusebius of Caesarea
Gregory Thaumaturgus
Hegel
Herbert of Cherbury
Herodotus
Hesiod
Josephus
Kant
Lessing
Maimonides
Mendelssohn
Meyer, Lodewijk
Narboni, Moses
Origen
Philo
Plato
Plotinus
Presocratics
Proclus
Reimarus
Samuel ibn Tibbon
Schiller
Spinoza
Tertullian
Thucydides
Xenophon
Introduction What is a philosophical religion?
Introduction
The concept of a philosophical religion
Theocracy and the perfection of reason
The handmaid of philosophy
Philosophy and religion
Theocracy and autonomy
Contextualism and progress
Tensions in the concept of a philosophical religion
Towards a history of philosophical religions
Reason, religion, and autonomy: revising the conventional wisdom
An encounter between philosophy and religion?
When was autonomy invented?
The Alexandrian project - between Athens and Jerusalem?
Athens and Jerusalem - a perennial conflict?
Spinoza - continuity or break?
Chapter 1 Reason, divine nomoi, and self-rule in Plato
Introduction
Socratic politics
The rule of God as Reason
Why the philosophers life is best
Guiding non-philosophers: the handmaid of philosophy
From coercion to self-rule
The wisdom of non-philosophers
From cultural revolution to philosophical reinterpretation
Divine Law - one or many?
Chapter 2 Moses, Christ, and the universal rule of Reason in antiquity
Introduction
Appropriating the Platonic model: the evidence of Eusebius
Reinterpreting cultural traditions
From the divine nomoi of the Greeks to the divine nomoi of the Jews
Moses and Homer - philosopher-poets?
Judaism as a philosophical religion
Christianity as a philosophical religion
Philosophers in paradise
From Magnesia to a Christian world-state
Chapter 3 Communities of Reason in the Islamic world
Introduction
Plato and Aristotle
Al-Frb on philosophy and the Divine Law
Averroes and Maimonides - disciples of al-Frb?
Islam as a philosophical religion
Judaism as a philosophical religion
Leading non-philosophers out of the cave
Theocracy and autonomy
Medieval Jewish Enlightenment
Between Maimonides and Spinoza: Elijah Delmedigo
Chapter 4 Christianity as a philosophical religion in Spinoza
Introduction
Spinozas early dogmatism
The evidence of Lodewijk Meyer for Spinozas early dogmatism
The concept of a philosophical religion in Spinozas later writings
Religion and the freedom to philosophize
From God as Reason to Deus sive Natura
Interpreting Christianity as a philosophical religion
Were the prophets philosophers after all?
Spinozas critique of religion
Epilogue Did the history of philosophical religions come to an end?
Introduction
Disregarding Spinozas critique of religion from Lessing to Hegel
Philosophys new handmaid? Art as a pedagogical-political program
Making the handmaid redundant: equality as a moral-political value
Prospects of a philosophical religion
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

more information - www.cambridge.org/9780521194570

PHILO SO PHI C AL R E L I G I O N S FRO M P L ATO TO SPI N O Z A

Many pagan, Jewish, Christian, and Muslim philosophers from antiquity to the Enlightenment made no meaningful distinction between philosophy and religion. Instead they advocated a philosophical religion, arguing that God is Reason and that the historical forms of a religious tradition serve as philosophy’s handmaid to promote the life of reason among non-philosophers. Carlos Fraenkel provides the first account of this concept and traces its history back to Plato. He shows how Jews and Christians appropriated it in antiquity, follows it through the Middle Ages in both Islamic and Jewish forms, and argues that it underlies Spinoza’s interpretation of Christianity in the early modern period. The main challenge to a philosophical religion comes from the modern view that all human beings are equally able to order their lives rationally and hence need no guidance from religion. Fraenkel’s wide-ranging book will appeal to anyone interested in how philosophy has interacted with Jewish, Christian, and Muslim religious traditions. c a r l o s f r a e n k e l is Associate Professor, Department of Philosophy and Department of Jewish Studies, McGill University.

PHILOSOPHICAL RELIGIONS FROM PLATO TO SPINOZA Reason, Religion, and Autonomy

CARLOS FRAENKEL

cambridge university press Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, S˜ao Paulo, Delhi, Mexico City Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge cb2 8ru, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521194570 c Carlos Fraenkel 2012  This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2012 Printed in the United Kingdom at the University Press, Cambridge A catalog record for this publication is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data Fraenkel, Carlos, 1971– Philosophical religions from Plato to Spinoza : reason, religion, and autonomy / Carlos Fraenkel. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-521-19457-0 1. Philosophy and religion. 2. Philosophy – History. 3. Religions. I. Title. bl51.f64 2012 210.9 – dc23 2012018820 isbn 978-0-521-19457-0 Hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

To Renato Fraenkel and Zeev Harvey

Contents

Preface Acknowledgments Translations, conventions, abbreviations Introduction: what is a philosophical religion? Introduction The concept of a philosophical religion Towards a history of philosophical religions Reason, religion, and autonomy: revising the conventional wisdom

1 Reason, divine nomoi, and self-rule in Plato Introduction Socratic politics The rule of God as Reason Why the philosopher’s life is best Guiding non-philosophers: the handmaid of philosophy From coercion to self-rule The wisdom of non-philosophers From cultural revolution to philosophical reinterpretation Divine Law – one or many?

2 Moses, Christ, and the universal rule of Reason in antiquity Introduction Appropriating the Platonic model: the evidence of Eusebius Reinterpreting cultural traditions From the divine nomoi of the Greeks to the divine nomoi of the Jews Moses and Homer – philosopher-poets? Judaism as a philosophical religion Christianity as a philosophical religion Philosophers in paradise From Magnesia to a Christian world-state

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page ix xvii xxi 1 1 5 24 28 38 38 40 48 51 58 69 78 82 85 87 87 91 100 103 105 108 122 139 141

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Contents

3 Communities of Reason in the Islamic world Introduction Plato and Aristotle Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı on philosophy and the Divine Law Averroes and Maimonides – disciples of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı? Islam as a philosophical religion Judaism as a philosophical religion Leading non-philosophers out of the cave Theocracy and autonomy Medieval Jewish Enlightenment Between Maimonides and Spinoza: Elijah Delmedigo

4 Christianity as a philosophical religion in Spinoza Introduction Spinoza’s early dogmatism The evidence of Lodewijk Meyer for Spinoza’s early dogmatism The concept of a philosophical religion in Spinoza’s later writings Religion and the freedom to philosophize From God as Reason to Deus sive Natura Interpreting Christianity as a philosophical religion Were the prophets philosophers after all? Spinoza’s critique of religion

Epilogue: did the history of philosophical religions come to an end? Introduction Disregarding Spinoza’s critique of religion from Lessing to Hegel Philosophy’s new handmaid? Art as a pedagogical-political program Making the handmaid redundant: equality as a moral-political value Prospects of a philosophical religion

Bibliography Index

144 144 146 154 164 167 175 181 194 202 205 213 213 218 229 232 254 262 265 270 275 282 282 283 293 295 297 301 319

Preface

In this book I lay the groundwork for understanding and tracing the history of what I call a philosophical religion. Proponents of a philosophical religion conceive the relationship between reason and religion in a way that at first looks unfamiliar. Since the Enlightenment religion’s critics claim that religion is an obstacle to the emancipation of reason. Instead of knowledge, religion promotes ignorance in form of fables and superstition. Instead of autonomy it preaches submission to God by rousing irrational fears of punishment and hopes for reward. If we choose to follow reason, religious beliefs and practices have no place in our life. To proponents of a philosophical religion these criticisms would sound strange. The projects of reason and religion, they hold, cannot be meaningfully distinguished at all. The core purpose of religion is to direct us to a life that is guided by reason towards the perfection of reason. For the best and most blissful life is the life of contemplation, culminating in knowledge of God. God himself, they argue, is the perfect model of this life. Being pure Reason, he eternally knows and enjoys the truth, unencumbered by hunger, pain, ignorance, and other afflictions that come with being embodied. The task of religion is to make us as much like God as possible. Plato marks the beginning: laws, he contends, are divine if they direct us to “Reason who rules all things” (Leg. 631d). The same idea is still echoed in Spinoza: while human laws aim only at prosperity and peace, divine laws aim at “the true knowledge and love of God” (TTP 4.3/50). Under ideal circumstances there would be no need for laws at all: everyone would know what is right and be motivated to do it by the desire to become like God through contemplation. In the ideal religious community, therefore, God’s rule and self-rule coincide. At first view a philosophical religion seems to have little in common with the historical forms of religions like Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. How can it accommodate their laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship? And how does the concept of God as Reason square with the ix

x

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God of Scripture who speaks, gives laws, performs miracles, gets angry, has mercy, and so forth? Proponents of a philosophical religion reply that, alas, not everyone is cut out for the philosophical life. Hence prophets must put a pedagogical-political program in place that can offer guidance to non-philosophers. This program’s role is to serve as philosophy’s handmaid. It establishes beliefs, practices, and institutions that imitate philosophy to give non-philosophers a share in the perfection that philosophy affords. On this picture, the difference between the philosopher and the prophet comes down to this: while both have knowledge of the good, the prophet is also an accomplished legislator, poet, and orator, skills that allow him to convey the good to non-philosophers and motivate them to do it. Think of a doctor’s prescriptions for a healthy regime and the reasons he gives for following these prescriptions. This is what a religion’s laws and narratives are like. But is this not cheating? Must the prescriptions not be dictated by God to count as divine? Although proponents of a philosophical religion recognize that imagining God as a lawgiver is important for pedagogical reasons, they consider it philosophically unsound. In fact, all anthropomorphic features of God in the Bible or the Koran are educational devices for nonphilosophers. Yet philosophers agree with non-philosophers on the divine nature of the laws. God is their source because all rational insight depends on God, including the knowledge of the good that divine laws embody. In this sense rational insight is revelation. And God is also their final cause, the end “for the sake of which wisdom commands” as Aristotle puts it (EE 8.3, 1249b14–15). Must non-philosophers be coerced to obey divine laws? True, the best possible religious community falls short of the ideal religious community in which everyone is a doctor following his own prescriptions. But it strives to realize this ideal as much as possible given that most of its members are imperfectly rational. A core thesis of my book is that for proponents of a philosophical religion one of religion’s main aims is to lead all members of the religious community to the highest level of rational autonomy they can attain. Consider the example of Plato’s Phaedrus: Socrates does not explain to Phaedrus “what the soul actually is” (246a) but illustrates it through the image of a charioteer with two horses. He then goes on to describe the relation between the soul’s different parts on the basis of this image, and explains what causes the embodiment of the soul and how different ways of living influence the soul’s current state and its fate in the future. The story thus provides non-philosophers like Phaedrus with a notion of the soul’s structure and of the kind of behavior which, given this structure, is good or bad for the soul. Although based on an image of Plato’s philosophical

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xi

psychology and its moral implications, it gives Phaedrus conceptual tools with which he can decide on his own what the right thing to do is.1 The Bible and the Koran, on this view, explain the order of things and our place in that order in lay terms. Both the philosopher and the non-philosopher thus know the reasons for the prescriptions they follow, only that the former has expert knowledge, the latter lay knowledge. One problem with this view is that the soul is not a charioteer with two horses. If that is the model for prophetic parables they seem to be pedagogically well-intentioned falsehoods. Is the God who speaks, gives laws, and so forth nothing but a noble lie? To defuse this concern proponents of a philosophical religion argue that only taken literally the parables are false. Their allegorical content, by contrast, is true. In the case of the Phaedrus, for example, the charioteer and the two horses stand for the three parts of the soul: reason, spirit, and appetite. Or take the representation of God as a king in the Bible: it allegorically indicates that God occupies the first rank in existence. Allegorical interpretation thus rescues the truth of the text. A more serious problem is that, while Plato is a philosopher who puts his poetic skills to philosophical use in the Phaedrus and elsewhere, the same cannot be said for the historical founders of a religion, for example Moses, Christ, or Muhammad. After all, the actual beliefs, practices, and institutions of Jews, Christians, and Muslims lack a philosophical foundation. When prophets describe God as a king they are not really teaching metaphysics through parables. The question, then, is how a pedagogicalpolitical program, conceived by philosophers, should be related to the non-philosophical contents of a religious tradition. One possibility is a cultural revolution: the old beliefs, practices, and institutions are replaced by those that the philosophers worked out. Most proponents of a philosophical religion, however, opt for a less violent solution. The historical beliefs, practices, and institutions, they contend, were in fact established by philosopher-rulers. Hence they need not be replaced but only restored to their original purpose. Proponents of a philosophical religion can then engage in the philosophical reinterpretation of these beliefs, practices, and institutions as if they had been put in place by philosopher-rulers with the aim of ordering the community towards a philosophical concept of the good. Since Spinoza, advocates of the historical-critical method object to this kind of camouflage. It has, however, an obvious pay-off: widely 1

Note that most philosophers I discuss in this book consider Plato to be a model of prophetic discourse.

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accepted cultural-religious forms are turned into vehicles of enlightenment. Although daring, this interpretation of religion was by no means marginal. It was set forth by pagan philosophers and their Jewish, Christian, and Muslim heirs in many contexts from antiquity to the early modern period. The divine laws of Magnesia – the fictional Cretan colony discussed in Plato’s Laws – mark the starting point. They are based on the systematic claim that a pedagogical-political program is necessary to guide imperfectly rational members of the community and the empirical claim that existing Greek cultural forms, properly reinterpreted, fulfill this purpose. But if Greek cultural forms can be reinterpreted in this way, why not the historical forms of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam? Consider Philo Judaeus whose work represents the intellectual culmination of the encounter between Greek culture and the Jewish Diaspora in ancient Alexandria. What Plato does for the Greeks, Philo does for the Jews: he philosophically reinterprets the Bible’s legal and narrative contents as if Moses had been an outstanding philosopher-legislator. Although proponents of a philosophical religion belong to different times and places, as well as to different linguistic and religious communities, the question how to reconcile their philosophical commitments with beliefs, practices, and institutions that lack philosophical content is a key question for all of them. They do not always carry out the project of reinterpretation on as large a scale as Plato or Philo. But they adopt the project’s underlying premises and portray their religion’s laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship as philosophy’s handmaid which direct imperfectly rational members of the community to a philosophically grounded concept of the good. In ancient Alexandria Plato’s model is used in the first centuries of the Common Era to interpret Judaism and Christianity as philosophical religions, most notably by Philo and Philo’s Christian students, Clement and Origen. With the Christian version the project’s scope becomes universal: the community to be ordered is no longer limited to Greeks or Jews, but extends to humankind as a whole. An attempt to politically implement Christianity as a philosophical religion is made by Eusebius of Caesarea who tries to turn Constantine the Great into a philosopher-king. From a fictional Cretan colony, then, we arrive at the concept of a Christian world-state whose citizens strive for Godlikeness by living a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes, and Maimonides illustrate well how Plato’s model is used in the early Middle Ages for interpreting Islam and Judaism as

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philosophical religions. The historical forms of a religious tradition, alF¯ar¯ab¯ı argues, are an “imitation” of philosophy (Tah..s¯ıl, 185/44) whose purpose is to offer pedagogical-political guidance to non-philosophers. He does not explicitly identify this concept of religion with Islam, but stresses the possibility of a plurality of excellent religions that share a true core embedded in different cultural materials. Each has its own couleur locale, as it were. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s aim is to provide a general model that can be used to philosophically reinterpret the beliefs, practices, and institutions of the religious communities living side by side in the Islamic world. Averroes and Maimonides, in turn, do just that: they apply al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s model to the interpretation of Islam and Judaism as philosophical religions. The reception of Greco-Arabic philosophy and science in Christian Europe did not revive the interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion. Although the relationship between philosophy and Christianity took on different forms, philosophy never became the core of religion in the way it did for Muslim and Jewish philosophers. Hence the last champions of a philosophical religion on a large scale were Maimonides’s Jewish students in medieval Europe. This tradition seems to come to a close with Spinoza’s critique of religion in the Theological-Political Treatise. The historical-critical method discloses an emperor without clothes. Read on its own terms, Spinoza argues, the Bible contains no evidence for the claim that the prophets were accomplished philosophers who set up a pedagogical-political program to guide non-philosophers. Does Spinoza, then, mark the end of the story? An important aim of my book is to revise the received wisdom on Spinoza. His primary concern, I argue, is to offer a philosophical reinterpretation of Christianity. His celebrated critique of religion, on the other hand, is a secondary project. Indeed, in a state based on Spinoza’s theological-political principles, bookstores would arguably not sell the TTP. Why, then, did Spinoza remove the cornerstone of religion by arguing that Scripture is not true? He seems to have concluded that from the standpoint of a philosophical religion he could not efficiently avert the threat posed by the Calvinist church to the freedom of thought and expression in the Netherlands. At the same time he remained convinced that religion as philosophy’s handmaid is crucial to ensure God’s rule over imperfectly rational citizens. There is, then, an unresolved tension in Spinoza’s approach to religion. The hermeneutic strategies employed by proponents of a philosophical religion remain attractive well into the nineteenth century. Despite Spinoza’s critique of religion, Lessing, Kant, and Hegel, for example, have

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no qualms about using them. Also the new science of the early modern period cannot account for the demise of this approach to religion. Consider the deism of Voltaire, one of religion’s fiercest critics: it surely is more, not less, hospitable to the historical forms of religion than the austere concept of God as Reason, let alone Spinoza’s Deus sive Natura. The main objection against philosophical religions stems from a new moral paradigm that emerges in the eighteenth century. According to this paradigm we all “have an equal ability to see for ourselves what morality calls for and are . . . equally able to move ourselves accordingly.”2 If the equality thesis is true there is no justification for a pedagogical-political program based on the ultimately paternalist premise that most of us are unable to fully rule ourselves. Had everyone heeded Kant’s call in What is Enlightenment to replace books and priests with rational self-rule, the concept of a philosophical religion would indeed be obsolete. There would be no need to engage religious beliefs, practices, and institutions if secularization had gradually purged the world of them. A look around us, however, is enough to reveal that the secularization thesis is in trouble. Many citizens choose to live according to God’s will as interpreted by their books and priests. A shift in liberal political theory with respect to the justification of political norms is instructive in this regard. A pressing question is how citizens who submit to God’s will can be led to endorse the norms of a liberal state which are only valid if its free and equal citizens consent to them. Appealing to reason is not enough in the case of citizens for whom reason holds less authority than God. A prominent alternative these days is the “overlapping consensus”: secular citizens endorse freedom, equality, and tolerance for secular reasons and religious citizens for religious reasons.3 This is where the dilemma that Spinoza left us comes to bear. The historical-critical method which the TTP’s critique of religion helped establish is our best bet to get to the true meaning of religious texts. At the same time it leaves us with no respectable option for interpreting religious texts in light of intellectual commitments external to them. Attaining an overlapping consensus, however, clearly depends on philosophical reinterpretation. For let us be honest: the endorsement of freedom, equality, and tolerance are not prominent features of Judaism, Christianity, or Islam in their historical 2 3

Schneewind (1998), 4. The precise role of the overlapping consensus is disputed and its scope and content vary from author to author. It is also just one of many attempts to reconcile a religious or cultural tradition with beliefs, practices, and institutions external to it. See the epilogue for a more detailed discussion.

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forms. To make Moses, Christ, and Muhammad teach freedom, equality, and tolerance is, of course, no greater hermeneutic challenge than making them teach the ideal of Godlikeness through contemplation. Yet at any university in the Western world students who make either of these claims would rightly fail their introduction to the Bible or the Koran.

Acknowledgments

Questions about philosophy and religion accompanied me from early on. A former neighbor in Maria Veen, the small German town in which I spent part of my childhood, recalls that her son and I discussed God’s existence in the sandbox (unfortunately she does not remember who argued for and who against it). A more immediate context was three years of graduate studies at The Hebrew University in Jerusalem in the 1990s. I was both puzzled and intrigued by scholars who combined a Spinozistic mindset with strict religious observance. In a sense this book is an attempt to solve what then seemed like a paradox to me. Along the way I had the privilege of finding many friends and colleagues to share my puzzlements with. I am particularly thankful to Stephen Menn, who accompanied this book from the beginning with his signature intellectual curiosity, rigor, and generosity. Much progress was made during the fall of 2007, which I spent as a Friedrich-Solmsen fellow at the Institute for Research in the Humanities at the University of Madison-Wisconsin. I am grateful to Susan Friedman, the Institute’s director; Loretta Freiling, the Institute’s administrative heart; and a stimulating group of fellows who made the months in Madison pleasant and intellectually rewarding. The opportunity to discuss Spinoza and other things with Steven Nadler and his students was a much appreciated bonus. Things started coming together in 2009–10 when I was a member of the School of Historical Studies at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. I warmly thank Jonathan Israel for many hours of probing discussions; that my medieval Spinoza and his iconoclastic Spinoza sparred at times made it all the more exciting. All the faculty members generously shared their time and knowledge. I particularly benefited from conversations with Patricia Crone, Avishai Margalit, Heinrich von Staden, and Michael Walzer. I also learned much from my fellow members who worked on topics from ancient Egypt to modern China (and everything in between). Most helpful xvii

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Acknowledgments

for my immediate concerns were discussions with Julie Cooper, Sarah Hutton, Yuval Jobani, Thomas Laqueuer, Michael Lurie, and Thomas Maissen. While in the neighborhood I also took advantage of Daniel Garber’s vast knowledge, as well as of the Early Modern Philosophy Workshop that he organizes at Princeton. Maurice Kriegel gave me the opportunity to present large parts of the project to an academic audience in Paris, where I spent November and ´ ´ December of 2010 as a visiting professor at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales. One could not hope for a better and more stimulating host than Maurice. At McGill University where I have been teaching for more than a decade, I found a supportive environment in my two home departments, philosophy and Jewish studies. I benefited in particular from discussions with Larry Kaplan, Torrance Kirby, Alison Laywine, and Calvin Normore. For a lively intellectual setting I thank my colleagues from the McGill Research Group on Transmission, Translation, and Transformation in Medieval Cultures: Jamie Fumo, Cecily Hilsdale, Jamil Ragep, Faith Wallis, and Robert Wisnovsky. The same goes for the co-organizers of the Montreal Workshop in the History of Philosophy: Sara Magrin, Dario Perinetti, and Justin Smith. I have been talking about philosophical religions for too long I fear. Colleagues who invited me to lecture on this project or gave me feedback on parts of it include Peter Adamson, Anna Akasoy and Guido Giglione, Marcio Damin, Michael Della Rocca, Erik Dreff, Otfried Fraisse, Gad Freudenthal, Rachel Haliva, Zeev Harvey, Dag Hasse, Klaus Herrmann, Holger Kl¨arner, Yitzhak Melamed, Ohad Nachtomy, and Richard Taylor. I am also thankful to three graduate students who assisted me with technical and substantive matters at the final stage of the manuscript: Alex Anderson, Luis Fontes, and Bilal Ibrahim. Hilary Gaskin of Cambridge University Press helped this book come to light with exemplary patience, encouragement and, when needed, a bit of pressure. Also a pleasure to work with was the team who oversaw the last stages of the book’s realization – in particular Gillian Dadd, Jeremy Langworthy, and Tom O’Reilly. From 2008–12 Canada’s Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council supported me with a generous grant that I acknowledge with gratitude. Half-cooked thoughts on various aspects of the project were published in articles that I list in the bibliography. Given the project’s scope, things will likely never feel quite a` point, but I hope the book gives an idea of how the pieces of the puzzle fit together.

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Without family and friends the years spent on this book would have been much less enjoyable. My wife, Anne, has been a delightful companion over recent years, more than once saving me with a smile from getting melancholic over the slow progress of this book. Although she is by training a physician of the body, I found in her a spirited debater of pretty much everything under the sun. In 2009 my daughter Lara was born. While this led to a temporary shift from dialectics to diapers, I have immensely enjoyed every minute with her. When young colleagues, anxious to find out how children might impact on their careers, asked me how many fewer articles I had written since her birth I replied that I would happily have thrown in a couple of edited volumes. We are now quickly making our way back to dialectics and I look forward to discussing God’s existence and other things in the sandbox with her. I dedicate this book to my father, Renato Fraenkel, and to my teacher and friend, Zeev Harvey. In different ways both helped to shape my questions about philosophy and religion, and both are models of curiosity, integrity, and generosity for me.

Translations, conventions, abbreviations

I have consulted existing translations of primary sources whenever they were available, but I have often modified them for the sake of consistency, style, and sometimes accuracy. All editions and translations are listed in the bibliography. In references, the number before the slash indicates the page in the original and the number after the slash the page in the translation – for example Guide 1.26, 38/56. Occasionally original and translation have the same page number – for example Fas.l, 10. When texts have a standard pagination or text division that allows for easy identification of the quotation, I do not indicate page numbers – for example Rep. 520c or Cels. 4.39. When the number following the title is not separated by a comma, it does not indicate the page but the unit in the standard division of the text – for example Deus 60. Below I list – in alphabetical order of the authors – the titles of primary sources to which I refer through common abbreviations: al-f¯a r¯a b¯ı Fus.u¯ l H . ur¯uf Ih..sa¯  Jam Jaw¯ami Mab¯adi Milla Siy¯asa Tah..s¯ıl

= Fus.u¯ l muntazaa = Kit¯ab al-h.ur¯uf = Ih..sa¯  al-ul¯um = Kit¯ab al-jam bayna rayay al-h.ak¯ımayn Afl¯a.tu¯ n al-il¯ah¯ı wa-Arist.u¯.ta¯ l¯ıs = Jaw¯ami kit¯ab al-naw¯am¯ıs li-Afl¯a.tu¯ n = Mab¯adi ar¯a ahl al-mad¯ına al-f¯ad.ila = Kit¯ab al-milla = Kit¯ab al-siy¯asa al-madaniyya = Tah..s¯ıl al-saa¯ da aristotle

APo.

= Analytica Posteriora xxi

xxii EE EN Metaph. Ph. Prot. Pol.

Translations, conventions, abbreviations = Ethica Eudemia = Ethica Nicomachea = Metaphysica = Physica = Protrepticus = Politica augustine

C. acad.

= Contra academicos averroes

Bid¯aya Comm. Metaph. Comm. Rep. Fas.l Kashf Tah¯afut

= Bid¯ayat al-mujtahid = Long Commentary on the “Metaphysics” = Commentary on the “Republic” = Fas.l al-maq¯al wa-taqr¯ır ma bayn al-shar¯ıa wa-al-h.ikma min al-ittis.a¯ l = Kit¯ab al-kashf an man¯ahij al-adilla f¯ı aq¯aid al-milla = Tah¯afut al-tah¯afut avicenna

S¯ıra

= S¯ırat al-shaykh al-ra¯ıs cicero

Tusc.

= Tusculanae disputationes clement

Paed. Prot. Strom.

= Paedagogus = Protrepticus = Stromateis diogenes laertius

DL

= Diogenes Laertius, Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers

Translations, conventions, abbreviations

xxiii

epicurus = Sententiae (Kuriai doxai)

Sent.

eusebius of caesarea = Demonstratio evangelica = Historia ecclesiastica = Laus Constantini = Praeparatio evangelica

DE HE LC PE

gregory thaumaturgus = In Originem oratio panegyrica

Or. pan.

hegel Enzyklop¨adie Geschichte der Philosophie Philosophie der Religion

= Enzyklop¨adie der Philosophischen Wissenschaften im Grundrisse = Vorlesungen u¨ ber die Geschichte der Philosophie = Vorlesungen u¨ ber die Philosophie der Religion

herbert of cherbury De Veritate

= De Veritate, Prout Distinguitur a Revelatione, a Verisimili, a Possibili, et a Falso herodotus

Hdt.

= Historiae hesiod

Theog.

= Theogony josephus

Ap. AJ

= Contra Apionem = Antiquitates Judaicae

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Translations, conventions, abbreviations kant

Aufkl¨arung Religion

= Beantwortung der Frage: Was ist Aufkl¨arung? = Die Religion in den Grenzen der bloßen Vernunft lessing

Erziehung Fragmente Nathan

= Die Erziehung des Menschengeschlechts = Fragmente eines Ungenannten = Nathan der Weise maimonides

CM Eight Chapters Guide Iggerot Heleq Madda Mant.iq MT

= Commentary on the Mishnah = CM, Introduction to Pirqe Avot. = Guide of the Perplexed = Iggerot ha-Rambam = Pereq heleq (CM, Sanhedrin, chapter 10) = MT, Sefer ha-madda = Kit¯ab f¯ı .sin¯aat al-mant.iq = Mishneh Torah mendelssohn

Jerusalem

= Jerusalem oder u¨ ber religi¨ose Macht und Judentum meyer, lodewijk

Interpres

= Philosophia Sanctae Scripturae Interpres narboni, moses

Comm. Guide

= Commentary on the “Guide of the Perplexed” origen

Cels. Comm. in Io. De Princ. Ep. Greg.

= Contra Celsum = Commentarius in Iohannem = De principiis (Peri archˆon) = Epistula ad Gregorium Thaumaturgum

Translations, conventions, abbreviations philo Abr. Aet. Agr. Cher. Conf. Congr. Cont. De somn. Dec. Deus Ebr. LA Mig. Mos. Op. Plant. Post. Praem. Prob. Prov. QE QG Spec. Virt.

= De Abrahamo = De aeternitate mundi = De agricultura = De cherubim = De confusione linguarum = De congressu eruditionis gratia = De vita contemplativa = De somniis = De decalogo = Quod Deus sit immutabilis = De ebrietate = Legum allegoriae = De migratione Abrahami = De vita Mosis = De opificium mundi = De plantatione = De posteritate Caini = De praemiis et poenis = Quod omnis probus liber sit = De providentia = Quaestiones et solutiones in Exodum = Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesim = De specialibus legibus = De virtutibus plato

Ap. Criti. Euthd. Euthphr. Grg. Leg. Men. Phd. Phdr. Plt. Prt.

= Apologia = Critias = Euthydemus = Euthyphro = Gorgias = Leges = Meno = Phaedo = Phaedrus = Politicus = Protagoras

xxv

xxvi

Translations, conventions, abbreviations

Rep. Ti. Tht.

= Respublica = Timaeus = Theaetetus plotinus

Enn.

= Enneads presocratics

DK

= Diels-Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker proclus

In Remp.

= In Platonis Rem publicam comentarii reimarus

Apologie

= Apologie oder Schutzschrift f¨ur die vern¨unftigen Verehrer Gottes samuel ibn tibbon

PQ MYM

= Perush Qohelet = Maamar yiqqawu ha-mayim schiller

Schaub¨uhne

= Die Schaub¨uhne als eine moralische Anstalt betrachtet spinoza

CM E Ep. KV PPC TdIE TP TTP

= Cogitata Metaphysica = Ethica = Epistulae = Korte Verhandeling van God, de Mensch en des zelfs Welstand = Principia Philosophiae Cartesianae = Tractatus de Intellectus Emendatione = Tractatus Politicus = Tractatus Theologico-Politicus

Translations, conventions, abbreviations tertullian Praes. haer.

= De praescriptione haereticorum thucydides

Th.

= History of the Peloponnesian War xenophon

Mem.

= Memorabilia

xxvii

Introduction What is a philosophical religion?

introduction When the medieval Muslim philosopher Averroes, who spent much of his life explaining Aristotle, examined the relationship between Islam and philosophy, he reached the following conclusion: Since this Law [shar¯ıa] is true and calls to the reflection leading to cognition of the truth, we, the Muslim community, know firmly that demonstrative investigations cannot lead to something differing from what is set down in the Law. For the truth does not contradict the truth [al-h.aqq l¯a yud.a¯ dd al-h.aqq]; rather, it agrees with it and bears witness to it. (Fas.l, 8–9)

According to Averroes, “demonstrative investigations” are conducted by philosophers. The results they reach cannot differ from the content of the shar¯ıa, because the truth of the former is the same as the truth of the latter.1 It is instructive to compare Averroes’s assessment of the Islamic Law with the assessment of the Law of Moses by Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach, an important representative of the radical wing of the French Enlightenment: From the outset of the Bible we see nothing but ignorance and contradictions. Everything proves to us that the cosmogony of the Hebrews is no more than a composition of fables and allegories, incapable of giving us any [true] idea of things, appropriate only for a savage, ignorant, and vulgar people, unfamiliar with the sciences and with reasoning. In the remaining works attributed to Moses, we find countless improbable and fantastic stories and a pile of ridiculous and arbitrary laws. At the end the author describes his own death. The books following Moses are no less filled with ignorance. . . . One would never come to an end if 1

This, at any rate, is Averroes’s intention. The thesis that the truth of philosophy does not contradict the truth of religion is also compatible with the weaker claim, proposed, for example, by Thomas Aquinas, that revelation contains truths that do not contradict philosophy, but are also not accessible to it.

1

2

What is a philosophical religion?

one attempted to note all the blunders and fables, shown in every passage of a work which people have the audacity to attribute to the Holy Spirit. . . . In one word: In the Old Testament everything breathes enthusiasm, fanaticism, and raving, often ornamented by a pompous language. Nothing is missing from it, except for reasonableness, sound logic, and rationality which seem to have been excluded stubbornly from the book that serves as a guide to Hebrews and Christians. (Le Christianisme d´evoil´e, 87–89)2

To be sure, the Enlightenment’s attitude to religion is not monolithic. Materialists like Julien de La Mettrie and d’Holbach who reject religion altogether represent only one side of the spectrum.3 On the opposite side, philosophers like Mendelssohn and Lessing try in different ways to reconcile their Enlightenment commitments with traditional forms of Judaism and Christianity.4 In between are deists like Voltaire, Hermann Samuel Reimarus, and Thomas Paine who can be as acerbic as d’Holbach when it comes to the “fabulous theology” of traditional religions, “whether Jewish, Christian, or Turkish,” while espousing what they consider the “true theology” of reason.5 What the passage from d’Holbach illustrates well, however, is the attempt by part of the Enlightenment to exclude religious beliefs and practices from reason’s domain. The goal is to replace ignorance caused by fables and superstition with knowledge and a life guided by arbitrary laws with a life guided by reason. Also Enlightenment thinkers who do not, like d’Holbach, dismiss traditional religion as “fantastic stories” and “arbitrary laws” object to it if they see it as interfering with what is arguably at the heart of Enlightenment concerns: the autonomy of reason. Even if religious prescriptions were irreproachable, we would still lack autonomy if we simply obeyed them. The problem is particularly salient if we consider religions like Judaism or Islam. For at their heart lies a Divine Law – in the broad sense of torah in Hebrew and shar¯ıa in Arabic – which determines what we may and may not do, promising reward for obedience and threatening punishment for 2

3 4 5

On the importance of d’Holbach for understanding the Enlightenment, see Israel (2010). Interestingly, d’Holbach is aware that what he describes as the irrational content of the Bible can be reconciled with philosophy by means of allegorical interpretation. See his reference to Origen’s and Augustine’s allegorical reading of Genesis in the note on p. 88. This is precisely Averroes’s solution for contradictions occurring between philosophy and the shar¯ıa; see, for example, Fas.l, 9–10. For de La Mettrie’s materialism, see in particular L’homme machine. For Mendelssohn, see in particular Jerusalem. For Lessing, see, for example, Erziehung and my discussion in the epilogue. Paine, The Age of Reason, 6. For the opposition of “true and fabulous theology,” see the title page of the first edition (1794). For Reimarus, see his Apologie; for Voltaire, see the relevant articles in ´ the Dictionnaire philosophique (for example “Eglise,” “Fanatisme,” “Religion,” “Superstition,” and so forth).

Introduction

3

disobedience. It seems thus clear that not we, but God makes the rules. According to Kant, the “motto” of the Enlightenment – “Sapere aude! Dare to use your own reason [Verstand]” – is addressed to those who out of “laziness and cowardice” follow “the guidance of others” (fremde Leitung): the guidance of a “book,” for example, or the guidance of a “priest” (Seelsorger) – literally someone who takes care of another person’s soul (Aufkl¨arung, 35/54). Submitting to the Divine Law is “counterfeit worship” (Afterdienst). True worship, by contrast, is following the prescriptions of reason (Religion 4.2, 167–68/164).6 Philosophers like Averroes would reject the opposition between true and counterfeit worship.7 For one thing they take the actions that a rational agent chooses to be the actions prescribed by God conceived as Reason. In the ideal case, therefore, self-rule and God’s rule coincide. They distinguish, moreover, between adequate and inadequate motives for doing what God prescribes. Averroes’s Jewish colleague Maimonides, for example, criticizes a person who acts from fear of punishment or hope for reward as “serving God out of fear,” which he contrasts with “serving God out of love,” the motivation of a rational agent (Madda, Laws Concerning Repentance 10.5). To be self-ruled, then, means to know the good and to be motivated to act according to this knowledge. Note, however, that for Kant all human beings are equally able to be autonomous if only they overcome their laziness and cowardice and dare to use their own reason. Averroes and Maimonides deny this: the rank of human beings is determined by their degree of perfection which, in turn, determines their capacity for self-rule. Critics of prophetic religion, like Celsus in antiquity and Ab¯u Bakr al-R¯az¯ı in the Middle Ages, had already argued that all human beings should live under the guidance of reason. Averroes and Maimonides agree, yet point out that the Divine Law remains an indispensable guide for members of the community who are unable to attain perfect self-rule. There are degrees of self-rule, they contend, not true and counterfeit worship.8 In yet another way philosophers like Averroes and Maimonides challenge widespread views about the relationship between reason and religion. For 6 7 8

At times, however, Kant qualifies his critique and attributes an educational purpose to traditional religions as we will see in the epilogue. They would also disagree with Kant’s concept of autonomy. My claim is that they advocate a meaningful concept of self-rule, not that they agree with Kant’s. Of course the main political concern in contemporary liberal democracies is not the citizens’ rational self-rule but their freedom from external interference. Whether they base their life plans on rational deliberation or not is up to them. Following Isaiah Berlin (1969) we can distinguish between a concern with positive and a concern with negative liberty. Proponents of a philosophical religion only appear to be committed to positive liberty. I discuss this issue in Fraenkel (forthcoming b).

4

What is a philosophical religion?

them the Divine Law established by a prophet – for example Moses or Muhammad – embodies the same philosophical principles as the divine nomoi conceived by philosophers such as Plato and Aristotle.9 They could not agree more with Plato’s claim that laws are divine if they direct the citizens to “Reason [nous] who rules all things” (Leg. 631d).10 The same holds for Aristotle’s claim at the end of the Eudemian Ethics that actions are good if they contribute “to worshiping [therapeuein] and contemplating [theorein] God” (8.3, 1249b20–21). Maimonides, for example, argues that the goal of the Law of Moses is “the apprehension of God [idr¯ak All¯ah], mighty and magnificent, I mean knowledge [al-ilm] of him” (Eight Chapters 5, 164/75–76). This is the meaning of Deuteronomy 6:5: “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul” – God’s commandment to study “all the theoretical sciences” (al-ul¯um al-naz.ariyya), most importantly physics and metaphysics (Guide 3.28, 373/512 with 1.34, 50/75). For physics, the investigation of things in motion, leads via the eternal motion of the celestial spheres to the apprehension of God, the first cause of nature.11 The same idea is encapsulated in Averroes’s claim that the “happiness” (saa¯ da) to which the Islamic Law guides is “the knowledge [marifa] of God, mighty and magnificent, and his creation” (Fas.l, 8) which requires “rational inquiry [al-naz.ar] into the existing things and their contemplation [itib¯aruh¯a] insofar as they are proof of the Maker” (Fas.l, 1). Both Aristotle’s writings and Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle can be seen as the implementation of this program and thus as divine worship in the sense of the Eudemian Ethics. But in Averroes’s case they are also the fulfillment of his duty as a Muslim.12 Averroes and Maimonides, then, would have been surprised about radical Enlightenment figures like d’Holbach who claim that religion has no place 9 10

11 12

As we will see in chapter 3, medieval Arabic philosophers usually adopt a strong version of the late ancient view of the harmony of Plato and Aristotle. For the conception of God as Nous in Plato’s later theology, see Menn (1995). As we will see in chapters 2 and 3, both Eusebius of Caesarea and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı explicitly identify the Nous mentioned in this Laws passage with the God of Scripture. Note that I will often use “God” in a loose way. While all proponents of a philosophical religion are committed to a concept of God as Reason, they do not always take it to be the only or even the highest divine principle. The differences in their philosophical theologies, which I will sketch in the following chapters, do not affect my core argument, however. Cf. Aristotle, Physics 8.5–6 and Metaphysics 12.6–7. Maimonides refers to the Aristotelian proof as “the greatest proof through which one can know the existence of the deity” (Guide 1.70, 121/175). On the study of philosophy as a religious duty in medieval Islamic and Jewish philosophy, see Davidson (1974). Although the passage from the Eudemian Ethics nicely illustrates the continuity between the ancient and the medieval position, it is unclear whether the work was known to philosophers in the Muslim world.

The concept of a philosophical religion

5

in our lives if we choose to follow reason. From the Enlightenment, in turn, it is possible to draw lines to modern attitudes to religion. They include the nineteenth-century critiques of religion as alienation by Feuerbach and Marx, and in a different way by Nietzsche, as well as the late Victorian topos of a perpetual “warfare” between science and religion.13 This background helps to understand the contemporary perception of the project of reason as something fundamentally different from religion and often in conflict with it. Letting critics of religion define the framework of my introductory discussion has a number of drawbacks. Obviously no historian of philosophy or religion these days would speak of “warfare” and the like. More importantly, my aim is not to say that only philosophers like Averroes and Maimonides offer a respectable interpretation of religion while everyone else is caught up in narrow-minded literalism. No such value judgment is meant to be implied. What the contrast between Averroes and d’Holbach helps bring into focus is that for the philosophers I discuss in this book the projects of reason and religion cannot be meaningfully distinguished at all. It is worth recalling, moreover, that the critique of religion did not start with the Enlightenment. Proponents of the premodern position are, in fact, in part responding to charges such as that religion consists in fables and superstition or that religious authority prevents rational self-rule.14 the concept of a philosophical religion Averroes and Maimonides advocate what I propose to call a “philosophical religion.” By this I mean a distinctively philosophical interpretation of religions such as Judaism or Islam. My notion of religion thus roughly corresponds to what is covered by the notion of the Divine Law for Jews and Muslims: the comprehensive order of private and public life established through the beliefs, practices, and institutions of the religious community. My main reason for using “religion” instead of “Divine Law” is the contested place of laws in the Christian version of a philosophical religion. 13

14

For Feuerbach, see, for example, Das Wesen des Christentums and Vorlesungen u¨ ber das Wesen der Religion; for Marx, see Zur Kritik der Hegelschen Rechtsphilosophie. Einleitung; for Nietzsche, see, for example, Die Fr¨ohliche Wissenschaft, in particular paras. 125, 158–60, and Jenseits von Gut und B¨ose. For the “warfare” thesis, see Draper, History of the Conflict Between Religion and Science and White, A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom. The warfare thesis is currently enjoying a revival in the invectives against religion brought forth by a self-stylized Neo-Enlightenment. See the criticisms of Celsus and R¯az¯ı discussed in chapters 2 and 3.

6

What is a philosophical religion?

In the sections below I lay out what I take to be the key concepts informing this interpretation. Making the structure of a philosophical religion explicit is useful because the philosophers to be examined in the following chapters interpret their religious traditions as philosophical religions, but do not provide an account of what a philosophical religion is. In addition, my account is meant to explain how I use the notion of a philosophical religion. Since philosophy and religion meet in many settings, producing a wide range of configurations, this will help to distinguish what counts as a philosophical religion and what does not on my use of the notion. With respect to some features of a philosophical religion there are variations which are not captured by the reconstruction offered below. These variations will emerge more clearly from the subsequent historical chapters. Theocracy and the perfection of reason At the center of a philosophical religion is the ideal of Godlikeness attained through the perfection of reason. For one thing, intellectual perfection is the goal to which all members of the religious community ought to be directed. While this ideal can be realized to a greater or lesser degree, it is realized most completely through philosophy, culminating in knowledge of God. Thus philosophy is the highest form of worship. At the same time, intellectual perfection is also religion’s foundation, because it is the most distinctive trait of the founders and leaders of a religious community. Christian philosophers push this view furthest: their Christ is not only a perfect philosopher, but wisdom itself. The key to understanding a philosophical religion is its moral-political character. In a community based on a philosophical religion the life of all members is ordered towards what is best. The beliefs, practices, and institutions that make up this order are divinely ordained. Such a community, therefore, is best described as a theocracy, a community ruled by God. The conceptual move from an excellent order to a divine order is based on two steps: First, something ordered towards what is best – whether an organism or the celestial spheres, a human life or a political community – is taken to be rationally ordered. Second, the rational principle that accounts for this order is identified with God. The conception of God as Reason is the metaphysical foundation of a philosophical religion.15 Note that the theocratic character of the religious community does not depend on the 15

For the loose way in which I use “God,” see above, n. 10.

The concept of a philosophical religion

7

rule of a specific social group, but is a function of its rational order. A rationally ordered democracy, for example, would also count as a theocracy on this view.16 In the ideal theocracy, as we will see, God’s rule and self-rule coincide. Although proponents of a philosophical religion from Plato to Spinoza sometimes describe God metaphorically as “craftsman,” this should not obscure the emphatically non-anthropomorphic character of their philosophical theology.17 God does not act on the basis of deliberation and choice, but through the causal necessity governing “the derivation of an intellectum from an intellect” (Guide 2.20, 219/313).18 He also does not direct things to a good outside himself. As the most perfect being, God is the good towards which the universe is ordered. Things share in his perfection as much as their place in that order allows. This order is emphatically nonanthropocentric. It is best understood in terms of the principle of plenitude that equates being with goodness or perfection: God brings “into being everything whose existence is possible, existence being indubitably a good” (Guide 3.25, 368/506). On the scale of perfection human beings occupy an intermediate level. According to medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers, for example, they are above minerals, plants, and animals, but below the celestial spheres and their incorporeal movers.19 Why is the best human life a life ordered towards attaining Godlikeness through the perfection of reason? The metaphysical argument for this claim is that reason is our nature’s distinctive feature in virtue of which we are human, as well as our nature’s most valuable feature because we share it with God. Since God is the ultimate standard of perfection we need to find out how our nature falls short of God to determine what we must do to attain Godlikeness. For one thing, we have only the capacity to know by nature, unlike God who is actual knowledge. Hence the best life is a life devoted to pursuing knowledge. We cannot, however, spend all our time studying science and philosophy. For again unlike God, we are not pure but embodied rational beings. As a consequence we are not self-sufficient, but need many things to sustain ourselves. These needs give rise to non-rational desires, the desire for “food, drink, and sex,” for example, or the desire for 16

17 18 19

Aristotle and Spinoza, for example, partly dissociate the value of the political order from the form of government. A democracy, aristocracy, or monarchy are good if they promote the common good and bad if they promote the good of the rulers; see Pol. 3.6–7 and the argument of the TP. For Plato, see the Timaeus; for Spinoza, see KV 1.9. Maimonides publicly criticizes, but esoterically endorses, this view as we will see in chapter 3. A notable exception is Clement who stresses the world’s anthropocentric order; see, for example, Paed. 1.2, 6.5–6.

8

What is a philosophical religion?

“power, victory, and honor” (Rep. 580e–581a). Whereas the perfection of reason is good without qualification because we share it with God, the objects desired by the soul’s non-rational parts are good only as means to perfecting reason. Since God has no body, he needs no food, drink, or sex. And since he has no battles to fight or competitions to win he can do without the desire for power, victory, and honor.20 We, on the other hand, need external goods such as wealth and goods of the body such as health. We need money, for example, to buy food, food to keep the body in good health, and health to be able to study the sciences and philosophy which we cannot do well if we are sick or hungry. And without the desire for power, victory, and honor we would be unable to overcome the internal and external obstacles that lie on our way to intellectual perfection because we are part of the physical world. Given our embodiment, then, our nonrational desires are necessary to create the conditions under which we can devote ourselves to attaining Godlikeness. One further implication of our embodiment is that, on account of our many needs, we cannot achieve perfection without the help of others. Absolutely speaking, the best life is not a political life. God, for example, needs nobody to assist him in his endeavors. We, however, although we may be able to survive on our own, must collaborate with others if we want not only a life, but a good life – that is, a life in which our needs are efficiently fulfilled and which leaves us leisure to fully achieve our potential through cultural and intellectual pursuits. By dividing labor and focusing on the tasks to which we are best suited, we both contribute to the common good and ensure the realization of our own good. For proponents of a philosophical religion assume that the best state of the community coincides with the best state of each of its members. In a divinely ordered community the production and distribution of instrumental goods is, of course, regulated by the aim to bring about the greatest possible degree of intellectual perfection. Even if we know, however, that intellectual perfection is the objectively best state for us, we still need to be motivated to actually study science and philosophy instead of making food, drink, and sex, or power, victory, and honor the focus of our life. In addition to the metaphysical argument, proponents of a philosophical religion thus also offer a psychological argument for the claim that the best life is a life ordered towards the perfection of reason: intellectual activity is the most pleasant activity and hence the 20

Strictly speaking, the same holds for bodies that are not subject to our limitations, for example the celestial spheres according to Aristotelians.

The concept of a philosophical religion

9

thing we should most desire. It is both objectively and subjectively superior to the goods aimed at by our non-rational desires. Intellectual perfection as the goal of the best life provides the measure for determining the right amount of instrumental goods such as food, drink, and sex, or power, victory, and honor. Whatever takes away from the contemplative life is either too much or too little. Observing the right measure is also crucial for preserving the political order. Without it, conflicts over material goods arise with the effect that some citizens get more and others less than their due. This right measure with respect to the individual and political management of our needs constitutes the moral virtues, for example moderation, courage, and justice. To have a virtuous character means to desire the appropriate amount of instrumental goods for the attainment of intellectual perfection. The desire to know leading to intellectual perfection by the same token ensures the motivation for moral conduct. We seek sufficient food, drink, and sex to keep in good health because good health is necessary for contemplation. But we do not spend more time on these things than strictly necessary. Hence we are moderate. We defend our community against its enemies because we consider physical pain less harmful than being forced to give up the contemplative life in the wake of defeat. But we will not recklessly endanger ourselves for the sake of power, victory, or honor. Hence we are courageous. We want our fair share of instrumental goods, but we neither want more nor envy others the share due to them. Hence we are just. Our non-rational desires thus are in harmony with the prescriptions of reason. In analogy to the prescriptions of medical science that aim at producing health, we can describe the moral and political norms of a divinely ordered community as prescriptions of a science of living well that aims at producing Godlikeness. If we master this science and are motivated to follow its prescription we have attained complete self-rule – a life in which all choices are made by reason and supported by desire. In other words: we both know the good and are motivated to act according to this knowledge. To be ruled by reason means to be self-ruled because we are ruled by the distinctly human part of our soul rather than by non-rational desires that we share with plants and animals or by laws imposed on us from the outside. Selfrule is thus contrasted with two forms of enslavement, one internal, the other external.21 Some proponents of a philosophical religion claim that in a state of complete self-rule conventional notions of “good” and “bad” 21

See, for example, Rep. 577d and 590c–d.

10

What is a philosophical religion?

are no longer meaningful: we do not eat healthy food because it is said to be good or avoid unhealthy food because it is said to be bad, but we choose to eat what we know efficiently satisfies our current nutritional needs. All choices come down to determining which course of action under a particular set of circumstances is most conducive to intellectual perfection.22 We can describe this form of self-rule as practical wisdom, in contrast to theoretical wisdom which is the perfection we share with God. Theoretical wisdom, however, is not only the goal towards which a life ruled by reason is ordered. It also provides the knowledge of the order of things and our place in that order required for self-rule.23 We must understand that God orders nature towards what is best and determine what this means for us. Since reason, as we saw, is both the feature that sets us apart from other natural things (minerals, plants, and animals) and the feature we have in common with God, we attain our distinctive perfection and contribute to the perfection of the whole by perfecting reason. Once the goal is set by theoretical wisdom, practical wisdom determines the path to the goal in light of the particular circumstances under which we live. Since political collaboration is a condition for attaining perfection, practical wisdom must include knowledge of the political order. A shoemaker, for example, must understand the order of the political community of which shoemaking is a part and by which its purpose is determined. He could also be compelled to produce shoes by the ruler, but if he understands how his craft is linked to other crafts, the human need it fulfills, and how it contributes to the common good, he will grasp the reasons why he does what he does and in this sense rule himself. Consider the sovereignty of a ruler who directs all activities in the political community towards the common good on the basis of political science. The shoemaker example suggests that all members of the community can share in this sovereignty and thus act in a self-directed way to the extent they attain the ruler’s political science and understand their particular task in its light. God as the principle governing both the natural order and the good moral-political order holds this body of theoretical and practical knowledge together which self-rule demands. The ideal religious community thus turns out to be a community of philosophers whose life is ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason. God rules directly without the 22 23

See, for example, Maimonides, Guide 1.2 and Spinoza, E4p68. The following paragraph paraphrases a passage in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı (Falsafat Arist.u¯.ta¯ l¯ıs, 68/79) which I will discuss in chapter 3.

The concept of a philosophical religion

11

need for prescriptions and institutions that put order into human affairs. In this community, then, God’s rule and self-rule coincide.

The handmaid of philosophy How do proponents of a philosophical religion explain that a religion of the kind just described seems to have little in common with the historical forms of religion such as Judaism, Christianity, or Islam? What is the purpose of laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship? And how does the concept of God as Reason square with the God of traditional religion who speaks, gives laws, performs miracles, gets angry, has mercy, and so forth? The answer to these questions is based on two claims: a systematic claim that non-philosophical devices are necessary to order a religious community towards what is best and an empirical claim that the historical forms of a given religious tradition fulfill the role assigned to these non-philosophical devices. The key premise to justify the systematic claim is that we differ in our moral dispositions and intellectual potential. We differ, moreover, not only from others, but also from ourselves at different stages of our moral and intellectual development. According to proponents of a philosophical religion, human beings occupy a peculiar place in the natural order. We neither follow the directives of reason by nature – like, for example, the celestial spheres – nor are we like animals just driven by natural instincts. Instead we deliberate and choose between different options. Unlike the life of the celestial spheres, therefore, our life is not automatically divinely ordered. It depends on whether we choose to follow reason or our non-rational desires. Given that intellectual activity is both the best and the most pleasant state to be in, the choice would seem easy. But as we saw, one difference between God and us is that human reason is actualized only at a relatively late stage in life. After all, nobody is born a philosopher. Whereas our non-rational desires are in place from the start and require no particular skills to be satisfied, the desire to know needs to be carefully cultivated and only attains its goal after rigorous training. Left to our own devices we might never discover that there is a good above food, drink, and sex or power, victory, and honor. Moreover, most of us do not develop a strong taste for science and philosophy even when we grow up. The upshot is that only a few human beings fulfill the moral and intellectual conditions for a philosophical life. Most are non-philosophers. Hence a community of accomplished philosophers is an ideal that cannot be realized given the diversity of human nature.

12

What is a philosophical religion?

The divine order of things human, then, is not a given, but requires a good deal of pedagogical and political guidance. This is the task of the founders and leaders of the religious community. As pedagogical-political guides they mediate God’s rule to the moral-political realm by ordering the community towards what is best on the model of the natural order. They thus imitate God’s activity in nature. We can now see why a philosophical religion must be grounded on intellectual perfection: only a person who has perfected reason – that is, a philosopher – can ensure God’s rule over human beings by establishing a rational and hence divine moral-political order. Moreover, a philosopher who desires knowledge above all cannot be corrupted by wealth or power. As a consequence he also has the moral integrity to implement what he knows is best for the community.24 To say that the founders and leaders of the religious community must be philosophers need not contradict the claim that the order of the religious community must be determined through revelation. For if God is the cause of all knowledge, including the knowledge of the good towards which the religious community is ordered, then philosophically determining the good does not differ from determining it through revelation: rational insight and revelation are the same. Since the community’s members in need of guidance are nonphilosophers, however, intellectual perfection is a necessary, but not a sufficient, condition for being a religious leader. In addition, pedagogical and political skills are required: the skills of a legislator, poet, and orator, who can convey the philosopher’s knowledge and motivation to non-philosophers by translating the prescriptions of reason into laws, simplifying and illustrating philosophical concepts, and providing incentives to do what is right. The difference between the philosopher and the prophet is that, while both know the good, the prophet also has the skills to convey the good to non-philosophers and motivate them to do it. Going back to the analogy between medical science and the science of living, we can compare the non-philosophical devices used for this purpose to a doctor’s prescriptions and the explanations he gives for why the prescriptions should be followed. Given that Godlikeness attained through intellectual perfection is the highest good, the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship that make up a religious tradition must imitate practical and theoretical wisdom as much as the abilities of non-philosophers allow. Serving to convey 24

Note that unlike the philosopher’s knowledge, the philosopher’s moral integrity can be replaced by a system of checks and balances.

The concept of a philosophical religion

13

philosophical contents to non-philosophers, their role is that of philosophy’s handmaid. Since non-philosophers are subdivided into those who have and those who lack the intellectual potential to become philosophers, the program fulfills both a pedagogical and a political purpose, preparing not-yet-philosophers for the philosophical life and replacing philosophy for non-philosophers by nature. Its overall goal is to lead all members of the community to the highest possible perfection while taking their temporary or permanent limitations into account. But must the legal and narrative contents of a religion not be dictated by God to count as divine? Not according to proponents of a philosophical religion. Although the concept of God as a lawgiver is important for pedagogical reasons, it is philosophically unsound. Philosophers can, however, describe the pedagogical-political program as the implementation of divine commandments if they adopt a distinction first made explicit by Aristotle: the commandments are not divine because they were given by God, but because God is the end “for the sake of which wisdom commands” (EE 8.3, 1249b14–15). Moreover, the philosophical concept of revelation described above can accommodate non-philosophical elements of a religious tradition: for if the philosopher’s knowledge of the good is revealed and then imitated by the prophet’s laws, poetry, and oratory, the imitation depends on that knowledge and can thus be described as part of the process of revelation. In this way the concepts of revelation and divine commandments can be retained to describe the source and nature of the pedagogical-political program, although philosophers and non-philosophers will understand them differently. What is the philosopher-prophet’s motivation to set up a pedagogicalpolitical program? While the desire to know qualifies him to rule because it makes him immune to the lures of wealth and power, it is not clear why he would want to rule – that is, leave the contemplative life to put order into human affairs. The standard answer given by proponents of a philosophical religion relies on an ontological principle in the Platonic tradition that can be described as ontological generosity: a perfect thing “flows over,” that is shares its perfection with less perfect things. As Plato says in the Timaeus: the goodness of the demiurge – that is, Divine Reason – implies that he is “without envy” and hence wants “everything to become as much like himself as possible” (29d–e). Proponents of a philosophical religion apply this principle to the moral-political realm: the leaders of the religious community not only imitate God in what they do – ordering things towards what is best – but also in why they do it – because they are “without envy” and want to share their perfection with the community.

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What is a philosophical religion?

A crucial question for proponents of a philosophical religion is how a pedagogical-political program, designed by philosophers on the basis of a philosophical concept of the good, should be related to the historical forms of a religious-cultural tradition. After all, the actual beliefs and practices of pagans, Jews, Christians, and Muslims, and the institutions that shape them, lack a philosophical foundation. One solution is a cultural revolution in which the old system of beliefs, practices, and institutions is replaced through a new one designed by the philosopher. This is Plato’s proposal in the Republic: the rulers must first “wipe clean” their “sketching slate” (501a), by sending “everyone in the city over ten years old into the country,” namely everyone whose beliefs and practices have been corrupted by the old system. “Then they will take possession of the children . . . and bring them up in their own customs and laws, which are the ones we have described” (540e–541a). The children brought up under the new system turn into the good citizens designed on the rulers’ sketching slate. In the Laws, by contrast, Plato adopts a different strategy. The existing beliefs, practices, and institutions, he contends, were, in fact, established by philosopherrulers. Only later was their purpose misunderstood. Hence they need not be replaced but only restored to their original purpose. Plato can then engage in the philosophical reinterpretation of Greek cultural forms as if they were part of a pedagogical-political program designed by philosophers. As a rule, later proponents of a philosophical religion follow Plato’s reform approach, reinterpreting the historical forms of their religious tradition as if Moses, Christ, or Muhammad had been accomplished philosophers who established them for the guidance of non-philosophers. They thus redirect the contents of their religious tradition to a concept of the good supplied by philosophy. Sometimes revolution and reinterpretation are combined. Thus Christian philosophers in antiquity reject pagan beliefs, practices, and institutions as fundamentally corrupt and champion their replacement through philosophically reinterpreted forms of Christianity. One implication of the claim that the historical forms of a religious tradition are an imitation of philosophy is that they are similar, but not identical, to the philosophical doctrines they represent. Strictly speaking, therefore, they are not true. Does this mean that the things the prophets say – for example about a God who speaks, gives laws, and so forth – are nothing but pedagogically well-intentioned falsehoods? To defuse this concern proponents of a philosophical religion argue that only if taken literally prophetic parables are false. Their allegorical sense, by contrast, consists in sound philosophical doctrines. These doctrines can be disclosed through allegorical interpretation. While taken literally a religious tradition

The concept of a philosophical religion

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is pedagogically and politically useful but not true, taken allegorically it is true but not pedagogically and politically useful. Philosophical doctrines can thus be located in, but not learned from, a religious tradition. As a consequence, the transition from the literal to the allegorical content can only be made by someone with prior philosophical training. This, in turn, implies that philosophy is not only the foundation and the goal of religion, but also holds the key to its true content. As we saw, the distinction between religion’s true and literal content is a consequence of the division of human beings into philosophers and non-philosophers. On the assumption that only philosophers have the intellectual skills to understand the philosophical doctrines corresponding to religion’s true content, proponents of a philosophical religion normally oppose making philosophy and allegorical interpretations public. Nonphilosophers, they argue, would fall into nihilism if religion’s literal content, on which their perfection depends, is called into question. Since they lack the intellectual skills to move from philosophy’s imitation to philosophy proper, they would end up without either. The key features of religion as philosophy’s handmaid can be illustrated through God’s representation as a king in Scripture. According to proponents of a philosophical religion the founders of their religion conceived this representation as a pedagogically and politically useful imitation of the philosophical doctrine of God having the first rank in existence. On the most basic level the metaphor invests laws with divine authority, suggesting that God established them like a king who rewards obedience and punishes disobedience. But it also conveys an approximate idea of God’s rank to non-philosophers who cannot understand the ontological order, but do understand the political order. Taken literally, the philosopher rejects the attributes of a king as an inadequate description of God. Allegorically, however, the prophetic representation and the philosophical doctrine of God agree. Not-yet-philosophers, upon turning into actual philosophers, replace the literal with the allegorical content. However, neither the philosophical doctrine of God nor the corresponding allegorical content of Scripture should be taught in public. For this would lead non-philosophers to reject God’s representation as a king. And since they are unable to understand the true doctrine of God, they would remain without a concept of God altogether. The distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers shows that proponents of a philosophical religion are not committed to a notion of substantive equality. The rank of human beings is determined by the degree of perfection they attain. In some respects, however, a philosophical religion

16

What is a philosophical religion?

is strikingly egalitarian.25 At the outset all members of the community have an equal opportunity to reach the highest level of perfection. Moreover, all members will be led to the highest level of perfection accessible to them. Finally, since the goods desired by those at the high end of perfection – the truths of science and philosophy – are not scarce, their rank does not lead to an unjust distribution of resources. On the other hand, many proponents of a philosophical religion think that the community attains its greatest overall perfection if philosophers devote most of their time to study and non-philosophers most of their time to providing for the community’s material needs. In at least one case, however, this social teleology is rejected. Maimonides argues that the community’s overall perfection is greater if all members devote a small part of their time to working for their subsistence and the remaining time to perfecting reason through study (Madda, Laws Concerning the Study of the Torah 1.11–12, 3.10–11). Philosophy and religion Let me add three clarifications to the role I attribute to philosophy in the context of a philosophical religion. First, the commitment to philosophy must not entail an unqualified commitment to Greek philosophy, or a particular school of Greek philosophy. Some proponents of a philosophical religion claim that the founder of their religious community is superior to Plato or Aristotle. By this, however, they only mean that Moses, Christ, or Muhammad were better philosophers than their Greek colleagues, not that there is something in their teachings that reason can in principle not grasp. Philosophy remains the primary path to perfection. When Jewish, Christian, or Muslim philosophers disagree with their Greek colleagues, therefore, the disagreement should be treated like Aristotle’s claim to hold the truth in higher esteem than Plato (EN 1.6, 1096a15). By following the better argument rather than Plato or Aristotle, proponents of a philosophical religion honor the truth they claim to be embodied in their religion. Second, neither claiming that the founder of a religious community is superior to Greek philosophers, nor claiming that a religious tradition is unconditionally true has doctrinal implications. Although the allegorical content of religious texts like the Bible or the Koran is said to coincide with 25

With respect to gender, proponents of a philosophical religion often adopt the egalitarian stance of Plato in the Republic (see 451b–457c), including a number of medieval Aristotelians who side with Plato against Aristotle on this issue. See Clement, Paed. 4, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Mab¯adi 12.8, and Averroes, Comm. Rep., 53–59.

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true philosophy, true philosophy cannot be learned from studying these texts. It can only be disclosed through interpretation by someone with prior philosophical training. This also makes room for epistemological modesty. Some proponents of a philosophical religion conceive philosophy as an ongoing project, open to revision and refinement, that gradually leads closer to the truth their religion contains.26 Third, if philosophical doctrines cannot be learned from religious texts, it is not possible that these texts were the source of Plato’s and Aristotle’s philosophy. The “dependency thesis” by which the philosophers discussed in this book are often said to have justified the study of Greek philosophy is less widely held than scholars have suggested.27 When it is held, it normally refers to an alleged oral tradition of knowledge. To see that proponents of a philosophical religion deny that studying religious texts can lead to wisdom is crucial for understanding how they justify the place of philosophy in their communities. For if the religious texts contain, but do not teach, philosophy, nobody can blame the intellectually gifted members of the community for turning to outside sources, for example Plato or Aristotle. At least implicitly, therefore, proponents of a philosophical religion admit that their religions lack the resources to ground their own truth. Theocracy and autonomy Did the eighteenth century witness a paradigm shift from “a conception of morality as obedience” to “a conception of morality as self-governance” as some scholars claim?28 At first view the purpose of religion as philosophy’s handmaid seems to be captured well by this thesis: God orders the life of non-philosophers towards what is best through laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. It thus seems that non-philosophers can act rationally only on condition of heteronomy: if they submit to the authority of religious guides, like patients following the instructions of a doctor. Proponents of a philosophical religion deny, however, that the distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers can be mapped onto a dichotomy of autonomy and obedience. Doing so would be wrong for several reasons: First, obedience is indeed important, but for philosophers and non-philosophers alike, since neither are capable of rational self-rule as children. Moreover, shaping non-rational desires from childhood on is a contribution of religion to autonomy. For by obeying 26 27

See, for example, Origen, Maimonides, and Delmedigo discussed in chapters 2 and 3. 28 Schneewind (1998), 4. See, for example, Ridings (1995).

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What is a philosophical religion?

the rules imposed through religious authority, children are habituated to act according to what is objectively right and wrong. When they grow up, their non-rational desires will be in agreement with the prescriptions of reason, instead of pushing them to act against their better knowledge.29 The representation of God as a lawgiver and king serves this educational purpose: God’s laws replace the philosopher’s knowledge of the good, and fear of punishment and hope for reward the philosopher’s motivation to do what reason prescribes. But do grown-up non-philosophers not remain excluded from knowledge of the good, as well as from the desire to perfect reason that motivates philosophers to act according to this knowledge? We saw that self-rule requires extensive knowledge about God, nature, and the moral-political order. Proponents of a philosophical religion contend that although explanations and arguments set forth by philosophy’s handmaid are inferior to those set forth by philosophy itself, the difference is one of degree, not of essence. Hence both philosophers and non-philosophers have reasons for what they do, only the epistemic quality of the reasons varies. Consider again the analogy between health and human perfection. The rank of philosophers would correspond to doctors who are experts in all fields of medicine. These doctors would always do, without any compulsion, what is best for their health on the basis of exact medical knowledge – assuming that their non-rational desires have been properly shaped from childhood on. Next come doctors with a more limited scope of expertise who would need to consult experts with respect to health questions outside their area of competence. They would, however, still have a sufficiently accurate understanding of the medical issues involved to be able to claim that they know what they are doing and are not following another’s prescriptions blindly or under compulsion. On the next rank are laypeople with a strong background in biology and chemistry whose understanding of the medical issues is again less accurate than that of the second group of doctors and who would thus depend more strongly on expert advice. The descent continues until we reach the lowest rank, occupied by children for example, who only exercise or take medicine to avoid punishment or get a reward. Everything below the exact knowledge of the first doctor is analogous to the contents of religion which replace the philosopher’s knowledge and give reasons to non-philosophers for doing what reason prescribes. Since nobody is born wise, the explanations and arguments offered by religion are a stepping stone to full rational self-rule for philosophers as well. During the period of transition from being a potential philosopher 29

In Aristotelian terms, they will be virtuous rather than weak-willed or continent.

The concept of a philosophical religion

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to being an actual philosopher, the understanding based on religion is a placeholder for the comprehensive knowledge required for rationally ordering one’s life. Without religion, therefore, not-yet-philosophers could not pursue perfection in a self-directed way since the knowledge needed for doing so is only acquired upon attaining perfection. How are non-philosophers motivated to do what reason prescribes? Obedience is only found at the bottom of the scale: at the level of children and non-philosophers with unusual limitations who can only be motivated to act rationally through fear of punishment and desire for reward. Since the defining feature of human beings is reason and the narrative and legal contents of religion embody reason, even a person who does what reason prescribes on account of religious coercion is more self-determined (that is, determined by reason) than a person who fails to act thus on account of non-rational desires. Higher up on the scale the proposals for motivating non-philosophers vary. Since for Plato there is no transition from opinions derived from sense-perception and knowledge derived from the intellectual apprehension of incorporeal Forms, Platonists often think that non-philosophers cannot be motivated by the desire to know. They will primarily pursue goals dictated by non-rational desires – that is, money or honor – yet under the guidance of an imperfect form of practical wisdom. For Aristotle, by contrast, all cognitions – from sense-perception to the grasp of the first principles of being – are part of a continuum of knowledge and provide the pleasure of intellectual activity. Hence Aristotelians are more inclusive. Although the highest perfection can only be attained through demonstrative knowledge, the imperfect forms of understanding accessible to non-philosophers count as approximations. For some Aristotelians these imperfect forms of understanding provide sufficient pleasure to be able to become the main object of desire for non-philosophers. Hence non-philosophers, too, can live a life that is not only ordered by reason, but also aims at the perfection of reason. This view underlies Maimonides’s claim that philosophers and non-philosophers alike should devote most of their time to study. Our degree of self-rule, then, depends on two variables: the stage of our intellectual development and our overall intellectual potential. The crucial point is that the legal and narrative contents of religion are employed to maximize self-rule: to replace obedience based on coercion as much as possible with self-rule based on informed consent. The concept of degrees of self-rule shows that the simplistic dichotomy of philosophers and non-philosophers which proponents of a philosophical religion at times employ is in reality shorthand to indicate the first and the last level

20

What is a philosophical religion?

of a spectrum with many levels in between. The rhetoric of intellectual elitism should not obscure the fact that their considered position is a more subtle model of gradation in which the boundaries between philosophers and non-philosophers are permeable in various ways. Contextualism and progress The distinction between religion’s allegorical content, corresponding to the doctrines demonstrated in philosophy, and religion’s literal content, which imitates philosophy and serves pedagogical-political purposes, allows proponents of a philosophical religion to respond to an additional concern: that a religious community’s claim to have a true religious tradition must lead to violent conflict with other religious communities which make the same claim. For the claim to truth must not entail a claim to exclusivity, since the true content of religion can be imitated in different ways depending on particular natural and cultural circumstances. Hence proponents of a philosophical religion can be universalists with respect to the true core of their religion and the standard of perfection towards which the religious community is ordered while being contextual pluralists with respect to the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship through which the true core is imitated and perfection achieved. Recall the representation of God as a king in Scripture: this representation can vary according to the varying customs observed at courts in different cultural contexts. But while the representations may be many, what they represent – that is, the concept of God as the first cause – is always the same. Some proponents of a philosophical religion link contextualism with a concept of progress. Human beings, they argue, are by nature not disposed to cultural revolutions and the founder of a religious community is not acting in a cultural void. Hence he can only reform an existing cultural framework, but not exchange it for a completely new one, designed in light of philosophical ideals. Consider the sacrifices prescribed by the Law of Moses. From a philosopher’s point of view it is absurd to sacrifice to a God who is perfect. The puzzle of the inclusion of sacrifices in the Law of Moses can be solved, however, if they are considered as part of Moses’s response to paganism. While in Egypt the Hebrews became habituated to the corrupt beliefs, practices, and institutions of their pagan masters. If human nature is taken to resist radical change, Moses could only reform, but not completely replace them. With respect to sacrificing to idols he decided to eradicate idolatry and hold on to sacrifices, while redirecting them to the one true God. A similar case can be made to explain the

The concept of a philosophical religion

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anthropomorphic passages in the Law of Moses: here Moses’s compromise was to establish God’s numerical unity without abolishing his representation in human form. On this interpretation many religious beliefs, practices, and institutions are not necessary elements of a philosophical religion, but reflect contingent cultural circumstances. The nature of nonphilosophers is thus not the only constraint with which the founder of a religious community must contend. The degree to which he can order the community towards what is best is also limited by the beliefs, practices, and institutions under which the members of the community were brought up. This implies, for one thing, that the excellence of religious communities can vary depending on the circumstances under which they were established. Moreover, religious communities can evolve through the replacement of inadequate beliefs, practices, and institutions with adequate ones in a process of gradual religious reformation. In the course of this process the gap between non-philosophers and philosophers will narrow since the former will progressively be habituated to the beliefs and practices of the latter. This progressive habituation, in turn, allows for the gradual public disclosure of both philosophical doctrines and religion’s allegorical content. A stronger egalitarian commitment linked to the concept of progress is based on the doctrine of reincarnation.30 Plato, for example, argues that if we live a virtuous life, our soul moves up on the scale of perfection from one embodiment to the next. For Christian philosophers like Origen of Alexandria all rational souls were equally united with Divine Reason in an initial state of perfection. Turning away from Divine Reason – thus they interpret the biblical “Fall” – leads to the embodiment of the souls. In successive embodiments the souls gradually move further away from or back up to Divine Reason depending on how virtuous a life they lead. Christianity’s mission is to turn humankind as a whole back to Divine Reason by directing all human beings to perfection: philosophers by means of philosophy and non-philosophers by means of philosophy’s handmaid. In the course of several embodiments, however, non-philosophers, once turned in the right direction, will also be able to gradually replace philosophy’s imitation with philosophy itself. In this sense the advent of Christianity is seen as a turning point in the history of humankind: it initiates the restoration of the souls to the state of intellectual perfection which they had lost through the Fall. Christian proponents of a philosophical religion thus expect the ideal community of philosophers who live a perfectly self-ruled 30

For the following, see my discussion of Plato and Origen in chapter 2.

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What is a philosophical religion?

life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason to arise at the end of times. Tensions in the concept of a philosophical religion One tension in the concept of a philosophical religion concerns the validity of the pedagogical-political program. Consider the actions its laws prescribe. Even if the laws were indeed given by a philosopher-prophet, they could not be tailored to the particular requirements of each member of the community but must be based on average considerations. Hence reason and the Divine Law may at times be at odds. The Muslim philosopher Avicenna, for example, describes how he uses wine as a means to further his intellectual perfection: Every time I was perplexed about a problem concerning which I was unable to find the middle term in a syllogism, I would repair on its account to the mosque and worship, praying humbly to the All-Creator to disclose to me its obscurity and make its difficulty easy. At night I would return home, set the lamp before me and occupy myself with reading and writing. Whenever I felt drowsy or weakening, I would turn aside to drink a cup of wine to regain my strength and then I would go back to my reading. (S¯ıra, 28–30/29–31)

From the philosopher’s perspective the prohibition of wine (Koran 5:92) has a sound rationale: drinking wine would be detrimental to the moral and intellectual perfection of most members of the community because they lack the self-control and discernment for its proper use. This does not apply to Avicenna, however, who puts wine into the service of the Divine Law’s goal (at least as the philosophers understand it). More generally, the question arises whether philosophers are bound by the prescriptions of their religion if they have attained the end for which these prescriptions are pedagogical means. As a rule, proponents of a philosophical religion assert that they are. One reason is that philosophers are concerned for the perfection of non-philosophers which depends on observing the laws. They thus have a strong incentive for setting a good example. A second reason is that philosophers, like everyone else, are embodied. From this two things follow: They are not continuously in a state of perfection and thus must observe the laws to ensure that they do not lose control over their body. And they depend on the community’s social order for their own perfection which would be undermined if they were to stop observing the laws and thereby encourage non-philosophers

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to do the same. A third reason, finally, is that non-observance would expose philosophers to the charge of impiety by non-philosophers. The problem of the validity of the pedagogical-political program is further compounded by the fact that it was not established by philosopherprophets and that philosophical reinterpretation is constrained by the actual contents of the religious tradition. It can only bring these contents closer to a philosophically sound pedagogical-political program but not transform them completely. One way to address this problem is through the concept of gradual progress that I described above. On this view many of the historical forms of a religious tradition are determined by a particular context. To the extent they are construed as not intrinsically rational but concessions that the lawgiver made on account of the community’s corrupt beliefs, practices, and institutions they can legitimately be replaced at a later stage of the community’s development. This allows bringing the historical materials gradually closer to a pedagogical-political program as it would be if it had been established by philosopher-prophets under ideal circumstances. The philosophical reinterpretation of beliefs, practices, and institutions becomes a historical process that starts with the founder of the religious community and continues with his successors. Another source of tensions is those contents of a religious tradition that resist integration into a philosophical religion to a greater or lesser degree. As I pointed out above, a philosophical religion can accommodate a wide range of non-philosophical devices through the concept of a pedagogicalpolitical program designed for the guidance of non-philosophers. But not all beliefs, practices, and institutions can be accommodated equally well. Consider, for example, doctrines of the afterlife which occupy an important place in the religious traditions under consideration. It is not clear whether all proponents of a philosophical religion are committed to the immortality of the soul. And when they are, they often hold a concept of immortality that does not fit well with traditional views. Even if medieval Aristotelians, for example, take the actualized intellect to be immortal – a question that has been the object of considerable scholarly dispute – this form of immortality is impersonal and excludes non-philosophers.31 It thus hardly captures traditional notions of the afterlife. Be that as it may, neither the metaphysical nor the psychological argument for intellectual perfection as the highest good depends on the soul’s immortality. Most human beings, Spinoza argues, believe that if “minds die with the body” they should: 31

On skepticism about immortality, see Pines (1979) and (1981).

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What is a philosophical religion?

return to their natural disposition, and would prefer to govern all their actions according to lust, and to obey fortune rather than themselves. These opinions seem no less absurd to me than if someone, because he does not believe he can nourish his body with good food to eternity, should prefer to fill himself with poisons and other deadly things, or because he sees that the mind is not eternal, or immortal, should prefer to be mindless, and to live without reason. (E5p41s)

Proponents of a philosophical religion, however, often do say things about the afterlife and other difficult doctrines that are closer to traditional views than one would expect. Such statements may not always be philosophically motivated. In this book I have decided to avoid this murky terrain. towards a history of philosophical religions I turn now to a brief sketch of the scope and limits of my historical project. While certainly daring, the interpretation of religious traditions as philosophical religions was by no means marginal. It was set forth by pagan philosophers and their Jewish, Christian, and Muslim heirs in several contexts from antiquity to the early modern period. My goal in this book is not to give an exhaustive account of this history. Instead I will focus on a selection of representative cases that can be related to each other in a coherent narrative. I start with the divine nomoi of Magnesia, the fictional Cretan colony of Plato’s Laws, explaining their nature and purpose and their place in Plato’s political philosophy. Then I show how Philo of Alexandria (d. c.50 ce) reinterprets the nomoi of Moses on the model of the nomoi of Magnesia and how Clement (d. 215) and Origen of Alexandria (d. c.254) present Christ as extending the pedagogical-political principles embodied in these nomoi to humankind as a whole. Next I turn to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı (d. c.950), Averroes (d. 1198), and Maimonides (d. 1204) who adopt the Platonic model in the early Middle Ages to reinterpret the Divine Law of Muslims and Jews. My main narrative ends with Spinoza (d. 1677). I argue that Spinoza’s interpretation of Christianity in important ways builds on the medieval interpretation of Islam and Judaism and explain how it is related to Spinoza’s critique of religion. In the epilogue I briefly show that, Spinoza’s critique of religion notwithstanding, philosophers from Lessing to Hegel continue to interpret the relationship between reason and religion along the lines of a philosophical religion. Finally I argue that the main objection against the concept of a philosophical religion stems from the emergence of a new moral paradigm in the eighteenth century according to which all human beings are equally able to rule themselves.

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Even in the cases that I do discuss, I will not offer a full account of the sources. My thesis is that the conceptual framework established by Plato provides the key to understanding how proponents of a philosophical religion worked out the relationship between philosophy and the historical forms of their religious traditions. Platonic themes, however, were often interpreted through an Aristotelian, Stoic, or Neoplatonic lens. I will only highlight these developments if they illuminate how proponents of a philosophical religion conceived their project. Completing the historical picture and offering a more refined analysis of the sources must remain a task for the future. Let me, however, briefly outline what it would take to complete this task. To begin with, a large part of ancient philosophy can be presented as a history of philosophical religions. A visitor to Hellenistic Athens would find that all major philosophical schools – Platonists, Aristotelians, Epicureans, Stoics, and even Pyrrhonian skeptics – take Godlikeness to be the highest human perfection and promote their philosophy as the path to attain it.32 Particularly important for my project would have been an examination of the connection between law and reason in the Stoics, both in relation to Plato and as a source for the Alexandrians and Spinoza. Moreover, tensions between philosophy and traditional religion, as well as attempts to resolve these tensions, accompany philosophy from the beginning. Xenophanes (sixth–fifth century bce), for example, rejects the anthropomorphic representation of the gods in Greek poetry as incompatible with the philosophical conception of the divine (see DK 21 B10–17). At the same time his contemporary, Theagenes of Rhegion, tries to reconcile them through allegorical interpretation (see DK 8.2). I will only examine these and other issues to the extent they cast light on the main thread of my narrative. Thus I will situate the project of the Alexandrians in the broader context of philosophically reinterpreting cultural-religious traditions in antiquity in chapter 2 and sketch a reading of Aristotle that explains why medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers could take him as endorsing the concept of a philosophical religion in chapter 3. I will also no more than touch on the later Platonic tradition which is likely the most significant omission in my account. Not only are the Alexandrians partly building on and partly competing with this tradition, but it also provides an important pagan parallel to their project, both in terms of the use to which Plato’s

32

See O’Meara (2003), 32–34; O’Meara does not mention Pyrrhonian skepticism, for which see DL 9.65.

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What is a philosophical religion?

political philosophy is put and in terms of the philosophical reinterpretation of pagan religions. There is, moreover, considerable evidence that the later Platonic tradition shaped the Platonism of medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers. My best excuse for omitting a more detailed treatment of Platonism is that much of this work has been done by others. For one thing some of the most intriguing parallels between the later Platonic tradition and the authors I examine – in particular the view of Homer as an accomplished sage and the allegorical interpretation of Homer – have been studied at length by Robert Lamberton, building on earlier work by Buffi`ere and P´epin.33 Equally important for my purpose is a more recent study by Dominic O’Meara who shows against conventional wisdom that Plato’s political philosophy had an important place in Neoplatonism and that its Neoplatonic interpretation helped to shape al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s project.34 O’Meara also points out parallels between the Neoplatonic political program and three later Patristic thinkers: Eusebius, Augustine, and Pseudo-Dionysius. On the other hand, his study does not cover Hellenistic-Jewish and early Christian philosophy which in important ways laid the groundwork for the later developments in Patristic thought. Nor does he discuss Eusebius’s Preparation for the Gospel which I take to be the key text for understanding the role of Plato’s political philosophy in Philo, Clement, and Origen. O’Meara also makes no attempt to work out the interpretation of Plato that motivates the political project of the pagan, Christian, and Muslim philosophers included in his study. In these respects I see my book as complementing his. A comprehensive examination of Patristic attitudes to the concept of a philosophical religion may also cast light on one of the most vexing questions for my project: why was the interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion not revived when Christian philosophers in medieval Europe began to study Greco-Arabic philosophy and science in Latin translation? The fact that Christian philosophers in antiquity did propose such an interpretation implies that nothing in the nature of Christianity precludes it. Yet while the relationship between philosophy and Christianity in the later Middle Ages took on different forms, the two always remained identifiable as two distinct traditions. Thomas Aquinas, for example, argues that central Christian doctrines such as the Trinity and Christ’s incarnation are beyond the reach of reason. Latin Averroists even allow for philosophy and Christian theology to contradict each other on core doctrines. This is 33 34

Lamberton (1986), Buffi`ere (1956), P´epin (1958). See O’Meara (2003). On al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, see also Vallat (2004).

Towards a history of philosophical religions

27

the exact opposite of the position advocated by Averroes with respect to philosophy and Islam. The fact that in the medieval university philosophy and theology were taught in different faculties bears witness to their separation on the institutional level as well. The tensions between philosophy and Christianity culminated in the 1277 condemnation of 219 philosophical and theological theses by Bishop Tempier in Paris which further entrenched the division between Christianity and many of the teachings of the GrecoArabic philosophical corpus that had been translated into Latin. One could point to the fact that the Platonic framework underlying the interpretation of religious traditions as philosophical religions did not play a significant role in the medieval Latin context. This, however, does not answer the question, but only moves it up one level: since Christian appropriations of this Platonic framework were available in Patristic literature, it remains to be explained why it was not adopted for integrating Christianity with Greco-Arabic philosophy in the Middle Ages. Other traditions of Christian thought, too, should be investigated, ranging from Byzantine Christianity to Arabic-Christian philosophers in the Islamic world. Moreover, when Plethon and other Byzantine scholars introduced Plato and later Platonists into Renaissance Italy, some of the interpretative strategies of early Christian proponents of a philosophical religion were used to integrate Platonism and Christianity – for example by Marsilio Ficino, the main translator of Plato from Greek to Latin. As for medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers, a full account would not only include additional authors from the classical period, such as Avicenna in the East, and Ibn B¯ajja and Ibn Tufayl in the West. It would also examine the post-classical philosophical tradition in the East that begins with the integration of Avicenna’s philosophy into the curriculum of traditional Islamic institutions of learning (the madrasa) and continues until the nineteenth century. Thousands of philosophical works from this period are extant whose scholarly study has only just begun.35 A comprehensive account would also include the Jewish philosophical tradition in Christian Europe which unfolds in or responds to the framework established by Maimonides. My brief discussions of Samuel ibn Tibbon in the thirteenth century and Elijah Delmedigo in the fifteenth aim mainly to clarify the positions to which Spinoza is responding. Concerning Spinoza’s interpretation of Christianity, a more nuanced account would show that he is not only engaged in a critical dialogue with medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophy, but also with several other intellectual traditions – from 35

See Wisnovsky (2004).

28

What is a philosophical religion?

the Neo-Stoicism of Justus Lipsius to the Quaker stance on the nature of Scripture. Finally, the fate of the concept of a philosophical religion after Spinoza’s critique of it also requires a much more comprehensive examination than I can offer. reason, religion, and autonomy: revising the conventional wisdom Although the interpretation of historical religions as philosophical religions was set forth in a wide range of contexts from antiquity to the early modern period, scholars have not recognized it as a distinctive way of thinking about philosophy and religion. In the following sections I argue that in several respects we should revise the conventional wisdom in light of the narrative I propose. An encounter between philosophy and religion? One view challenged by the concept of a philosophical religion is that medieval philosophy is best understood as an encounter between philosophy and religion. There are two main ways of describing this encounter. The first is the subordination thesis according to which philosophy became the handmaid of religion. The standard version of this thesis asserts that philosophy was used as a tool to clarify religious doctrines.36 According to Harry Wolfson’s version, on the other hand, philosophy underwent a religious reinterpretation. Philo of Alexandria, Wolfson argues, revised “Greek philosophic concepts” in light of Scripture. His interpretatio hebraica of Greek philosophy became the model for subordinating philosophy to religion in all medieval intellectual traditions up to Spinoza.37 The second way of describing the encounter between philosophy and religion is the conflict thesis proposed by Leo Strauss and his students. According to Strauss a sometimes cleverly disguised, yet irreconcilable conflict between philosophy and religion is at the core of medieval thought.38 Despite the differences between these approaches, the model of the encounter itself is rarely called into question.39 For my purpose it is 36

37 38 39

The description of philosophy as ancilla theologiae goes back to a passage in Peter Damian’s De Divina Omnipotentia 7. For two classical statements of this view, see Baeumker (1927) and Gilson (1929). This approach is also widespread among historians of Jewish philosophy. See the account of Guttmann (1933) and Frank, Leaman, and Manekin (2000). See Wolfson (1973), 60–70. Cf. Wolfson (1947), vol. 2, 439–60. On Strauss’s approach, see below. Of how little use it is for the study of Arabic philosophy has recently been stressed by Gutas (2002).

Reason, religion, and autonomy

29

sufficient to see that it is obviously inadequate for describing the project of a philosophical religion. Let me stress that my contention does not refer to its usefulness for a historical account of how this project came about. Here it may prove helpful to adopt the distinction between outside perspective and inside perspective used by ethnographers for the study of cultures.40 Philo, Clement, and Origen, and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes, and Maimonides, of course, thought about how philosophy relates to their religious tradition because of the encounter between Greek philosophy and Judaism and Christianity in antiquity and the encounter between Greek philosophy and Islam and Judaism in the Middle Ages. Note, however, that an analogous case can be made for pagan philosophers: Platonists, for example, who thought about how philosophy relates to the poetry of Homer or to the Chaldean oracles because of the encounter between Greek philosophy and pagan cultural-religious traditions. Yet from the inside perspective of proponents of a philosophical religion it makes no sense to look at philosophy and religion as two distinct projects that came together in contingent historical settings. Their aim is clearly not to produce a synthesis between philosophy and religion, or to defend the one against the other, or to subordinate the one to the other, and so forth. The distinction between philosophy and religion is not meaningful to them: philosophy is the highest form of worship, the founders of religion were accomplished philosophers, religion’s allegorical content is philosophy, religion’s historical forms are philosophy’s handmaid, and moving from religion’s literal to its allegorical content is only possible through studying philosophy! On the other hand, the model of the encounter is useful for understanding the inside perspective of the scholastic traditions in medieval Europe which took shape after the translation of Greco-Arabic philosophy into Latin. As I pointed out above, the integration of this corpus into Christian contexts was not justified by the interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion. Insofar as the historiography of philosophy is shaped by the character of Christian philosophy, this also helps to explain why an in-depth study of the concept and history of philosophical religions has not been undertaken before. When was autonomy invented? According to Jerome Schneewind the eighteenth century witnessed a fundamental paradigm shift: it turned away from “a conception of morality as obedience” to “a conception of morality as self-governance.” The “new 40

On the discussion of these concepts in the social sciences, see Headland, Pike, and Harris (1990).

30

What is a philosophical religion?

outlook that emerged by the end of the eighteenth century centered on the belief that all normal individuals are equally able to live together in a morality of self-governance.”41 One key feature of the old conception of morality is “the obedience we owe to God.” Another is the unequal ability of human beings for moral agency. Since most “do not understand the reasons for doing what morality directs,” they must submit to the authority of divinely appointed guides with “threats of punishment as well as offers of reward” ensuring “sufficient compliance to bring about moral order.”42 While proponents of a philosophical religion certainly advocate God’s rule, they clearly do not advocate “a conception of morality as obedience.” In the ideal community all citizens enjoy perfect autonomy since God’s rule and self-rule coincide. Although most proponents of a philosophical religion think that this ideal community cannot be realized given the diversity of human nature, they take one of religion’s principal aims to be promoting rational self-rule – a community of “free men” in Plato’s words (Leg. 720d). The simplistic dichotomy of autonomy and obedience is replaced by a model of gradation according to which we can be more or less autonomous. In a theocracy as envisaged by proponents of a philosophical religion, maximizing autonomy is a central concern. The Alexandrian project – between Athens and Jerusalem? The prominent Philo scholar David Runia begins a programmatic paper on “Philo, Alexandrian and Jew” as follows: “What does Jerusalem have to do with Athens?” was the question posed by the Church Father Tertullian in one of his powerful attacks on pagan culture. The answer he expected his rhetorical question to receive was, of course: “nothing at all”. Our answer in the context of this article might rather be: “Alexandria has to do with them both”. . . . The aim of this contribution is to introduce the reader to one of the most outstanding figures in the long history of Alexandria, the Jew Philo. . . . This introductory account will chiefly concentrate on Philo’s thought as seen from the perspective of the interaction between Greek and Jewish ideas that takes place in his works.43

Runia is not the only scholar to quote Tertullian’s famous question. It is invoked often to define the frame of reference within which scholars discuss the nature of Hellenistic-Jewish and early Christian thought. The assumption is that these intellectual traditions are best understood as an encounter between Athens and Jerusalem, the two cities that, by metonymy, 41

Schneewind (1998), 4.

42

Ibid.

43

Runia (1990), 1.

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31

represent philosophy and religion. Tertullian himself, as Runia notes, rejects philosophy: it is the source of all Christian heresies, the “wisdom of the world” of which Paul says in 1 Corinthians 1:27 that it “is called foolishness by the Lord” (Praes. haer. 7). For the most part, however, the attitude of Hellenistic-Jewish and early Christian thinkers to Greek philosophy is less antagonistic. Hence scholars often describe their work as a “synthesis” of elements derived from Athens and Jerusalem. Henry Chadwick, one of the foremost historians of Patristic thought, states the standard view as follows: In a famous passage of high rhetoric Tertullian puts a question that has reverberated down the centuries in the history of Western thought: “What”, he asks, “has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” For his contemporary Clement of Alexandria and his junior Origen, the answer is “Much in every way”. For they represent a coming together of the categories of Biblical and Hellenic thinking, a synthesis which leaves an indelible mark on subsequent theology.44

After setting up the basic framework in this way, scholars often go on to examine how the elements from Athens and Jerusalem relate to each other in a particular author, and then try to locate his “synthesis” on the two-city map. Leaving aside the differences between the various proposals, my claim is that the framework established by Tertullian is itself problematic. It is on account of this framework that the works of philosophers like Philo, Clement, and Origen are rarely studied from a distinctly philosophical perspective.45 The philosophical perspective, however, is clearly the key to understanding their project. Not only is it impossible to distinguish their commitment to philosophy from their commitment to Judaism or Christianity, but their model for explaining the nature and purpose of the historical forms of their religion – that is, “Jerusalem” – is, in fact, distinctly “Athenian”! It is Plato’s concept of a pedagogical-political program designed by philosophers for the guidance of non-philosophers. While scholars generally agree that Plato had a significant influence on what they describe as the “Athenian” side of the Alexandrians – their psychological, cosmological, metaphysical, and ethical doctrines – I claim that Plato had an even more significant influence on their interpretation of “Jerusalem”: the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship that make up Judaism and Christianity. All of these, the Alexandrians argue, serve as 44 45

Chadwick (1966), 1. There are, of course, important exceptions, for example Dillon’s chapter on Philo in his account of Middle Platonism (Dillon 1977), or Boys-Stones’s examination of the Alexandrians in his account of post-Hellenistic philosophy (Boys-Stones 2001).

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What is a philosophical religion?

philosophy’s handmaid. And they substantiate this claim through a philosophical reinterpretation of the historical forms of their religion, modeled on the philosophical reinterpretation of Greek cultural forms in Plato’s Laws. Tertullian’s rhetoric, then, has done a considerable disservice to the study of Jewish and Christian philosophy in antiquity. While the “Athens versus Jerusalem” paradigm is useful for historical accounts from the outside perspective, it misrepresents how philosophers like Philo, Clement, and Origen understood what they were doing. Athens and Jerusalem – a perennial conflict? In 1935 Leo Strauss argued that Plato’s political philosophy is the key to understanding how medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers from al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı onwards conceived the relationship between philosophy and religion. While I agree, of course, that Plato played an important role in the medieval context, I disagree with how Strauss explains this role.46 Strauss’s core argument invokes once again the “Athens versus Jerusalem” paradigm: [Among] the experiences of the past . . . the broadest and deepest as far as we Western men are concerned, are indicated by the name of the two cities Jerusalem and Athens. Western man became what he is and is what he is through the coming together of biblical faith and Greek thought.47

For Strauss Athens and Jerusalem are “incompatible.” While in Jerusalem “the beginning of wisdom is fear of the Lord,” giving rise to a life of pious obedience, in Athens “the beginning of wisdom is wonder,” giving rise to a life devoted to rational inquiry. While both sides stress the importance of morality, they do so for very different reasons. In Jerusalem morality is the fulfillment of God’s will as set forth in the Divine Law. In Athens it is a “condition” for “the quest for knowledge.”48 The approaches are incompatible because premodern philosophers hold that most human beings are non-philosophers: They believed that the gulf separating “the wise” and “the vulgar” was a basic fact of human nature which could not be influenced by any progress of popular education: philosophy, or science, was essentially a privilege of “the few.” They 46 47

48

For criticism of Strauss’s interpretation of medieval philosophy, see Harvey (2001), Tamer (2001), Gutas (2002), and Davidson (2005). Strauss (1967), 377. Elsewhere Strauss claims that “this conflict is characteristic of the West . . . in the wider sense of the term, including . . . the whole Mediterranean basin” – that is, including the Islamic world. Strauss (1981), 120–21. Strauss (1967), 379–80, 403; cf. Strauss (1981), 118.

Reason, religion, and autonomy

33

were convinced that philosophy as such was suspect to, and hated by, the majority of men.49

If non-philosophers hate philosophy, they cannot be motivated to act morally for the sake of contemplation. At the same time, philosophers reject the theological foundation on which the morality of non-philosophers depends: the belief in an anthropomorphic God who rewards obedience and punishes disobedience.50 Hence it is impossible to be genuinely committed to both philosophy and religion. Whereas medieval philosophers agree with religion’s modern critics on the philosophical case against religion, they insist on religion’s necessity for political reasons. Since the gulf between “the wise” and “the vulgar” is “a basic fact of human nature,” a community in which all citizens are guided by reason is out of reach. Only religion can offer pedagogical-political guidance to “the vulgar.” If the philosopher were to disclose his critique of religion in public, he would subvert the community’s moral-political order and be persecuted on the charge of impiety.51 Hence he conceals his true views behind “noble lies” whose purpose is not to mislead, but to protect philosophy and the moral-political order. The philosopher feigns to endorse a philosophical concept of God that agrees with the religious views on which the morality of non-philosophers depends. Yet, through an esoteric art of writing he at the same time signals his true views “between the lines” to potential philosophers – “the puppies of his race.”52 For it would be unjust to prevent potential philosophers from actualizing their potential. As a consequence the esoteric argument contradicts the exoteric argument. Strauss suggests, for example, following an alleged “silence” of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, that Plato’s arguments for the immortality of the soul in the Phaedo and elsewhere are “accommodations to the accepted views” of “the vulgar” in fourthcentury Greece: “F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s Plato silently rejects Plato’s doctrine of a life after death.”53 What are the implications of this narrative for the history of Platonism? Plato is the first “political” philosopher in Strauss’s sense who concluded 49 50 51 52

53

Strauss (1941a), 34; cf. Strauss (1967), 398. A “true philosopher,” according to Strauss, is a kind of skeptic for whom philosophy is “essentially quest.” Strauss (1981), 122. The paradigmatic philosopher for Strauss is Socrates. See Strauss (1941a), 36. Ibid. Two classical examples of Strauss’s esoteric interpretation of medieval philosophical texts are “The Literary Character of the Guide of the Perplexed” (Strauss 1941b) and “How F¯ar¯ab¯ı Read Plato’s Laws” (Strauss 1957). Note that both studies were placed in the middle of the essay collections in which they were republished, an esoteric hint at their key importance for Strauss. Strauss (1952), 13–15.

34

What is a philosophical religion?

from the ill fate of Socrates that philosophy cannot be taught in public. Since the Neoplatonists failed to grasp Plato’s true intention, they neglected his political philosophy and developed the doctrines which he only pretended to endorse, in particular his philosophical theology. Medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers, on the other hand, understood Plato’s esoteric lesson. Hence they feigned to adopt the philosophical theology of the Neoplatonists to persuade ordinary believers that their philosophy is in agreement with the God of religion. In this way they protected themselves from persecution and avoided subverting the Divine Law.54 There is no evidence that the medieval philosophers held Strauss’s idiosyncratic notions of philosophy, religion, and their incompatibility. On the contrary, they never tire to assert that philosophy and religion, correctly understood, are in agreement. To make them endorse esoterically the opposite of what they say, Strauss introduces inflated notions of persecution and the moral fragility of “the vulgar.” The one piece of evidence that at first view seems to help Strauss is the view that philosophy should not be taught in public. This is indeed a feature of the concept of a philosophical religion as we saw. However, to concede that proponents of a philosophical religion have the concept of an esoteric doctrine is a very different thing from conceding that they esoterically hold the opposite of what they say. Refraining from teaching philosophy in public is a measure of caution to protect the beliefs of non-philosophers on which their perfection depends. While all citizens should be led as closely as possible to the philosophical life, their individual strengths and weaknesses must be taken into account. Strauss made much of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s characterization of Plato as an esoteric writer in the introduction to his Epitome of the “Laws”. In order to prevent philosophy from falling into the wrong hands, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı argues, Plato normally speaks in parables, stating his true views only intermittently. However, most proponents of a philosophical religion assert that Plato speaks more prophetico which only shows how much their concept of prophecy depends on Plato. The two works of which al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı explicitly says that they were written by Plato in this manner are the Timaeus and the Laws. For Strauss this implies that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı correctly understood Plato’s esoteric hint: the account of God as Nous ordering the universe and the political community towards what is best is nothing but exoteric trapping. Yet no textual evidence supports this claim. On the other hand, in both 54

See Strauss (1952). Muhsin Mahdi, a first-generation Straussian, calls the Neoplatonic legacy in alF¯ar¯ab¯ı his “Platonism for the people” (Mahdi 2001, 3). Joshua Parens, a second-generation Straussian, calls it “metaphysics as rhetoric” (Parens 1995).

Reason, religion, and autonomy

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the Timaeus and the Laws Plato is clearly reluctant to openly state that the ordering cause of the universe and the excellent political community is Nous. The few and careful references to the concept of God as Reason perfectly illustrate what al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı meant by his characterization of Plato without doing violence to either author.55 Strauss’s narrative, however, not only lacks plausibility. It also makes the concept of a philosophical religion look more unattractive than it needs to. If Strauss is right, proponents of a philosophical religion were elitists and notorious liars who held “the vulgar” in utter contempt. This is clearly a distortion. To be sure, my intention is not to deny the elitist and nonegalitarian features of their project. But these can be accounted for in a less unpalatable way as we saw. Spinoza – continuity or break? In contemporary scholarship, Spinoza is often portrayed as marking a fundamental break with the “Judeo-Christian” tradition. This break was supposedly unavoidable because Spinoza’s philosophy cannot be reconciled with the beliefs, practices, and institutions of Jews and Christians. How can he identify God and Nature and hold on to the God of the Bible who creates the world, performs miracles, talks to prophets, issues commandments, punishes and rewards, and incarnates in Christ? From Spinoza’s excommunication to his critique of religion, evidence for the alleged break seems to abound. One version of this story posits an encounter between Greek philosophy and Judeo-Christianity at the beginning of the Common Era. In this encounter philosophy became the handmaid of theology until Spinoza restored its independence and secular nature. Harry Wolfson and Jonathan Israel, for example, agree on the main lines of this narrative. But while Wolfson has some nostalgia for the subordination of philosophy to religion, Israel celebrates Spinoza as philosophy’s liberator. For Wolfson, Spinoza’s work marks the end of “Philonic philosophy,” the period in which philosophy served as ancilla theologiae: Spinoza is daring, but he introduces no novelty. His daring consists in overthrowing the old Philonic principles which by his time dominated the thought of . . . religious philosophy for some sixteen centuries. But in overthrowing these principles, all he did was to reinstate, with some modification, the old principles of classical Greek philosophy. . . . Perhaps this is all one could expect of Spinoza or of any other philosopher. For on all these religious issues there are only two 55

For a full discussion, see chapters 1 and 3.

36

What is a philosophical religion?

alternatives. One was stated in the Hebrew Scripture, and the other in the various writings of Greek philosophers. Thereafter, the great question in the history of religious philosophy was whether to follow the one or the other, or to combine the two. And in the history of religious philosophy, so conceived, two figures are outstanding, Philo and Spinoza. Philo was the first to combine the two; Spinoza was the first to break up the combination.56

Jonathan Israel describes the beginning of what he calls the “radical Enlightenment” as follows: If philosophy itself was as old as pre-classical Greece . . . it had assuredly been marginal to the life of society since the advent of the Christian empire in late antiquity, from the time of Constantine the Great onwards. From then until around 1650, philosophy remained the modest “serving-maid”, as some called it, of theology. . . . It was only with the intellectual crisis of the late seventeenthcentury that the old hierarchy of studies with theology supreme and philosophy and science her handmaidens, suddenly disintegrated. With this philosophy was released from the previous subordination and became once again an independent force potentially at odds with theology and the Churches. No longer the ancillary of others, philosophers became a new breed, formidably different from the subservient abstract theoreticians of former times.57

The protagonist of philosophy’s liberation is, of course, Spinoza. To be sure, at the time of his excommunication Spinoza was saying harsh things about religion that philosophers like Averroes and Maimonides would not have tolerated.58 This, however, was an act of youthful rebellion from which Spinoza quickly distanced himself. It is true also that Spinoza’s critique of religion was momentous. After all he claimed that Scripture is not true, something every Jew or Christian must take for granted – whether Scripture’s truth is grounded on the intellectual perfection of the religious community’s founders as Averroes and Maimonides argue, or on a miraculous act of revelation as orthodox Christians held in Spinoza’s time. In this way Spinoza helped to prepare the ground for dismissing Scripture as a collection of “fantastic stories” and “arbitrary laws” by d’Holbach and others. The main target of Spinoza’s critique of religion, however, is the Calvinist church in the Netherlands which he perceived as a threat to freedom of thought and expression. His critique is thus motivated by historical circumstances rather than systematic concerns. It is not necessary for Spinoza’s core argument for freedom of thought and expression and 56 57 58

Wolfson (1977), 64. Israel (2001), 10. On Spinoza as “the key progenitor of the Radical Enlightenment,” see also Israel (2010), 240. For the following, see my argument in chapter 4.

Reason, religion, and autonomy

37

was likely not part of the original plan of the Theological-Political Treatise. On balance Spinoza was more concerned with reinterpreting Christianity as a philosophical religion to ensure that non-philosophers follow the prescriptions of reason. Nothing in his philosophy is incompatible with this project. On the contrary: the relationship between philosophy, religion, and politics in Spinoza is not intelligible if we fail to take his commitment to the concept of a philosophical religion into account. Spinoza did not resolve the tension between his philosophical reinterpretation of Christianity and his critique of religion. It is clear, however, that throughout his writings – from the Cogitata Metaphysica to the late correspondence with Henry Oldenburg – the concept of a philosophical religion plays a prominent role in his thought. Although Spinoza is an astute critic of this concept, he is also – and at least as importantly – its last major representative. Spinoza thus joins Jewish and Christian philosophers in antiquity – including, prominently, Philo! – as well as Muslim and Jewish philosophers in the Middle Ages who did not turn philosophy into the ancilla theologiae, but, on the contrary, reinterpreted the historical forms of their religious tradition as ancilla philosophiae.

ch a p ter 1

Reason, divine nomoi, and self-rule in Plato

introduction We expect philosophers to discuss matters of philosophical importance: what distinguishes knowledge from belief, for example, what kinds of things truly exist, whether there is a first cause, what makes a person or a political arrangement just, and so forth. But why should they be interested in establishing a detailed law code that regulates all areas of life – from education, family, and government to trade, property, and crime? Why should they spend time on setting up guidelines for composing edifying stories? Or be concerned with speeches that employ more or less sophisticated arguments to persuade citizens to follow the law? And why should they care about where and how the gods are worshiped? Many of the questions whose philosophical relevance is obvious were first fully articulated by Plato. But Plato clearly also was very interested in laws, stories, the power of persuasion, and the right way of worshiping the gods. Although not prominent in the Socratic dialogues, these issues are frequently discussed in dialogues of the middle and late period, for example in the Republic, the Statesman, and the fictional historical-political narrative of the Timaeus-Critias.1 Most importantly, much of Plato’s last and longest dialogue, the Laws, is devoted to presenting them in a systematic manner. To understand why, consider the concept of justice, the key moral and political concept in the Republic. Laws prescribe just actions 1

The Euthyphro, of course, discusses the nature of piety, as well as sacrifices and prayer, but Plato is not concerned with prescribing particular practices of worship. For the chronological division of Plato’s dialogues, see Brandwood (1990). I will refer to the dialogues according to the standard threefold division into early, middle, and late dialogues. Note that I am not making any claims about the historical Socrates when I speak of “Socratic” dialogues, “Socratic” politics, and so forth. I will argue, however, that the philosophical-political project of the early dialogues differs from that in the middle and late dialogues. The label “Socratic” is a convenient way to mark this difference. My argument does not depend on a developmental model. It would work just as well on the assumption that Plato deliberately laid out problems in the Socratic dialogues to which the later dialogues propose a solution (or some variation of these options).

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Introduction

39

and stories convey a notion of justice by telling about divine or human exemplars of a just life. Persuasive speeches give reasons for doing what the laws prescribe. Finally, worshiping the gods turns the attention to divine things whose apprehension is the goal of a just person.2 But of what benefit is all this to philosophers who live a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason?3 They need no laws or persuasive speeches in order to act justly since the philosophical life embodies justice for Plato. And since they grasp the true nature of justice through dialectics, they also need no stories representing the just life. Nor do they need to take part in traditional forms of worship. Since the objects of knowledge are the realm of the divine, a philosopher’s life, devoted to pursuing knowledge, is itself the highest form of worship.4 Hence in a polis inhabited by perfect philosophers there would be no need for laws, stories, persuasive speeches, or non-philosophical forms of worship. The question Plato is dealing with, then, is how to offer pedagogical-political guidance to non-philosophers. He is clearly concerned with the beliefs, practices, and institutions that shape the life of citizens inside the cave. The pedagogical-political program Plato proposes for them is described as “divine nomoi” in the Laws, because it consists of beliefs, practices, and institutions established by God through the mediation of philosopher-rulers. The aim of divine nomoi is to make the life of non-philosophers resemble as much as possible the life of philosophers. As God orders nature towards what is best, philosopher-rulers do the same for the polis.5 This does not mean that non-philosophers can only share in the life of reason through obedience. The aim of divine nomoi is a community of “free men” that embodies as much of the polis of perfect philosophers as human nature allows. Unlike the order of nature, however, whose excellence is only constrained by deficiencies of the material, the deficiencies constraining the moralpolitical order are both natural and cultural. The citizens are for the most part non-philosophers by nature and grew up under beliefs, practices, and institutions that lack a philosophical foundation. Whereas in the Republic Plato proposes to replace the existing beliefs, practices, and institutions 2 3

4

5

As we will see below, this is not the only purpose of religious festivals and other forms of worship. By “philosopher” I mean the idealized portrait of the “true philosopher” that Plato draws in particular in the middle period. See, for example, the contrast between “true” and “counterfeit” philosopher in Rep. 485d. See Rep. 500b–d. In the Phaedo Plato appropriates the vocabulary of Greek mystery religions: “those who have practiced philosophy in the right way” will become “purified and initiated” and “dwell with the gods” (69c–d; cf. 81a). Note that I do not mean to imply that Plato is a monotheist. For the concept of God that I attribute to Plato, see my discussion below.

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Reason, divine nomoi, and self-rule in Plato

through a cultural revolution, in the Laws he proposes to reinterpret them in light of a philosophical concept of the good. This reinterpretation of Greek cultural materials is presented as a model that can be adapted to other cultural contexts: [W]e should not forget anyone else who at some time may be faced with such a choice and wish to adopt, according to his own way of life [kata ton heautou tropon], what is dear [to philon] to him from his own native country. (Leg. 739b)

Adaptations of the Platonic program will be my concern in the following chapters. Here I will examine how the distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers is motivated in Plato and what its implications are for Plato’s moral-political project. One caveat, however, before I begin: there is no scholarly consensus on the interpretation of Plato. My interpretation is informed by how Plato was understood by later proponents of a philosophical religion. I think that this interpretation has much going for it, but systematically situating and defending it in the context of modern Plato scholarship is not my purpose in this book. socratic politics The distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers accompanies philosophy from the beginning. At first it is mainly an epistemological distinction. Philosophers claim to grasp the true nature of things which radically differs from the beliefs of “the many” (hoi polloi). Heraclitus, for example, complains that the many – stubbornly clinging to their imaginary beliefs – “never understand” the Logos, the universal law of being, according to which “all things happen” and “are one” (DK 22 B1, B2, B50). Similarly Parmenides contrasts the true notion of being, which is undifferentiated and timeless, to the hopelessly confused “opinions of mortals” (DK 28 B8). This is how he describes their sorry state: Helplessness guides the wandering thought in their breasts, and they are carried along, deaf and blind at once, bewildered, undiscriminating hordes [tethˆepotes akrita phyla] who believe that to be and not to be are the same and not the same. (DK 28 B6)

Socrates professes to “know nothing at all” about the true nature of things and claims that this kind of investigation is irrelevant to human concerns

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(Ap. 19c).6 He can thus disregard the epistemological distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers. On the other hand, Socrates conceives living well as a science in analogy to medicine whose object is health.7 This, however, does not reopen the distinction between philosophers and nonphilosophers because the science of living is accessible to all members of the political community. Since Socrates takes for granted that virtue and wellbeing go together, the good life is both objectively good and the best life for us.8 Moreover, knowing the good entails the motivation to do it and thus is sufficient for living well. Since we cannot act against better knowledge on account of a weak will, virtue and vice coincide with knowledge and ignorance of the good. In order to live well, then, it is enough to master what Socrates calls the “science of measurement” (hˆe metrˆetikˆe technˆe) in the Protagoras – that is, the ability to determine which action is best (356d–e).9 All virtues are ultimately knowledge of the good instantiated in different contexts. A person who acts on this knowledge will eat and drink moderately, confront obstacles courageously, treat fellow-citizens justly, and so forth.10 To know the good, however, is not only sufficient, but also necessary for living well, because in Socrates’s view we can rely neither on traditional concepts of the good nor on true beliefs about the good. Why does Socrates dismiss tradition as a guide to the good – the view of Anytus, for example, who was one of the prosecutors in Socrates’s trial? Moral values, Anytus argues, are transmitted by “fine and good citizens” (kaloi k’agathoi) from one generation to the next (Men. 92e–93a).11 For one thing beliefs about the good obviously need not be true only because they were handed down 6 7

8

9 10 11

Cf. the account of Socrates’s “human wisdom” in Ap. 20d–23b. See also Xenophon, Mem. 1.1 11–14; Aristotle, Metaph. 1.6, 987b1–2; Cicero, Tusc. 4.10. The use of medical knowledge as a model for moral knowledge is frequent in Plato. See, for example, Prt. 313e, Grg. 461b–465e, and the analogy between virtue and health in Rep. 444c–445b. For the Phaedrus and the Laws, see my discussion below. See Prt. 358b where all actions that lead to “living painlessly and pleasantly” are said to be “fine” (kalai) and fine actions, in turn, are said to be “good” (agathon) and “beneficial” (ˆophelimon). “Fine” here means “morally good,” and “good” and “beneficial” mean “good for us.” Cf. 359e–360a. In Laches 199d–e knowledge of the good is identified with “the whole of virtue,” a thesis argued in detail in the last part of the Protagoras where the good and the harmful are identified with pleasure and pain (see 351b ff.). For knowledge as “the only existing thing which makes a man happy and fortunate,” see Euthd. 282c; cf. 292b. Note that the “science of measurement” is introduced only for measuring pleasure. My account assumes that pleasure and pain in this context stand in for good and bad. Cf. the argument in the Protagoras for the claim that “everything is knowledge [epistˆemˆe] – justice, moderation, courage” (361b). Cf. the account of the “Old Education” in Aristophanes, The Clouds, 961–83.

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by tradition. In Socrates’s time, moreover, there was no tradition of undisputed authority. The transformation of Athens from an aristocracy into a democracy, for example, produced new standards of virtue: courage, the traditional virtue of the aristocracy, became less important for a successful life than the ability to persuade in the assembly.12 From Herodotus we learn how the encounter with other cultures led the Greeks to realize that local customs and values were not universally recognized moral norms. Thus, a burial ritual considered pious in Greece was considered an abomination in India and vice versa (Hdt. 3.38). Thucydides, finally, gives a vivid account of how established moral norms were discarded under extreme conditions such as a plague or civil war, both of which Athens experienced in the second half of the fifth century (Th. 2.52–53). He also describes the slide of normative language, in particular how the impact of the civil war between Athens and Sparta modified the meaning of moral predicates. Thus behavior considered rash in times of peace came to be considered courageous in times of war (3.81–84). In all three examples that which counts as virtue is not always and everywhere the same, but is relative to a particular context shaped by political, cultural, and other circumstances. The pressure on traditional norms is well captured in a passage from Plato’s Seventh Letter.13 In his youth, Plato writes, Athens “was no longer guided by the customs and practices of our fathers.” Then he explains why he did not enter politics: And the corruption of our laws and our customs was proceeding at such amazing speed that whereas at first I had been full of zeal for public life, when I noted these changes and saw how unstable everything was, I became in the end quite dizzy. (325d–e)

We can look at Protagoras and Socrates as proposing alternative responses to this experience. Whereas Protagoras argues that morality is no more than convention and “man the measure of all things” (Tht. 152a), Socrates aims to replace the authority of tradition through knowledge of the good.14 However, even if we cannot rely on the authority of tradition, why should true beliefs about the good not be able to take the place of knowledge? 12

13 14

For the connection of courage in battle and aristocratic privileges, see, for example, Iliad 12, 310–21. To the skills required in a democracy, on the other hand, the educational program of the sophists bears witness; see, for example, Prt. 318a–319a. The model for success in democratic Athens is Pericles rather than Achilles. I am assuming the Seventh Letter to be authentic or at least to reflect authentic Platonic views. The anonymous Dissoi Logoi, for example, written c.400 bce, presents a long list of things considered good, proper, and so forth in one context, but bad, shameful, and so forth in another. Plato sums up this position in Theaetetus 172a–b.

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For practical purposes the former seem to be as good as the latter. To use Plato’s own example from the Meno: if I intend to reach the city Larissa in Thessaly I will choose the right way both if I know the way and if I have a true belief about the way (97a–c). Likewise I will do the right thing both if I know the good and if I have a true belief about the good. For two reasons Socrates thinks that true beliefs are not enough. First, there is no way to decide whether a belief is true, for example the explanation given to us of the way to Larissa. Having true beliefs is a matter of luck – like “blind people who happen to travel the right road” (Rep. 506d). Second, if true beliefs are not “tied down” through reasons they can be easily replaced with false ones: For true beliefs as long as they remain, are a fine thing and all they do is good, but they are not willing to remain long, and they escape from a man’s soul, so that they are not worth much until one ties them down through an account of the reason why [aitias logismos]. (Men. 97e–98a)

What if on our way to Larissa we meet another person who persuades us that we are headed the wrong way and gives us new directions? In this case one belief is substituted for another and in the end we may not arrive at our destination at all. This problem does not arise if a set of true beliefs is available whose authority is not in doubt. As we saw, however, Athens in Socrates’s time was a place where the question how to live was much disputed. Consider the case of Hippocrates, the young Athenian aristocrat portrayed in the opening scene of the Protagoras (310b). Hippocrates was likely brought up on the view that being good depends on the traditional aristocratic virtue of courage. At present, however, he is most eager to become a student of Protagoras who “promises to turn men into good citizens” (319a). Hence his childhood belief is about to be replaced by a new one: that virtue is the ability to persuade a democratic assembly. Even if through luck Hippocrates hits on the true notion of virtue – for example because Socrates tells him that virtue is justice – he will not be able to hold on to it without “tying it down” through reasons. It will “escape” his soul once a false belief about virtue is presented to him with sufficient persuasion. This is why Hippocrates must become a “doctor of the soul” who knows the good and thus can evaluate Protagoras’s teachings (313e). In Hippocrates’s case, therefore, true beliefs clearly cannot replace knowledge. As long as the question how to live is contested we must all become doctors of the soul, able to make our own prescriptions. For if we follow the prescriptions of this or that authority, our life will only turn out

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well through luck. Since for Socrates knowledge of the good entails the motivation to do it, a doctor of the soul will also be motivated to follow his prescriptions. What reason prescribes coincides with what he desires. Hence Socrates’s case for knowing the good is also a case for rational self-rule. The key to knowledge of the good, according to Socrates, is philosophical debate – the elenchos: if we hold a belief about the good that is refuted in the debate, we are freed from the illusion of knowledge. If the belief is not refuted, we have reason to consider it true. Each round in which a belief remains unrefuted “ties it down” further.15 Since we always act on what we believe to be good, the elenchos is our best bet to ensure that we pursue what is good, rather than what only appears so. Hence Socrates’s claim that he is able to bring true happiness, unlike an “Olympian victor” who only “makes you think yourself happy” (Ap. 36d–e). Engaging in philosophical debate, then, is at the heart of the Socratic project: It is the greatest good [to megiston agathon] for man to discuss virtue every day and those other things about which you hear me conversing and testing myself and others. For the unexamined life [ho anexetastos bios] is not worth living. (Ap. 38a)

But can the elenchos really accomplish all this? After all, Socrates famously disavows knowledge, claiming that the only advantage he has over his fellow citizens is to know that he knows nothing. If this is the outcome of a life devoted to “testing myself and others,” how can Socrates claim that it is the greatest good? It rather seems to lead to the paralysis that Meno experiences who compares Socrates to a “torpedo fish” because his mind and tongue became “numb” after Socrates refuted his beliefs about virtue (Men. 80a–b). Socrates himself, however, clearly acts on beliefs about the good that were tested in many elenchoi. Why, then, does he disclaim knowing how to live? One way to solve this puzzle is to take knowledge of the good as an ideal that we can approach by testing our beliefs about the good, yet never reach because the elenchos cannot justify beliefs in an irrefutable manner. When Socrates disclaims knowledge, therefore, he signals that even beliefs that were tested many times remain in principle refutable. Socrates claims, for example, not to know that doing injustice is worse than suffering injustice while at the same time asserting that this belief is “held down and bound 15

In any case this is how Socrates seems to think that the elenchos works which is a notorious problem in the Socrates interpretation. For the elenchos only shows that the belief under examination is either inconsistent or consistent with other beliefs a person holds. For a classical statement of the problem, see Vlastos (1983). As far as I know, no convincing solution has yet been proposed.

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by arguments of iron and adamant” which nobody he ever met was able to contradict “without being ridiculous” (Grg. 508c–509c).16 Is the Socratic project a political project? In the Apology Socrates says that he deliberately stayed out of Athens’s public affairs because “a man who really fights for justice must lead a private, not a public, life if he is to survive for even a short time” (32a). In the Gorgias, however, he is praised as the only Athenian to practice “the true science of politics [politikˆe technˆe]” (521d). If becoming a doctor of the soul is the key to the good life, a good politician would try to turn all citizens into doctors of the soul. And this is precisely what Socrates does. His relentless effort on the marketplace of Athens to direct his fellow-citizens to knowledge of the good by engaging them in philosophical discussions bears witness to the eminently political character of his project.17 In this respect Socrates leads a very public life, even if he tries to avoid political office. Consider how he declines to give up his philosophical mission in the Apology: Citizens of Athens, I am grateful and I am your friend, but I will obey the God rather than you, and as long as I draw breath and am able, I shall not cease to practice philosophy, to exhort you and in my usual way to point out to anyone of you [hostis hymˆon] whom I happen to meet [entynchanˆo]: Good Sir, . . . are you not ashamed of your eagerness to possess as much wealth, reputation, and honors as possible, while you do not care for nor give thought to wisdom or truth, or the best possible state of your soul? Then, if one of you disputes this and says he does care, I shall . . . question him, examine him, and test him, and if I do not think he has attained the goodness that he says he has, I shall reproach him because he attaches little importance to the most important things and greater importance to inferior things. I shall treat in this way anyone I happen to meet, young and old, citizen and stranger. . . . Be sure that this is what the God orders me to do, and I 16 17

See also Crito 46b–e where Socrates is ready to test – and if necessary revise – his most basic convictions at the end of his life. Richard Kraut (1984) has assembled a number of passages that suggest the low esteem in which Socrates held “the many” (196–97). According to Kraut these passages show “the permanent corruption of the many” (198) in Socrates’s view. But Kraut also attributes to Socrates the “aim . . . to change the attitude of everyone in the city . . . , not just a few members of the upper class” (200–1). This project, portrayed so vividly in the Apology, would be Sisyphean if Socrates thought that the citizens were for the most part permanently corrupt. I think the reason for Socrates’s negative view of the many is that they live an unexamined life in fact, not that it is impossible for them in principle to live an examined life. For Kraut the comparison of the science of living to the science of breeding horses (see Ap. 25a–b) implies that the former can only be mastered by a few experts (198). In my view the comparison serves to stress the necessity of a science of living that the many lack. It is surely not impossible for all citizens to learn to breed horses, although it would be silly. It is not at all silly, on the other hand, for all citizens to learn how to live. For the question how to live is something “that even a man of little intelligence would take more seriously than anything else” (Grg. 500c–d).

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think there is no greater blessing for the city than my service to the God. . . . I was placed in this city by the God . . . as on a horse, great and of noble birth, which was sluggish because of its size and needed to be stirred up by a kind of gadfly. . . . I never cease to stir up each and every one of you [heis hekastos], to persuade you and reproach you all day long and everywhere I sit down [that is, like a gadfly on a horse]. (Ap. 29d–31a; cf. 33b)

The Apology portrays Socrates as systematically examining the claims to knowledge of the different social groups in Athens: politicians, artists, and craftsmen, leading them to realize that they do not even know that they know nothing (see 21b–23b). Many of Plato’s early dialogues present Socrates carrying out the Apology’s program: he involves two generals (Laches), a rhapsode (Ion), a diviner-priest (Euthyphro), young Athenian aristocrats (Charmides), and other characters in elaborate philosophical discussions about virtue.18 For Socrates, then, all citizens can be directed to knowledge of the good. This does not mean that all citizens are in some fundamental way equal. For one thing we can only approach, but not attain, knowledge of the good through elenchoi. And how close we come depends on how well we do in testing our beliefs. The epistemic quality of the citizens’ lives can accordingly vary. However, the ideal of Socratic politics is a community of philosophers who have replaced their unexamined beliefs about the good through knowledge. All members of this ideal community live outside the cave. As doctors of the soul they follow their own prescriptions and thus need no pedagogical-political guidance through laws, stories, persuasive speeches, and practices of worship. Is Socrates’s project also a religious project? Although Socrates is accused of atheism, Plato takes care to stress throughout the Apology that what he is engaged in is an “investigation in the service of the God” (22a). However, while Socrates does not dismiss the claim of the God that “no one is wiser” than Socrates, he does not accept it on authority either. Instead he examines it to find out whether it is true and what it means. The “examined life,” 18

It is true that the interlocutors are not randomly selected; most are in one way or another in leadership positions. Although Socrates’s discussion with craftsmen is explicitly mentioned in the Apology (22d–e), Plato does not include them among the characters of the early dialogues. Part of Plato’s aim seems to be to show that the actual leaders, educators, and so forth do not have the required expert knowledge for carrying out their tasks. But whatever the social status of the interlocutors, it does not exclude them from the multitude, since the multitude is not confined to a specific social or professional class (cf. Kraut (1984), 199–203). For my argument it is sufficient to see that among the citizens subjected to Socrates’s examination are many who would be excluded from a philosophical education according to the selection criteria of the Republic. Note that in Xenophon, Socrates is less selective. His interlocutors include, for example, the hetaira Theodote (Mem. 3.11).

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then, is neither in conflict with religion nor guided by religious authority. We do not learn in the Apology what the nature of the “God” is who sent Socrates on his gadfly mission. But Plato links the Apology dramatically to the Euthyphro and the Phaedo which taken together provide clues for how he proposes to interpret Socrates’s concept of the divine. The Euthyphro takes place just before the trial described in the Apology. Socrates meets the diviner-priest Euthyphro on his way to answer the charges of “impiety.” In their discussion, he is clearly skeptical about the traditional representation of the gods set forth by the poets: “And do you believe,” Socrates asks, “that there really is war among the gods, and terrible enmities and battles, and other such things as are told by the poets?” (Euthphr. 6b–c). This is borne out in the Apology: Socrates defends himself only against the charge of not believing “in gods at all,” not against the charge of not believing in “the gods in whom the city believes” (26b–c). Finally, in the Phaedo, which is set during the last hours before Socrates’s execution, Plato provides a fictional account of Socrates’s intellectual concerns as “a young man.” Among others, Socrates reminisces how: one day I heard someone reading . . . from a book of Anaxagoras, and saying that it is Reason [nous] who directs and is the cause of everything. I was delighted with this cause and . . . thought that if this were so, the directing Reason would direct everything and arrange each thing in the way that was best. (Phd. 97c)

When he actually reads Anaxagoras, however, Socrates is disappointed because natural phenomena are explained in materialist-mechanistic terms, rather than through the activity of Reason. Of course, this does not imply that Socrates dismisses the concept of Reason ordering all things towards what is best. What emerges from the three dialogues, then, is that Plato’s Socrates was neither an atheist nor shared the religious beliefs of his fellow citizens insofar as these were based on the false theology of the poets. Instead he expresses enthusiasm for a concept that becomes central in Plato’s later philosophical theology: the concept of God as Reason.19 This concept fits well with the Socratic project in the Apology whose aim can be described as establishing the rule of Reason in the moral-political realm by converting all citizens into doctors of the soul and thus ordering the polis towards what is best. The ideal of Socratic politics, then, is a community in which self-rule and God’s rule coincide.20 Why is Socrates so keen on directing the lives of his fellow-citizens to what is best through elenchoi? Why did he not opt for a private life 19

See Menn (1995).

20

See Cornford (1935).

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“withdrawn from the many” (Epicurus, Sent. 14) in a setting like Epicurus’s Garden where he could have spent his time discussing philosophy with like-minded friends? According to Pericles citizens in democratic Athens do not get “angry” at their “neighbor for doing what he likes [in private]” (Th. 2.37). Socrates, however, deliberately rejects this option, citing his obligation to “obey the God.” If we identify Socrates’s God with Reason, as Plato invites us in the Phaedo, we may venture a guess how Plato would answer the question of Socrates’s motivation. In the Timaeus the goodness of God as Reason entails that he is “without envy” (aphthonos) and hence wants “everything else to become as much like himself as possible” (Ti. 29d–e).21 Applied to the moral-political realm we could say that Socrates not only imitates Reason in what he does – directing things to what is best – but also in why he does it: because he is “without envy” and wants to make all members of the political community “as much like himself as possible.” the rule of god as reason Throughout the later dialogues, directing the citizens to what is best ought to be the goal of the moral-political order according to Plato. Consider a few examples. At the beginning of the Protagoras Socrates questions Protagoras’s ability to make young Athenians like Hippocrates better (318c–d). He also casts doubt on the competence of Athenian politicians like Pericles because they fail to make their own sons virtuous (see 319e–320b). This criticism is reiterated in the Gorgias: Pericles, Cimon, Miltiades, and Themistocles were unable to turn the citizens into good citizens, in contrast to Socrates who alone takes up “the true science of politics” (521d). Also in the Gorgias Socrates denies that rhetoric as practiced by Gorgias and Callicles is a science, since it only “guesses at what is pleasant with no consideration for what is best” (465a). The true science of politics, by contrast, aims at “what is best” by making the citizens just (464b–c). In the Republic, the political community is ordered by philosopher-rulers towards what is best (see 420b–421c; 500b–501c; 540a–b). In book 10, moreover, Plato criticizes the poets, in particular Homer and Hesiod, because, just like the politicians, they failed to make the citizens better (see 599c–600e). In the Statesman “the truest criterion of right government” is whether the ruler does what is “to the benefit of the citizens” (296e). A wise ruler ought “to bring it about 21

Cf. the Symposium where Plato mentions the desire to give birth to virtue in others as one response to the experience of beauty (209c–e).

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that [the citizens] become better than they were before” (297a–b). To this end he must master the science of correctly weaving together the virtues in the soul and the state (see 305e–311c). In the Laws, finally, “the science of politics” is described as “fostering a good character” (650b) and the aim of divine nomoi is to lead the citizens to “the highest virtue” (630a–631a). Like Socratic politics, the moral-political order proposed in the later dialogues can be described as theocratic: the goal is to establish the rule of Reason through beliefs, practices, and institutions that order the community towards what is best.22 Something ordered towards what is best is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered on account of Plato’s concept of God as Reason. As we saw, the project to explain the order of things through the causality of Reason is already outlined in the Phaedo where Reason is said to “direct everything and arrange each thing in the way that is best” (97c).23 While Plato’s Forms offer an explanation of what things are, they do not explain why they are ordered in the way they are ordered. The Forms account, for example, for the defining features of water, air, fish, and birds, but not for why fish are in water, air is above water, and birds fly in the air. Explaining this is the role of Reason. Although the project is not pursued further in the Phaedo, it remains a background assumption from the middle dialogues onwards. In the Republic, for example, Plato claims that a person who studies “the motions of the stars” will recognize “that the craftsman [dˆemiourgos] of the heavens arranged them and all that is in them in the finest way possible for such things” (530a). Similarly in the Laws he approves of those who say “that it is Nous who has ordered everything in the heavens” (967b). In the Philebus Plato contends that “all the wise agree . . . that Nous is king for us of heaven and earth” (29c). But only in the Timaeus does he actually attempt to explain the natural order through God as Reason. It is not surprising that Reason is referred to through anthropomorphic representations, for example as “craftsman,” since Plato declares from the outset that finding “the Maker and Father of this universe is hard enough,” but declaring “him to everyone is impossible” (28c). In a number of passages, however, he carefully signals that the craftsman is a stand-in for Reason, recognized, as we saw, by “all the wise” as the “king . . . of heaven and earth.” Thus in 47e the work of the craftsman is described as “that which was crafted through Nous” and similar references occur in 39e and 48a. We will see that the representation of Reason 22 23

Note that the term “theocracy” was first used by Flavius Josephus in Against Apion 2.165–66. The concept, however, is Platonic. For the following, cf. Menn (1995).

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as craftsman has pedagogical-political reasons. It should not mislead us, however, into conceiving God’s activity in an anthropomorphic way. God does not act on the basis of deliberation and choice. Rather, since God is “good” and something good cannot “become envious of anything, . . . he wanted everything to become as much like himself as possible” (29e). God, in other words, is compelled by his nature to create the greatest possible good. The world’s order, in turn, is best explained in terms of the principle of plenitude that equates being and perfection. A perfect world is a complete world for Plato – that is, a world that includes all things, from the most perfect to the least perfect (see 30c–31b; 41b–c). Human beings occupy an intermediate level on this scale: they are above minerals, plants, and animals, but below the heavens and the world soul. Finally, since God wants “everything to become as much like himself as possible,” the goal towards which the world is ordered is not outside God, but God himself. Turning to Plato’s political writings, already the Republic asserts that “the thing that everyone has always believed to be best, namely Reason,” should be “king” of the polis (607a).24 In the Laws the Athenian suggests that the entire politeia should be called “after the God who truly [alˆethˆos] rules over men who have nous,” thus clearly implying a theocracy ruled by Reason (713a).25 What counts as nomos in this politeia – described as “divine politeia” at 965d – is precisely “the ordering [dianomˆe] of Reason [nous]” (714a; cf. 836a; 957c). The entire law-code should resemble parents “who love and have nous,” not “some tyrant and despot” (859a). The criterion to determine whether nomoi are divine, according to the Laws, is whether they order the lives of the citizens towards what is best which means directing them to “Reason [nous] who rules all things” (631b–d). Hence God as Reason is not only the goal towards which nature is ordered, but the goal towards which the citizens ought to be directed as well. To say that Plato advocates a theocracy in the form of a community ordered by Reason does not imply that Plato is a monotheist.26 The relationship between Reason, the Form of the good, and the remaining Forms 24

25 26

Note that Plato uses “logos” instead of “nous” in this passage. Cf. also 590d where Plato argues that “it is better for everyone to be ruled by the divine [theion] and the reasonable [phronimon], preferably within himself and his own, otherwise imposed from without, so that as far as possible all will . . . be governed by the same thing.” Cf. Laks (2005), 22. As Michael Frede (2001) has persuasively argued, it is perfectly defensible to describe Plato (and other pagan philosophers) as monotheists. The concept of the divine of philosophers like Philo, Clement, or Origen is hardly more unified than Plato’s. However, nothing in my argument depends on settling this question. If Plato were a decatheist, for example, and one of his ten gods were Reason we could still describe a polis ordered by Reason as a theocracy.

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is not clear from the dialogues.27 It seems that in Plato’s ontology Reason is below the Form of the good which in the Republic is said to be “superior to [being] in rank and power” (509b) and “the first principle of everything” (511b). I take this to mean that the Form of the good is superior to being beautiful or just for example – that is, it lacks features distinguishing it from other things. At the same time it is all things as undifferentiated unity and hence the most perfect being. Reason, by contrast, is and knows the Forms and their order, thus providing the standard of perfection to all things below it.28 The details of this sketch are the object of much scholarly dispute. To describe Plato’s best political order as a theocracy, however, we only need to accept that something well ordered is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered because Reason is something divine for Plato. My argument does not depend on settling the question what the exact nature of Reason is and how it is related to other divine things in Plato. Note also that the rule of Reason does not require a specific form of government. For the Platonic Socrates it is best realized in a community in which God’s rule and self-rule coincide. In Plato’s later political philosophy it is established through the rule of philosophers. Their power is unlimited in the Republic, but limited through a system of checks and balances in the Laws. For my purpose the details of the constitutional structure are not important, since any form of government that ensures a rational political order is a theocracy in the sense I use the term. why the philosopher’s life is best What is the good studied by the doctor of the soul? In the Apology Socrates urges his fellow citizens not to care about “wealth, reputation, and honors,” but about “wisdom” and “truth” in order to attain the “best state” of the soul. In the later dialogues the good is clearly equated with the perfection of reason, the feature of our nature on account of which we are human (see Rep. 588c–d; cf. Ti. 42a). The more we perfect reason, in turn, the more we share in the divine: 27 28

Note also that Reason delegates the fashioning of mortal living beings to lesser, created gods (Ti. 69c). Reason of course knows the Forms which are its model for fashioning the physical world in the Timaeus (29a). But Plato does not explicitly say that Reason also is the Forms. Already Middle Platonists, however, identified the Forms with God’s intellecta as we will see in the next chapter. Moreover, in the Republic the Forms are said to have been made by “the God” or “the craftsman” (597b–d) which can be interpreted as implying that they are the products of Reason’s intellectual activity.

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[I]f a man has seriously devoted himself to the love of learning and to true wisdom, . . . then there is absolutely no way that his thoughts can fail to be immortal and divine [phronein men athanata kai theia], should truth come within his grasp. And to the extent that human nature can partake in immortality, he can in no way fail to achieve this: constantly caring for his divine part as he does, . . . he must indeed be supremely happy [diapherontˆos eudaimˆon]. (Ti. 90b–c)

The objects that we apprehend are the Forms and their order: [The philosopher] as he looks at and studies things that are well-ordered and always the same, . . . imitates [mimeisthai] them and tries to become like them [aphomoiousthai] as much as he can. . . . Then the philosopher, by consorting with what is divine and ordered . . . himself becomes as divine and ordered as a human being can be. (Rep. 500c–d)

To apprehend the Forms means to apprehend the things that are one, eternal, and immutable and hence have true being (beauty itself, justice itself, and so forth), unlike their physical instantiations which are many, subject to generation, change, and corruption and thus in between being and not being (beautiful, just, and so forth). Whereas the Forms are apprehended through reason and are the objects of knowledge, their physical instantiations are apprehended through the senses and are the objects of opinion.29 Given that the Forms are superior to their physical instantiations and knowledge is superior to opinion, Plato has both metaphysical and epistemological reasons for claiming that the best life is the contemplative life. This life is also the highest form of worship. If God as Reason is and knows the Forms and their order, we share in God to the extent we apprehend the Forms. In light of this we can interpret the injunction of the Theaetetus – “to become like God as much as possible” – as a call to become like Reason by apprehending the Forms (176a–b).30 There is some indirect evidence in support of this interpretation. The Theaetetus passage is part of Plato’s response to the moral relativism attributed to Protagoras. Whereas for Protagoras “whatever each city judges to be just” is just, for Plato God is the absolute standard of justice (Tht. 172a–b; 176a–c). This claim is echoed in the Laws: “For us God is to the highest degree the measure of all things, much more so than a man, as some people 29

30

See Rep. 474b–480a and the ontological and epistemological implications of the discussion of the Form of the good in books 6 and 7; cf. Ti. 27d–28a. These distinctions are, in one way or another, central for a wide range of Plato’s middle and late dialogues from the Symposium to the Timaeus. Plato explains that becoming like God means becoming “just and holy [hosios] with wisdom [phronˆesis].”

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claim” (716c). Since the God of the Laws is “Reason who rules all things,” becoming like God means becoming like Reason.31 The dialectical method leading to knowledge of the Forms does not seem to differ from the Socratic elenchos.32 In the parable of the cave Plato describes the shedding of false beliefs as a “painful,” “dazzling,” and “confusing” experience (Rep. 515c–516a; cf. 538c–d). A “dialectical” person then replaces them with a true “account of the being [ho logos tˆes ousias] of each thing.” Most important is a true account of the good: Unless someone, setting apart the idea of the good, can distinguish it by means of an account from everything else, surviving, as if in a battle, all refutations [elenchoi], striving to examine [elenchein] things not in accordance with opinion but in accordance with being, and can come through all this with his account standing firm [aptˆos], you will say that he does neither know the good itself nor any other good. (Rep. 534b–c)

Does the Socrates of the Republic, then, agree with the Socrates of the Apology that philosophical debate “is the greatest good for man”? To see on what they agree and on what they differ we must look at what it means to live well for Plato. One way to approach this question is to examine how we fall short of God as Reason, the ultimate standard of perfection. For one thing, human reason, unlike Divine Reason, has by nature only the capacity to know, not actual knowledge. Since this lack gives rise to the desire of the soul’s rational part for “learning,” it is called “learning-loving and philosophical” (Rep. 581b). We cannot, however, study all day long, since, again unlike Divine Reason, we are embodied rational beings – that is, immersed in the realm of change. As a consequence we are not “self-sufficient [autarkˆes], but . . . need many things” (369b; cf. Ti. 70d–e). In Plato’s teleological account of the soul, this explains why, besides reason, the soul also has a twofold “non-rational part” (alogiston): “appetite” (epithymˆetikon) and “spirit” (thymos), which Plato compares to a “multicolored beast” and a “lion” (Rep. 588c–d).33 The needs we have on account of “the body’s nature” give rise to the desire of the appetitive part “for food, drink, sex, and all the things associated with them” (580e) and the desire of the soul’s spirited part for “power, victory, and honor” (581a). Whereas perfecting reason is good without qualification, because this is 31 32 33

Cf. Sedley (2000). Note also that in the Republic, the primary meaning of being just is perfecting reason by apprehending the Forms. See my discussion below. A convincing argument for the continuity of Plato’s philosophical method in the early and middle dialogues is provided by Stemmer (1992). For the tripartite structure of the soul, see Rep. 439d–e and Ti. 69c–72d.

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how we become like God, the things desired by the soul’s non-rational parts are only good as means for perfecting reason. Having no body, God can do without the desire for food, drink, and sex, and having no battles to fight or competitions to win he can do without the desire for power, victory, and honor. We, on the other hand, need “human goods” (Leg. 631b) – for example money to buy food and food to keep the body in good health, and health to be able to perfect our knowledge of the Forms which we cannot do well if we are sick or hungry (see 631b–d and 697a–c). We likewise need the desire for power, victory, and honor to overcome internal and external obstacles that lie on the way to perfecting reason in the world of change. Given our embodiment, then, our non-rational desires are necessary to create the conditions for perfecting reason. Our lack of self-sufficiency has one further important implication: it is the reason “a political community [polis] comes to be” (Rep. 369b). Whereas God needs nobody to assist him in his endeavors, we have too many needs to be able to achieve perfection without the help of others. Since “we are not born alike, but each of us differs in nature from the others, one being suited to one task, another to another,” we contribute most to the common good if we divide labor and focus on the task we are best qualified for (369e–370b). In this way we ensure at the same time the realization of our own good, since for Plato the best state of the political community is also the best state for each of its members.34 But why should we strive to perfect reason and inhabit the world of Forms, rather than chasing after food, drink, and sex, or power, victory, and honor in the world of change? Granted that the Form of beauty ranks higher than its physical instantiations and that apprehending it brings us closer to God. But is perfecting reason also something we can be motivated to do, something we actually desire? Whereas Socrates assumes that the objectively best life is also the best life for us, Plato in the Republic explicitly argues for this thesis. The challenge he takes on is to show that a virtuous 34

At the beginning of Book 4 Plato argues that “in establishing our city, we are not aiming to make any one group outstandingly happy, but to make the whole city so, as far as possible” (420b). He also says, however, “that it would not be surprising” if all groups were “happiest just as they are” (ibid.) and seems confident that “nature” will indeed “provide each group with its share of happiness” (421b–c) in such a city. Note that Socrates is responding to Adeimantus’s objection that the guardians in the best state lack “fine big houses” and “gold and silver and all the things that are thought to belong to people who are blessedly happy” (419a). Since the conceptual groundwork for refuting this notion of happiness has not yet been laid, Socrates – to advance the argument – appeals to the need to set the good of the whole above the good of the part, a principle that he can expect Adeimantus to endorse. On the question whether ruling takes away from the best life possible for philosophers, see below.

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life is not only good for its consequences, but also intrinsically good (357a– 358a). Plato describes things that are good only for their consequences as “arduous” (chalepos) and “onerous” (epiponos). The antonyms of these are “not troublesome” (eupetˆes) and “pleasant” (hˆedus). To show that a virtuous life is intrinsically good, then, also requires showing that it is not arduous but pleasant (357c–358a and 364a). In book 6 Plato asserts that the “true philosopher’s” desire for learning is motivated by “the pleasures of the soul,” which are superior to the “pleasures that come through the body” (485d). And in book 9 he offers elaborate arguments for the claim that the philosophical life is better and more pleasant than a life centered on food, drink, and sex or power, victory, and honor. Hence the good aimed at by the learning-loving part of the soul is also subjectively superior to the goods that our non-rational desires pursue.35 We do not only have metaphysical and epistemological reasons to become like God; it should also be what we most desire. Clearly, then, knowing the good remains a key to living well: [The soul’s rational part must have] within it the knowledge of what is advantageous for each part and for the whole soul, which is the community of the three parts. (Rep. 442c; cf. Ti. 71a)

Unlike Socrates, however, Plato denies that knowing the good entails the motivation to do it. The soul also has non-rational desires which may conflict with the prescriptions of reason. We may, for example, want more food, drink, and sex than reason has determined to be necessary to keep the body in good shape for contemplation.36 To attain “wisdom” (phronˆesis), the virtue of reason, we must not only know the good, but also “rule” the soul’s non-rational desires in light of this knowledge (441e). Implementing reason’s rule, in turn, depends on two further virtues: “courage” (andreia) and “moderation” (sophrosyne). We are courageous if spirit “preserves through pains and pleasures the prescriptions of reason about what is to be feared and what is not” (442c). And we are moderate “when the ruler and the ruled [in our soul] believe in common that the rational part should rule and don’t engage in civil war against it” (ibid.). While reason is recognized as the overall ruler, spirit submits to reason and helps to rule the appetites by carrying out reason’s instructions. “Justice” (dikaiosyne), finally, is the right order or “harmony” of the soul, each part of the soul relating to the other parts according to its place in this order and doing 35 36

Note that in the Laws, where philosophy and the Forms are only briefly mentioned at the end, pleasure becomes crucial for motivating the choice of virtue; see 662b–663e and 732e–734e. The experience of motivational conflicts is, in fact, Plato’s main argument for the divided soul in the Republic; see 438d ff.

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what it is supposed to do (443c–d). The complex structure of the soul, then, also requires a complex structure of virtue. What does a life ruled by reason look like? Since perfecting reason is the only intrinsic good, all other things are only good as means to that end. Hence perfecting reason determines how much food, drink, and sex or power, victory, and honor we should pursue: whatever takes away from contemplation is either too much or too little. Being moderate means satisfying the appetites as much as required for undisturbed contemplation. And being courageous means overcoming the obstacles that stand in the way of the contemplative life. These considerations inform every decision of a just person: And when [the just person] does anything, whether acquiring wealth, taking care of his body, engaging in politics, or in private contracts – in all of these, he believes that the action is just and fine that preserves [the soul’s harmony] and helps attain it, and calls it so, and regards as wisdom [sophia] the knowledge that oversees such actions. And he believes that the action that destroys this harmony is unjust, and calls it so, and regards the belief that oversees it as ignorance [amathia]. (Rep. 443e)

The non-rational desires that reason tells us to satisfy are of two kinds: desires that we must satisfy for the sake of living and desires that we must satisfy to be in the best state for contemplation. We cannot survive without bread, for example, and we cannot sustain good health without a varied diet (see 558d–559c). Unnecessary desires, by contrast, are “those whose presence leads to no good or even the opposite” (559a). The motivation to act virtuously comes from reason’s desire “to know where the truth lies” (581b).37 A “true philosopher” desires “the pleasures of the soul” above all and cares little for the “pleasures that come through the body” (485d). Hence he “is moderate and not at all a money-lover” (485e). He is also courageous and not “cowardly and slavish” because he enjoys the company of eternal things and does “not consider human life to be something important” (486a–b). The desire for the pleasure of contemplation thus keeps the inferior desires in check. We desire as much food, drink, and sex or power, victory, and honor as needed to best sustain the contemplative life. For a “true philosopher,” then, conflicts between knowledge and desire do not arise. If we are just, the things we desire are the things that reason prescribes. The philosopher, however, is not just only because of his well-ordered soul. He is also just in the ordinary sense when he interacts with his fellow-citizens. For it is impossible, Plato argues, “that 37

For the following argument, cf. Phd. 67e–69d.

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an orderly person, who is not money-loving, slavish, a boaster, or a coward could become unreliable or unjust” (486b; cf. 442e–443b). He would not ask for more than his share in material resources, for example, or envy others the share due to them. Plato makes no explicit distinction between practical wisdom – a life lived wisely, that is ruled by reason – and theoretical wisdom – the perfection of reason through knowledge.38 Conceptually, however, the distinction is important to understand several aspects of Plato’s argument. Note for one thing that reason’s role as described in book 4 of the Republic significantly differs from reason’s role as described in book 9. Whereas book 4 focuses on practical wisdom, book 9 characterizes reason as the part of the soul that “always wholly aims to know the truth wherever it lies” (581b). To see that these are distinct, consider a philosopher who concludes that “what is advantageous . . . for the whole soul” requires leaving his studies to attend to the needs of the body – eating a meal, for example, or putting wood into the fire. He knows that if he neglects these needs and ends up in poor health, he upsets the soul’s “harmony” and can no longer devote himself as much as possible to study. Practical wisdom thus demands interrupting the pursuit of theoretical wisdom. In the Laws this distinction is hinted at: “human goods” such as wealth and health are only good as means to attain the four cardinal virtues defined in the Republic. Of these wisdom comes first, followed by moderation, justice, and courage. However, also the four virtues “look towards” something higher, namely “Nous who rules all things” (631b–d). Hence wisdom here must refer to practical wisdom which is subordinated to theoretical wisdom, the highest good, through which we attain likeness to God. Theoretical wisdom, then, is the end at which a life ordered by practical wisdom aims, and the desire to attain it provides the motivation to do what practical wisdom prescribes – that is, to be moderate, courageous, and just. Since the philosopher both knows the good and is motivated to live according to this knowledge, a just life for Plato, as for Socrates, is a selfruled life. Plato contrasts rational self-rule with two forms of enslavement: For one thing the rule of reason means self-rule because the soul’s distinctly human part is in charge, not appetite or spirit, the “multicolored beast” and the “lion.” A person ruled by appetite or spirit has a “soul . . . full of slavery [douleia] and unfreedom [aneleutheria]” which is “least likely to do what it wants” (577d). Second, the philosopher is “ruled by the divine and 38

Unlike Aristotle who reserves phronˆesis for the practical and sophia for the theoretical aspect of reason in EN 6; see my discussion in chapter 3.

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the reasonable . . . within himself and his own” unlike the “slave” (doulos) on whom it is “imposed from without” (590c–d). To be a slave thus means to be ruled by non-rational desires or to be coerced by laws – even if these laws enforce prescriptions of reason. As far as philosophers are concerned, then, the Socrates of the Republic agrees with the Socrates of the Apology that philosophy is “the greatest good for man.” It remains the key for establishing the rule of God as Reason in the moral-political realm by directing the citizens to what is best. If all members of the political community were perfectly just, there would be no need for pedagogical-political guidance through laws, stories, persuasive speeches, and practices of worship. In the ideal state – a state inhabited by philosophers striving to become like God – God’s rule and self-rule still coincide. guiding non-philosophers: the handmaid of philosophy Is Plato, then, only spelling out the Socratic position in light of his metaphysics, epistemology, and psychology? To understand why Plato thought Socratic politics failed, we must look at how the distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers reemerges in the later dialogues. In one sense we are all non-philosophers for Plato, since part of our imperfection is that we are not born wise: [N]o animal to which it belongs to have reason [nous echein] after reaching perfection, has this faculty, or has it in the same measure, when it is born. During this time in which it has not yet attained its characteristic wisdom [phronˆesis], it is completely mad and shouts without order, and as soon as it can get on its feet it jumps around in equal disorder. (Leg. 672b–c; cf. Rep. 441a; Ti. 43a–44b)

The problem, then, is that as children we lack both the knowledge and the motivation to put our lives in order. Instead our non-rational desires are in charge. Subjecting children to elenchoi will surely not help them to sort out their confused beliefs about the good and lead them to desire the true good. If we want children to act rationally we need a pedagogical program that can teach knowledge of the good and the motivation to live according to this knowledge. Hence Plato describes the purpose of education as habituating our non-rational desires to pursue the things we would pursue if we were guided by reason: [T]he earliest sensations that a child feels in infancy are of pleasure and pain, and this is the route by which virtue and vice first enter the soul. . . . I call “education” the initial acquisition of virtue by the child, when the feelings of pleasure and

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love, pain and hatred, that well up in his soul are channeled in the right courses before it can grasp the rational ground [logos lambanein]. Then, when it does grasp it, [these feelings] agree with its reason through having been properly trained by means of appropriate habits. Virtue is this general concord. But that which has been correctly formed with respect to pleasure and pain, so that we hate what we ought to hate from the beginning to the end, and love what we ought to love – if you mark this part off in your account and call it “education,” according to me you would be giving it its proper name. (Leg. 653a–c; cf. Rep. 401e–402a)

Through habituation we learn to associate pleasure with things approved by reason and pain with things disapproved by reason, turning them into objects of rightful love and hate. Failing this, reason and desire risk being at odds when we become able to make rational judgments about good and bad: [This is the case] when a man considers something fine and good, but instead of loving it, hates it and conversely when he loves and welcomes what he believes is bad and unjust. I maintain that the discord between his feelings of pleasure and pain and his rational judgment [hˆe kata logon doxa] constitutes the utmost ignorance. . . . But the greatest and finest concord of all would most correctly be called the greatest wisdom. (Leg. 689a–d)39

The aim of Plato’s pedagogical program, then, is to prepare nonphilosophers for the time when reason takes charge. It leads citizens “unwittingly, from childhood on, to resemblance [homoiotˆeta], friendship [philia], and concord [symphˆonia] with fine reason” (Rep. 401c–d). Plato’s main worry about Socratic politics, however, does not concern children but adults. For most citizens remain non-philosophers throughout life. Although we all have a tripartite soul, Plato argues, the dominant part varies from one soul to another: Now, it is clear to everyone that the part with which we learn always wholly aims to know the truth [pros to eidenai tˆen alˆetheian . . . pan tetatai] wherever it lies and that, of the three parts, it cares least for money and honor. . . . And does not this part rule in some people’s souls, while one of the other parts – whichever it happens to be – rules in other people’s? That’s right. And isn’t that the reason we say that there are three primary kinds of people [ta prˆota tritta genˆe]: wisdomloving, victory-loving, and profit-loving? That is it precisely. And also three forms of pleasure, one assigned to each of them? Certainly. (581b–c) 39

Note that this must refer to the ignorance and wisdom of adult non-philosophers who have imperfect practical wisdom as we will see. A philosopher, driven by the desire to know, cannot experience discord in this way.

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The distinction between three kinds of souls explains why for Plato most citizens are unable to live the contemplative life. They are non-philosophers by nature. Note that attaining knowledge of the good has become a much more demanding task in the later dialogues. Plato no longer separates human concerns from natural science and metaphysics as Socrates does in the Apology. According to the Timaeus, we attain “the most excellent life offered to humankind by the gods” if we “learn the harmonies and revolutions of the universe, and so bring into conformity with its objects our faculty of understanding” (90d). And since political collaboration is a condition for attaining perfection, we cannot act in a self-directed way without understanding the political order as well. The metaphysical foundation of the natural and political order, in turn, are the Forms, led by the Form of the good, “the first principle of everything” as we saw (Rep. 511b). Moreover, since the “pleasure of studying the things that are cannot be tasted by anyone except the philosopher,” non-philosophers find learning “painful” and in the end “inevitably come to hate . . . that activity” (Rep. 582c and 486c). Hence they also lack the motivation to do what reason prescribes. Plato’s program, then, must not only offer pedagogical guidance to not-yet-philosophers until reason takes charge, but also political guidance to citizens who remain non-philosophers throughout life. In the Republic Plato thus can no longer maintain what he asserted in the Apology: that “no greater blessing for the city” exists than Socrates’s relentless effort to direct the citizens to what is best through elenchoi. If God as Reason is to order the polis, rulers need to establish a pedagogical-political program that can replace the philosopher’s knowledge of the good and his motivation to live according to this knowledge. A community of philosophers in which God’s rule and self-rule coincide has become an ideal that cannot be attained given Plato’s view of human nature. Although doing philosophy remains necessary for attaining perfect justice, imperfect forms of justice are accessible to non-philosophers as well. This helps to explain why Plato’s account of justice in book 4 of the Republic is concerned with practical wisdom, whereas the desire to know only comes into focus with the portrait of the philosopher in books 5 and 6, and is explicitly identified as reason’s characteristic desire only in book 9. In book 4 Plato wants to offer an account of justice that is compatible with both philosophers and non-philosophers. While the rational part of the non-philosopher’s soul has no strong desire to know, it can be trained to rule the non-rational desires and thus partake in practical wisdom. To be sure, the wisely lived life of a philosopher greatly differs from the wisely

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lived life of a non-philosopher, but both can attain self-rule under the guidance of reason. Despite Plato’s qualms about the Socratic approach to politics, ordering the polis towards what is best still requires putting philosophers in charge: Until philosophers rule as kings or those who are now called kings . . . adequately philosophize – that is, until political power and philosophy coincide – . . . there can be no happiness, public or private, in any city. (Rep. 473c–e)

Two things qualify philosophers to rule: they have knowledge of the good – in contrast to the confused beliefs about the good of poets, politicians, and orators. And they have the moral integrity to order the city in light of this knowledge since their desire to know protects them from the corrupting lure of money and honor: A city whose prospective rulers are least eager to rule must of necessity be most free from civil war. . . . If you can find a way of life that is better than ruling for the prospective rulers, your well-governed city will become a possibility, for only in it will the truly rich rule – not those who are rich in gold but those who are rich in the wealth that the happy must have, namely a good and rational life. But if beggars hungry for private goods go into public life, thinking that the good is there for the seizing, the well-governed city is impossible, for then ruling is something fought over. (Rep. 520d–521a)

Does the philosopher’s preference for contemplation over politics mean that what is best for the polis is not best for him? Plato argues that philosophers who benefited from the state’s education have a moral obligation to serve the state as rulers in return (520a–d). He could, however, also have argued that this is a prescription of practical wisdom. As we saw, on the individual level “what is advantageous . . . for the whole soul” requires the philosopher at times to interrupt his studies to attend to the needs of the body. The same holds for the political level: since we are embodied and have many needs, our perfection depends on collaborating with others. A community ordered towards the perfection of reason is obviously a community in which philosophers flourish most. Hence philosophers also have a selfish motive for ordering the polis towards what is best.40 Is this also true for a philosopher who can afford living a contemplative life with like-minded friends in private? As we saw, this was not inconceivable in democratic Athens. Plato concedes, in fact, that philosophers who owe “no debt” to the city for their education “are justified in not sharing their city’s labors” 40

This is a standard argument in medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophy. See, for example, Averroes, Tah¯afut 2.4, 583/360.

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(520a–b). However, to say that philosophers have no moral obligation does not imply that they have no motivation. Socrates is a case in point. He did not become a philosopher thanks to democratic Athens and he could have chosen to pursue philosophy in private. And yet Socrates devoted his life to directing his fellow-citizens to what is best as the city’s gadfly. As I suggested above, Plato could explain this as a form of imitating the God of the Timaeus who is “without envy” and hence wants “everything else to become as much like himself as possible” (29d–e). A philosopher like Socrates returns to the cave neither to fulfill a moral obligation nor because his self-interest tells him to do so, but because he is “without envy” and hence wants his fellow-citizens “to become as much like himself as possible.”41 Plato’s description of how the philosopher-ruler orders the polis certainly invites us to think of the Timaeus: [T]he city will never become happy [eudaimonˆeseie] until its outline is sketched by painters who use the divine model. . . . They would take the city and the characters of human beings like painting tablets . . . and I suppose that, as they work, they would look often in each direction, towards that which by nature is just, fine, moderate, and the like, on the one hand, and towards that which they are trying to put into human beings, on the other. And in this way they would mix and blend the various ways of life in the city until they produced a human image [andreikelon] according to what Homer too called “the divine form and image [theoeides te kai theoeikelon]” when it occurred among human beings. (Rep. 500e–501b; cf. 540a–b)

As God looks at the divine model in the Timaeus and establishes the natural order, the philosopher-ruler looks at the divine model in the Republic and establishes the political order. Plato, in fact, uses various devices to dramatically connect the two dialogues. For one thing he suggests in the Timaeus that the discussion of the Republic took place on the previous day and recalls many of the best state’s features (17c–19b). Moreover, he presents Critias’s speech that is to follow the speech of Timaeus as putting together the cosmological and the political account. Whereas Timaeus’s speech begins “with the origin of the universe” and concludes “with the nature of human beings,” Critias’s speech portrays human beings in action who were brought up under the political order described in the Republic (Ti. 27a–b; Criti. 106a–107b). 41

This, too, is a standard argument in medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophy. See, for example, Maimonides, Guide 3.53–54.

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What distinguishes the work of Plato’s philosopher-ruler from the gadflypolitics of Socrates is that much of it consists in offering pedagogicalpolitical guidance to non-philosophers. The ruler is a physician of the soul who prescribes and explains what non-philosophers should do and provides incentives to carry out his prescriptions. Although he cannot turn them into physicians of the soul themselves, he wants everyone “to be ruled by the divine and the reasonable” – as much as possible “within himself and his own” and as little as possible “imposed from without” (Rep. 590c–d). The aim of his pedagogical-political program, as we will see, remains a community of “free men” (eleutheroi). Since the best life for Plato is the philosophical life and the goal of the pedagogical-political program is to enable non-philosophers to live a life resembling the best life, this program should, as much as possible, convey philosophy in a non-philosophical form. Although Plato nowhere expressly lists the means to be used for this purpose, in a preliminary way we can describe them as laws, stories, persuasive speeches, and practices of worship. The components of the pedagogical-political program are sketched in the Republic and, to a lesser extent, elsewhere in Plato’s middle and late dialogues. Systematically, however, they are only developed in the Laws. One of Plato’s main purposes in the Laws, I contend, is to work out a pedagogical-political program to order the life of non-philosophers. Indeed, the account of “our entire politeia” in the Laws is characterized as an “imitation [mimesis] of the finest and noblest life” (817b).42 This surely can be taken as a reference to the life of the philosopher.43 One way to capture the nature and purpose of Plato’s pedagogicalpolitical program is through al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s concept of religion as an “imitation of philosophy” (Tah..s¯ıl, 185/44). Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı argues that “through religion the multitude is taught, educated, and given all that is needed to attain happiness” (H . ur¯uf 144). Religion both legally enforces and explains the prescriptions of reason. To this end it conveys the “theoretical and practical matters that have been inferred in philosophy, in such a way as to enable the multitude to understand them by persuasion or imaginative representation” (108). Hence religion is the “tool” philosophers use to make philosophical contents accessible to non-philosophers (110). We will see in chapter 3 that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı himself attributes this concept of religion to 42

43

In this sense the Athenian can present the Laws as “the finest and best” tragedy (ibid.). Compare its earlier description as the “model work” to be used for the selection of educationally appropriate literature in the state (811b–812a; see also 858d–859a). Since “wisdom” and “reason” are the highest good in the Laws (631c–d; 688b; 963a), a life devoted to attaining them clearly is “the finest and noblest life” for human beings.

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Plato. At present I propose that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı can help us to better understand how Plato’s pedagogical-political program works. Note that the practices of worship outlined in the Laws are only one component of this concept of religion. What al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı means by religion is the comprehensive order of practices, beliefs, and institutions that make up the divine nomoi of Magnesia, the fictional Cretan colony discussed in the Laws. Magnesia’s divine nomoi, in turn, offer al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı a model for conceiving the Divine Law of Muslims and Jews. In this context it is worth pointing out that several scholars have recently attempted to explain the peculiar character of the Laws as religious – starting with Herwig G¨orgemanns to the more recent studies by Andrea Nightingale, Andr´e Laks, and Malcolm Schofield.44 Nightingale describes the Laws as a “sacred text,” and Laks as “le premier trait´e th´eologico-politique.”45 According to Schofield, religion “pervades [the Laws] from beginning to end.”46 Consider a few examples: The first word of the dialogue is “God” (theos). The Athenian Visitor, the main character of the Laws, who takes on the role of philosopher-legislator, turns to his task with the following prayer:47 Let us therefore call upon God as we undertake the founding of the city [Magnesia]. May he hear our prayer, and having heard it come graciously and in kindly concern for us to join in establishing the ordering of the city and its laws. (Leg. 712b)

The first speech to be addressed to the prospective citizens of Magnesia again begins with an invocation of God: Men, according to the ancient story, there is a God who holds in his hands the beginning and end and middle of all things, and straight he marches in the cycle of nature. Justice, who takes vengeance on those who abandon the divine law [theios nomos], never leaves his side. (Leg. 715e–716a)

A few lines later God is presented as the “measure of all things.” To become “God’s friend,” citizens must become like God as much as they can, since “like approves like” (716c–d). Note, finally, that the most elaborate philosophical argument in the Laws is the refutation of atheism in book 10. 44 45 47

See G¨orgemanns (1960) who suggested that the Laws is a work of literature rather than philosophy and addresses an audience of non-philosophers (for example 25). 46 Schofield (2006), 283. Nightingale (1993), 279; Laks (2005), 22. The Athenian Visitor has no official political role. However, in the Statesman Plato argues that being a good ruler depends on having political expert knowledge, not on exercising actual political power (259b and 293a). In this sense the Athenian Visitor can be described as a philosopher-ruler.

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What is the content of the pedagogical-political program? On the most general level its aim is to convey the philosopher’s knowledge of the good to non-philosophers and to motivate them to live according to this knowledge. In the Republic the philosophers are said to have grasped “the truth about fine, just, and good things [kala te kai dikaia kai agatha]” (Rep. 520c) which provides them with a “clear model in their souls” (484c). Like “painters” they “look to what is most true, make constant reference to it, and study it as exactly as possible” and then “establish here on earth customs [nomima] concerning fine, just, and good things, when they need to be established, or guard and preserve them, once they have been established” (484c–d). According to the Laws the divine nomoi of Magnesia embody precisely the “city’s customs [nomima] – that is, the things it considers just, good, and fine.”48 Since the Athenian Visitor takes on the role of the philosopherlegislator, the nomoi of Magnesia instantiate his knowledge of “fine, just, and good things.” But why does Plato not explicitly say so? As the passages quoted earlier show, he wants Magnesia’s nomoi to be grounded on the authority of God. This is not just religious rhetoric. A community ordered towards what is best is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered. In this sense it is indeed ruled by God as Reason. It would, however, be absurd to take this to imply that God literally issues commands. At one point Plato explicitly says “that it is impossible” to “get commands [epitaxeis] from [God].” Hence a human lawgiver must suffice “with reason [logos] alone to guide him” (Leg. 835c). At the same time this lawgiver “must try to make everyone . . . believe” that his laws have “the backing of religion” (838d–e). Like the anthropomorphic representation of God as a craftsman in the Timaeus, the anthropomorphic representation of God as a ruler in the Laws is part of the pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers. This does not mean that Magnesia’s nomoi are not genuinely divine. For one thing God is their source in the sense that God is the principle of all knowledge and hence also of the philosopher-ruler’s knowledge of the good which Magnesia’s nomoi embody.49 God, moreover, is also their final cause: Plato would surely agree with Aristotle that “God is not a ruler who gives commands [epitaktikˆos archˆon], but is that for the sake of which 48

49

Plato first claims that “a poet should compose nothing that conflicts with the city’s customs – that is, the things it considers just, good, and fine” (801c–d) and later describes the divine nomoi of Magnesia (“the finest and best . . . tragedy” according to 817b) as the “model work” for the selection of pedagogically appropriate literature (811b–812a; cf. 858d–859a). See Rep. 508d–e and 511b–e where Plato describes the Form of the good as the first principle of knowledge, and 500e–501b where the philosopher-rulers are compared to “painters who use the divine model.”

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wisdom commands” (EE 8.3, 1249b14–15). In fact, he explicitly argues that the nomoi of Magnesia are divine because they aim at “Reason who rules all things” (Leg. 631d). Philosophers, then, can agree with non-philosophers on the theocratic nature of Magnesia’s moral-political order, yet understand God’s rule in a way that is philosophically sound. The philosopher-ruler cannot convey his knowledge of the good to non-philosophers by subjecting their confused beliefs about the good to elenchoi. Only philosophers can be taught in this way. As we saw, they attain knowledge of the good once they “can distinguish [the good] by means of an account from everything else, surviving, as if in a battle, all refutations, striving to examine things not in accordance with opinion but in accordance with being” (Rep. 534b–c). For non-philosophers, on the other hand, the ruler must translate the concept of the good into a language they can understand. This is the language of the “imagination” (eikasia), the mode of cognition prevalent in the cave.50 Plato indeed often describes the work of the philosopher-ruler as a form of artistic creation. According to the Republic he is a “craftsman of virtue” and “painter of constitutions.” The divine nomoi of the Laws are compared to poetry: an “imitation of the finest and noblest life” and “the finest and best . . . tragedy” (Leg. 817b). In the Statesman it is the “art of rhetoric” which “in partnership with kingship” and “through the telling of stories” is able to “persuade people of what is just and so helps in steering through the business of cities” (Plt. 304a–d).51 But does Plato not sharply criticize poetry and rhetoric – in particular in book 10 of the Republic and in the Gorgias? For my purpose it is crucial to see that Plato objects only to bad poetry and bad rhetoric. As long as these are integrated into a philosophically grounded pedagogicalpolitical program, they are indispensable for directing non-philosophers to what is best. When Plato speaks of the “old quarrel between philosophy and poetry” (Rep. 607b) he means the poetry of Homer and Hesiod which misrepresents the nature of the gods and how they relate to human beings, and hence does not provide a model that non-philosophers can use to order their lives. But surely his aim is not to eradicate poetry from the best state altogether. In book 10 of the Republic, Plato criticizes poetry – and 50

51

At the end of the parable of the cave Plato says that it “must be fitted together with what we said before” (517b), namely with the parables of the sun and the line. According to the parable of the line, the lowest level of cognition is “eikasia” (511d–e). It corresponds to the shadows on the wall seen by the cave dwellers (see 515a–b) which stand for the culturally mediated apprehension of the world of becoming. Compare the “rudder of persuasion” that is to be applied to the soul according to Critias 109c. Note that poetry and persuasion are not consistently distinguished by Plato; see, for example, Gorgias 502c where poetry is characterized as a kind of persuasion.

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art in general – because it is twice removed from the truth. Artists imitate physical things which in turn imitate things that truly are – that is, the Forms (597b–598c). This is not true for philosophical poetry, however, that derives directly from the philosopher’s grasp of the Forms – “the truth about fine, just, and good things” (520c). This distinction is made explicit by Plotinus: true artists, he argues, do not imitate nature, but “go back to the principles [logoi] from which nature derives” (Enn. 5.8.1; cf. 1.6.3). Plato himself, of course, offers the best illustration of what this kind of poetry looks like through the images and parables which he uses to convey philosophical doctrines. Examples include the representation of the soul as a charioteer with two horses in the Phaedrus; the interlocking parables of the sun, the line, and the cave in the Republic; and the representation of Reason as a craftsman in the Timaeus and as a ruler in the Laws.52 For the best state to come into existence, then, it is not sufficient that philosophy and political power join hands. To be able to direct non-philosophers to what is best, the philosopher-ruler must also be an accomplished legislator, poet, and orator. These, in turn, are precisely the skills of the prophet according to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı.53 The pedagogical-political program laid out in the Laws represents a shift of focus, not however a departure from the political project of the Republic. The Republic begins with the question whether justice is intrinsically good and concludes with the claim that it is. To answer this question, however, Plato must first clarify what justice is. Hence much of the Republic discusses the nature of justice in both the soul and the state. As for implementing justice, Plato is mainly concerned with how philosophers must be brought up to become just and to rule others justly. Their education begins with gymnastics and music – “music” in the broad sense of the arts and literature inspired by the muses which Plato reinterprets in terms of the philosophically grounded art that we just saw. This is followed by intellectual training in mathematics and dialectics, as well as practical training in the state’s political offices. However, except for gymnastics and music, with respect to which the education of not-yet-philosophers and non-philosophers overlaps, we learn little about how the state will 52 53

Note that I do not intend to offer a general explanation of Plato’s use of myths; my claim is that some myths serve to provide pedagogical-political guidance. I suggest extending to the pedagogical-political program as a whole what Dodds (1951), 234–35, n. 85 observed with respect to the religious character of the Laws: It is not “simply a pious lie, a fiction maintained for its social usefulness. Rather it reflects or symbolises religious truth at the level of eikasia at which it can be assimilated by the people. Plato’s universe was a graded one: as he believed in degrees of truth and reality, so he believed in degrees of religious insight.” Cf. Schofield (2006), 316.

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order the life of non-philosophers.54 The remaining components of the pedagogical-political program are only alluded to briefly, for example laws, whose observance is motivated through the combined effect of coercion and persuasion, or traditional practices of worship.55 A very different picture emerges from the Laws. For one thing Plato presupposes the outcome of the discussion in the Republic. The question is no longer what virtue is and whether it is intrinsically good, but how to direct the citizens of Magnesia to virtue. In a key passage for my project Plato proposes a criterion to determine whether nomoi are divine: nomoi are divine if they order the community towards what is best. We already saw the rationale for this criterion: something ordered towards what is best is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered on account of Plato’s concept of God as Reason. The good that divine nomoi aim at is the good established in the Republic: it includes “human goods” – health, beauty, strength, and wealth – as means to “the highest virtue” which, in turn, consists in the four cardinal virtues of the Republic aiming at the perfection of reason: Wisdom is the leading divine good; second comes the moderate habit of a soul that uses reason [nous]. If you combine these two with courage, you get justice as the third; courage itself lies in fourth place. All these are by nature ranked above the others [that is, the human goods], and the lawgiver must, of course, rank them in this order. Then he must inform the citizens that the other commands [prostaxeis] they receive have these goods in view: the human goods have the divine, and all these in turn look towards Reason who rules all things [ho hegemˆon nous sympanta]. (Leg. 631b–d)

Divine nomoi, then, enforce the prescriptions of a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason: we pursue human goods virtuously – that is, as much as is required to satisfy the needs of the body in a life directed to attaining likeness to “Reason who rules all things.”56 The education of philosophers, however, which is Plato’s main concern in the Republic, is only briefly mentioned at the end of the Laws (see 968c–e). To be sure, Plato says enough to suggest that the training of philosophers will roughly follow the curriculum established in the Republic. It includes study of the different branches of mathematics, explicitly excluded from the curriculum of “the multitude,” as well as the dialectical study of the Forms (817e; 54

55 56

In fact, the education of the class of producers, in whose soul the love of money dominates, is not discussed at all. I see no systematic reason, however, why Plato should exclude them from training in music and gymnastics. In the Laws, at any rate, all citizens receive the same basic education. For laws, see 519e–520a, 590c–591a, and 607e; for worship, see 427b–c. As we will see in the following chapters, all later proponents of a philosophical religion claim that their religion fulfills the criterion for divine nomoi established in the Laws.

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cf. 967a). The guardians of the nomoi must learn to look at the “single Form” (mia idea) of virtue, goodness, and beauty (965c and 966a) of which they must know the “definition” (logos), not only the name (964a). Unlike non-philosophers who “may be forgiven if they simply follow the voice of the law,” guardians must have “real knowledge” of the “true nature” of things (966b–c). Plato’s main concern in the Laws, however, is to work out a pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers – citizens who “follow the voice of the law” and can only achieve imperfect forms of justice. In this respect the Laws can be seen as completing the project of the Republic. Later proponents of a philosophical religion will argue that the same concern accounts for the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship established by the founders of their religion. from coercion to self-rule What are the main components of Plato’s pedagogical-political program? The best way to think of them is as a sequence of not rigidly delimited levels culminating in dialectics. This is how they can provide guidance to all citizens adjusted to the different stages of their development – from birth to adulthood – and to the different patterns of their souls – from a predominantly appetitive to a predominantly rational soul.57 On the most basic level the philosopher’s knowledge of the good is translated into legal prescriptions. When his “calculation” (logismos) of what is best “is expressed as a public decision of a state, it receives the title law [nomos]” (Leg. 644d).58 Hence Plato can explain the meaning of “nomos” as “the ordering [dianomˆe] of Reason [nous]” (714a; cf. 836a; 957c). The purpose of laws is to order the polis towards what is best. According to the Republic, their aim is “to spread happiness throughout the city” (519e). According to the Laws, “they will make our state happy and prosperous” with “the good wishes of the gods” (718b). How can non-philosophers be motivated to do what the laws prescribe? A last resort, Plato argues in both the Republic and the Laws, is “coercion” (anankˆe) or “force” (bia): fear of “just punishment” (dikˆe) keeps the non-rational desires in check which otherwise would push 57

58

Cf. Laks (2005), 76. Laks, however, does not consistently develop the concept of a scale and I have some doubts about the usefulness of his notion of a “utopie l´egislative” for explaining the supposed tension in the Laws between the different forms of addressing the citizens (ibid., 74, 125). In my view they are sufficiently motivated through the different developmental stages and patterns of the soul that Plato introduces in the Republic. Compare the “science of measurement” in the Protagoras (356d–e). Note that in the Laws passage, too, what is calculated is pleasure and pain, which I take, however, to be a stand-in for good and bad.

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citizens to break the law (Rep. 520a; Leg. 718b). Although one non-rational motive is overruled by another, the citizens at least do what is in accordance with reason. Plato compares a legislator who uses “threat of punishment” to motivate obedience to a “doctor of slaves” who “prescribes what he thinks best . . . with the assurance of a tyrant” (Leg. 720c). While coercion is legitimate to enforce the prescriptions of reason, it is clearly the least attractive option in Plato’s view. The model he recommends instead is the doctor of “free men” (720d). One important step from coercion to freedom is the musical education whose aim, as we saw, is to lead citizens “unwittingly, from childhood on, to resemblance, friendship, and concord with fine reason.” In the Laws Plato describes how this education aligns our desires with what the laws prescribe: [E]ducation . . . is a process of attracting and leading children to accept that which has been declared the right reason [logos orthos] by the law. . . . The soul of the child has to be prevented from getting into the habit of feeling pleasure [chairein] and pain [lypeisthai] in contradiction to the law and those who have been persuaded to obey it. (Leg. 659d–e)

Thus citizens are set from the start “on the paths of goodness as embodied in the law code” (809a). At this stage, the motivation to do what the laws prescribe stems from the aesthetic effect of art: [A]nyone who has been properly educated in music and poetry will sense it acutely when something has been omitted from a thing and when it has not been finely crafted or finely made by nature. And since he has the right distastes, he will praise fine things, be pleased by them, receive them into his soul, and, being nurtured by them, become fine and good. He will rightly object to what is shameful, hating it while he is still young and before he can grasp the rational ground [logos labein], but when reason comes the person educated in this way will welcome it most because he recognizes its kinship [oikeiotˆes] with himself. (Rep. 401e–402a)

The beautiful and the ugly are deployed to habituate children to associate pleasure with what is lawful and pain with what is unlawful, giving rise to rightful love and hate. Consider the analogy Plato draws between aesthetic education and treating “the sick and ailing”: We have an analogy in the sick and ailing; those in charge of feeding them try to administer the proper diet in tasty foods and drinks, and offer them unwholesome items in revolting foods, so that the patients may get into the correct habit of welcoming the one kind and hating the other. That is just what the right legislator [ho orthos nomothetˆes] will persuade . . . the poet to do with his fine and marvelous language: to compose correctly by portraying through choreography

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and harmonies the gestures and tunes of men who are moderate, courageous, and good in every way. (Leg. 659e–660a)

The aesthetic experience is thus put in the service of education. The “souls of the young,” Plato argues, “are led to acquire virtue by means of artistic imitations” (812c). Art’s most important feature is its “correctness” (orthotˆes) which consists in “the imitation and successful reproduction of the proportions and characteristics of the model” (668b). As we saw, the paradigm of “correct” art are the divine nomoi themselves, “the finest and best . . . tragedy,” embodying the philosopher’s knowledge of the good (817b). In the Republic a number of “guidelines” (typoi) are defined for “how one should speak about gods, heroes, daemons, and things in Hades” (392a). They stipulate, for example, that the gods are good and the cause only of good and that they can neither change nor deceive human beings.59 Guidelines for representing human beings are established in the Laws: [Y]ou force your poets to say that the good man, because he is moderate and just, is fortunate and happy, no matter whether he is big and strong, or small and weak, or rich or poor; and that even if he is richer than Midas or Cinyras and has not justice, he is a wretched person and lives a life of misery. (Leg. 660e)

Much of Homer’s and Hesiod’s poetry ends up in the best state’s dustbin because it fails to conform to these guidelines. Art, then, becomes a vehicle to convey philosophical contents to non-philosophers. The philosopher’s knowledge of the good is instantiated in stories about gods, daemons, heroes, and human beings. Although these stories cannot provide knowledge strictly speaking, they represent the good “correctly,” in contrast to the poetry of Homer and Hesiod which is based on confused beliefs about the good. As I suggested above, the philosopher’s stories are not twice removed from the realm of true being. They are epistemically in between knowledge of the good and mere opinions derived from sense perception. In this sense Plato can claim that musical education is not complete “until we know the different forms [eidˆe]” of the virtues and vices: which are moving around everywhere, and see them in the things in which they are, both themselves and their images, and do not disregard them, whether they are written on small things or large, but accept that the knowledge of both large and small letters is part of the same art and discipline. (Rep. 402c)

The analogy Plato draws is “with learning how to read” which enables us to discern the letters of the alphabet in all combinations and sizes 59

See the discussion in 379a–392a.

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(402a–b). To be sure, the “forms” that we learn to discern through musical education are not the same as the Forms that the philosopher apprehends. But they come sufficiently close to serve as standards for judging the goodness or badness of individual actions. Hence the beliefs about the good derived from philosophically grounded stories about gods, daemons, heroes, and human beings can replace the philosopher’s knowledge for practical purposes. And the aesthetic response to the beautiful and the ugly can replace the philosopher’s motivation to act according to this knowledge. When not-yet-philosophers become actual philosophers, their semi-accurate beliefs about the good are replaced with true knowledge, and their attraction to the beauty of artistic representations with desire for the truly beautiful and good. Musical education, then, brings us significantly closer to self-rule: instead of following legal prescriptions enforced through threat of punishment we make independent moral judgments in line with the things we love and hate. The next step is to ensure the informed consent of non-philosophers through rational persuasion as Plato stresses in both the Republic (see 520a) and the Laws (see 718b). What this means he explains in the Laws by further developing the analogy between lawgiver and doctor: The visits of the free doctor . . . are mostly concerned with treating the illnesses of free men [eleutheroi]. He investigates these from their beginning and according to nature, communing with the patient himself and his friends, and he both learns [manthanei] something himself from the sick and, as much as he can, teaches [didaskei] the one who is sick. He does not give orders until he has in some way persuaded; once he has on each occasion made the sick person gentle by means of persuasion [meta peithous], he attempts to lead him back to health. (Leg. 720c–d)

Hence the importance of “preludes” (prooimia) to the laws which give reasons for doing what the laws prescribe:60 Should the person put in charge of the laws begin his laws with no such prelude? Is he to declare straight away what must and must not be done, add the threat of a punishment, and turn to another law, without adding a single word of encouragement or persuasion to the laws he framed? (Leg. 719e–720a)

Plato presents the preludes to the laws as one of his most important innovations. To “none of the lawgivers” had this idea occurred (722b–c). By giving reasons for the laws, the preludes promote the self-rule of nonphilosophers in two ways: they do what the laws prescribe because they 60

On the importance of the preludes and their contribution to self-rule, see Bobonich (2002) and Schofield (2006), chapter 7.3.

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understand why this is good for them. And they make the beliefs about the good, which were established in their souls through musical education, more their own by “tying them down” in the sense of the Meno. Like poetry, then, rhetoric – that is, the “persuasion” of the citizens through the preludes to the laws – can be a legitimate means to guide non-philosophers for Plato. To better understand the kind of rhetoric Plato approves it will be helpful to look at the discussion of rhetoric in the Phaedrus. The “art of rhetoric, taken as whole,” is defined as “a way of directing the soul [psychagˆogia] by means of speech” (261a), aiming “to produce persuasion [peithˆo]” (271a). According to the common understanding of rhetoric it does not matter whether the soul is directed to a true or false belief. What counts is the success of the speaker, for example in persuading a panel of judges of his innocence even if he is guilty (see 272d–273c). For Plato, however, good rhetoric is more than successful persuasion. For one thing he argues that unless the orator “pursues philosophy properly he will never be able to make a proper speech” (261a). For he needs to master three things: First, you must know the truth concerning everything [to te alˆethes hekastˆon] you are speaking or writing about. . . . Second, you must understand the nature of the soul [psychˆes physis] along the same lines; you must determine which kind of speech is appropriate to each kind of soul, prepare and arrange your speech accordingly, and offer a complex and elaborate speech to a complex soul and a simple speech to a simple one. Then, and only then, will you be able to use speech artfully . . . either in order to teach [didaxai] or in order to persuade [peisai]. (Phdr. 277b–c)

While fulfilling these requirements ensures the efficiency of rhetoric, what makes it good is the aim for the sake of which it is used. A “reasonable man,” Plato argues, will not go through the “great effort” it takes to become a skilled orator: in order to speak and act among human beings, but to be able to speak and act in a way that pleases the gods as much as possible. Wiser people than ourselves . . . say that a man who has reason [noun echˆon] must strive to be pleasant not to his fellow slaves, though this may happen as a side effect, but his masters, who are wholly good. So if the way round is long, don’t be astonished: we must make this detour for the sake of things that are very important. . . . Yet surely whatever one must go through on the way to fine things [ta kala] is itself fine. (Phdr. 273e–274b)

Using rhetoric in a way that “pleases the gods” for the sake of attaining “fine things” can surely be interpreted as guiding the soul towards true beliefs and virtue. In this sense Plato compares rhetoric to medicine:

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Well, isn’t the art of medicine in a way the same as the art of rhetoric? How so? In both cases we need to determine the nature of something – of the body in medicine, of the soul in rhetoric. Otherwise, all we’ll have will be an empirical and artless practice. We won’t be able to supply, on the basis of an art, a body with the drugs [pharmaka] and diet that will make it healthy and strong, or a soul with the proper reasons and rules for conduct [logoi te kai epitˆedeuseis nomimoi] that will impart to it the conviction [peithˆo] and virtue we want. (Phdr. 270b)

I suggest explaining the persuasive speeches, by which the doctor of free men introduces the laws, in light of the model of philosophically grounded rhetoric in the Phaedrus. The guardians of the law must not only have “real knowledge” about the “true nature” of things, but also “be competent in exposing them in speech” (Leg. 966b). They must, moreover, study the soul of the person they are addressing, like doctors who study the condition of the patient they treat. Finally, the aim of the persuasive speeches, like the aim of the laws to which they are attached, are “fine things” – ordering the polis towards what is best. Of course, the same medicine will not work for every patient and the same holds true for the treatment of the soul. In the Phaedrus, Plato distinguishes between simple speeches used to persuade simple souls and complex speeches used to teach complex souls. These are best understood as the beginning and end of a scale with levels in between on which persuasion gradually approaches teaching.61 I take “teaching” to mean instruction through philosophical argument. On the highest level, therefore, rhetoric is replaced through the “art of dialectic.” The “dialectician” who “has knowledge of just, fine, and good things” carefully “chooses a proper soul and plants and sows within it speeches accompanied by knowledge” (Phdr. 276c–277a). The Statesman works with a similarly schematic distinction: rhetoric “persuades people of what is just . . . through the telling of stories [mythologia], and not through teaching [didachˆe]” (304a–d). In the Laws, by contrast, the preludes offer a more differentiated picture of the levels of persuasion. In one passage Plato goes so far as to say that the legislator “uses speeches that come close to philosophizing [tou philosophein engys]” (857d). Some of the preludes indeed employ sophisticated arguments, most notably the proofs for the state’s fundamental theological doctrines offered in book 10 in response to the challenge of atheism. The arguments of other preludes, however, are considerably less refined. Already in the opening 61

In the Republic Plato describes the stories employed for educational purposes as “fictional or nearer to the truth” (522a) which implies that their epistemic quality varies.

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address to the citizens of Magnesia, the Athenian Visitor appeals to the authority of “an ancient story,” as we saw, and describes God’s justice as reward for obeying and punishment for disobeying the “divine law” (715e– 716a). The first example of a prelude which introduces the prescription of marriage to men “between the ages of thirty and thirty-five” gives reasons that fall considerably short of a philosophical proof and assumes a notion of immortality that clearly represents only one aspect of Plato’s considered doctrine: Mankind is immortal because it always leaves later generations behind to preserve its unity and identity for all time: it gets its share of immortality by means of procreation. It is never a holy thing voluntarily to deny oneself this prize, and he who neglects to take a wife and have children does precisely that. (Leg. 721c–d)62

Other preludes directly appeal to the mythical imagination. The first of the “agricultural laws,” for example, states that “no man shall disturb the boundary stones of his neighbor, whether fellow citizen or foreigner” because boundaries are protected by Zeus who is both “the God of kin” and the “protector of foreigners.” If roused “in either capacity the most terrible wars break out” (842e–843a). Elsewhere Plato appeals to the law of retribution to persuade citizens not to commit crimes like murder (see 870d–e). A little further he describes the law of retribution as “the myth [mythos] or explanation [logos], or whatever the right word is,” which “has come down to us in unambiguous terms from the lips of priests of long ago” (872d). These examples suffice to show that the lawgiver will employ reasons of varying quality, ranging from myths to sophisticated arguments, to persuade the citizens to do what the laws prescribe. Even on the highest level, however, where the arguments “come close to philosophizing,” persuasion should not be confused with philosophy in the strict sense. As we saw, the training of philosophers includes higher mathematics and the dialectical study of the Forms which are part neither of musical education nor of the persuasive speeches accompanying the laws. The preludes included in the Laws give examples to the guardians of the law of how to tailor the argumentative level of their speeches to the kind of citizen they are addressing. As doctors of free men their aim is to promote the self-rule of all citizens as much as they can. The citizens should not do what the laws prescribe because they submit to the authority of the lawgiver for fear of punishment, but because they understand why following these prescriptions is 62

For a series of philosophical proofs for the immortality of the soul, see the Phaedo.

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good for them. Not every citizen, however, can attain perfect self-rule. Although the citizens of Magnesia act on the basis of understanding, the epistemic quality of their understanding varies. The beliefs of all citizens are “tied down,” but the beliefs of some better than the beliefs of others. The highest rank is that of the philosopher who does what reason prescribes because he knows the good and is motivated to live according to this knowledge. The lowest rank is that of the slave who does what reason prescribes because he follows the law motivated by fear of punishment. In between are the ranks of citizens who do what reason prescribes guided by arguments adjusted to their varying ability to understand and motivated by correctly habituated desires. In Plato’s community of “free men,” then, self-rule is clearly a matter of degree. Broadly speaking all components of Plato’s pedagogical-political program can be described as religious: they are divine laws – beliefs, practices, and institutions established by God. Practices of worship in the narrower sense are only briefly alluded to in the Republic, but discussed in detail in the Laws. They are tied in with the other components of the pedagogicalpolitical program and serve the same purpose: ordering the community towards what is best. Consider the following passage from book 10, in which the Athenian Visitor expresses frustration about citizens who reject the theology of the state despite their poetic education intertwined with religious worship: Is it not necessary to feel irritation and hatred towards those . . . who are not persuaded by the myths [ou peithomenoi tois mythois] they heard from nurses and mothers when they were babies and sucklings? Charming myths . . . which they heard as well in prayers at sacrifices and saw in acted representations of them, a part of the ceremony a child always loves to see and hear, and they saw their own parents praying with the utmost seriousness for themselves and their families in the firm conviction that their prayers and supplications were addressed to gods who really did exist. (Leg. 887d–e)

To achieve its purpose not every aspect of worship requires precise regulation. In book 5, for example, Plato discusses sacred laws – that is, nomoi relating to the establishment of shrines, temples, religious festivals, and, in general, forms of communal worship. These nomoi, he argues, should be accepted on the authority of tradition alone and not be changed by “the legislator . . . in the slightest degree” (738b–c). For, despite their diversity, the religious festivals and forms of communal worship in question all fit equally well with an important aim of the lawgiver, namely promoting mutual acquaintance and friendship between the citizens which, in turn,

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ensure the right distribution of honor, political offices, and justice (see 738d–e). All components of Plato’s pedagogical-political program I sketched are thus integrated into the overall project of Plato’s political philosophy: they direct non-philosophers to what is best – a second-degree likeness to God that gradually approaches the first-degree likeness to God achieved by philosophers. One last important implication of the turn from Socratic politics to Plato’s later political thought must be noted. Although the lawgiver recognizes that he cannot turn all citizens into physicians of the soul, the community of “free men” envisaged in the Laws embodies as much of the Socratic ideal as human nature allows. In one sense, then, Plato can be said to continue the Socratic project, albeit with other means. At the same time, however, Plato also explicitly criticizes the gadfly politics of Socrates. Consider nonphilosophers whose beliefs about the good were shaped by stories about gods, daemons, heroes, and virtuous citizens, as well as by persuasive speeches accompanying the laws. They would neither be able to defend these beliefs in a Socratic elenchos, nor derive benefit from the insight that they do not fully know what they thought they knew, since they are unable to replace the refuted beliefs through knowledge. In this sense Socratic politics not only fails to direct non-philosophers to what is best. It also is dangerous, because it can push non-philosophers into nihilism: they lose the beliefs that are grounded in the philosopher’s knowledge of the good, but cannot replace them through that knowledge and hence are left without either: We hold from childhood certain convictions [dogmata] about just and fine things, in which we were brought up as by parents, obeying and honoring them. . . . There are other ways of living, however, opposite to these that contain pleasures, flatter our soul and attract it to themselves but which do not persuade sensible people, who honor and obey the convictions of their fathers. . . . And then a question [erˆotˆema] comes along and asks someone of this sort: “What is the fine [ti esti to kalon]?” And, when he answers what he has heard from the lawgiver, the argument refutes [exelenchˆe] him and by refuting [elenchˆon] him often and in many places strikes him down to the opinion that the fine is no more fine than shameful, and the same with the just, the good, and the things he most held in honor. . . . Then, when he no longer holds these convictions in honor and as akin to him as before and cannot discover the true ones [ta alˆethˆe], will he be likely to adopt any other way of life than that which flatters him? No he will not. And so, I suppose, from being law-abiding [ek nomimou] he becomes lawless [paranomos]. Inevitably. (Rep. 538c–539a)

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Although philosophy still holds the key to the best life, Plato thinks that it should not be practiced on the marketplace. Later proponents of a philosophical religion connect this argument with the argument in the Phaedrus against making philosophy accessible in writing. For once written down, philosophy reaches “indiscriminately those with understanding no less than those who have no business with it, and it does not know to whom it should speak and to whom it should not” (275d–e). the wisdom of non-philosophers Can non-philosophers, then, attain an imperfect form of wisdom? Some scholars argue that wisdom in the Republic depends on knowledge of the Forms, in particular the Form of the good. This would mean that non-philosophers could not attain wisdom and hence also not be just or self-ruled. The only way for them to do what reason prescribes would be as slaves.63 Although Plato considers coercion a legitimate last resort, as we saw, most non-philosophers have wisdom without knowledge of the Forms. Consider the characterization of non-philosophers in Statesman 309a–e: Plato first mentions non-philosophers who are incorrigibly vicious and ought to be killed or sent into exile and non-philosophers who, like “slaves,” must be coerced to act virtuously because of their “great ignorance and baseness.” The majority of non-philosophers, however, are led to virtue by means of a “divine bond” which fits “together that part of their soul that is eternal.” This divine bond consists in beliefs “about what is fine, just, and good” that are “really true and firmly settled [meta bebaiˆoseˆos].” They are brought about by the true lawgiver through musical education. Although these beliefs fall short of knowledge attained through dialectics, Plato does not hesitate to call a person who holds them “truly wise” (ontˆos phronimos) in a “political context.” The same holds for the Republic. Plato explicitly speaks of “wisdom” (sophia) and “knowledge” (epistˆemˆe) when describing the outcome of musical education which shapes the soul’s rational part through “fine speeches” (logoi kaloi) and “teachings” (mathˆemata) according to book 4 (441e; 442c; 443e). Moreover, when Plato contrasts Sparta’s education “by force” with the education “by persuasion” of the best state described in the Republic, he mentions both the use of “discussion and philosophy” and of “music and poetry” in the best state (548b–c). In book 7, however, Plato denies that musical education 63

See Cooper (1999) and Bobonich (2002), for example 47–48.

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can lead to “true philosophy” (521c) since it provides no “knowledge” (epistˆemˆe) and contains “no teaching [mathˆema] concerning any such good as you are seeking now” (522a). In book 9, moreover, Plato describes the soul’s rational part as “wisdom-loving” because it is “always straining to know where the truth lies” (581b) – a desire which non-philosophers lack as we saw. Recall, however, the distinction between practical and theoretical wisdom which I suggested above. Plato clearly thinks that the pedagogical-political program provides sufficient practical knowledge to enable reason to order a person’s life. This is precisely how “wisdom” is characterized in book 4: it is the “knowledge of what is advantageous for each part and for the whole soul” (442c) or “the knowledge that oversees the actions” preserving the soul’s “inner harmony” (443e). Already Plotinus proposed – correctly in my view – to distinguish between two kinds of wisdom: All citizens in a well-ordered polis have “political” wisdom which means that reason rules their non-rational desires (Enn. 1.2.1). This Plotinus takes to be the meaning of wisdom in book 4 of the Republic. Only select citizens, however, move on to wisdom properly speaking which consists in “likeness to God” attained through the perfection of reason (1.2.3). Plato’s ontology clearly permits predicating the same term in a primary and in a derivative sense. Thus “beautiful” in the Symposium is predicated of the Form of beauty, but derivatively also of bodies, souls, laws, and so forth that have beauty because they partake in the Form (210a–211c; cf. Rep. 476a ff.). Similarly we can predicate wisdom in the primary sense of the philosopher’s knowledge of the good and derivatively of the beliefs about the good established in the nonphilosopher’s soul through a philosophically grounded pedagogicalpolitical program. To see how Plato’s pedagogical-political program can convey the relevant practical knowledge, consider the account of the soul in the Phaedrus: Socrates does not explain to Phaedrus “what the soul actually is,” but gives a likeness of the soul in form of a story about a charioteer with two horses (246a–b). He then goes on to describe the relation between the soul’s different parts on the basis of this story, explains what causes the embodiment of the soul, as well as how different ways of living influence the soul’s current state and its fate in the future. The story thus provides Phaedrus with a notion of the soul’s structure and of the kind of behavior which, given this structure, is beneficial or harmful to the soul. Although only a likeness of Plato’s philosophical psychology and its moral implications, the story gives Phaedrus a conceptual framework that allows him to discern

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on his own what the right thing to do is. If, in addition, his desires are directed to objects of rightful love and hate, he will, in fact, do what is right and hence live wisely and justly. A similar case can be made for Glaucon and Adeimantus, Socrates’s interlocutors in the Republic. They surely lack knowledge of the Form of the good which, however, does not mean that, like slaves, they must be coerced to act justly.64 As in the example of the Phaedrus, the parables of the line, the sun, and the cave provide likenesses of the relevant knowledge which are sufficiently accurate for practical guidance. The same role can be attributed to the representation of God as a craftsman in the Timaeus and as a lawgiver in the Laws: they are likenesses which provide non-philosophers with an understanding – albeit imperfect in comparison to the philosopher’s knowledge – of the metaphysical foundation of the natural and the political order. At least in part this also explains the notorious “noble lie” which Plato says is necessary for political purposes. It is, of course, not literally true that the soul is a charioteer with two horses, that the Form of the good is the sun, that Reason is a craftsman or lawgiver, and so forth. Yet these likenesses of true doctrines are part of the wisdom that makes self-rule possible for non-philosophers. To be sure, the knowledge required for rationally ordering one’s life ultimately depends on the knowledge attained through philosophy since the source of all knowledge is the Form of the good. But as long as philosophers convey this knowledge through “fine speeches” and “teachings” – that is, embodied in a pedagogical-political program – non-philosophers can achieve a high degree of self-rule. When Plato says that non-philosophers will have a more pleasant life if they follow “knowledge [epistˆemˆe] and argument [logos]” under the guidance of the “philosophical part,” he is referring to the rational part of the non-philosopher’s soul, educated through “fine speeches” and “teachings” as described in book 4 of the Republic (586d–e). The wisely lived life of a philosopher, of course, looks quite different from the wisely lived life of a non-philosopher. For the philosopher acting according to what is “advantageous for each part and for the whole soul” means doing everything for the sake of perfecting reason. For the non-philosopher, on the other hand, it means pursuing goals set by the desires for money or honor that dominate his soul. Philosophers and nonphilosophers thus have different sources of motivation. On the one hand this strengthens the citizens’ capacity for self-rule since the division of labor in the best state assigns to each group the work they desire: producing and 64

Indeed, even Socrates himself expressly disavows such knowledge; see Rep. 506c.

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trading goods to lovers of money, defending the polis to lovers of honor, and contemplating and ruling to lovers of learning.65 Hence what the citizens desire coincides with what reason prescribes. There is no question, however, that for Plato the philosopher’s life is better than the non-philosopher’s life: his grasp of the good is better, the things he desires are better, and the pleasure he derives from his activity is better. On epistemological, metaphysical and psychological grounds, therefore, the philosopher’s life is the best life. But non-philosophers, too, have much to gain from living wisely. For one thing the pleasure they derive from their activity is superior to the pleasure of non-philosophers who are not guided by reason: [E]ven the money-loving and honor-loving parts that follow knowledge and argument and pursue with their help those pleasures that reason approves will attain the truest pleasures possible for them, because they follow truth. (Rep. 586d–e)

Moreover, the beliefs about the good of non-philosophers in the best state are surely epistemologically superior to the random beliefs about the good acquired by non-philosophers who were not brought up under a philosophically grounded pedagogical-political program. Finally, there is no need to think of money and honor as the only sources of pleasure for nonphilosophers. They do not, after all, lack reason altogether. Their soul’s rational part is only weaker than that of philosophers. This helps to resolve what at first looks like a contradiction in Plato’s account of pleasure. For Plato claims that “the pleasure of studying the things that are cannot be tasted by anyone except a philosopher” which means that it is impossible for non-philosophers to taste it (582c). However, he also claims that “even if” a money-lover or honor-lover “were eager to taste” the “pleasure of learning the nature of the things that are . . . he couldn’t easily do so” which means that it is difficult but not impossible for non-philosophers to taste it (582b). The solution is simple: although it is impossible for nonphilosophers to taste the pleasure of learning as lovers of money or honor, as weak lovers of learning they can taste it, yet only with difficulty. It is thus important that in the Laws Plato includes basic mathematics in the educational curriculum for all citizens. And while non-philosophers take no pleasure in higher mathematics and dialectics, they can surely enjoy reflecting on the laws, stories, persuasive speeches, and practices of worship under which they were brought up. This is, in fact, an important part of their education according to the Laws. In contrast to unwise non-philosophers, therefore, wise non-philosophers will not spend all their time pursuing 65

For the philosopher’s desire to rule, see my discussion above.

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things related to money and honor, but will also derive pleasure from a range of activities that can broadly be characterized as cultural-religious. from cultural revolution to philosophical reinterpretation One important question remains to be addressed: how should the pedagogical-political program that embodies the philosopher’s knowledge of the good be related to existing beliefs, practices, and institutions that lack a philosophical foundation? After all, the philosopher returning to the cave does not enter a cultural void. In the Republic, Plato proposes resolving this problem through a cultural revolution. Recall that Plato compares the philosopher-rulers who order the polis to “painters who use the divine model” for their work: They would take the city and the characters of human beings like a sketching slate [pinax], but first wipe it clean [katharos], which is not at all an easy thing to do. And you should know that this is the plain difference between them and others, namely that they refuse to take either an individual or a city in hand or to write laws, unless they receive a clean slate or are allowed to clean it themselves. (Rep. 501a)

How do they wipe the sketching slate clean? They will send everyone in the city who is over ten years old into the country. Then they will take possession of the children, remove them from the customs [ˆethˆe] of their parents, and bring them up in their own ways [tropoi] and laws [nomoi] which are the ones we have described. (Rep. 540e–541a)

The children brought up under the new beliefs, practices, and institutions turn into what can be called “the divine form and image” when it is found “among human beings” (501b). What are the historical beliefs, practices, and institutions that Plato suggests replacing in the Republic? They include, of course, the poetry of Homer and Hesiod, the foundational cultural narratives of Greece as Plato is well aware; his fellow citizens: praise Homer and say that he is the poet who educated Greece, that it is worth taking up his works in order to learn how to manage and educate people, and that one should order one’s whole life in accordance with his teachings. (Rep. 606e)

The same holds for the nomoi of existing Greek city-states, including those of Crete and Sparta which are “praised by most people” because they aim at virtue (544b). Although Plato agrees that nomoi must aim at virtue, the

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nomoi of Crete and Sparta aim at the wrong virtue: courage, the virtue of the warrior, not wisdom, the virtue of the philosopher. In the Laws, by contrast, Plato adopts a different strategy. The Athenian Visitor, Plato’s spokesman, asks his two interlocutors – Clinias from Crete and Megillus from Sparta – whether they attribute the nomoi of their respective polis to “a god or a man” (624a). Both respond that the source of their nomoi is a god – in Crete the nomoi of Zeus were established by Minos and in Sparta the nomoi of Apollo were established by Lycurgus (see 624a–625b). The Athenian Visitor, however, does not recognize the nomoi of Crete and Sparta as divine without qualification. When Clinias and Megillus explain that the nomoi of their cities are excellent because they make the citizens courageous and thus ensure victory in war, the Athenian Visitor subjects their account to an elenchos and refutes it. The argument shows that excellent nomoi do not aim at victory and courage, but at peace and “the highest virtue.” As we saw, “the highest virtue” consists in the four cardinal virtues defined in the Republic which, in turn, aim at “Reason who rules all things” (630b–d). The important point for my purpose is that Plato does not present the result of the elenchos as a refutation of the divine character of the nomoi of Crete and Sparta. He presents it as a refutation of the interpretation of these nomoi proposed by Clinias and Megillus. To prove the divinity of their nomoi they must show how the beliefs, practices, and institutions of Crete and Sparta promote the end at which divine nomoi truly aim, namely “the highest virtue” according to the outcome of the elenchos. The project of the Laws, then, is not the construction of philosophically sound divine nomoi as a replacement for the historical nomoi of Crete and Sparta. Instead, the project is the philosophical reinterpretation of the nomoi established by Minos and Lycurgus to bring out their rational character which alone justifies describing them as divine. This, moreover, is not only the challenge that the Athenian poses to Clinias and Megillus. It is also what he himself goes on to do in the ensuing discussion of the nomoi of Magnesia. As Glenn Morrow noted, “outright invention plays almost no part at all” in the Laws. Morrow summarized Plato’s method in the Laws as follows: Again and again we have seen Plato take in hand some familiar historical institution . . . or some deeply rooted tradition . . . and, in light of the larger end which it is adapted to serve, make it over into a form fitted for his model city.66 66

Morrow (1960), 591. Note that, according to Morrow, Plato was above all concerned with Athenian beliefs, practices, and institutions. Menn (2005) convincingly argued that Crete and Sparta are

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The existing beliefs, practices, and institutions, Plato now suggests, were, in fact, established by philosopher-rulers. Only later was their purpose misunderstood. Hence they need not be replaced but only restored to their original purpose. Plato can then engage in the philosophical reinterpretation of Greek cultural forms as if they were part of a pedagogical-political program set up by philosophers. While in the Republic Plato explicitly criticizes the nomoi of Crete and Sparta and presents the best state as an alternative to them, in the Laws he presents the best state as the correct interpretation of the nomoi of Crete and Sparta which had been misunderstood by Clinias and Megillus. Corrective critique is replaced through corrective reinterpretation.67 While less violent than a cultural revolution, the method of philosophical reinterpretation comes at a price. For the philosopher-ruler must no longer contend only with the natural limitations of the citizens – that is, the fact that most of them prefer money or honor to learning. He must also contend with the limitations of their cultural makeup – that is, the fact that they were brought up under beliefs, practices, and institutions that lack a philosophical foundation. Philosophical reinterpretation can remedy this, but only up to a point. Also in their philosophically reinterpreted form, existing beliefs, practices, and institutions will fall short of the pedagogicalpolitical program that the philosopher-rulers in the Republic paint on their sketching slate. Hence Plato suggests a two-step procedure for establishing a well-ordered state: in a first step the best, second-best, third-best, and so forth moral-political order must be described; in a second step, the person charged with founding a “political community” (synoikˆesis) must choose the best moral-political order that can be implemented under the particular circumstances of his time and place (Leg. 739a). In the Laws, the choice belongs to Clinias, portrayed by Plato as one of the commissioners entrusted with establishing the laws of Magnesia. Clinias chooses the second-best model. One core difference between the best and the secondbest state is that in Magnesia private property will be permitted, while in the Republic it “will have been everywhere and by every means completely eliminated from life” in the guardian class (739c): Everybody feels pleasure and pain at the same things, so that they all praise and blame with complete unanimity. To sum up, the laws in force impose the greatest

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the more likely frame of reference, in particular the literature praising the Spartan politeia such as Xenophon’s Constitution of the Lacedaemonians. Note that Plato does not rehabilitate Homer and Hesiod in the same manner. See my discussion in the next chapter.

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possible unity on the state and you will never produce a better or truer criterion of an absolutely perfect law than that. It may be that gods or a number of the children of gods inhabit this kind of state: if so, the life they live there, observing these rules, is a happy one indeed. And so men need look no further for their ideal: they should keep this state in view and try to find the one that most nearly resembles it. This is what we have put our hand to, and if in some way it could be realized, it would . . . be second only to the ideal. (Leg. 739d–e)

I take the “gods” or “children of gods” who inhabit the best state to be a reference to the citizens on the sketching slate of the Republic who become what can be called “the divine form and image” when it is found “among human beings.” Plato obviously takes the attachment to private property to be very difficult to eradicate without a cultural revolution. He does, however, not rule out that states falling short of the best state can gradually approach it. For sending all citizens “over ten years old into the country” is only “the quickest and easiest way for the city and constitution we have discussed to be established” (Rep. 541a). This means that there is also a slower and more difficult way: the gap between the best state and less perfect states can be closed through successive stages of philosophical reinterpretation.68 It is true that in the Laws Plato does not authorize the rulers to change the laws as they please, since he no longer believes that philosopher-rulers are incorruptible if given unlimited power (see 875b–d). At the same time he works out various mechanisms that will allow revising laws within a system of checks and balances. Under certain conditions, for example, the intellectual exchange with philosophers of foreign countries can be made useful to “strengthen the customs [nomima] of Magnesia that are soundly based” and to “correct any [customs] that are defective” (951c).69 divine law – one or many? As we saw, Plato recognizes both the nomoi of Crete and the nomoi of Sparta as divine on condition that they are appropriately reinterpreted. They instantiate the same ideal, but under different natural and cultural circumstances. From the outset Plato points out that specific Cretan nomoi relating to “physical training” and “military equipment” are determined by the properties of the Cretan territory which differs, for example, from 68

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Like the Laws, the Timaeus-Critias belongs to Plato’s latest dialogues, suggesting that Plato did not give up on the communist ideal. For ancient Athens is described as a state in which the guardians live without private property as in the best state of the Republic. For additional examples, see Bobonich (2002), 395–408.

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the territory of Thessaly (625c–626b). Plato can thus say that what is good military training in Crete would be bad military training in Thessaly without having to accept the relativism of a sophist like Protagoras. In other areas Plato takes pluralism to be entirely contingent. This is the case with the sacred laws as we saw. They should be accepted on the authority of tradition alone – either on the authority of oracles such as the oracle of Apollo in Delphi, of Zeus in Dodona, or of the Egyptian god Ammon in Siwa, or on the authority of “ancient sayings” wherever these take their persuasiveness from. For despite their diversity, the sacred laws fulfill the purpose that Plato assigns to them equally well (see 738d–e). We also saw that divine nomoi can vary in excellence. The beliefs, practices, and institutions of Magnesia, for example, are inferior to those of the best state described in the Republic. It is clear, moreover, that multiple instantiations of the same model are possible: that the military training in Crete differs from the military training in Thessaly due to differences of territory, for example, does not entail that soldiers in Crete will be more or less courageous than soldiers in Thessaly. The analogy between the lawgiver and the doctor helps to clarify how this form of pluralism works. While the goal of the doctor is always the same – restoring health – the regime he prescribes varies according to the particular condition of the patients. In the same way the goal of different lawgivers may be the same: directing the citizens to what is best, but the way they order the lives of the citizens towards this goal will vary according to particular natural and cultural circumstances. Plato’s conception of divine nomoi, then, combines contextual pluralism concerning the beliefs, practices, and institutions required for attaining the goal with universalism concerning the goal itself. Although in the Laws it is Clinias who must choose the appropriate model-state to be realized under the particular natural and cultural circumstances of Magnesia, Plato explicitly adds that: we should not forget anyone else who at some time may be faced with such a choice and wish to adopt, according to his own way of life [kata ton heautou tropon], what is dear [to philon] to him from his own native country. (Leg. 739b)

Hence the philosophical reinterpretation of historical beliefs, practices, and institutions in the Laws provides just one example of how such a program can be carried out. In the next chapters we will see how philosophers from antiquity to the seventeenth century took up Plato’s invitation to philosophically reinterpret the beliefs, practices, and institutions “dear” to them.

c h a p ter 2

Moses, Christ, and the universal rule of Reason in antiquity

introduction According to Eusebius of Caesarea (d. 339), Christianity’s first historian, the nomoi of Moses pass Plato’s test for divine nomoi with flying colors: Moses made the “human goods” into means for the “divine goods” and “referred the divine goods to Reason [nous] who rules all things – that is, to the God of the universe” (PE 12.16, 1). Using a Greek model to philosophically reinterpret the beliefs, practices, and institutions of Jews and Christians obviously requires some sort of justification. Hence Eusebius adds that Plato “teaches the Law dear to Moses” (ibid.). If the divine nomoi of Magnesia are modeled on the divine nomoi of Moses, and if Christ only extends their moral-political order, with some improvements, to humankind as a whole, it should not be surprising that all three embody the same philosophical principles. Most importantly, they have the same metaphysical foundation: Reason, who orders nature and the religious community towards what is best. True, Jews and Christians often call Reason Logos instead of Nous. But this is a change in name, not in meaning. Naturalizing Plato, then, takes the edge off the fact that Jewish and Christian philosophers are borrowing from the Greeks – their main cultural competitors in the ancient world after all – no less than the framework for reinterpreting their religious tradition. Adopting the Platonic program allowed Jewish and Christian philosophers to answer a number of pressing questions: What do Jews or Christians have to gain from studying philosophy? Do the Law of Moses and the teachings of Christ not provide a true account of God, nature, and humankind, as well as a set of rules whose observance leads to blessedness and salvation? And if philosophy provides a better guide to what their religion teaches, why should they hold on to it? Or to which should they adhere if the two contradict each other? Given the universal scope of the Christian project, similar questions arise in relation to pagans: Why should they 87

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abandon their ancestral traditions and embrace Christian beliefs, practices, and institutions? And why should their philosophers leave the schools of Plato, Aristotle, Zeno, and Epicurus to become disciples of Christ? To a degree Jews, too, had to deal with these questions. Although their aim was not to convert pagans, they were keen to earn their respect: for Jewish beliefs, practices, and institutions and for the wisdom of Moses, the founder of their community. In ancient Alexandria, Philo Judaeus and his Christian students Clement and Origen were the first to work out a comprehensive Jewish and Christian answer to these questions. The close intellectual connection between them justifies speaking of a shared philosophical-religious project.1 Alexandria was the center where Greek culture and the Jewish Diaspora met in the Hellenistic period, and Philo’s work represents the intellectual culmination of this encounter. By interpreting Judaism as a philosophical religion, Philo made a case both for the excellence of philosophy to Jews and for the excellence of Judaism to pagans. Philo’s answer, in turn, proved useful to Christian philosophers. Their adaptation of this answer, however, not only addressed the concerns of Christians and pagans, but also explained why Jews should convert to Christianity. Philosophers like Philo, Clement, and Origen are often described as “apologists” – as if they were mainly concerned with defending their religious tradition. This is, however, only one aspect of what they do. They are at least as much engaged in defending philosophy. And they surely are not reinterpreting their religious beliefs, practices, and institutions only to show off to pagans how much wisdom these contain. They are also aligning them with the pedagogical-political ideals they attribute to Moses and Christ in order to direct their communities to the concept of the good which they endorse for philosophical reasons. Indeed, the real question for philosophers like Philo, Clement, and Origen is why Jews or Christians should value the historical forms of their religious tradition. For in a community of perfect Jewish or Christian philosophers, as in a community of perfect Platonic philosophers, there is no need for laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. A perfect Jewish or Christian philosopher, like a perfect Platonic philosopher, has attained likeness to Reason, an ideal for which Philo, Clement, and Origen find biblical support: because human beings have reason they are said to have been created in God’s 1

For the impact of Philo on Clement and Origen, see Runia (1993), chapters 8–9 and Runia (1995). See also van den Hoek (1988), (1997), and (2000).

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“image” and “likeness” (Gen 1:26). God’s “image” and “likeness” refer to the Logos who is subordinated to God in roughly the same way as Nous is subordinated to the Form of the good in Plato. According to Philo, Clement, and Origen the Logos is God’s mind, constituted by the Forms and their order. Since Clement and Origen further identify the Logos with Christ, all human beings are by default Christians to the extent they live a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason. Note, however, that being created in God’s “image” only refers to reason’s potential. The aim is to become God’s “likeness” by realizing this potential through study, culminating in knowledge of God. Humankind before the Fall is the model of human perfection – a community whose members, guided by reason, strive to become like Divine Reason. In this community the Logos’s rule and self-rule coincide. The Fall represents a conversion – from a life guided by reason and motivated by the desire to know, to a life guided by the imagination and motivated by non-rational desires. In Plato’s terms humankind moved into the cave, the dwelling place of non-philosophers. Religion’s purpose is to repair – or at least attenuate – the Fall. In two ways the Logos, mediated through Moses and the historical Christ, orders the community towards what is best. As paidagogos or guide for children, the Logos sees to the perfection of nonphilosophers.2 This refers to the pedagogical-political program Moses and Christ set up as legislators, poets, and orators, or, which amounts to the same thing, the therapy they prescribe as doctors of the soul. Plato’s distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers thus permits Jewish and Christian philosophers to explain the need for the historical forms of their religious tradition and respond to critics of religion like Celsus who claimed that all human beings should live under “the guidance of reason” (logikos hodˆegos) alone.3 Note, however, that Moses and Christ, like the rulers of Magnesia, are doctors of “free men” who strive to bring the rule of the Logos as close to rational self-rule as human nature allows. As didaskalikos or teacher, on the other hand, the Logos sees to the perfection of philosophers. This refers to the philosophy of Moses and Christ which they teach privately to the intellectually gifted members of the community, but also include as allegorical content in their pedagogicalpolitical program. Religion’s allegorical content, then, is true philosophy of which religion’s literal content is an imitation or shadow. As philosophy’s 2 3

I adapt Clement’s description of the Logos’s threefold role as protreptikos, paidagogos, and didaskalikos in Paed. 1. See Origen’s response to Celsus in Cels. 1.9.

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handmaid it gives non-philosophers a share in the philosophical life through laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. Recovering the philosophy of Moses and Christ, however, poses a problem. For one thing there is no record of their private teachings. And Scripture’s allegorical doctrines cannot be learned from Scripture but only disclosed through an interpreter who already knows them. Thus Judaism and Christianity fail to provide the resources necessary to grasp their own truth. To this end Jews and Christians must turn to the educational curriculum of the Greeks: the propaedeutic sciences (enkyklia paideia) and philosophy which roughly correspond to the mathematical and dialectical training of philosophers in the Republic.4 Hence a philosophical education derived from Greek sources is the key for making the transition from being a good Jew or Christian to being a perfect Jew or Christian. There is no other way back to paradise. To be committed to Moses and Christ, however, implies only being committed to true philosophy, not to a specific set of doctrines, let alone to a particular Greek philosophical school. Like Plato and Aristotle, Philo, Clement, and Origen hold that “no one is to be honored or valued more than the truth” (Rep. 595b–c; cf. EN 1.6, 1096a16–17). All three criticize Greek philosophers for following the authority of their school tradition rather than the best argument. And all three claim to accept from each school only those doctrines which, on balance, turn out to be well founded. Scripture can offer no guidance in this regard since its literal sense lacks authority and must be interpreted allegorically every time it conflicts with reason. In this sense the Alexandrians can be described as “eclectic.” Their eclecticism is meant to set an example for Jews and Christians of how to become better philosophers than the Greeks. Not surprisingly, then, the Alexandrians also disagree among each other on doctrinal issues. Philo, for example, is a determinist, as we will see, whereas Origen argues against the Gnostic dualism of good and evil that the cause of evil is free will. Such disagreements, however, again do not affect the commitment to philosophy. Indeed, as we will see, for Origen the search for true philosophy is a project open to revision in light of better arguments. The Alexandrians’ use of distinctly religious notions like piety (eusebeia) or faith (pistis) should not mislead us, for the meaning of these notions is consistently redefined. While piety, for example, is said to be the highest virtue, it means striving to become like Divine Reason. And faith is only a preliminary stage on the way to knowledge. 4

Clement explicitly identifies the enkyklia paideia with the mathematical sciences in the Republic (Strom. 1.19, 93.4–5) and describes Plato’s dialectics as the only path to “true wisdom” (1.28, 176–78).

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Is paradise, then, a place that admits philosophers only? Yes, but that must not imply an exclusivist policy. Origen, for example, argues that souls move up or down on the scale of perfection depending on whether they choose virtue or vice in their current embodiment. Once the souls of nonphilosophers have been turned in the right direction thanks to Moses’s and Christ’s pedagogical-political guidance, they, too, can, over the course of several embodiments, replace philosophy’s handmaid with philosophy – that is, advance from the literal to the allegorical content of religion. This is part of a creative adaptation of the handmaid-of-philosophy theme that inserts it into a concept of universal progress. The pedagogical-political efforts of Moses and Christ are part of a larger pedagogical-political program which, driven by the Logos, unfolds in history. This program gradually advances reason until laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship can be discarded altogether in favor of what Origen calls the “eternal gospel” – that is, the gospel of reason (De princ. 3.6, 8; cf. Rev 14:6). After having been lost through the Fall, therefore, the ideal community of philosophers, who live a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason, will be restored at the end of times. The historical Christ is a turning point in this process since for the first time pedagogical-political guidance based on true philosophy is extended to humankind as a whole. The cave into which Christ descends, however, is not a cultural void. It is inhabited by communities which, after the Fall, embraced idolatry – that is, false beliefs about the divine, which, in turn, gave rise to corrupt practices and institutions. Replacing these requires a cultural revolution. As protreptikos, therefore, Christ must first convince pagans to abandon the beliefs, practices, and institutions of their ancestors and embrace those of the Logos, their “true” father. Only then can he guide them as paidagogos and teach them as didaskalikos. Of all cultural traditions competing in the ancient world, Christianity is thus presented as the one best suited to turn every soul around from the shadows in the cave to the things that truly are. appropriating the platonic model: the evidence of eusebius If as philosophers the Alexandrians hold the truth in higher esteem than Plato, as Jews and Christians they follow Plato’s lead. To be sure, other sources are also important, in particular Stoic sources for their concept of human perfection or for their concept of divine laws. However, my focus in this chapter will lie on putting the puzzle together, not on tracking

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down each piece’s sources. The most compelling evidence for the overall Platonic framework, within which the Alexandrians interpret Judaism and Christianity as philosophical religions, comes from Eusebius of Caesarea. Eusebius clearly sees himself as part of the intellectual tradition whose main representatives were Philo, Clement, and Origen. He draws their portrait in the Ecclesiastical History and defends their project, among others, in the Apology for Origen.5 Although Eusebius is not primarily a philosopher, but a historian, he brings the Platonic model to light that underlies the philosophical interpretation of Judaism and Christianity. In this way he corroborates the less explicit evidence in Philo, Clement, and Origen. In Book 12 of the Preparation for the Gospel Eusebius lists biblical parallels to a wide range of passages from the Laws and, to a lesser extent, from the Republic and other Platonic dialogues. These parallels, Eusebius claims, reveal how much Plato is indebted to the Law of Moses. What he shows, in fact, is the opposite: how much the Alexandrian interpretation of the Law of Moses depends on Plato. To provide the context for Eusebius’s discussion of Plato and Moses let me briefly sketch the project of the Preparation for the Gospel which together with the Demonstration of the Gospel forms a two-part exposition and defense of Christianity.6 In the Preparation, Eusebius addresses educated readers who “do not know what Christianity is” (1.1, 1). We have good reasons to choose Christianity over competing cultural traditions, Eusebius argues.7 To prove this he first refutes the beliefs, practices, and institutions of Phoenicians, Egyptians, Romans and, most importantly, Greeks, who were vying with Christians for cultural hegemony in the ancient world. These pagan traditions go astray from the start: they are based on false beliefs about the divine. Books 1 to 6 accordingly offer a critique of pagan theologies and the corrupt practices and institutions to which they give rise.8 After exposing the errors of the pagans, Eusebius turns to establishing the truth of “the philosophy and religion” of the “Hebrews” (7.1, 2). His account of Hebrew theology, cosmology, psychology, and ethics, as well as of the politeia of Moses is firmly rooted in the Alexandrian tradition. While his main authority is 5

6 7

8

See in particular the account of Philo’s writings in HE 2.18; the chapter on Pantaenus “the philosopher,” described as the founder of the catechetical school in Alexandria and as Clement’s teacher (5.10); and the chapter on Clement (5.11; cf. 6.6) and the list of his writings (6.13). Much of book 6 is devoted to Origen. Note that the Apology of Origen was a collaboration with Pamphilus. See Eusebius’s own summary of the argument and its connection to the DE in PE 15.1. See 1.1–5, 7.1, 10.4, 15.1. Portraying the choice of Christianity as a philosophical choice, as if Christianity were the best among competing philosophical schools, is common among early Christian thinkers. See, for example, Justin Martyr’s account of his conversion in Dialogue with Trypho 2–8. See the summary of Eusebius’s critique in 7.2.

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Philo, he also quotes Aristobulus, Josephus, Origen, and others (books 7–8). To avoid seeing this account dismissed as apologetic, Eusebius seeks to corroborate it through Greek testimonies from Theophrastus to Porphyry (book 9). Then he turns the tables on Hellenized pagans who look down on Christians for having adopted the “barbarian” tradition of the Hebrews. Everything in Greek culture, whether valuable or corrupt, was appropriated from “barbarian” sources (book 10). The authenticity of the Hebrew tradition, by contrast, is beyond doubt given the great antiquity of Moses and the other prophets (10.9). Books 11 to 13 argue that what is true in Greek philosophy is also contained in the Hebrew tradition. Since the preeminent Greek philosopher is Plato, no other philosopher needs to be examined (11, preface, 3). Eusebius’s endorsement of Plato seems unqualified at first. Not only is he keen to demonstrate that Plato’s physics, ethics, and logic – thus the standard division of philosophy in antiquity – are in complete “agreement” (symphˆonia) with the “oracles of the Hebrews” (Hebraiˆon logia). He also makes considerable effort to show that Plato holds doctrines that at first view do not look very Platonic, for example the doctrine of the resurrection of the dead (11, preface, 3; 11.33–38). Only in book 13 does Eusebius turn to an important objection of his pagan readers: If Moses and Plato have philosophized in agreement, why should we not follow the teachings of Plato, but those of Moses? We ought to do the opposite since in addition to the doctrines being the same [isa dogmata], the Greek [philosopher] would be closer to us Greeks than the Barbarian. (PE 13, preface)

This problem seems to have motivated a series of minor criticisms of Plato at the end of book 13 (13.14–21; cf. 11, preface, 5). Ultimately the philosophy of Moses comes out as superior to the philosophy of Plato, if only by an insignificant margin. In the last two books Eusebius returns to the critical project, this time rejecting philosophical doctrines from the Presocratics to the Hellenistic schools which disagree with the philosophy of Moses and Plato (14–15). However, if the philosophy of the Hebrews and the practices and institutions to which it gave rise are indeed superior to all other cultural traditions – why should pagans become Christians rather than Jews? This question is taken up in the Demonstration of the Gospel where Eusebius explains how Christianity is related to Judaism and why the new covenant supersedes the old one. As we will see, his answer is a variation on the theme of religion as philosophy’s handmaid. Whereas book 11 establishes the “agreement” between Plato’s and Moses’s teachings from logic to theology, book 12 turns to religion and politics.

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Recall that directing citizens to what is best is at the core of Plato’s political project. In the Laws Plato argues that nomoi can only count as divine if they lead the citizens to “the highest virtue.” As we already saw, the nomoi of Moses do precisely that according to Eusebius. In 12.16 he quotes two long passages from the Laws (631a–632a and 632c–d) according to which divine nomoi must impart all the “goods” required to attain perfection: human goods – health, beauty, strength, and wealth – and divine goods – the four cardinal virtues established in the Republic which, in turn, aim at “Reason who rules all things.” Then Eusebius reveals Plato’s source: Moses had made his entire legislation [nomothesia] and the constitution [politeia] established by him dependent on the religion [eusebeia] of the God of the universe. He had made the Demiurge of all things the starting point of the legislation. Then he taught that from the divine goods the human goods proceed and referred the divine goods to Reason who rules all things [ho pantˆon hˆegemˆon nous] – that is, to the God of the universe himself. Consider how the philosopher [that is, Plato], walking on the same path, criticizes the legislators of the Cretans and the Lacedaemonians, and teaches [ekdidaskei] the Law dear [areskonta] to Moses. (PE 12.16, 1)

Eusebius clearly identifies the God of the Bible with Nous who orders nature and the polis towards what is best.9 Since something well ordered is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered the order established by the nomoi of Moses is a theocracy. But how can Eusebius claim that Plato “teaches the Law dear to Moses”? Although he points to a number of parallels between the nomoi of Magnesia and the nomoi of Moses, he cannot mean that the former is an exact copy of the latter. What he must mean instead is that Plato adapted the philosophical principles underlying the nomoi of Moses to the particular natural and cultural circumstances of his own time and place. The striking implication is that Plato takes on the role of a prophet modeled on Moses.10 Note how Eusebius bends the project of the Laws to his purposes: rather than reinterpreting the nomoi of Crete and Sparta, he claims that Plato criticizes them. By establishing divine nomoi that direct the citizens to “Reason who rules all things,” he follows the “barbarian” legislator Moses. 9

10

For the theological and cosmological use Eusebius makes of the Timaeus, see PE 11.9, 13, 16, 21, 23, 29, 30, 31, 32. See also 12.51 and 35 where Eusebius quotes the Philebus passage stating that “all the wise agree . . . that Nous is king for us of heaven and earth” (29c). For the God of the Bible as the cause of the universe’s rational order, see 7.9–10. For the identity of the God of the Bible and the God of Magnesia, see the quotation from the first speech addressed to the prospective citizens of Magnesia (Laws 715e–716b) in 11.13, 5. The attribution of prophetic features to Plato shows how strongly the philosophical interpretation of Judaism and Christianity depends on Plato.

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How does God order the community towards what is best? Eusebius’s claim that God is “the starting point of the legislation” surely does not mean that God literally issues commands. He approvingly quotes a passage from Philo that equates Moses’s philosophical insight with divine revelation (Op. 8, quoted in 8.13, 2). God thus is the source of the prophet’s knowledge in the sense in which he is the first principle of all knowledge. And he is Moses’s starting point as the final cause of wise laws – “that for the sake of which wisdom gives commands” to quote Aristotle once more (EE 8.3, 1249b14–15).11 The prophets are models of human perfection for Eusebius. They withdrew into “deserts and mountains and caves [cf. Heb 11:38] to attain the summit of philosophy, attaching their thought to God alone” (PE 12.29, 1). To describe their life, Eusebius quotes the digression on the philosopher from the Theaetetus, which includes the call “to become like God as much as possible” and contrasts the philosopher’s “divine and happy life” with the “miserable life without God” (173c–177b, quoted in 12.29). If all members of the community were able to attain this level of perfection, there would be no need for nomoi at all. Like Plato, however, Moses realizes that most of them cannot live a philosophical life. Hence the Law of Moses is needed as philosophy’s handmaid to provide guidance to non-philosophers. Moses’s pedagogical-political program, like Plato’s, prepares not-yet-philosophers for the philosophical life and replaces philosophy for non-philosophers by nature. Eusebius quotes the passage from the Laws in which Plato describes the purpose of education as: the initial acquisition of virtue by the child, when the feelings of pleasure and love, pain and hatred, that well up in his soul are channeled in the right courses before he can grasp the rational ground. Then when he does grasp it, [these feelings] agree with his reason through having been properly trained by means of appropriate habits. (Leg. 643d–644b, quoted in 12.18, 4)

According to Eusebius “you will find countless [myria] passages in the Hebrew Scriptures” showing that Moses anticipated this concept of education (12.18, 5). In general the narratives of Scripture were selected according to the “guidelines” for pedagogically suitable poetry that Plato established in the Republic. Parents and nurses recite these narratives to children “in order to prepare them [proparaskeuˆes heneka] for the religion [theosebeia] appropriate to adulthood” (12.5, 4). At this stage, religious teachings must 11

For Eusebius, God’s nature is “ineffable” (11.12, 1). The anthropomorphic representation of God only serves pedagogical-political purposes (12.31, 2). This certainly includes God’s representation as a lawgiver.

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be accepted on the basis of “faith” (pistis) according to Moses and Plato, because children have not yet developed the intellectual abilities that “contemplation” (theoria) requires (12.1, 3).12 Most members of the community, however, are non-philosophers by nature and thus retain childlike souls even when they grow up. Quoting a passage from the pseudo-Platonic Second Letter, Eusebius interprets Plato as saying that one should not “reveal [ekpherein] to everyone the holy doctrines of the truth” (314a, quoted in 12.7, 1). The same view he finds in Matthew’s prohibition to “give that which is holy to the dogs” and to “throw pearls before swine” (Matt 7:6, quoted ibid.). Hence Moses does not disclose philosophical doctrines to “the multitude” (hoi polloi) and to “the common people” (to dˆemˆodes plˆethos), but teaches them only what is required for leading a “devout and moderate life” (11.7, 10–11; cf. 7.11, 1). By ordering the community towards what is best, Moses establishes God’s rule over the moral-political realm, imitating the natural order instituted by God directly.13 We saw that, according to Plato, this requires not only the skills of the philosopher, but also the skills of the legislator, poet, and orator. While the philosopher knows what is best for the community and has the moral integrity to put it into practice, the legislator, poet, and orator translate this knowledge into the language of the cave dwellers – that is, the language of the “imagination” (eikasia). Moses fits this profile: he is an outstanding philosopher with the required moral integrity (7.7, 1; 7.9, 1; 8.13, 2). In Exodus 4:13, for example, Moses pleads with God to appoint someone else to be the leader of the Hebrews, thus showing that he cannot be corrupted by political power (12.9, 1). He agrees with Socrates against Thrasymachus that the ruler must promote the good of the community, not his own good (Rep. 346e–347a, quoted in 12.9, 2–3). As for the lawgiver, poet, and orator, a key passage is Republic 500c–501c which Eusebius applies to Moses (12.19). “The philosopher,” according to Plato, “who consorts with God [theos] and the well-ordered universe [kosmos] becomes as divine and well-ordered as a human being can be.”14 Then he turns into a “craftsman” of virtue and a “painter of constitutions” who orders the community according to “the divine model.” Exodus 25:40 and its interpretation in the Epistle to the Hebrews show that the Law of Moses was crafted in this way (12.19, 1). In the Exodus passage, God instructs Moses to make all things pertaining to the tabernacle “according 12 13 14

Throughout 12.1–6 “faith” refers to this imperfect form of religion. On the divine order of the universe as a model for the divine order of the community, see 7.9–10. Note that Eusebius’s version slightly differs from Plato’s which has “theios” and “kosmios.”

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to the model [kata ton typon] which was shown to you on the mountain.” According to Hebrews 8:5 this means that Moses ought to make “an imitation and shadow [hypodeigma kai skia] of heavenly things.” Eusebius disregards the context of both verses which refer to the construction of the tabernacle. They show that Moses crafted “images [eikona] of the more divine realities in the intelligible realm [en noˆetois].” These “images” are the literal content of the Law of Moses. As a philosopher, then, Moses contemplates “the divine realities in the intelligible realm” – that is, the Forms constituting God’s mind (11.23–25). As a “painter” of the Hebrew constitution he puts laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship in place which imitate “the divine realities in the intelligible realm” and order the lives of non-philosophers towards what is best. As an imitation of the objects of philosophical contemplation, the Law of Moses is not, strictly speaking, true. Also on this point Plato agrees with Moses as is clear from his claim in the Republic that children “must at first be educated in falsehoods [en tois pseudesin]” (376e–377a, quoted in 12.4, 1). Much of the Law of Moses thus consists in “noble falsehoods” – for example the many passages that represent God anthropomorphically (12.31). This, however, does not undermine the validity of Moses’s teachings which are true if we move up from the “images” to the true philosophy which the images represent. This is the Law’s allegorical content: And among the Hebrews . . . it is the custom to teach the narratives of the inspired Scripture to those of childish souls [hoi nˆepioi tas psychas] in a very simple way just like stories [mythoi], but to teach those of a trained disposition the deeper and systematic doctrines of the texts [hai tˆon logˆon bathuterai kai dogmatikai theˆoriai] by means of the so-called second level interpretation [deuterˆosis] and explanation of the intelligible contents [noˆemata] that are hidden from the multitude. (PE 12.4, 2)

It is not difficult to see why Eusebius claims that Plato agrees with Moses, although, in fact, Plato has no doctrine of allegorical interpretation: if the Forms are the divine model of the pedagogical-political program crafted by Plato’s philosopher-ruler, this program must in some way embody true philosophy. To make the transition from the literal to the allegorical content, however, the Law of Moses is not enough. This content is only disclosed to “those of a trained disposition.” To get the training to move from their childhood faith to true philosophy, not-yet-philosophers must turn to an esoteric wisdom tradition: Moses left philosophical doctrines “to be investigated and taught in secret [en aporrˆetois] by those capable of such an

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initiation” (11.7, 12). Eusebius adduces no proof-text for his claim that Plato agrees with Moses. He may well have had in mind Plato’s critique of subjecting non-philosophers to elenchoi in the Republic and his critique of making philosophy accessible in writing in the Phaedrus.15 Although philosophical doctrines can thus be disclosed in the Law of Moses through allegorical interpretation, they cannot be learned from it. Acquiring the “trained disposition” to access the Law’s allegorical content requires studying philosophy. Since Eusebius’s claim about an oral tradition of Hebrew philosophy “taught in secret” is a fiction, this provides an excellent justification for Jews and Christians to study Greek philosophy. It also explains why Eusebius does not accuse Plato of having derived his philosophy from the Law of Moses. If Plato did learn philosophy from Moses, then it was from the alleged oral tradition of Hebrew wisdom that is not taught by the Law: Yes, surely, also with regard to the teaching and contemplation of intelligible and incorporeal things, it is manifest from his own words that the admirable Plato followed the all-wise Moses and the Hebrew prophets: whether he learned it from an oral tradition that reached him – since he is proved to have pursued studies among the Egyptians at the time when the Hebrews, having been driven a second time out of their own country by the Persian dominion, were settling in Egypt – or whether by himself [par’ heautou] he hit on the nature of things, or in whatever manner he was considered worthy of this knowledge [gnˆosis] by God. (PE 11.8, 1)16

Although Eusebius takes it for granted that Plato was familiar with the Law of Moses, he only claims that Plato depends on it with respect to its pedagogical-political content. The nomoi of Moses were Plato’s model for the nomoi of Magnesia as we saw. Elsewhere Eusebius claims that Plato copied the story of Adam’s Fall in his account of the birth of Eros in the Symposium. Like Moses, Plato “is speaking allegorically [allˆegorˆon]” (12.11). And the Symposium’s account of human beings, who were at first spherical hermaphrodites and then cut into two halves, is based on a misunderstanding of the biblical account of Eve’s creation from Adam (12.12).17 If Plato 15 16 17

See my discussion in chapter 1. See also 10.1, 5 where Eusebius suggests more generally that the sound philosophical doctrines of the Greeks may stem from “the impulse of innate ideas.” Note that the same view is expressed by pagan Platonists: Plotinus, for example, takes the account of the birth of Eros to be an allegory and explains it accordingly in Enn. 3.5, 2–10. Proclus contrasts Plato’s mythoi which he takes to be suitable for pedagogical purposes with the mythoi of Homer which he takes to be suitable for initiates alone (In Remp. 1.76–77, 1.79). Cf. Lamberton (1986), 180–97.

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is an Attic Moses for Eusebius, it is not Plato the philosopher, but Plato the author of divine nomoi and of philosophical poetry. He follows Moses when he takes on the role of the prophet. Eusebius does not explicitly claim that the preludes to Magnesia’s nomoi, which aim to rationally persuade the citizens to do what the laws prescribe, were derived from the Law of Moses. This is interesting, because he clearly thinks that Moses wrote preludes with the same purpose. In book 7 he gives a detailed account of “the philosophy which Moses teaches in the preludes [prooimia] to the sacred laws” (7.10, 11). These preludes elaborate on God and the order of nature to persuade the community that the laws of Moses are as rational as nature’s laws and that both express the rule of God (7.9–10). Then they explain human nature, stressing the importance of perfecting “reason” (nous) on account of which human beings are said to be created in God’s image (7.10, 9–12). They also set up models of perfection by recording the virtuous lives of the forefathers from Enoch to the patriarchs (7.7–8). Moses’s preludes thus contain everything from theology to ethics that non-philosophers need in order to understand why Moses’s prescriptions are good for them. Since Moses is addressing nonphilosophers, however, he does not use “syllogistic proofs” (syllogismoi) or “probable arguments” (pithanalogiai), but speaks in a “more dogmatic and didactic manner” (dogmatikˆoteron de kai didaskalikˆoteron) – that is, adjusts the level of argumentation to his audience’s ability to understand (7.11, 1). Although non-philosophers thus fall short of attaining perfect rational self-rule, they have good reasons for doing what Moses prescribes. There is some tension between Eusebius’s Platonic reinterpretation of the Law of Moses and his defense of Christianity. As a Christian Eusebius argues that the nomoi of Moses are no longer valid (see DE 1.4). This also helps to explain why he does not explicitly connect Moses’s preludes with Plato’s. Recall that the purpose of preludes for Plato is to establish a community of “free men.” Eusebius, however, wants to reserve “freedom” to characterize the religion of the Hebrews before Moses. In contrast to the “Jews” who were subject to the nomoi of Moses: [they] attained a free and unconstrained [eleutheros kai aneimenos] form of religion, being ordered towards a life in accordance with nature, so that, thanks to the complete impassibility of their soul, they had no need of laws to rule them, but had taken up the true knowledge of the doctrines concerning God. (PE 7.6, 4)

Christians are the heirs of this “free and unconstrained . . . religion” of the ancient Hebrews (see DE 1.2). Although they remain loyal to the fundamental intention of the Law of Moses, they are no longer bound

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by all of its prescriptions. The religion of the ancient Hebrews, however, does not sit well with the Platonic framework that Eusebius has been using all along. And its description indeed relies heavily on Stoic concepts.18 Eusebius’s explanation of why Christians may disregard the nomoi of Moses, on the other hand, is a creative variation of the handmaid-of-philosophy theme: [The Law of Moses] was like a nurse and governess of childish [nˆepiai] and imperfect [ateleis] souls. It was like a doctor to heal the whole Jewish race, worn away by the terrible disease of Egypt. As such it offered a lower and less perfect way of life to the descendants of Abraham, who were too weak to follow in the steps of their forefathers. For through their long sojourn in Egypt, after the death of their godly forefathers, they adopted Egyptian customs, and . . . fell into idolatrous superstition. (DE 1.6, 31; cf. PE 7.8, 37–40)

According to the standard Platonic view childhood, either in the literal sense or as the condition of non-philosophers, requires pedagogical-political guidance. To these Eusebius adds a third form: temporary childhood caused by adverse historical circumstances. As a Christian apologist, therefore, Eusebius reduces the role of the nomoi of Moses to healing “the terrible disease of Egypt.” Their aim is to enable the Jews to return to the “free and unconstrained” religion of their forefathers whose true heir is Christianity. reinterpreting cultural traditions To scholars committed to the historical-critical method, Eusebius’s symphˆonia of Moses and Plato may look like an exercise in camouflage. What Plato allegedly discovered in the Law of Moses are the Platonic doctrines Eusebius read into it. This is not quite accurate, however. For when the Law of Moses reaches Eusebius, it has already for centuries been reinterpreted along Platonic lines. The most important author in this regard is Philo who is quoted many times in the Preparation’s account of “the philosophy and religion” of the “Hebrews.” In fact, the resemblance Eusebius sees between the nomoi of Magnesia and the nomoi of Moses tells us little about Plato’s sources, but much about Philo’s. Eusebius finds a great deal of Moses in Plato because philosophers like Philo used Plato to reinterpret the Law of Moses. For a Platonist it is perfectly legitimate that Philo does for the nomoi of the Jews what Plato did for the nomoi of the Greeks. As we saw, Plato 18

On the political philosophy of the Stoics, see Schofield (1991).

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expressly encourages adapting the program of the Laws to other cultural contexts. His goal is not only to reinterpret Greek beliefs, practices, and institutions, but also to teach the technique of reinterpretation. The use of this technique is not uncommon in the ancient world. As in Eusebius, it is usually justified by naturalizing Plato. Plato’s authority is often attributed to a tradition of ancient wisdom which he supposedly recovered – that of Homer, mediated through Pythagoras, for example, but also that of a wide range of “Oriental” nations.19 A recent survey of Platonica orientalia presents Plato as studying Egyptian, Persian, Babylonian, Assyrian, Phoenician, Hebrew, and Indian sources!20 The view that the same wisdom can be instantiated in beliefs, practices, and institutions of different cultural traditions is well documented in Numenius of Apamea, a Platonist of the second century ce.21 A central concern for him is to clarify Plato’s true doctrines, in particular against what he considers the “apostasy” of the later Academy from Plato. But Numenius is not interested in Plato because he considers him an original philosopher. Rather, Plato provides the best access to the philosophy of Pythagoras which, in turn, has its source in the ancient wisdom tradition of the Greeks – from Homer and Hesiod to the Eleusinian mysteries (Fragments 31, 33, 34, 36, 55, 58). At the same time this wisdom is also contained in the traditions of many other “nations held in high esteem” (ta ethnˆe ta eudokimounta). They include “the Brahmans, the Jews, the Persians, and the Egyptians,” as well as the Romans and Christians (Fragments 1a, 10a, 31). Plato thus provides the means to recover the universal wisdom instantiated in the cultural traditions of Greeks and Romans and of several “Oriental” nations including Jews and Christians. A good example of Numenius’s approach can be found in a passage of his allegorical commentary on Homer’s “cave of the nymphs” (Fragment 30). According to Numenius this episode of the Odyssey corresponds to Plato’s account of the descent of the soul into the material world. The same doctrine he finds in the Pythagoreans, who claim that “the souls settled upon the waters which was god-inspired [theopnoon],” and in Genesis 1:2, according to which the “Spirit of God moved over the waters.” Other witnesses include Egyptian mythology and Heraclitus. All these sources represent in different ways the same doctrine of the soul’s relationship to the world 19 20 21

See Boys-Stones (2001) on the reasons for the attempts to establish ancient wisdom traditions in antiquity. See Jeck (2004), part 1. For a good account of what we know about Numenius, see Frede (1987).

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of matter. Note that for Numenius the agreement between cultural traditions includes both “doctrines” (dogmata) and practices and institutions, for example “initiations” (teletai) and “cults [hidryseis] performed in accord with Plato” (Fragment 1a). To establish this agreement Numenius either philosophically reinterprets the traditions in question (see Fragments 1c and 10a) or builds on interpretations set forth by earlier authors. His claim that the Jews are among the nations who take “God to be incorporeal” (Fragment 1b), for example, presupposes an allegorical interpretation of the Bible, as does his claim that Plato is nothing but “a Moses speaking Greek” (Fragment 8). This only makes sense if Numenius has a Platonic reinterpretation of Moses in mind along the lines set forth by Philo.22 Let me note in passing that this form of reinterpretation is not confined to the Platonic tradition. Already before Plato Orphic traditions were reinterpreted in light of Presocratic doctrines.23 The Stoics try to recover ancient wisdom from Homer and Hesiod, or, in the case of the Egyptian priest and Stoic philosopher Chaeremon, from Egyptian hieroglyphs.24 Another example is the reinterpretation of Roman beliefs, practices, and institutions in Cicero.25 Although there are significant differences between these projects, they point to a broader intellectual context in antiquity to which the interpretations of Judaism and Christianity as philosophical religions belong. Philo, as we will see, is not only aware of the reinterpretation of Homer and Hesiod, but contributes to it himself. In fact, he credits a wide range of pagan cultural traditions with ancient wisdom. To reconcile this with his commitment to the superiority of Moses, he argues that Moses first learned everything valuable from pagan cultures and then greatly surpassed his teachers. The Law of Moses is thus not fundamentally different from other cultural traditions in the ancient world. It only embodies wisdom more perfectly. Whereas for Numenius cultural traditions are different, but on the same level, Philo’s claim as to Moses’s superiority shows that the projects of reinterpretation can also enter into competition. This becomes particularly clear in Clement and Origen. While they stress Moses’s superiority like Philo, Christ for them is wisdom itself. Hence Christianity not only surpasses all other cultural traditions, but is the source of their greater or lesser share in wisdom. These superiority claims, however, stem from apologetic rather than systematic concerns. Consider the polemics between 22

23 25

Note that the description of Plato as a Greek-speaking Moses does not entail the claim that Plato derived his wisdom from Moses. As Frede convincingly argued, Numenius assumes two independent wisdom traditions that agree with each other. Frede (1987), 1048. 24 See the extant fragments of Chaeremon in van der Horst (1984). See the Derveni Papyrus. See the De republica and De legibus.

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pagan and Christian philosophers in which competition gives way to collision: Celsus, Origen, Porphyry, and Eusebius engage in a series of attacks and counter-attacks on each other’s cultural-religious tradition.26 Scholars have long noted the paradoxical character of this exchange: each side claims that the allegorical interpretation of its own tradition is legitimate while rejecting the allegorical interpretation of the opponent.27 These polemics reflect historical contingencies, in particular the expansion of Christianity and its claim to cultural hegemony. They should thus not obscure the shared techniques that philosophers with different cultural-religious affiliations use to reinterpret the beliefs, practices, and institutions of their traditions. from the divine nomoi of the greeks to the divine nomoi of the jews In the Hellenistic-Jewish community in Alexandria Plato was naturalized early on. In the second century bce Aristobulus – the first known philosophical interpreter of Scripture – claims that: Plato followed [katˆekolouthsen] the Law that we use, and he clearly worked through [perieirgasmenos] everything that it contains. (Fragment 3)

The claim that the nomoi of Moses are divine according to Plato’s criterion for divine nomoi is a topos in Hellenistic-Jewish literature: Moses ordered the community towards what is best as did the lawgiver of Magnesia. The difference between the nomoi of Moses and the nomoi of Magnesia is at most one of degree: the nomoi of Moses are often portrayed as the best, not the second-best, moral-political order. Consider the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus (d. c.100 ce). In his defense of Judaism against pagan critics he coins the term “theocracy” (theokratia) to describe the constitution of the Jews. Dissatisfied with constitutions in which political power is invested in a king, oligarchs, or the multitude, Moses gave the Jewish constitution: the form of what – if a forced expression be permitted – may be termed a theocracy, placing the rule [archˆe] and power [kratos] in God. To him he persuaded [peisas] all to look, as the cause of all things that are good. (Ap. 2.165–66)

The God of Moses, according to Josephus, is the same as the God of the Greek philosophers, including Anaxagoras and Plato who conceive God as 26 27

For an overview, see Kofsky (2000), chapter 1. See P´epin (1958), in particular part 3, chapter 8.

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Nous (2.168). God’s rule, then, means that the community, like nature, is ordered towards what is best, which implies that it is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered. What sets the Mosaic constitution apart from conventional monarchies, oligarchies, and democracies is that Moses, instead of using his power to further his own “advantage” (pleonexia), promotes the good of the community (2.158–59). Moreover, unlike the nomoi of Minos in Crete and Lycurgus in Sparta, the nomoi of Moses aim at what is truly good (2.161–63). They make all the virtues part of “piety” (eusebeia) – the end towards which the community is ordered (2.188). These virtues are the four cardinal virtues defined in the Republic (2.170–71).28 Hence “the most excellent education” (to kaliston paideuma) is provided by the Law of Moses (2.175). Moses succeeded in establishing divine nomoi because he used both “practical exercise” (askˆesis) and “arguments” (logoi) to educate the community, whereas other lawgivers relied on only one of these methods (2.171–73). Like Plato’s lawgiver, therefore, Moses not only issues commands, but also gives reasons for why they should be carried out. Josephus expressly highlights features that the nomoi of Moses have in common with the nomoi of Magnesia, for example the citizens’ obligation to study their laws (2.175; cf. 2.257). To account for these shared features he claims that Plato “imitated our lawgiver” (2.257). In a key passage for my purpose Josephus reports that Greek statesmen made Plato the “object of jokes and ridicule” because his best state is based on “impossible premises” (adynatai hypotheseis). How much more, Josephus argues, would they have laughed about Moses whose nomoi are even more demanding than the nomoi of Magnesia (2.223–24). For Josephus, then, the Jewish theocracy is a stricter version of Plato’s state! Other Hellenistic-Jewish authors argue along similar lines for the divine nature of the nomoi of Moses, showing that Philo’s project is part of a larger Hellenistic-Jewish context.29 Almost all of his work can be described as a grand attempt to substantiate the claim that the nomoi of the Jews were established by an outstanding philosopher-ruler “to prepare and exhort us to wisdom and justice and piety and the rest of the chorus of virtues” (Spec. 4.134). Their ultimate aim is knowledge of God, “the first and highest good” according to Philo (Dec. 81). Philo, then, enthusiastically embraces the Platonic program of philosophical reinterpretation. 28

29

But note that phronˆesis is replaced by symphˆonia, the harmonious relationship between the members of the community. Elsewhere, however, Josephus describes lawful actions and thoughts as “being the only phronˆesis and virtue” (2.183). See, for example, 4 Macc 1:2–4 and 1:17–18; Wis 8:7.

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moses and homer – philosopher-poets? There seems, however, to be an important difference between Philo and Plato. As a consequence of the cultural revolution that Plato proposes in the Republic, most of the poetry of Homer and Hesiod, the foundational narratives of Greek culture, end up in the best state’s dustbin because they are pedagogically unsuited for the citizens.30 Instead of reinterpreting Greek mythoi, Plato provides philosophical guidelines for composing new ones. The problem of these mythoi is not that they are false. Pedagogically suitable mythoi are also “false on the whole, though they have some truth in them” (Rep. 377a). Taken literally, for example, Plato’s philosophical parables are false – the representation of the soul as a charioteer with two horses, the parables of the line, the sun, and the cave, or the representation of Divine Reason as a craftsman and lawgiver. They are true, however, if translated into the philosophical doctrines they represent. The reason for Plato’s critique of Homer and Hesiod is that they say things in an “ugly way” (mˆe kalˆos). As we saw in the previous chapter, Plato puts the beautiful and the ugly into the service of moral education. Art’s most important feature is its “correctness” which consists in “the imitation and successful reproduction of the proportions and characteristics of the model” (Leg. 668b). Ugly mythoi, by contrast, distort the objects they represent (Rep. 377e). Unlike philosophical parables like Plato’s, they convey pernicious beliefs about the divine to non-philosophers. Such mythoi can also not be saved through allegorical interpretation: We will not admit stories into our city – whether with or without allegorical meaning [hyponoia] – about Hera being chained by her son, nor about Hephaestus being hurled from heaven by his father when he tried to help his mother, who was being beaten, nor about the battle of the gods in Homer. The young cannot distinguish what is allegorical from what is not, and the opinions they absorb at that age are hard to erase and apt to become unalterable. (Rep. 378d)

Recall Plato’s guidelines for representing the gods: that the gods are good and the cause only of good, for example, and that they can neither change nor deceive human beings. On account of the second guideline Plato criticizes a passage from book 17 of the Odyssey to which I will return below: Odysseus, who returned to Ithaca disguised as a beggar, is hit by Antinous, one of Penelope’s suitors. Another suitor objects because the beggar could be a god in disguise: “the gods in the likeness of strangers 30

See books 2, 3, and 10.

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from foreign lands, adopt every sort of shape and visit our cities” (17.485– 86). Homer here represents the gods as changing their shape in order to deceive (see Rep. 381d). Although Plato does not repeat his critique of Homer and Hesiod in the Laws, he does not rehabilitate them either. Their case is thus different from Minos and Lycurgus, the lawgivers of Crete and Sparta, whose nomoi are criticized in the Republic, but rehabilitated in the Laws. On this point Philo – and, in fact, all later proponents of a philosophical religion – clearly part ways with Plato. They philosophically reinterpret the foundational narratives of their religious tradition as well. Whereas the allegorical content of these narratives consists in true philosophy, their literal content is part of the pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers. Note, however, that Philo’s disagreement with Plato does not stem from systematic differences. If the nomoi of Minos and Lycurgus can be rehabilitated by interpreting them as if Minos and Lycurgus had been philosopher-legislators, why should the poems of Homer and Hesiod not be rehabilitated by interpreting them as if Homer and Hesiod had been philosopher-poets? This is precisely what Philo does with the narratives of Moses: he interprets them as compositions of a philosopher-poet, in the same way as Clement and Origen interpret the parables of Christ. There is nothing distinctly Jewish or Christian about this disagreement with Plato. The Alexandrians take sides in a conflict that accompanies philosophy from the beginning. Xenophanes (sixth–fifth century bce) rejects the anthropomorphic representation of the gods in Greek poetry as incompatible with the philosophical conception of the divine (see DK 21 B10–17). At the same time his contemporary, Theagenes of Rhegion, tries to reconcile them through allegorical interpretation (see DK 8.2).31 After Plato, Aristotle suggests that mythoi can be seen as allegorical statements of philosophical doctrines (see Metaph. 12.8). The Stoics attempt to recover ancient wisdom from Homer and Hesiod. And Heraclitus, the first century ce author of the Homeric Allegories, explicitly takes Plato to task for criticizing Homer.32 Most important for my purpose is the embarrassment Plato caused to later Platonists.33 Although they could not denounce Plato’s critique of Homer like Heraclitus, they were also not willing to give up on a tradition of ancient Greek wisdom that could be traced back to Homer. They thus portray Homer as an accomplished sage who conveyed his 31 32 33

On the allegorical interpretation of Greek myths, see Buffi`ere (1956) and P´epin (1958). See Homeric Allegories 4. The standard account for the later Platonic interpretation of Homer is Lamberton (1986).

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wisdom through parables. Indeed, authors like Numenius, as we saw, ground Plato’s authority on the claim that he recovered Homer’s wisdom. This interpretation of Homer has much in common with Philo’s interpretation of Moses as an accomplished sage. What is more, Philo’s references to the Odyssey imply that he was familiar with the allegorical interpretation of Odysseus as a rational soul who passes through the world of matter and then returns to his celestial home.34 Philo is, in fact, the first extant witness of this interpretation which is elaborately worked out by later Platonists. The same strategy he uses to defend the narratives of Moses thus also serves him to defend Greek poetry. If one accepts “the principles of allegory or hidden meanings,” Philo argues, the excellence of Homer and Hesiod is no longer doubtful. The following passage reads like a rebuttal of Plato’s claim that the mythoi of Homer and Hesiod cannot be saved through allegorical interpretation: If you apply the mythical story of Hephaestus to fire, and the account of Hera to air, and what is said about Hermes to reason, and in the same way that which is said of the others, following in order, in their theology, then, in fact, you will become a praiser of the poets you have just been condemning, so that you will realize that they have praised the divine in a most appropriate manner.

“Even if there are instances,” Philo continues, “where both [Homer and Hesiod] seem to have erred, one should not blame them for these, but should praise them for the many things they expressed accurately, by which they became helpful in the conduct of life” (Prov. 2.42–43).35 Philo thus takes the opposite view of Plato: the mythoi of the poets are to be praised not only because they are mostly true on the allegorical level, but also because they are “helpful in the conduct of life” – that is, they offer appropriate pedagogical-political guidance.36 In one striking passage, Odysseus is implicitly recommended by Philo as the moral exemplar to be followed instead of Adam who brought death upon himself by preferring 34

35 36

See Lamberton (1986), 53. This is not to say that there are no differences. As we will see shortly, Philo’s response to Plato’s critique of Homer and Hesiod in the Republic emphasizes that Plato did not correctly assess the pedagogical-political utility of traditional Greek mythoi. Proclus, on the other hand, while advocating the allegorical interpretation of the Greek poets like Philo, agrees with Plato that their mythoi cannot be used for educational purposes. But instead of condemning them for this reason, he distinguishes between educationally appropriate mythoi and mythoi “appropriate with respect to holy laws.” The latter, he claims, are reserved for the initiates. See In Remp. 1.76–77, 1.79. Cf. Lamberton (1986), 180–97. Cf. the allegorical interpretation of Hesiod’s account of the birth of the muses (Theog. 50 ff.) in Plant. 127–31. Note that the source of the allegorical interpretation of the Greek gods in De providentia is Stoic whereas the allegorical interpretation of the Odyssey mentioned earlier is Platonic.

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the created world, symbolized by the tree of knowledge, over the creator (see De somn. 2.70). However, the most intriguing passage for my purpose is part of Philo’s discussion of the anthropomorphic representation of God in De somniis 1.232–37. Why does Moses attribute body, movement, and emotions to God, Philo asks, although in truth he is incorporeal and immutable? According to Plato this representation is not only false, but also “ugly” because it distorts the true nature of God. According to Philo, however, it aims at “the benefit” (to lysiteles) of “those who lack wisdom” (hoi aphrones). Representing God as “inexorable in his anger” and equipped with “shafts and swords and all other devices of vengeance against the unrighteous” inspires the fear required for habituating non-philosophers to moderate behavior. Philo begins the discussion by commenting on an “old saying” (palaios logos) according to which: the divine goes around in the cities resembling now this man now that man, taking note of wrongs and transgressions. This may not be a true song, but it is still beneficial and advantageous [lysitelˆos kai sympherontˆos]. (De somn. 1.233)

This “old saying” is clearly the same passage from the Odyssey which Plato rejects in the Republic. Although taken literally it is false, it is not pedagogically pernicious according to Philo.37 Like Moses’s anthropomorphic representation of God it is useful for the education of non-philosophers. For Philo, then, the mythoi of both Jews and Greeks can be philosophically reinterpreted. At stake in his disagreement with Plato is not a matter of principle, but one of scope. Excluding foundational cultural narratives, Philo objects to Plato, is arbitrary once we decide to reinterpret existing beliefs, practices, and institutions rather than replacing them through a cultural revolution. judaism as a philosophical religion Philo’s concept of the divine, like Plato’s, is complicated, but its key feature for my purpose is Reason.38 Philo agrees with Plato that the Forms offer an explanation for what things are, for example the defining features of water, air, fish, and birds (Spec. 1.45–50, 327–29). They do not, however, explain why things are ordered in the way they are ordered – why fish 37 38

See Jacobson (2004). Philo would endorse the interpretation of Plato I sketched in the previous chapter according to which Reason is below the “first principle of everything” (Rep. 511b). Whereas the Form of the good is all things as undifferentiated unity, Reason is and knows the Forms and their order. On Philo’s philosophical theology, see Fraenkel (2009a).

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are in water, air is above water, or birds fly in the air. Explaining this is the role of Reason. For Philo, Reason is not distinct from the Forms and their order – they are God’s intellecta, the content of God’s mind.39 Note that Philo often calls Divine Reason Logos and sometimes Sophia instead of Nous.40 Since Logos also means “speech,” this choice may reflect the biblical account of creation where God’s speech brings all things into existence.41 The use of Sophia, on the other hand, is based on Proverbs 8:22 where God is said to have created “wisdom” at the “beginning of his works” (Ebr. 31; LA 1.43). Comparing God’s creative activity to that of an architect, who first conceives the city’s different buildings in his mind, then puts the city’s plan together and finally executes the plan “in stone and timber,” Philo writes: Similarly must we think about God. When he was minded to found the Great City, he first conceived the forms of its parts, out of which he put together the intelligible world [kosmos noˆetos], and, using that as a model, he also brought to completion the sensible world [kosmos aisthˆetos]. (Op. 19)

The image of the architect is, of course, modeled on the image of the craftsman, the “Father and Maker of all,” in the Timaeus.42 God, then, orders nature towards what is best and in this sense is the “only King of the universe” (Post. 101). Establishing God’s kingship over the religious community, however, requires a philosopher-ruler who knows the good and orders the community in light of this knowledge. Paraphrasing Republic 473c–d, Philo argues that Moses was such a philosopher-ruler: For some say not wrongly that cities can only advance to a better state if either kings philosophize or philosophers rule. But Moses will be found . . . to have exhibited these faculties – the kingly and the philosophical – to an extraordinary degree. (Mos. 2.2)

How does this make God into the source of divine nomoi? Since he is the source of all knowledge, he is also the source of the knowledge of the good that the nomoi of Moses embody. Philo, in fact, explicitly equates rational insight with divine revelation: Moses “reached the summit of philosophy and was taught [anadidachtheis] through oracles [chrˆesmoi] the greater and 39 40 41 42

Pagan Platonists, too, read Plato in this way; see, for example, Alcinous, Didaskalikos 9. Not always, however; see, for example, Op. 9; Spec. 3.1. See, for example, Op. 20, 24–25. Note that the Septuagint uses eipein, not legein, in Genesis 1. But see Wis 9:1–2. See the implicit reference to the Timaeus in Op. 21–22.

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most essential truths of nature” (Op. 8).43 When the Bible says that he entered “the darkness where God was” (Exod 20:21), it means that he entered “the unseen, invisible, incorporeal, and paradigmatic essence of existing things” (Mos. 1.158). At the summit of philosophy, then, Moses apprehends the Forms and their order in God’s mind. Hence the model that God used to order nature is the same that he uses to establish the moral-political order. At the same time God is also the final cause of the Law of Moses. Since knowledge of God is “the first and highest good” (Dec. 81), it must be the aim of a community ordered towards what is best. How did Moses attain the summit of philosophy? He first was taught by a group of teachers coming “from various places” according to Philo: Arithmetic, geometry, the theory of rhythm, harmony, and meter, and the entire field of music . . . were transmitted to him by learned Egyptians. They further instructed him in the philosophy conveyed through symbols, which they display in the so-called holy characters. . . . Greeks taught him the rest of the propaedeutic sciences [enkyklia paideia], and scholars from the bordering countries taught him Assyrian letters and the Chaldean science of the heavens. . . . And when he had learned with precision from every nation both that on which they agree and that on which they disagree, avoiding polemics and strife, he sought the truth [tˆen alˆetheian ezˆetei], since his mind was incapable of accepting anything false, as is the habit of sectarians, who maintain the doctrines proposed, whatever they happen to be, without examining whether they are trustworthy. (Mos. 1.23–24)

Moses thus learns everything he can from the nations credited with ancient wisdom in Philo’s time. Note that he accepts only what is true from his teachers. From the Chaldeans, for example, he adopts the “notion of the sympathetic communion of the world’s parts,” but rejects their astrological fatalism, as well as “their opinion concerning God” (Mig. 178–81). It is striking that Philo does not include Jews among Moses’s teachers – despite the latter’s illustrious ancestors, for example Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob who were “living and rational laws” according to Philo (Abr. 5). The reason for not portraying Moses as a disciple of Jewish wisdom is obvious: Philo wants to justify the study of non-Jewish sources. What counts is not an author’s cultural-religious affiliation, but the truth of what he says. Thus Moses is a model philosopher, unlike “the crowd [plˆethus] of so-called philosophers who pretend to be seeking unerring clarity in things,” but in fact submit to the authority of their school tradition. They are Platonists, Aristotelians, 43

See also the identification of “true and genuine philosophy” with the “utterance and word of God” in Post. 102.

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Stoics, or Epicureans rather than genuine philosophers. This is why they “are divided into battalions . . . and propound doctrines that are discordant and frequently opposed” (Ebr. 198). After Moses learned everything worthwhile from earlier wisdom traditions, he quickly outgrew his teachers, “for great natures open up new fields of knowledge [epistˆemˆe]” (Mos. 1. 22). Moreover, when getting ready for his mission to deliver Israel from Egypt, Moses continued studying on his own. For he had: a teacher [aleiptˆes] within himself, good reason [logismos], by whom he had been trained for the best ways of life, the theoretical and the practical. He worked hard, always unraveling philosophical doctrines, discerning them readily in his soul and committing them to memory, never to be forgotten. (Mos. 1.48)

The Law of Moses, then, is neither the only nor the most ancient wisdom tradition. It is, however, the most perfect among them. Moses’s education follows the curriculum Philo outlines in the allegorical interpretation of Abraham’s relationship to Hagar and Sarah. Hagar, the Egyptian maid, represents the enkyklia paideia – the propaedeutic sciences that Abraham must study before he can join Sarah who represents philosophy and virtue. Virtue is “the greatest of all subjects” since “it is concerned with . . . the entire life of man.” Hence it will “employ no minor preludes, but grammar, geometry, astronomy, rhetoric, music, and all the other branches of intellectual study [logikˆe theoria]” (Congr. 11). Sarah, however, is not the student’s final goal either: Just as the propaedeutic sciences contribute to the acquisition of philosophy, so does philosophy to the attaining of wisdom. For philosophy is the pursuit of wisdom [epitˆedeusis sophias], and wisdom is the science of things divine and human and their causes. Therefore just as the preliminary studies are the servant [doulˆe] of philosophy, so is philosophy the servant of wisdom. (Congr. 79)

The concept of philosophy as a progression culminating in wisdom stems from Plato’s Symposium.44 The first cause “of things divine and human” for Philo is, of course, God. Elsewhere he describes how the human mind explores the different parts of the world through the “arts” and “sciences” until it is seized by “love of wisdom” (erˆos sophias) carrying it up to the apprehension of the “intelligible world” and finally toward “the great King himself” (Op. 69–71). 44

See Diotima’s speech on “desire” (erˆos) and “philosophy” as motive forces of the ascent to divine wisdom in Symposium 201d–212c. Note that the source of Philo’s definition of philosophy and wisdom is Stoic; cf. Seneca, Letter 89.4.

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Moses had both objective and subjective reasons to climb up to philosophy’s summit. For one thing perfecting reason leads to “likeness to God” which the “wise man” takes to be “his end [telos]” (QG 4.188). This claim has a firm biblical foundation in Genesis 1:26: since being created in God’s “image” means that “reason [nous], the ruler of the soul” is an image of Divine Reason – that is, God’s Logos – the more we perfect reason the more we become like the Logos (Op. 69). At the same time perfecting reason is also something we desire: whereas “the limit of happiness [eudaimonia] is the presence of God” (QE 2.51), the separation “from the contemplation of the Existent One is the most complete of evils” (QG 4.4). Philo interprets Moses’s dialogue with God in Exodus 33:12–23 as the paradigmatic expression of the erˆos driving the “search for the true God” (Spec. 1.41–50). Since this erˆos keeps the non-rational desires in check and provides the motivation to follow reason’s prescriptions, Moses is perfectly virtuous: he always acts “in harmony” with his knowledge of the good (Mos. 1.48). Moses, then, represents the ideal of the wise man: [whose] wealth is bestowed by wisdom through the doctrines and principles of ethics, logic, and physics. And from these arise the virtues which rid the soul of extravagance and create in it the love [erˆos] of contentment and frugality. (Virt. 8)

While God has no needs at all, being “entirely self-sufficient,” the wise man attends only to those needs that he must satisfy “because his body is mortal” (Virt. 9–10). If all members of the community were able to live under the guidance of reason, Moses never would have had to abandon the contemplative life. Everyone would find: delight and festivity in the contemplation [theoria] of the universe and its contents and in following nature and bringing words into harmony with deeds and deeds with words. (Spec. 2.52)

Life would resemble life in paradise before the Fall: If only the vices had not flourished and dominated the thoughts about beneficial things, removing them from each soul – if instead the power of the virtues had remained altogether unconquered, then the time from birth to death would be one continuous festival, and houses and cities, dwelling in safety and peace, would have been full of all good things. (Spec. 2.42)

Given human nature, however, only “a small number” are truly virtuous – “like an ember of wisdom to smolder, that virtue may not be completely extinguished” (2.47). Most members of the community are

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non-philosophers who require pedagogical-political guidance. Not only do all members of the community lack wisdom at birth, but they also differ in nature: while some “have been favored with good natural endowments” (Deus 61) others “are of a dull [nˆothestera] and obtuse [ambleia] nature” (Deus 63) and hence remain non-philosophers throughout life. To deal with the imperfectly rational members of the community Moses must take on the role of “supreme doctor” (aristos iatros) of the soul (Deus 67). Seeing to their perfection is another aspect of becoming like God. For “the Father and Maker is good” and hence: did not envy [ouk ephthonˆesen] the perfection of his own nature to a substance having of itself nothing lovely. . . . For of itself it was without order . . . full of . . . discord and disharmony; but it admitted a turning . . . to the best, the contrary of all these, to order, . . . concord, and harmony. (Op. 21–22)

Moses, who “was named God [theos] and king [basileus] of the whole nation,” is the exemplar of the virtue Philo calls “love of humankind” (philanthrˆopia) – the willingness to “imitate God” by sharing perfection (Virt. 51–52 and 168–69). As philanthrˆopos Moses orders the community towards what is best. Putting a pedagogical-political program in place, however, requires more than knowing the good and political power. This is why, in addition to the “kingly and the philosophical [faculties],” Moses had “also three others, one of which is concerned with legislation, the second with the high-priesthood, and the last with prophecy” (Mos. 2.2.). These skills enable Moses to convey his wisdom to non-philosophers through laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. They constitute a pedagogical-political program that imitates true philosophy: [T]he words of the oracles [that is, of Scripture] are as it were shadows [skiai] cast by bodies, whereas the meanings [dynameis] therein revealed are the things that truly are. (Conf. 190)45

The willingness to share perfection, however, is not enough to produce either the natural or the moral-political order. It must be balanced through self-limitation: For creation is unable in its nature to receive the good in the same way that it is the nature of God to bestow it, since his powers exceed all bounds, whereas creation, being too weak to take in their abundance, would have broken down under the effort to do so, had not God weighed and appropriately measured out the portion which is due to each. (Op. 23) 45

Cf. the similar analogy of the Law’s body and soul in Cont. 78.

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The need to bestow perfection in proportion to the capacity of the recipient also explains why Moses translates his knowledge of the good into laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship: Do you not see that God does not utter oracles in keeping with the greatness of his own perfection, but always according to the capacity of those to be benefited? . . . This seems to be indicated most truthfully by those who say to Moses: “You speak to us, and let not God speak to us, lest we die” (Exod 20:19). For they recognized that they possess in themselves no worthy organ when God is framing laws for his congregation. Were he to exhibit his own wealth, not even the entire earth with the sea made into land could contain it. . . . On this account, wishing that we should profit from the gifts he grants, he measures out the things given according to the strength of those who receive them. (Post. 143–45)

In his role as legislator, priest, and prophet, then, Moses “acts as God’s interpreter” (Post. 1). He does not teach God’s word, but a pedagogicalpolitical translation of it that is suitable for non-philosophers, since “he who seeks to establish the best laws must have one goal, to benefit all those who come into contact with them” (Deus 61). Describing God as judging, rewarding, and punishing our freely chosen actions, for example, benefits non-philosophers more than the true doctrine of God as the immutable cause of all things. The latter doctrine, which rules out that we freely choose what we do, must be concealed from those “who have not yet been initiated into the great mysteries about the sovereignty and authority of the Uncreated and the exceeding nothingness of the created.”46 The general rule Moses follows is to “let all learn the falsehoods [ta pseudˆe] that will benefit them, if they are unable to come to their senses through truth” (Deus 64). Moses thus agrees with Plato that philosophy ought not to be taught to everyone. Although good in itself, it becomes destructive if disclosed to non-philosophers. Had Moses addressed a congregation of philosophers, by contrast, he would have taught them “true and genuine philosophy” – the “royal road” to God, since, strictly speaking, this is what “the Law” calls “the utterance and word of God” (Post. 102). Although the Law of Moses thus does not teach philosophy it contains true philosophical doctrines on the allegorical level. Consider Genesis 4:16 according to which “Cain went forth from the face of God”: Let us here raise the problem whether we ought to understand the content of the books in which Moses acts as God’s interpreter allegorically [tropikˆoteron], since 46

Fragment of LA 4 in Harris (1886), 8. For Philo’s determinism, see Cher. 128 and Winston 2001, chapter 10.

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the immediate impression made by his words is far from being in accord with the truth. For if the Existent has a face, and he who wishes to forsake it may remove elsewhere most easily, why do we deprecate the impious views of the Epicureans, or the godlessness of the Egyptians, or the mythical tales of which life is full? (Post. 1–2).

Only “in the interpretations from the allegorical sense [hyponoiai] the mythical vanishes and the truth becomes manifest” (Agr. 97). To alert the philosophers among his readers to Scripture’s allegorical content, Moses occasionally includes “openings” – for example verses which are literally true (Conf. 190). This accounts for apparent contradictions in Scripture. According to Numbers 23:19, for example, “God is not a man.” Yet throughout Scripture God is represented in anthropomorphic terms. Whereas “the former is guaranteed by the most certain truth, the latter is introduced for the instruction of the multitude [tˆon pollˆon disdakalia]” (Deus 54). Clarifying the two kinds of readers that Moses has in mind thus resolves the contradiction: the first statement about God is addressed to “lovers of the soul, who are able to associate with intelligible and incorporeal natures” and “do not compare the Existent to any form of created things” (Deus 55). By contrast: those who have concluded treaties and truces with the body are unable . . . to see a nature uniquely simple and self-sufficient in itself. . . . They therefore conceive of the universal Cause precisely as they do of themselves. (Deus 56)

The principle of self-limitation also helps to explain the difficulty of recovering the philosophical doctrines that Philo attributes to Moses in his biblical commentaries. By alluding to, rather than systematically developing, these doctrines, he is following the model of Moses for the benefit of his readers. Philo’s commentaries encourage all readers to imitate Moses and become like the Logos as much as they can. At the same time he gives sufficient hints to the philosophers among his readers to reconstruct Moses’s genuine philosophical doctrines.47 However, even if Philo’s commentaries do not amount to a systematic expos´e of the philosophy of Moses, they still disclose a considerable amount of Scripture’s allegorical content. How does he justify making teachings public that Moses concealed to protect the weaker members of the community? An important clue to how Philo might respond to this question lies in his characterization of the lovers of the body as “ill-bred 47

These are, of course, the, broadly speaking, Middle Platonic doctrines that Philo holds; see Dillon (1977) and (1995).

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[anagˆogoi] and foolish [aphrones] slaves” (Deus 64). They are not only “of a dull and obtuse nature,” but were also “badly served in their early education” (63). Philo is likely alluding to the condition of the Hebrews who had been brought up under the corrupt beliefs, practices, and institutions of the Egyptians. As “supreme doctor,” therefore, Moses not only had to contend with natural, but also with cultural, constraints. To cure “the passions and diseases of the soul” (67) he introduced the crude anthropomorphic concept of a punishing God. For Philo these cultural constraints no longer apply, since Jews in his time are brought up under the beliefs, practices, and institutions established by Moses. Hence the community’s capacity to attain perfection has grown. This allows Philo to take the project of Moses one step further and elevate the community as a whole to a higher level of perfection by partly disclosing Scripture’s allegorical content. On this reading, Philo provides a Jewish parallel to the concept of progress that Christian philosophers use to justify the replacement of the old covenant by the new one and of which we saw a version in Eusebius.48 The Law of Moses, then, offers pedagogical-political guidance on the literal level and true doctrines on the allegorical level. It does not, however, provide the resources to make the transition from the “shadows” to “the things that truly are.” To this end not-yet-philosophers must turn to nonJewish sources. This implies no disloyalty to God, since every philosopher who has a true insight, by the same token has received the word of God. The “true and genuine philosophy,” which “the Law” calls the “utterance and word of God,” is: the philosophy that the ancient [archaios] band of devotees [askˆetai] achieved with great effort, turning away from the bland charms of pleasure, honorably and rigorously engaged in the study of the good. (Post. 101)

This “ancient band of devotees” surely includes “the most holy Plato” (Prob. 13) whom Philo elsewhere calls “one of the ancients [tˆon archaiˆon]” (Op. 21). If there is overlap between the doctrines of Moses and Plato, this does not imply that Plato depends on Moses. In fact, Philo nowhere claims that Moses is the source of Plato’s philosophy. In the entire De opificio mundi there is only one indirect reference to Plato despite the paramount influence of the Timaeus on Philo’s exposition of the creation account (Op. 21).49 This would be difficult to explain if Philo intended to justify his 48

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Compare also Maimonides’s argument discussed in chapter 3. As I suggested in chapter 1, Plato seems to allow for gradually closing the gap between the best state and less-perfect states which were established under particular cultural constraints. On Philo’s use of the Timaeus, see Runia (1987).

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use of Plato through the dependency claim. Although he contends in De providentia 1.22 that Moses anticipated Plato by teaching the existence of water, darkness, and chaos before the creation of the world, he does not say that Plato learned this doctrine from Moses. Philo’s acknowledgment that philosophers can independently have the same true insight also explains his claim that the Stoics Boethus of Sidon and Panaetius were “seized by God” (theoleptoi) when they abandoned a view at odds with the cosmology of Moses (Aet. 76). Philosophers thus can adopt doctrines in agreement with Moses because their philosophical quest brought them into contact with God and hence with the truth. Since Moses did not record his doctrines in philosophical treatises, Jews have no choice but to study God’s word in the philosophical literature of the Greeks. At the same time they must follow Moses’s example and make every effort to separate the true from the false in the teachings of the philosophical schools whose disagreements are stressed by Philo as we saw. Philo’s own eclecticism illustrates this intellectual attitude.50 The Law of Moses, on the other hand, is not the kind of book whose study can lead to wisdom. Philo himself clearly did not turn to it for this purpose: When first I was aroused by the goads of philosophy to desire her, I consorted while yet quite young with one of her servants [therapainides], grammar, and all that I engendered by her – writing, reading, and inquiry into the writings of the poets – I dedicated to her mistress [despoina]. And again I kept company with another, namely geometry, and though I admired her beauty . . . still I appropriated none of her offspring but brought them as a gift to the lawful wife. I was also eager to keep company with a third . . . and her name was music. (Congr. 74–76)

Like Moses, Philo starts out with the “propaedeutic sciences” – that is, philosophy’s “servants.” His courtship of the “lawful wife,” he describes as follows: There was a time when I devoted myself [scholazˆon] to philosophy and the contemplation [theoria] of the universe, . . . when I enjoyed the beauty . . . of its Reason [nous], when I consorted always with divine principles [logoi] and doctrines [dogmata] wherein I rejoiced with a joy that was insatiate and unceasing. (Spec. 3.1)

The Law of Moses plays no part in this. On the contrary, when Philo describes the state of philosophical inspiration, “the ideas descending like snow” on him, he stresses how “under the impact of divine possession [katochˆe entheos]” he became “ignorant of everything,” including “what 50

For a good account of Philo’s place on the doctrinal map of Middle Platonism, see Dillon (1977).

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was said and what was written [ta graphomena]” (Mig. 35). Studying the Law of Moses simply is not part of the higher education that Philo outlines in his allegorical interpretation of Abraham’s relationship with Hagar and Sarah.51 Although Philo does not turn to the Law of Moses to attain wisdom, he discloses its wisdom through allegorical interpretation – in order to promote the perfection of the community as we saw, but also for apologetic purposes. After falling from the heights of philosophy into “the vast sea of civil cares,” Philo mentions how his “fondness for knowledge” led him “to peer into each of [the sacred interpretations of Moses] and to disclose [diaptyttein] and make known [anaphainein] what is unknown to the multitude” (Spec. 3.6). The “vast sea of civil cares” is likely a reference to the conflicts between Jews and gentiles in Alexandria in the second half of the first century ce, for which Philo’s two historical works – On Flaccus and The Delegation to Gaius – are important testimonies. Philo was one of the leaders of the Jewish delegation to Gaius – the Roman emperor Caligula – which went to Rome to resolve the conflicts in Alexandria. Among the leaders of the gentile delegation was Apion who according to Josephus “said many blasphemous things against the Jews” (AJ 18.8).52 The portrait of Moses as an accomplished philosopher-ruler and of the Divine Law as a pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers provides the framework for Philo’s reinterpretation of Jewish beliefs, practices, and institutions. Since the philosopher knows the good and is motivated to live according to this knowledge, his actions instantiate the virtues: he eats and drinks moderately, confronts obstacles courageously, interacts with his fellow citizens justly, and so forth. He does, in other words, what an embodied rational agent must do to perfect reason. The first task of Moses as “supreme doctor” is to translate the prescriptions of reason into laws.53 Philo discusses the order and purpose of the nomoi of Moses in great detail in On the Decalogue, in the four books On the Special Laws, and in On Virtues. The Decalogue, Philo argues, provides the general categories into which the many specific laws can be ordered. The laws promote the perfection of the soul, enabling us not only “to live,” but “to live well” 51 52

53

See also Cher. 98–105. Apion’s anti-Jewish polemics are documented in Josephus’s Against Apion. Eusebius preserved two fragments of a lost work by Philo which was written “in defense of the Jews against their accusers” (PE 8.5). On the relationship between Philo’s interpretation of the nomoi of Moses and the divine nomoi of Magnesia, see also Annas (2010).

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(Dec. 17). The “highest good” (ariston telos) is “knowledge [epistˆemˆe] of the truly Existent, who is the first and most perfect good” (81). The common aim of all laws is to convey: the virtues of universal benefit. For each of the ten pronouncements [chrˆesmoi] separately and all in common prepare and exhort us to wisdom and justice and piety and the rest of the chorus of virtues, bringing together sound words with good deliberations [boulai] and good actions with the words, so that the soul’s instrument may consistently play in tune to produce harmony of life and an unassailable concord. (Spec. 4.134)

The challenge for Philo is to explain how the nomoi of Moses contribute to the goal that the great philosopher-ruler supposedly aimed at. In fact this means reinterpreting them in light of Philo’s own philosophical conception of the good. Thus the tenth commandment – you shall not covet your neighbor’s house, wife, and so forth (see Exod 20:17) – offers Philo the opportunity to explain how Moses aimed at restraining “appetite” (epithymia) through laws conducive to “moderation” (sophrosynˆe). The purpose of the entire range of dietary laws, for example, is to curb the appetite for “food and drink” (Spec. 4.95–97).54 Besides legislating, Moses must also motivate the members of the community to do what the laws prescribe. At the most basic level, he ensures obedience through “fear” (phobos): For ill-bred and foolish slaves a despotic master [despotˆes] who frightens them is beneficial, since in dread of his threats . . . they involuntarily accept rebuke through fear. (Deus 64)

Unlike “lovers of the soul” who follow the Law because they love God, “lovers of the body” follow the Law because they fear God. This accounts for the crude anthropomorphic representation of God in Scripture. To hold the non-rational desires of “lovers of the body” in check Moses describes: the First Cause as employing threats, wrath, and implacable anger, and also using weaponry for his assaults on the unjust. For only thus can the fool be rebuked. (Deus 68)

Ensuring obedience through fear of punishment, however, is only a last resort. A better way to offer pedagogical-political guidance is the poetic representation of exemplary good and bad lives in the “historical” part of the Law of Moses which precedes the legislation.55 Most important are 54 55

See the full discussion of the tenth commandment in Spec. 4.79–131. On the tripartite structure of the Law of Moses, see Abr. 6 ff.; Mos. 2.47 and Praem. 2.

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the lives of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who are “living and rational laws” according to Philo: These are such men as lived unassailable and good lives, whose virtues stand permanently recorded in the most Holy Scriptures, not only to sound their praise, but to exhort the readers and to lead them to aspire to the same. (Abr. 4)

Philo attributes the same model-role to Moses who recorded his life like a work of art: Bringing himself . . . into public view like a well-crafted painting, he has set before us an all-beautiful and godlike work as a model [paradeigma] for those willing to imitate [mimeisthai] it. (Mos. 1.158)56

Note that Philo distinguishes between good and bad poetry: the stories of Moses “are no mythical fictions, such as poets and sophists delight in, but ways of making models [typoi] visible” (Op. 157). Like the nomoi of Moses, biblical narratives must be reinterpreted to fit Philo’s purpose. Good examples for how he does this are the treatises on the patriarchs, of which only On Abraham is extant, and the two volumes On the Life of Moses. Although these stories cannot provide knowledge of the good in the strict sense, they convey a sufficiently accurate notion of the good on the basis of which non-philosophers can order their lives. Non-philosophers thus move up from obedience through fear to emulating exemplary instantiations of the good. In addition to bringing the laws poetically to life, however, Moses also wants to rationally persuade the members of the community that what the laws prescribe is good for them. As we saw, Plato presents the “preludes” to the laws as one of his most important innovations: to “none of the lawgivers” had this idea occurred, Plato contends (Leg. 722b–c). Philo disagrees; the first to address his community as a community of “free men” rather than “slaves” was Moses: Moses thought that . . . issuing commandments without persuasion [aneu paramuthias], as if addressing not free men [eleutheroi], but slaves [douloi], savored of tyranny and despotism. . . . In his commandments and prohibitions he advises and exhorts rather than orders, trying to show the way to the many and necessary things [to be observed] with preludes [prooimia] and epilogues [epilogoi] in order to exhort rather than to force. (Mos. 2.50–51)

The most important prelude in the Law of Moses is the account of creation (see Mos. 2.48). While falling short of a philosophical cosmology, it provides 56

Cf. the summary of the Law’s historical part in Praem. 8–56 which includes Moses among the exemplars of life.

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an account of the world’s order and the place of human beings in that order that explains why following the prescriptions of Moses is in the community’s best interest: Moses . . . introduced the laws with an admirable and most impressive prelude [archˆe], neither stating abruptly what ought or ought not to be done, nor, given the necessity of molding in advance the rational faculties [hai dianoiai] of those who were to live under the laws, fabricating myths or assenting to those framed by others. His prelude is . . . most admirable, since it encompasses the creation of the world in order to show that the world [kosmos] and the law [nomos] are in mutual accord and that a man who is law abiding is thus immediately constituted as a citizen of the world guiding his actions aright according to nature’s intention [boulˆema], according to which also the entire world is governed. (Op. 2–3)

Hence non-philosophers, too, can attain a considerable degree of rational self-rule, acting on beliefs about the good that Moses “ties down” through reasons. The “lovers of the body” and the “lovers of the soul” only represent the lowest and the highest level on the scale of perfection. Since the aim of the Law is to elevate all members of the community to the highest perfection they can attain, most of them will be on an intermediary level. As in Plato, the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship that make up the Law of Moses help make the practical wisdom of philosophers accessible to non-philosophers. Unlike Plato, however, Philo suggests that they also give non-philosophers a share in theoretical wisdom, since they allegorically represent true philosophy. Philo claims, for example, that “from their laws and customs” Jews attain “knowledge [epistˆemˆe] of the highest and most ancient Cause” (Virt. 65), or that “in the school of Moses it is not one man alone who . . . learned the beginnings of wisdom [sophia], but an entire nation” (Deus 148), or again that the whole of Israel sees “the truly Existent . . . for Israel means seeing God” (Congr. 51). He cannot mean “knowledge” or “wisdom” in the strict sense, since these require rigorous training in the propaedeutic sciences and philosophy which the Law of Moses does not provide. In a derivative sense, however, “knowledge” and “wisdom” can refer to the perfection attained through apprehending an imitation of true philosophy. Reinterpreting the literal content of the Law of Moses as a pedagogicalpolitical program for non-philosophers raises the question why philosophers should consider themselves bound by it. If the purpose of the dietary laws, for example, is to discipline the appetite for food and drink, why should we observe them once we attain moderation? Why should we read the stories of the patriarchs if our life is guided by practical wisdom? Or study the account of creation if we master natural philosophy? And

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why should we participate in traditional forms of worship if we are able to contemplate the Forms in God’s mind?57 Philo offers several arguments against “frivolously neglecting the letter” of the Law: Such people I, for my part, should blame for their irresponsibility. . . . As if living alone by themselves in a wilderness, or as if they had become bodiless souls [asˆomatoi psychai], knowing neither city nor village nor household nor any company of humans at all, transcending what is approved by the multitude, they seek the truth in its naked self. These men are taught by Holy Scripture to be concerned with public opinion, and to abolish no part of the customs ordained by inspired men, greater than those of our own day. . . . We ought to look on the outward commandments as resembling the body, and their allegorical meanings [hyponoiai] as resembling the soul. Just as we then provide for the body, inasmuch as it is the abode of the soul, so we must attend to the letter of the laws. If we keep these, we shall . . . in addition . . . escape the censure and accusations of the multitude. (Mig. 89–93)

As long as we are embodied, Philo argues, we are also tied to the body of the Law. For one thing we are not self-sufficient and thus depend on collaborating with others to attain perfection. If the philosophers in the community no longer observe the laws, they encourage non-philosophers to do the same which would subvert the good moral-political order on which everyone’s perfection depends. Or they risk being persecuted for impiety by non-philosophers. “Holy Scripture,” moreover, teaches philosophers to follow the model of Moses and care for the good of non-philosophers. Hence they must respect the authority of the Law of Moses which orders the life of non-philosophers towards what is best. Finally, philosophers are not in a continuous state of perfection either and thus remain vulnerable to the weaknesses of the body.58 To ensure that the non-rational desires remain under control when they attend to the needs of the body, they must do what the Law of Moses prescribes. christianity as a philosophical religion Whereas Reason is Nous for Plato and Logos and Sophia for Philo, Clement and Origen also identify it with Christ.59 They can thus naturalize Hebrew 57

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Philo may have discussed these kinds of questions with his nephew, Tiberius Julius Alexander, who according to Josephus did “not remain true to his ancestral practices” (AJ 20.101). Alexander appears as Philo’s interlocutor in De providentia 1 and 2 and in De animalibus. Cf. Cont. 78 where Philo argues that philosophers “are able by a slight jog to their memory to view the invisible through the visible.” This “slight jog” is provided by the letter of the Law. Like Philo, however, they also occasionally use Nous; see Prot. 10.78–79; Cels. 3.21 and 4.54.

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and Greek wisdom by portraying Christ as the source of both: whereas Moses and Plato were accomplished lovers of wisdom, Christ is wisdom; whereas Moses and Plato sought to apprehend the Forms in God’s mind, Christ is God’s mind. Exegetically this step was facilitated by a number of biblical texts, most importantly the Prologue to John where Christ is identified with the Logos by which God created the world.60 In his interpretation of John 1:1, for example, Origen appropriates Philo’s image of the architect which, in turn, is modeled on the image of the craftsman in the Timaeus: See if we can take the verse “In the beginning was the Logos” according to this meaning: all things are created according to the wisdom and the guidelines [typoi] of the system of concepts [noˆemata] in the Logos. For I think that just as a house and a ship are built . . . according to the guidelines of the architect, the house and the ship having as their beginning the guidelines and thoughts [logoi] in the craftsman, so all things have come to be according to the thoughts of what will be that were prefigured by God in wisdom: “For he made all things in wisdom” [Psalm 104:24]. (Comm. in Io. 1.19, 113–14)61

Christ thus is the Forms constituting God’s mind according to which God orders nature towards what is best. Clement and Origen agree with Philo that being created in God’s “image” and “likeness” means that human reason is an image and likeness of Divine Reason which, in turn, is an image and likeness of God.62 For them, of course, human reason is also an image and likeness of Christ.63 Since they take “image” to refer to reason’s potential and “likeness” to the realization of this potential, they can connect Genesis 1:26 to the telos formula of the Theaetetus – “to become like God as much as possible.” The goal is to move from “image” to “likeness” (Strom. 2.22, 131, 6; De princ. 3.6, 1). The Christian ideal, then, like the Platonic ideal, is a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason. Indeed, everyone who follows 60

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The relevant passages in the New Testament, as well as in other texts included in the Christian Bible such as the Wisdom of Solomon, in part stem from the same intellectual milieu as Philo. See Runia (1993), chapter 4. Cf. 1.39, 288 and the chapter on Christ, De princ. 1.2. See also the reference to John 1:1 in Clement, Prot. 1.6, 3 and the description of Christ as the “new song” who orders the universe, as well as man’s soul and body in Prot. 1.5, 3. Both Clement and Origen identify the Logos with the “Father and Maker of all” in the Timaeus; see Prot. 6.68, 1 and Cels. 7.42. As Clement explains in Strom. 2.19, 102, 6, the verse does not refer to “likeness with respect to the body” but to “likeness with respect to reason [nous] and thought [logismos].” Cf. Prot. 1.6, 4; 4.59, 2; Cels. 6.63. See, for example, Comm. in Io. 1.105.

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the prescriptions of reason by the same token follows Christ’s prescriptions and with every true insight increases his share in Christ.64 The naturalization of Plato is particularly clear in Clement who first appropriates Philo’s Platonic interpretation of Moses and then argues that Moses is the source of Plato’s concepts of divine nomoi and God. According to Clement, Moses is an accomplished philosopher-ruler (Strom. 1.24, 158.1). Following Philo, he describes how Moses studies the “propaedeutic sciences” with teachers from all nations credited with ancient wisdom (1.23, 153).65 Clement explicitly identifies the enkyklia paideia with the mathematical training of prospective philosophers in the Republic (1.19, 93.4–5). Then Moses turns to philosophy, culminating in knowledge of God. This is the “initiation [epopteia] of which Plato says that it belongs to the truly great mysteries” (1.28, 176, 2). For Clement dialectic “alone” (monˆe) is able to lead to “true wisdom.”66 In the story about Abraham’s relationship to Hagar and Sarah, Moses gave an allegorical account of the curriculum that leads from the propaedeutic sciences to philosophy and from philosophy to wisdom. Unlike Philo, however, Clement describes wisdom also as “resting in Christ” (1.5, 32.4; cf. 1.5, 28.3). The same replacement is made by Origen: But I would like that you use all the power of your natural dispositions having as the goal Christianity [telikˆos eis ton christianismon]. The means that I wish you to use is to take from the philosophy of the Greeks everything that can serve as encyclical instruction or propaedeutic for introducing to Christianity. . . . And in this way, what the philosophers say about geometry, music, grammar, rhetoric, and astronomy as being the servants with regard to philosophy, this we say about philosophy itself with regard to Christianity. (Ep. Greg. 1; cf. Cels. 3.58)

This does not mean, of course, that Clement and Origen subordinate reason to faith. What a perfect Christian apprehends does not differ from what Philo’s Moses or a perfect pagan philosopher apprehends, since Christ is the Forms constituting God’s mind – that is, the rational order of nature, comparable to the plan of a building in the mind of an architect. To become like the Logos means not only to perfect oneself, but also “to do good” (euergeteˆo) to others “as much as possible in word and deed” (Strom. 2.19, 97.1). As God shares perfection with his creatures, we ought to make “those near us virtuous and good” by directing them to moderation, courage, wisdom, and justice – that is, to the four cardinal virtues that Plato defines in the Republic (2.18, 96.4). This is precisely the goal that Moses set himself in the Law: ordering the community towards what is best by 64 65

On the Logos’s universal reach, see Prot. 6.68, 2–3; Cels. 1.4. 66 Compare Rep. 534b–c with Strom. 1.28, 177. Cf. Origen, Cels. 3.46.

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directing its members to courage, moderation, wisdom, and justice, culminating in “piety,” the worship of “the highest and most exalted Cause of all things” (2.18, 78.1).67 For Clement “piety” consists in perfecting reason: Moses’s call to “follow the Lord your God and keep his commandments” in Deuteronomy 13:4 means the same as Plato’s call “to become like God as much as possible” in the Theaetetus (2.19, 100.3–4). To show how this works, Clement makes copious use of Philo’s reinterpretation of the nomoi of Moses (see 2.18–20). At times he goes into considerable detail, for example in his explanation of how the dietary laws contribute to moderation (see 2.20). To motivate obedience Moses uses “fear,” as does Plato in the Laws.68 But he also employs “more rational” (logikˆoteros) means when this is suitable for his audience (Prot. 1.8, 2). As Origen stresses, Moses adapts his teachings to his audience’s capacity to understand: In his five books Moses acted like an excellent orator who pays attention to outward form [schˆema] and everywhere sets forth the concealed meaning [diploˆe] of his words with due caution. To the multitude of the Jews under his legislation he gives no occasion to come to moral harm; to the few who are able to read with more understanding he does not present a text lacking in speculation [theoria] for those able to seek his intention. (Cels. 1.18)

Clement justifies his Platonic reinterpretation of the Law of Moses through the claim that key concepts in Plato stem from the Hebrew tradition, most importantly the concept of divine nomoi and the concept of God as Reason: “As to your [Plato’s] laws, insofar as they are true, and your belief about God, you have been helped by the Hebrews” (Prot. 6.70, 1). Thus, “after having learned from the teachings of Moses about legislation,” Plato “censures the constitution of Minos and Lycurgus for aiming only at courage” at the beginning of the Laws (Strom. 1.25, 165.1). Against Minos and Lycurgus he agrees with Moses that nomoi must aim at the perfection of reason: For the goal of the ruler and of the person who lives according to the law is contemplation [theoria]. Hence it is necessary to govern correctly. But the best thing is doing philosophy. For the person who has reason [nous] lives in such a way as to direct everything in his power to knowledge [gnˆosis], guiding life to good deeds, despising bad ones, and pursuing the sciences [mathˆemata] that contribute to the truth. (Strom. 1.25, 166.2–3) 67 68

On the identity of the God of Magnesia and the God of Moses, see below. For Plato’s use of fear, see Strom. 2.22, 132.3.

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To illustrate Plato’s dependence on Moses, Clement quotes several key passages from the Laws in which the Athenian Visitor stresses the theological foundation of the nomoi of Magnesia, for example the beginning of the first speech to Magnesia’s prospective citizens: The God who, as also an ancient saying goes, comprises the beginning, middle, and end of all things, walks on the straight path because he follows the course of nature. And justice always accompanies him, who punishes those who deviate from the Divine Law. (Leg. 715e–716a quoted in Strom. 2.22, 132.2)

The “ancient saying” is a reference to the Law of Moses according to Clement (2.22, 133.2). This does not mean that Plato copied the nomoi of Moses. Clement’s claim is that Plato studied the philosophical principles embodied in the nomoi of Moses and applied them to the nomoi of Magnesia. The reinterpretation of Moses sets the stage for the reinterpretation of Christ who continues and completes Moses’s project. Of course, a community of perfect Christians would not require pedagogical-political guidance by either Moses or Christ. According to Origen, God first creates a community of purely rational souls who are united with the Logos through the love of wisdom.69 Since in this community Christ’s rule and self-rule coincide, no laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship are needed.70 The “Fall” means the turning away of the rational souls from the Logos, leading to embodiment and non-rational desires which, in turn, require the creation of the physical world. The history of humankind after the Fall is driven by the Logos’s efforts to restore the initial state of perfection.71 This is one distinctive trait of the pedagogical-political program as conceived by Christian philosophers: it is also a process unfolding in history, culminating in Christ’s incarnation. As God’s Logos, however, Christ is at work all along – not only through Moses, but also through Plato and everyone else who managed to get a glimpse of the truth.72 We should, of course, not anthropomorphically misrepresent the Logos as actually intervening in history. He is the source of the knowledge of Moses, Plato, and others insofar as he is the source of all knowledge. This includes the knowledge 69 70

71 72

See De princ. 1.5 on the “rational creatures”; cf. Clement, Prot. 1.6, 4. For a Platonic version of the self-rule theme, see Clement’s identification of “reason” (to logistikon) with the “inner man” who rules “spirit” (to thymikon) and “appetite” (to epithymetikon) and is, in turn, ruled by “God,” that is, Divine Reason. This is the core argument of Origen’s On First Principles; cf. Clement’s summary in Prot. 11. See, for example, Strom. 1.5, 28–29.

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of the good embodied in their pedagogical-political efforts which, in turn, aim at the Logos as their final cause. It is, on the other hand, useful to portray the Logos as the author of the pedagogical-political program to persuade non-philosophers to comply with it. According to Clement, the “stories” that Plato and others tell about the divine revelation of Greek laws (Minos, as we saw, is said to have received his laws from Zeus and Lycurgus from Apollo) suggest that they want to “extol the credibility of Greek legislation as divine according to the model of Mosaic prophecy” (Strom. 1.26, 170.3–4).73 The role of Christ’s predecessors was to prepare for Christ: philosophy “educated the Greeks for Christ as the Law [educated] the Hebrews” (Strom. 1.5, 28.3). Although Christ takes things to a new level, he only differs from Moses and Plato by degree, not in essence. To see this, consider how Christ as God’s Logos is related to the embodied Christ of the Gospel. The shortest chapter in On First Principles, Origen’s systematic expos´e of Christian philosophy, clearly betrays his puzzlement about the doctrine of the incarnation (2.6). Given his philosophical commitments, the explanation on which Origen settles contains nothing that contradicts reason: the embodied Christ had a “human and rational soul” (humana et rationabilis anima) whose nature “is the same as that of all other souls” (2.6, 4). Hence Christ is merely one of the “rational creatures” created in the beginning, who share in the Logos in proportion to the strength of their love for him (2.6, 3). What sets Christ’s soul apart from other souls is that it is more perfectly united with the Logos on account of “its perfect love” and “its virtues” (2.6, 4). None “of the other souls that descended into human bodies had a pure and genuine image [similitudo] of the archetype [that is, the Logos] in it” (2.6, 3). Yet while this makes Christ into the greatest of all philosophers, his soul does not differ essentially from other rational souls.74 Unlike them, however, Christ’s soul did not take on a body because 73

74

Cf. the discussion of the laws of Crete and Sparta at the beginning of the Laws. As we saw in the previous chapter, Plato expressly denies that laws can be literally revealed, but encourages “making everyone . . . believe” they were; see Leg. 835c and 838d–e. This is a controversial reading. Origen’s Christology was and continues to be a battlefield. See, for example, the first five accusations to which Pamphilus of Caesarea responds in the Apology of Origen, 88–121, in particular the third; for a contemporary discussion, see Edwards (2002). I cannot find strong textual evidence in 2.6 that for Origen the unity of Christ’s soul with the Logos means identity. He clearly says that Christ’s soul contains a “pure and genuine image” of the Logos. Elsewhere he describes their relation as that of iron heated in fire to fire, of a vessel to oil, or of a shadow to a body (2.6, 6–7). Concerning the union of Christ’s soul with the Logos Origen says that they “are more in one flesh than man and woman” (2.6, 3; cf. Matt 19:5–6). With reference to 1 Cor 6:17, moreover, he compares this union to the union attained with Christ by those who “imitate” him (ibid.). All this suggests that Christ’s soul and the Logos are united in a way that does not entail

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of the Fall. Why, then, did he interrupt contemplating the Forms in God’s mind and come down into the world to put order into human affairs? Like Moses, Christ not only has perfection, but is also willing to share it. In this sense he can be described as “loving humankind” (philanthrˆopos): Just as there is no light that does not give light, . . . there is no good [agathon] that does not benefit and lead to salvation. (Paed. 1.3, 9.3)

Christ’s task in the world is to establish a definitive moral-political order which directs not only Jews or Greeks, but all of humankind to what is best. This universal scope is another distinctive trait of the Christian version of a philosophical religion. In a very general sense, Christ’s appearance is the work of divine providence. Since God is the ultimate cause of all good, “no benefit comes to humankind without God’s action.” Hence even “a doctor who has healed [therapeusas] the bodies of many, or improved their condition, does not heal without God’s action” (Cels. 1.9). All the more this holds for Christ: who healed, converted, and improved the souls of many, and attached them to the supreme God, and taught them to refer every action to his good pleasure . . . down to the most insignificant of words or deeds. (Cels. 1.9)

Since a life ordered in this way is perfectly virtuous, Origen also describes Christ’s aim as imparting the four cardinal virtues: moderation, courage, wisdom, and justice (see 2.79). The ultimate goal, however, is “to elevate the soul in every way to the Creator [dˆemiourgos] of the universe” until it apprehends the Forms constituting God’s mind: [M]en ought . . . to do all they can to attain fellowship with God and the contemplation [theoria] of intelligible and invisible things [noˆeta kai aorata] and to attain the blessed life with God and with the friends of God. (Cels. 3.56)

Christ’s project is in essence the same as the therapeutic projects of Greek philosophers from Socrates to the Stoics who tried to convert their disciples identity. That this union differs in degree and not in essence from the union of other souls with the Logos is equally suggested by the metaphors mentioned above. Thus the heat transmitted by the fiery iron to other souls is not essentially different from the heat caused by the fire in the iron itself. Likewise the odor reaching other souls is not essentially different from the oil contained in Christ’s soul. While other passages may support a more orthodox interpretation, it cannot be ruled out that they reflect dogmatic corrections in light of the Nicene Creed made by Rufinus in his Latin translation of Origen’s work (cf. Studer 1972). In my view the issue cannot be conclusively settled on textual grounds. If the choice is between philosophical consistency and orthodoxy, preference must be given to the former in my view. Someone who, like Origen, takes the Logos to be the rational order of nature will hardly concede that the doctrine at the heart of Christianity is not accessible to reason.

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from a life ruled by non-rational desires to a life ruled by reason. Christ was, however, immensely more successful: The critics of Christianity do not see in how many people the passions [pathˆe] are suppressed and the flood of vice [kakia] is restrained . . . by reason of the Gospel. They should have confessed their gratitude to the Gospel when they observe its services to the community. (Cels. 1.64)

Under ideal circumstances Christ would have achieved this simply by teaching philosophy: [I]f every man could abandon the business of life and devote himself [scholazein] to philosophy, nobody should pursue another course than this one alone. . . . However, if this is impossible, since, partly because of the necessities of life and partly because of human weakness, very few people turn eagerly to reason [logos], what better way of helping the multitude [hoi polloi] could be found than that given to the nations by Jesus? (Cels. 1.9)

To be an outstanding philosopher is thus not enough to direct humankind to what is best. For most human beings are non-philosophers, busy with the needs of embodied life and driven more by love of money and honor than by love of wisdom. To offer them pedagogical-political guidance, Christ, like Moses, must have the skills of a legislator, poet, and orator. He must, in other words, speak in the language of the cave dwellers: the language of the imagination. According to Clement this means laying down rules and providing “images” (eikones) that guide us to “choose the good and imitate it or condemn the bad and avoid it” (Paed. 1.1.2).75 For “images and examples [eikones kai hypodeigmata] are the chief component of correct instruction” (3.8). Clement and Origen go out of their way to defend the intrinsic goodness of philosophy. Origen, for example, explains Paul’s critique of “the wisdom of the world” which is “foolishness to God” (1 Cor 3:19) as referring “to all philosophy that holds false opinions.” By contrast, Paul’s wise man who appears “foolish in this world” (ibid. 3:18) is wrongly criticized for holding true doctrines: It is as if we were to say that the Platonists, in believing in the immortality of the soul and what is said about its reincarnation, accepted foolishness because the Stoics ridicule assent to these doctrines, and because the Peripatetics babble 75

See also Cels. 1.48 where Origen accounts for biblical metaphors and parables by the same faculty through which “people form images [eikones] in their minds” when they dream. The prophets and Christ translate rational insights into the language of the imagination by representing incorporeal things through things that can be apprehended through the senses.

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about Plato’s “twitterings” [referring to the Forms], and because Epicureans accuse of superstition those who introduce providence and set a God over the universe. (Cels. 1.13; cf. 3.47, 7.46)

The “doctrines” which Christians “call best,” Origen stresses, are “those which are true” (3.49). Both the Law of Moses and the Gospel encourage the pursuit of wisdom and provide models of wise men – for example David and Solomon (see 3.45). Paul’s “catalogue of divine gifts” in 1 Cor 12:8–10 describes an epistemic hierarchy with “wisdom” (sophia) at the top, “knowledge” (gnˆosis) based on miracles in the middle, and “faith” (pistis) at the bottom (3.46). This is not surprising given that “the Son of God” is “the very Logos and wisdom and truth” (3.41). At the same time true doctrines can be as destructive for non-philosophers as feeding a newborn solid food. Hence “the Logos . . . becomes nourishment for each man according to his capacity to receive him” (4.18; cf. 7.41). When addressing nonphilosophers, Christ does not speak as a “teacher” (didaskalikos) but as a “guide of children” (paidagogos) – not only children in the literal sense, but everyone unable to live under the guidance of reason: At the beginning . . . we exhort sinners to come to the words which teach not to sin, and the unwise to hear words which will implant in them understanding [synesis], and children to advance to a manly character, and those who are simply unhappy [kakodaimones] to happiness. (Cels. 3.59; cf. 7.41)76

As paidagogos Christ does for the soul what a doctor does for the body: Just as a good doctor, in dealing with diseased bodies, uses poulticing for some, rubbing for others, and bathing for others; some he cuts with a knife, others he cauterizes, and in some cases he even amputates . . . , so the Savior uses many tunes and many devices in working for the salvation of men. (Prot. 1.8; cf. Cels. 3.61–62)

This is necessary because among Christ’s audience one “is a beginner,” another “has made a little progress, or is considerably advanced, or has nearly attained virtue, or has in fact attained it” (Cels. 4.16). To cure the variously deficient souls Christ’s pedagogical-political program must be accordingly multilayered. This program imitates true philosophy. According to Origen, the Gospel, taken literally, “teaches a shadow [skia] of the mysteries of Christ” (Comm. in Io. 1.39). He can thus distinguish “the Gospel which is perceptible by the senses from the intelligible or spiritual Gospel” (1.44). 76

Note the range of additional meanings of “children” that Clement discusses in Paed. 1.5.

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Given its universal scope, Christ’s pedagogical-political program cannot be implemented without a cultural revolution. For the cave of humankind into which Christ descends is not a cultural void. After falling away from the Logos, human beings developed beliefs, practices, and institutions based on idolatry – the confusion of God with things that are not God. Attaching them “to the supreme God” and teaching them “to refer every action to his good pleasure . . . down to the most insignificant of words or deeds” thus requires first detaching them from worshiping idols and from the beliefs, practices, and institutions to which idol worship gave rise. Achieving this conversion is Christ’s task as protreptikos, a difficult task because the better argument is often defeated by the force of “custom” (ethos). According to Clement, pagans “fled from our arguments” like “stubborn horses that refuse to obey the reins” (Prot. 10; cf. Cels. 1.52). Much of Clement’s Protrepticus thus consists in a critique of pagan culture.77 Only after Christ’s work as protreptikos is done can he take on the role of paidagogos. One important component of his pedagogical-political program is philosophical poetry. According to Origen the Logos makes sure to conform to the guidelines for pedagogically appropriate poetry laid down by Plato. Christians “truly have reverence for the name of God and the names of the beautiful things which he has created, so that we do not accept any myth which might harm the young even if it is to be understood allegorically” (Cels. 4.48). Hence Plato would have no reason to ban Scripture’s narratives from the best state, unlike the poetry of Homer and Hesiod: [I]t is the myths of the Greeks which are not only most foolish, but also most impious. For our Scriptures also have regard to the multitude of the simpleminded, something to which the authors of the fictitious stories [plasmata] of the Greeks paid no attention. Hence it was not mere ill will which led Plato to cast out from his city myths and poems of this character. (Cels. 4.50)

The pedagogical-political usefulness of the Logos’s poetry does not imply that it is true. It belongs, however, to the kind of “deceit and lying” which Plato considers legitimate “as a medicine.” Such noble lies are used by the Logos “with the purpose of bringing salvation,” according to Origen, “since some characters are reformed by doctrines which are more false than true” (4.19). Criticizing Christ for employing noble lies would be as wrong as criticizing Plato. If readers were to take the allegorical account of the birth of Eros in the Symposium literally: 77

Cf. also the argument of the PE discussed above.

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they would ridicule the myth and make a mockery of so great a man as Plato. But if they could discover Plato’s intention by examining philosophically what he says in the form of a myth, they would admire the way in which he was able to hide the great doctrines evident to him . . . on account of the multitude, and yet to express them as one must for those who know how to discover from myths the true intention of the author. (Cels. 4.39)78

Let me note in passing that Christians were not alone in Alexandria in comparing biblical stories to Plato’s mythoi and describing them as a replacement for the philosopher’s knowledge of the good. Clement’s contemporary, the pagan physician and philosopher Galen, makes the following comments on Christians in a passage of his Summary of Plato’s “Republic” preserved only in Arabic: The multitude is unable to understand a chain of demonstrative arguments. Hence they need parables [rum¯uz] from which they benefit. Concerning this we now see the people called Christians who draw their faith from parables and miracles and yet act like those who philosophize. For their lack of fear of death and of what follows death is something we see every day, and likewise their moderation in relation to sexual intercourse. Among them is a group, including not only men, but also women, who abstain from sexual intercourse their entire life. Another group’s moderation concerning food and drink, and strong desire for justice are such that they are not deficient compared to true philosophers.79

Philosophical poetry, however, is not the only component of Christ’s pedagogical-political program. Christ must first translate the “science of living” (technˆe peri ton bion) guiding a good Christian life into a set of rules for the imperfectly rational members of the community (Paed. 2.2, 25.3). Although it is best to follow the prescriptions of one’s own reason, following the prescriptions of another’s reason is better than not following reason at all (see 3.8, 42). Clement’s treatise on the rules for embodied life, which Christ supposedly laid down as paidagogos, is a straightforward account of the virtuous life based on Platonic and Stoic sources. Topics discussed range from food, drink, and sex to wealth, the social life, and physical beauty (Paed. 2 and 3). The key principle is that we should not desire more of these goods than necessary to satisfy the needs of the body. Although we do not live to eat, for example, we still must eat to live. Hence moderate wealth is useful to avoid hunger and sickness which, in turn, is 78

79

Origen compares Plato’s account to the Genesis account of the serpent’s seduction of Eve. Plato may have come up with a similar story on his own, Origen surmises, or appropriated the biblical story with some modifications when he met Jewish scholars in Egypt. For Clement’s view of Plato’s allegories, see Strom. 5.9. Walzer (1949), 16; cf. Cels. 7.48.

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useful for undisturbed study and thus for attaining likeness to the Logos. This usefulness provides the “measure” (metron) for instrumental goods (2.3, 37.1).80 Perfect Christians desire neither more nor less than what reason prescribes because their love of wisdom keeps their non-rational desires in check. But how can imperfect Christians be motivated to follow the prescriptions of reason? One option is to overrule non-rational desires through fear and hope. Although these are not rational either, they can motivate actions that conform to what reason prescribes. Hence Christ uses “threats of punishments” and “promises of what is in store for those who have lived good lives” for “the improvement of humankind” (Cels. 4.10; cf. Paed. 3.8, 45). This explains, for example, why Scripture attributes anger and wrath to God, although in truth he has no human emotions (see Cels. 1.71; 4.71–72). In fact, the punishments which God is said to inflict on sinners are just the effects caused by vice: “each man brings this on himself by his sins” (4.72). For Clement and Origen, too, motivating obedience through fear is only a last resort. Although Christ knows that not everyone can become a perfect Christian for whom the rule of the Logos and self-rule coincide, his aim is to guide humankind as close as possible to this ideal. Scripture’s philosophical poetry already represents considerable progress. It teaches, as we saw, through “images and examples” what it means to obey Christ’s rules and live well, or to disobey them and live badly, thus providing imperfect Christians with standards for independent value judgments which go a considerable way to replacing the practical wisdom of perfect Christians.81 The emphasis put on “faith” (pistis) is distinctive of Christian philosophers, although Clement also claims to find this concept in the Laws.82 Having faith in the Logos “whom we accept as our teacher” is a necessary step on the way to perfection in the same way as we must initially submit to the authority of a master to learn carpentry or navigation (Strom. 2.4, 16.1–2). Since we are not born wise, we are at first unable to live under the guidance of reason. However, if we do not live wisely we will also not reach the stage at which reason can take charge. The only way to break the vicious circle is to submit to the prescriptions of another’s reason. For Clement and Origen this should, of course, be the Logos, the supreme paidagogos. Before we can know that the Logos’s prescriptions are right, we must accept 80 81

82

Cf. the quotations from the Laws in 2.3, 35.1, and 36.3. See Prot. 10.84 where Clement describes the virtues as “divine writings [theia grapha] stamped deeply into the soul.” They are the wisdom that turns men into good fathers, good sons, good husbands, and good masters of slaves. See the quotation from the Laws in Strom. 2.4, 18.1; cf. 2.5, 23, 1–5.

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them on faith. At this stage, therefore, faith takes the place of reason. As we advance, however, we must, as much as possible, replace faith with reason, for “it is far better to accept doctrines with reason and wisdom than with mere faith” (Cels. 1.13). Clement describes this process as follows: knowledge [gnˆosis] becomes faith [pistis] and faith becomes knowledge according to a divinely established succession and reciprocal implication [akolouthia kai antakolouthia]. (Strom. 2.4, 16.2)83

While in the best case beliefs based on faith are replaced through beliefs based on demonstrations, they can also be “tied down” in less definitive ways. As we saw, Paul places knowledge based on miracles in between faith and wisdom according to Origen, who considers miracles an important device to persuade non-philosophers (see Cels. 1.46). As the degrees of perfection vary, the quality of the arguments employed by the Logos varies as well. In addition to his role as paidagogos, Christ also teaches philosophy as didaskalikos. Mindful of the destructive effect that true doctrines can have on non-philosophers, however, he does not teach philosophy in public: [T]he crowds of believers [pisteuontes] hear the parables as if they were outside and worthy only of the exoteric doctrines. But the disciples privately learned the explanation of the parables. For privately, to his own disciples, Jesus expounded all things, honoring above the crowds those judged worthy of his wisdom. (Cels. 3.46; cf. 3.21)

Clement claims to be part of this oral tradition of Christian wisdom going back to Christ’s private lessons. His teachers: who preserved in their integrity the true tradition of the blessed teaching, coming directly from the holy apostles Peter, Jacob, John, and Paul and passed on continuously from father to son . . . indeed came to us with God’s help to lay down in us the apostolic seeds inherited from the fathers. (Strom. 1.1, 11.3)84

Since this oral tradition is fictional, however, it obviously cannot provide access to Christ’s philosophy. The only alternative is to study Scripture’s 83

84

Cf. Cels. 1.9: Christians must rely on “simple faith” until “they can devote themselves to the study of rational arguments.” Clement’s discussion of pistis in Book 2 of the Stromateis is long and tortuous (chapters 2–17). Against Gnostics who claim that perfection requires special knowledge Clement sometimes argues that all Christians are perfect from the moment they are baptized (cf. Paed. 1.6). This does not sit well with the idea of progress from simple faith to wisdom. I take Clement’s considered view to be the same as Origen’s: there are grades of perfection and a Christian who has replaced pistis with gnˆosis is more perfect than a Christian who relies on pistis alone. See in particular Strom. 6 and 7 on the true Christian Gnostic. Cf. Eusebius, HE 6.13, 9.

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allegorical content. Making the transition from the literal to the allegorical content, however, requires training in the propaedeutic sciences and philosophy. Hence Clement’s defense of Greek education against Christians who argue that “only faith” is required for perfection and who oppose studying philosophy or even claim that it was invented by the devil (1.9, 43.1 and 44.4).85 The most eloquent testimony for the key role of a Greek education in becoming a perfect Christian is provided by Origen. He not only recognizes “any good teachings” as valid, “even if their authors are outside the [Christian] faith” (Cels. 7.46), but also encourages “young men” to listen to “teachers who give preparatory teaching in philosophy and train in philosophical study” (3.58). Only then: would I try to lead them on to the exalted height, unknown to the multitude, of the profoundest doctrines of the Christians who discourse about the greatest and most advanced truths, proving and showing that this philosophy was taught by the prophets of God and the Apostles of Jesus. (Cels. 3.8)86

This passage matches the detailed description of Origen’s teaching practice in the Address of Thanksgiving to Origen by Gregory Thaumaturgus who studied with Origen in Caesarea in the 230s. According to Gregory, Origen first examined his soul to determine whether he could be guided to the life of a perfect Christian (Or. pan. 7.95). Then he cured the “ailments” (pathˆemata) of Gregory’s soul through “arguments and speeches” (7.100). Gregory’s philosophical education begins with “dialectic,” the training of “the part of our soul which judges . . . words and arguments.” This is of great importance “for all who debate any matter whatsoever and seek to avoid being misled” (7.106 and 108). Next Gregory turns to physics where he learns how God ordered nature towards what is best. Mathematics prepares him for the transition to the study of incorporeal things (see 8.109–14). Of these the first is the human soul, the foundation of moral philosophy. The aim is not only to learn in what the soul’s good order consists, but also to put Gregory’s soul in good order. By “reaping” the “fruits of philosophy, the divine virtues,” Gregory becomes “disciplined and tranquil and godlike and truly happy” (9.115–16). The virtues include 85

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Clement’s claim in the Protrepticus that we no longer need to go to Athens to study philosophy since “the whole world has become an Athens . . . through the Logos” (11) is rhetorical. Had Christ made philosophy available everywhere, Clement would not have needed to defend Greek philosophy in the Stromateis. Cf. Eusebius, HE 6.18. According to HE 6.3, 8–14 Origen’s own education proceeded along these lines: the study of Scripture’s literal sense was followed by the study of Greek philosophy which, in turn, was followed by the study of Scripture’s allegorical sense.

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“practical wisdom” (phronˆesis), the virtue of reason, which enables us to judge whether things “belong to goods or evils.” When reason is in charge, Gregory notes, the soul is “the ruler of itself” (kratoun eph’ heautˆes) with moderation, courage, and justice ensuring that reason’s prescriptions are executed (9.119 and 122). The aim of a life ordered by reason is “piety” (eusebeia), the “mother of all virtues.” Piety does not mean submission to religious authority, but striving to become like the Logos by perfecting reason. Having discovered “divine reason” (theios nous) in itself, the soul understands that: the goal [telos] of all men is nothing but coming to God and remaining in him by attaining likeness to him through the purity of reason [nous]. (Or. pan. 11.142 and 12.149)

For this purpose “the most necessary” thing is “knowledge [gnˆosis] of the Cause of all things” (13.150). To attain this knowledge Origen does not direct Gregory to Scripture, but to a rigorous study of “all the writings of the ancient philosophers,” admonishing him to be: neither biased in favor of one nation or philosophic doctrine, nor prejudiced against it, whether Greek or barbarian, but listening to all. (Or. pan. 13.151 and 153)

The aim of this exercise is to confront Gregory with a range of conflicting positions which force him to think through the arguments for and against them on his own, retaining “everything which is useful and true from each of the philosophers” while dismissing “what is false” (14.172–73). The point had already been made by Clement: When I speak of philosophy, I do not mean Stoic, Platonic, Epicurean, or Aristotelian philosophy, but all valid ideas maintained in each of these schools which teach justice together with pious knowledge. This selection [of valid ideas] I call philosophy. (Strom. 1.7, 37.6)

As Gregory stresses, Christians must become better philosophers than their Greek colleagues: Our noble Greeks, so outstanding in their speeches and investigations, did philosophy in this way: driven by some impulse each declared true only those doctrines which he happened to encounter at the start, while [dismissing] all the doctrines from other philosophers as deception and nonsense. He does no more support his doctrines with argument [logos] than each of the other philosophers set forth their own, for there is no need to change and revise a doctrine on account of demonstration [anankˆe] or persuasion [peithos]. (Or. pan. 14.162)

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This criticism echoes a passage in Against Celsus in which Origen replies to Celsus’s charge that Christians follow religious authority rather than reason. Not Christians, but Greek philosophers follow authority, Origen contends, because they embrace their school doctrines without examination (see Cels. 1.10).87 Only after this comprehensive philosophical training, leading from dialectics to metaphysics, does Gregory turn to the study of Scripture’s allegorical content and learn to interpret “the dark and enigmatic places, of which there are many in the sacred words” (Or. pan. 15.174). Having perfected reason, he can now discern the philosophy concealed in Christ’s public teachings. The study of Scripture adds no new content to Gregory’s knowledge. Since the literal sense of Scripture has no authority for determining its true content, Scripture can never overrule a sound philosophical doctrine. The concept of Christ as Reason requires that every conflict between reason and Scripture is resolved by reinterpreting Scripture.88 It is true that the disagreement between philosophers on metaphysical issues suggests to Origen “that [complete] knowledge of God is likely beyond the capacity of human nature” (Cels. 7.44). True also that for Origen Christ had complete knowledge of God since his soul was perfectly rational before descending into the body, unlike human souls which must struggle to regain some measure of perfection after the Fall. Since Christ’s true teachings are not available, however, this does not translate into fideism.89 If anything, Origen’s moderate skepticism turns the search for Christ’s true doctrines into an open-ended project which can always be revised in light of better arguments. This is corroborated by the often tentative conclusions presented in On First Principles.90 At the end of his discussion of Christ’s incarnation, for example, Origen writes that “if someone could find something better” than the solution he proposed, “then his words rather than ours should be accepted” (De princ. 2.6, 7). On First Principles, however, also raises a puzzle. Origen calls on Christian teachers to follow the example of Christ and teach philosophy only privately to an “intelligent audience.” When addressing “those of a simpler mind,” on the other hand, they should “conceal and pass over the more 87 88 89 90

Cf. Galen’s similar remarks in De ordine librorum suorum 1.19, 50. See the hermeneutic principles set forth in De princ. 4. The same holds for the philosophy of Moses who was a much better philosopher than Plato according to Origen (see Cels. 1.19). If definitive knowledge can be attained through God’s grace as Origen suggests at times (cf. Cels. 7.44), the style of On First Principles suggests that he himself did not lay claim to this privilege.

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profound truths” (Cels. 3.52; cf. 5.29). The philosophical training described by Gregory clearly corresponds to what Origen thought Christ did with his Disciples in private. His extensive homilies on the Bible, on the other hand, bring out the pedagogical intentions of the Logos’s public teachings. Both Origen’s biblical commentaries and On First Principles, however, seem to reveal what the Logos deliberately concealed to protect non-philosophers. While the commentaries make Scripture’s allegorical content public, On First Principles gives a systematic account of Christ’s philosophy. The solution to this puzzle may lie in a lost letter to Fabian, bishop of Rome, in which Origen reportedly charges “Ambrose with over haste in making public what was meant only for private circulation.”91 As we learn from Eusebius, Origen was urged to write his biblical commentaries by Ambrose, a wealthy Alexandrian, who provided him with ample means for this purpose, including seven secretaries (HE 6.24). It is likely, then, that Origen did not intend to publish either his biblical commentaries or On First Principles. The same concern for non-philosophers also helps to explain the esoteric style of Clement’s Stromateis, a “patchwork” of deliberately disorganized notes which “skillfully wish to hide the seeds of knowledge . . . because great is the danger of betraying the truly ineffable teaching of the true philosophy” (Strom. 1.2, 20.4–21.2). Clement first lays out Christ’s program as paidagogos whose purpose is to prepare for the life of the perfect Christian. Attaining perfection, however, requires grasping the doctrines which Christ sets forth as didaskalikos. Since most Christians are unable to advance from the paidagogos to the didaskalikos, Christ’s true teachings cannot be disclosed in public. The style of the Stromateis accommodates these constraints. With reference to Plato’s critique of writing in the Phaedrus, Clement explains that oral instruction allows the teacher to determine his audience’s level of perfection and then choose the appropriate mode of exposition (1.1, 9.1; cf. Cels. 3.51). A published text, by contrast, is equally accessible to all and in the wrong hands can be as harmful as “a dagger” in the hands of a child (1.1, 14.3–4). This can be remedied, however, through a practice of esoteric writing which allows only intelligent readers to discern the author’s true intention: Let our notes be, as we often said, because of those people who light upon them carelessly and ignorantly, patched together in a motley fashion as the name itself [Stromateis] declares, continually dropping one subject for another, suggesting one 91

The reference is preserved in Jerome, Letter 84.9.

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thing in the course of discussion and declaring another. For seekers after gold, says Heraclitus, dig much earth and find a little gold. But those who really are of golden stock, mining for what is akin to them, will find much in a little. For the writing will find one reader who will understand it. The patchwork [stromateis] of notes work together for the recollection and the declaration of truth for those who can rationally inquire. (Strom. 4.2, 4).

Clement can thus convey Christ’s true teachings to the philosophically gifted students without subverting the beliefs of non-philosophers. If true philosophy can only be disclosed in Scripture, but not learned from it, this explains why Origen, like Philo, never accounts for the overlap between Scripture’s true doctrines and Greek philosophy through the dependency thesis. Clement’s stance on this is surely more ambiguous.92 But also he has no problem explaining true doctrines in Plato as stemming either from his own insight or from his contact with an oral wisdom tradition (see Strom. 2.19, 100.3). If studying Scripture could lead to perfection, Clement’s and Origen’s defense of a philosophical education derived from Greek sources would make no sense at all. philosophers in paradise At the end of his studies under Origen, Gregory claims to have entered what is “truly paradise” (Or. pan. 15.183).93 Christian philosophers thus recover the state of perfection that was lost through the Fall. Although paradise is indeed a place that admits philosophers only, Christians mitigate the intellectual elitism characteristic of proponents of a philosophical religion. As we saw, for Origen all souls were equally united with the Logos in an initial state of perfection. In successive embodiments after the Fall they gradually move further away from or back up to the Logos depending on whether they chose “virtue” or “vice” (De princ. 1.7, 5). The task of the historical Christ is to turn all of humankind back to the Logos: philosophers by means of philosophy and non-philosophers by means of philosophy’s handmaid. Over the course of successive embodiments, however, nonphilosophers, too, once turned in the right direction, can replace the guidance of the Logos as paidagogos by the teachings of the Logos as didaskalikos.94 92 93 94

See Ridings (1995). The matter requires a more detailed discussion. Cf. Origen’s description of paradise in De princ. 2.11, 6. For the descent and the different ranks of the rational souls, see in general De princ. 1.5–8 and the testimonies in the appendix to 1.8. For the ascent of the souls, see 2.11, 6–7 and 3.6, 8. Whether Origen is, in fact, committed to a doctrine of reincarnation is controversial. At times he appears to endorse it (for example Cels. 1.13, 1.32), at times he appears to reject it (for example Cels. 1.20, 4.17,

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Hence a version of the ideal community of philosophers, who live a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason, will arise at the end of times. It is possible to derive this concept of progressive perfection over successive embodiments from Plato. In the Republic Plato argues that “education” (paideia) does not mean “putting knowledge [epistˆemˆe] into souls that lack it, like putting sight into blind eyes.” Rather: the power [to learn] and the instrument with which each one learns is present in everyone’s [hekastos] soul. And just as it is impossible to turn the eye from darkness to light without turning around the entire body, so [the soul’s eye] must be turned around with the entire soul from the things that become, until the soul is able to bear contemplating [theaomai] that which is and the brightest of that which is, namely what we say is the good. (Rep. 518b–d)

How can education lead everyone’s soul to knowledge of the Forms, including the Form of the good, if most citizens are non-philosophers? Is not the best life that non-philosophers can attain an imitation of the philosopher’s life and a second-degree likeness to God? One solution to this puzzle is that Plato is speaking of the effect that a good education can have over several embodiments. He seems to hint at this possibility in a reference to Socrates’s debate with Thrasymachus which was the starting point of the argument in the Republic: We will not relax our efforts until we either convince [Thrasymachus] and the others or, at any rate, do something that may benefit them in a later embodiment, when, reborn, they happen upon these arguments again. (Rep. 498d)

Elsewhere Plato argues that souls move up and down on the scale of perfection in accordance with how well or badly they live during their present embodiment.95 Since our upbringing is a key factor in how we live, we can see how Origen can argue on Platonic grounds that a non-philosopher who in his present embodiment benefits from the Logos’s pedagogical-political guidance will be able to grasp the Logos’s true teachings a few embodiments down the road. To be sure, getting from Plato to Origen requires a number of modifications and additions that I cannot discuss here. For my purpose, however, it is sufficient to see that even the most distinctive traits of the

95

8.30). My sense is that Origen only disagrees with Plato’s claim that human souls can reincarnate as non-rational animals, but the matter requires further examination. At any rate, I cannot see how Origen can explain the soul’s descent and ascent without some version of the reincarnation doctrine. See the discussion of the soul in Phdr. 245c–249d; cf. Rep. 614b–621b, Ti. 90e–92c.

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Christian version of a philosophical religion do not imply a fundamental break with Plato’s concept of a pedagogical-political program. Like Philo’s interpretation of Judaism, then, the interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion hinges on the concept of the Logos which, with some modifications, corresponds to Plato’s Nous. The Logos orders not only nature towards what is best, but also humankind – mediated through Moses and everyone else who contributed to the advancement of reason. This process culminates in the historical Christ who lays the groundwork for reason’s universal triumph. Fitting the historical contents of Christianity into this framework through reinterpretation is not as great a challenge as fitting the historical contents of Judaism into it. For aligning Christian beliefs, practices, and institutions with the philosophical concept of the good endorsed by Clement and Origen does not require the comprehensive reinterpretation of the nomoi of Moses that we saw in Philo. These nomoi, Christian philosophers argue, reflect the particular constraints under which Moses set out to restore the moral and intellectual integrity of the Hebrews after their enslavement in Egypt. Once they fulfilled this purpose, Moses’s nomoi were no longer literally binding. The laws “about meat and drink and feasts and new moons and sabbaths” were just a “shadow” of “the good things to come” (Cels. 2.2). Clement, as we saw, restates the instructions that Christ supposedly set forth as paidagogos in the form of a fairly straightforward summary of Platonic and Stoic ethics. At the same time, the homilies, biblical commentaries and philosophicaltheological works of Clement and Origen all contribute to the project of reinterpreting Christian beliefs, practices, and institutions in light of their pedagogical-political ideals and philosophical commitments.

from magnesia to a christian world-state The interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion does not end with Clement and Origen. Prominent later proponents include Augustine, in particular in the early days after his conversion, and Pseudo-Dionysius.96 Augustine, for example, is confident at the time of his conversion that what he finds in the “Platonists . . . does not contradict our Holy Scriptures [sacris nostris non repugnet].” Studying the Platonists will best satisfy his “desire to apprehend the truth – not only as someone who has faith [credens], 96

See O’Meara (2003), chapters 12.3–4 and 13.1.

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but also as someone who understands [intelligens]” (C. acad. 3.20, 43). Scripture’s literal content, on the other hand, is a pedagogical-political program for “souls that have been blinded by the manifold shadows of error and rendered forgetful by the deepest filth from the body.” To cure these souls, “God the highest, on account of a certain compassion with the multitude [clementia popularis], humbled and submitted the authority of the divine Intellect even to the human body itself” (3.19, 42). One of the most interesting later developments brings us finally back to Eusebius. We saw that according to Clement and Origen Christ not only offers pedagogical-political guidance to Jews and Christians, but to humankind as a whole. The Christianization of the Roman Empire under Constantine the Great provided an opportunity to champion an actual Christian world-state along Platonic lines. Eusebius seized this opportunity in his Praise of Constantine, a speech he gave in the emperor’s presence in 336 on occasion of the tricentennial of Constantine’s reign.97 The speech portrays Constantine as the perfect “philosopher-king” (philosophos basileus) who, in the footsteps of Moses and Christ, continues the Logos’s project of ordering humankind towards what is best (LC 5.4). Having perfected reason through knowledge of things divine and human, he apprehends “the archetypal Form” (archetypos idea) on which he models himself, thus becoming “perfectly wise, good, just, courageous, pious, and God-loving” (1.3, 3.5, 5.4). Constantine not only imitates the Logos by perfecting himself, however, but also by perfecting others, following the example of the Logos who spreads “his Father’s favors without envy to all” (3.6; cf. 2.5). As the Logos orders nature towards what is best, Constantine does the same for humankind (see 2.2). His “indescribable longing” for knowledge makes him resistant to the lures of power and money, thus ensuring his moral integrity as a ruler (5.5–7). Since human beings are said to have been created in God’s image because they have reason, directing them to what is best means, above all, directing them to the perfection of reason (see 6.7 and 3.6). Constantine’s “rules of worship,” for example, instruct citizens “to raise their outstretched hands above toward heaven while fixing the eyes of the mind [dianoia]” on the Logos (9.10). What they apprehend through the eyes of the mind corresponds to the allegorical content of Scripture (see 6.20). To succeed in this enterprise, however, Constantine must first defeat Christ’s pagan enemies and their idolatrous beliefs, practices, and institutions (see 7–10). 97

See ibid., chapter 12.1–2.

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From Magnesia, then, we have arrived at the ideal of a Christian worldstate in which all citizens strive to become like God by living a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason: Yes, this is surely the greatest miracle – that so great a king has cried out at the top of his voice to the whole world and, like some interpreter of the All-Ruling God, has called all under his care to knowledge [gnˆosis] of True Being [ho oˆn]. (LC 10.4)

c h a p ter 3

Communities of Reason in the Islamic world

introduction A key passage for my project is Plato’s claim that the ultimate goal to which divine nomoi direct citizens is “Reason [nous] who rules all things” (Leg. 631d). As we saw in the previous chapter, Eusebius identifies Plato’s Nous with “the God of the universe” in Genesis. The Alexandrians in general take Nous to be the Logos, God’s mind, which Clement and Origen further equate with Christ. In his Epitome of the “Laws,” al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı renders Nous as “the face of God [wajh All¯ah], mighty and magnificent” (Jaw¯ami 1.7). Averroes and Maimonides use variations of this formula to describe the aim of the Divine Law of Muslims and Jews. According to Averroes the “happiness” (saa¯ da) to which the shar¯ıa calls, is “the knowledge of God [al-marifa bi-All¯ah], mighty and magnificent, and his creation” (Fas.l, 8). Maimonides describes the highest good aimed at by the Law of Moses as “the apprehension of God [idr¯ak All¯ah], mighty and magnificent, I mean knowledge [al-ilm] of him” (Eight Chapters 5, 164/75–76). Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes, and Maimonides illustrate well how Islam and Judaism were interpreted as philosophical religions in the early Middle Ages. Like the nomoi of Magnesia, the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship that make up the shar¯ıa and the torah direct the community to what is best – a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason, culminating in the apprehension of God. According to Maimonides, Scripture, too, teaches that this is the best life: to be created in God’s image according to Genesis 1:26 means to have perfected reason, the feature human beings have in common with God. God conceived as Reason orders nature towards what is best, and, mediated through philosopher-prophets, the religious community as well. In the ideal religious community God’s rule does not require laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. Since most human beings are non-philosophers, however, God’s rule must be established through philosophy’s handmaid: a 144

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pedagogical-political program that provides guidance to non-philosophers. Like Jewish and Christian philosophers in antiquity, therefore, medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers appeal to Plato’s distinction between philosophers and non-philosophers to explain the need for the historical forms of their religious traditions – partly in response to critics of religion like Ab¯u Bakr al-R¯az¯ı (d. 925) who argued that there is no need for prophetic guidance since all human beings can live under the guidance of reason. This does not mean that for al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes, and Maimonides non-philosophers can only share in the life of reason through obedience. Like the nomoi of Magnesia, the shar¯ıa and the torah aim at a community of “free men” that comes as close to the ideal religious community as human nature allows. Becoming a perfect Muslim or Jew, able to grasp the allegorical content of the Divine Law, requires studying Greco-Arabic philosophy, most importantly physics and metaphysics, which Maimonides calls “pardes,” literally paradise, a Talmudic term referring to the esoteric teachings of the Law of Moses. As in Alexandria, therefore, philosophy holds the key to paradise. Within this framework the historical forms of Judaism and Islam can be reinterpreted as if Moses and Muhammad had been accomplished philosopher-prophets. There are thus good reasons to study the Alexandrians and the early medieval philosophers as representatives of the same project: both use the Platonic model to explain how philosophy is related to their religious tradition. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes, and Maimonides are representatives of falsafa, the main school of Arabic philosophy from the ninth century onwards. The members of this school adopt the label “philosophers” (fal¯asifa) as an intellectual trademark: it identifies them as the heirs of the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle and sets them apart from other intellectual currents in the Muslim world, most importantly “theology” (kal¯am) which they dismiss as mere religious apologetics. There are several reasons why I chose to focus on al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes, and Maimonides. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı saw himself, and was seen by those who followed him, as the founder of falsafa who revived Greek philosophy in the context of Islam. At the same time he proposed a model for conceiving the relationship between falsafa and the Divine Law on which later Muslim and Jewish philosophers based their interpretation of Islam and Judaism. Averroes and Maimonides were the last two important representatives of falsafa in Muslim Spain. Averroes devoted three philosophical-theological treatises to the question of the relationship between falsafa and Islam. Although written reluctantly in response to al-Ghaz¯al¯ı, who argued that central tenets of falsafa cannot be presented as a legitimate interpretation of Islam, Averroes’s treatises are the

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only extant comprehensive discussion of this question. Maimonides, the most influential Jew among the fal¯asifa, made the largest-scale effort to philosophically reinterpret a religious tradition during the early medieval period. His project, like Philo’s, can be described as a grand attempt to substantiate the claim that the Divine Law of the Jews was established by an outstanding philosopher-prophet with the aim to direct the community to a philosophically grounded concept of the good. Averroes and Maimonides were educated in the same cultural milieu and share the same philosophical concerns which allows for a fruitful comparison between them. Finally, they were, in part directly and in part indirectly, the two main medieval influences on Spinoza’s discussion of the relationship between philosophy and religion to which I will turn in the next chapter. plato and aristotle The transmission of Plato’s philosophy to the Islamic world took place through various channels which have been amply documented in the scholarly literature.1 Some dialogues may have been available in their entirety in Arabic, although no conclusive evidence for this has yet emerged. In part the medieval philosophers depend on summaries by Galen and in part on Neoplatonic texts. Since al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s philosophical teachers were Syrian Christians, the Platonic interpretation of Christianity may have had an influence as well. It is clear, in any case, that multiple points of contact existed between the ancient and the medieval intellectual context. It is less clear, by contrast, why the fal¯asifa turned to Plato’s political philosophy in the first place. In late antiquity Plato gradually emerged as the leading philosophical authority. The high esteem in which the Alexandrians hold Plato is one testament to this. In some circles Aristotle’s work was merely considered a prolegomenon to Plato. The opposite, however, is the case in medieval Islamic and Jewish philosophy. Although Plato and Aristotle are normally taken to be in agreement, Aristotle’s work is seen as the definitive statement of philosophy. Why, then, did the fal¯asifa draw on Plato rather than Aristotle in political philosophy? The most obvious reason is the absence of Aristotle’s Politics from the corpus of Greek philosophy translated into Arabic, most likely by historical accident.2 Muslim and 1 2

See, for example, Walzer (1962), Klein-Franke (1973), Rosenthal (1990), Walker (1994), Reisman (2004). See the discussion in Pines (1975).

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Jewish philosophers could argue, moreover, that in practical philosophy Plato is not inferior to Aristotle. The latter’s advantage over Plato stems from his scientific method. According to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Plato’s conclusions are based on dialectical inferences. Only in Aristotle’s time was “scientific speculation completed,” reaching the stage of “burh¯an” (demonstration), the method set forth in the Posterior Analytics. Aristotle stresses, however, that practical philosophy is not an exact science. Its premises and conclusions are only “generally” (epi to polu) and not necessarily true (EN 1.3, 1094 b21–22). For the fal¯asifa this means that practical philosophy by its nature cannot generate more than dialectical inferences.3 Hence in practical philosophy, Plato is as good as Aristotle. Finally, the way Plato conceives the relationship between philosophy and politics in a virtuous city and philosophy’s role in the pedagogical-political guidance of the citizens arguably provides a better framework for interpreting Islam and Judaism as philosophical religions than Aristotle’s Politics. At the same time it is doubtless a simplification to say that the medieval concept of a philosophical religion is derived from Plato. For one thing, a wide range of Aristotelian concepts are integrated into the Platonic framework: the process of prophecy, for example, is explained in terms of Aristotle’s psychology, the character of the pedagogical-political program in terms of a late ancient version of Aristotle’s Organon, and the effectiveness of the Divine Law in terms of Aristotle’s theory of habituation. In addition, the Platonism informing the medieval project was significantly shaped by the Neoplatonic reception of Plato’s political thought.4 And Christian Platonism, as already mentioned, may have played a role as well. As we will see, the Aristotelian elements led to some interesting modifications in the concept of a philosophical religion, most importantly to a more inclusive concept of knowledge that allows non-philosophers to share in the perfection and pleasure derived from contemplation. It is also worth pointing out that the general attitude to Greek philosophy changed. Whereas the Alexandrians stress their intellectual independence as disciples of Moses and Christ, the fal¯asifa normally identify true philosophy with the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle and equate it with the allegorical content of 3

4

See the distinction between “necessary” (hekhrahi) and “general” (meodi) drawn in Averroes’s Middle Commentary on Aristotle’s “Nicomachean Ethics,” 60–61. In the Incoherence of the Incoherence Averroes writes that no “demonstration [burh¯an] for the necessity of action exists” (2.4, 584/361). The same consideration underlies Maimonides’s claim that “truth and falsehood” can only be predicated of “what is of necessity,” but not of “generally accepted things” (al-mashh¯ur¯at) in Guide 1.2, 16/25. See O’Meara (2003), chapter 14 and Vallat (2004).

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their religious tradition. On the whole, however, the features shared by the ancient and medieval version of a philosophical religion are substantive enough to describe them as two instantiations of the same project. Is the overall Aristotelian framework of the fal¯asifa compatible with the concept of God as Reason who orders nature and the religious community towards what is best? It is surely not impossible to read Aristotle as endorsing the core elements of the Platonic picture. This was made easier, moreover, because the fal¯asifa relied primarily on what Aristotle says about politics in the Nicomachean Ethics while ignoring the more complicated picture emerging from the Politics.5 A full discussion of how Plato and Aristotle are related in the fal¯asifa’s project would require a separate book, but let me briefly sketch how I think they would have described the common ground between them. According to Metaphysics 12 God conceived as Nous is the “principle [archˆe] on which heaven and nature depend” (12.7, 1072b14) and the good towards which they are ordered (see 12.10). At the same time God can also be described as the cause of a good moral-political order, mediated through a philosopher-ruler. A ruler must have political science whose object is the “human good” (EN 1.1, 1094b7; cf. 10.9, 1180b23–25). In light of this knowledge he lays down nomoi which order the polis towards what is best – like an architect directing the construction of a building (1094a26– b7; cf. 6.8, 1141b25–26).6 For political science “is dedicated above all to making the citizens . . . good and doers of fine things” (1.9, 1099b30–32).7 The purpose of wise nomoi is to direct the citizens “to aretˆe from childhood on” (10.9, 1179b31–32). The highest virtue is sophia: the perfection of reason through theoria (1.7, 6.13, 10.7–8). That contemplation is objectively best follows from physical and metaphysical considerations: reason is both the feature that sets us apart from other living beings in nature and the feature that we share with God (1.7, 10.7–8).8 At the same time contemplation is also subjectively best, since it is accompanied by “pleasures amazing in

5

6

7 8

Both al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı and Averroes wrote commentaries on the Nicomachean Ethics; Maimonides quotes the Nicomachean Ethics (Guide 2.36, 3.43), as well as al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s commentary (Guide 3.18). Note that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s commentary is lost. The analogy between ruler and architect stems from Plato’s Statesman 259e–260c. Since the human good depends on social collaboration, it cannot be attained without coordination of the activities in the polis. Likewise the construction of a building requires coordinating the activities of the workers. Cf. 1.13, 1102a7–11 and the praise of “Cretans and Spartans” at 1102a11–12; cf. 10.9, 1180a25–29. See also Pol. 7.2, 1324a23–25. Note also that nous and theos are the only two examples of essentially good things in Aristotle’s discussion of the meaning of “good” (1.6, 1096a25).

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purity and stability” (10.7, 1177a25–26).9 Indeed, “happiness” (eudaimonia) is proportional to contemplation: But of the other animals none is happy, since there is no respect in which they share in contemplation. So happiness, too, extends as far as contemplation does, and to those who have more of contemplation more happiness belongs too. (EN 10.8 1178b28–31)10

If we were on the “Isles of the Blest,” Aristotle argues in the Protrepticus, we would engage only in contemplation (52.2–15). Aristotle can thus say, echoing Plato, that instead of thinking “human” and “mortal” thoughts we should “as far as possible” strive “to become like the immortals” (EN 10.7, 1177b33–34).11 While “everything about practical doings . . . will obviously be petty and unworthy of the gods” (10.8, 1078b17–19), the same is not true for human beings. For unlike God we are not pure, but embodied rational agents. Properly managing our embodied life is the task of phronˆesis, practical wisdom, which Aristotle distinguishes more clearly than Plato from sophia, its theoretical counterpart.12 The virtues of character arise when our nonrational desires are habituated to the prescriptions of phronˆesis that express “right reason” (orthos logos).13 On account of the virtues of character we reliably seek neither too much nor too little of the goods that belong to embodied life. Even the finest practical activities such as making war and governing are only good as means to create the conditions for contemplation: “we busy ourselves in order to have leisure, and go to war in order 9

10

11 13

Like Plato in Republic 9 Aristotle argues that a person prefers the pleasures of the body only if he “had no taste of refined and civilized pleasure” (10.6, 1176b20; cf. 10.9, 1179b15–16). On intellectual erˆos as a source of motivation, see also Aristotle’s explanation of the motion of the celestial spheres in Metaphysics 12.7. Does this imply that actions expressing the virtues of character – moderation, courage, generosity, and so forth – have no genuine value? One way to avoid this conclusion, which seems to contradict much of what Aristotle says in the Nicomachean Ethics, is to look at ethical actions as an imitation of contemplation: like the celestial spheres which imitate Nous through eternal circular motion (cf. Metaph. 12.7), human beings imitate Nous through a well-ordered life in the sublunar world. Hence ethical actions have genuine value which depends, however, on contemplation. See, for example, Lear (2004). The fal¯asifa do not adopt this line of argument. The only “unconditional good” is the “ultimate perfection,” namely intellectual perfection attained through theoria, whereas “the rest of what is chosen is chosen only for the sake of its usefulness to attain” intellectual perfection (al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Fus.u¯ l 28; cf. Maimonides, Guide 3.27). 12 See EN 6 on the “intellectual” virtues. Cf. Tht. 176a–b and Ti. 90b–c. On the divided soul, see 1.13 and 6.1. Aristotle stresses that the soul’s non-rational part can learn to obey reason – that is, to desire things in accordance with reason’s prescriptions. On the virtues of character as “intermediate states,” see book 2. In 6.1 Aristotle describes the intermediate state as that which the orthos logos prescribes and in 6.13 the orthos logos as that which is “in accordance with phronˆesis” (1144b24).

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to live at peace” (10.7 1177b5–6). Hence the right amount of instrumental goods is determined by what furthers contemplation, culminating in the contemplation of God: God . . . is that for the sake of which practical wisdom [phronˆesis] gives commands. . . . So whatever choice and acquisition of naturally good things – whether goods of the body, or wealth, or friends, or other goods – will most produce the contemplation [theoria] of God that is the best, and this is the finest standard. And if anything, through defect or excess, prevents us from worshiping and contemplating God [ton theon therapeuein kai theoreˆın], that is bad. (EE 8.3, 1249b13–20)14

The virtues of character instantiate phronˆesis in the different realms of embodied life: being moderate, for example, means satisfying the appetites as much as is required for contemplating God. Although the virtues are not “kinds of phronˆesis” as Socrates thought, they involve phronˆesis (EN 6.13, 1144b18–31). For to be virtuous means both to know and to desire what right reason prescribes.15 A key function of the character virtues is to enable social collaboration. Since we are not self-sufficient, we must work together to fulfill the many needs that arise from being embodied: our “well-being is inseparable from managing a household and from political organization” (6.8, 1142a9–10).16 Hence phronˆesis must include knowledge of the political order to make prescriptions that take our position in that order into account.17 The prescriptions of reason are also divine prescriptions. For one thing God is their final cause – that “for the sake of which phronˆesis gives commands” according to the Eudemian Ethics. But God can also be described as their source. For in De anima 3.5 Aristotle explains the acquisition of knowledge as the transition of the human intellect from potentially knowing to actually knowing and the agent causing this transition as the “agent intellect” (nous poiˆetikos). If the nous poiˆetikos is God, God would be the cause of all knowledge, including the knowledge of the human good which is derived, as we saw, from physical and metaphysical considerations. And 14 15 16

17

On God as the highest object of knowledge, see also Physics 8 and Metaphysics 1.2 and 12.7 and 9. In the practical realm “what issues from reason must be true and the desire must be correct for the decision to be good” (6.2, 1139a24–25). Cf. Pol. 1.2, 1254a25–40. This is the realm of justice in the broad sense of EN 5 which encompasses the entire range of virtuous actions prescribed by the laws of a well-ordered state “in relation to another person” (5.1, 1129b27). This explains why the investigation of the “human good” is the object of political science as Aristotle argues in 1.2. Also according to the Rhetoric “the enquiry regarding matters of character . . . is rightly called politics” (1.2.1, 356a26–27).

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the human good, which consists in the perfection of reason through theoria, is, in turn, the aim of the prescriptions of phronˆesis.18 If all members of the polis were perfectly rational, God’s rule and self-rule would coincide: every citizen would have the physical, metaphysical, and moral-political knowledge to determine what is right and the motivation to do it thanks to the “pleasures amazing in purity and stability” that make contemplation into the highest object of desire. Most citizens, however, are imperfectly rational. Hence the importance of a philosopher-ruler who translates the prescriptions of reason into laws.19 For one thing, nonrational desires, not reason, rule us in childhood and youth: This is why we must have been brought up in a certain way from childhood on, as Plato says, so as to feel pleasure [chairein] and pain [lypeisthai] about the things we should; this is what the correct education [orthˆe paideia] consists in. (EN 2.3, 1104b11–13)20

The nomoi must habituate citizens to be “attracted by the fine and repulsed by the shameful” as if they were guided by reason (10.9, 1179b31–36). Only then can they become fully virtuous once reason takes charge – that is, when they acquire phronˆesis and thus no longer need the guidance of nomoi that embody the phronˆesis of the philosopher-ruler.21 The task of nomoi, however, is not only pedagogical, but also political: [I]t is not enough that people should be brought up . . . correctly when they are young. Since they also must pursue these things . . . after growing up, there must be laws . . . covering the whole of life. For the multitude [hoi polloi] is governed more by compulsion [anankˆe] than by argument [logos] and by penalties more than by what is fine. (EN 10.9, 1180a1–6)

For imperfectly rational citizens, then, nomoi and fear of punishment replace the philosopher’s phronˆesis and motivation to do what phronˆesis 18

19

20

21

See again 6.13, 1145a7–11. In 10.7 Aristotle describes nous as the “element that is thought to naturally rule and guide” (1177a15) which I take to mean that nous rules and guides as final cause. On nous as the end of the quest for knowledge, see 6.7, 1141b2–3 and APo. 2.19, 110b6–19. Good laws prescribe virtuous actions according to Aristotle; see 5.1, 129b20–26; 10.9, 1180a34–35. On following the phronˆesis of someone else as a second-best option, see the quotation from Hesiod in 1.4, 1095b10–13. Cf. Republic 401e–402a and Laws 653a–c and 659d–e discussed in chapter 1. In the last passage Plato describes “education” as the “process of attracting and leading children to accept that which has been declared the logos orthos by the law” and preventing them “from getting into the habit of feeling pleasure and pain in contradiction to the law.” “Before he acquires virtue,” Aristotle says, “a person must in a way already possess a character akin to it” (10.9, 1179b29–30). As we saw above, to be virtuous means both to know and to desire what right reason prescribes. A person who has been correctly habituated fulfills only the second of these two conditions.

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prescribes. At the same time Aristotle agrees with Plato that rational persuasion can replace coercion for “those whose habits have been decently developed” (1180a6–14). There are thus intermediary stages between the philosopher’s self-rule and “the inferior character whose desire for pleasure needs forcible constraint by pain like a yoked animal” (1180a12–13).22 If most citizens are imperfectly rational and if happiness is proportional to theoria – does this not exclude the majority from attaining happiness? Note that the passage quoted above implies that happiness and contemplation admit of degrees. When Aristotle says that “worshiping and contemplating God” is the end “for the sake of which phronˆesis gives commands” he likely means both the highest form of “worshiping and contemplating God,” which is reserved to philosophers, and lower forms of “worshiping and contemplating God,” such as the participation in religious festivals, which is open to all citizens.23 That promoting public worship is an important goal of a well-ordered polis is suggested by a passage in the Nicomachean Ethics: to say that phronˆesis “gives commands” to sophia, rather than “for the sake of it,” Aristotle argues, is as absurd as saying “that politics rules over the gods, because it gives commands about everything in the city,” including public worship (6.13, 1145a6–11). In the Politics, moreover, Aristotle approvingly cites Plato’s critique of the Spartan politeia which “has regard to one part of virtue only – the virtue of the soldier which gives victory in war” while completely neglecting “the arts of peace” which are “higher than war” (2.9, 1271b1–7). The “arts of peace,” of course, include the sciences and philosophy (cf. Metaph. 1.1), but also public worship and other cultural-religious practices through which non-philosophers can participate in theoria. This inclusive concept of theoria which allows all citizens to attain some degree of intellectual perfection is grounded in Aristotle’s epistemology. Plato posits an epistemological gap that cannot be bridged between opinions about the corporeal world based on sense-perception and knowledge of incorporeal Forms based on intellectual apprehension (see Ti. 27d–28a). According to Aristotle, by contrast, all cognitions – from sense-perceptions and their association through the imagination to the grasp of the first principles of being – are part of a continuum of knowledge and provide the pleasure of intellectual activity (Metaph. 1.1–2; cf. Apo. 2.19). Hence “all human beings” not only “desire to know [eidenai] 22

23

Aristotle, like Plato, contrasts self-rule and enslavement: we are slaves if our life is ruled by nonrational desires (see 1.5, 1095b20) or, as in the passage just quoted, by laws imposed on us. We are “free men” (eleutheroi), by contrast, if we follow a rational life-plan (Metaph. 12.10, 1075a18–22). See Prot. B44 where Aristotle juxtaposes traveling to Olympia and to the Dionysia “for the sake of the spectacle itself” with “the contemplation of the universe.” See also Kraut (2002), 6.3–4.

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by nature” (Metaph. 1.1, 980a21), but are also able to satisfy this desire to a greater or lesser degree.24 The “rationality” (logos) of good nomoi is derived “from a kind of practical wisdom [phronˆesis] and reason [nous]” (EN 10.9, 1180a18–24). I take this to refer to the efficient and final cause of the nomoi: they embody the lawgiver’s phronˆesis and direct the polis to the perfection of reason.25 The rule of such nomoi is explicitly equated with the rule of “God and Reason” (ho theos kai ho nous) in Politics 3.16, where the “kai” is epexegetic, implying that theos and nous are two names for the same thing.26 A well-ordered political community, then, is both rationally and divinely ordered and in this sense can be described as a theocracy. Relying on Aristotle’s statements about politics in the Nicomachean Ethics, the fal¯asifa thought that in the Politics Aristotle had worked out a politeia that orders the polis towards what is best along the lines of what Plato does in the Republic and in the Laws. According to Averroes, for example, political philosophy is divided into a theoretical part, which gives an account of the virtuous person, and a practical part, which explains how citizens are made virtuous.27 Whereas the theoretical part is the object of the Nicomachean Ethics, the practical part is the object of both Aristotle’s Politics and Plato’s Republic. The Republic, Averroes says, “we intend to explain, since Aristotle’s book on governance has not yet fallen into our hands” (Comm. Rep., 21–22/4). The fal¯asifa not only adopt, but also naturalize the concept of God as Reason (aql in Arabic) who orders nature and the religious community towards what is best. Both Averroes and Maimonides claim that this is the God inferred by Abraham from the eternal motion of the celestial spheres – Averroes on the basis of Koran 6:75 and Maimonides on the basis of Midrashic traditions.28 Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı traces the origin of philosophy back to Mesopotamia where Abraham was born. From there it was transmitted to “the people of Egypt,” then “to the Greeks where it remained until it was transmitted to the Syrians and then to the Arabs” (Tah..s¯ıl, 181/43). Tellingly, Spinoza, who first encountered the concept of God as Reason in 24 26 27 28

25 See above, n. 18. For a way to integrate ethical activity into this picture, see above, n. 10. Cf. EN 10.9, 1180a23–25 where the contrast between human authority and the authority of laws suggests that the latter stems from their divine nature. Cf. again Aristotle’s statement in Rhetoric 1.2.1, 356a26–27. See also Bod´eu¨ s (1982) who argues that the Nicomachean Ethics is addressed to lawgivers. See Averroes, Comm. Metaph., 1634 and Fas.l, 2; Maimonides, Madda, Laws Concerning Idolatry 1.3 and Guide 3.29, 376/516. For the identification of God and Reason in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, see, for example, Mab¯adi 1.6 ff.

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the writings of Jewish philosophers, refers to it as the God “of some of the Hebrews” (quidam Hebraeorum)!29 al-f¯a r¯a b¯ı on philosophy and the divine law From the eighth to the tenth century a large part of Greek philosophy and science was translated into Arabic.30 Among the competing responses to the encounter with Greek philosophy, that proposed by al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı prevailed and shaped the identity of classical Arabic philosophy.31 In the Book of Letters al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı offers an account of the development of human knowledge of which the last two stages are associated with Plato and Aristotle. While at “the time of Plato” knowledge reached the degree of certainty that can be achieved through dialectics (H . ur¯uf 142), in Aristotle’s time: scientific speculation [al-naz.ar al-ilm¯ı] is completed and all its methods are distinguished, theoretical philosophy and universal practical philosophy are perfected, and no object in them remains to be investigated. [Philosophy] becomes an art that is only learned and taught. (H . ur¯uf 143)

True philosophy, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı claims, “was handed down to us by the Greeks from Plato and Aristotle alone” (Tah..s¯ıl, 196/49). This does not mean that true philosophy flourished only in Greece. Elsewhere al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı traces the origin of philosophy back to Mesopotamia as we saw. Since he wrote most of his works in Baghdad, this suggests that he is merely returning philosophy to where it originally came from.32 Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s claim to inherit and continue Greek philosophy is made most clearly in On the Appearance of Philosophy where he describes the transmission of philosophy through a long chain of intermediaries from Aristotle to himself.33 While Christian authorities prohibited teaching parts of the philosophical curriculum because they perceived them as a threat to Christian doctrine, he is the first to restore philosophy to its full scope after the arrival of Islam.34 Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s portrait of his role in the transmission of philosophy was adopted by later 29 30 31 32

33 34

See E2p7s discussed in more detail in the next chapter. For a good account of the translation movement, see Gutas (1998). See Gutas (1998), 95–104 on the rise of the “ideology of rationalism” in the ninth century. On this motive, see Gutas (1998), chapter 2. There is, however, some tension between the two accounts: whereas one describes philosophy as the result of the evolution of knowledge in Greek culture, the other claims that philosophy was transmitted to Greece from Mesopotamia and Egypt. The text is attributed to him by Ibn Ab¯ı Us.aybia in Uy¯un, 2:134–35. On the anti-Byzantine stance reflected in the assessment of the Christians, see Gutas (1998), chapter 4.2. The issue seems to hinge on the teaching of the Posterior Analytics containing Aristotle’s theory of the scientific syllogism. For al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı this is, of course, crucial given his concept of philosophy as a demonstrative science.

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fal¯asifa who take him to be the foremost philosophical authority after Aristotle.35 Unlike the Alexandrians, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı did not encounter Greek philosophy as a living tradition. His first task, therefore, is to bring the Greek texts that had been translated into Arabic back to life by explaining the importance of philosophy, introducing its methods and subjects, and commenting on its canonical works. Ensuring the continuity of philosophy is crucial, because, according to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, philosophy is the key to the best life. His second task is to clarify the relationship between philosophy and the Divine Law. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı rejects a number of views that had been proposed on this matter. On one end of the spectrum is a group of mutakallim¯un that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı describes in the Enumeration of the Sciences: because human reason is “too weak” (yad.uf) to guide us, they argue, we must rely on the supernatural revelation received by the prophets (Ih..sa¯  5, 108/28). On the opposite side of the spectrum Muslim freethinkers like Ab¯u Bakr al-R¯az¯ı deny the need for prophetic guidance altogether, since God has bestowed reason on all human beings.36 The plurality of prophetic religions, moreover, and their claim to exclusive validity only give rise to religious strife in R¯az¯ı’s view.37 The first Arabic philosopher, al-Kind¯ı (d. c.870), occupies a middle ground. He modified philosophy to suit Islam in an unacceptable manner according to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, which is why he omits al-Kind¯ı in his account of the “appearance of philosophy” in Islam.38 Similarly Christian 35

36

37

38

Avicenna, for example, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s most important successor in the Muslim East, relates in his autobiography how he studied Aristotle’s Metaphysics many times, but only succeeded in understanding it when he read it with al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s commentary (S¯ıra, 32–34/33–35). For the Muslim West, see Maimonides’s praise of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı in his letter to Samuel ibn Tibbon: “All that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı wrote . . . is entirely without fault . . . for he excelled in wisdom [haya muflag be-hokhmah]” (Iggerot, 553). For the appreciation of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s works on logic by Averroes and his students, see Ibn Tuml¯us, Madkhal li-s.in¯aat al-mant.iq (Introduction to the Art of Logic), 14–15. Note, however, that R¯az¯ı in some texts, notably in his philosophical Apology, appears to subscribe to intellectual elitism. See Stroumsa (1999a), 112–14. Unlike Stroumsa, I do not think that this is incompatible with the view that initially all human beings are equally endowed with reason. For in the Timaeus, a main source of R¯az¯ı’s thought, souls can ascend or descend on the scale of perfection because of physical and cultural conditions beyond their control (see 41d–42d with 86b–87c). In this sense initial equality and subsequent inequality would be compatible. R¯az¯ı’s anti-prophetic works are not extant. The most important source for establishing their content is the refutation of R¯az¯ı by the Ism¯a¯ıl¯ı Ab¯u H . a¯tim al-R¯az¯ı in his Al¯am al-nubuwwa (The Signs of Prophecy). For a French translation of the relevant parts of the debate, see Brion (1986). For a good reconstruction of R¯az¯ı’s views, see Stroumsa (1999a), especially chapter 3. We know that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı wrote a refutation of one of R¯az¯ı’s works, the Kit¯ab al-ilm al-il¯ah¯ı (Book of Divine Science); see Ibn Ab¯ı Us.aybia, Uy¯un, 2:608. Unfortunately neither R¯az¯ı’s work nor al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s response are extant, but quotations from R¯az¯ı by later authors suggest that the book contained aggressive anti-prophetic statements. On al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı and R¯az¯ı, see Stroumsa (1999a), 188–92. On al-Kind¯ı, see Adamson (2006); on al-Kind¯ı and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, see in particular 14–18.

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authorities prohibited teaching parts of the philosophical curriculum as we saw. Thus several questions arise: Should prophetic guidance replace reason or, conversely, reason prophetic guidance? Must the teachings of reason at least be modified or partially prohibited to fit into a religious framework?39 Reviving the project of ancient philosophy requires, first of all, clarifying what this project is.40 According to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s general outline in the Attainment of Happiness, its central concern is an inquiry into the constituents of human perfection or “happiness” (saa¯ da, translating Aristotle’s eudaimonia), and into how to attain and disseminate it. In the Philosophy of Plato and the Philosophy of Aristotle, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı explains how this project informs the writings of Plato and Aristotle. Of course, the question arises whether Plato and Aristotle pursue the same project in the first place. Although Aristotle is superior to Plato, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı stresses that the “purpose” (gharad.) of their philosophy is the same (Tah..s¯ıl, 196/50). To corroborate this he writes a treatise harmonizing their views on issues of apparent disagreement.41 Then al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı establishes the order of the philosophical curriculum, most prominently in the Enumeration of the Sciences. A number of introductory works exhort or prepare for the study of philosophy.42 After all these preliminary steps, the strictly philosophical work can begin: explaining Aristotle. Since Aristotle agrees with Plato and at the same time is superior to him, no explanation of Plato is needed. The Greek philosophers left an outline not only of philosophy, but also of “the methods [t.uruq] to it and of the methods to reestablish it when it becomes confused or extinct” (Tah..s¯ıl, 196/50). By “the methods” al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı certainly means Aristotle’s logic. Since his goal is to ensure the continuity of philosophy, providing the “toolkit” for establishing and transmitting it is obviously a central concern to him. He thus commented on all parts of the Organon in the version inherited from the late ancient Alexandrian tradition – from Porphyry’s 39

40

41 42

Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s twofold task reflects challenges specific to introducing philosophy into the Muslim world. While historians of Islamic philosophy broadly agree that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s intellectual outlook was shaped by the late Alexandrian tradition of Neoplatonic commentators on Aristotle, the continuity between the philosophical curriculum in late ancient Alexandria and early medieval Baghdad accounts only partly for al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s project. I do not claim that the following account corresponds to the chronological order in which al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı wrote his works, or that it reflects a preconceived plan which he systematically executed. What I propose is an interpretation of how several parts of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s corpus fit together. See his The Harmonization of the Opinions of the Two Sages, Plato the Divine and Aristotle. See, for example, Exhortation to the Path of Happiness; for a comprehensive study of this genre’s place in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s work, see Jaffray (2000).

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Eisagˆogˆe to the Rhetoric and the Poetics.43 Much of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s authority for philosophers like Averroes and Maimonides rests, in fact, on his contribution to logic.44 But he also commented on the philosophical sciences properly speaking, both theoretical (mathematics, physics, and metaphysics) and practical (ethics and politics).45 To understand how al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı conceives the relationship between philosophy and the Divine Law we must look at his political philosophy. He accepts Plato’s premise that human beings are unequal by nature, divided into a minority of philosophers and a majority of non-philosophers (see Tah..s¯ıl, 177–78/41) He also is clearly aware of the difference between Socratic politics and Plato’s later political philosophy to which the inequality thesis gives rise: [Plato] investigated how and by which method the citizens of cities and nations ought to be instructed in this science [the theoretical science of the Timaeus] and their character formed [tad¯ıb] by those ways of life [the virtuous ways of life of the Laws], whether by the method used by Socrates or the method that was the method of Thrasymachus. Here he described once again Socrates’s method for realizing his aim of making his own people understand through scientific investigation the ignorance [al-jahl] they were in. He explained Thrasymachus’s method and made it known that Thrasymachus was more able than Socrates to form the character of the youth and teach the multitude [tad¯ıb al-ah.d¯ath wa-tal¯ım al-jumh¯ur] and that Socrates only had the ability to conduct a scientific investigation of justice and the virtues, and a power with respect to love, but did not have the ability to form the character of the youth and the multitude. And the philosopher, the king, and the lawgiver ought to be able to use both methods: the Socratic method with the elect [al-khaw¯a.s.s], and Thrasymachus’s method with the youth and the multitude. (Falsafat Afl¯a.tu¯ n, 21–22/66–67)

Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı does not say which of Plato’s dialogues he is summarizing, and it is unclear why he calls the method contrasted with the Socratic method “the method of Thrasymachus.” He may have had information about the Clitophon and interpreted it in light of what he knew about Plato’s position in the Republic and in the Laws.46 On the other hand, his account of “the philosopher, the prince, and the lawgiver,” who uses philosophical methods to teach philosophers while forming the character of non-philosophers 43 44 45 46

On the inclusion of the Rhetoric and Poetics in the Organon and its philosophical implications, see Black (1990). For Averroes, see Ibn Tuml¯us, Madkhal, 14–15. For Maimonides, see Iggerot, 553. For a convenient bibliography of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s writings, see Vallat (2004). I will discuss below how his comprehensive independent works fit into his project. Cf. Rosenthal and Walzer in the note on section 30 of the Latin translation of the text, 27–28.

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through non-philosophical methods, is clearly based on Plato’s account of the philosopher-ruler.47 Note also that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s non-philosophers comprise the two groups of non-philosophers which led Plato to propose a pedagogical-political program: not-yet-philosophers (“the youth”) and non-philosophers by nature (“the multitude”). From al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s Epitome of the “Laws” we know that, at a minimum, he was familiar with the main traits of Plato’s pedagogical-political program.48 Although he does not claim, like the Alexandrians, that the nomoi of Magnesia were modeled on the nomoi of Moses, he does claim that Plato speaks more prophetico: to prevent “science” (ilm) from falling into the wrong hands, Plato uses parables, stating his true views only intermittently (Jaw¯ami, preface, 2).49 As we saw in chapter 1, Plato indeed often uses parables to convey philosophical doctrines, for example the representation of the soul as a charioteer with two horses in the Phaedrus, the parables of the line, the sun, and the cave in the Republic, and the representation of Nous as a craftsman in the Timaeus and as a ruler in the Laws. We also saw that in the Timaeus and in the Laws Plato is, in fact, reluctant to state openly that the ordering cause of the universe and of a virtuous political community is Nous.50 Later fal¯asifa, too, portray Plato as a prophet. Maimonides, for example, claims that Plato’s writings consist of “riddles [amuqot] and parables [meshalim]” (Iggerot, 553).51 As in the case of the Alexandrians, this shows how much the fal¯asifa’s concept of prophecy depends on Plato. Indeed, following the same logic, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı attributes an esoteric writing practice to Aristotle as well. In contrast to Plato, however, who uses “parables and riddles,” Aristotle resorts to “obscurity, difficulty,

47 48

49

50 51

See also the similar distinction between two methods of instruction in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s summary of the Phaedrus: “the method of rhetoric and another method called dialectic” (16/62). Whether al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı read the Laws or only a summary by Galen is disputed among scholars. In my view it is very unlikely that he knew the dialogue itself. See Steven Harvey (2003), the most recent contributor to the debate. Note that Avicenna seems to describe Plato’s Laws as a work on “prophecy” (nubuwwa) and “Divine Law” (shar¯ıa) in F¯ı aqs¯am al-ul¯um al-aqliyya, 118. The interpretation of the relevant passage has recently been disputed by Tamer (2001), chapter 2. I think that the traditional interpretation is defensible, but I cannot discuss the matter here. These are also the two dialogues of which al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı explicitly says that they were written more prophetico; see Tah..s¯ıl, 185/45 and Jaw¯ami, preface. For Maimonides this implies that Plato’s work does not need to be studied since Aristotle restated the same content more clearly. This does not mean that Maimonides considered parables irrelevant. Plato’s parables, however, are addressed to a Greek audience, while the relevant parables for Maimonides are those of the Law of Moses. Occasionally the parables of Plato and Moses overlap as Maimonides suggests in Guide 1.17.

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and complexity” to conceal his philosophy from non-philosophers (Jam, 84/131).52 Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s general definition of “religion” (milla) alludes to the discussion of divine nomoi at the beginning of the Laws: Religion consists of opinions and actions, determined and limited by conditions [muqadarra muqayyada bi-shar¯ait.], which are prescribed to the community by their first ruler who strives to attain a particular goal [gharad. mah.d¯ud] either with respect to the [members of the community] or by means of them through their practice of [the prescribed opinions and actions]. (Milla 1)

We saw that for Plato the divinity of nomoi depends on the goal they aim at. The same holds for al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı who renders Plato’s “divine nomoi” as a “virtuous [f¯ad.ila] religion.” A virtuous religion orders the religious community towards what is best: “the ultimate happiness [al-saa¯ da alqus.w¯a] that is truly happiness” (ibid.). For Plato this means directing the community to “Reason who rules all things,” which in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı becomes “the face of All¯ah, mighty and magnificent” as we saw. The only “good without qualification” for al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı is “the ultimate perfection” – that is, intellectual perfection, culminating in the apprehension of God (Fus.u¯ l 28). Unlike God, however, human beings also must satisfy the needs of the body and to that end collaborate with others (see Mab¯adi 15.1). Everything they pursue for this goal is “good only when it is useful for achieving” true happiness (Fus.u¯ l 28; cf. 29). Hence the “first condition” for establishing a well-ordered community is to put philosophers in charge who know what true happiness is and “every action by which happiness can be attained” (Mab¯adi 15.11; cf. Fus.u¯ l 30). This failing, the community’s order will be based on “ignorance” of the true good. Instead of perfecting reason, its members will collaborate for the sake of goods dictated by the needs of the body: things that are “necessary for a human being’s constitution, subsistence, and preservation of life” (Fus.u¯ l 28), including “honor, wealth, and pleasures” (31). Like the Alexandrians al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı identifies the pedagogical-political program required to attain true happiness with the historical forms of a virtuous religion and describes these as an “imitation [muh.a¯ kiya] of philosophy” (Tah..s¯ıl, 185/44). To establish a virtuous religious community it is thus not sufficient for the ruler to be a philosopher. He must also be a legislator 52

Maimonides makes the same distinction in Guide 1, introduction, 4/8, but without explicitly associating the two esoteric writing styles with Plato and Aristotle.

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“able to direct people well on the right path to happiness and to the actions through which happiness is attained,” and a poet and orator “able to rouse the imagination [takhy¯ıl] through well-chosen words” (Mab¯adi 15.11). At the most basic level this means translating the prescriptions of reason into laws. But the ruler also teaches the philosophers in the community through “demonstrative methods” and the non-philosophers through “dialectical, rhetorical, or poetical methods” (H . ur¯uf 142). The latter methods which are “public” (ibid.) convey “theoretical and practical matters that have been inferred in philosophy, in such a way as to enable the multitude to understand them by persuasion [that is, rhetoric and dialect] or imaginative representation [that is, poetry]” (108). As the “tool” (¯ala) of philosophy (110), religion fulfills the role of Plato’s pedagogical-political program: it gives “the multitude . . . all that is needed to attain happiness” (144), making philosophical contents accessible to non-philosophers through laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı thus makes explicit what is implicit in Plato: to order the community towards what is best, the philosopher-ruler must also have the skills of the prophet.53 Indeed, when al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı introduces the concept of religion as an “imitation of philosophy,” the only example he gives is the use of parables in the Timaeus (see Tah..s¯ıl, 185/45). The difference between the philosopher and the prophet is explained in terms of Aristotle’s psychology: the prophet not only perfects reason, but also has a perfect imagination.54 And one of the imagination’s functions is precisely “to imitate” things (Mab¯adi 14.2). Through the imagination the prophet is thus able to translate philosophical contents into the language of the cave dwellers. The late ancient version of Aristotle’s Organon, which distinguishes between demonstrative, dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical modes of argumentation, is integrated into this Platonic framework: to philosophers the prophet presents things like God, angels, or celestial spheres as they truly are and then leads them to assent through demonstrations. To non-philosophers he presents mostly poetic imitations of these things and then leads them to assent through rhetorical or dialectical arguments.55 In which sense is God the source of a virtuous religion? A wellordered religious community is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered because God is Reason. Unlike nature, however, whose order God establishes directly, a virtuous moral-political order is mediated through 53 55

54 On the imagination, see Mab¯ Cf. Walzer (1957). adi 14. See, for example, Tah..s¯ıl, 184/44; cf. Black (1990).

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philosopher-prophets. Yet God is its final cause since “the face of All¯ah, mighty and magnificent” is what a virtuous religion aims at. And God is also its source. Recall that in De anima 3.5 Aristotle describes the acquisition of knowledge as the transition of the human intellect from potentially knowing to actually knowing and the cause of this transition as the “agent intellect.” Building on an interpretative tradition of the relevant passages in the De anima that combines Aristotelian and Neoplatonic concepts, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı does three things: he identifies the ultimate source of knowledge with God, describes God’s agency as “emanation” (fayd.), and makes the transition from potentially knowing to actually knowing into the foundation of prophecy. Thus the “intellectual emanation” from “God [All¯ah], mighty and magnificent,” which actualizes the human intellect, is “divine revelation” (wah.y) for al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı (Mab¯adi 15.10). While the recipient of divine revelation becomes “a wise man [h.ak¯ım] and philosopher [faylas¯uf]” through the actualization of his intellect, he becomes a “prophet” (nab¯ı) by translating the intellectual contents into laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship through his imagination (ibid.).56 Why does the prophet leave the contemplative life to order human affairs? Because to become like God means not only to perfect oneself, but also to perfect others. God’s “generosity” (j¯ud) is the cause of the existence and good order of nature (Mab¯adi 2.2): So, too, should [the prophet] set down in the cities and nations the . . . arts, voluntary traits, and dispositions, so that the voluntary good things may be fully realized . . . in order for the communities of nations and cities to arrive thereby at happiness in this life and in the afterlife. (Milla 27)

One implication of conceiving religion as an “imitation” of philosophy is that much of its content is false if understood literally. God, for example, is not really a king as he is poetically represented in Scripture. The representation is true, however, if understood as a metaphor for God’s ontological rank. The truth of a religious text thus consists in its allegorical content. That al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı holds this is clear from his claim that philosophers, after realizing that the “parables” (mathal¯at) of their religion represent true doctrines, must “rid” non-philosophers of “their assumption that religion is in conflict with philosophy” by “making them understand that what their 56

On the conceptual and historical links that I briefly sketched, see Walzer’s commentary on chapters 13–15 in his edition of the Mab¯adi. I have deliberately omitted the separate intellects which mediate the intellectual emanation from God to the human intellect and which the fal¯asifa identify with angels. For my purpose it is not necessary to discuss the fal¯asifa’s understanding of Aristotelian cosmology.

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57 religion contains are parables” (H . ur¯uf 149). If true religion coincides with true philosophy on the allegorical level, then the difference between them – which seemed to be implied in the notion of “imitation” – disappears. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı can now address the concerns about reason and prophetic guidance of both the mutakallim¯un and Ab¯u Bakr al-R¯az¯ı. Although reason is not too weak to guide us, this does not mean that the literal content of the prophetic teachings is redundant since God did not bestow reason equally on all human beings. As a consequence, reason on its own is not sufficient to lead humankind to perfection and happiness. And al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı can respond to al-Kind¯ı and Christian censors that there is no need to modify philosophy or prohibit parts of the philosophical curriculum, since a virtuous religion, correctly understood, is in complete agreement with philosophy. Two further aspects of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s concept of non-philosophers are important. For one thing, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı subdivides non-philosophers into a majority which is guided by dialectical, rhetorical, and poetic arguments and a minority which grasps things “according to their true nature,” but is led to assent to them through trust in the authority of philosophers rather than through demonstrations (Mab¯adi 17.2; cf. Tah..s¯ıl, 179–81/42). This is also important to understand the structure and purpose of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s comprehensive independent treatises – The Principles of the Opinions of the Citizens of the Virtuous City and The Political Regime – which contain a systematic account of his philosophical doctrines, but without formal demonstrations: from God as the first cause, the order of the universe, and the body and soul of human beings to the political community, the role of prophecy, and the purpose of religion. These treatises thus provide an outline of the philosophy that coincides with religion’s allegorical content and that religion’s literal content imitates. They were presumably addressed to an audience that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı expected to trust the authority of a philosopher like himself – that is, not an audience of fully trained philosophers – but an audience sufficiently educated to understand the basic concepts of philosophy. As Richard Walzer has argued, this audience was likely the sophisticated economic and political ruling class of the Abbasid caliphate.58 Persuading this class that philosophy coincides with the true content of 57

58

The context of this claim is al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s consideration of what happens when a community adopts both a virtuous religion and the philosophy which that religion imitates from another community. In this case neither the philosophers nor the non-philosophers know that their newly acquired religion is an imitation of their newly acquired philosophy and as a consequence will perceive them as being in conflict. Mab¯adi, Translator’s Introduction, 5.

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religion would, of course, significantly bolster the legitimacy of philosophy in the Muslim world. The second point is that the distinction between philosophers and nonphilosophers is not static for al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı. Since nobody is born a philosopher, potential philosophers, like non-philosophers, will at first be educated through the dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical contents of religion. Unlike non-philosophers, however, not-yet-philosophers will reject the parables imitating philosophy as false when they advance in their studies and grasp things according to their true nature. These are the “seekers of the right path” (al-mustarshid¯un): It is not impossible that among those who know these things through imitating parables, there is someone who puts his finger on the grounds for objection to those parables and holds that they are inadequate and false. There are different kinds of these people: first those who seek the right path. When one of them rejects anything as false, he will be elevated [rufia] towards a better parable which is nearer to the truth and is not open to that objection; and if he is satisfied with it, he will be left where he is. When that better parable is also rejected by him as false, he will be elevated to another rank. . . . Whenever a parable of a given standard is rejected by him as false, he will be elevated to a higher rank, but when he rejects all the parables as false and has the strength to understand the truth, he will be made to know the truth and will be placed into the class of those who take the philosophers as their authorities. If he is not yet satisfied with that and desires philosophical wisdom [tashawwaqa il¯a al-h.ikma] and has the strength for it, he will be made to know it. (Mab¯adi 17.4)

Hence the leader of the virtuous religious community must not only teach philosophers through demonstrations and make philosophy accessible to non-philosophers through dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical arguments. He must also gradually “elevate” not-yet-philosophers advancing on the “right path” from the imitation of philosophy to the allegorical content of religion in order to prevent them from denouncing their childhood faith and thus undermining the community’s moral-political order. For the “seekers of the right path” fail to realize that their religion is an imitation of philosophy and hence reject it as false on account of its literal sense. Once they recognize it as an imitation and its allegorical content as true, the reason for rejecting their religion is removed. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı uses traditional religious vocabulary to signal how religious doctrines can be philosophically reinterpreted. Thus “divine revelation,” for example, can be reinterpreted in terms of the human intellect’s transition from potentiality to actuality as we saw. Note, however, that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı never explicitly identifies Islam with the philosophical religion resulting from this

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reinterpretation. Like Numenius, moreover, he stresses the possibility of multiple virtuous religions which share a true core embedded in different cultural materials. In the Epitome of the “Laws” al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı traces this pluralism back to Plato: Plato mentions the nomoi of both Crete and Sparta “in order to explain that there are many nomoi [naw¯am¯ıs] and that their multiplicity does not invalidate them [kathrathuh¯a l¯a tubt.iluh¯a]” (1.2). As we saw in chapter 1, this is indeed a plausible interpretation of Plato’s position. This pluralism is also reflected in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s definition of religion that we saw above. For “the opinions and actions” constituting a religion are “determined and limited” by the natural and cultural “conditions” under which the religion was established. Hence a virtuous religion allows for multiple instantiations each of which is valid in its particular context. Their true core is: reproduced by imitation for each nation and for the people of each city through those parables which are best known to them. But what is best known often varies among nations, either most of it or part of it. Hence these things are expressed for each nation in parables other than those used for another nation. Therefore it is possible that virtuous nations and virtuous cities exist whose religions [milal] differ, although they all have as their goal one and the same happiness. (Mab¯adi 17.2).

Like Plato and Numenius, then, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı combines contextual pluralism concerning the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship required for attaining the goal with universalism concerning the goal itself. This allows him to give an answer to R¯az¯ı’s charge that multiple prophetic religions give rise to religious strife. On al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s view their claim to truth clearly must not entail a claim to exclusivity. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı thus provides a model for philosophically reinterpreting the religious traditions existing side by side in the Islamic world. averroes and maimonides – disciples of al-f¯a r¯a b¯ı? In a sense Averroes and Maimonides do just that: they apply al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s model to the interpretation of Islam and Judaism as philosophical religions. Lawrence Berman called Maimonides “the disciple” of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı because, according to Berman, he took al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s general theory of the relationship between philosophy and religion and applied it to Judaism.59 The same can be said about Averroes’s interpretation of Islam. This claim, however, 59

Berman (1974). For the high esteem in which Averroes and Maimonides held al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, see above, n. 35.

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requires qualification. Unlike al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes and Maimonides could no longer simply equate falsafa with the allegorical content of their religion. For after al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı the fal¯asifa found an astute critic in al-Ghaz¯al¯ı who argued not only that core doctrines of falsafa were incompatible with true Islam, but also made a strong case for the failure of the fal¯asifa to demonstrate these doctrines. Al-Ghaz¯al¯ı’s attack focused on three main issues: first, the God of the fal¯asifa is not an agent endowed with will who creates the world and miraculously intervenes in it. He is a first cause, compelled by his nature to eternally emanate the world. Second, the God of the fal¯asifa does not know particulars and hence cannot interact with individual human beings, for example exercise providence or communicate with prophets. Third, the fal¯asifa have only a concept of intellectual immortality, but deny the resurrection of the body.60 These criticisms were reiterated in Jewish circles, most prominently by the poet and intellectual Judah Halevi.61 Averroes and Maimonides are keenly aware of al-Ghaz¯al¯ı’s challenge to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s proposal for conceiving the relationship between philosophy and religion. Whereas Averroes reiterates the compatibility of falsafa and Islam in the Decisive Treatise and attempts to refute al-Ghaz¯al¯ı’s arguments in the Incoherence of the Incoherence, scholars are divided in their assessment of Maimonides.62 Some think that he took up al-Ghaz¯al¯ı’s project and attempted to defend core Jewish beliefs against the philosophers, for example the creation of the world and the concept of God as a voluntary agent.63 Others think that Maimonides, like the fal¯asifa in general, equates religion and philosophy, but conceals some philosophical doctrines out of concern for non-philosophers. I agree on the whole with the second interpretation. In my view Maimonides, like Averroes, took al-Ghaz¯al¯ı’s criticisms seriously, but thought it possible to respond to them philosophically. Like Clement, Maimonides expressly says that his chief philosophical-theological work, the Guide of the Perplexed, is written in an esoteric manner. My interpretation of Maimonides assumes that he belongs to the fal¯asifa and that the elaborate defense of doctrines like the creation of the world and the concept of God as a voluntary agent is part of the Guide’s exoteric argument. 60 61

62 63

See the extended discussion in the Incoherence of the Philosophers and the summary in the Deliverance from Error, 84–107/29–43. See Kuzari 1.1 and 1.4. On the controversy about the resurrection of the dead in Maimonides’s lifetime, see Stroumsa (1999b). The precise nature of al-Ghaz¯al¯ı’s and Judah Halevi’s relation to falsafa is a matter of considerable scholarly dispute. Here I am only interested in how they were perceived by the fal¯asifa. On the main divisions in the interpretation of Maimonides, see Ravitzky (1990). See, for example, Guide 2.25.

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A comparison between Averroes and Maimonides appears promising for several reasons: both were born in C´ordoba and received their philosophical training in the context of the Andalusian school of Arabic philosophy. Both were not only philosophers, but also prominent doctors and experts in religious law. They dealt with the same philosophical problems which included, besides al-Ghaz¯al¯ı’s criticisms of falsafa, the incompatibility of Ptolemaic astronomy and Aristotelian celestial physics and the questions arising from the skeptical epistemology that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı is reported to have set forth in his lost commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics.64 Finally, Maimonides read Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle and recommended them to his students.65 If, then, Averroes and Maimonides were indeed disciples of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, and took up his legacy under comparable circumstances, we should expect a comparison between them to yield many similarities. A look at their writings, however, suggests that the opposite is the case. The great majority of Averroes’s works are commentaries on Aristotle. They come in different formats and serve different purposes, but all of them reflect what clearly is Averroes’s central concern: understanding Aristotle. Averroes also wrote medical treatises and treatises on Islamic Law. They are, however, marginal in comparison to his work on Aristotle. As for his three works on the relationship between philosophy and Islam, he states expressly that he would not have written them if al-Ghaz¯al¯ı had not challenged the legitimacy of falsafa.66 The impressive series of commentaries on Aristotle is therefore at the heart of Averroes’s project. Maimonides, by contrast, did not compose a single work that strictly speaking can be described as philosophical. The authenticity of the one that comes closest is disputed: his Treatise on the Art of Logic that he is said to have written in his youth.67 But even if Maimonides did, in fact, compose it, it falls into the genre of “introductions to philosophy” that goes back to Porphyry’s Eisagˆogˆe. It leads to the threshold of philosophy, as it were, but not to philosophy properly speaking. Maimonides is, on the other hand, a prominent commentator too. His commentaries, however, do not explain Aristotle, but the Law of Moses. His first important work is the Sir¯aj (Light), a commentary on the Mishnah. His last important work is 64 65

66

See Sabra (1984); Pines (1978); Pines (1979). In a letter to Joseph ben Judah, Maimonides writes that he has received Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle except for the commentary on De sensu et sensibili, and that he has “read enough to perceive that [Averroes] has hit the truth with great precision.” In the letter to Ibn Tibbon, quoted above, he recommends Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle next to those of Alexander of Aphrodisias and Themistius (Iggerot, 553). There is, however, no conclusive evidence that Maimonides’s works were influenced by Averroes. See the section on “Averroes” in Pines (1963), cviii–cxxiii. 67 See Davidson (2005), 313–22. See Fas.l, 23 and Kashf, 184–85/70–71.

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the Guide of the Perplexed, which is presented as a book of biblical interpretation. According to the introduction, Maimonides’s goal is to explain “the meanings of certain terms,” as well as “very obscure parables occurring in the books of the prophets” in order to show perplexed Jewish intellectuals that no real conflict exists between the teachings of the prophets and the teachings of the philosophers (Guide 1, introduction, 2/5–6).68 In addition to explaining the Law of Moses as a commentator, Maimonides also puts order into it as a legal scholar, most importantly in the Mishneh Torah, his fourteen-volume code of Jewish law. But although Maimonides’s focus lies on explaining and systematizing the Law of Moses, this does not mean that he is not also concerned with Aristotle. In fact, Maimonides’s most orthodox expos´e of Aristotelianism occurs in the opening four chapters of the Book of Knowledge, the first book of the Mishneh Torah, in which the Laws Concerning the Foundations of the Torah are stated. As the “Foundations of the Torah,” it turns out, Maimonides legislates a set of beliefs that amount to a summary of Aristotle’s metaphysics and physics: from the existence of God, inferred from the eternal motion of the celestial spheres, all the way down to the four elements of the sublunar world. But to find Aristotle here of all places hardly mitigates the sense that the project of the commentator on Aristotle and that of the commentator on Moses markedly differ. We will see, however, that the difference between them is mostly one of focus. Although Maimonides’s concept of a philosophical religion has a number of features that set it apart from the standard version of the fal¯asifa, reading Averroes and Maimonides as two proponents of a philosophical religion who apply al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s framework to Islam and Judaism is a good way to make sense of them. islam as a philosophical religion It is not difficult to see that Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle take up al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s project of ensuring the continuity of philosophy. Averroes shares al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s high opinion of Aristotle. In his Long Commentary on the “De anima” he writes that Aristotle “was a model in nature and the instantiation that nature found for showing the highest human perfection” (433). And like al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes holds that philosophy is the key to the best life. At the same time, Aristotle’s work and Averroes’s commentaries are an 68

Compare also the programmatic statement in Guide 2.2. The Guide is, of course, a complex book and gave rise to much debate about its nature and purpose. But my goal in this chapter is to explain why it is presented as a work of exegesis.

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expression of the highest form of worship. In Averroes’s case, moreover, they are also the fulfillment of his duty as a Muslim. To understand why we must examine how Averroes conceives the relationship between philosophy and Islam. Averroes adopts the Platonic interpretation of religion that we saw in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı. How Plato and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı blend is particularly clear in the Commentary on the “Republic” where Averroes often quotes long passages from al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı. He explains Plato’s concept of musical paideia, for example, in terms of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s concept of a pedagogical-political program based on the logical modes of the Organon: musical paideia is put into practice through the dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical methods used for the guidance of non-philosophers. Averroes then quotes a passage from the Attainment of Happiness in which al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı explains how the doctrines of theoretical philosophy should be poetically imitated – for example God who is the first principle of being through the king who is the first principle of the political community (Comm. Rep., 29–30/17–19). For the application of this conceptual framework to the interpretation of Islam we must turn to Averroes’s philosophical-theological treatises, of which the most important is the Decisive Treatise and Determination of the Relationship between the Divine Law and Philosophy. According to Averroes, Islam fulfills the criterion of a virtuous religion proposed by Plato and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı: it orders the community towards what is best, namely “happiness” culminating in “knowledge of God, mighty and magnificent, and his creation” (Fas.l, 8). This goal cannot be attained without “philosophy” (falsafa) which Averroes defines as “the rational inquiry [al-naz.ar] into the existing things and their contemplation [itib¯aruh¯a] insofar as they are proof [dal¯ala] of the Maker [al-s.a¯ ni]” (1). Philosophy, in turn, requires the study of logic whose relation to philosophy is like the relation “of tools [¯al¯at] to work” (3). Hence philosophy, far from being prohibited, is an Islamic duty. This is what the Koran teaches – for instance, through the example of Abraham: “And in this way we made Abraham see the kingdoms of the heavens and the earth, that he might be one of those who have certainty” (6:75, quoted in Fas.l, 2). Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle are proof that he followed Abraham’s model and did what is necessary to become a perfect Muslim. Islam and philosophy fully agree according to Averroes: Since this Law [shar¯ıa] is true and calls to the reflection leading to cognition of the truth, we, the Muslim community, know firmly that demonstrative investigation cannot lead to something differing from what is set down in the Law. For the truth does not contradict the truth [al-h.aqq l¯a yud.a¯ dd al-h.aqq]; rather, it agrees with it and bears witness to it. (Fas.l, 8–9)

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Since Averroes, like al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, equates divine revelation with philosophy, he can claim that “wisdom [h.ikma] has never ceased among the people of divine revelation [ahl al-wah.y], and that it is, therefore, the truest of all sayings that every prophet is wise [h.ak¯ım]” (Tah¯afut 2.4, 583/361).69 Averroes knows, of course, that the literal sense of the shar¯ıa is often at odds with philosophy. The reason for this is that there is an important “difference in human nature” (ikhtil¯af fit.rat al-n¯as), namely that between philosophers and non-philosophers (Fas.l, 10), and that the Divine Law is not addressed to philosophers only, but to all Muslims. To reach all Muslims, the prophet calls on philosophers to pursue knowledge on the basis of demonstrations. In addition, he translates the prescriptions of reason into laws and teaches non-philosophers by means of rhetorical, dialectical, and poetical arguments. This is the literal content of the shar¯ıa whose main purpose is “the instruction [tal¯ım] of the multitude” (Tah¯afut 2.4, 582/360). As a consequence, contradictions arise between philosophy and the literal sense of the Divine Law. They can be resolved through “interpretation” (taw¯ıl) which discloses the Divine Law’s “allegorical sense” (b¯a.tin).70 In contrast to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, however, Averroes expressly confines allegorical interpretation to philosophers. Nothing in Averroes corresponds to the educated audience to whom al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı says philosophy can be disclosed in a non-demonstrative manner. For Averroes only philosophers have access to the truth through demonstrations and only philosophers have access to the allegorical content of the Divine Law. This strict exclusion of non-philosophers from access to religion’s true content is typical for Arabic philosophers in Muslim Spain. In H . ayy ibn Yaqz.a¯ n, for example, a philosophical allegory written by Ibn Tufayl (d. 1185), the protagonist fails to elevate non-philosophers from their religious “parables” (amthila) to the “truths” (h.aq¯aiq) which the parables represent (144/157). At first H . ayy is surprised that the prophet refrained from “disclosing” (muk¯ashafa) the truth to all members of the religious community since a literal understanding of the parables gives rise to false beliefs, including “the great error of attributing corporeality [tajs¯ım]” to 69

70

Note that Averroes suggests that divine revelation contains more than what can be deduced by reason. All religions, Averroes argues, contain contingent features that do not follow from universal principles, but from the particular conditions under which they were established. Averroes mentions in particular “the principles of action” which “must be taken on authority [taql¯ıd]” – that is, the realm of practical wisdom whose truths, unlike the truths of theoretical wisdom, are only valid within a particular context. The same holds, of course, for religion’s dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical teachings. Averroes’s intention seems to be that prophets appeal to divine revelation to provide the contingent features of religion, which are not deduced by reason from universal principles, with the required authority in the eyes of non-philosophers. See Tah¯afut 2.4, 584/361. For this argument, see in particular Fas.l, 8, 19, 24–25; cf. Kashf, 132–35/16–19.

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God (146/158). But when he attempts to remove the false beliefs to which the community is habituated and “to lay bare the truth [¯ıd.a¯ h. al-h.aqq] before them” (147/158) they begin “to feel ill at ease in his presence [and] to feel in their souls an abhorrence [tashmaizzu nuf¯usuhum] for what he told them” (150/159). H . ayy’s conclusion is the same as Plato’s in his critique of the Socratic elenchos – that trying “to elevate” (rufiat) non-philosophers: to the height of true vision [istibs.a¯ r] will upset their present order without enabling them to reach the level of the happy ones. They will waver and suffer a relapse, ending in evil. (H . ayy ibn Yaqz.a¯ n, 154/161)

For Averroes, too, pointing out in public that the literal sense of the Divine Law is false and disclosing its allegorical content would undermine the intention of the prophet. To explain this he draws an analogy between the lawgiver and a doctor: Someone intends [to go] to a skilled doctor who aims to preserve the health of all people and to remove sickness from them by setting down for them prescriptions to which there is common assent [mushtarakat al-tas.d¯ıq] about the obligation of practicing the things that preserve their health and remove their sickness. . . . He is not able to make them all become doctors, because the doctor is the one who knows by demonstrative methods [al-t.uruq al-burh¯aniyya] the things that preserve health and remove sickness. Then [the allegorical interpreter] goes out to the people and says to them: “These methods that this doctor has set down for you . . . have interpretations.” Yet they do not understand [these interpretations] and thus come to no assent as to what to do because of them. (Fas.l, 27–28)71

To the “health” in the parable corresponds the perfection to which the prophet intends to lead all members of the community. The doctor’s “prescriptions” represent the Divine Law. Like Ibn Tufayl, Averroes argues that removing the traditional beliefs of non-philosophers risks pushing them into nihilism because they are unable to replace them with true ones. They will thus no longer follow the guidance of the lawgiver on account of either the literal or the allegorical sense of the Divine Law. They lose, for example, their belief in God as a king whom they ought to revere because of his nobility, yet at the same time are unable to understand how God as the first cause relates to a virtuous life. Hence they lose both their belief in God and their belief in the goodness of living virtuously. Time and again Averroes criticizes Muslim theologians who “strayed and led astray” 71

Note that Averroes not only criticizes a person who discloses the Law’s allegorical content, but (in the sentence omitted in the quotation) also a person who rejects the Law as false altogether. This may well be an implicit reference to freethinkers like R¯az¯ı who denied that the Divine Law is true. See also Tah¯afut 2.2, 582–83/360.

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for “revealing their allegorical interpretation to the multitude” (s.arrah.u¯ bitaw¯ılihim li-l-jumh¯ur) thus disregarding the “difference in human nature” (29–32).72 Among the beliefs that ought not to be called into question in public, Averroes explicitly includes the “belief in [God’s] corporeality [jismiyya]” (20).73 According to Averroes: the interpretation of the Divine Law [al-shar] and the desire to assimilate it to philosophy . . . is an error. The Divine Law ought to be read according to its literal sense [z.a¯ hir], and the agreement [al-jam] between the Divine Law and philosophy should not be divulged to the multitude. . . . One must observe the limit which the Divine Law has set with respect to the instruction appropriate for each class of people and not mix up the two kinds of instruction, destroying thereby the wisdom of the lawgiver and prophet. (Kashf, 183/69 and 191/77)

Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle, however, seem to subvert the strict separation of philosophy and religion that he advocates in his philosophicaltheological treatises. To the extent that the commentaries contain true philosophical doctrines, they coincide with the allegorical content of the Divine Law. Writing these doctrines down in books that can be read by non-philosophers thus appears to transgress the strict prohibition of making philosophy and the Divine Law’s allegorical content public. It also appears to undermine the esoteric writing practice that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı attributes to Aristotle. After all, the purpose of the commentaries is to clarify the – according to al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı deliberate –“obscurity, difficulty, and complexity” of Aristotle’s works. Averroes is clearly aware of this objection. His reply is that books which “use demonstrations are accessible only to those who understand demonstrations” (Fas.l, 21). In other words, Averroes takes his commentaries on Aristotle to be inaccessible to non-philosophers because of their logical structure. Averroes thus adds a new form of esoteric writing to the two kinds mentioned by al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı. As we saw, Averroes explains the narrative content of Islam in terms of alF¯ar¯ab¯ı’s adaptation of the Organon: the prophets use dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical arguments that imitate philosophy. How does he explain the legal content of Islam, namely the shar¯ıa in the strict sense? For Plato and Aristotle good laws which embody the ruler’s practical wisdom play a crucial role in habituating the citizens to virtue – to being “attracted by the fine and repulsed by the shameful” as if they were guided by reason 72

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According to Kashf, 132–33/16–17, one of the main achievements of the Fas.l al-maq¯al is to have shown that taw¯ıl is strictly reserved for philosophers. Averroes reiterates his critique of the mutakallim¯un in Kashf, 179–85/65–71. Cf. the long discussion in Kashf, 168–91/54–77.

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(EN 10.9 1179b31). Philo claimed that the nomoi of Moses do just that: they direct the members of the Jewish community to the entire “chorus of virtues” established by the philosopher. According to Averroes, the same is true for the Islamic law. At the end of the Bid¯ayat al-mujtahid, his compendium of Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh), he claims: It is necessary . . . to know that the laws concerning actions [al-sunan al-mashr¯ua al-amaliyya] aim at the virtues of the soul [al-fad.a¯ il al-nafs¯aniyya]. (Bid¯aya, 57.6, 2:434/2:572)74

Like Philo, Averroes goes on to connect categories of Islamic law with moral virtues, namely moderation (iffa), justice (adl), courage (shuj¯aa), and generosity (sakh¯a). The laws regulating food, drink, and marital affairs, for example, aim at habituating Muslims to moderation, the laws regulating ownership (amw¯al) aim at “the attainment of the virtue which is called generosity and the avoidance of the vice [radh¯ıla] which is called miserliness [bukhl],” and so forth (ibid.). Islamic Law not only orders the life of the individual, but also of: society [al-ijtim¯a] which is a condition for the life of man and for the preservation [h.ifz.] of his ethical and intellectual virtues [fad.a¯ iluhu al-amaliyya wa-l-ilmiyya]. (Bid¯aya, 57.6, 2:435/2:572)

One aim of the laws is to instill “love and hate” (al-mah.abba wa-l-baghd.a¯ ) for what reason prescribes and prohibits – as Averroes interprets the Islamic principle of “commanding what is right and prohibiting what is wrong” (see Koran 3:110). The other aim is to promote “social collaboration” (taa¯ wun). The laws regulating worship (ib¯ad¯at), however, have a different purpose: they are “conditions” (shur¯u.t) for the strengthening of the moral virtues (ibid.). Averroes elaborates on this point in his general discussion of religion in the Incoherence of the Incoherence: [T]he practical virtues can only become strong through the knowledge and exaltation of God by the forms of worship prescribed by the laws to [the members of the community] in each religion [f¯ı milla milla], like sacrifices, prayers, supplications, and similar utterances by which praise is rendered to God, exalted be he, the angels, and the prophets. (Tah¯afut 2.4, 581/359)

Averroes may have had something like the lower forms of “worshiping and contemplating God” in mind through which non-philosophers can participate in the perfection and pleasure of theoretical wisdom according 74

On the literary genre, method, and content of the Bid¯aya, see Brunschvig (1962).

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to Aristotle. As we will see below, the desire to engage in these activities provides non-philosophers with the motivation to act virtuously, in the same way as the desire for contemplation in the strict sense provides philosophers with the motivation to do what reason prescribes. It is clear, at any rate, that Averroes is recasting the purpose of Islamic law in terms of the Platonic-Aristotelian pedagogical-political program – as if Muhammad had been a philosopher-ruler whose aim was to habituate Muslims to the moral virtues and direct them to intellectual perfection culminating in “knowledge of God, mighty and magnificent, and his creation.” Averroes’s general discussion of religion in the Incoherence of the Incoherence, from which I just quoted the passage on practices of worship, shows that he, too, allows for multiple virtuous religions. Like al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, he takes the laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship that make up virtuous religions to be contingent, yet aiming at the same goal. As we saw in chapter 2, this pluralism is compatible with progress. Christian philosophers argue that although the Law of Moses and the Gospel have the same goal, Christians are no longer bound by the Jewish law whose purpose, in Eusebius’s words, was healing “the terrible disease of Egypt.” The greater the constraints under which a religious leader is operating, the less excellent is the religion which he establishes. Future religious leaders can build on the work of their predecessors. Thus Christ builds on the work of Moses according to Christians, and Muhammad builds on the work of Christ according to Muslims. Since Averroes, unlike al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, is writing expressly from the standpoint of Islam, he endorses the traditional Muslim view. A “wise man” (h.ak¯ım) must: choose the best religion of his time, even if they all are true for him, and believe that the better one will be abrogated [yunsakh] through one that is even better. For this reason the wise men who were teaching the people in Alexandria converted to Islam when the religion of Islam reached them, and the wise men who were in the Roman Empire converted to Christianity when the religion of Jesus, peace be upon him, reached them. And nobody doubts that among the Israelites were many wise men, as is clear from the books . . . attributed to Solomon. (Tah¯afut 2.4, 583/360–61)

A little further Averroes claims that “in our religion” practices like prayer and beliefs like the doctrine of the hereafter fulfill the purpose of a virtuous religion “more perfectly” (atamm) than comparable practices and beliefs in other religions (584/361). Averroes is also aware of the challenge posed by members of the community who, in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s words, are “seekers of the right path” – that is,

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not-yet-philosophers who turn into philosophers and risk rejecting their childhood faith: A necessary part of the virtue [of the wise man] is that he should not deride [the religious beliefs and practices] in which he was brought up and that he should interpret them in the best way. (Tah¯afut 2.4, 583/360)

If philosophers were to subvert the religious order they would act against God and the prophets whose aim is to make all members of the community as perfect as possible. For “religions . . . lead towards wisdom in a way shared by all human beings,” whereas “philosophy only leads the intellectuals among the people to the grasp of happiness” (582/360). At the same time philosophers also have a selfish motive to preserve the religious order on which social collaboration depends: “the existence of the wise class is only perfected and its happiness attained through participation [bi-mush¯araka] with the class of the multitude” (ibid.). Averroes does not reinterpret the historical forms of Islam on as large a scale as Plato reinterprets Greek cultural forms and the Alexandrians reinterpret the historical forms of Judaism and Christianity. The main focus of his work lies in explaining Aristotle, as we saw. He is, however, clearly aware of the importance of this project. At the end of his Exposition of the Methods of Proof Concerning the Foundations of Religion which, like the Decisive Treatise, deals with the relationship between philosophy and Islam, he expresses his desire to ensure the correct interpretation of Islam’s narrative content: And you know . . . about my desire to attain this goal with respect to all the utterances of the Divine Law: that we discuss what must and what must not be interpreted, and if it is to be interpreted, who may interpret it, with respect to every problem [mushkil] in the Koran and the H . ad¯ıth. (Kashf 249/131).

Had Averroes carried out this project, it would surely have been guided by his interpretation of Islam as a philosophical religion. As for Islam’s legal content, we saw that he tries to connect the Islamic law to the moral virtues established by Plato and Aristotle. To some extent the reinterpretation of the legal framework in light of philosophical commitments also seems to have shaped the body of the Bid¯aya. One of Plato’s most provocative proposals in the Republic is that in the best state gender will not affect access to social positions and that men and women will receive the same education (451b–457c). Qualified women, for example, can become philosopher-rulers as much as qualified men. Averroes not only endorses

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Plato’s position, claiming that “the nature of women and men” is “of one kind” (ehad be-min), but also expresses strong indignation about the treatment of women in Muslim Spain who “often resemble plants” because they “are not prepared for any of the human virtues” (Comm. Rep., 53–54/57– 59).75 Averroes’s legal decisions concerning women in the Bidˆaya, in turn, attempt to direct the Islamic law towards his philosophical position.76 judaism as a philosophical religion Although Maimonides takes up the project of reinterpretation on a much larger scale than Averroes, this should not obscure how much they have in common. For Maimonides, too, a Divine Law is defined by its goal. Like al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, he distinguishes between merely human laws and a Divine Law. Human laws are established by a skilled politician who lacks insight into true happiness, but is able to motivate the members of the community to collaborate for the sake of “something believed to be happiness” (Guide 2.40, 271/383) – that is, goods dictated by the needs of the body. A Divine Law, by contrast, aims at wisdom, the virtue of reason. For reason is not only the distinctive feature of human beings, but also the feature on account of which they are said to have been created in “God’s image” in Genesis 1:26 (see 1.1). Wisdom consists in knowledge of nature’s causal order, culminating in the apprehension of God, the first cause of nature.77 Hence a Divine Law aims: to convey [i.ta¯ ] correct beliefs [¯ar¯a .sah.¯ıh.a] with regard to God, may He be exalted, in the first place, and with regard to the angels, and desires to make man wise [tah.k¯ım], to give him understanding [tafh¯ım], and to awaken his attention [tanb¯ıh], so that he should know the whole of that which exists in its true form. (Guide 2.40, 271/384)

The lawgiver knows, of course, “that a man cannot represent to himself as intelligible . . . if he is in pain or is very hungry or is thirsty . . . or is very cold” and that satisfying the needs of the body depends on social collaboration (3.27, 372/511). Hence a Divine Law must also order embodied 75 76

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Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, too, claims that the cognitive faculties of men and women – sense perception, imagination, and reason – “do not differ” (Mab¯adi 12.8). See the evidence discussed in Belo (2009); cf. Brunschvig (1962), 67 who also notes other examples of what he calls Averroes’s “liberalism” in the Bid¯aya. Note that Averroes mentions plans of writing further legal treatises (for example 53.4, 2:353/2:468), and refers to his treatise on the principles of jurisprudence (us.ul al-fiqh) which is, however, not extant (2.2.1.2.1, 1:89/1:112). See the first meaning of wisdom in Guide 3.54; on God as the first cause, see Guide 2.48.

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life by abolishing “reciprocal wrongdoing” and ensuring “the acquisition of a noble and excellent character” (ibid.). To be “healthy and in the best bodily state,” however, is only a means to “the perfection of the soul” (ibid.). Although a person should not be hungry, thirsty, or sexually dissatisfied, the right amount of food, drink, and sex is determined by the soul’s need to find “its instruments healthy and sound in order that it can be directed towards the sciences and towards acquiring the moral and rational virtues” (Eight Chapters 5, 164/75–76; cf. Madda, Laws Concerning Character Dispositions 3.3). A Divine Law embodies knowledge of the good translated into a pedagogical-political program through the imagination. Hence “the true reality . . . of prophecy” is an: emanation, emanating from God, . . . towards the rational faculty in the first place and thereafter toward the imaginative faculty. (Guide 2.36, 260/369)

The need for a pedagogical-political program stems from “the insufficiency of the minds of all human beings at their beginnings” and of most human beings throughout life because of “obstacles” in their nature, “paucity of training,” or the many “objects that distract” them (Guide 1.34, 49/73). The Law of Moses, Maimonides argues, is a perfect instantiation of the Divine Law. The end towards which it directs the community is: the apprehension of God [idr¯ak All¯ah], mighty and magnificent, I mean knowledge [al-ilm] of him, insofar as this lies within man’s power. He should direct all his actions . . . and all his conversation towards this goal so that none of his actions is in any way frivolous. . . . This is what the Exalted requires . . . when he says: “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul” [Deut 6:5]. He means, set the same goal for all the parts of your soul, namely, “to love the Lord your God.” (Eight Chapters 5, 164/75–76)

Apprehending God is not only the objectively best state for us, but also that which we should most desire: What is the appropriate love of God? It is to love God with a great and exceeding love, so strong that one’s soul is tied up with God through love and always enraptured [shogeh] by it, like a love-sick person whose mind is never free from his love for a certain woman and who is always enraptured by it, whether he is sitting or standing, eating or drinking. Even greater than that should be the love of God in the hearts of those who love him. (Madda, Laws Concerning Repentance 10:3)

The biblical account of the deaths of Moses, Aaron, and Miriam through a “kiss” of God is a metaphor “to indicate that the three of them died in the pleasure of this apprehension [of God] due to the strength of passionate love

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[ishq]” (Guide 3.51, 463/628).78 The intellectual love of God also provides the motivation to do what reason prescribes in the realm of embodied life: to seek no more food, drink, and sex, for example, than necessary to keep the body in good health which, in turn, is a condition for undisturbed contemplation. Why did Moses interrupt his love affair with God to order the religious community towards what is best? Because according to Maimonides, too, becoming like God means not only to perfect oneself, but also to perfect others. The philosopher-prophet imitates God’s attributes of “lovingkindness, judgment, and righteousness” through which God creates and orders the world (see 3.53–54). The aim of the patriarchs and Moses: was to bring into being a religious community that would know and worship God. . . . Thus it has become clear to you that the end of all their efforts was to spread the doctrine of the unity of the Name in the world and to guide [irsh¯ad] people to love him, may he be exalted. (Guide 3.51, 460/624).

Only a false anthropocentric conception of the natural order can lead to doubting its goodness: an error of man about himself and his imagining that all that exists, exists because of himself alone . . . and ignorance of what is primarily intended – namely the bringing into being of everything whose existence is possible, existence being indubitably a good. (3.25, 367–68/505–6)

As all acts of God in nature are rational because they aim at perfecting being, all contents of the Law of Moses are rational because they aim at human perfection (see 3.26). Like Averroes, Maimonides connects the Jewish law with the moral virtues which “are acquired and firmly established in the soul by frequently repeating the actions pertaining to a particular moral habit [khalq] over a long period of time” (Eight Chapters 4, 159/68). The actions which give rise to the virtues are the actions prescribed by the Law of Moses.79 The narrative content of the Law, in turn, imitates philosophy through dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical arguments.80 This is meant by 78

79

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The ultimate source of the concept of ishq is Plato’s description of erˆos in the Symposium (see 201d– 212c). A more immediate source is Avicenna’s Treatise on Love (Ris¯al¯a f¯ı al-ishq). Both Avicenna and Maimonides also appropriate Sufi terminology to describe the love of God. See also Madda, Laws Concerning Character Dispositions. As we will see below, there is a significant shift in Maimonides’s explanation of the rationality of the Law’s legal and narrative contents from his early to his later works. See the discussion of dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical syllogisms in Mant.iq 8. In the Guide Maimonides claims that in the Law of Moses “we are told [kh¯u.tibn¯a] about these profound matters [that is, the doctrines of physics and metaphysics], which divine wisdom has deemed necessary to convey to us [li-mukh¯a.tabatin¯a] in parables and riddles” (1, introduction, 5/9). While the words

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the Talmudic phrase “And the Torah speaks in the language of man” (bT Yebamoth, 71a), which Maimonides explains as “the imagination of the multitude” (Guide 1.26, 38/56). The language of the Law of Moses, then, is the language of the cave dwellers. This is, however, not the only language it speaks as Maimonides explains on the basis of Proverbs 25:11: “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver” (1, introduction, 7/11). The “settings of silver” refer to the literal content of the Law of Moses and the “apples of gold” to its allegorical content: Their literal sense [z.a¯ hir] contains wisdom that is useful in many respects, among which is the welfare of human societies. . . . Their allegorical sense [b¯a.tin], on the other hand, contains wisdom that is useful for beliefs concerned with the truth as it is. (Guide 1, introduction, 8/12).

As mentioned above, Maimonides identifies physics and metaphysics, the content of theoretical wisdom according to Aristotle, with the “Account of the Beginning” and the “Account of the Chariot,” two esoteric doctrines in the Talmud which interpret the creation account in Genesis and the vision of the chariot in Ezekiel (bT Hagigah, 11b and 13a, quoted in 1, introduction, 3/6–7). The entire body of esoteric doctrines is “pardes,” literally “paradise,” another rabbinic term referring to esoteric teachings that Maimonides appropriates for his purpose.81 Although the Law of Moses thus contains wisdom, it is not possible to learn wisdom from it. Only “the perfect man who already knew [qad alima] will grasp” its allegorical content (5/9). The Divine Law establishes moral, political, and intellectual conditions that are conducive to attaining the highest perfection, but it cannot provide this perfection itself. Like the Alexandrians, Maimonides argues that the transition from the literal to the allegorical content of the Law of Moses is only possible through the study of philosophy. Deuteronomy 6:5 – “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul” – is a “call” to acquire “all the . . . correct opinions concerning the whole of being – opinions that constitute the numerous kinds of all the theoretical sciences [al-ul¯um al-naz.ariyya] through which the opinions forming the ultimate end are validated” (3.28, 373/512). The “theoretical sciences” are mathematics, physics, and metaphysics, preceded by the study of logic as the “tool” of philosophy (1.34, 50/75; cf. Epistle Dedicatory). Although

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translated as “we are told” and “to convey to us” derive from the same root as the word for rhetoric (khit.a¯ ba), “parables and riddles” are poetic compositions. See Madda, Laws Concerning the Foundations of the Torah 4.10–13; for the meaning of “pardes,” see Hagigah 14b.

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the prophets attained a higher level of intellectual perfection than the philosophers according to Maimonides (see 3.51, 456/619–20), this has no implications for the study of philosophy. For one thing “none of the secrets of the Torah [could] have been set down in writing and been made accessible to the people” (1.71, 121/176). For disclosing philosophical doctrines to non-philosophers has the same effect as feeding a newborn bread, meat, and wine (see 1.33, 48/71). Hence “they were transmitted by a few men belonging to the elite to a few of the same kind” (1.71, 121/176). However, “the length of the time that has passed” and “our being dominated by the pagan nations” led to “the disappearance of these great roots of knowledge from the nation” (121/175–76).Thus Jews who want to make the transition from being a good Jew to being a perfect Jew in Maimonides’s time must turn to Greco-Arabic philosophy, starting with Aristotle “whose intellect represents the highest achievement of the human intellect,” and continuing with Aristotle’s Greek and Muslim students from Alexander of Aphrodisias to Averroes (see Iggerot, 553). Since the wisdom of the prophets is lost, the only key left to paradise is Greco-Arabic philosophy. Maimonides is aware of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s concept of religious pluralism which he adapts to explain differences within the Jewish tradition. On the basis of the rabbinic view that Ezekiel’s and Isaiah’s apprehension of the divine chariot had the same content, Maimonides claims that they represent the same philosophical doctrines in different ways because of the different audiences they were addressing: Ezekiel spoke to uncultivated desert nomads, Isaiah to educated city dwellers (see Guide 3.6). The different representations thus reflect different cultural contexts. Yet surprisingly at first view, Maimonides denies the possibility of multiple virtuous religions. The Law of Moses is the only conceivable instantiation of the Divine Law: “Hence, according to our opinion, there never has been a Law and there never will be a Law except the one that is the Law of Moses our master” (2.39, 268/379). Even if Moses attained the highest level of perfection, however, it remains at least in principle possible for another lawgiver to reach the same level and hence to establish a Law equal in excellence to the Law of Moses. To rule this out, Maimonides must attribute superhuman perfection to Moses that he alone attained through God’s miraculous intervention. Interpreting Exodus 34:28 for example – “And [Moses] was there with the Lord forty days and forty nights; he did neither eat bread nor drink water” – Maimonides claims that Moses’s “intellect attained such strength that all the gross faculties in the body ceased to function” (3.51, 456/620; cf. Heleq, Thirteen Principles 7). However, as we will see later, Maimonides also offers an argument for the

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contingency of the Law of Moses that is incompatible with his claim that no other Divine Law is conceivable. This puzzle can be solved if we take the exclusivity claim to be motivated by strategic rather than philosophical considerations. Maimonides was, after all, defending the excellence of the religion that both Christians and Muslims dismissed as superseded. As an apologetic strategy in a polemical setting it is understandable why Maimonides gives more credit to the Law of Moses than he can philosophically justify. Attributing superhuman intellectual power to Moses, however, also serves a philosophically more interesting purpose. Like Origen, Maimonides is a moderate skeptic: Matter [m¯adda] is a strong veil preventing the apprehension of that which is separate [from matter] as it truly is. . . . This is alluded to in all the books of the prophets, namely that we are separated by a veil from God and that he is hidden from us by a heavy cloud, or by darkness . . . , and similar allusions to our incapacity to apprehend him because of matter. (Guide 3.9, 314/436–37)82

If Moses miraculously overcame the barrier of matter, Maimonides can claim that the Law of Moses is grounded on a definitive grasp of the truth. This does not lead to fideism, because Moses’s alleged superhuman knowledge is the allegorical content of the Law to which we have no immediate access. It allows, on the other hand, portraying the search for Moses’s true doctrines as an open-ended project which can be revised in light of better scientific theories or better philosophical arguments.83 The framework sketched above justifies the philosophical reinterpretation of Jewish beliefs, practices, and institutions, to which most of Maimonides’s work is devoted. In particular the Guide and the Mishneh Torah are two complementary sides of this project. Whereas the Guide offers a Platonic explanation of the nature and purpose of the Law of Moses, the Mishneh Torah reinterprets its beliefs, practices, and institutions to show that they indeed fulfill Plato’s criterion of a Divine Law.84 Although there is much scholarly debate on the precise content and structure of the Mishneh Torah, it is uncontroversial that Maimonides wants to exhibit the thoroughgoing rationality of the Law of Moses as the perfect embodiment of the Divine Law. 82 83 84

Cf. also 1.31 and Pines (1979) and (1981). For Maimonides’s doubts about the correctness of Aristotelian cosmology, for example, see Guide 2.19 and 2.24; see also Harvey (1997). Cf. Harvey (1980).

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leading non-philosophers out of the cave Maimonides’s concept of a philosophical religion also has a number of features that set it apart from the standard version of the fal¯asifa. Recall that the Guide is presented as a book in which biblical terms and parables are interpreted for the “perplexed.” In the introduction to the Guide, the perplexed is characterized as a Jewish intellectual who has “studied the sciences of the philosophers” and hence feels “distressed by the literal meanings [z.aw¯ahir] of the Law.” He is: in a state of perplexity and confusion as to whether he should follow his intellect . . . and consequently consider that he has renounced the foundations of the Law. Or he should hold fast to his understanding . . . and not let himself be drawn on together with his intellect . . . while at the same time perceiving that he had brought loss to himself and harm to his religion. He would be left with those imaginary beliefs [al-itiq¯ad¯at al-khay¯aliyya] to which he owes his fear and difficulty and would not cease from heartache and great perplexity. (Guide 1, introduction, 2/5)

Like al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s “seekers of the right path,” perplexed Jewish intellectuals object to the literal sense of the Divine Law. The Guide purports to be a response to this problem. By explaining “the meaning of certain terms” and “very obscure parables occurring in the books of the prophets” (2/5–6), Maimonides elevates Jewish intellectuals from the literal sense which offers pedagogical-political guidance to the allegorical sense which corresponds to the “truth as it is.” However, neither philosophy nor the Divine Law’s allegorical content ought to be disclosed in public: Know that to begin with [divine science] is very harmful. In the same way, it is also harmful to make clear the meaning of the parables of the prophets and to draw attention to the figurative senses of terms . . . of which the books of prophecy are full. It behooves rather to educate the young [al-as.gh¯ar] and to give firmness to the deficient in capacity [al-muqas..sir¯un] according to the measure of their apprehension. Thus he who is seen to be perfect in mind and to be formed for . . . demonstrative speculation . . . should be elevated step by step [unhid.a awwalan awwalan], either by someone who directs his attention or by himself, until he achieves his perfection. If, however, he begins with the divine science, it will not be a mere confusion in his beliefs that will befall him, but rather absolute negation [ta.t¯ıl mah.d.]. In my opinion, an analogous case would be that of someone feeding a suckling with wheaten bread and meat and giving him wine to drink. He would undoubtedly kill him, not because these foods are bad or unnatural for man, but because the child that receives them is too weak to digest them. . . . This is the cause of the fact that the Torah . . . is presented in such a manner as to make it possible for the young, the women, and all the people . . . to

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learn it. Now it is not within their power to understand these matters as they truly are. Hence they are confined to accepting tradition [taql¯ıd] with regard to all sound opinions. . . . When, however, a man grows perfect “and the secrets of the Torah are communicated to him” [bT Hagigah, 13a] either by somebody else or because he himself discovers them . . . he represents to himself these matters, which had appeared to him as imaginings and parables, in their truth. (Guide 1.33, 47–48/70–72)

As in al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, the leader of the religious community must offer pedagogical-political guidance to non-philosophers and “elevate” not-yetphilosophers “step by step” to philosophy and the allegorical content of the Divine Law. Unlike al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, however, Maimonides claims that a capable student can also attain this goal “by himself.”85 We saw that the adverse circumstances of exile “necessitated the disappearance” of wisdom from the Jewish community according to Maimonides’s (fictional) historical account. Whereas in antiquity the intellectual elite transmitted philosophy and the Divine Law’s allegorical content from generation to generation, Maimonides can no longer learn them from a Jewish teacher. He thus has to take matters into his own hands. By contrast, in the “Epistle Dedicatory” which prefaces the Guide Maimonides portrays himself in the role of the teacher: he instructs his beloved student, Joseph ben Judah, in the philosophical sciences and initiates him into “the secrets of the prophetic books” (1/3). Every time “a [biblical] verse or some text of the sages was mentioned in which there was a pointer [tanb¯ıh] to some strange notion, I did not refrain from explaining it to you” (1/4). Maimonides thus models his relationship to Joseph on the way he claims wisdom was transmitted in the Jewish community of ancient times. While Joseph fits al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s description of the “seekers of the right path,” the case of perplexed Jewish intellectuals is slightly different: they have studied philosophy on their own, but fail to understand the relationship between philosophy and the Divine Law. If making philosophy and the Divine Law’s allegorical content public leads non-philosophers to the “absolute negation” of beliefs held on the authority of tradition, we would expect Maimonides to oppose doing so as strictly as Averroes. Resolving the perplexity of Jewish intellectuals, however, requires disclosing the Divine Law’s allegorical content. The challenge Maimonides faces is like the challenge faced by Clement of Alexandria: both want to set down the true teachings of their religion in writing. Since publishing these teachings can be as harmful as “offering a 85

The paradigmatic autodidact in the literature of the fal¯asifa is Ibn Tufayl’s H . ayy ibn Yaqz.a¯n.

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dagger to a child” (Strom. 1.1, 14.3–4), Clement composed the Stromateis as a “patchwork” of deliberately disorganized notes, “skillfully” hiding “the seeds of knowledge” to prevent “true philosophy” from falling into the wrong hands (1.2, 20.4–21.2). Hence only intelligent readers can make sense of the Stromateis. Maimonides claims to have done the same in the Guide through deliberate disorder and contradictions: [M]y purpose is that the truths be glimpsed and then again be concealed, so as not to oppose that divine purpose . . . which has concealed from the multitude those truths especially requisite for [God’s] apprehension. (Guide 1, introduction, 3/6–7; cf. 9–13/15–20).

It is thus all the more surprising that in much of the Guide Maimonides discloses the allegorical meaning of biblical terms and parables without any precautions. Particularly prominent are explanations of anthropomorphic passages in the Bible which Maimonides reinterprets as describing features of an incorporeal God.86 God’s incorporeality is a key doctrine of metaphysics which Maimonides identifies with the esoteric teachings of the Talmudic “Account of the Chariot” as we saw.87 Maimonides, then, has no qualms about revealing what the prophets and rabbinic sages took great care to conceal. As mentioned, moreover, Maimonides opens the Mishneh Torah by legislating the core teachings of Aristotle’s metaphysics and physics: from the existence of God to the four elements of the sublunar world. Making philosophical doctrines public through interpretation and legislation, however, is clearly at odds with the Platonic commitments of the fal¯asifa. To justify this departure, Maimonides argues that non-philosophers, too, must be elevated from the literal to the allegorical content of the Divine Law. For they can be habituated to beliefs that correspond to the true nature of things and thus coincide with the knowledge that philosophers acquire through demonstration. The power of habituation is highlighted in Maimonides’s analysis of the “causes of disagreement about things.” One of these causes: is habit [ilf] and upbringing [tarbiyya]. For man has in his nature a love . . . for, and the wish to defend, beliefs to which he is habituated [mut¯ad¯atuhu] and in which he has been brought up and has a feeling of repulsion for beliefs other than those. For this reason also man is blind to the apprehension of the true realities. . . . This happened to the multitude with regard to the belief in his corporeality [al-tajs¯ım] 86 87

See Guide 2.25 for a statement of the program which is carried out in the Guide. For the philosophical proofs of God’s incorporeality, see Guide 2, introduction, and 2.1–2. For the inclusion of God’s incorporeality in the “Account of the Chariot,” see Madda, Laws Concerning the Foundations of the Torah 1.8–12 and 4.13.

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and many other metaphysical subjects as we shall make clear. All this is due to people being habituated to, and brought up on, texts . . . whose external meaning is indicative of the corporeality of God and of other imaginings with no truth in them, for these have been set forth as parables and riddles. (Guide 1.31, 45/67)

If human beings can be habituated to false beliefs, there is no reason why they cannot be habituated to true beliefs as well, as Maimonides argues with respect to the doctrine of God’s incorporeality. This doctrine: ought to be inculcated in virtue of traditional authority [taql¯ıd] upon children, women, stupid ones, and those of a defective natural disposition, just as they adopt the notion that God is one, that he is eternal, and that none but he should be worshiped. For there is no profession of unity [tawh.¯ıd] unless the doctrine of God’s corporeality is denied. (Guide 1.35, 54–55/81)

The false belief that God is corporeal is replaced by the true belief that God is incorporeal. In both cases the belief stems from habituation. Habituation thus can be an obstacle as much as a vehicle for spreading the truth. The fal¯asifa normally distinguish between the demonstrative, dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical method for disseminating knowledge. To these Maimonides adds a new method that is not derived from the same framework: “inculcation in virtue of traditional authority.” This is the method of the Almohads, the “professors of God’s unity” (muwah.h.id¯un), who made the strict understanding of tawh.¯ıd – God’s unity as entailing God’s incorporeality – into the official doctrine of the Almohad kingdom that all Muslims were forced to endorse.88 There is much evidence for the pervasive influence that the political-theological program of the Almohads had on Maimonides who lived under Almohad rule from 1148 to 1165.89 Most important for my purpose is the Almohad murshida or aq¯ıda, a catechism of fundamental religious doctrines legally enforced on all Muslims, of which the doctrine of God’s incorporeality was a cornerstone. Since the Almohads identify the anthropomorphic representation of God with idolatry, and Maimonides takes the eradication of idolatry to be the “foundation” (as.l) and “pivot” (qut.b) of the Law of Moses (3.29, 380/521), it is indeed likely that his zeal to impose God’s incorporeality on all members of the Jewish community is inspired by the Almohads. Avoiding the charge of idolatry clearly was more important to Maimonides than the 88 89

See the programmatic text Tawh.¯ıd al-b¯ari (The Unity of the Creator) by Ibn T¯umart, the founder of the Almohad movement. See the convincing case made by Stroumsa (2009), chapter 3.

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pedagogical concerns which he also seems to have had about disclosing this well-guarded secret of the Divine Law.90 The doctrine of God’s incorporeality, however, is at odds with much of what the Law of Moses has to say about God: When people have received this doctrine, are habituated to it [alif¯uhu] and educated . . . in it, and subsequently become perplexed [tah.ayyar¯u] over the texts of the books of the prophets, the meaning of these books should be explained to them. They should be elevated to the knowledge of the interpretation of these texts [unhid.u¯ li-taw¯ılih¯a], and their attention should be drawn to the equivocality and allegorical sense of the various terms – the exposition of which is contained in this treatise – so that the correctness of their belief regarding the oneness of God and the affirmation of the truth of the books of the prophets should be safe. (Guide 1.35, 54–55/81)

After having been habituated to the doctrine of God’s incorporeality, nonphilosophers will also be perplexed about the literal meaning of anthropomorphic passages in the Law of Moses. Hence they must “be elevated to the interpretation of these texts,” which is precisely what Maimonides claims to have accomplished “in this treatise.” It turns out, therefore, that much of the interpretative program of the Guide aims not only at resolving the perplexity of philosophers, but the perplexity of non-philosophers as well! Maimonides’s stance on God’s incorporeality and its interpretative implications is not an isolated deviation from the Platonic tradition of concealment.91 It is part of a broad project of habituating non-philosophers to true beliefs which clearly breaks with the framework of Platonism. This project is not just a variation of the catechism of fundamental religious beliefs enforced by the Almohads. It is embedded in the larger context of Maimonides’s sociology of religion. According to Maimonides, God’s wisdom is not only manifest in the teleological order of nature or in the teleological order of the parts of an animal, but also in goal-oriented processes such as the biological development of an organism or the cultural-religious development of societies. God’s wisdom provides what is required to sustain each stage of the process until the goal is achieved: 90

91

See Guide 1.26 where Maimonides explains that “attributes indicating corporeality have been predicated of [God] in order to indicate that he, may he be exalted, exists, inasmuch as the multitude cannot at first conceive of any existence save that of a body alone” (37/56). Note, however, that in Guide 1.35 Maimonides makes a distinction between God’s incorporeality and other doctrines which “are truly the mysteries of the Torah” (54/80). I suggest that the latter doctrines are those that cannot yet be publicly disclosed, but may be disclosed in the future.

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God made a wily and gracious arrangement [talat..tafa] with regard to all the individuals of the living beings that suck. For when born, such individuals are extremely soft and cannot feed on dry food. Accordingly breasts were prepared for them so that they should produce milk with a view to their receiving humid food, which is similar to the composition of their bodies, until their limbs gradually and step by step [awwalan awwalan] become dry and solid. (Guide 3.32, 384/525)

Applying this model to the cultural-religious development of societies yields a picture that is in interesting ways similar to the Alexandrian concept of a pedagogical-political program which, driven by the Logos, unfolds in history, gradually advancing reason until laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship can be discarded in favor of the eternal gospel of reason (cf. Origen, De princ. 3.6, 8).92 Recall how Eusebius justifies abrogating the Jewish law by comparing it to “a nurse and governess of childish and imperfect souls.” Its purpose was to restore the moral and intellectual integrity of the Hebrews who had “adopted Egyptian customs, and . . . fell into idolatrous superstition” because of “their long sojourn in Egypt” (DE 1.6, 31). Maimonides provides an ontological foundation to this concept of gradual reform: For a sudden transition from one opposite to another is impossible. And therefore man, according to his nature is not capable of abandoning suddenly all to which he was habituated [alifa]. (Guide 3.32, 384/526)

This principle allows Maimonides to explain much of the legal and narrative content of the Law of Moses. From the Arabic literature on paganism Maimonides construes a portrait of the beliefs, practices, and institutions of the “Sabians,” who are not a distinct religious community for him, but represent pagan religions as a whole.93 In the time of Moses the religion of the “Sabians” was practiced in “the whole world” (3.32, 84/526). It was thus also the religion of the ancient Egyptians under which the Jews were brought up while being slaves in Egypt. Given the inertia of human nature and the moral and intellectual corruption of the Jews who had become habituated to the beliefs and practices of the “Sabians,” Moses realized that he could not simply replace the old and false religion with a new and true one. This would have had the same effect as feeding a newborn bread, meat, and wine. Unless he were to send all members of the community “over ten years old” into exile as Plato proposes in the Republic, he thus 92 93

On Maimonides’s possible Christian sources, see, for example, Pines (1976); Funkenstein (1970); (1986), 227–39; and (1998). On divine accommodation in general, see Benin (1993). See Guide 2.29–30, 2.32. For a detailed account of Maimonides’s study of this literature and its role in his sociology of religion, see Stroumsa (2009), 84–111.

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had to take the path of gradual reform. The paradigmatic example for the compromises which this path required are the laws of sacrifice. At the time when the Jews were slaves in Egypt: the way of life generally accepted [mashh¯ura] and habitual [mal¯ufa] in the whole world and the universal service upon which we were brought up consisted in offering various species of living beings in the temples in which images were set up, in worshiping the latter, and in burning incense before them. . . . His wisdom, may he be exalted, and his gracious ruse [talat..tuf] which is manifest in regard to all his creatures, did not require that he give us a Law prescribing the rejection . . . of all these kinds of worship. For one could not then conceive the acceptance of [such a Law], considering the nature of man which always likes that to which it is habituated [al-mal¯uf]. At that time this would have been similar to the appearance of a prophet in these times who, calling upon the people to worship God, would say: “God has given you a Law forbidding you to pray to Him, to fast, to call upon Him for help in misfortune. Your worship should consist solely in meditation without any works at all.” Therefore he, may he be exalted, suffered the above-mentioned kinds of worship to remain, but transferred them from created or imaginary and unreal things to his own name, may he be exalted, commanding us to practice them with regard to him, may he be exalted. . . . Through this divine ruse it came about that the memory of idolatry was effaced and that the grandest and true foundation of our belief – namely, the existence and oneness of the deity – was firmly established, while at the same time the souls had no feeling of repugnance [lam tanfur] and were not repelled [l¯a istawh.ashat] because of the abolition of modes of worship to which they were habituated [alifat]. (Guide 3.32, 384–85/526–27)

Sacrifices, therefore, have only instrumental, not intrinsic, value as a way of worshiping God. They are a concession Moses had to make to the stage of the Jews in their cultural-religious development at the time of the exodus from Egypt. Their role is analogous to that of milk for the newborn. At the same time, Maimonides sketches what the path to the goal of the process could look like: sacrifices which are a necessary form of worship in the historical context of Moses’s legislation are replaced by less inadequate forms of worship such as praying and fasting which ideally are replaced by meditation without works.94 If it were possible to reach this stage, God would be worshiped adequately not only relative to a particular historical context, but absolutely. The underlying assumption is that 94

Or, more precisely, since sacrifices, praying, and fasting coexisted, only the less inadequate forms of worship are retained at the second stage. The issue requires further investigation, however, because Maimonides also holds that sacrifices will resume in the Messianic era. See MT, Book of Judges, Laws Concerning Kings and Wars 11.

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inadequate habits of worship can be gradually replaced by more adequate habits. While the laws of sacrifice are a paradigmatic example, Maimonides applies the same type of historical explanation to a wide range of other laws throughout his discussion of the reasons for the commandments in Guide 3.25–49. While many of these laws seem to lack a rationale at first view, it can be supplied once they are considered in historical perspective. Maimonides applies the developmental model not only to practices, but also to beliefs. This explains why the Divine Law’s allegorical content can be disclosed step by step to non-philosophers.95 Concerning beliefs the paradigmatic example is God’s corporeality. Moses habituated the Jews to the belief in God’s “existence and oneness” thus turning them away from Sabian polytheism. Since “a sudden transition from one opposite to another is impossible,” however, Moses could not impose the belief in God’s incorporeality as well. In Maimonides’s time the commitment to God’s existence and oneness could not only be taken for granted, but God’s incorporeality became a doctrine legally enforced in the culturalreligious context of the Jewish community in which Maimonides lived. Hence he felt authorized to take the reform project one step further by legislating God’s incorporeality in the Mishneh Torah and disclosing it through allegorical interpretation in the Guide. As in the case of the laws of sacrifice, the belief in God’s corporeality is only a paradigmatic example for the working of God’s pedagogical “ruse” in history. Already in the passage from Guide 1.31, quoted earlier, God’s corporeality is said to be one of many “metaphysical subjects” concerning which non-philosophers had been habituated to false beliefs. A second example is the belief in reward and punishment. According to the “Sabians,” who believed in astral gods, worshiping stars and planets leads to the: prolongation of life, a warding-off of calamities, the disappearance of infirmities, the fertility of the sowing, and the thriving of the fruits. Now inasmuch as these notions were generally accepted . . . , and as God, may he be exalted, wished in his pity for us to efface this error from our minds . . . , Moses our master . . . informed us in his name, may he be exalted, that if the stars and the planets were worshiped . . . rains will cease to fall, that the land will be devastated, that circumstances will become bad, that bodies will suffer from diseases, and that lives will be short; whereas a necessary consequence of the abandonment of their worship and the adoption of the worship of God will be rainfall, the fertility of 95

As I suggested in chapter 2, the same reasoning likely underlies Philo’s allegorical interpretation.

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the land, good circumstances, health of the body, and length of life. (Guide 3.30, 382/523)

In this case, one false belief concerning reward and punishment is replaced by another false belief which, however, is closer to the truth: that there is no reward and punishment at all in the traditional sense. For the belief: that [God] will procure us benefits if we obey him and will take vengeance on us if we disobey him, . . . this too is a ruse [h.¯ıla] used by him. (Guide 3.32, 386/528–29)

As in the case of prayers and fasting, the belief in reward and punishment is only an intermediate stage on the path to the true conception of the relationship between human beings and God. The false beliefs that Maimonides describes as “necessary” in Guide 3.28, are therefore necessary only for a certain stage of the Jews’ cultural-religious development. At this stage the belief that God “has a violent anger against those who do injustice,” for example, or that God “responds instantaneously to the prayer of someone wronged or deceived” are “necessary for the abolition of reciprocal wrongdoing or for the acquisition of a noble moral quality” (3.28, 374/514). Ultimately, as we will see, Maimonides wants all members of the community to serve God “out of love,” rather than to avoid punishment or receive reward. We can see the scope of Maimonides’s ambition with regard to habituating non-philosophers to true beliefs in the first four chapters of the Laws Concerning the Foundations of the Torah. They illustrate his new method to convey philosophical doctrines: instead of demonstrative, dialectical, rhetorical, or poetical arguments, Maimonides legislates a summary of Aristotelian metaphysics and physics – that is, of the “Account of the Chariot” and the “Account of the Beginning.” The Hebrew “yesodei ha-torah” (Foundations of the Torah) likely translates the Arabic “us.u¯ l al-d¯ın,” suggesting that the Almohad catechism mentioned above was Maimonides’s model.96 The long-term goal of Maimonides’s Aristotelian catechism was to habituate non-philosophers not only to God’s incorporeality, but to all basic concepts of a sound philosophical worldview. Once these concepts take root in the minds of the members of the community, the disclosure of the Divine Law’s allegorical content will have to follow suit. Maimonides’s work can thus be seen as one stage in a larger historical process. What he did 96

See Stroumsa (2009), 70.

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for God’s incorporeality, his successors will have to do for other allegorical doctrines of the Divine Law.97 Whereas al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı holds that some nonphilosophers can be “elevated” from poetic imitations to grasping things “according to their true nature through the insight of the philosophers, following them, assenting to their views, and trusting them,” Maimonides’s hope seems to be that all adult non-philosophers can attain this stage over a long period of time. Plato and most of the fal¯asifa think that if the traditional beliefs of non-philosophers are challenged they fall into nihilism because they cannot replace them through true ones. According to Maimonides avoiding nihilism is possible if true beliefs are gradually imposed through habituation. Maimonides would argue that Ibn Tufayl’s H . ayy ibn Yaqz.a¯ n did not fail because he tried to remove false beliefs and “lay bare the truth,” but because he tried to do so all at once. Had he and his successors instead proceeded step by step, the members of the community would not have felt “in their souls an abhorrence for what he told them.” The contrast between philosophers who assent to true beliefs on the basis of demonstrations and non-philosophers who embrace true beliefs on the basis of habituation is, however, less clear-cut than I have presented it thus far. Recall how Maimonides describes the goal of the Law of Moses: it aims “to convey correct beliefs with regard to God, may he be exalted, in the first place . . . and desires to make man wise.” Conveying “correct beliefs” through the Law and making “man wise” are, in fact, two distinct goals. First “correct beliefs” are accepted “on the basis of traditional authority [taql¯ıd]” which Maimonides calls “the science of the Law.” Then traditional authority ought to be replaced by “wisdom,” namely “the verification of the opinions of the Law through correct speculation” (3.51, 455/616 and 3.54, 467/633–34). According to Maimonides, “speculation concerning the fundamental principles of religion” is part of Talmud, and studying Talmud is obligatory for all members of the community. Consider Maimonides’s example of a “craftsman” in the Laws Concerning the Study of the Torah: the craftsman should spend three hours a day working for his living and nine hours studying Torah – a work–study proportion that clearly represents Maimonides’s ideal:

97

Maimonides has, moreover, prepared the ground for the next stage in the Guide. For the “Account of the Beginning,” see Guide 2.30 and for the “Account of the Chariot,” see Guide 3, from the introduction up to and including chapter 8.

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The time assigned to study should be divided into three parts. One third should be devoted to the written Law, one third to the oral Law, and the last third to understanding [yavin] and intellectually apprehending [yaskil] inferences, deducing one thing from another and comparing one thing to another. . . . This is called “Talmud.” . . . The words of the prophets are contained in the written Law and their interpretation in the oral Law. The subjects called “pardes” [that is, the “Account of the Beginning” and the “Account of the Chariot”] are included in the Gemara. This rule applies to the beginning of a person’s studies. But once he makes progress in wisdom [hokhmah] and no longer needs to learn the written Law or be occupied with the oral Law all the time, he should, at fixed times, read the written Law and the oral Law, so as not to forget any of the rules of the Law, and should devote all his days to the study of Talmud alone according to his breadth of mind and maturity of intellect [rohav libo ve-yishshur dato]. (Madda, Laws Concerning the Study of the Torah 1.11–12)

Since “Talmud” means that all members of the community must study the philosophical foundations of the Law included in pardes, replacing traditional authority through wisdom is a universal obligation; everyone is required to enter “the antechambers” of the king’s palace, according to Maimonides’s parable in Guide 3.51 which equates degrees of perfection with degrees of proximity attained by subjects striving to come as close as possible to their king (455/619). The palace’s antechambers represent the fifth degree of perfection, above “jurists” who hold true opinions based on authority, yet below “men of science” and prophets who have attained perfect knowledge. Maimonides’s Aristotelian catechism confirms that guiding all members of the community to the palace’s antechambers is indeed his aim. Although it legally enforces philosophical doctrines, Maimonides often sketches proofs for them, for example the proof for God’s existence, unity, and incorporeality based on the eternal motion of the celestial spheres.98 While these sketches fall short of fully elaborated demonstrations, they provide starting points for further reflection, showing that Maimonides’s intention is not only to impose doctrines, but to persuade the community by means of rational argument. In the end everyone should share in intellectual worship and “serve God out of love”: Hence, when instructing the young, women, or the uneducated generally, we teach them to serve God out of fear [la-avod mi-yirah] or for the sake of reward, until their knowledge increases and they have attained a large measure of wisdom. Then we reveal to them this secret little by little [the secret that there are no reward and punishment in the traditional sense], and habituate them to it slowly until 98

See Madda, Laws Concerning the Foundations of the Torah 1.5 and 1.7.

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they have grasped and comprehended it, and serve God out of love [ve-yaavduhu me-ahava]. (Madda, Laws Concerning Repentance 10.5; cf. 10.1)

This does not mean that for Maimonides all members of the community can become philosophers in the strict sense: those who enter the king’s “antechambers . . . indubitably have different ranks” (3.51, 455/619; my emphasis). Yet while the quality of their understanding varies according to their intellectual abilities, all of them ought to substitute wisdom for authority as much as they can. Maimonides’s optimism about the ability of non-philosophers to share in theoretical wisdom led him to adopt a significantly more egalitarian position with respect to human perfection than was common among the fal¯asifa. In the early Commentary on the Mishnah he still offers a teleological justification for social hierarchy: a community cannot subsist if all its members live the contemplative life. The purpose of the “common people” (am ha-aretz) is to satisfy the material needs of the wise and to keep them company (CM, Introduction to Seder Zeraim, 119–31). Different versions of this teleological view were widely held by the fal¯asifa and can ultimately be traced back to Plato’s tripartite state in the Republic.99 In the Mishneh Torah, however, Maimonides revises his position. As we saw, all members of the community should spend a small amount of time working and most of the time studying. Even the greatest sage, Maimonides argues, ought to do manual work and decline taking money for studying the Law.100 Maimonides must have concluded that this division of labor leads to greater overall perfection than the division of labor advocated in the Commentary on the Mishnah. Hence it is a more adequate political mirror of God’s perfection revealed in nature. With the exception of Christian philosophers like Origen, whose eschatological vision of a community of philosophers relies on the doctrine of reincarnation, Maimonides is the most egalitarian proponent of a philosophical religion. We saw that for Maimonides the Law of Moses is rational throughout: God orders the Jewish community towards what is best through the mediation of Moses, the most accomplished philosopher-prophet of all time. Maimonides’s explanation of what this means in his early works represents the standard view of the fal¯asifa. Like Averroes, he argues that the legal content of the Divine Law promotes the moral virtues while its narrative 99 100

See, for example, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Mab¯adi 15.4–6; Averroes, Comm. Rep., 23–24/6–9. On this second point Maimonides did not change his mind; see CM, Avot 4.5 and Madda, Laws Concerning the Study of the Torah 3.10–11.

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content translates philosophical doctrines into “the language of human beings” through dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical arguments. The historical explanation of Jewish beliefs, practices, and institutions in the Guide, on the other hand, marks a significant shift. Like the nomoi of Magnesia which are not best absolutely speaking, but best in a particular cultural context, the Law of Moses is best only if we take the “Sabian” beliefs, practices, and institutions into account under which the Jews were brought up in Egypt. This contextualist turn makes room for progress: while Averroes conceives progress as a succession of increasingly virtuous religions, in line with the view that Islam supersedes Judaism and Christianity, Maimonides suggests that the same virtuous religion can be gradually reformed. How far did Maimonides think this process could lead? Surely not to a community of philosophers who need no laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship altogether. In one form or another these will remain in place to offer pedagogical guidance to children and political guidance to nonphilosophers. The Mishneh Torah not only codifies the entire body of the Jewish law, but suggests that sacrifices – the paradigmatic case of historically contingent practices as we saw – will resume in the messianic era.101 There thus appear to be tensions in Maimonides’s project. Yet it is safe to say that a community of philosophers is the ideal which Jewish leaders should strive to realize as much as historical circumstances allow, and that Maimonides did all he could to incorporate as much as possible of this ideal into the reality of the Jewish community. Finally, we must reconsider Maimonides’s claim that the Law of Moses is the only perfect instantiation of the Divine Law. For one thing, the historical explanation of its rationality implies that – to use al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s definition of religion – the “opinions and actions” which it prescribes were “determined and limited” by particular circumstances. Since Maimonides argues that key cultural constraints of the time of Moses are no longer in place, he, in fact, radicalizes the claim of the Divine Law’s historical contingency. Not only do equally or more perfect instantiations of the Divine Law become possible, but Maimonides seems to suggest that if Moses had returned in his own time, he would have replaced the old Law with a new Law, adjusted to the improved cultural conditions of the Jews. This new Law would neither require sacrifices nor attribute corporeal features to God. Maimonides’s apologetic claim that no other Divine Law is conceivable besides the Law of Moses thus does not pose a philosophical challenge to the religious pluralism proposed by al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı. 101

See MT, Book of Judges, Laws Concerning Kings and Wars 11.

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Like Plato and the Alexandrians, the fal¯asifa are advocates of theocracy. The shar¯ıa and the torah order the community towards what is best, as we saw, and something well ordered is rationally ordered and hence divinely ordered on account of the concept of God as Reason. In the ideal religious community God’s rule and self-rule coincide with no need for laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. Maimonides, for example, portrays Adam before the Fall as the model of human perfection: to be created in God’s image means that Adam has perfected reason (see Guide 1.1). Since his life is completely determined by reason, no laws are required for identifying certain types of actions as good and other types of actions as evil, and Maimonides indeed denies that Adam was able to understand the meaning of “good” and “evil” (see Guide 1.2).102 As we saw, however, the fal¯asifa recognize that most members of the community are imperfectly rational. Hence an excellent community differs from the ideal community: its members do not reach the highest perfection absolutely speaking, but only the highest perfection that is in their nature to attain. Like Plato and the Alexandrians, the fal¯asifa take God’s rule to be conducive to rational self-rule, conceived as knowledge of the good and the motivation to live according to this knowledge. Also for them a life ruled by reason is a self-ruled life because the defining feature of human beings is reason. If most members of the community are imperfectly rational, however, how can they share in the rule of reason unless by obeying God and doing what the philosopher-prophet prescribes? To see why this does not follow, consider the analogy between legislation and medicine that we saw in Plato and that the fal¯asifa, too, frequently draw.103 The expertise of the leader of the community about what is best must be as well founded as the doctor’s expertise about health. As the patient follows the instructions of the doctor for the sake of health, so the members of the community follow the Divine Law for the sake of their perfection. This analogy seems to confirm that non-philosophers are excluded from rational selfrule. Upon closer examination, however, we will see that things are more complicated. For one thing, there are many doctors who do not abide by the rules that prescribe what is best for their health. They fail to observe a healthy 102 103

Spinoza restates Maimonides’s portrait of Adam in the Ethics to illustrate the proposition that “free men” (homines liberi) do not conceive the notions of good and evil as long as they are free (E4p68s). See, for example, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Fus.u¯ l 1–5; Averroes, Fas.l, 27–28; Maimonides, Eight Chapters, chapter 1.

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diet, for example, or do not keep in good shape through regular exercise. If left unattended, the soul’s non-rational impulses will not only conflict with reason, but may end up gaining control over a person’s behavior, as in the examples of a weak will just described. Shaping the non-rational impulses of the soul from childhood on in such a way that they later collaborate in implementing the prescriptions of reason is the first way in which the Divine Law contributes to self-rule. As we saw, the fal¯asifa explain this in terms of Aristotle’s theory of habituation: the Divine Law shapes the character of the members of the religious community in such a way that they are attracted to things considered objectively good and fear things considered objectively bad.104 Later, when they grasp why these things are good or bad, their non-rational desires will be in agreement with their rational insight. Even if all human beings could become philosophers, therefore, the Divine Law would still be indispensable for children. Thus a perfect philosopher like Adam before the Fall would not have been able to reach this stage of perfection had his character not been formed by the Divine Law.105 We saw, however, that according to the fal¯asifa only very few human beings actually turn into philosophers. Must a theocracy thus not remain intolerably paternalistic for everyone who does not advance to this stage? The fal¯asifa’s response is in part directed against the critique of prophetic religions by Muslim freethinkers such as Ab¯u Bakr al-R¯az¯ı. Recall that for R¯az¯ı prophetic religions are redundant, because God endowed all human beings with reason which is sufficient to guide them in life. Human beings do not comply with God’s will by obeying the Divine Law, but by following the authority of reason. Submitting to “religious authority” (taql¯ıd) is the consequence of laziness: human beings follow taql¯ıd: because they fail to reflect, not because of some [inborn] deficiency. . . . Had they made an effort [law ijtahad¯u] and concerned themselves with what helps them, they would have been equal in intellect and in resolution.106

In principle, then, all human beings are equally capable of rational selfrule according to R¯az¯ı, whose ideal, like Socrates’s, leaves no role for the pedagogical-political guidance offered by laws, stories, exhortations, and 104 105 106

See, for example, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Fus.u¯ l 6–21; Averroes, Bid¯aya 57.6; Maimonides, Eight Chapters 1–7; Madda, Laws Concerning Ethical Dispositions. Maimonides does not mention this in his discussion of Adam. Spinoza, however, points out that it is impossible for a person to be born free (E4p68s). Quoted by Ab¯u H¯atim al-R¯az¯ı in Al¯am al-nubuwwa, 3–5.

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practices of worship.107 We know that al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı wrote a refutation of one of R¯az¯ı’s works containing aggressive anti-prophetic statements.108 Moreover, a number of distinctive features in Maimonides’s portrait of Jewish heretics are most likely derived from the polemics against Muslim freethinkers.109 The fal¯asifa, of course, agree with R¯az¯ı that everyone ought as much as possible to be guided by reason. But they take the Divine Law to be indispensable for achieving this goal because an ideal community – a community of accomplished philosophers like Adam – is impossible given the reality of human nature. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı would likely have raised the same objection against R¯az¯ı that we saw him raise against Socrates: he was only able “to conduct a scientific investigation of justice and the virtues . . . but did not possess the ability to form the character of the youth and the multitude.” How, then, does the Divine Law contribute to the rational self-rule of non-philosophers? We saw that the fal¯asifa take “happiness” to be the highest good which they identify with intellectual perfection. This is, however, not self-evident, al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı argues. Although human beings desire by nature to know, they also desire the well-being of their body and senses. How these desires are to be ranked and organized in a human life is itself a question to be examined. The answer depends on clarifying in what human nature and its perfection consists and by what kind of activity this perfection is achieved. This, in turn, requires understanding the order of things as a whole of which human beings are a part. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı illustrates the point through a comparison: Understanding the nature, perfection, and proper activity of shoemaking requires understanding the order of the political community of which this craft is a part and by which its purpose is determined. The shoemaker could simply be compelled to make shoes by the lawgiver. But if he understands how his craft is linked to other crafts, the human need it fulfills, and how it contributes to the common good, he will grasp the reasons why he does what he does and in this sense attain rational self-rule (see Falsafat Arist.u¯.ta¯ l¯ıs, 68/79). Both Plato and Aristotle stress the sovereignty of the ruler who, on the basis of political science, directs all activities in the polis towards the common good.110 Since we depend on social collaboration to fulfill the many needs that arise from being embodied, Aristotle, as we saw, argues that practical wisdom must 107 108 110

Note, however, that Socrates’s attitude to the Delphic oracle suggests that, unlike for R¯az¯ı, self-rule and religious guidance are not in conflict for him. 109 See Stroumsa (1999a), 221–38. See n. 37 above. See Statesman 259e–260c and EN 1.2; cf. Metaph. 1.1, 981a13–981b7.

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include knowledge of the political order to make prescriptions that take our position in that order into account. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s comparison suggests that all citizens can become sovereign and act in a self-directed way to the extent they attain the ruler’s political science and understand their particular task in its light. The case for understanding human perfection is analogous: [I]f the human being is a part of the world, and if we wish to know his end, activity, advantage, and rank, first we have to know the end of the whole world so that it will become clear to us what the end of the human being is and that the human being is a necessary part of the world because through his end the ultimate end of the world is attained. If, therefore, we wish to know the thing for which we must strive, we need to know the end of the human being and the human perfection for which we must strive. For this reason we must know the end of the world in its entirety; and we cannot know this without knowing all the parts of the world and their principles: what it is, how it is, from what it is, and for what it is. And this [we need to know] concerning the whole world and concerning each of the parts of which it is composed. (Falsafat Arist.u¯.ta¯ l¯ıs, 68–69/79–80)

Without understanding the order of things, then, human beings cannot pursue their perfection in a self-directed way. Understanding the human good requires comprehensive training in natural science and metaphysics: grasping that the world’s purpose is the perfection of all its constituents and that reason is both the feature that distinguishes human beings from other natural things (minerals, plants, and animals) and the feature they have in common with God. Thus by perfecting reason human beings attain their distinctive good and contribute to the perfection of the whole. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s chief systematic works give a detailed outline of the comprehensive knowledge that all members of a religious community must have. They begin by discussing God as the first cause, the causation and order of the world, the place of human beings within this order, and the perfection of human beings. Then they examine the political conditions under which citizens attain or fail to attain perfection.111 Human beings, however, “are equipped by nature for different approaches to truth and for . . . having it established in their souls by different kinds of knowledge” (Falsafat Arist.u¯.ta¯ l¯ıs, 78/87). Only philosophers have access to the truth through demonstrations. Non-philosophers, by contrast, approach it through the dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical arguments that make up the narrative content of the Divine Law. The “different kinds of knowledge” established in the souls of philosophers and non-philosophers thus play a role similar to the two kinds of wisdom that Plotinus attributes to Plato as we saw 111

See Mab¯adi and Siy¯asa.

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in chapter 1. According to Enneads 1.2, all citizens in a virtuous city have wisdom in the political sense, which means that reason orders their lives. But only a few citizens move on to wisdom properly speaking, attaining “likeness to God” through intellectual perfection. It is now clear why the fal¯asifa attribute so much importance to the fact that the Divine Law conveys an understanding of God and nature in a non-scientific form and on the basis of non-scientific arguments. We saw that for Maimonides a Law is divine if it aims “to make man wise, to give him understanding and to awaken his attention, so that he should know the whole of that which exists in its true form” (Guide 2.40, 271/384). Similarly, Averroes praises the Divine Law for leading “towards wisdom in a way shared by all human beings,” unlike philosophy in the technical sense which is accessible only to “the intellectuals among the people” (Tah¯afut 2.4, 582/360). The fal¯asifa – like Plato and the Alexandrians – are thus committed to a concept of degrees of autonomy. The actions of non-philosophers will be guided by a less accurate understanding of God, the world, and their place in it, based on arguments whose epistemic quality is inferior to demonstrations. But only at the lowest rank of the scale will they accept things on account of mere religious authority. This point is brought out clearly by Averroes: It is not impossible that there may be some people whose intellect is so sluggish . . . that they do not understand anything of the religious proofs [al-adilla al-shariyya] which the Prophet, prayer and peace be upon him, has set up for the multitude. But this is most rare [aqall al-wuj¯ud]. However, if there are such people they would be obligated to believe in God by way of authority [al-asm¯a]. (Kashf, 135/19)

Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı suggests that one way of ranking citizens is in accordance with their increasing capacity for self-rule. At the bottom of the hierarchy is “the slave by nature.” At the top is the completely autonomous person, capable of conceiving a goal on his own and choosing the right means to attain it. Most members of the community, however, are on an intermediate level (Fus.u¯ l 60). This fits well with al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı’s concept of the Divine Law as composed of several levels which gradually approach philosophy and thus address the members of the religious community in a way suited to their intellectual rank and capacity for self-rule (see Mab¯adi 17.4). The concept of degrees of knowledge also helps to explain a contention made by both Averroes and Maimonides that at first view is puzzling. In the opening argument of the Decisive Treatise Averroes reaches the conclusion that philosophy and logic are not only permitted from the standpoint of Islam, but are a legal obligation. How can philosophy

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and logic be obligatory for everyone if the great majority of Muslims are non-philosophers? Recall Averroes’s definition of the philosophy which Muslims are called to pursue: “the rational inquiry into the existing things and their contemplation insofar as they are proof of the Maker” (Fas.l, 1). This definition is so vague that it is compatible with both demonstrative proofs and non-demonstrative proofs of God. It fits, for example, Aristotle’s physical proof from the motion of the universe which is, according to Averroes, the principal demonstrative proof of God’s existence. But it fits equally the teleological proof and the proof from causation which are the two non-demonstrative proofs described by Averroes.112 These proofs belong to what Averroes calls “religious proofs” in the passage quoted above. A similar distinction applies to logic which includes both demonstrative and non-demonstrative arguments, the latter being dialectical, rhetorical, or poetical as we saw. Averroes thus must be using the term “philosophy” in a non-technical sense at the beginning of the Decisive Treatise. Insofar as it refers to non-demonstrative proofs and arguments, it refers to the degree of understanding that can be attained through the narrative content of the Divine Law.113 If Averroes had meant philosophy as a strictly demonstrative science, his claim that philosophy is a universal Islamic obligation would have been inconsistent with his view that most Muslims are non-philosophers. A similar problem occurs in Maimonides. According to the Mishneh Torah, the following is the first commandment of the Law of Moses: The foundation of the foundations and the pillar of the sciences is to know [leyda] that there is a First Existent, and it is he who brings into existence everything that exists. . . . To know this is a positive commandment for it is said: “I am the Lord thy God” [Exod 20:2]. (Madda, Laws Concerning the Foundations of the Torah 1.1)

The demonstrative proofs for God’s existence are a central part of metaphysics, according to Maimonides, and metaphysics cannot be taught to “the multitude,” but only to “a few solitary individuals of a very special sort” (Guide 1.34, 53/79). How, then, can knowledge of God’s existence 112 113

See Kashf, chapter 1. Note that Averroes is very careful in his formulation. Although the “Law makes it obligatory [awjaba] to reflect upon existing things . . . by means of intellectual syllogisms,” it only “calls for [daa¯ ] and urges [h.aththa]” to do so by means “of the most complete kind of syllogism” which “is the one called demonstration [burh¯an]” (Fas.l, 2–3). The latter thus is the best mode of reasoning, but not a universal obligation.

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be a universal obligation? If “knowledge” in this passage means “demonstrative knowledge,” this would have the absurd consequence that the great majority of Jews would be forced to transgress the most fundamental commandment of the Law of Moses. Here again the solution lies in the assumption that Maimonides is using “to know” in an inclusive way, comprising the “different kinds of knowledge” which, according to alF¯ar¯ab¯ı, are established in the souls of human beings “equipped by nature for different approaches to truth.”114 Additional evidence for the fal¯asifa’s view that the purpose of the Divine Law is to maximize rational self-rule, is their unanimous critique of members of the religious community whose motivation to observe the Divine Law is not insight into the goodness of what the Law prescribes, but fear of punishment or desire for reward. Averroes, it is worth noting, criticizes Plato for including the “myth of Er” in the Republic – an eschatological myth suggesting that a moral life is rewarded and an immoral life punished after death (see Comm. Rep., 105/148). Maimonides, as we saw, describes this kind of inadequate motivation as “serving God out of fear” which he opposes to “serving God out of love” – that is, doing what the Divine Law prescribes on account of knowing why it is beneficial and desiring it for that sake (Madda, Laws Concerning Repentance 10.5). Fear of punishment and desire for reward are legitimate motives only at the stage of habituation and should be replaced as much as possible by rational insight. The importance of the Divine Law is not limited to enabling nonphilosophers to share in rational self-rule. As a stepping stone to full rational self-rule it plays an important role for philosophers as well. For there is, of course, a period of transition during which potential philosophers cannot yet do what reason prescribes because they have not yet reached the stage at which reason can take charge. During this period they must rely on the lawgiver’s wisdom as embodied in the Divine Law for guidance. When they advance in their studies, this pre-philosophical understanding is gradually replaced through knowledge.115

114

115

Cf. Maimonides’s twofold notion of wisdom (h.ikma) referring to the literal and the allegorical sense of the Law of Moses (1, introduction, 8/12). See also Guide 1.63 where Maimonides portrays Moses as providing proofs of God’s existence to both the community as a whole and “the men of knowledge” among them (106/155); the proofs for the community as a whole must have been non-demonstrative according to Maimonides. On “elevating” not-yet-philosophers, see again al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Mab¯adi 17.4 and Maimonides, Guide 1.33. Compare the concept of “faith” (pistis) discussed in chapter 2. Unlike Christian philosophers, however, the fal¯asifa would not describe the transition as one from faith to knowledge, but as one from imperfect to perfect knowledge.

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If the highest good consists in the perfection of reason, culminating in the apprehension of God, this not only seems to exclude most members of the community from achieving perfection, but it would also be perverse if the Divine Law provided them with an understanding of God, nature, and their place in the order of things which enables them to grasp what the perfection is that by nature they are unable to attain. Moreover, if the motivation to do what reason prescribes depends on the desire to know – the intellectual love of God in Maimonides’s words – it is unclear how non-philosophers can make the transition from serving God out of fear to serving God out of love. The fal¯asifa respond to these objections on the basis of their Aristotelian epistemology. Recall that for Aristotle all cognitions – from sense-perceptions to the grasp of the first principles of being – are part of a continuum of knowledge and provide the pleasure of intellectual activity. Hence “all human beings” not only “desire to know by nature” but are also able to satisfy this desire to a greater or lesser degree. Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, for example, argues that intellectual perfection includes various levels of which demonstrative knowledge and the pleasure derived from it is only the highest. Below it are a wide range of experiences that can be described as cultural-religious. Like demonstrative knowledge, they are “cognitions and apprehensions [maa¯ rif wa-idr¯ak¯at] that are sought only for the sake of apprehension and the pleasure of apprehension, not for the sake of being utilized” to attain other goals. They constitute the highest good for non-philosophers. These experiences include: tales and traditions, as well as histories of . . . nations, which human beings use and listen to only for the sake of enjoyment. For the meaning of “joy” is nothing but attaining comfort and pleasure. Likewise, watching actors and listening to the words by which they imitate things, listening to poems and going through what one understands of the poems and the tales that are recited or read – all these are used by the person who finds joy and comfort in them only for the sake of the pleasure derived from what he understands. The more certain the apprehension of what he apprehends, the more perfect his pleasure. The more excellent and perfect [afd.al wa-akmal] in himself the person who apprehends, the more perfect and complete [akmal wa-atamm] is the pleasure in his apprehension. (Falsafat Arist.u¯.ta¯ l¯ıs, 61/73)

Hence the perfection derived from demonstrative knowledge and the perfection derived from non-demonstrative forms of understanding do not differ in kind, but only in degree. The same consideration underlies Maimonides’s call on all members of the Jewish community to devote most of their time to study and only a small portion of it to work. Although the

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quality of their insights and the pleasure derived from them will vary, the difference here, too, is one of degree. While a community of philosophers in which God’s rule and self-rule perfectly coincide cannot be attained according to the fal¯asifa, the shar¯ıa and the torah, like the nomoi of Magnesia, aim at a community of “free men” that embodies this ideal as much as the diversity of human nature allows. medieval jewish enlightenment In the thirteenth century Maimonides’s Jewish students in Christian Europe devoted themselves with religious zeal to teaching philosophy to the general public.116 The literary genres they used for this purpose included not only study aids such as dictionaries of technical terms and philosophical encyclopedias, but also distinctly Jewish genres, from commentaries on the Bible to synagogue sermons.117 As a consequence, the Jewish communities in medieval Europe witnessed what was likely the most comprehensive attempt before the Enlightenment to bring philosophy into every living room! At the same time, however, Maimonides’s students also held that access to philosophy must be restricted to the select few.118 Given Maimonides’s approach to enlightening non-philosophers, this should no longer strike us as a puzzle. A brief look at Samuel ibn Tibbon (d. c.1232), the founder of Maimonideanism in medieval Europe, will show how Maimonides’s disciples take up his project.119 Ibn Tibbon agrees with Maimonides that the Divine Law has two sides: a secret side directed towards philosophers and a public side directed towards non-philosophers. Like Maimonides he characterizes these two sides by means of Proverbs 25:11 – “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver” – and conceives the relationship between them as dynamic. Jewish sages have a twofold task: on the one hand, teaching philosophy and disclosing the Divine Law’s allegorical content to philosophically talented students; on the other, reconfiguring the Law’s public teachings according to the scientific culture of their time and place which determines the ability to understand of non-philosophers. Also according to Ibn Tibbon, Moses had to resort to God’s pedagogical ruse in history to counteract the beliefs, practices, and institutions of the Sabians, for “Moses gave the Torah at a 116 117 119

See Freudenthal (1993); Fraenkel (2010a); Robinson (2012). 118 See Ravitzky (1977); (1981); (1990). See Robinson (2012). On Ibn Tibbon, see Fraenkel (2007) and Robinson (2007).

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time when the community of the Sabians encompassed the entire world” (PQ 335/309).The Sabian context shaped the Divine Law’s “settings of silver,” which cover the “golden apple” – that is, the Divine Law’s allegorical content. However, through the small “holes” in the silver settings readers can catch a glimpse of the golden apple. The next stage in the process of gradually disclosing the allegorical content of the Divine Law is the period of King David, traditionally considered the author of Psalms, and King Solomon, traditionally considered the author of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs (see 18/16; MYM 22, 174). These books reconfigure the relationship between the Divine Law’s secret and public side in response to a more advanced scientific culture: David and Solomon “widened the holes in the settings of silver with which [Moses] had covered his apples of gold.” They replace “obscure words with different words that point more clearly to their purpose” (PQ 52–53/48–49), thus giving non-philosophers access to previously concealed allegorical doctrines. After David and Solomon, additional stages in the process of “widening the holes in the settings of silver” are the prophets, the rabbinic sages, Maimonides, and Ibn Tibbon himself (17–23/15–20; cf. MYM 22, 174–75). Ibn Tibbon’s account of this process, while fuller and more systematic than the account in the Guide, remains within Maimonides’s conceptual framework. Consider how he describes Maimonides’s own contribution: And when . . . the divine philosopher and Torah scholar, our master Moses [Maimonides] saw that only a few were left who understood the indications [haremazim] made by those who spoke through the holy spirit, the prophets, and the rabbinic sages who widened [the settings of silver] with regard to the Law’s secrets he, in turn, added to their indications an explanation, likewise by means of indications, in many places, explaining openly that [God] is not a body and not subject to any of the properties and accidents of bodies. . . . In the same way he also proceeded with regard to the reasons for the commandments, for he saw the great need to reveal them because of the nations which interpret all of them allegorically. (MYM 22, 174–75)

Ibn Tibbon identifies the two key elements in Maimonides’s account of the gradual reform of Jewish beliefs and practices: God’s incorporeality and the historical explanation of the reasons for the commandments. With regard to God’s incorporeality Ibn Tibbon was surely aware of the Almohad context that prompted Maimonides’s stance.120 He can thus argue 120

Samuel’s father, Judah ibn Tibbon, was like Maimonides a Spanish refugee from the Almohads who had abolished the protected status of religious communities normally recognized under Islam as “people of the book,” most importantly Jews and Christians.

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that Maimonides was able to “widen the holes in the settings of silver” because non-philosophers in his time, who grew up under Almohad rule, had been habituated to the doctrine of God’s incorporeality. The main difference between Maimonides’s and Ibn Tibbon’s concepts of habituation to true beliefs is that for Maimonides habituation is the effect of legislation, while for Ibn Tibbon it is a function of the scientific culture of the non-Jewish environment. For Ibn Tibbon, therefore, all stages of the process are contingent upon the changing intellectual contexts of Jewish history. For Maimonides, by contrast, only the stage of Moses is shaped by the beliefs, practices, and institutions of the Sabians, whereas later stages are the outcome of the reform efforts of Moses’s successors like himself. From the Muslim world in the twelfth century to Christian Europe in the thirteenth, the cultural conditions of understanding changed again sufficiently to require that Maimonides’s reconfiguration of the Divine Law’s silver settings be replaced with a new configuration adapted to Ibn Tibbon’s own time and place: I revealed, therefore, . . . what I revealed concerning [things] that nobody had revealed before, so that we may not become a disgrace in the eyes of our neighbors. . . . And the truth that will be apprehended through [this treatise] is the knowledge of the true God. (MYM 22, 175)

For a contemporary of Ibn Tibbon, therefore, the right way to approach the Divine Law’s allegorical content is no longer through the Guide, nor through the canonical Jewish texts preceding the Guide from the Bible to the Talmud, but rather through Ibn Tibbon’s works of biblical interpretation. Of these the most important is his Treatise ‘Let the Waters be Gathered’ in which Ibn Tibbon “widens the holes in the settings of silver” covering the “Account of the Beginning” and the “Account of the Chariot” – that is, physics and metaphysics according to Maimonides. It should now be clear how the framework worked out by Maimonides and further developed by Ibn Tibbon justifies what can be called the medieval Jewish Enlightenment, in particular the use of distinctly Jewish genres for disseminating philosophy. All this is part of “widening the holes in the settings of silver.” Unlike Averroes’s interpretation of Islam, therefore, Maimonides’s interpretation of Judaism can address not only Jewish concerns about studying philosophy in a religious setting, but also Platonic concerns about teaching philosophy to the general public. Moses Narboni, a fourteenth-century Maimonidean, bears eloquent witness to the continuity of this distinctive conception of a philosophical religion:

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The master [Maimonides] of blessed memory briefly hints at what we reveal to you at length, for times and generations naturally change. As a consequence, with respect to scientific truths, we can make the holes in the settings of silver wider than they were in the past, because in this time, the beliefs accepted on the basis of authority [ha-mefursam] are no longer at odds with scientific doctrines [ha-muskal] as it was in the past. And the master [Maimonides] of blessed memory was the first cause of this. (Comm. Guide 2.19, 34a)

between maimonides and spinoza: elijah delmedigo In the next chapter I will argue that Spinoza interprets Christianity as a philosophical religion and that this interpretation is in important respects modeled on the philosophical interpretation of Islam and Judaism proposed by the fal¯asifa. While Spinoza had no first-hand knowledge of Muslim philosophy, he carefully studied Maimonides and other Jewish philosophers. However, where Maimonides and his medieval disciples differ from Averroes, Spinoza consistently sides with the latter. He clearly rejects the legislation of philosophical doctrines, opposes the allegorical interpretation of Scripture, and in general stresses the independence of philosophy and religion in a way that has much in common with Averroes. Although Spinoza did not read Averroes’s philosophical-theological treatises, it is very likely that he was familiar with their main claims. For these were taken up by the Jewish Renaissance Averroist Elijah Delmedigo (d. c.1493) in his Hebrew treatise, Examination of Religion, a copy of which was in Spinoza’s library. All parallels between Spinoza and Averroes can be explained on the assumption that Spinoza read Delmedigo’s treatise.121 Clarifying Delmedigo’s relationship to Averroes and Maimonides, which has been persistently misrepresented in the scholarly literature, is thus important to understand the medieval background to Spinoza. To see how Delmedigo appropriates key ideas of Averroes, a good starting point is his explanation of the purpose of the Law of Moses: And we say that adherents of religion who are correct in their views do not doubt that the purpose of the Law of Moses is to guide us in human affairs and in good deeds, as well as in true opinions insofar as this is possible for the entire people, and according to the nature of the select few [ha-yehidim] with respect to what is their exclusive domain. Hence the Law of Moses and the prophets set down certain fundamental principles by way of tradition and by way of rhetorical and dialectical explanations in accordance with the method of assent [mishpat ha-immut] that is characteristic of the multitude. And [the Law of Moses] stirred the select few to 121

On Averroes, Delmedigo, and Spinoza, see Fraenkel (2010a) and Fraenkel (forthcoming c).

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investigate according to the method of assent characteristic of them [that is, the demonstrative method] concerning these issues. . . . Thus the following becomes clear . . . that the Law of Moses aims at the perfection of every adherent of religion insofar as possible to him. And since demonstrative science is impossible for the multitude as a whole, while it is possible for the select few – for this reason the Law of Moses requires both these things [that is, assent on the basis of rhetorical and dialectical arguments and assent on the basis of demonstrative arguments]. (Behinat ha-dat, 76)122

Like Averroes, Delmedigo concedes that the methods used by the Divine Law for the guidance of non-philosophers – for example rhetorical and dialectical arguments – lead to contradictions with philosophical doctrines. Delmedigo stresses from the outset that methods vary significantly from one discipline to another. The same biblical text, for example, will be studied in different ways by a Talmudist whose goal is to arrive at a legal decision, by a grammarian whose goal is to provide evidence for a grammatical rule, and by an exegete whose goal is to clarify the text’s meaning (see 75). The inference Delmedigo wants the reader to draw is clear: a prophet whose goal is political – ordering the religious community towards what is best – will speak differently about things like God, angels, or providence than a philosopher whose goal is scientific – establishing what is true and false.123 While the prophet’s methods are dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical, the philosopher uses demonstrations. These goal-dependent differences in method can, but need not, lead to contradictions. There is, for example, no contradiction between prophetic and philosophical claims about God’s existence and unity (see 76–78). For the prophet, however, the scope of true beliefs, which he can convey, and the quality of the proofs, on which he can ground them, are limited by his overall goal: to order the religious community made up of philosophers and non-philosophers towards what is best. If the goal-dependent differences in method give rise to contradictions, one way to resolve them is through allegorical interpretation. There are cases in which “a thing has an interpretation reserved to the select few” (77). One such case is angels: for philosophers they are entities “assumed to be separate from any body and corporeal attribute” (93) – that is, the incorporeal intellects of the supralunar world as conceived by medieval Aristotelians. In the Bible, by contrast, angels are described as entities “apprehended through sense-perception as we apprehend bodies” 122 123

Cf. 98 on the goal of the Law of Moses. On the difference in method between the Law of Moses and philosophy, see in particular 92–94.

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(ibid.). This is a concession to non-philosophers who cannot grasp the philosophical demonstrations for the existence and attributes of incorporeal intellects. If the prophet concludes that in order to attain his overall goal it is required to convey a notion of angels to non-philosophers, he must present them within a conceptual framework that they can understand. Like Averroes, Delmedigo harshly criticizes the disclosing of such allegorical interpretations in public: Many of those who philosophize among the people of our nation have in my opinion strayed from the method of the Law of Moses and its intention. And this is because they sought to change all the literal meanings of the verses [peshate ha-pesuqim] which are [found] in most of the branches and stories of the Law, as if they wished to make the words of the Law more beautiful and to ground them on the meanings [inferred by] scientific syllogism [ha-heqqesh ha-sikhli]. And they did not succeed in either this or that . . . and I think that this should not be done at all. . . . My method, therefore, is very different from the method of many who philosophize in our nation. They changed the goal both of the Law and of philosophy and mixed the two [kinds] of investigation – the theological and the speculative [ha-torani ve-ha-iyyuni] – together, as well as the universal and the particular method [ha-derekh ha-kolel ve-ha-miyyuhad]. And they are like intermediaries between the theologians [ha-medabberim] among the religious people and the philosophers. (Behinat ha-dat, 93–94)

Delmedigo explicitly mentions Maimonides as someone who “walked on the way” he criticizes, although he stresses what he surmises were Maimonides’s noble motives (84). As we saw, Delmedigo attaches great importance to the distinct goals and methods of philosophy and prophecy. While the method of the philosopher is “universal” – establishing what is true and false on the basis of demonstrations which are valid always and everywhere – the method of the prophet is “particular” – ordering a religious community towards what is best under particular natural and cultural circumstances. If the prophet judges that circumstances require presenting angels to non-philosophers in corporeal terms, his purpose would be undermined by a philosopher who publicly discloses that the prophet’s account, correctly understood, refers to incorporeal intellects. The philosopher would be disregarding the political considerations that led to the allegorical representation in the first place.124 First habituating non-philosophers to philosophical doctrines and then disclosing them in 124

According to Delmedigo, the disclosure of the allegorical interpretation of angels led to conflict and strife between philosophers and kabbalists in the Jewish community (93–94). His account of the conflict is clearly modeled on Averroes’s description of the emergence of factions in Islam as a consequence of the disclosure of allegorical interpretations; see Fas.l, 29–32.

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the Law of Moses through allegorical interpretation, as advocated by Maimonides and medieval Maimonideans like Samuel ibn Tibbon, is thus clearly not in line with Delmedigo’s Averroism. Like Averroes, Delmedigo stresses the danger of disclosing the allegorical content of the Law of Moses to non-philosophers: When we tell these deep things [eleh ha-amuqot] as they truly are to the multitude, we do not benefit them, for they do not understand them, but we cause them great damage. (Behinat ha-dat, 96)

It would, therefore, be a mistake to publicly interpret passages in the Law of Moses that conflict with demonstrated philosophical doctrines. But this does not mean that contradictions cannot in principle be resolved through allegorical interpretation. Many scholars, however, have argued that Delmedigo is not committed to the fundamental principle that for Averroes defines the relationship between philosophy and religion – that “the truth does not contradict the truth.” Instead, Delmedigo is said to have adopted a “double truth” doctrine, allegedly set forth by Christian Averroists.125 What scholars mean by Delmedigo’s “double truth” doctrine is that he recognizes the existence of contradictions between philosophical and theological propositions. In such cases theology overrules philosophy – that is, the philosophical proposition is taken to be false and the theological proposition true. If this were the case, it would pose a problem to my claim that Delmedigo’s Examination of Religion helps explain the Averroistic traits of Spinoza’s conception of the relationship between philosophy and religion. For Spinoza, as we will see, stresses, like Averroes, that “the truth does not contradict the truth.” The case Delmedigo considers is the conflict between two propositions of which neither can be conclusively demonstrated.126 In such a case a philosopher ought to choose the side which is most likely in light of the available evidence. Since the available evidence may change as a consequence of scientific progress, the position that was less likely at one point may become more likely at another. The question is what to do if such a conflict occurs between a philosophical proposition – established by sound scientific methods and hence most likely given the available evidence – and a fundamental principle of the Law of Moses. According to Delmedigo, 125

126

See Guttmann (1927); Geffen (1973–74), 74; Ross (1984). I have shown elsewhere that this interpretation is not defensible. The following paragraph summarizes the discussion in Fraenkel (forthcoming c). What follows is my interpretation of Behinat ha-dat, 77–85.

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fundamental principles of the Law of Moses are principles without which the purpose of the Law cannot be achieved. It is, for example, not possible to order the community through a Divine Law unless there is a God who is the source of the Law. Hence God’s existence is a fundamental principle of the Law of Moses. While there is no conflict between the Law and philosophy in this case, in other cases a conflict may arise. Such conflicts cannot be resolved on scientific grounds since the available evidence supports the philosophical position and contradicts the principle of the Law. They also cannot be resolved by reinterpreting the Law, because fundamental principles are necessary for achieving the Law’s goal and hence are not open to reinterpretation. Since the Jewish philosopher, insofar as he is a scientist, must rely on sound scientific methods, he is led to assent to the philosophical position. At the same time, he is committed to the truth of the Law of Moses insofar as he is a Jew, and thus remains convinced that once all evidence becomes available, the Law of Moses will be vindicated. Philosophical and religious commitments can therefore be at variance temporarily on account of the contingent state of scientific knowledge. Absolutely speaking, however, they must be in agreement. It is true that Averroes did not consider such a case. Delmedigo’s most likely model is Maimonides’s account of the conflict between the Law of Moses, which claims that the world is created, and the Aristotelian tradition, which claims that the world is eternal. For Maimonides, neither claim can be conclusively demonstrated. Although it is possible to interpret the Law of Moses allegorically according to the Aristotelian position, this would lead to the subversion of the Law’s fundamental purpose (see Guide 2.25). The conflict is thus set up exactly like the conflicts considered by Delmedigo. Unlike Delmedigo, however, Maimonides attempts to resolve the conflict scientifically. Although Aristotle, according to Maimonides, agrees with him that neither position can be conclusively proven, he considered the eternity thesis more likely on account of the scientific evidence available to him. Maimonides’s reexamination of the problem leads him to conclude that the creation thesis is more likely in light of new scientific discoveries made since Aristotle’s time. Hence the position of the Law of Moses cannot only be explained in light of political considerations, but is also more plausible from a scientific point of view.127 Why is Delmedigo opposed to settling the conflict in the way proposed by Maimonides? On Maimonides’s account a Jewish scientist in Aristotle’s time, even if he had carefully examined all 127

See Guide 2.13–25. For the concept of scientific progress, see in particular 2.19 and 2.24. For considerations of probability, see 2.23.

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available evidence, would have agreed with Aristotle that eternity is more plausible than creation. For this is how Maimonides construes the case: given the available evidence, Aristotle’s choice of eternity over creation was scientifically sound. Had the Jewish scientist in Aristotle’s time tried to resolve the conflict scientifically, the consequences would have been disastrous: either he would have rejected the Law of Moses, or reinterpreted it in light of the philosophical position, or rejected philosophy as incompatible with his religious commitments. If Maimonides is right that assessments of likelihood can change on account of scientific progress, they cannot be relied on for securing the fundamental principles of religion. At times the available evidence may support the Law of Moses, at other times it may support the position contradicting it. Attempting to settle the dispute scientifically in these cases thus risks causing fatal damage to either the religious or the philosophical project. On this picture, Delmedigo’s recommendation to keep the two projects apart has nothing to do with a “double truth” doctrine. It simply means that a Jewish scientist, like every scientist, should resolve scientific disputes in light of the best available evidence. If this leads him to a position at odds with the Law of Moses, he can rest assured that he is mistaken, while knowing that his inference is scientifically sound. He will leave it to future scientific progress to provide the evidence that will tip the scale in favor of the Law of Moses. This is how Delmedigo himself proceeded: Therefore I did not choose in my treatises devoted to scientific investigation [halimmud ha-sikhli] to dispute with the philosophers on issues on which they disagree with us by means of the philosophical method; for scientific investigation cannot [resolve such disputes]. Instead I relied on prophecy and the true tradition. And I think that earlier members of our religious community who wished to clarify these things through scientific investigation changed the methods of investigation which are unique for each object of study. (Behinat ha-dat, 83)

It should now also be clear why, according to Delmedigo, a fundamental principle that is in conflict with a philosophical proposition “can only be verified by the method of the Law” (78). If it cannot be established on scientific grounds, it must be inferred as a necessary condition for attaining the goal of the Law of Moses. Within this political framework the principle is intelligible. There is thus no need to attribute to Delmedigo a “double truth” doctrine which allows for genuine contradictions between philosophy and religion and which requires reason to submit to the authority of a superrational revelation. Delmedigo’s considerations about the relationship between philosophy and the Law of Moses give him additional reasons to be cautious about

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allegorical interpretation. Not only is the public disclosure of allegorical doctrines harmful to non-philosophers, but the political purpose of the Law of Moses may under no circumstances be undermined. “We are perplexed,” Delmedigo writes: about the difficulty to decide . . . which of these issues should be interpreted allegorically and which should not. . . . And we say that the man who truly knows the fundamental principles of the Law and its purpose, knows which of the issues contained in the Law are fit to be interpreted and which are not. . . . And those who stand out in the religious community [he-hashuvim me-anshe ha-dat] ought to reflect deeply about these issues and be on their guard when it comes to their own reasoning [ve-lahshod sikhlam]. (Behinat ha-dat, 93)

The great caution Delmedigo urges when it comes to dealing with possible conflicts between philosophy and the Law also helps to explain a second point on which he departs from the Averroistic position. In the Decisive Treatise, Averroes not only argues that every contradiction between the Divine Law and philosophy can in principle be resolved through allegorical interpretation, but also that the philosopher must resolve them in this manner (see Fas.l, 9–10 and 19–20). One may ask what benefit can be derived from engaging in this interpretative exercise, given Averroes’s strict prohibition on disclosing allegorical interpretations in public. Why is it not sufficient if the philosopher is in principle committed to the agreement between the Divine Law and philosophy? While Delmedigo allows for allegorically resolving contradictions as long as they do not involve fundamental principles of the Law, he is clearly not enthusiastic about doing so. The best way to study the Law of Moses is in light of its own peculiar method and purpose. The aim should be to understand how the Law’s contents are necessary for or contribute to promoting the perfection of the religious community. Instead of working out, for example, how the anthropomorphic representation of angels allegorically refers to incorporeal intellects, the question should be which political considerations motivated Moses to represent angels anthropomorphically in the first place. Seeking for the allegorical content of the Law of Moses would mean studying it with the aim of establishing the truth. This, however, is the aim of philosophy. It would be just as pointless as pursuing the aim of prophecy in a philosophical treatise by making dialectical, rhetorical, or poetical arguments to convey its content to non-philosophers. It is thus not surprising that Delmedigo casts doubt on the philosopher’s obligation to provide allegorical explanations. Even when no fundamental principles of the Law are concerned, the philosopher should only “perhaps” (ulai) interpret passages which, taken literally, contradict philosophical doctrines (93). Delmedigo

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thus puts even more stress than Averroes on the methodological independence of philosophical and prophetic discourse. He remains committed to the core assumption of medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers about the unity of the truth – the assumption that grounds the authority of the Law of Moses for a philosopher who does not recognize a superrational source of validation. Given the distinct methods and goals of philosophy and prophecy, however, Delmedigo sees no point in working out this unity in practice by proving religious principles philosophically or by interpreting the Bible allegorically, whether in public or in private. As we will now see, the same is true for Spinoza.

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introduction Spinoza was no less wary than Socrates of the charge of impiety. In a letter to Jacob Ostens he writes: Does that man, pray, renounce all religion, who declares that God must be acknowledged as the highest good, and that he must be loved as such in a free spirit? And that in this alone does our supreme happiness and freedom consist? (Ep. 42, G iv, 220/879)1

Proponents of a philosophical religion would surely be delighted to find in Spinoza a fellow-advocate of the intellectual worship of God. They would be equally delighted about his claim to have shown in the TheologicalPolitical Treatise that this form of worship is “the core [summa] of the Divine Law . . . and its supreme commandment” and “that God revealed this very Law to his prophets” (223/880). Like the nomoi of Magnesia according to Plato, and like the beliefs, practices, and institutions of Jews, Christians, and Muslims according to the Alexandrians and the fal¯asifa, Spinoza’s Divine Law directs the community to what is best – a life ordered by reason towards the perfection of reason, culminating in the apprehension of God. Like Christian philosophers, moreover, Spinoza identifies this divine order with Christianity. To be created in God’s image, he claims, means to have reason. And since Christ is Reason – or, in Spinoza’s terminology, God’s “infinite intellect” – all human beings are Christians to the extent they live under the guidance of reason. The more they perfect reason the more they share in Christ. The model of human perfection is Adam before the 1

G = Gebhardt’s edition of Spinoza’s works. Note that references to the TTP are to Akkerman’s edition. I use the following abbreviations in references to the Ethics: a = axiom; app = appendix; c = corolarium; d = demonstration; da = definition of an affect; def = definition; p = proposition; pref = preface; s = scholium.

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Fall. He stands for a community of “free men” in which God’s rule and self-rule coincide. Since most human beings live under the guidance of the imagination, however, God’s rule must be established through philosophy’s handmaid: a pedagogical-political program that provides guidance to nonphilosophers, yet aims to realize the community of free men as much as human nature allows. Nobody denies, of course, that Spinoza has much to say about God. In the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect he describes his decision to pursue philosophy as a conversion from inferior goods – “wealth, honor, and sensual pleasure” – to God (TdIE 3). The Ethics begins with a part entitled On God and ends with an account of human perfection attained through knowledge and love of God. Already in his lifetime, however, Spinoza was reviled as an atheist, a view that has recently regained currency. Only that this time Spinoza’s alleged atheism is not a curse word, but reason for praise among scholars who portray Spinoza as a founding figure of modernity – from secular humanism to liberal democracy. What gave rise to this perception? Since Spinoza’s philosophy leaves no room for a transcendent God, it seems incompatible with what we mean by biblical religion. How can Spinoza identify God and Nature and hold on to a God who creates the world, performs miracles, responds to prayers, talks to prophets, issues commandments, punishes and rewards, or incarnates in Christ? The story in the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect, we are tempted to conclude, is about Spinoza’s conversion to the God of the philosophers, not the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – to use Pascal’s famous distinction. This seems to be corroborated by Spinoza’s critique of religion in the TTP. If we look at what the Bible literally says, Spinoza argues, we find fantastic stories about the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob who creates the world, performs miracles, and so forth. They bear witness to the vivid imagination of the prophets, but tell us nothing about God’s true nature as demonstrated in philosophy. Hence churchmen cannot appeal to the Bible to suppress free philosophical inquiry. Add to this Spinoza’s experience of violence perpetrated in the name of the God of the Bible – from Europe’s wars of religion to his excommunication from Amsterdam’s Jewish community. Could he not expect to usher in a new age of toleration by showing that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is just a figment of the prophetic imagination? Spinoza, then, seems to have had excellent theoretical and practical reasons for rejecting the God of the Bible. Consider, finally, how well all this seems to fit with the evidence we have about Spinoza’s views at the time of his excommunication. The Law

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of Moses “is not true,” he is reported as saying, “nor is there a God except philosophically.”2 As attractive as many may find this narrative, it is by and large without foundation. It is also by no means undisputed in the reception history of Spinoza. The counter-narrative begins with Lodewijk Meyer, Spinoza’s doctor and friend, who assisted him with the publication of his works. In a treatise on Bible interpretation Meyer announces Spinoza’s Ethics as the “infallible norm” provided by philosophy for correctly interpreting Scripture. The lack of an infallible norm gave rise to many false interpretations that, in turn, led to divisions and conflicts in Christianity. Meyer thus expected the Ethics to pave the way to no less than Christianity’s reunification!3 Jarig Jelles, another close friend from Spinoza’s Collegiate circle, defends the Christian nature of Spinoza’s philosophy throughout his preface for Spinoza’s Opera Posthuma. Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, whose disclosure as a closet Spinozist by Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi triggered the pantheism controversy in eighteenth-century Germany, equates the “eternal gospel of reason” with the true core of Scripture.4 Finally, the view of German Romantics is expressed well in Goethe’s characterization of Spinoza as “theissimus and christianissimus.”5 Since then, as Carl Gebhardt noted in 1932, nobody “has failed to appreciate the religious character of Spinoza’s philosophy.”6 So is Spinoza an atheist or a Christian? The first thing to note is a puzzle: Spinoza both rejects and affirms that the God of the philosophers is the God of the Bible. According to the first two chapters of the TTP the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is clearly not the God of the philosophers because neither the patriarchs nor the prophets had clear and distinct knowledge of God, but conceived God through the imagination. Elsewhere, however, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob clearly is the God of the philosophers. Consider Spinoza’s interpretation of Adam’s Fall in the scholium to E4p68 as a parable for man’s fall from freedom into bondage. The freedom Adam lost, Spinoza argues:

2 3 5

6

I discuss this and other testimonies below. 4 See my discussion in the epilogue. See my discussion of Meyer below. Letter to Jacobi, June 9, 1785. Similarly members of the Haskalah – the Jewish Enlightenment – try to appropriate Spinoza for an intellectually respectable interpretation of Judaism, for example Meir Letteris and Shlomo Rubin. See Schwartz (2007), chapter 5, and Fraenkel (2009a). It is hard to see, however, how Spinoza can be recruited for a Jewish agenda. Gebhardt (1932), 339.

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the patriarchs [that is, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob] later regained under the guidance of the spirit of Christ, that is the idea of God [idea Dei], on which alone it depends that a man should be free and should desire for mankind the good that he desires for himself.

The idea Dei is God’s “infinite intellect” who apprehends “God’s attributes and his affections” (E2p4d). If the patriarchs were guided by God’s infinite intellect to freedom, they must have had clear and distinct knowledge of God. Spinoza, then, seems to engage in both the critique of biblical religion and its philosophical reinterpretation. Even more puzzling is that the former entails the rejection of the latter. All ties between philosophy and religion must be cut, Spinoza argues in the theological part of the TTP. Properly understood philosophy and religion each has its own goal and method and does not interfere in the other’s sphere. While the goal of philosophy is to determine what is true by means of demonstrations, the goal of religion is to ensure obedience to the law by means of biblical narratives appealing to the imagination. Spinoza’s critique of religion leads to the rejection of two alternative ways of conceiving the relationship between philosophy and religion: “dogmatism” which subjects Scripture to reason, and “skepticism” which subjects reason to Scripture. By “dogmatism” Spinoza means the philosophical reinterpretation of a religious tradition which he illustrates through Maimonides’s interpretation of Judaism. What is the solution to this puzzle? I will argue that Spinoza is primarily concerned with a philosophical reinterpretation of Christianity. Taken literally, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is part of a pedagogicalpolitical program for non-philosophers. Allegorically, however, he is Deus sive Natura. Spinoza’s celebrated critique of religion, by contrast, is a secondary project. It is not necessary to defend his views on religion and politics in the TTP, it accounts for some of the main flaws in the TTP’s argument, and quite possibly was not part of the TTP’s original plan. Indeed, its inclusion in the TTP is so much at odds with Spinoza’s theological-political principles that in a Spinozistic state bookstores would arguably not sell the TTP.7 It would have been easier to recognize that Spinoza’s approach to religion is a version of what he calls dogmatism, had he not used Maimonides to illustrate this approach. As we saw in the previous chapter, Maimonides deviates in important respects from the standard version of a philosophical religion advocated by the fal¯asifa, since he adopts the 7

Cf. Garber (2008).

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Almohad program of enforcing philosophical doctrines by law and disclosing them in Scripture through allegorical interpretation. Maimonides’s version of a philosophical religion, unlike the standard version, is thus incompatible with Spinoza’s concept of freedom of thought and expression. Where Maimonides deviates from the standard version, Spinoza sides with the latter, in particular with the Averroism of Elijah Delmedigo. If Spinoza is at heart a dogmatic, why did he write a critique of religion that entails a critique of dogmatism? Defending the freedom of thought and expression is the key purpose of the TTP. At some point Spinoza seems to have concluded that from the standpoint of dogmatism he could not efficiently avert the threat posed by the Calvinist church to this freedom in the Netherlands. An efficient defense, he reasoned, requires showing that Scripture contains no truth. Although the truth of Scripture means very different things to the Calvinist church and to proponents of a philosophical religion, neither position is defensible if it is denied altogether. Thus by bringing down the one Spinoza could not help but also bring down the other.8 Spinoza’s critique of religion, then, is motivated by, but not necessary for, the TTP’s defense of freedom of thought and expression. At the same time Spinoza remained convinced that religion as philosophy’s handmaid is crucial to ensure God’s rule over imperfectly rational citizens. There is thus an unresolved tension in Spinoza’s approach to religion. Like ancient and medieval proponents of a philosophical religion, Spinoza chose the philosophical reinterpretation of existing beliefs, practices, and institutions over a cultural revolution. Since he is writing in a Christian context and for a Christian audience, it is not surprising that the outcome of his effort is a version of Christianity. As scholars have noted, the vocabulary and concepts Spinoza uses for this purpose were in part shaped by the dialogue with his Christian audience – above all Collegiate and other progressive Protestant groups in the Netherlands.9 The distinctive features of this interpretation, however, have no counterpart in contemporary Christian circles. They are best understood in light of the philosophical interpretation of Judaism and Islam, in particular as set forth by Maimonides and Averroes. Spinoza became familiar with this interpretation through his study of Jewish philosophy and substantially revised it on the basis of his own philosophical and Christian commitments. Both Lodewijk Meyer and Jarig Jelles point out similarities between Spinoza’s 8 9

Note that Spinoza even then continues to maintain that Scripture contains moral truth, however with dubious arguments as we will see. See Meinsma (1983 [1896]); Gebhardt (1932); Matheron (1971); Hunter (2005).

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interpretation of Christianity and the interpretation set forth by Christian proponents of a philosophical religion in antiquity, for example Origen.10 If the historical thesis for which I argue in this book holds, these similarities bear witness to a shared Platonic legacy. Spinoza’s Christianity is similar to Origen’s because Origen instantiates the same Platonic program as Spinoza’s medieval Jewish and Muslim sources. To appreciate the force of my argument in this chapter, perhaps it is best to forget – or at least bracket – the critique of religion in the TTP until reaching the chapter’s last section. I first show that in the writings prior to the TTP Spinoza consistently advocates dogmatism. Then I outline the dogmatic interpretation of religion set forth in his later writings, in particular in the TTP. I contend that recognizing Spinoza’s dogmatism is indispensable for understanding how philosophy, religion, and politics are related in his thought. Finally, I discuss Spinoza’s critique of religion and propose an explanation for why he chose to undermine his philosophical interpretation of Christianity. spinoza’s early dogmatism The thesis that Spinoza endorsed dogmatism gives rise to an immediate problem. Although we lack direct evidence, we have a great deal of indirect evidence suggesting that Spinoza rejected Scripture as a source of truth at the time of his excommunication from Amsterdam’s Jewish community in 1656.11 According to the testimony preserved by Gottlieb Stolle, for example, Spinoza was claiming that “the books of Moses were a man-made book [ein Menschlich Buch], and never written in this way by Moses.”12 According to his interrogation by members of Amsterdam’s Jewish community, recorded in Lucas’s Spinoza biography, he was claiming that God is conceived as “a body” in the Bible, since “God is great as the King-Prophet says [cf. Psalm 48:1], and it is impossible to understand magnitude [grandeur] without extension [´etendue].” Angels are conceived as “mere phantoms,” being “invisible only because of their very fine and diaphanous matter.” The soul is mortal: “It would be useless to search [in Scripture] for something that would support its immortality. As for the contrary view, it may be seen in a hundred places, and nothing is easier 10 11 12

See Meyer, Interpres 45 and 57; Jelles, Belydenisse des algemeenen en christelyken geloofs, 42. For a detailed discussion of Spinoza’s excommunication, see Nadler (1999), chapter 6, and Nadler (2002), chapter 1. Freudenthal (1899), 222.

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than to prove it.”13 These claims presuppose a literal interpretation of the Bible like the one Spinoza will later advocate in the TTP. Consider, finally, the testimonies of the Augustinian Monk Tomas Solano y Robles and of Captain Miguel Perez de Maltranilla about things Spinoza was allegedly saying when they met him in 1658. According to Brother Tomas, Spinoza claimed that at first he had been “circumcised and kept the Jewish Law,” but later had “changed his mind” because now it seemed to him “that the said Law was not true, . . . nor was there a God except philosophically” (no hera verdadera la dicha Ley . . . ni havia Dios sino filosofalmente). Captain Miguel reports Spinoza’s claim that he “had been Jewish and professed their Law,” but had “withdrawn from it because it was not good and was false [no hera buena y era falsa].”14 My argument by no means depends on disputing the credibility of these sources. It would be wrong, however, to connect them directly with the TTP’s critique of religion. They are no more than the testimony of an act of youthful rebellion from which Spinoza obviously quickly distanced himself.15 For in his writings up to 1665 – the year in which he started working on the TTP – Spinoza consistently adheres to dogmatism whenever he discusses the character of Scripture. What dogmatism means for Spinoza becomes clear from his critique of it in the TTP. As already mentioned, he illustrates dogmatism through Maimonides’s philosophical interpretation of Judaism. Spinoza first describes Maimonides’s method of interpreting Scripture: Maimonides . . . held that every passage of Scripture admits of various – and even contrary – senses, and that we cannot be certain of the true sense of any passage unless we know that, as we interpret it, there is nothing in that passage that does not agree with reason, or is contrary to it [quod cum ratione non conveniat, aut quod ei repugnet]. If in its literal sense it is found to be contrary to reason, then however clear the passage may appear . . . he would not have hesitated to distort 13 15

14 See the documents in Revah (1959), 61–68. Freudenthal (1899), 5–6. It is tempting in this context to speculate about the content of a lost treatise by Spinoza whose Spanish title, according to later sources, was Apologia para justificarse de su abdicacion de la sinagoga. Parts of the Apologia may have been reworked in the TTP which suggests some continuity between the TTP and Spinoza’s earlier views. For a discussion of the available evidence on the Apologia and its relation to the TTP, see Gebhardt (1987), 224–28. The TTP, however, contains plenty of material that would have justified Spinoza’s break with the synagogue without requiring his critique of religion. Note also that according to Gebhardt, Lodewijk Meyer’s treatise on Bible interpretation bears witness to “a striking familiarity with Spinoza’s views which can only be explained on the assumption that he knew the Apologia” (226). If this is true, the Apologia must have endorsed dogmatism. For as we will see, Meyer defends dogmatism in the belief to be in agreement with Spinoza.

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and explain away Scripture [Scripturam torquere et explicare] until it appeared to teach the same doctrine.

Then Spinoza explains how Maimonides justifies his method and rejects this justification: But let us examine more closely the view of Maimonides. In the first place, he assumes that the prophets were in agreement on all matters, and that they were outstanding philosophers and theologians [summi Philosophi et Theologi]; for he holds that they based their conclusions on scientific truth. But in chapter 2 we have shown that this is false. Then again, he assumes that the sense of Scripture cannot be established from Scripture alone. For scientific truth is not established from Scripture itself (which demonstrates nothing, nor teaches the things of which it speaks by means of definitions and from first causes). And therefore, according to Maimonides, neither can Scripture’s true sense be established from itself, nor should it be sought from it. But it is evident from this chapter that this point, too, is false. For we have shown . . . that the sense of Scripture is established from Scripture alone, and should be sought only from Scripture even when it is speaking of matters known by the natural light of reason. (TTP 7.20–21/103–5)

Spinoza clearly understood the key claims on which Maimonides’s interpretation of Judaism as a philosophical religion is based: that the prophets were accomplished philosophers, that disagreements between the Divine Law’s literal content and philosophical doctrines can be resolved through allegorical interpretation, and that the purpose of the Divine Law’s literal content is to offer pedagogical-political guidance to non-philosophers. As Spinoza puts it elsewhere in the TTP: the dogmatic approach turns religion into the “handmaid of philosophy” (ancilla philosophiae).16 Prior to the TTP, Spinoza consistently adhered to dogmatism whenever he discussed Scripture. The most explicit statements occur in the Cogitata Metaphysica, published in 1663 as an appendix to Spinoza’s exposition of Descartes’s Principia Philosophiae, and in Spinoza’s correspondence with Willem van Blyenbergh. Chapter 2.8 of the Cogitata discusses God’s will. Since will, intellect, and essence are identical in God, God’s will, like his essence, is eternal and immutable.17 This appears to be at odds with 16 17

See the title of TTP 15. For God’s eternity and immutability, see CM 2.1 and 2.4. Spinoza stresses the identity of God’s will and intellect in the TTP as well (see TTP 4 and 6). His considered position, however, is that will and intellect belong to God’s modes; see E1p31. In either case, God’s causal activity is immutable. For an explanation of doctrinal differences between the Ethics and the TTP, see below. Note that in CM 2.8 Spinoza says that “we fail to understand” how God’s essence, intellect, and will are distinguished from one another. He notes that theologians use “the word personality . . . to explain this matter,” the “meaning” of which “we do not know.” This is Spinoza’s polite way of signaling that his view is at odds with an orthodox religious doctrine. Instead of outright dismissing the doctrine of the Trinity,

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Scripture, according to which “God hates some things and loves other things.” Taken literally these statements imply that God’s will is affected by created things. Hence there seems to be a contradiction: God’s will is immutable according to philosophy, but mutable according to Scripture: But when we say that God hates some things and loves others, this is said in the same sense Scripture uses in maintaining that the earth disgorges men, and other things of that kind. That God is angry with no one, that he does not love things as the multitude [vulgus] believes, can be sufficiently derived from Scripture itself. For this is in Isaiah and more clearly in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, chapter 9. . . . Finally, if any other passages which give rise to doubts still occur in the Holy Scriptures, this is not the place to explain them. For here we are only inquiring after those things that we can grasp most certainly by natural reason [ratio naturalis]. It suffices that we demonstrate those things clearly for us to know that Holy Scripture must also teach the same things [ut sciamus Sacram paginam eadem etiam docere debere]. For the truth does not contradict the truth [veritas veritati non repugnat], nor can Scripture teach such nonsense [nugas] as the multitude imagines. . . . Let us not think for a moment that anything could be found in Holy Scripture that would contradict the natural light [quod lumini naturae repugnet]. (CM 2.8, G i, 264–65/330–31)

The conflict between the philosophical doctrine and Scripture is resolved in the way every proponent of a philosophical religion would resolve it: God’s love and hate in Scripture cannot be taken literally as the vulgus understands them. Moreover, the correct understanding of God’s love and hate can be found in both the Hebrew Bible (Isaiah) and in the New Testament (Paul). Whether a passage in Scripture must be understood literally or allegorically clearly depends on whether it agrees with the corresponding philosophical doctrine. Scripture requires explanation because it does not teach things more philosophico – that is, in the way we grasp them by “natural reason.” But since the truth of reason is the same as the truth of Scripture, we can rest assured that they agree.18 In this passage Spinoza clearly adopts the “dogmatic” approach: the philosopher determines the true sense of Scripture in light of what has been demonstrated by “natural reason.” Can we be sure that Spinoza is speaking in his own name in this passage? The question to what extent the Cogitata Metaphysica express Spinoza’s

18

he cautiously claims to be agnostic. Cf. his discussion of human freedom in CM 2.11. Spinoza rejects Christian doctrines in their orthodox form if these conflict with his philosophical commitments. See, for example, the discussion of the incarnation and resurrection in his late correspondence with Oldenburg, Letters 71–79. Spinoza’s interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion permits no fideistic compromises. Note that Spinoza commits himself to a stronger thesis in this passage: everything demonstrated by reason is also taught by Scripture.

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views remains disputed. Is the work more than a summary of late scholastic and Cartesian doctrines that Spinoza wrote to establish his philosophical credentials by showing that he is up to date with the philosophy of his time?19 For my purpose we need not settle this question. It is sufficient to note that there is neither a scholastic nor a Cartesian model for the dogmatic approach set forth in Cogitata 2.8. For one thing, the dogmatic interpretation of religion was not part of the medieval Latin tradition.20 As for Descartes, consider the programmatic statement in Principia Philosophiae 1.76 which expressly allows for contradictions between reason and Scripture. When such contradictions occur, Descartes argues, Scripture always overrules reason.21 This is a version of what Spinoza calls “skepticism” in the TTP. We will see, moreover, that in his correspondence with Blyenbergh Spinoza explicitly refers to the passage in the Cogitata as his own view. A second question is whether Spinoza is setting forth his genuine view or one he adopts for strategic reasons. Spinoza sometimes makes claims for strategic reasons in the Cogitata, for example that it is impossible to know how human freedom and divine providence can be reconciled (CM 2.11). In his correspondence with Blyenbergh he first declares that human freedom in a sense that conflicts with divine providence does not exist (see Ep. 19). After recognizing that he has misjudged Blyenbergh’s philosophical disposition, however, Spinoza asserts that he should have maintained the agnostic position put forward in the Cogitata (Ep. 21).22 It is indeed likely that Spinoza’s motivation to endorse dogmatism in part stems from the first rule of living that he recommends in the Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect: “to speak according to the power of understanding of the multitude” (ad captum vulgi loqui) from which he expects, among others, that the multitude “will give a favorable hearing to the truth” (17). Spinoza surely could have expected his readers to give “a favorable hearing to the truth,” if he succeeded in persuading them that the truth of reason is the same as the truth of Scripture. As Spinoza explains in a letter to Oldenburg, one purpose of publishing his exposition of Descartes’s Principia and the Cogitata was precisely to pave the way for making his own writings “available to the public without risk of trouble” (Ep. 13, G iv, 64/793). The 19 21

22

20 See my discussion in the introduction. See appendix 3 in Fraenkel (2006). “But above all we must imprint in our memory as the highest rule that the things revealed by God to us [nobis a Deo revelata], must be believed as more certain than everything [ut omnium certissima esse credendam]. And however strongly the light of reason appears to suggest to us something else, even if it is most clear and evident, our faith should be put in the sole divine authority, rather than in our own judgment” (AT 8.1, 39). See also my suggestion above, n. 17, concerning Spinoza’s claim in CM 2.8 that “we fail to understand” how God’s essence, intellect, and will are distinguished from one another.

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correspondence with Meyer who was preparing the publication of the two works reveals Spinoza’s concern to avoid anything that could be perceived as offensive. His aim is “to make this little work welcome to all [omnibus gratum sit]” and to invite “men in a benevolent spirit to take up the study of the true philosophy” (Ep. 15, G iv, 73/800; cf. Ep. 12). As we will see shortly, however, Spinoza also maintains the dogmatic position when he thinks that he can speak unreservedly about highly contentious philosophical issues. In this period, then, Spinoza advocates dogmatism not only publicly, but also in the private circle of his philosophically open-minded friends. Spinoza’s correspondence with Willem van Blyenbergh took place between December 1664 and March 1665 with a last short letter from Spinoza from June 1665, in which he puts an end to their exchange. From the outset Spinoza adheres to dogmatism, including explicit references to the passage in Cogitata Metaphysica 2.8. This is important because from Blyenbergh’s first letter Spinoza gained the mistaken impression that he was dealing with a “pure philosopher who . . . has no other touchstone for truth than the natural intellect [praeter naturalem intellectum]” – something that “is granted by many who consider themselves Christians” Spinoza adds, stressing that being a pure philosopher must by no means be at odds with being a Christian (Ep. 23, G iv, 146/832). Spinoza describes his impression of Blyenbergh as follows: I understood from [your letter] your deep love for the truth [intensus tuus veritatis amor] and that you make [the truth] the only aim of all your endeavors. Since I myself turn to nothing else, this has determined me . . . to unreservedly grant your request to answer to the best of my intellectual abilities the questions which you have already sent me and which you will send me in the future. . . . For my part, of all things that are not under my control, I value nothing more than to enter into a bond of friendship with sincere lovers of truth. (Ep. 19, G iv, 86–87/807)

It is clear, therefore, that in matters of philosophical argument, Spinoza writes without reservations in this first letter. He does not hesitate, for example, to explain his genuine view concerning human freedom to Blyenbergh, rather than claiming to be agnostic as he does in the Cogitata. Spinoza’s endorsement of dogmatism in this letter thus implies that he did not consider it an obstacle to the philosophical pursuit of the truth. A similar case can be made for the addressees of the Short Treatise which Spinoza concludes with the following admonition: “And as you are . . . aware of the character of the age in which we live, I would ask you urgently to be very

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careful about communicating these things to others” (2.26, G i, 112/150).23 Although the Short Treatise thus was meant to circulate in manuscript only among a small circle of friends to whom Spinoza thought he could speak openly about philosophical issues, he takes care to indicate the place of a philosophical Christology in his philosophy by calling the mode of thought immediately dependent on God – that is, God’s “intellect” – the “Son of God” (KV 1.9, G i, 48/92). Also among friends sympathetic to his philosophy, therefore, Spinoza holds on to dogmatism. Blyenbergh’s question concerns the existence of sin and evil. After studying Spinoza’s Principia Philosophiae Cartesianae and Cogitata Metaphysica, he concluded that for Spinoza sin and evil either do not exist or that God himself is their cause. Since God is the cause of a substance and of every motion of that substance, he is both the cause of the mind and of every “motion of the mind which we call the will” (Ep. 18, G iv, 82/806). Thus God must be the cause of the motion in Adam’s soul that led him to transgress the commandment not to eat from the tree of knowledge. Adam’s transgression is, therefore, either no sin, or God himself is responsible for it. In response, Spinoza denies that “sin and evil are anything positive” (Ep. 19, G iv, 88/808) and explains why it is that according to the Bible God commanded Adam not to eat from the tree of knowledge, although according to the philosopher he determined his will to transgress that command: I say that Scripture, because it is particularly adapted and useful to the multitude [plebs], always speaks in human fashion [more humano], for the multitude is unable to understand the higher things. For this reason I believe that all that God has revealed to the prophets as necessary for salvation is set down in the form of laws [legum modo]. On this account the prophets invented entire parables [integras parabolas prophetae finxerunt] representing God as a king and lawgiver, because he revealed the means [leading to] salvation and perdition and is their cause. These means, which are nothing but causes, they called laws and wrote them down in the form of laws. Salvation and perdition, which are nothing but effects necessarily resulting from these means, they described as reward and punishment, putting their words more in accordance with that parable than with the truth, constantly representing God as human, now angry, now merciful, . . . now jealous and suspicious. . . . So philosophers and likewise all who have risen to a level beyond law – that is, all who pursue virtue not as a law but because they love 23

By contrast, the PPC and the CM are exoteric works, originally dictated to Spinoza’s student Caesarius about whom he writes the following to Simon de Vries: “No one is more troublesome to me, and there is no one with whom I have to be more cautious [cavere curavi]. So I should like to warn you and all your friends not to communicate my views to him until he has reached greater maturity” (Ep. 9, G iv, 42/781).

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it as something very precious – should not find such words a stumbling-block. Therefore the command given to Adam consisted solely in this, that God revealed to Adam that eating of that tree brought about death, in the same way that he also reveals to us through the natural intellect [naturalis intellectus] that poison is deadly. (G iv, 92–94/809–10)

By “revelation” Spinoza means the prophet’s knowledge of the means leading to salvation and perdition of which God is the cause – as a scientist knows “through the natural intellect that poison is deadly.” What the prophet grasps thus corresponds to the content of the Ethics in which Spinoza shows how perdition follows from enslavement to the passions (part 4), how salvation follows from the power of reason (part 5), and how God is the cause of both (parts 1–5). Were the prophet to address a group of philosophers, he would explain all this more geometrico, in the same way as a scientist would offer a causal explanation for the effect of poison at a scientific meeting. But since the prophet is addressing non-philosophers he must speak more humano, namely “in the language of human beings” as Spinoza puts it, alluding to the Talmudic phrase used by Maimonides to characterize the purpose of the Divine Law’s literal content. Hence he composes a parable of God as a king and lawgiver.24 Let me note in this context that in both the Ethics and the TTP Spinoza presents the entire account of Adam’s Fall as a philosophical parable as we will see below. Whereas from the passage in the Cogitata Metaphysica we learned that Scripture’s anthropomorphic representation of God must be understood allegorically by philosophers, from the letter to Blyenbergh we learn how non-philosophers benefit from a literal understanding of this representation. By speaking of God more humano and translating causal relations into laws associated with rewards and punishments, Scripture replaces reason as a guide to virtuous action.25 Adopting dogmatism thus allows Spinoza to preserve the authority of Scripture which can then be reinterpreted as a pedagogical-political guide for non-philosophers. From Blyenbergh’s reply, Spinoza learned that he had thoroughly misjudged Blyenbergh’s philosophical inclinations: “When I read your first letter, I thought that our views were nearly in agreement. From your second letter, however, . . . I understand that this is far from being so, and I see 24 25

Cf. TP 2.22 where Spinoza explicitly identifies that which is “revealed to the prophets in the form of laws” with “the dictates of reason.” As we will see below, for Spinoza, too, serving God out of fear – to use Maimonides’s terminology – is only the lowest level of the pedagogical-political program which aims to guide all members of the community as much as possible to serving God out of love.

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that we disagree not only in the conclusions to be drawn from first principles, but also in those very same first principles” (Ep. 21, G iv, 126/822). Blyenbergh first explains: the two rules, according to which I always venture to philosophize. One is the clear and distinct conception of my intellect, the other is the revealed word, or will, of God. In accordance with the one, I try to be a lover of truth [een beminner vande waeheyt], while following both I try to be a Christian philosopher [Christelijck philosoph]. (Ep. 20, G iv, 96–97/811)

To be a “Christian philosopher” for Blyenbergh means that we must follow God’s “revealed word” and not our “natural knowledge,” whenever there is a conflict between them, for what derives from the “finite intellect” cannot override what derives “from the highest and most perfect God” (ibid.). Blyenbergh thus defends a version of what Spinoza calls “skepticism” in the TTP – that is, the position that turns reason into the “handmaid of theology.” It comes as no surprise, then, that Blyenbergh has little sympathy for Spinoza’s explanation of sin and evil. More important for my purpose, however, is his critique of Spinoza’s explanation of divine commandments. Whereas for Spinoza the Bible’s literal content derives from the need of the prophets to address non-philosophers more humano, for Blyenbergh the Bible’s literal content is its true content: For if we maintain that God communicated his word to the prophets, we thereby maintain that God appeared to the prophets, or spoke with them in a miraculous way [op een extraordinaire wyse]. If now the prophets composed parables from the communicated word – that is, gave it a meaning different from that which God wanted them to give – God must have so instructed them. Again, it is impossible with regard to the prophets as it is contradictory with regard to God, that the prophets could have understood a meaning different from that which God wanted them to understand. (Ep. 20, G iv, 119/819)

If the Bible’s literal content were not God’s genuine word, either God would have instructed the prophets to say something different from what he revealed to them, which is absurd since God reveals whatever he wants the prophets to say. Or the prophets deviated from God’s word because they were deficient, which is equally absurd since God could not have ignored that he was speaking to a deficient person. Hence for Blyenbergh the relationship between revelation and prophetic parables as Spinoza conceives it results in a contradiction. There is, moreover, little evidence to support Spinoza’s account of revelation according to Blyenbergh:

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I also see very little proof [seer weynich bewys] that God revealed his word in the manner you indicate, namely that he revealed only salvation and perdition, decreeing the means that would be certain to bring this about, and that salvation and perdition are no more than the effects of the means decreed by him. For surely if the prophets had understood God’s word in that sense, what reasons could they have had for giving it another sense? (Ep. 20, G iv, 119–20/819)

Blyenbergh thus rejects the dogmatic assumption according to which God revealed philosophical doctrines to the prophets which they translated into parables for non-philosophers. In his reply, Spinoza makes no effort to dissuade Blyenbergh from submitting reason to Scripture: If it is your conviction that God speaks more clearly and efficiently through Holy Scripture than through the light of the natural intellect which he . . . preserves strong and uncorrupted through his divine wisdom, you have good reason to adapt your intellect to the opinions which you attribute to Holy Scripture. (Ep. 21, G iv, 126/822)

Spinoza himself, however, holds on to the dogmatic position as set forth in the Cogitata Metaphysica: I am conscious that when I have a solid demonstration, I do not entertain such thoughts that could cast doubt on it; for this reason I completely acquiesce in what the intellect shows me without any suspicion . . . that Holy Scripture – even if I do not investigate it – could contradict it [ei contradicere posse]; because the truth does not contradict the truth [veritas veritati non repugnat] as I have already clearly indicated earlier in my Appendix [that is, in CM 2.8]. (Ep. 21, G iv, 126/822)

This does not mean that Spinoza attributes less truth and authority to Scripture than Blyenbergh: I do not attribute to Scripture the truth which you think is in it, and yet I think that I ascribe to it as much authority if not more, and that I make sure in a much more careful way than others not to attribute to it childish and absurd opinions [pueriles quasdam et absurdas sententias affingam], which nobody can achieve who did not well understand philosophy or receive divine revelations [Philosophiam bene intelligit, vel Divinas habet revelationes]. For this reason I am little impressed with the explications of Scripture given by common theologians, in particular when they are from the kind who always take Scripture literally and according to the external sense [semper juxta litteram, sensumque externum sumant]; and yet I have never seen . . . a theologian so stupid as not to perceive that Holy Scripture very often speaks of God in human fashion [Sacram Scripturam creberrime more humano de Deo loqui] and expresses its sense through parables. (Ep. 21, G iv, 132/826)

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Spinoza clearly reiterates the dogmatic position: the truth of Scripture is the truth of reason which constitutes Scripture’s allegorical content. Since for Spinoza there is no truth above reason, he credits Scripture with more, not less, authority than Blyenbergh. According to Spinoza, Blyenbergh’s notion of parables is “quite different from what is generally accepted.” This accounts for the contradictions he finds in the way Spinoza relates parables to revelation: Who has ever heard that he who expresses his concepts in parables goes astray from his intended sense? When Micah told King Ahab that he had seen God sitting on his throne and the celestial hosts standing on his right hand and on his left hand, and that God asked them who would deceive Ahab [cf. 1 Kings 22], that was surely a parable by which the prophet sufficiently expressed the most important of what on that occasion (which was not one for teaching the sublime doctrines of theology) he was charged to make manifest in God’s name. So in no way did he stray from his intended sense. Likewise the other prophets by God’s command made manifest to the people the word of God in this way, as being the best means – not, however, a means that God commands – for leading people to the primary aim of Scripture [scopus Scripturae primarius] which according to Christ himself consists of loving God above all things and your neighbor as yourself. Sublime speculations in my view have very little to do with Scripture. For my part I have never learned, nor could I have learned, any of God’s eternal attributes from Holy Scripture. (Ep. 21, G iv, 132–33/827)26

Spinoza again appeals to dogmatism. Micah’s parable is meant to provide guidance to King Ahab in a way that takes the king’s intellectual limitations into account. It is part of a pedagogical-political program whose aim is to promote human perfection – “loving God above all things and your neighbor as yourself.” Spinoza’s claim that we cannot learn God’s attributes from Scripture is consistent with his outline of dogmatism in TTP 7: “scientific truth is not established from Scripture,” since Scripture “demonstrates nothing, nor teaches the things of which it speaks by means of definitions and from first causes.” Like all proponents of a philosophical religion Spinoza holds that philosophical doctrines can only be disclosed in Scripture by an interpreter who already knows them. Finally, Spinoza addresses Blyenbergh’s objection that he provides “very little proof” for his claim about Scripture’s true content. Spinoza takes Blyenbergh to be challenging him to show that despite Scripture’s literal sense “the prophets made manifest the word of God” in form of true 26

Note that Spinoza does not respond to Blyenbergh’s objection. Blyenbergh did not claim that the prophet deviates from his own intention but from God’s intention. The disagreement between Blyenbergh and Spinoza stems from their different notions of revelation, not from their different notions of parables as Spinoza suggests.

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doctrines, “because the truth is not contrary to the truth” (quoniam veritas veritati non est contraria). Hence “it only remains for me to prove . . . that Scripture, as it stands, is the true [verus] revealed word of God” – that is, not just a collection of parables that serve pedagogical-political purposes (G iv, 133/827). Here Blyenbergh has identified the most vulnerable point of the dogmatic position. For one thing, advocates of dogmatism cannot point to evidence in the text, since Scripture’s supposedly true content is its allegorical content. Moreover, Scripture nowhere suggests that the prophets were, in fact, philosophers. The project of philosophical reinterpretation thus seems to rely on a premise that has no support. Spinoza himself will exploit precisely this weakness in his critique of dogmatism in the TTP. In his reply to Blyenbergh, however, he concedes only that he cannot provide “a mathematically exact proof” for his claim: A mathematically exact proof can be attained only by divine revelation. I, therefore, said, “I believe, but I do not know in a mathematically exact way that the prophets etc.” because I firmly believe, but do not know in a mathematical way, that the prophets were the trusted counselors and faithful messengers of God. (Ep. 21, G iv, 133/827)

Only “divine revelation,” can offer a “mathematically exact proof” – that is, only the prophet himself knows with certainty whether his parables represent philosophical doctrines. Blyenbergh’s objection thus forces Spinoza to admit that his position relies on a premise that he accepts on the basis of “firm belief.” The passages from the Cogitata Metaphysica and the Blyenbergh correspondence clearly show that Spinoza endorsed a version of the dogmatic position that he rejects in the TTP. The prophets were accomplished philosophers who addressed non-philosophers more humano. Taken literally their teachings are “childish and absurd,” yet useful for pedagogical-political purposes. Although it is not possible to learn philosophy from Scripture, the philosopher can locate true doctrines in it. On the allegorical level, therefore, Scripture and reason agree. the evidence of lodewijk meyer for spinoza’s early dogmatism Supporting evidence for Spinoza’s early dogmatism we find in Lodewijk Meyer, his doctor and friend, who assisted him with the publication of his works. Meyer not only defends a version of dogmatism in his Philosophia Sanctae Scripturae Interpres, written in the first half of the 1660s, but also

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announces the Ethics as the “infallible norm” provided by philosophy for the correct interpretation of Scripture. Although Spinoza uses Maimonides to illustrate dogmatism in the TTP, we know from his correspondence that Lodewijk Meyer was his target as well.27 He presumably does not mention Meyer, because he does not want to publicly criticize a close friend, which, of course, he had all the more reason to avoid since he himself had earlier endorsed Meyer’s position. For Meyer the lack of an infallible norm to determine Scripture’s true content led to false interpretations that, in turn, gave rise to the various divisions and bitter conflicts in Christianity. Hence he saw the Ethics as paving the way to no less than the reconciliation of the Christian church: And such things will appear about God, the rational soul, man’s supreme felicity [de Deo, anima rationali, summa hominis felicitate], and other such things concerning the achievement of eternal life which will complete the interpretation of Scripture [in Scripturis interpretandis paginam absolvent] and straighten and prepare the way on which the church of Christ, until now divided and continuously torn through schisms, will gently come together and reunite in friendship [in amicitiam suaviter coeat ac confluat], firmly bound by friendship’s tightest and sweetest bonds. United and unanimous, [the church] in the future will be strong, flourish, and grow on this earth . . . and finally triumph blessed in the heavens. (Interpres, 115)

Meyer’s claims are based on two premises that he had good reasons to believe Spinoza shared at the time: that Scripture’s true core coincides with the doctrines demonstrated in philosophy and that the Ethics would become the definitive statement of true philosophy. Spinoza’s assessment of his philosophical accomplishment is well known: “I do not claim to have found the best philosophy, but I know that I understand the true one [sed veram me intelligere scio]” (Ep. 76, G iv, 320/949). The Interpres consists in an extended argument for giving philosophy unconditional authority over the interpretation of Scripture, and thus establishes the hermeneutical framework for the project Meyer expected to be carried out on the basis of the Ethics. The work about God, the rational soul, and man’s supreme felicity mentioned by Meyer has normally been understood as a reference to Spinoza’s Short Treatise on God, Man and Man’s Wellbeing.28 It is, however, more 27

28

See letters 42 and 43. Walther (1995) showed in detail that Maimonides’s position, as restated in the TTP, corresponds to Meyer’s. The three notes on TTP 15 (Adnotationes 28–30) signaling parallel passages in the Interpres were probably not written by Spinoza. See Gebhardt in G iii, 383 ff., and Gebhardt (1987), 127–29. See Gebhardt’s introduction to his editorial comments (G i, 408); Lagr´ee and Moreau (1988), 13–14.

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likely a reference to an early draft of the Ethics. From Letter 2 to Oldenburg we learn that already in 1661 Spinoza was reworking his metaphysical doctrines into an exposition according to the geometric method.29 In Letter 6, written in late 1661 or early 1662 to Oldenburg, Spinoza states that he has completed the Short Treatise, is “occupied with transcribing and correcting it,” but has “not as yet any definite plan for its publication,” because he fears the negative reaction of “the theologians of our time” (G iv, 36/776). From Spinoza’s exchange with Simon de Vries in early 1663 (Ep. 8 and 9) we learn that a draft of the first part of the Ethics was being studied by a circle of his friends, and in Letter 28, written in June 1665 to Johan de Bouwmeester, Spinoza refers to the third part of his “Philosophy” which apparently included parts 3–5 of the final version of the Ethics (G iv, 163/841). By that time, then, Spinoza clearly had abandoned the plan to publish the Short Treatise and decided to replace it with a geometric exposition of his philosophy that would become the Ethics. Since Spinoza addresses Bouwmeester as a potential translator in Letter 28, he must already have had plans for publishing the new work.30 If parts 1 and 2 of the 1665 draft correspond roughly to parts 1 and 2 of the final version of the Ethics, and part 3 to Ethics 3–5, the title mentioned by Meyer would describe the draft’s three parts more accurately than the two parts of the Short Treatise.31 Since Meyer wrote the epilogue, in which the reference to Spinoza’s work occurs, a few years after the body of the Interpres – that is, close to the publication of the treatise in 1666 – he must have been familiar with Spinoza’s advanced draft of the Ethics and with his plans for publishing it. Meyer’s key to the correct interpretation of Scripture and to the reconciliation of the Christian church, we may conclude, is indeed the magnum opus of the same philosopher who in the TTP explicitly rejects the use of philosophy for the interpretation of Scripture! While scholars agree that Spinoza is aiming at Meyer’s Interpres when he criticizes Maimonides’s dogmatism in the TTP, they failed to explain how a member of Spinoza’s closest circle of friends could advocate a position that Spinoza explicitly rejects in the TTP.32 This is all the more puzzling 29 30 31

32

The geometric exposition of four propositions, added as an appendix to the Short Treatise, also bears witness to Spinoza’s first experiments with the geometric method. Spinoza did not go ahead with the publication at the time because he decided to interrupt his work on the Ethics to write the TTP. Note that the title of the second part mentioned by Meyer (De anima rationali) is clearly closer to the title of Ethics 2 (De Natura et Origine Mentis) than to part 2 of the Short Treatise (Man and his Wellbeing). Note that Klever (1995) called the scholarly consensus into question. Walther (1995) showed convincingly that none of Klever’s arguments holds.

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because Meyer – clearly unaware of any disagreement with Spinoza – is confident that he can use the Ethics for the hermeneutic project laid out in the Interpres. Moreover, the Interpres contains evidence that Meyer discussed the interpretation of Scripture with Spinoza. In chapter 11 he criticizes a view that corresponds closely to what Spinoza describes as the “skeptical” approach to Scripture in TTP 15 (see Interpres, 75). Spinoza’s model of skepticism is the medieval Jewish scholar Judah Alfakhar whose views are extant in an exchange of letters with the Jewish philosopher David Kimchi from the beginning of the thirteenth century. Meyer surely did not study the Hebrew correspondence between Alfakhar and Kimchi, but must have learned about Alfakhar’s views from Spinoza.33 The most plausible solution to this puzzle is that at the time Meyer wrote the Interpres, Spinoza still endorsed the dogmatic position. Although the Interpres was only published in 1666 – that is, some time after Spinoza started working on the TTP whose final version includes the critique of Meyer’s dogmatism – we know that the body of the work was written earlier, since Meyer remarks in the epilogue that for various reasons he delayed the publication of the treatise for several years (see Interpres, 107). He thus wrote the Interpres during the first half of the 1660s – that is, precisely during the period for which the evidence reviewed above attests that Spinoza endorsed the dogmatic position. It is certain, moreover, that Meyer was familiar with Spinoza’s dogmatism as outlined in Cogitata 2.8, since he not only prepared the Principia Philosophiae Cartesianae and the Cogitata Metaphysica for publication, but also corresponded with Spinoza about precisely this chapter (see Ep. 12 A). Meyer, we may conclude, wrote the Interpres in the belief that he was championing an approach to Scripture that Spinoza approved. Spinoza may even have encouraged Meyer to carry out this project at a time when he had not yet decided that the only way to efficiently defend the libertas philosophandi was through a direct attack on Scripture as a source of truth. the concept of a philosophical religion in spinoza’s later writings Until 1665 Spinoza’s position on the relationship between philosophy and religion is a version of what he rejects as “dogmatism” in the TTP. Since he 33

As Gebhardt (1987), 226–27 has already pointed out, Meyer’s account follows Spinoza’s interpretation of Alfakhar, not the original text. Another likely reference to Spinoza occurs in Interpres, 109 where Meyer discusses the corruption of the biblical text as reflected in the Hebrew and Greek manuscripts.

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endorses dogmatism both in public and among his philosophically minded friends, he clearly did not consider it an impediment for doing philosophy. Nor did he take dogmatism to conflict with the Ethics, a tripartite draft of which had been completed by 1665 as we saw. After 1665 the issue becomes more complicated. From the correspondence with Henry Oldenburg in the autumn of that year we learn that Spinoza started working on the TTP which sets forth his celebrated critique of biblical religion, including the rejection of dogmatism. This does not mean that Spinoza at any point gave up on dogmatism. In February 1676, just a year before his death, he is still debating with Oldenburg which parts of Scripture must be reconciled with reason through allegorical interpretation. One question Oldenburg raises concerns the religious implications of determinism. Exactly as in Cogitata Metaphysica 2.8 Spinoza argues “that all things happen in accordance with [God’s] will.” Hence: Scripture, when it says that God is angry with sinners, that he is a judge who takes cognizance of the actions of men, decides, and passes sentence, is speaking in merely human fashion [more humano] according to the accepted beliefs of the multitude [vulgus]. (Ep. 78, G iv, 327–28/952–53).

Another of Oldenburg’s questions concerns Spinoza’s position on Christ’s resurrection. True to dogmatic form Spinoza responds: “The passion, death, and burial of Christ I accept literally, but his resurrection I understand in an allegorical sense [allegorice].” Spinoza concedes “that the Evangelists themselves believed that the body of Christ rose again and ascended to heaven to sit on God’s right hand.” However, “Paul, to whom Christ also appeared later, rejoices that he knows Christ not after the flesh, but after the spirit” (G iv, 328/953). Spinoza’s view, then, is not only in line with his philosophy, but also with the teachings of St. Paul. Like many other passages that we will see below, these passages cannot be justified through the method of interpretation that Spinoza promises to adopt in the TTP: “to neither affirm anything of [Scripture] nor to admit anything as its doctrine which I did not most clearly derive from it” (TTP, preface, 10/5). Spinoza’s critique of religion notwithstanding, his later writings contain a fully worked out interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion. Recognizing this is crucial for understanding how philosophy, religion, and politics are related in his thought. To be sure, Spinoza’s metaphysics, epistemology, and psychology, as well as his moral and political theory differ in important respects from those of ancient and medieval proponents of a philosophical religion. Although I think that a critical dialogue with

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some of them helped to shape his views, my argument does not depend on substantiating this claim. Instead of hunting for Spinoza’s sources, I will present his interpretation of Christianity on its own terms while drawing attention to the features that set his concept of a philosophical religion apart from that of his predecessors. Pinpointing these differences is complicated by the fact that in the TTP Spinoza does not argue on the basis of the monistic ontology that is at the core of the Ethics. Thus many of the TTP’s most provocative claims – for example the critique of the conception of God as a lawgiver in TTP 4 and the critique of miracles in TTP 6 – are not derived from the monism of the Ethics, but from the identity of intellect and will in God. While Spinoza shares this view with ancient and medieval proponents of a philosophical religion, his considered view in the Ethics is that intellect and will are modes of God (see E1p31). Similarly the identity of mind and body that follows from the monism of the Ethics is absent from the TTP. Spinoza contrasts the desires of mind and body in terms familiar since Plato: the intellectual love of God is set against the appetites of the flesh.34 Spinoza’s main reason for “hiding” his true views is not political caution. He simply omits technical philosophical argument that is not required for achieving the aims of the TTP. Creating the intellectual and political conditions for teaching philosophy is one of these aims. Teaching philosophy, on the other hand, is the task of the Ethics.35 An important consequence for my purpose is that the ancient and medieval concept of a philosophical religion fits better with the TTP than with the Ethics. Translating this concept into the conceptual framework of the Ethics thus requires not only translating it from the conceptual framework used by Spinoza’s predecessors, but also from the conceptual framework Spinoza himself uses in the TTP. The TTP was published in 1670, but we know from Spinoza’s correspondence with Henry Oldenburg that he started working on it as early as 1665. It is likely that the critique of religion was not part of the TTP’s original

34 35

See, for example, TTP 4. In Maimonides’s terms, the conceptual differences between the TTP and the Ethics stem from “the fifth cause” of contradictions: to make his point the author sometimes must use premises that are at odds with his considered views if these cannot yet be introduced for pedagogical reasons (see Guide 1, introduction, 17–18). Since Spinoza’s argument in the TTP is meant to make the study of his philosophy possible, he cannot presuppose the reader to already have studied his philosophy.

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plan. Consider the three reasons Spinoza gives to Oldenburg for writing the TTP: 1. The prejudices of theologians. For I know that these are what mostly prevent men from devoting their minds to philosophy. So I apply myself to disclosing [patefacere] such prejudices and removing [amoliri] them from the minds of sensible men [prudentiores]. 2. The opinion of me held by the multitude [vulgus], who do not cease to accuse me of atheism. I am driven to avert [this accusation] as far as I can. 3. The freedom to philosophize [libertas philosophandi] and to say what we think. This I desire to secure [asserere] in every way, for here it is suppressed as it were by the excessive authority and the impertinence of preachers. (Ep. 30, G iv, 166/844) The first and third reasons describe two aspects of the same project: defending the “freedom to philosophize.” This notion is awkward, but likely deliberately chosen to convey Spinoza’s twofold aim. In the intellectual sense, “freedom to philosophize” refers to philosophy properly speaking. As we learn from the TTP’s preface the “one obstacle” preventing potential philosophers from doing philosophy is the belief “that reason must be the handmaid of theology” (15/8) – that is, the view Spinoza describes as “skepticism” in TTP 15. Ensuring that “sensible men” can follow their philosophical vocation thus requires “removing” this “prejudice” from their “minds.” In the political sense, “freedom to philosophize” refers to the right of all citizens to think and say what they please which includes, of course, the philosopher’s right to do so. As we will see below, the freedom to philosophize in neither sense requires Spinoza’s critique of religion. More important for my present purpose, however, is Spinoza’s second reason. The only way Spinoza could hope to avert the charge of atheism was by showing that the God he affirms as a philosopher is the same as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Demonstrating that his case for philosophy does not undermine biblical religion was thus one of the three original motives for writing the TTP. Hence the goals of the TTP, as set out in 1665, are not only compatible with dogmatism, but require it. Spinoza’s critique of religion, on the other hand, is incompatible with his defense against the charge of atheism. It is thus unlikely that in 1665 Spinoza intended to include it in the TTP. Also in the TTP’s final form, however, clarifying the nature and purpose of biblical religion is clearly of great importance to Spinoza. I propose

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describing this project as the interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion. At the center of this interpretation is the ideal of intellectual perfection: Since the intellect is the better part of us, it is certain that, if we wish to seek what is definitely to our advantage, we should strive [conari] above all to perfect it as far as we can, for in its perfection must consist our highest good. (TTP 4.4/51; cf. E4app4)

Why is intellectual perfection “our highest good” and why does God command us to pursue it? Like all things, human beings are determined by their striving for self-preservation (conatus), the “supreme law of nature” (TTP 16.2/179). The more power we have, the better we are able to preserve ourselves. Hence we pursue what we think increases our power and avoid what we think decreases it. A thing’s perfection, then, is determined by its power, which is measured by the range of effects of which it is the cause. God’s power is absolutely infinite: “From the necessity of the divine nature there must follow infinite things in infinite ways” (E1p16). All things caused by God express God’s power “in a definite and determinate way” (E1p25c; cf. E1p36d) – that is, their power is limited to varying degrees. Spinoza’s view that perfecting the intellect is the most empowering activity for us follows from his epistemology. Since “knowledge of an effect depends on, and involves, the knowledge of the cause” (E1ax4) and since “God is absolutely the first cause” (E1p16c3), “nothing can be . . . conceived without God” (E1p15). If we are to know anything at all, knowledge of God must be innate. Hence Spinoza’s striking claim “that God’s infinite essence and his eternity are known to all” (E2p47s). The way our mind involves knowledge of God roughly corresponds to the way propositions in Euclidean geometry involve the axioms from which they are deduced. One of the things God causes is the “infinite intellect” whose knowledge of God and of all things caused by God consists in infinite ideas deduced from God’s essence insofar as he is a “thinking thing” (see E2p3–4). The human mind is a subset of the ideas constituting the infinite intellect and in this sense involves God’s essence from which these ideas are deduced. The doctrine of the mind’s innate knowledge of God is also taught by Scripture: “the prophets and the apostles clearly proclaim that God’s eternal word” is: divinely inscribed . . . in the human mind, and that this is the true handwriting of God which he has sealed with his own seal – that is, the idea of himself [sui idea] as the image [imago] of his divinity. (TTP 12.1/149)

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Spinoza is clearly alluding to the creation of man in God’s image according to Genesis 1:26. To be created in God’s image, then, refers to the idea Dei in our mind. Our “highest good and perfection,” however, not only “depends solely on the knowledge of God,” but also “consists entirely” in this knowledge (TTP 4.4/51; cf. E4p28). Since God is not the external, but the “immanent cause . . . of all things” (E1p18), “whatever is, is in God” (E1p15). Hence the more things we know, the more we know God: [Given that] the knowledge of an effect through its cause is nothing other than the knowledge of some property of that cause, the greater our knowledge of natural things, the more perfect is our knowledge of God’s essence which is the cause of all things. (TTP 4.4/51)

To fill the innate idea Dei with content, we must deduce the effects of God’s causal activity from it.36 Some do this more successfully than others, which accounts for the differences in intellectual perfection. Spinoza thus holds – like the Alexandrians and Maimonides – that being created in God’s image is not an achievement but a potential that we must realize by increasing our knowledge of God. We can now see why perfecting the intellect is the most empowering activity. Recall that a thing’s power is measured by the range of effects of which it is the cause. Since everything we know is deduced from the idea Dei in us, it is an effect of which we are the cause. Hence the more we know, the more powerful we are. According to Spinoza, we experience an increase in power as “joy” and a decrease in power as “sadness” (E3def3 and E3da2 and 3). Closely connected to joy is love: it arises when we experience joy together with the idea of the cause of joy. Since we represent God as the cause of the increase in power and the concomitant joy derived from intellectual perfection, we will also love him (see E5p32c). Hence Spinoza can say that our “highest good and blessedness” consists in “knowledge and love of God” (TTP 4.4/51). If we rationally pursue what is to our advantage, perfecting the intellect through knowledge and love of God is the “end [finis] of all human actions” (ibid.; cf. TdIE 16). The things that reason prescribes for this purpose Spinoza calls “God’s commands [jussa]” (ibid.). For knowledge of what contributes to our perfection, like all knowledge, is deduced from the idea Dei in us. Hence the prescriptions of reason “are prescribed to us by God 36

Cf. E2p47s: Since “all things are in God and are conceived through God, it follows that we can deduce from this knowledge [that is, adequate knowledge of the eternal and infinite essence of God or the idea Dei] a great many things which we know adequately.” See also E2p10s about the “proper order of philosophical inquiry.”

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himself, as it were, insofar as he exists in our mind” (ibid.). Moreover, since knowing and loving God is the end for the sake of which reason makes these prescriptions, God is also their final cause. Given that it originates in God and aims at God, this “rule of life” (ratio vivendi) is “best called the Divine Law” (ibid.). What does the Divine Law prescribe? Above all, of course, knowing and loving God. Since we are finite beings, however, we cannot live from contemplating God alone. In order to preserve ourselves we need many things – food, clothes, shelter, and so forth. And moderate physical and aesthetic pleasures, too, can enhance our ability to contemplate – if they provide an agreeable environment, for example, or appropriate occasions for relaxation: It is the part of a wise man . . . to refresh and restore himself in moderation with good food and drink, with scents, with the beauty of green plants, with decoration, music, sports, the theater, and other things of this kind, which anyone can use without injury to another. (E4p45c2s)

While the things that enable a life centered on contemplation are thus legitimate objects of desire, they are not intrinsically good. God or reason only commands them “insofar as they assist man to enjoy the life of the mind” (E4app5).37 On our own, however, we are unable to supply everything we need to live and attain perfection: All men are not equally suited to all activities, and no single person would be capable of supplying all his own needs. Each would find strength and time fail him if he alone had to plow, sow, reap, grind, cook, weave, stitch, and perform all the other numerous tasks to sustain life, not to mention the arts and sciences which are also most necessary for the perfection of human nature and its blessedness. (TTP 5.7/64)38

Hence collaborating with others in a political community on creating the material, cultural, and intellectual conditions that promote perfection is “absolutely necessary” for us (ibid.). As Spinoza puts it in the TdIE: the goal of forming “society” is “that as many as possible may attain [perfection] as easily and surely as possible” (14). All the “sciences” for example – from 37 38

On the meaning of “good” and “evil,” cf. E4pref and def 1 and 2; on the instrumental value of things other than intellectual perfection, see TdIE 17, rules 2 and 3 and E4p45s. Note that the finiteness of our power provides not only a positive, but also a negative, reason for establishing a political order. For this order also protects us against the aggressions of our nonrational fellow citizens (see TTP 16). The positive reason was first set forth by Plato and Aristotle. The negative reason is usually associated with the social contract theory of Hobbes. Note, however, that Maimonides, like Spinoza, mentions both reasons (see Guide 2.40 and 3.27).

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the “theory of education” to “medicine” and “mechanics” – ought to aim at “the achievement of the highest human perfection” (ibid. 14–16). This is why the Divine Law includes not only an individual “rule of life,” but also “the fundamental principles of the best state” (TTP 4.4/51). Caring about the perfection of others is not an altruistic obligation, but is based on self-interest: “nothing is more useful to man in preserving his being and enjoying a rational life than a man who is guided by reason” (E4app9). For the more rational the citizens are, the more they agree on the nature of the good and the more efficiently they collaborate to achieve it. Making our fellow-citizens as perfect as possible is thus one of “God’s commands.” Indeed, it is the second pillar of the Divine Law: to love our neighbor as ourselves.39 If we are perfectly rational, however, it is only in a metaphorical sense (“speaking more humano”) that we can be said “to obey” God’s commands (TP 2.22). In reality we enjoy complete autonomy, since everything we do follows necessarily from our rational nature. The “love of God,” Spinoza writes, “arises from true knowledge by the same necessity as light arises from the sun” (TTP, note 34). We have thus attained the rank of the “free man” described in parts 4 and 5 of the Ethics. To be free means to fulfill the two conditions required for autonomy according to proponents of a philosophical religion: knowing the good and being motivated to do it. A free man will not give in to the “fleshly appetites” of “carnal man” (TTP 4.5/52), because the increase of power and joy derived from satisfying these appetites is much smaller than the increase of power and joy derived from perfecting the intellect. According to Spinoza’s moral psychology, “no affect can be restrained except by an affect stronger than and contrary to the affect to be restrained” (E4p37s2). This explains the free man’s motivation to do what he knows is best: “because the mind enjoys this divine love or blessedness, it has the power of restraining the lusts” (E5p42). For the free man, therefore, God’s rule and self-rule coincide. Hence Spinoza can say that if we pursue our perfection and the perfection of our fellow citizens “insofar as we have the idea Dei” and live “by the guidance of reason” we have “religion” and “piety” (E4p37s1). After all, we are carrying out God’s commands. Like all proponents of a philosophical religion, Spinoza takes a community ordered according to the prescriptions of the Divine Law to be a community in which the life of the citizens is ordered towards what is 39

For the two core commandments that make up the Divine Law, see TTP 12; on the second commandment, see also E4p37, E4p46, and E4p73s.

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best. A divinely ordered community is the same as an excellent political community: the prescriptions of reason are not only the prescriptions of God but also “the laws of the best state” (TP 2.21). Politics thus ought to aim at a community of “free men.” As Spinoza puts it succinctly in the Ethics: “citizens are to be governed and led, not so that they may be slaves, but that they may do freely what is best” (E2p49s). In the TTP the point is elaborated in greater detail: It is not . . . the end [finis] of the state to transform men from rational beings into beasts or puppets, but rather to enable them to develop the faculties of their mind and body in safety, to use their free reason and not to compete on account of hatred, anger, or deceit or to confront each other in a hostile spirit. Thus the end of the state is, in fact, freedom. (TTP 20.6/232)40

Clearly “freedom” in this passage refers to the rational self-rule described in the Ethics. This is confirmed by Spinoza’s characterization of the “best state” in the Political Treatise in which the life of the citizens “is characterized not just by the circulation of the blood and other features common to all animals, but most of all by reason, the true virtue and life of the mind” (TP 5.5). Spinoza’s best state, then, can be characterized as a theocracy, or, to use Spinoza’s own term, as “God’s kingdom”: it is ordered by the “precepts [documenta] of true reason, as we showed in our discussion of the Divine Law in chapter 4 – that is, the very precepts of God” (TTP 19.4/220). Like all proponents of a philosophical religion, Spinoza denies that this implies an anthropomorphic concept of God as a lawgiver: [T]he divine precepts revealed by the natural or prophetic light do not acquire the force of command from God directly; they must acquire it . . . through the intermediary of those who have the right to command . . . and consequently it is only by their mediation that we can conceive of God as reigning over men. (TTP 19.8/222)

What scholars sometimes refer to as Spinoza’s “Erastianism” – the view that the state should be in charge of religion as Spinoza argues in TTP 19 – thus needs qualification. For Spinoza, establishing laws is the sole right of the sovereign which includes the ius circa sacra – the right to regulate religious practice. Since all laws are divine in a well-ordered state, however, the laws governing religious practice are just one subset of divine laws. Hence the separation of state and religion is not only incomplete in a well-ordered state. They are, in fact, one and the same! 40

This passage has often been interpreted as Spinoza’s endorsement of “negative” freedom – wrongly as Steinberg (2009) showed.

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Note, however, that the core commandments of the Divine Law – loving God above all and one’s neighbor as oneself – cannot be the object of political legislation according to Spinoza. They are the fundamental goods at which political legislation should aim. For knowing and loving God and loving one’s neighbor simply are not things we can do on command (cf. TP 3.8 and 3.10, as well as TTP 13). A state can, however, promote them – for example by establishing an excellent education system and making school attendance obligatory, or by ensuring a fair distribution of goods through taxation. The taxpayer does what a person who loves his neighbor would do on account of charity (cf. TP 3.10). We saw that for proponents of a philosophical religion, describing the best state as a theocracy does not specify a form of government. A state is a theocracy on account of its rational order, not on account of the ruling group. Spinoza explicitly leaves it open whether the right to enforce the prescriptions of God and reason is delegated “to the whole community, or to a number of men, or to one man” (TTP 19.4/220). The ideal state, of course, not only aims at, but is, a community of free men. In such a state God would rule directly – that is, without the intermediary of any political institutions, whether democratic, aristocratic, or monarchic: “if men were so constituted by nature as to desire nothing but what is indicated by true reason, society would stand in no need of laws at all” (TTP 5.8/64). Since the conventional notions of good and bad as defined by legal prescriptions would have no meaning in an ideal state, Spinoza can say that “if men were born free they would form no concept of good and evil so long as they remain free” (E4p68). Following Maimonides, Spinoza finds an allegorical representation of this ideal in the biblical story about Adam before the Fall: Adam was a “free man” who lived in perfect rational harmony with Eve before eating from “the tree of good and evil” (E4p68s).41 Spinoza, of course, was never under the illusion that an ideal state can come into existence given the reality of human nature: [Those] who persuaded themselves that the multitude or those who are distracted by public business can be led to live according to what is prescribed by reason alone are dreaming of the poets’ golden age or of a fairy tale. (TP 1.5)

Even under optimal political and educational conditions most citizens will not be able to attain perfect freedom, for “the road . . . leading to this goal” is “very difficult” (E5p42s). Hence also the best state falls short of the ideal state. This is a point on which Spinoza insists throughout his works and 41

The same interpretation is suggested in TTP 4 where Spinoza takes the prohibition to eat from the tree of good and evil as an allegorical representation of life guided by the natural Divine Law.

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which clearly sets him apart from Enlightenment optimists. Living under the guidance of reason is not just a matter of overcoming “laziness and cowardice” as Kant claimed (Aufkl¨arung, 35/54). Most of us are unable to be free men by nature: “there are only a few – compared to the whole of humankind – who acquire a virtuous disposition under the guidance of reason alone” (TTP 15.10/178). As for the “multitude” (vulgus), Spinoza writes: I know that they are unchanging in their obstinacy, that they are not ruled by reason, and that their praise and blame is at the mercy of impulse. (TTP, preface, 15/8; cf. E5p41s and TP 2.18)

For one thing, nobody is born a free man:42 [A]ll men are born in a state of complete ignorance, and before they can learn the true rule of life [ratio vivendi] and acquire a virtuous disposition, even if they have been well brought up, a great part of their life has gone by. Yet in the meantime they have to live and preserve themselves as far as in them lies, namely by the urging of appetite alone, for nature has . . . denied them the actualized power to live according to sound reason. (TTP 16.3/180; cf. E5p39s)

Even in a well-ordered state, then, all citizens start out life under the guidance of non-rational desires. While some grow up to become free men – they are not-yet-free men as it were – most remain in this state throughout life. As a consequence, spelling out what the ideal state would look like is a futile exercise for Spinoza. He is full of scorn for philosophers who “conceive men not as they are, but as they would like them to be” and develop political theories that can only “be put into effect in Utopia or in that golden age of the poets” (TP 1.1). His own political theory, by contrast, is derived “from human nature as it really is” (TP 1.4). This does not mean that Spinoza dismisses the ideal of a community of free men. It only means that he will not waste his time describing such a community, but will clarify how a political order can be achieved that comes as close as possible to this ideal while being compatible with human nature. This becomes clear if we look at the two factors determining the excellence of an actual state according to Spinoza: the end of the political order and the distribution of goods. Concerning the end, Spinoza’s main distinction is between “human laws” which aim at security and material prosperity and “divine laws” which aim at “knowledge and love of God” (TTP 4.3/51). Since for Spinoza knowledge and love of God is the only intrinsic good, security and material prosperity 42

Hence in the scholium to E4p68 Spinoza expressly says that the “hypothesis” of the proposition (“if men were born free”) is “false.”

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can only be good as means to that end. Hence a state governed by human laws which pursues them as ends is inferior to a state governed by divine laws. Concerning the distribution of goods, Spinoza distinguishes between ruling for the sake of the good of the sovereign and ruling for the sake of the common good (see TTP 16.10). The latter is clearly superior given that our true advantage requires promoting the perfection of our fellow-citizens. Hence ruling for the sake of the common good is not only better for the ruled, but also for the ruler. The best state, then, is a state that promotes the true perfection of all citizens and hence embodies the theocratic ideal to the greatest possible extent. Such a state, Spinoza argues in the TTP, is a democracy. While the good of the rulers is also the good of the ruled in a democracy, articulating the good sharpens the minds of citizens with conflicting interests who participate in “the give and take of discussion and debate” (TP 9.14).43 Moreover, a democracy is also the most stable form of government in the long run. We are by nature – that is, prior to joining a political community – free and equal and thus averse to submitting to the rule of our fellow men. This freedom and equality is best preserved in a democracy which is, therefore, more stable than oppressive forms of government (see TTP 5.8–9 and 16.11). A democracy, however, requires citizens who can make autonomous decisions and engage in self-motivated collaboration for the common good.44 Hence it cannot be realized under all circumstances. The Hebrews, for example, “were at liberty” to adopt any political order “they wished” after the exodus from Egypt: However, what they were least capable of was establishing a wise system of laws and keeping the government in the hands of the whole community; for they were of almost brutish character and worn out by the wretched condition of slavery. (TTP 5.10/65)

Under these circumstances Moses had no choice but to establish a monarchy. The excellence of a state, then, is not only constrained by human nature, but also by particular cultural and natural circumstances – “the character of the people” and “the nature of [the state’s] territory” (TP 10.7). These constraints explain why Spinoza discusses all forms of government – monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy in the Political Treatise. He wants 43 44

Although the passage comes in Spinoza’s discussion of aristocracy, it applies to a democracy as well. In TTP 19.6 Spinoza says that in a democracy “all by common consent resolve to live only by the dictates of reason” (221). As we will see below, such consent does not require all citizens to be perfectly rational.

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to show how a state can be organized to promote the citizens’ perfection even under adverse external circumstances. Spinoza is thus committed to a contextualism of the kind typical for proponents of a philosophical religion, which allows for multiple as well as more or less perfect realizations of the Divine Law. While every state whose laws promote the ends of the Divine Law – loving God and one’s neighbor as oneself – counts as a state ruled by God, theocracies can vary according to circumstances and some may be superior to others. Who establishes a political order that counts as “God’s kingdom”? Following Plato, proponents of a philosophical religion argue that this cannot be done unless the ruler is a philosopher, since they take knowing the good to be necessary for establishing a good political order. Given that the “precepts of God” for Spinoza are the “precepts of true reason” we would expect him to wholeheartedly endorse this claim. However, a tenacious – and in my view mistaken – scholarly tradition sets Spinoza against Plato. Recall Spinoza’s scorn for philosophers who write about utopian states inhabited by men “as they would like them to be.” They are the reason why “no men are regarded as less fit for governing a state than theoreticians or philosophers” (TP 1.1). Spinoza is not saying that philosophers are unfit to rule. He is saying that because of a certain type of philosopher – that is, philosophers who write useless utopian treatises – this is how philosophers in general are “regarded.” Whether a true philosopher will do everything in his power to promote the perfection of his fellow-citizens is, in fact, not a normative question. It follows necessarily from the philosopher’s rational nature. Indeed, every “good citizen” should attempt to persuade the government to enact rational laws. If he thinks “that a certain law is against sound reason,” he should “advocate its repeal” by submitting “his opinion to the judgment of the sovereign power” (TTP 20.7/232). The TTP’s argument for freedom of thought and expression which Spinoza judiciously submits “to the scrutiny and judgment of my country’s government” (TTP 20.18/238) is a case in point: it is meant to come to the rescue of a rational law that Spinoza felt was under threat in the Dutch Republic. And Spinoza would certainly welcome rulers who studied the Ethics and governed in accordance with its principles. According to the TdIE “moral philosophy” is the first science to which “attention must be paid” if the goal is “to form a society” that promotes the citizens’ perfection (14). Spinoza explicitly says, moreover, that a state “which is founded and governed mainly by men of wisdom and vigilance” is superior to a state governed by “men who lack these qualities” (TTP 3.5/38). This does not mean that philosophers should have absolute power. On the contrary, a well-ordered state:

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must be so organized that those who administer it cannot be induced to betray their trust or to act basely, whether they are guided by reason or by passion. (TP 1.6)

As much as possible, then, rationality – that is, “God’s commands” – should be institutionalized. However, if “the laws of the best state” consist in prescriptions of reason, I cannot see how they can be put in place without a process of rational legislation that gradually implements “God’s commands” – that is, “the rule of life” and “the fundamental principles of the best state” that direct the citizens to the “highest good and blessedness” (TTP 4.4/51). As we saw, Spinoza, like all proponents of a philosophical religion, holds that we cannot live under the guidance of reason as children and that most of us remain unable to do so throughout life. To be sure, a state ordered by the Divine Law will heavily invest in the education system to lead as many citizens as possible to perfection.45 However, Spinoza’s grim assessment of the “multitude” suggests that even under optimal political and educational conditions most citizens will remain imperfectly rational. The problem Spinoza’s concept of biblical religion is meant to solve is how imperfectly rational citizens can be made to follow the prescriptions of reason. Failing to secure this would have disastrous political consequences. Consider Spinoza’s notion of the “slave” (servus) – the human condition opposed to the “free man” on the scale of human perfection. A person “who lives under pleasure’s sway, unable to see and to do what is to his advantage, is a slave to the highest degree” (TTP 16.10/184). Driven by the conatus slaves will: seek their own advantage, but by no means from the dictates of sound reason. For the most part the things they seek and judge to be beneficial are determined by fleshly desire, and they are carried away by the affects of the soul which take no account of the future or of other considerations. (TTP 5.8/64)

Whereas the free man acts under the guidance of reason and is motivated by the intellectual love of God, the slave acts under the guidance of the imagination and is motivated by passive affects. The affects are passive because they are caused by things he randomly encounters in his environment. His imagination turns these affects into value judgments by association: he 45

See TdIE 14–15 where Spinoza stresses how important “the theory [doctrina] of education of children” is for “the achievement of the highest human perfection.”

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considers good whatever increases his power and hence causes him pleasure, and bad whatever decreases his power and hence causes him pain (see TTP 17.4). However, not everything we subjectively judge to be good is also objectively advantageous, since we frequently miscalculate the effect things have on our overall constitution or on our long-term interests. Thus a “desire that arises from . . . a passive affect is called blind” (E4p59s). Guided by the imagination, slaves cannot agree on the good, since the things that cause pleasure and pain vary as much as the constitutions of human beings. Hence by “the laws of appetite all men are drawn in different directions” (TTP 16.5/181). The disagreements give rise to violent conflicts and make collaboration for the common good impossible. In the “state of nature” – a state prior to any political order – life would indeed “be most wretched” (ibid.), since very few if any would follow reason in the absence of the institutionalized rationality of laws. Spinoza’s solution to this problem by and large agrees with that proposed by the fal¯asifa: while non-philosophers cannot act from the prescriptions of reason, they can be made to act according to them through the rational management of their imagination.46 Although the imagination frequently misleads us, it does not do so necessarily. In the Ethics Spinoza illustrates how the imagination works through the example of “merchants” who solve a mathematical problem by applying a rule that they discovered through experimenting with “very simple numbers” or “heard from their teachers without any demonstration” (E2p40s2). They reliably reach the correct conclusion without knowing the mathematical theory from which it is deduced. The aim, then, is to lead the imagination of non-philosophers to endorse the same prescriptions that philosophers deduce from the idea Dei in their mind. We already saw the key psychological law that must be observed for this purpose: “no affect can be restrained except by an affect stronger than and contrary to the affect to be restrained” (E4p37s2). The resources of the imagination are sufficient to motivate the transition from the state of nature to a political order. For “there is nobody who does not desire to live in safety free from fear.” Since this is impossible amidst “feuds, hatred, anger, and deceit,” everyone “will try to avoid” the state of nature “insofar as he can” (TTP 16.5/181). Delegating the natural right to do whatever is in our power to a sovereign in exchange for security is thus an attractive trade-off even from the point of view of the imagination. The desire to avoid the pain we suffer from others “restrains” the desire to do as we please. 46

For this distinction, cf. Steinberg (2009), 46.

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If we are rational, however, we want more than a “secure” life. We want a “good life” which includes “the cultivation of reason” (ibid.). The prescriptions that must be followed for this purpose can no longer be motivated by the imagination alone. One way to get non-philosophers to comply with them is by establishing an association between breaking the law and punishment in their imagination. Fear of punishment thus “restrains” the desire to commit crime (see E4p37s2). No state, Spinoza argues, “can subsist without . . . coercion . . . to control men’s lusts and their unbridled urges” (TTP 5.8/64). Citizens thus will either “voluntarily or constrained by force . . . live as reason prescribes” and “do what is in the interest of their common welfare” (TP 6.3). Like other proponents of a philosophical religion, Spinoza justifies the use of force by pointing out that this is how non-philosophers would act if they were free in the sense of rationally self-determined (see TTP, note 33). Although fear is a nonrational motive, we are freer when we do what is rational than when we do what is not rational on account of a non-rational motive: And so that state whose laws are based on sound reason is the most free, for there everybody . . . can live whole-heartedly under the guidance of reason. (TTP 16.10/184)

This form of coercion does not turn citizens into slaves but “subjects” (subditi) who can be compared to children: “Although children are in duty bound to obey all the commands of their parents, they are not slaves; for the parents’ commands have as their chief aim the good [utilitas] of the children” (TTP 16.10/184–85). The case of subjects is analogous: A subject is one who, by command of the sovereign power, does what is good [utilis] for the community and therefore also for himself. (TTP 16.10/185)

Like all proponents of a philosophical religion, however, Spinoza considers coercion only a last resort. The “end of the state,” as we saw, “is not . . . to transform men . . . into beasts or puppets.” A person who does what is right from fear “of punishment . . . cannot be called a just man” (TTP 4.2/50). Moreover, a state based on coercion is unstable in the long run, since: rule that depends on violence has never long continued. . . . For as long as men act only from fear, they are doing what they are most opposed to doing, taking no account of the usefulness [utilitas] and the necessity of the action to be done, concerned only not to incur capital or other punishment. (TTP 5.8/64)

Far superior to coercion are the narratives of Scripture. Although they cannot give “clear knowledge” of “what God is and in what way he sustains

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and directs all things and cares for men,” they “can still teach and enlighten men as far as suffices to impress on their minds obedience and devotion” (TTP 5.16/68). It “was to make the people do their duty from devotion rather than fear,” that “Moses, by his divine power and authority, introduced a state religion” (TTP 5.11/66). For the same reason, Spinoza stresses “that knowledge of these writings and belief in them is in the highest degree necessary for the multitude which lacks the ability to perceive things clearly and distinctly” (TTP 5.16/68). For: the process of deduction solely from intellectual axioms usually demands the apprehension of a long series of connected propositions, as well as the greatest caution, acuteness of intelligence, and self-control, all of which qualities are rarely found among men. (TTP 5.14/67)

Hence a legislator whose goal is to teach “an entire nation” or even “the whole of humankind” must not speak more geometrico, but more humano: [H]e must rely entirely on an appeal to experience, and he must above all adapt his arguments and the definitions relevant to his doctrines to the understanding of the multitude [ad captum plebis] which forms the greatest part of humankind. He must not set before them a logical chain of reasoning. . . . Otherwise he will be writing only for the learned. (TTP 5.14/67–68)

Logical deduction must be replaced by an appeal to experience, because the imagination construes its concepts by associating impressions caused by the things we randomly encounter around us. The concept of God is a good example. Since Spinoza claims, as we saw, that adequate knowledge of God is innate, he must explain why non-philosophers represent God in a confused manner: [This] comes from the fact that they cannot imagine God, as they do bodies, and that they have joined the name “God” to the images of things which they are used to seeing. Men can hardly avoid this, because they are continually affected by bodies. (E2p47s)

Like all proponents of a philosophical religion, Spinoza can thus explain why the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob at first view greatly differs from the God of the philosophers: because Scripture’s “language and reasoning is adapted to the understanding of the multitude” (TTP 5.16/68). We can now see how Scripture’s legal and narrative contents complement each other: while the former ground laws that promote the love of God and of one’s neighbor, the latter ensure that non-philosophers follow these laws by instilling in them obedience and devotion. To do so efficiently, Scripture must enlist the service of theology. For prophets and Apostles composed

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their narratives for audiences of a long time ago. To speak to contemporary audiences they are in need of adaptation: But the multitude is not itself qualified to judge of these narratives, being more disposed to take pleasure in the stories and in strange and unexpected happenings than in the doctrine contained in the narratives; and, therefore, besides reading the narratives they also need pastors or ministers of the church to instruct them in a way suited to their limited intelligence. (TTP 5.18/69)

The core doctrines taught by Scripture to instill obedience make up what Spinoza calls the “catholic or universal faith” (TTP 14.9/166). Everyone agrees, he argues, “that Scripture was written and disseminated . . . for all men of every time and race” (TTP 14.3/164). Hence Scripture’s core doctrines cannot include any “that good men [honesti] may regard as controversial” (TTP 14.9/166). These doctrines are not derived exegetically from Scripture but analytically from the concept of obedience. They are conditions “without which . . . obedience is absolutely impossible” (TTP 14.9/167). The “basic teachings which Scripture as a whole intends to convey” are seven: 1. God, that is a Supreme Being, exists, supremely just and merciful, the exemplar of true life. He who knows not, or does not believe, that God exists, cannot obey him or know him as a judge. 2. God is one alone [unicus]. No one can doubt that this belief is required for supreme devotion, reverence, and love towards God; for devotion, reverence, and love arise only from the preeminence of one above all others. 3. God is omnipresent and all things are open to him. If it were believed that things could be concealed from God, or if it were ignored that he sees everything, one might doubt the uniformity of the justice by which he directs all things. 4. God has supreme right and dominion over all things. . . . All are required to obey him absolutely, while he obeys none. 5. Worship of God and obedience to him consist solely in justice and charity, or love towards one’s neighbor. 6. All who obey God by following this rule of life [ratio vivendi] are saved; others, who live under the rule of the pleasures, are lost. If men did not firmly believe this, there is no reason why they should obey God rather than their desires. 7. Finally, God forgives repentant sinners. There is no one who does not sin, so that without this belief all would despair of salvation. (TTP 14.10/167)

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If these doctrines – conveyed through Scripture with the help of theology – shape the imagination of the citizens from childhood on, they will believe in an omniscient and omnipotent God and associate obeying God with reward and disobeying him with punishment. The hope for reward and the fear of punishment will in most cases be powerful enough to “restrain” illicit desires – though not uniformly so as the last doctrine concerning “the repentant sinner” implies. At times Spinoza suggests that faith is the only alternative to knowledge for ensuring the enactment of the Divine Law. Since a non-philosopher cannot attain knowledge, “he would necessarily [necessario] be a rebel” (TTP 14.8/166) were he to lose his faith. Elsewhere, however, Spinoza qualifies this thesis: [H]e who is neither acquainted with these biblical narratives nor has any knowledge from the natural light, if he is not impious or obstinate, is inhuman and close to being a beast, possessing none of God’s gift. (TTP 5.16/68)

I take the beast-like condition to refer to coercion through fear of “capital or other punishment” that we saw above: citizens do what reason prescribes like cattle fearing the whip. Even if coercion does provide an alternative to “biblical narratives” and “the natural light” it is clearly greatly inferior. We can thus see the key moral-political role that Spinoza assigns to Scripture and theology: they translate the free man’s religion of reason into a pedagogical-political program accessible to the imagination. Laws and narratives order the life of non-philosophers towards what is best, mediating the prescriptions of reason and providing the motivation to follow them. This program not only replaces the guidance of reason for nonphilosophers. It also prepares not-yet-philosophers for the philosophical life. This is one reason why prophets “commended so greatly” non-rational affects like hope and fear. For: those who are subject to these affects can be guided far more easily than others, so that in the end they may live from the guidance of reason – that is, may be free to enjoy the life of the blessed. (E4p54s)

Or, as Spinoza describes this transformation elsewhere: “obedience forthwith passes into love” (TTP, note 34).47 In Spinoza’s fourfold typology of agents, the pious man occupies the second rank: below the free man, but above the beast-like man who acts from fear 47

Cf. Maimonides’s description of the transition from fear to love as motives for worshiping God discussed in the previous chapter.

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of punishment and the man enslaved to his passions.48 However, while the fear of divine retribution may be more efficient for ensuring long-term obedience than the fear of punishment through the state, it does not seem to imply greater perfection. As we saw, Spinoza expressly says in the TTP that a person who obeys on account of fear “cannot be called just” (TTP 4.2/50). And is the pious man not barred by nature from sharing in knowledge and love of God – that is, the highest good towards which a theocratic state is ordered? For the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is adapted to the confused notion of God that he formed in his imagination. Since for medieval Aristotelians knowledge begins with sense-perception, the difference between the God of the Bible and the God of the philosophers can be construed as one of degree. Hence non-philosophers can have a share in intellectual perfection. Spinoza’s epistemology, on the other hand, like Plato’s, cannot bridge that gap: whereas the imagination’s concept of God is derived from experience, clear and distinct knowledge of God must be deduced from the idea Dei. Spinoza did, however, consider it possible to replace fear as the pious man’s primary motive for doing what reason prescribes through a form of love of God which, although remaining in the realm of the imagination, goes hand in hand with a higher level of self-rule: A state whose subjects are deterred from taking up arms [against each other] only through fear should be said to be not at war rather than to be enjoying peace. For peace is not just the absence of war, but a virtue which arises from strength of mind [fortitudo animi]; for obedience is the steadfast will [constans voluntas] to carry out orders enjoined by the general decree of the state. (TP 5.4)

Can non-philosophers be elevated from obedience derived from hope and fear to obedience derived from “strength of mind”? For Spinoza “strength of mind” is the key virtue of free men on account of which they do what reason prescribes (E3p59s). It is subdivided into “courage” (animositas) and “nobility” (generositas), referring to actions that promote one’s own perfection and the perfection of one’s fellow citizens (ibid.). Elsewhere, as we saw, Spinoza describes the pursuit of these intertwined goals as the free man’s religion and piety. The free man’s strength of mind is a rational virtue: it accounts for “all actions that follow from affects related to the mind insofar as it understands” (ibid.). However, the same virtue can also be grounded on the religious imagination. Hence strength of mind is the point at which the religion and piety of the philosopher overlaps with the 48

For the argument of the following section, see also Steinberg (2009).

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religion and piety of the non-philosopher. This also explains how Spinoza can describe true peace as consisting in “the union and harmony of minds” (TP 6.4). Although perfect harmony would only be possible in a community of free men, a lower level of harmony can be attained in a community of both free and pious men who share strength of mind. Spinoza speaks with considerable admiration of how the state religion established by Moses served “to strengthen the mind [animos firmare] of the Hebrews,” leading them to carry out their duty “with singular steadfastness [constantia] and virtue [virtus]” (TTP 17.24/205). Habituated to obedience from childhood on, desire and duty coincided to the point that obedience “appeared to be freedom rather than slavery” (TTP 17.25/206). Moses thus achieved what all rulers should aim at: governing the citizens “in such a way that they do not think of themselves as being governed but as living as they please” (TP 10.8). Note that the ancient Hebrews did not obey the laws because they expected to be rewarded or punished in the afterlife. In “return for their obedience” God promised “them nothing other than the continuing prosperity of their state and material advantages” (TTP 3.6/38) – things like “fame, victory, riches, life’s pleasures, and health” (TTP 5.3/61). It was not only “good fortune,” according to Spinoza, but also the wellordered “society” of the Hebrews which did, in fact, ensure their political independence, security, and prosperity over a long period (TTP 3.6/38). Hence there was a true causal link between obeying the law and enjoying the fruits of an empowering political order. Although the Hebrews did not know how Deus sive Natura brought these things about, they imagined that it was the doing of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Hence they loved God as the cause of the joy which they experienced on account of their increased power. In a well-ordered state, then, which reliably satisfies the expectations of its citizens in return for their obedience, non-philosophers, too, act out of love of God. They willingly do what objectively benefits them and their fellow-citizens – not because they fear punishment by the state or by God, but because they take joy in the empowering effects of their actions which stem from the state’s good order. Although it is “impossible” for “most men” to be “eager to live wisely,” it is possible for them to be “guided by such [positive] affects as will conduce to the greater good of the community” (TP 10.6). Given the alignment of what they desire with what the law prescribes, they attain a considerable level of self-rule. In such a state, then, free men and pious men will share a great deal of goods and be united by strength of mind and love of God – based on reason for the former and on the imagination for the latter. “He who abounds” in the “fruits” stemming from actions according to reason – namely:

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charity, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and selfcontrol . . . whether he be taught by reason alone or by Scripture alone, is in truth taught by God, and is altogether blessed. (TTP 5.20/71)

Hence non-philosophers, too, will love God as the cause of their increasing power and joy. And since God is, in fact, the cause of their increasing power and joy – he is, after all, the cause of everything – the same true conclusion is attained through both reason and the imagination. As we saw, the excellence of the state established by Moses was significantly constrained by the “wretched condition” of the Hebrews after the exodus from Egypt. In a democracy, in which citizens govern themselves, the perfection of non-philosophers would rise even higher. For they would be compelled to think through the relationship between laws, their own interests, and the interests of their fellow-citizens and would thus better understand the causal link between doing what the laws prescribe and the increase in power they experience. Although their understanding would still fall short of knowledge in the strict sense because it is not deduced from the idea Dei, they would grasp part of the chain of causes and effects and to that extent share in the knowledge of the free man. The more they understand the less they need to conceive God as a lawgiver who rewards and punishes them for their behavior. As a consequence, the gap between the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and the God of the philosophers narrows. Hence pious men in Spinoza’s best state are not a uniform group, but include different levels of perfection which gradually approach the rank of the free man. This said, there is no mistake that Spinoza – like Plato – thinks that non-philosophers will always be primarily motivated by the “love of gain” and the “desire for glory” (TP 10.6). These desires must be satisfied to ensure that the citizens live in harmony. On the other hand, there is no reason to think that the merchant or general will not experience some measure of intellectual joy by thinking through the relationship between the political order and the citizens’ well-being. And in Spinoza’s best state surely both religion and the education system would promote intellectual activity as the supreme cultural value and do everything in their power to instill reverence for it in all citizens. In this way a political order based on “human nature as it really is” would be compatible with the end of divine laws – “that as many as possible may attain [perfection] as easily and surely as possible” (TdIE 14). Unlike some Enlightenment philosophers, then, Spinoza never thought that the best state can do without the guidance that Scripture’s legal and narrative contents provide to non-philosophers. Belief in an omnipotent

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and omniscient God who rewards obedience and punishes disobedience, combined with an empowering political order, is Spinoza’s recipe for ensuring that non-philosophers do what reason prescribes. The best way to think about Spinoza’s religion is along the lines of the multilayered model proposed by al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı. According to this model, Scripture can be interpreted in more or less enlightened ways corresponding to the citizens’ varying levels of perfection – from the anthropomorphic God of fear who legislates, punishes, and rewards to the God of the philosophers who is the causal order of nature. religion and the freedom to philosophize As is clear from the Political Treatise, the “catholic or universal faith” laid out in the TTP was meant to be adopted as both the “national religion” of the state and as the religion of the sovereign (TP 8.46). Is this compatible with the “freedom to philosophize” in the two senses I distinguished above – the freedom to do philosophy without fear of contradicting Scripture and the general freedom of thought and expression? Spinoza’s main argument for the freedom of thought and expression is presented in the political part of the TTP (chapters 16–20). Since Spinoza equates right and power, the right of the citizens to hold and express the beliefs they consider true must be grounded in their power to do so. If a citizen believes that God is a lawgiver who rewards obedience and punishes disobedience, for example, it is impossible to coerce him through threat of punishment to believe that God is the causal order of nature. Beliefs simply do not yield to political power. This is Spinoza’s core argument for freedom of thought. The sovereign does, on the other hand, have the power to coerce citizens to profess beliefs they do not hold. However, doing so is against the sovereign’s interest to preserve his power in the long run. For it creates duplicity (for example citizens who hold one belief about God but profess another), resentment against the sovereign, and eventually rebellion, thus weakening and finally overturning his power. Hence by suppressing freedom of expression the ruler acts against his own striving for self-preservation. From this perspective the argument against politically enforcing religious orthodoxy is just one instantiation of the argument for freedom of thought and expression in general. It does not in any way depend on settling the question whether Scripture is true. Enforcing religious doctrines, whether true or false, is impossible for the same reason that enforcing any doctrines is impossible. And coercing the citizens to profess religious doctrines, whether true or false, undermines the

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sovereign’s power for the same reason that coercing the citizens to profess any doctrines undermines it. As we saw, Spinoza claims to “know that I understand the true [philosophy]” (Ep. 76, G iv, 320/949). His case for freedom of thought and expression is thus not motivated by skepticism about the truth. On the contrary, in light of what we learned about the best state so far, it will surely do everything in its power to lead all citizens to that same knowledge – that is, to disseminate Spinoza’s philosophy as widely as possible. In a community of free men there would be no need for the toleration of dissent. Given the reality of human nature, however, creating such a community is not in the state’s power: nobody is born free and most of us remain non-philosophers throughout life – even under optimal educational and political conditions. Hence “it is impossible that all should think alike and speak with one voice” (TTP 20.7/232). In the best state, then, freedom to philosophize in the political sense is the freedom of non-philosophers to make mistakes! We can now see why Spinoza rejects Maimonides’s adaptation of the Almohad theological-political program of legislating philosophical doctrines. Recall that for Maimonides doctrines conclusively demonstrated in philosophy “ought to be inculcated in virtue of traditional authority in children, women, stupid ones, and those of a defective natural disposition” (Guide 1.35, 54/81). Spinoza disagrees: Men, women, and children, can all equally obey by command, but not be wise by command. Now if anyone says that, while there is no need to understand God’s attributes, there is a duty to believe them simply without demonstration, he is plainly talking nonsense. In the case of things invisible which are objects of the mind alone, demonstrations are the only eyes by which they can be seen; therefore those who do not have such demonstrations can see nothing at all of these things. So when they merely repeat what they have heard of such matters, this is no more . . . indicative of their mind than the words of a parrot or a puppet speaking without mind and sense. (TTP 13.5–6/159–60)

Moreover, enforcing true doctrines is not only futile, but undermines the power of the sovereign, as we saw. For Spinoza, then, philosophy is the exclusive domain of philosophers. This is one important point on which Spinoza firmly sides with the Averroistic critique of Maimonides in Elijah Delmedigo’s Examination of Religion discussed in the previous chapter.49 As mentioned, Delmedigo’s work was in Spinoza’s library and a significant 49

On Averroes, Delmedigo, and Spinoza, see Fraenkel (2010a) and Fraenkel (forthcoming c).

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amount of evidence suggests that he carefully read it. We will see shortly that this is not the only feature of Spinoza’s dogmatism revealing a distinctly Averroistic character. Although we have no reason to think that Spinoza had first-hand knowledge of Averroes’s works, his “Averroism” can be accounted for on the assumption that he was familiar with Delmedigo’s treatise. If knowledge of God “is a divine gift” (TTP 13.9/162), however, reserved to citizens who were allotted sufficient intelligence by God or Nature, this leads us back to the question how non-philosophers can be made to act according to the prescriptions of reason. Given religion’s crucial role for ensuring obedience, the doctrines of the universal faith “which Scripture as a whole intends to convey” set limits to the freedom of thought and expression. If “obedience is absolutely impossible” without these doctrines, rejecting them as false in the name of freedom of thought and expression would “necessarily” lead to rebellion and obstinacy (TTP 14.8/166). Hence those who “teach such beliefs as promote obstinacy, hatred, strife, and anger” are rightly condemned by “faith . . . as heretics and schismatics” (TTP 14.13/169). Since “the best state grants to every man the same [eadem] freedom to philosophize as we have seen is granted by religious faith” (TTP 20.9/234) – that is, neither more nor less – such troublemakers would also be criminally prosecuted. But does the state have the power to enforce the core doctrines of Scripture? Although “the sovereign power” cannot enforce doctrines “by direct command,” Spinoza argues: minds are to some degree under the control of the sovereign power who has many means of inducing the great majority to believe, love, hate etc. whatever he wills. (TTP 17.2/192; my emphasis)

The means at the state’s disposal surely include the education system and organized religion – the “pastors or ministers of the church” who, Spinoza argues, are needed to explain the narratives of Scripture to the “multitude.” How much does the universal faith constrain the freedom to philosophize? At first view it seems that a great deal in the formulation of the seven doctrines is in conflict with philosophy. This would mean that we are not free to pursue philosophy without fear of contradicting Scripture. Spinoza stresses, however, that no doctrine is included “that good men may regard as controversial.” Surely philosophers are part of the class of “good men.” And at closer inspection Spinoza’s phrasing of the seven doctrines turns out to be deliberately ambiguous in a way that allows both non-philosophers and philosophers to endorse them. The following passage clearly implies that the doctrines can be construed in a philosophical sense:

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As to the question of what God, the exemplar of the true life, is, whether he is fire, or spirit, or light, or thought, and so forth, this is irrelevant to faith. And so likewise is the question as to why he is the exemplar of true life, whether this is because he has a just and merciful character, or because all things exist and act through him and consequently we, too, understand through him, and through him we see what is true, just, and good. On these questions it matters not what beliefs a man holds. Nor, again, does it matter for faith whether one believes that God is omnipresent in essence or in potency, whether he directs everything from free will or from the necessity of his nature, whether he lays down laws as a ruler or teaches them as being eternal truths, whether man obeys God from free will or from the necessity of the divine decree, whether the rewarding of the good and the punishing of the wicked is natural or supernatural. (TTP 14.11/168)

The universal faith – and hence also Scripture – can thus be interpreted according to both the imagination and reason.50 If Spinoza identifies the interpretation according to reason with Scripture’s true content – as all proponents of a philosophical religion do – this would offer a simple solution to the problem of the freedom to philosophize in the intellectual sense which is one of the main aims of the TTP as we saw: philosophers need not fear conflicts with Scripture and theology because – to use Spinoza’s formula from Cogitata Metaphysica 2.8 – “the truth does not contradict the truth.” Hence defending the freedom to philosophize in the intellectual sense does not require rejecting the truth of Scripture. Although the universal faith and Scripture can be interpreted philosophically, Spinoza is strictly opposed to imposing this interpretation on non-philosophers. Here again, Spinoza sides with Delmedigo’s Averroism 50

Cf. Matheron (1971), 94–127. Note that this claim is controversial. For a different view, see Garber (2008). The doctrine most resistant to philosophical interpretation is the sixth which Spinoza later restates as “men may be saved simply by obedience” (TTP 15.7/174–75). According to Spinoza “reason cannot demonstrate the truth or falsity of this fundamental principle of theology” (TTP 15.7/174). Although Spinoza goes on to argue that, while we cannot have “mathematical” certainty, we can have “moral” certainty that this doctrine is true, I doubt that he believes in it. While obedience in a well-ordered state is indeed rewarded through empowerment and joy, “salvation” here seems to refer to reward in the afterlife. It is important to note that a doctrine of salvation in the afterlife does not seem to be required to ensure compliance with the prescriptions of reason. For one thing, Spinoza argues in the Ethics that it is better to live virtuously irrespective of whether the doctrine of the eternity of the mind is true (see E5p41s). Hence philosophers would live virtuously even if the mind were not eternal. But non-philosophers, too, do not need to believe in reward and punishment in the afterlife. As we saw, the ancient Hebrews are models of obedience for Spinoza, although God did not promise them anything but prosperity and security in this life. Some interpreters have tried to make philosophical sense of the doctrine of salvation through obedience, for example Matheron (1971), chapters 3–5. My sense is that in a Spinozistic state the sixth doctrine would be tuned down, since in a well-ordered state reward in this life is sufficient to motivate obedience. In the TTP, however, Spinoza refrained from openly making such a claim. This is understandable given how sensitive the issue of the immortality of the soul was at the time; see Nadler (2002), chapter 7.

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against Maimonides who had argued that non-philosophers, after having been “habituated” to philosophical doctrines, “should be elevated to the knowledge of the [allegorical] interpretation” of Scripture (Guide 1.35, 55/81). If this were right, Spinoza contends: it would follow that the multitude, which for the most part does not know demonstrations or has no leisure for them, could admit of Scripture only that which is derived from the authority and testimony of philosophers. . . . This would indeed be a novel form of ecclesiastical authority, with a new kind of priests or pontiffs, more likely to excite the multitude’s ridicule than veneration. (TTP 7.20/104)

Separating philosophy from Scripture and theology is as important to Spinoza as it was to Averroes and Delmedigo. Already in his correspondence with Blyenbergh Spinoza had stressed this point: Furthermore, I should like it here to be noted that while we are speaking philosophically [Philosophice loquimur], we ought not to use the language of theology. For since theology has usually, and with good reason, represented God as a perfect man, it is therefore appropriate that in theology it is said that God desires something, that God is affected by anger through the deeds of the impious and delights in those of the pious. But in philosophy, where we clearly perceive that to ascribe to God those attributes which make a man perfect would be as wrong as to ascribe to a man the attributes that make perfect an elephant or an ass, these and similar words have no place, and we cannot use them without utterly confusing our concepts. So, speaking philosophically, we cannot say that God wants something from somebody, or that something angers or delights him. For these are all human attributes, which have no place in God. (Ep. 23, G iv, 147–48/833).51

Maimonides, by contrast, devotes much of the Guide to harmonizing the God of the philosophers with the God of the Bible through allegorical interpretation, thus “mixing together” philosophy and theology as Delmedigo laments. Note, however, that Spinoza’s disagreement with Maimonides does not imply a critique of dogmatism. As in the case of Averroes and Delmedigo, Spinoza’s stance is perfectly compatible with the view that Scripture’s allegorical core is true. The purpose of Scripture’s narratives, however, is not to teach philosophy, but to ensure the obedience of non-philosophers to the prescriptions of reason – that is, to “God’s commands.” Hence the criterion of a good interpretation is not its truth but what Spinoza calls its “piety” – that is, its efficiency in moving “the heart to obedience” (TTP 14.8/166). Every citizen is free to interpret the doctrines of the universal faith “in whatever way makes him feel that he can 51

Cf. PPC 2.13 and CM 2.12.

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the more readily accept them with full confidence and conviction” (TTP 14.11/168). The literal sense of Scripture’s narratives carries no authority in this regard. For one thing, these narratives are themselves adaptations of the universal faith to different audiences shaped by particular beliefs and practices. Hence Scripture does not present one, but many interpretations of its core doctrines which are, moreover, often inconsistent – when the teachings that move one audience to obedience conflict with those that do the same for another. In this sense, religious pluralism is already inscribed in Scripture itself. Moreover, since these narratives reflect beliefs and practices belonging to cultural contexts of a long time ago, they can, in fact, not be adopted without reinterpretation for contemporary audiences. This is precisely why “pastors or ministers of the church” are needed. None of this is in any way incompatible with dogmatism since the differences, inconsistencies, and outdated features of Scripture all concern its surface teachings, namely what it says in the language of the imagination of its original audiences, and not its true core, namely what it says in the universal language of reason. The same holds for what Spinoza says about the difficulty of establishing the literal meaning of Scripture and the vicissitudes of its textual transmission which led to the corrupt state of the biblical text we now have (see TTP 7–10). As Spinoza stresses throughout TTP 12–14, these problems in no way affect the clarity of Scripture’s core legal and narrative teachings – that is, the commandments to love God and one’s neighbor and the seven doctrines of the universal faith which can be interpreted in accordance with both reason and the imagination (cf. TTP 12.10–12/155–56). Removing the authority of Scripture’s literal sense does, on the other hand, create space for multiple and conflicting interpretations. Any interpretation ensuring that its adherents obey the law is valid. Enforcing the universal faith as state religion, then, is compatible with a fairly broad religious pluralism. However, lest we exaggerate Spinoza’s religious liberalism, it is important to stress that the state is not neutral in religious affairs. Apart from the “national religion,” Spinoza argues, “large congregations should be forbidden.” Hence: while those who are attached to another religion are to be allowed to build as many churches as they wish, these are to be small, of some fixed dimensions, and some distance apart. But it is important that churches dedicated to the national religion should be large and costly. (TP 8.46)

The seven doctrines of the universal faith are the only constraint on freedom of thought, but not the only constraint on freedom of expression. Recall

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that an interpretation of the universal faith must not be true, but pious. However, even if it conveys false beliefs, it is of paramount importance: that he who adheres to them knows not that they are false. If he knew that they were false, he would necessarily be a rebel, for how could it be that one who seeks to love justice and obey God should worship as divine what he knows to be alien to the divine nature? (TTP 14.8/166)

What does this imply for the public critique of religious beliefs? If the critique is based on a competing interpretation of the universal faith derived from the imagination, a Spinozistic state would have no reason to oppose it. For even if a believer rejects his old faith and converts to a new one, he would still be obedient. The case is different, however, if the critique comes from a philosopher. Consider a philosopher who publishes a polemical pamphlet in which he argues that God is the causal order of nature, not a lawgiver who rewards obedience and punishes disobedience, and that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob must be reinterpreted accordingly. In a Spinozistic state publishing such a pamphlet would threaten the stability of the state and would thus be as unwelcome as applying the Socratic elenchos to non-philosophers is unwelcome in the Republic. Since it causes non-philosophers to lose the traditional beliefs in which they were brought up, Plato argues, and since they lack the ability to replace them through “true ones,” they “become lawless” (538e–539a). A nonphilosopher just cannot convert to the philosopher’s religion of reason. If he rejects the religion of the imagination, he remains with no religion at all. A Spinozistic state would thus have to monitor how philosophers use their freedom of expression. While not imposing legal constraints, an author whose writings can be proven to have stirred up a rebellion would be liable to criminal charges. Ideally, Spinoza seems to suggest, philosophers should “write only for scholars [docti] and appeal to reason alone” (TTP 20.15/237).52 As Averroes observed, books which “use demonstrations are accessible only to those who understand demonstrations” (Fas.l, 21). This is, of course, as true for Averroes’s commentaries on Aristotle as it is for Spinoza’s Ethics. Spinoza, we may conclude, would have had good reasons to insist on the separation of philosophy from Scripture and theology without having to reject dogmatism. Most of what he says in TTP 15 about their independence and their respective ends and means – philosophy uses demonstrations to determine the truth whereas Scripture and theology use 52

Note that Spinoza does not establish this as a rule. He says that this is how authors “usually write” whose works are condemned as heretical.

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narratives that appeal to the imagination to ensure obedience – is perfectly plausible within an Averroistic framework. If I am right about the constraints on the freedom of expression, the education system in a Spinozistic state would have to include a mechanism to ensure that not-yet-philosophers do not reject Scripture and theology once they become actual philosophers. This mechanism would lift up newly graduated philosophers from an interpretation of the universal faith according to the imagination to an interpretation of the universal faith according to reason. In their childhood, not-yet-philosophers, too, are motivated to obey through the belief in God as a lawgiver who rewards obedience and punishes disobedience. Once they learn that God is the causal order of nature, however, they will likely reject their childhood faith, unless they learn how to reinterpret it. This is exactly what happened to Spinoza: at first he had been “circumcised and kept the Jewish Law,” but later he “changed his mind” because now it seemed to him “that the said Law was not true, . . . nor was there a God except philosophically.” As I argued in the first part of this chapter, Spinoza quickly distanced himself from this youthful rebellion. In a Spinozistic state, making such claims in public would likely lead to criminal prosecution given that those whose teachings “promote obstinacy, hatred, strife, and anger” are rightly condemned by “faith . . . as heretics and schismatics” and given that “the best state” imposes “the same” constraints on the freedom to philosophize as “religious faith.” The pedagogical mechanism in question would, of course, also help not-yet-philosophers of the opposite kind who believe they must reject philosophy because of the “skeptic” prejudice that reason is Scripture’s “handmaid.” As we will see, parts of the TTP can be read as designed precisely to facilitate the transition to a philosophical interpretation of Scripture. If the philosophical critique of false religious beliefs in public is unwelcome in a Spinozistic state, this raises, of course, troubling questions about the critique of superstition and the critique of religion in the TTP and in the appendix to the first part of the Ethics. It is very important not to confuse superstition and religion for Spinoza. After stating that “divine revelation can be based solely on wisdom of doctrine,” Spinoza explains that: the chief distinction I make between religion and superstition is that the latter is founded on ignorance and the former on wisdom. (Ep. 73, G iv, 307–8/942)

In the preface to the TTP and in the appendix to the first part of the Ethics Spinoza explains the psychological causes of superstition, the false beliefs

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about God and nature to which superstition gives rise, and how superstition is manipulated by religious impostors to further their selfish goals. Spinoza’s aim is clearly not to eradicate superstition, since “the multitude can no more be freed from their superstition than from their fears” (TTP, preface, 15/8). Rather, his aim is to explain how the manipulation of superstition leads to the suppression of the freedom to philosophize. A religious impostor, who claims that he can protect the superstitious from what they fear and help them to attain what they hope for by interceding on their behalf with God, will do everything to maintain the power superstition lends him. Since “men’s readiness to fall victim to any kind of superstition makes it correspondingly difficult to persuade them to adhere to one and the same kind” (TTP, preface, 5/2) the impostor will try through “pomp and ceremony” and through “mass of dogma” to “gain such a thorough hold on the individual’s judgment” as to “leave no room in the mind for the exercise of reason, or even the capacity to doubt” (TTP, preface, 6/3). To silence critical voices, moreover, dissenting “beliefs are put on trial and condemned as crimes” (TTP, preface, 7/3). Spinoza’s critique of superstition can thus be understood as addressed to the sovereign, since it is “of the first importance” for the rulers, who should adopt the universal faith of the TTP, “to guard . . . against becoming victims of superstition, seeking to deprive their subjects of the freedom to say what they think” (TTP 8.46). Given that eradicating superstition is impossible, common citizens may, of course, hold superstitious beliefs as long as these pose no threat to the freedom to philosophize. Below we will see that Spinoza’s critique of religion cannot be reconciled with his theological-political principles in this manner. My present aim is only to show that defending the freedom to philosophize in both the intellectual and the political sense does not depend on rejecting dogmatism. While Spinoza’s discussion of religious pluralism and toleration reflects concerns typical for an early modern philosopher, his conclusions remain compatible with the concept of a philosophical religion. Indeed, since Spinoza’s goal in the TTP is not only to defend the freedom to philosophize but also to counter the charge of atheism, it is not clear how he could have succeeded without insisting that, taken allegorically, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is the same as the God of the philosophers while, taken literally, he provides pedagogical-political guidance to non-philosophers. from god as reason to deus sive natura Is Spinoza’s philosophical religion as I have sketched it so far compatible with the metaphysics of the Ethics? As we saw, a well-ordered state can be

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described as “God’s kingdom” according to Spinoza because it is ordered by the “precepts of true reason” which are “the very precepts of God.” In contrast to “human laws,” which aim only at security and prosperity, “divine laws” aim at “our highest good,” namely intellectual perfection attained through knowing and loving God. The distinction between human and divine laws is clearly modeled on Maimonides’s political definition of the Divine Law and its distinction from conventional laws in Guide 2.40. Spinoza thus appears to inscribe himself squarely into the Platonic tradition that takes nomoi to be divine if they aim at “the highest virtue” – that is, intellectual perfection – by directing the citizens to “Nous who rules all things.” Plato’s Nous, as we saw, was identified with the God of Judaism and Christianity by philosophers like Philo, Clement, and Origen in antiquity and with the God of Islam and Judaism by philosophers like al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı, Averroes, and Maimonides in the Middle Ages. But this gives rise to a puzzle: Spinoza seems to adopt the notion of divine laws typical for proponents of a philosophical religion, yet shares neither their concept of God nor their concept of human nature on which this notion depends. For his predecessors an excellent political order is a rational order and hence a divine order because they conceive God as Reason. And intellectual perfection is the supreme good, because it is the perfection of the soul’s immaterial part which we share with God and which is opposed to the body and its non-rational desires. Spinoza’s God is thought, too, but he is also extension and an infinite number of other things unknown to us. On the most basic ontological level they are one and the same thing conceived under different attributes such as thought and extension. This is Spinoza’s substance monism. The human mind and the human body, in turn, are modes of thought and extension. They, too, are one and the same thing on the most basic ontological level. Hence the perfection of the mind is the same as the perfection of the body. Let me note in passing that Spinoza does not see his substance monism as a fundamental break with the God of medieval proponents of a philosophical religion.53 For he argues that: some of the Hebrews [quidam Hebraeorum] appear to have seen [the unity of thought and extension] as if through a cloud [quasi per nebulam], who maintain that God, God’s intellect, and the things by him intellectually cognized are one and the same. (E2p7s)

Looked at more closely, Spinoza’s God of “some of the Hebrews” turns out to be the divine Nous of the Greeks. Hence Spinoza must have had Jewish philosophers like Maimonides in mind who reinterpreted the former in 53

Cf. Fraenkel (2006).

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light of the latter. This God is indeed almost identical with nature. His essence, as Profiat Duran, a fourteenth-century commentator on the Guide, puts it, “is one form which comprises all existents.”54 For Spinoza the main difference between Maimonides’s God and his own concerns the clarity of their perception: what he sees clare et distincte, Maimonides saw only “as if through a cloud.” This notwithstanding, the puzzle remains: neither Spinoza’s concept of God nor his concept of human nature seem compatible with the TTP’s notion of divine laws. As I pointed out earlier, Spinoza omits unnecessary technical argument in the TTP. Hence translating the notion of a philosophical religion into the conceptual framework of the Ethics requires not only translating it from the conceptual framework of ancient and medieval proponents of a philosophical religion, but from the conceptual framework of the TTP as well. The key concept on which this translation hinges is the concept of power. As we saw, a thing’s perfection for Spinoza is not determined by its rationality but by its power. And a thing’s power is measured by the range of effects of which it is the cause. God’s power is absolutely infinite: “From the necessity of the divine nature there must follow infinite things in infinite ways” (E1p16) or, as Spinoza also puts it, “all things that can fall under the infinite intellect” (E1p16c1). Spinoza thus is committed to a version of the principle of plenitude: God causes all conceivable things ranging from the most powerful, namely God himself who is causa sui, all the way down to the least powerful modification of his essence (cf. E1def1 and E1p7). All things below God express God’s power “in a definite and determinate way” (E1p36d) – that is, their causal agency is limited to varying degrees. Since Spinoza equates being with perfection – “it is a perfection to exist, and to have been produced by God,” while the “greatest imperfection of all is not being” (KV 1.4, G i, 37/82; cf. E2def6 and E4pref ) – God maximizes perfection. Spinoza’s concept of God’s causal agency is, of course, emphatically non-anthropomorphic. God does not act on the basis of deliberation and choice but from the necessity of his nature. And the perfection of God’s effects is emphatically non-anthropocentric, as Spinoza stresses in his reply to the question why God created things that from a human perspective appear as imperfections: I answer only because he did not lack material to create all things, from the highest degree of perfection to the lowest; or, to speak more properly, because the laws of his nature have been so ample that they sufficed for producing all things which can be conceived by an infinite intellect. (E1app, G ii, 83/446) 54

Commentary on Guide 3.21, 31b.

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This, however, does not change the fact that a thing’s Godlikeness is determined by its power: the greater a thing’s power, the more it is like God. Considered under the attribute of thought, we become more powerful the more we perfect our intellect through knowing and loving God. The power of the state, in turn, is just the sum of the power of its citizens. Hence considered under the attribute of thought, the state’s power increases the more it promotes the intellectual perfection of its citizens. And considered under the attribute of thought, an order that promotes perfection is a rational order. This is where Spinoza’s concept of a philosophical religion and the traditional concept converge. For Spinoza, however – at least in the Ethics – the perfection of the intellect is the same as the perfection of the body, and the rational order deduced from the idea Dei is the same as the order of bodies governed by the laws of motion and rest. Hence human imperfection, which on the traditional view is attributed to embodiment, on Spinoza’s view follows from the finitude of our power. However, if we limit ourselves to the perspective of the attribute of thought, Spinoza can indeed call a rationally ordered state “God’s kingdom.” Through its rational order God, as it were, maximizes the citizens’ perfection. interpreting christianity as a philosophical religion How is Spinoza’s concept of a philosophical religion distinctly Christian? The first thing to note is that divine laws are also Christian laws because the idea Dei which is both the source and the goal of the prescriptions of reason is Christ according to Spinoza. This is the key claim of Spinoza’s philosophical Christology from the Short Treatise to his late correspondence with Henry Oldenburg. While the terms he uses vary, the entity they refer to is always the same. In the Short Treatise he calls God’s infinite mode of thought the “Son of God” (KV 1.9, G i, 48/92). This corresponds to the “infinite intellect” in the Ethics who is identified with the idea Dei and apprehends the “attributes of God and his affections” (E2p4d). In the TTP Christ is the “wisdom of God” (TTP 1.18/14) and in the correspondence with Oldenburg he is “the eternal son of God” and “God’s eternal wisdom” (Ep. 73, G iv, 308/943). To the extent we are rational, therefore, we are Christians, and the more we know, the more we participate in Christ, who, as God’s infinite intellect, is the sum total of knowledge. Likewise, a state is a Christian state to the extent it is rationally ordered. At first view this philosophical Christianity seems to have little in common with its historical counterpart. It is a universal religion of reason grounded in human nature whose prescriptions are followed by everyone

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who rationally strives to preserve himself. Spinoza, however, insists that this “universal religion” is “revealed by the natural and the prophetic light” (Ep. 43, G iv, 225/881). And throughout the TTP he stresses that the goals promoted by the Divine Law are the core teachings of Scripture: From Scripture itself we see without any difficulty and ambiguity that its message is in essence this: to love God above all, and one’s neighbor as oneself. (TTP 12.10/155)

Indeed, since Scripture “teaches true religion [vera religio], of which God is the eternal author,” it “is called the word of God” (TTP 12.7/153). Although at the beginning of TTP 4 the concept of Divine Law is derived from philosophical premises, at the end Spinoza quotes a series of Scriptural passages from Moses to St. Paul to support his claim that “Scripture unreservedly commends the natural light and the natural Divine Law” (TTP 4.12/59). Spinoza can describe the philosophical deduction of the prescriptions of reason from the idea Dei as “prophecy or revelation,” since these are defined as “the certain knowledge of some matter revealed by God to man.” This includes “natural knowledge . . . , for the knowledge that we acquire by the natural light of reason depends solely on knowledge of God and his eternal decrees” (TTP 1.1–2/9). With respect to the historical Christ, this is precisely what Spinoza says. To be sure, Spinoza is unorthodox by the Christian standards of his time – not, however, by the standards of ancient Christian philosophers like Origen – because he declines to fully identify “Christ according to the flesh” with the idea Dei – that is, “the eternal son of God” or “God’s eternal wisdom” (Ep. 73, G iv, 308/943). Like all human beings, “Christ according to the flesh” has a finite intellect, whereas “the eternal son of God” is the infinite intellect. And claiming that the infinite becomes finite is for Spinoza as absurd as claiming “that a circle has taken on the nature of a square” (ibid.; cf. TP 2.8). Spinoza’s Christology, then, includes nothing that contradicts reason. He stresses, on the other hand, that “God’s eternal wisdom” – that is, God’s infinite intellect, “manifested itself . . . most of all in Christ Jesus,” namely in the finite intellect of “Christ according to the flesh” (ibid.). Hence, while falling short of the infinite intellect, the historical Christ comes as close to it as a human being can. Spinoza thus portrays the historical Christ as the most accomplished philosopher of all times. This is corroborated by the description of what was revealed to Christ in TTP 4: With regard to Christ . . . we must maintain that he perceived things truly and adequately. . . . It was through the mind of Christ . . . that God revealed certain

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things to humankind. . . . Therefore, to maintain that God adapted his revelations to Christ’s beliefs . . . would be the height of absurdity, especially so since Christ was sent to teach not only the Jews but all of humankind. Thus . . . his mind had to be adapted to the beliefs and doctrines held in common by all of humankind – that is, to those notions that are common and true. (TTP 4.10/55)

Since Spinoza was confident to have found the “true philosophy,” his portrait of Christ implies that Christ deduced the teachings of the Divine Law through the same chain of logical inferences by which they are deduced in the Ethics.55 The description of Christ offered in TTP 1, however, at first view seems at odds with my claim that the historical Christ for Spinoza is merely an outstanding philosopher. Taken at face value, this description encourages an orthodox interpretation of the historical Christ as the miraculous incarnation of God’s superhuman wisdom: Nevertheless, a man who can perceive by his mind alone that which is not contained in the basic principles of our cognition and cannot be deduced therefrom, must necessarily have a mind whose excellence far surpasses the human mind. Therefore I do not believe that anyone has attained such a degree of perfection surpassing all others, except Christ. To him God’s ordinances [placita] leading men to salvation were revealed . . . directly, so that God manifested himself to the apostles through the mind of Christ. . . . In that sense it can also be said that the wisdom of God – that is, wisdom that is more than human – took on human nature in Christ, and that Christ was the way of salvation [via salutis]. (TTP 1.18/14)

Since Spinoza’s philosophical commitments preclude any miraculous disruption of the eternal order of nature – for example a human mind attaining knowledge that cannot be attained by the human mind or wisdom that is more than human – he cannot endorse an orthodox interpretation of this passage. However, while the passage allows for an orthodox interpretation, it must not be interpreted in this way. Consider Spinoza’s explanation of what he meant to Henry Oldenburg: [T]o disclose my meaning more clearly, I say that for salvation [salus] it is not altogether necessary to know Christ according to the flesh; but with regard to the eternal son of God – that is, God’s eternal wisdom, which has manifested itself in all things, and mostly in the human mind, and most of all in Christ Jesus – a very different view must be taken. For without this [wisdom] no one can attain a state of blessedness, since it alone teaches what is true and false, good and evil. And since, as I have said, this wisdom has been manifested most of all through Jesus Christ, his disciples have preached it as far as he revealed it to 55

Cf. Pines (1968), 19.

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them. . . . As to the additional teaching of certain churches, that God took upon himself human nature, I have expressly indicated that I do not understand what they say. Indeed, to tell the truth, they seem to me to speak no less absurdly than one who might tell me that a circle has taken on the nature of a square. (Ep. 73, G iv, 308–9/943)

We can now see how the passage in TTP 1 can be read without conflicting with Spinoza’s philosophical commitments. Recall that as idea Dei, Christ is the infinite intellect which apprehends the “attributes of God and his affections.” God, according to Spinoza, is a “substance consisting of an infinity of attributes, of which each one expresses eternal and infinite essence” (E1def6). Although Spinoza claims, as we saw, “that God’s infinite essence and his eternity are known to all” (E2p47s), the human mind can know only two of God’s “infinity of attributes” that express “eternal and infinite essence,” namely thought and extension. Christ, on the other hand, insofar as he is the infinite intellect, knows all of God’s infinite attributes. Hence he knows things that can indeed “not be deduced” from “the basic principles of our cognition.” If a person could know what the infinite intellect knows, he would obviously “possess a mind whose excellence far surpasses the human mind.” This, however, is impossible. Only Christ as idea Dei “attained such a degree of perfection.” Since the infinite intellect knows all things directly, he also knows “God’s ordinances leading men to salvation . . . directly.” With respect to this knowledge, Christ as idea Dei and the mind of the historical Christ overlap. And through the mediation of the latter God conveys his ordinances to the Apostles. God’s wisdom is “more than human,” because it is the infinite, not the finite human intellect, and it did indeed take on “human nature in Christ,” however not all of it, but only that part of which the historical Christ attained knowledge. The deliberate ambiguity of this passage is motivated by the same considerations that led to the deliberately ambiguous phrasing of the doctrines of the universal faith. Taken literally, these doctrines, too, contain much that is at odds with Spinoza’s philosophy. In their case, however, Spinoza explicitly indicates how to interpret them according to reason. His restatement of the doctrine of the incarnation can likewise be interpreted according to both reason and the imagination. And the imagination of Spinoza’s audience was, of course, shaped by the orthodox understanding of the incarnation. Spinoza did not include the doctrine of the incarnation among the doctrines of the universal faith because it is neither a necessary condition for obedience, nor a doctrine agreed upon by all “good men.” Jews, for

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example, can be obedient while denying that God’s eternal wisdom incarnated in Christ. Spinoza, however, is writing in a Christian context for a Christian audience. Hence he must offer an account of the foundational doctrine of Christianity as a historical religion that could be endorsed by both non-philosophers and philosophers in a Christian society. As a historical religion Christianity is not only a universal religion of reason taught by Christ more geometrico. It also is a pedagogical-political program that includes laws, parables, and ceremonies through which Christ and the Apostles adapted the prescriptions of reason to the imagination of non-philosophers in their time. When Christ “proclaimed” the things he “perceived truly and adequately . . . as law”: he did so because of the people’s ignorance and obstinacy, . . . adapting himself to the character of the people. So although his sayings were somewhat clearer than those of the other prophets, his teaching of things revealed was still obscure and quite often took the form of parables, especially when he was addressing those to whom it had not yet been granted to understand the kingdom of heaven [cf. Matt 13:10 ff.]. (TTP 4.10/55–56)56

Historical Christianity, then, instantiates the universal religion of reason in a context constrained by human nature and particular cultural circumstances. In this respect, the Hebrew Bible differs only in clarity from the New Testament. Although in contrast to the New Testament, the prophets of the Hebrew Bible did not teach “God’s eternal word” as a universal religion, but “as the law of their own country” (TTP 12.8/153), this does not mean that they did not grasp its universal character. They only had to adapt it to the “wretched condition” of the Hebrews after the exodus from Egypt. To “the early Jews religion was transmitted in the form of written law, because at that time they were just like children” (TTP 12.2/149). Moses, Isaiah, Jeremiah, the Psalmist, and Solomon are among the witnesses Spinoza quotes to confirm that the true religion of the Hebrew Bible is universal. Thus already Moses “told [the Hebrews] of a time to come when God would inscribe his law in their hearts” (ibid.). Likewise “it is only what is inscribed in the heart, or mind, that the Psalmist calls God’s law” (TTP 5.2/61). And: of all of Isaiah’s teachings nothing is clearer than this, that the Divine Law, taken in an unconditional sense, signifies . . . the universal law [lex universalis] that consists in the true rule of life [ratio vivendi]. (TTP 5.2/60) 56

On the adaptation of Christ’s teachings through the Apostles, see TTP 11.

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The difference between the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, then, can be accounted for through tougher cultural constraints: due to their enslavement in Egypt, the moral and intellectual limitations of the Hebrews were particularly severe.57 were the prophets philosophers after all? We would expect Spinoza to explain the fact that the Hebrew Bible contains the prescriptions of reason which make up the Divine Law in the same way in which he explained that they were taught by Christ: the patriarchs, Moses, and the rest of the Hebrew prophets were accomplished philosophers who deduced these prescriptions from the idea Dei. They are the content of “prophecy or revelation” in the sense in which these notions apply to “the knowledge that we acquire by the natural light of reason.” There are a number of reasons why this is what we would have expected Spinoza to say. For one thing, it is the assumption underlying the dogmatism of his early writings. Moreover, it is a standard argument used by Christians to secure the unity of the two Testaments: the wisdom of the prophets is how they participate in Christ who is “God’s eternal wisdom.” Spinoza could simply have said that the prophets deduced the prescriptions of reason from the idea Dei in their mind and hence from Christ. And this is what he, in fact, says about the patriarchs: as we saw, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob regained the freedom Adam lost “under the guidance of the spirit of Christ, that is the idea Dei.” Spinoza also frequently attributes philosophical doctrines to the Hebrew Bible. We saw that he interprets Adam’s Fall as an allegory for the fall from freedom into bondage. We also saw that “some of the Hebrews” apprehended the substance monism of the Ethics “as if through a cloud.” Another core thesis of Spinoza’s metaphysics that he claims to share “with all the ancient Hebrews” (cum antiquis omnibus Hebraeis) is that God is the “immanent cause” of all things (Ep. 73, G iv, 307/942; cf. E1p18). The Tetragrammaton he takes to “indicate the absolute essence of God without relation to created things” (TTP 13.5/159) while the term “glory in the Holy Scriptures” refers to the reciprocal “intellectual love” between human beings and God (E5p36s). However, the most striking evidence is Spinoza’s discussion of three crucial religious concepts in TTP 3–6: election, Divine Law, and miracles. In all three cases he first gives a philosophical account of these concepts and then goes on to prove that Scripture teaches the same thing. We already 57

This is precisely Lessing’s view in the Education of Humankind; see my discussion in the epilogue.

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saw Spinoza’s claim in TTP 4 that “Scripture unreservedly commends the natural light and the natural Divine Law.” And although he unequivocally rejects the traditional understanding of election in TTP 3 and of miracles in TTP 6 and offers a naturalistic reinterpretation of these concepts, he claims to be doing so in complete agreement with Scripture. Consider the case of miracles. In the traditional sense a miracle means the disruption of the natural order through God’s will (splitting the Red Sea, for example, or making the sun stand still). For Spinoza, by contrast, God is nature and the effects caused by the eternal and immutable laws of nature are God’s will. Hence a miracle in the traditional sense would be a contradiction: God would will and not will that the sun follows its natural course. What is perceived as a miracle, Spinoza explains, is simply a natural event for which the observer has no causal explanation. Hence he appeals to the will of God – the “asylum of ignorance” as Spinoza puts it in the Ethics (E1app, G ii, 81/443). The “prophets,” Spinoza stresses, “take the same view as I” (TTP 6.23/86; my emphasis). Thus, after having made his case against miracles in the traditional sense “from basic principles known by the natural light of reason,” he goes on to demonstrate from Scripture: that God’s decrees and commands, and consequently God’s providence, are in truth nothing but nature’s order [ordo naturae]; that is to say, when Scripture tells us that this or that was accomplished by God or by God’s will, nothing more is meant than that it came about in accordance with the laws and order of nature, and not, as the multitude believes, that nature for that time suspended her action. (TTP 6.12/79)

Spinoza then goes through a long list of biblical passages that he takes to prove his point, concluding that: all these passages clearly convey the teaching that nature preserves a fixed and immutable order, that God has been the same throughout all ages that are known or unknown to us, . . . and that miracles seem something strange only because of man’s ignorance. These, then, are the express teachings of Scripture [Haec igitur in Scriptura expresse docentur]. Nowhere does it say that something can happen in nature that contradicts her laws or that cannot follow from her laws; so neither should we attribute such a fiction to Scripture. (TTP 6.22/86)

Why, then, does Scripture so frequently portray natural events as miracles? Because its purpose is not to instruct philosophers, but to offer pedagogicalpolitical guidance to non-philosophers: [I]t is not the part of Scripture to explain things through their natural causes; it only relates those things that greatly occupy the imagination, employing such

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method and style as best serves to excite wonder, and consequently to instill piety in the mind of the multitude. (TTP 6.13/80; my emphasis)

For the same reason that God cannot perform miracles, he also cannot choose a nation and confer special benefits on it. A nation for Spinoza is not a separate ontological entity: “nature creates individuals, not nations, and it is only difference of language, of laws, and of established customs that divides individuals from nations” (TTP 17.26/207). Things “worthy of desire,” according to Spinoza, are either intellectual or moral perfection or natural goods – living in “security and good health” (TTP 3.5/38). The “means that directly serve for the attainment” of intellectual and moral perfection, Spinoza argues, “lie within the bounds of human nature” (ibid.) – for example intelligence and temperament, on which the degree of intellectual and moral perfection we can attain partly depends. With regard to these factors individual differences exist, but not differences between nations. Hence “these gifts are not peculiar to any nation but have always been common to all of humankind” (ibid.). Goods like “security and good health,” by contrast, depend to a considerable degree on “external circumstances” which can also be called “the gifts of fortune” (ibid.) because we often ignore the chain of causes and effects that account for them. A weak state may enjoy peace and security over a long period, for example, because it had the good fortune not to be conquered by a stronger state. External circumstances therefore are one factor that shapes the fate of a nation. The other is the quality of its laws. With respect to these two factors, “nations differ from one another” (TTP 3.6/39). To the extent they are successful on account of good fortune and good laws they can lay claim to be chosen by God: Thus the Hebrew nation was chosen by God before others not by reason of its intellect or its mental composure, but by reason of its society and the good fortune by which it achieved supremacy and retained it for so many years. (TTP 3.6/39)

This naturalistic reinterpretation of the concept of election is, of course, based on Spinoza’s philosophical views and thus presented by him as “proven by reason” (TTP 3.7/41). It is, on the other hand, surprising that he goes on to claim that this concept of election “is also well established from Scripture” (ibid). As far as “blessedness” is concerned, Spinoza takes the Hebrew Bible to agree with him that “God is equally gracious to all” (TTP 3.8/41). At the same time, Spinoza stresses that this concept of election concurs with the Christian doctrine of predestination as set forth in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans. To say that “God is equally gracious to all” with

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regard to “blessedness” only means that God does not privilege one nation over another. Differences in intelligence and temperament, by contrast, which are the effect of the eternal laws of nature – and hence of God’s will in Spinoza’s sense – of course significantly determine the degree of blessedness a person can attain. With Romans 9:20–21, Spinoza can thus say that human beings “are in God’s hands as clay in the hands of the potter, who from the same lump makes vessels, some to honor and some to dishonor” (Ep. 75, G iv, 312/945; cf. TTP, note 34; TP 2.22). In this sense “true knowledge of God” – which, as we saw, constitutes intellectual perfection and hence our “highest good” – can be described as “a special gift [from God] granted only to some of the faithful” (TTP 13.5/159) – that is, to those who were enabled by Deus sive Natura to attain such knowledge. Spinoza, then, claims that his concept of election agrees with both the teachings of the Hebrew Bible and the Christian doctrine of predestination! To explain why the traditional understanding of election, the Divine Law, and miracles is so markedly different from what he takes to be the consensus of reason and Scripture, Spinoza relies on a topos in Christian anti-Jewish polemics: he blames the “Pharisees.” They misinterpreted the concepts of election and Divine Law and in the case of miracles they may even have sacrilegiously altered the biblical text.58 Why is Spinoza so keen to show that reason and Scripture agree? As I suggested above, parts of the TTP seem to be designed to ensure that notyet-philosophers who turn into philosophers reject neither Scripture nor philosophy. The rebellious not-yet-philosopher learns how Scripture can be reinterpreted according to reason while the timid not-yet-philosopher learns that reason must not submit to Scripture understood according to the imagination. The examples of election, the Divine Law, and miracles illustrate the general claim Spinoza makes in the preface to the TTP: that he “found nothing expressly taught in Scripture that was not in agreement with the intellect [cum intellectu non conveniret] or that contradicted [repugnaret] it” (10/6).59 58

59

On election, see TTP 3.10/44; on the Divine Law, see TTP 5.3/61; on miracles, see Spinoza’s reference to “sacrilegious men” in TTP 6.15/82 (cf. TTP 7.1/88); on the identification of the Pharisees with the sacrilegi, see Gebhardt (1987), 43–44. Note, however, that Spinoza does not consistently argue that Scripture and reason are in agreement in TTP 3–6. In a number of passages he takes the opposite view, reflecting his critique of biblical religion. Thus in TTP 4 Spinoza attributes the false beliefs about God as a lawgiver and of the Divine Law as a body of prescriptions to the inadequate knowledge of the prophets, not to their pedagogical-political intention; see 9/54–55. Similarly, Spinoza sometimes describes the miracle stories in the Bible not only as adapted to the intellectual limitations of the prophet’s audience, but

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The claim that the prophets were philosophers would not have committed Spinoza to endorsing the entire body of laws in the Hebrew Bible as prescriptions of reason. For one thing, Spinoza’s critique of biblical religion – to which I will turn shortly – never questions the authority of the prophets in practical matters. Moreover, plenty of models for declaring the Jewish law invalid without dismissing the authority of prophecy were available to him: the critique of “ceremonial” laws set forth by later prophets like Isaiah, for example, the Christian concept of divine accommodation of which we saw examples in chapter 2, or the contextualism of Maimonides that we saw in chapter 3. And Spinoza indeed uses all of these models. Isaiah, as we saw, identified the Divine Law with “the universal law that consists in the true rule of life.” Alluding to Colossians 2:16–17 Spinoza describes the Jewish law as “mere shadows” (TTP 4.6/53). For Christians this meant that as a “shadow” of Christ the Jewish law was true allegorically, but no longer literally valid. Finally, the prophets only taught “God’s eternal word” as “the law of their country” because of the “wretched condition” of the Hebrews after the exodus from Egypt. If anything it would have been surprising if Spinoza’s philosophical reinterpretation of Christianity had not included the rejection of the Jewish law. Since Spinoza has removed the authority of the literal sense of Scripture’s narratives as well, his interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion does not commit him to accepting the authority of any historical content of Scripture. At the same time, every state whose laws promote the love of God and of one’s neighbor can lay claim to be a Christian state and use the cultural authority that Scripture’s narratives have to further the citizens’ perfection. This I take to be the key role that Spinoza wants Christianity to play. Note, finally, that Spinoza’s philosophical reinterpretation of Christianity is compatible with the religious pluralism characteristic of proponents of a philosophical religion. If historical Christianity is just one instantiation of the universal religion of reason, adapted to a particular context, other instantiations, adapted to other contexts, are possible as well. Spinoza says as much in Letter 43. On the assumption that: Mahomet, too, taught the Divine Law and gave sure signs of his mission as did the other prophets, there is certainly no reason . . . to deny that Mahomet was a true prophet. As for the Turks and the other Gentiles, if they worship God by as reflecting the limitations of the prophets themselves; see TTP 6.11/79 and 6.18–20/82–83. These oscillations require further investigation.

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the exercise of justice and by love of their neighbor, I believe that they possess the spirit of Christ and are saved. (Ep. 43, G iv, 225–26/881)

Had Spinoza lived in a Muslim country, we may speculate, he would have worked out a philosophical reinterpretation of Islam! spinoza’s critique of religion We are, then, led to expect that Spinoza will portray the prophets as accomplished philosophers whose teachings agree with reason as long as we beware the distortions of the Pharisees. And yet, Spinoza unequivocally rejects the view that the prophets were philosophers. They were not “endowed with a more perfect mind, but with a more vivid power of imagination” (TTP 2.1/22) and “perceived God’s revelations with the aid of the imaginative faculty alone” (TTP 1.27/20). Hence they did not translate what they deduced from the idea Dei in their mind into the language of the imagination because they were addressing the “multitude.” They were non-philosophers themselves. When the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob conflicts with the God of the philosophers, this is due to the ignorance of the prophets. The representation of things through the imagination is determined through psychological, physiological, and cultural factors: the mood of the prophet, his temperament, and, most importantly, the superstitious beliefs and prejudices that shaped his cultural upbringing. The beliefs of the prophets about God and nature vary accordingly. They have in common, however, that for the most part they “are false” when judged by “reason and philosophy” (TTP 15.4/173). Hence: we are in no way bound to believe [the prophets] in matters of purely philosophic speculation. (TTP 2.12/27)

The contrast between the intellect and the imagination on which Spinoza’s account of prophecy is based draws on and at the same time subverts the philosophical psychology underlying Maimonides’s account of prophecy.60 Maimonides, as we saw, claims what we would have expected Spinoza to claim that the prophets were accomplished philosophers who spoke in the language of the imagination to offer guidance to non-philosophers. The overwhelming textual evidence in the Bible supports, of course, what 60

See Kreisel (2001), chapter 7 for the contrast between Maimonides and Spinoza.

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Spinoza actually claims.61 His argument in TTP 7 is straightforward: interpreters of Scripture should not “extort . . . their own arbitrarily invented ideas” from it and “claim divine authority” for them (7.1/88). We cannot simply assume that Scripture contains the views we happen to hold true and then reinterpret it in their light. This also holds for views that are, in fact, true – that is, demonstrated by reason. To establish Scripture’s “true sense” we must read it on its own terms and deviate from what it literally says only if compelled to do so on internal grounds. The method Spinoza proposes for establishing Scripture’s “true sense” involves two steps. The first consists in meticulous philological and historical work: we must learn the language of Scripture, systematically order its statements, and draw a profile of its authors to gain access to their imagination. Since Scripture is a compilation of texts by different authors dating from different times and places which were, moreover, redacted and revised in the course of their transmission, drawing a profile of the authors also requires establishing the history of the biblical books. Only after “having extracted the true sense [of Scripture], we must necessarily resort to judgment and reason” (TTP 15.3/171) – that is, determine whether a Scriptural claim is true or false. Since it reliably turns out to be false, Spinoza can conclude that Scripture has no authority in theoretical matters. The consequences of this method for the dogmatic approach to Scripture are devastating. Its core assumption – that the prophets were “outstanding philosophers” whose philosophical views are the allegorical content of a pedagogical-political program for the guidance of non-philosophers – must be dismissed for lack of textual evidence. The case against “skepticism” – which Spinoza illustrates through the medieval Jewish scholar Judah Alfakhar who, in turn, is a stand-in for the Calvinist church – is more complicated.62 For the skeptic is in principle willing to play by Spinoza’s interpretative rules to establish the true sense of Scripture. His “universal rule” is “that whatever Scripture teaches . . . quite expressly is to be admitted as absolutely true on its own authority” (TTP 15.2/171). The skeptic does not, however, recognize reason as the arbiter of Scripture’s truth. If reason and Scripture are at variance, reason must be dismissed. For the skeptic, the truth of Scripture does not depend on the premise that the prophets were “outstanding philosophers.” It follows from a miraculous act of revelation. Since human reason – that is, the 61 62

See Pines (1963), 100. Note that according to Harvey (1988), Maimonides esoterically agrees with Spinoza that the prophets were not philosophers. On the identity of skepticism and “orthodox Calvinism,” see Gebhardt (1987), 82.

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“natural light” – has been corrupted through Adam’s Fall, it cannot, on its own, guide us to blessedness and salvation. God in his grace offered us an alternative guide: the supernatural light disclosed through revelation which, in turn, can only be correctly understood by those who partake in it on account of their faith.63 Both the revelation and the interpretation of God’s will in Scripture thus depend on God’s miraculous intervention in the natural order. Spinoza cannot refute skepticism on textual grounds alone. He must rely on his philosophy to argue that reason can guide us to “blessedness” and “salvation” (see E5p42 with scholium), and that miracles, including a supernatural light, are metaphysically impossible, leaving reason as the only arbiter of the truth of Scripture. Only then can Spinoza claim that reason is “the greatest of all gifts and a light divine” (TTP 15.3/172) and that a person who submits reason to Scripture “accepts as divinely inspired utterances the prejudices of a common people of long ago which will gain hold on his mind and darken it” (TTP 15.1/170). In TTP 1, 2, 7, and 15, then, Spinoza launches a momentous attack on the foundations of biblical religion which surely helped to prepare the ground for the critique of religion of the radical Enlightenment. Whereas the first line of argument led us to expect that Spinoza would portray the prophets as accomplished philosophers, the second line leads us to expect that Spinoza will dismiss biblical religion altogether and call for its replacement with a religion of reason. Spinoza, however, surprises us again. He goes out of his way to preserve the practical authority of the Bible as a pedagogical-political program ensuring that non-philosophers obey the law. Here we can clearly see the tensions to which the two lines of argument give rise. Since Spinoza can no longer ground the practical authority of the prophets on the claim that they deduced the prescriptions of reason from the idea Dei in their mind, he must provide an alternative foundation. This foundation is highly implausible. Spinoza argues that the prophets stood out through their moral virtue on account of which they grasped the teachings of the Divine Law. Since they did not philosophically deduce them, however, they lacked subjective certainty about the truth of what they grasped. Such certainty they attained through a miracle – a “sign” from God (TTP 2.3/23). This is obviously a bad alternative to the dogmatic foundation of the truth of prophecy. For one thing, it is not clear how the prophets could have stood out through their moral virtue. Virtue 63

See, for example, Calvin’s Institutio Christianae Religionis 1.6 on the “weakness” of “the human mind” that is “altogether unable to come to God if not aided and upheld by his sacred word.” Spinoza had the 1597 Spanish translation of the Institutiones; see Freudenthal (1899), 160, no. 27.

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consists in following the prescriptions of reason – either our own if we are philosophers or those of others on account of religious authority or fear of punishment if we are non-philosophers. Thus both philosophers and non-philosophers can develop “strength of mind” – that is, “the steadfast will” to obey the law. In neither sense the prophet can have virtue: he is not a philosopher, nor can he derive virtue from obeying the laws of which his virtue is supposed to be the cause. Things get worse when we turn to miracles as the alleged reason for the prophet’s subjective certainty. Here Spinoza explicitly contradicts himself: as we saw, in TTP 6 he claims that the prophets “take the same view as I” on the impossibility of miracles. This is not the only drawback of Spinoza’s critique of religion. It obviously undermines his case against the charge of atheism since he can no longer claim that the God he affirms as a philosopher is the same as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob according to Scripture’s allegorical sense. Indeed, none of the dogmatic features that we saw in Spinoza’s writings can be justified by the rules of interpretation laid out in TTP 7. To briefly recall the most salient of them: Christ’s spirit is the idea Dei and the historical Christ an accomplished philosopher; the core of Scripture is the Divine Law aiming at intellectual perfection and its narratives convey the seven doctrines of the universal faith which can be interpreted according to both reason and the imagination; the ancient Hebrews came close to apprehending the unity of thought and extension in God and conceived God as the immanent cause of all things; Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob recovered the freedom of Adam under the guidance of Christ; finally, Scripture, properly interpreted, teaches the philosophical concepts of election, Divine Law, and miracles. And there is more: Spinoza undermines the theological-political principles of a Spinozistic state.64 For as we saw, freedom of expression is constrained by the need to protect the subjective conviction of nonphilosophers that their pious beliefs are true. Since these beliefs are derived from Scripture, they cannot be held true without believing in the truth of Scripture. The author of the TTP’s critique of religion would thus rightfully be condemned as one of the “heretics and schismatics . . . who teach such beliefs as promote obstinacy, hatred, strife, and anger.” Unlike the critique of superstition, the critique of religion cannot be reconciled with Spinoza’s theological-political principles by taking it to be addressed to the sovereign. For Spinoza explicitly says that the rulers should adopt the universal faith of the TTP and serve “as ministers of the churches and as 64

Cf. Garber (2008).

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guardians and interpreters of the national religion” (TP 8.46). Spinoza’s critique of religion, then, undermines not only the faith of the ruled, but also the faith of the ruler. While Spinoza has strong textual support for his critique of religion, it undermines his carefully crafted case for the authority of Scripture as a pedagogical-political program. To shed light on this puzzle we must ask how Spinoza’s critique of religion is motivated. He clearly thought of it as a key component of his defense of the freedom to philosophize in the twofold sense I proposed. It is crucial to see that the position Spinoza is targeting is skepticism, not dogmatism which in its Averroistic form poses no threat to the freedom to philosophize as we saw. For one thing Spinoza is addressing “sensible” readers who are prevented “from devoting their minds to philosophy” (Ep. 30, G iv, 166/844) because they were led to embrace skepticism – the view “that reason must be the handmaid of theology” (TTP, preface 15/8). The critique of religion obviously removes this “obstacle” (ibid.) by showing that Scripture has no authority “in matters of purely philosophical speculation” (TTP 2.12/27). Spinoza wants, moreover, to defend the freedom of thought and expression against the political enforcement of religious orthodoxy – what he calls the “excessive authority and egotism of preachers” in the letter to Oldenburg. His immediate target is the reformed church in the Netherlands which had built an alliance with the monarchist supporters of the House of Orange and aimed to become the church of the state.65 This would have given it the power to impose Calvinist orthodoxy. Spinoza understood the justification for the reformed church’s political ambitions along the lines of skepticism: only the faithful, namely the members of the reformed church, have access to the supernatural light contained in Scripture whose guidance is necessary to attain blessedness and salvation. All dissent is a symptom of corruption and must be suppressed before it attracts others to the path of perdition. Against this threat Spinoza wants to defend the relatively liberal and tolerant Dutch Republic under Johan de Witt. In the preface to the TTP he stresses his “rare good fortune”: to live in a state where freedom of judgment is fully granted to each citizen and he may worship God as he pleases, and where nothing is esteemed dearer and more precious than freedom. (TPP, preface, 8/3; cf. 20.15/236). 65

For the general historical setting, see Israel (1995), chapter 30, in particular 785–95 where the composition of the TTP is situated against the background of the period’s conflicts and tensions. For a more detailed account of the historical circumstances under which Spinoza composed the TTP, see Nadler (1999), chapter 10.

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More generally, any group trying to enforce religious orthodoxy in a Christian context will use a variation of the skeptic argument, appealing to the truth of Scripture and claiming to have exclusive access to this truth. By showing that Scripture contains no truth and that its true sense can be established by reason which all human beings share, Spinoza expected to remove the cornerstone of the justification for the political enforcement of religious orthodoxy. While Spinoza’s critique of religion is thus motivated by the aim to defend the freedom to philosophize, it is not necessary for it, since his political argument for freedom of thought and expression does not require settling the question of the truth of Scripture. Beliefs of any kind, whether true or false, cannot be enforced, because the sovereign lacks the power to enforce them as we saw. It is, in principle, possible to attack skepticism from a dogmatic standpoint. This is what Lodwijk Meyer tried to do in chapter 11 of his Philosophia Sanctae Scripturae Interpres. The advocate of dogmatism denies that revelation is a miraculous act and that Scripture’s content derives from a supernatural light to which the natural light must submit. Spinoza’s correspondence with Blyenbergh, however, which I examined above, likely taught him how inefficient the dogmatic critique of skepticism is. For Blyenbergh, a skeptic through and through, perspicuously points out that Spinoza has “very little proof” for dogmatism. In the end Spinoza reluctantly admits that he indeed lacks “mathematical proof” for the view that the teachings of Scripture and reason agree. The TTP only radicalizes Blyenbergh’s point: dogmatism not only lacks a mathematical proof, Spinoza now concedes, but has no textual support at all. The public scandal caused by Meyer’s defense of dogmatism, published in 1666, may have further persuaded Spinoza that dogmatism offers shaky grounds for defending the freedom to philosophize against the threat of skepticism. More promising than a dogmatic defense of the freedom to philosophize is a comprehensive attack on the truth of Scripture, based on a method that raises its study to the same level of empirical objectivity that Francis Bacon claimed to have achieved for the study of nature.66 While not necessary, then, Spinoza concluded that attacking the foundations of biblical religion is a more efficient way to defend the freedom to philosophize. Albeit in very different ways, skepticism and dogmatism both depend on the premise that Scripture is true. Hence Spinoza’s critique of religion could not strike down the one without also striking down the other. To defeat skepticism 66

In TTP 7 Spinoza deliberately construes his exegetical method in analogy to Bacon’s “historia naturae” (7.2/89). Cf. Zac (1965), 31.

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Spinoza was willing to pay the price of undermining his interpretation of Christianity as a philosophical religion. When Spinoza started working on the TTP, defending himself against the charge of atheism was still one of his main aims. The evidence for an elaborate philosophical reinterpretation of Christianity in the TTP and elsewhere, which is compatible with the freedom to philosophize, suggests that this is the way he originally intended to go. His attempt to save Scripture’s authority as a source of moral truth shows that, the critique of religion notwithstanding, he continued to consider religion indispensable as a pedagogical-political guide for non-philosophers. However, the integration of the philosophical reinterpretation of Christianity with the critique of religion in the TTP is clearly flawed. In the long run having it both ways proved impossible. The rules Spinoza proposed for reading Scripture eventually gave rise to the historical-critical method which became the scholarly paradigm for studying the Bible. This surely is an important contribution that the TTP made to the secularization of the West. While this method remains our best guide to the true meaning of a religious text, it undermines any attempt to reinterpret a religious or cultural tradition in light of intellectual commitments not derived from the text. As we will see in the epilogue, this gives rise to a dilemma that is still with us.

Epilogue Did the history of philosophical religions come to an end? introduction The last comprehensive attempt to interpret a religious tradition as a philosophical religion was made by Jewish philosophers in Christian Europe within the conceptual framework established by Maimonides. This is a historical fact. Does it imply that a philosophical religion is no longer defensible? If one thing is not responsible for its demise, it is the new philosophy and science of the early modern period. Many of religion’s fiercest critics in the eighteenth century – for example, Voltaire, Hermann Samuel Reimarus, and Thomas Paine – are comfortable with a deism that proponents of a philosophical religion would dismiss for lack of philosophical rigor. They are committed to the existence of a perfectly good God who exercises providential control over the world, expects human beings to fulfill their moral duties, and rewards the good and punishes the wicked either in this world or in the hereafter. This “religion of reason” is more, not less, hospitable to the historical forms of a religious tradition than the austere concept of God as Reason, let alone Spinoza’s Deus sive Natura. Moses Mendelssohn’s Jerusalem is just one prominent example of how the Enlightenment’s “religion of reason” could be reconciled with the historical forms of Judaism. If I am right about Spinoza, he, too, does not mark the end of the history of philosophical religions. He did, however, create an impasse for it. Recall that the justification for interpreting a religious tradition as a philosophical religion is based on two claims: a systematic claim that non-philosophical devices are necessary to order a religious community towards what is best and an empirical claim that the historical forms of a given religious tradition fulfill the role assigned to these non-philosophical devices. As a philosopher, Spinoza is committed to the systematic claim that a pedagogical-political program is necessary to ensure that imperfectly rational citizens follow the prescriptions of reason. As a critic of religion, 282

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however, he rejects the empirical claim that the historical forms of a religious tradition are a pedagogical-political program designed by philosophers for the guidance of non-philosophers. One way out of the impasse is Plato’s proposal in the Republic, namely putting a new system of beliefs, practices, and institutions in place through a cultural revolution. Spinoza, however – surprisingly at first view – sides with the alternative suggested in the Laws: he offers a philosophical reinterpretation of Christian beliefs, practices, and institutions. This he could only do at the price of being inconsistent given that he had rejected the hermeneutical premises of the program of philosophical reinterpretation. How did philosophical religions fare after Spinoza? disregarding spinoza’s critique of religion from lessing to hegel Spinoza is not the only one to bracket his critique of religion as a way out of the impasse. One interesting example in the eighteenth century is Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (d. 1781), a leading intellectual of the German Enlightenment before Kant. In a famous conversation reported by Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi, he declared “that there is no other philosophy than the philosophy of Spinoza.”1 At the same time Lessing has no qualms about using the concept of a philosophical religion to deal with issues such as the deist critique of historical religions, the foundation of religious tolerance, and the guidance of humankind to self-rule and perfection. He thus shows that the concept of a philosophical religion remains a live option for addressing concerns at the heart of the Enlightenment. Lessing responds to the deist critique of historical religions as set forth by Hermann Samuel Reimarus (d. 1768) in his Apology or Defense of the Reasonable Worshipers of God. Reimarus himself did not dare to publish the work. Lessing decided to publish excerpts after Reimarus’s death, anonymously, however, in order to protect the author’s family. Through the Fragments of an Unnamed Person his aim was to trigger a public debate in Germany about the theological problems raised by Reimarus’s critique of religion.2 According to Reimarus, the universal “religion of reason” (vern¨unftige Religion) is incompatible with “revelation” (Offenbarung), the content of 1 2

¨ Jacobi, Uber die Lehre des Spinoza in Briefen an den Herrn Moses Mendelssohn, 23/187. On Lessing’s motivation, see Klein (2009), 169–81.

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the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament.3 The latter is not universal and abounds in errors. It contradicts experience, reason, and morality, and is a testament to folly, deceit, enthusiasm, selfishness, and crime. Lessing’s disagreement with Reimarus is twofold. First, although both are committed to a “religion of reason,” they mean different things by this. Reimarus endorses standard deist doctrines – a benevolent God, divine providence, and an immortal soul – while rejecting Spinoza as a paradigmatic atheist.4 Lessing, by contrast, appears to have embraced Spinoza’s monism. Evidence for this is Jacobi’s report of his conversations with Lessing, as well as passages in some of Lessing’s works, for example in the fragment On the Reality of the Things outside God which includes the key Spinozistic doctrine that all things are necessarily and immanently caused in God (see 401–2/30–31). More important for my purpose are Lessing’s objections to Reimarus concerning the relationship between the “religion of reason” and “revelation.” Lessing’s defense of revelation hinges on the crucial distinction made by proponents of a philosophical religion between religion’s true core which agrees with reason and religion’s literal content which serves as a pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers. Lessing restates this distinction as that between religion’s “spirit” (Geist) and “letter” (Buchstabe) and explains the literal content as the adaptation of the true core to a particular historical context (Fragmente, 312/63). The pedagogical-political purpose of this adaptation is stressed in Lessing’s short treatise On the Genesis of Revealed Religion. The universal religion of reason, Lessing argues, consists in “knowing God” (Gott erkennen) and referring “all our actions and thoughts” to the worthiest notions we have formed of him (423/35). This religion is universal since it is shared by all human beings insofar as they are rational. In an ideal religious community everyone would practice the universal religion of reason and live according to its necessary truths. Since our intellectual abilities differ, however, beliefs about God and the actions derived from them differ as well, as long as we remain in the state of nature in which we are free to live by our own lights (see ibid.). These differences would make the creation of “civil society” (b¨urgerliche Verbindung) impossible Lessing claims (ibid.). Hence the founder of a religious community must “modify” the universal religion of reason according to the “natural and contingent circumstances” (nat¨urliche und zuf¨allige Beschaffenheit) of a given time and place (424/36) by adding “conventional” beliefs and practices to it that become the foundation of the social order (423/35). The validity of these conventional elements, then, is not derived from the 3

See the prologue to the Apology, 54–55.

4

See his The Most Noble Truths of Natural Religion.

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necessary truths of the universal religion of reason, but from the need to establish social order under particular historical circumstances. The investment of the conventional elements with divine authority by the religion’s founder is “revelation” according to Lessing (424/36). All historical religions consist in a combination of the universal religion of reason and the conventional beliefs and practices determined by a particular context. As much as circumstances allow, a historical religion’s conventional elements order the community towards “knowing God” – that is, towards the intellectual worship of universal religion. Historical religions can vary in rank depending on how close they come to the universal religion of reason (see 424–25/36). In light of this notion of “revealed” religion, Lessing’s response to Reimarus is simple: he failed to distinguish between the true core of the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament and the conventional elements contained in them – that is, between their “spirit” and their “letter.” Lessing’s contextualism with respect to the “letter” of revealed religion and his universalism with respect to its “spirit” are also the basis of the argument for toleration in his theater play, Nathan the Wise. Nathan, the Jewish sage, is challenged by Saladin, the Muslim ruler, to tell him which of the three Abrahamic religions is “the true one” (die wahre), since only one of them can be true according to Saladin (Nathan 3.5, 553/243). Given Nathan’s wisdom, Saladin argues, his commitment to Judaism cannot be due to the accident of birth, but must be the outcome of rational deliberation. Nathan’s answer is the famous Ringparabel (3.7). An heirloom ring with the magical ability to render its owner pleasant in the eyes of God and humankind has been passed on for generations from father to the most beloved son. When it comes to a father who loves his three sons equally, he promises the ring to all of them. Looking for a way to keep his promise, he has two replicas made, which are indistinguishable from the original, and on his deathbed gives a ring to each of the sons. On my reading, the three indistinguishable rings represent the true core embodied in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. To Saladin’s objection that the three religions differ in many respects, Nathan replies that the differences are merely due to “history” (Geschichte), based on writings and traditions (3.7, 557/250). In other words, the distinctive features of each religion correspond to the conventional elements in a revealed religion – that is, the elements added to the universal religion of reason when it is adapted to a particular historical context. With respect to these conventional elements, Lessing suggests, one religion is as good as another. Our attachment to one of them is indeed due to the accident of birth and upbringing: we happen to trust most those people amidst whom we were

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brought up. “How,” Nathan asks, “can I trust my forefathers less than you yours? Or the other way around?” (558/250). Intolerance and religious strife arise when the universal validity of religion’s “spirit,” with respect to which all three Abrahamic religions agree, is attributed to their “letter,” with respect to which they differ. Lessing thus allows for a plurality of excellent religions: Jews, Christians, and Muslims should tolerate each other because their religions share the same true core embedded in different historical materials Lessing’s theory of religion is filled with more content in his chief philosophical-theological work, The Education of Humankind, which also attempts to solve the tension between religious authority and autonomy, a concern at the heart of the Enlightenment. Judaism and Christianity in their historical forms, Lessing argues, are two stages in the education of humankind. Only upon completion of this education will humankind become perfectly rational and self-ruled. The childhood of humankind is represented by the moral and intellectual condition of the Hebrews after the exodus from Egypt. In this state, Lessing claims, the Hebrews were the “most uncultivated” (das ungeschliffenste) and “most savage” (das verwildertste) of all nations (Erziehung 8). This particular historical context determined the literal content of the Hebrew Bible which is “perfectly adapted” to the “knowledge, abilities, and inclinations of the Hebrews at that time” (23). Moses can teach neither God’s true unity (see 15) nor the immortality of the soul (see 17) and has to motivate moral behavior through threats of punishment and promises of reward in this life (see ibid.). At the same time, he includes a wide range of pedagogical devices in the Hebrew Bible. Thus the doctrine of punishment and reward in this life serves not only to secure obedience, but is also a pedagogical ruse given that it is constantly contradicted by experience. Seeing the virtuous suffer and the wicked flourish leads to the recognition that God’s justice requires an immortal soul whose compensation takes place in the hereafter (see 28–30). The doctrine of immortality is, moreover, hinted at in a variety of ways in the Hebrew Bible which also teaches philosophical doctrines in the form of parables and stimulates philosophical reflection through the allusiveness and ambiguity of its style (see 43–50). Although most of the Hebrew Bible’s literal content thus consists in religion’s conventional elements, it also leads towards and allegorically contains the universal religion of reason. Christianity represents the second stage in humankind’s education at which the immortality of the soul can be explicitly taught (see 58). Although humankind is now on a higher level of moral and intellectual perfection, the content of Christianity remains subject to considerable constraints.

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Its teachings are accepted on account of miracles, not on the basis of philosophical demonstrations (see 59–60), and moral behavior continues to be motivated by the prospect of punishment and reward, however now occurring in the hereafter (see 61). The “mysteries” of Christianity (76), such as the doctrines of the Trinity (see 73) and of original sin (see 74) are “revealed truths” (geoffenbahrte Wahrheiten) that coincide with “truths of reason” (Vernunftwahrheiten), yet unlike the latter are not presented as philosophical inferences (70–71). Lessing compares the “revealed truths” to the conclusions of mathematical exercises which the teacher gives to his students as a “guideline” while they are working out the steps of the demonstration. The literal content of the New Testament thus contains fewer conventional elements and more of the universal religion of reason than the literal content of the Hebrew Bible. The goal of humankind’s education, however, is the third stage. In the future Christianity will be replaced by the “new eternal gospel” (86) which is no longer based on revelation, but on reason alone. At this stage humankind will reach moral and intellectual perfection – “complete enlightenment . . . and that purity of heart . . . that enables us to love virtue for its own sake” (80). All human beings will apprehend God’s unity and the immortality of the soul, which are the core doctrines of the universal religion of reason, and act according to the moral norms that follow from these doctrines, doing “the good because it is the good and not because arbitrary rewards are connected with it,” whether in this life or in the hereafter (85). At this point an ideal religious community will arise, a community of philosophers united by the intellectual love of God whose order no longer depends on the conventional elements of historical religions – that is, their laws, stories, exhortations, and practices of worship. Like Christian philosophers in antiquity, Lessing links the concept of moral and intellectual progress with a commitment to egalitarianism on the basis of the doctrine of reincarnation. Moral and intellectual perfection are not the privilege of those who are born at the end of history, but all souls go through the entire educational process in successive embodiments (see 93– 100). In contrast to Christian philosophers like Origen, however, Lessing does not conceive this process as circular, starting with an initial state of perfection that is restored at the end. He also secularizes the eschatological vision: the final state is not one in which disembodied rational souls are reunited with Divine Reason, but one in which humankind as a whole has attained self-rule and perfection. The Christian version of a philosophical religion is thus reinterpreted on the basis of an Enlightenment conception of progress.

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From the many questions to which Lessing’s account of religion gives rise, let me address the two most interesting for my purpose. Whereas Nathan’s parable of the ring suggests that Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are of equal excellence, Islam disappears in The Education of Humankind while Christianity is superior to Judaism and, in turn, inferior to the eternal gospel of reason. Perhaps this tension can be resolved if we read Lessing as an advocate of enlightened pluralism: he envisions citizens who have embraced the eternal gospel of reason living side by side with citizens who hold on to their philosophically reinterpreted religious traditions. This would also explain why he rejects critics of religion like Reimarus who insist on reading the Bible according to the literal sense, thus precluding its reinterpretation. The second question is how Lessing could consistently advocate the concept of a philosophical religion despite Spinoza’s incisive critique of “dogmatism” with which he was undoubtedly familiar. Lessing’s distinction between religion’s literal content which serves pedagogical-political purposes and its true core, the universal religion of reason, clearly is a version of dogmatism. As Spinoza had argued at length, there is no evidence for the key dogmatic assumption that Scripture agrees with reason if it is read according to the historical-critical method laid out in TTP 7. Given Spinoza’s own inconsistency with respect to dogmatism, however, we cannot say that Lessing broke with Spinoza on this point. It would be more accurate to say that Lessing sided with the dogmatic Spinoza against Spinoza’s critique of dogmatism. In this respect Lessing’s position is similar to that of nineteenth-century representatives of the Jewish Enlightenment (Haskalah), most importantly Shlomo Rubin who produced the first Hebrew translation of the Ethics and the TTP. Rubin portrayed Spinoza as the new “guide of the perplexed” who restated the true core of Judaism in a philosophical language appropriate for modern times.5 In Lessing and Rubin, therefore, as already in Lodewijk Meyer, Spinoza’s philosophy becomes the hermeneutic key to the true content of religion.6 If students of Spinoza like Lessing and Rubin could hold on to dogmatism despite Spinoza’s critique of religion, we should not be surprised to find

5 6

On Rubin’s interpretation of Spinoza, see Schwartz (2007), chapter 5. Note, however, that some of Lessing’s views – God’s educational plan for humankind, for example, or the doctrine of reincarnation – do not sit well with his alleged Spinozism. I cannot examine this question here.

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versions of dogmatism elsewhere too. Kant, for example, praises Christ as a philosopher superior to Epicureans and Stoics: Epicurus wanted to give a motive for virtue and took from it its inner value. Zeno wanted to give virtue an inner value and took from it its motive. Only Christ gives it inner value and also a motive.7

Kant’s categorical imperative provides reason with a principle to determine the norms presented as divine commandments in Scripture. The religion of reason, however, is superior to “ecclesiastical faith” based on revelation. Whereas the former is universal, shared by all rational beings, the latter is confined to those who have access to its historical documents (see Religion 3.7, 115/122). Why do we need revelation if it adds nothing to the norms established by reason and is inferior to it? As “the faith of the common people [Volk],” Kant argues: ecclesiastical faith . . . cannot be ignored, since no doctrine exclusively based on reason [Vernunft] would seem to the common people to make an unalterable norm; they demand divine revelation [g¨ottliche Offenbarung]. (Religion 3.6, 112/120)

Hence “the authority of Scripture” is “at present the only instrument for the union of all human beings into one church” (ibid.). Like Origen and Lessing, Kant combines the pedagogical-political purpose of “ecclesiastical faith” with a concept of gradual progress in the course of which the “historical vehicle” (3.7, 115/122) becomes “bit by bit dispensable” until humankind is able to “put away childish things” (121–22/127) for good (cf. 1 Cor 13:11). This “transition,” according to Kant, “is the Coming of the Kingdom of God” (115/122). It gives rise to the ideal community of philosophers in which “equality arises from true freedom,” for everyone obeys the law “which he prescribes to himself ” (122/127). This law coincides with “the will of the World-Ruler [Weltherrscher] as revealed to a person through reason, and this Ruler invisibly binds all together, under a common government, in a state inadequately represented and prepared for in the past through the visible church” (122/127–28). Kant, then, recognizes the need for a pedagogical-political program, at least while we await the “Kingdom of God.” He is, moreover, a pluralist: the universal religion of reason is instantiated in different “ecclesiastical faiths” (115/122). The differences can be accounted for through the particular historical circumstances under which each revelation took place. How does Kant substantiate the empirical claim that historical religions embody 7

Akademie-Ausgabe 19, 176, no. 6838; cf. Schneewind (1998), 544.

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his moral philosophy in a way adapted to a particular context? He proposes to philosophically reinterpret the “empirical faith which chance, it would seem, has tossed into our hands” – that is, to which we belong by the accident of birth (3.6, 110/118): To unite the foundation of a moral faith . . . with such an empirical faith . . . we require an interpretation [Auslegung] of the revelation we happen to have . . . in a sense that harmonizes with the universal practical rules of a pure religion of reason. . . . This interpretation may often appear to us as forced [gezwungen] if we consider the text (of the revelation) and often, in fact, is forced; yet if the text can at all bear it, it must be preferred to a literal interpretation that either contains absolutely nothing for morality or even works counter to its incentives. (Religion 3.6, 110/118)

Kant firmly maintains that moral norms should not be derived from the Bible but that the Bible should be made to conform to the moral norms established by reason. He illustrates this through the “prayer for revenge” in Psalm 59:11–16 which, taken literally, is clearly at odds with the norms of practical reason. Kant suggests several interpretations of the revenge motive, among them that it does not refer: to corporeal enemies but, symbolized by them, to the invisible ones which are more pernicious to us, namely the evil inclinations which we must wish to bring under our feet completely. (Religion 3.6, 110/118)

To justify the philosophical reinterpretation of the Bible, Kant points out that since antiquity a wide range of religions have been successfully reinterpreted in this way: We shall also find that this is how all types of faith – ancient and new – . . . have always been treated, and that wise and thoughtful teachers of the common people [vern¨unftige, wohldenkende Volkslehrer] have kept on interpreting them until, gradually, they brought them, as regards their essential content, in agreement with the universal principles of moral faith. The moral philosophers among the Greeks and, later, among the Romans, did exactly the same with their legends concerning the gods. They knew in the end how to interpret even the coarsest polytheism as just a symbolic representation of the properties of the one divine Being [das einige g¨ottliche Wesen]; and how to invest all sorts of depraved actions, and even the wild yet beautiful fancies of their poets, with a mystical meaning that brought popular faith (which it would never have been advisable to destroy, for the result might perhaps have been an atheism even more dangerous to the state) close to a moral doctrine intelligible to all human beings and alone beneficial. The later Judaism and even Christianity consist of such in part highly forced interpretations [sehr gezwungene Deutungen], yet, in both cases [this is done] for the sake of ends undoubtedly good and necessary to every human being. The Mohammedans

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know very well . . . how to inject a spiritual meaning in the description of their paradise, otherwise dedicated to every sensuality, and the Indians do the same with their Vedas. (Religion 3.6, 110–11/119)

A second interesting example is Hegel who presents his philosophical system as a restatement of the content of Christianity. Reason and revelation are again connected through a notion of progress, this time the dialectical development of “absolute spirit” (absoluter Geist), the metaphysical principle at the heart of Hegel’s philosophy. Hegel stresses the affinity between his concept of absolute spirit and the concept of God as Reason by quoting Aristotle’s account of Nous in Metaphysics 12.7 after describing the structure of absolute spirit at the end of the Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences (see 577). At the same time he identifies absolute spirit with the Trinitarian God of Christianity. “The Christian religion,” according to Hegel, “is the perfect, absolute religion in which is revealed [offenbar] what spirit, what God is” (Philosophie der Religion, 87).8 In Hegel’s monistic ontology absolute spirit unites the order of nature and the history of cultural forms which are the objective and subjective stages on God’s dialectical path to self-consciousness. In both Christianity and Hegel’s philosophy, God’s absolute reality becomes manifest. Revelation, according to Hegel, has nothing to do with a miraculous act of God, but is precisely this manifestation (see 88). Hence Hegel can assert that “reason [Vernuft] is the place of the spirit where God reveals himself to man” (50). Religion and philosophy have the same object: The object of religion and philosophy is the eternal truth in its objectivity itself, God and nothing but God and the explication of God. . . . Philosophy only makes itself explicit by making religion explicit. . . . Thus religion and philosophy fall into one; indeed, philosophy itself is service of God [Gottesdienst], is religion. (Philosophie der Religion, 28)

To pursue philosophy in this way, Hegel argues, is “the highest and absolute command [Gebot] of the Christian religion” (43). For according to Christianity: we ought to know [erkennen] God, his nature and his essence, and regard this knowledge as the highest perfection [das Allerh¨ochste]. (Philosophie der Religion, 44) 8

For Hegel’s account of Christianity as “the absolute religion,” see part 3 of his Philosophy of Religion.

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To confirm this Hegel quotes the New Testament: “You shall be perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect” (Matt 5:48). The difference between Christianity and philosophy is thus not one of content but of form. Whereas in Christianity, God is manifest in the preconceptual mode of “representation” (Vorstellung), in philosophy he rises to the level of “concept” (Begriff ). Philosophy “indeed does nothing but conceptualize [begreifen] this idea of Christianity” (Geschichte der Philosophie, 409).9 To justify this philosophical restatement of religious contents, Hegel points to the model of Christian philosophers in Alexandria. He counters the objection that they recast Christianity in Platonic terms by asserting that “it does not matter where this doctrine [die Lehre] comes from; the only question is whether it is true in and of itself ” (Philosophie der Religion, 46).10 The historical content of Christianity, then, reflects a less perfect form of the self-consciousness of God than Hegel’s philosophy. As a consequence it contains much “of which we know that it cannot be understood literally [im eigentlichen Verstand],” for example the notions of “son” or “creator” which represent a logical relationship in anthropomorphic terms. The same holds for the representation of God: “when God’s anger, repentance, or revenge are mentioned, we know that they cannot be taken literally, that they are only a simile, a metaphor” (141–42). Also more elaborate parables like the story of the tree of knowledge in Genesis and historical events like the life of Jesus must be approached in this way. The latter, for example, makes religion accessible: to the consciousness in its common form [gew¨ohnlich]. It is a content that presents itself at first to the senses [sinnlich], a sequence of actions, concrete determinations, which follow each other in time and then coexist in space. (Philosophie der Religion, 143)

Besides the literal content, however, the story of Jesus’s life also has a “divine content”: divine activity, timeless events, absolute divine action. And this is the inner, true, substantial core of this story, and this is what constitutes the object of reason [Vernunft]. (Philosophie der Religion, 142).

Hegel’s philosophy makes the true core of Christianity explicit and hence marks the end point on the dialectical path of God. Christianity, however, 9 10

On the relationship between religion and philosophy with respect to absolute spirit, see also the final paragraphs of the Encylopedia of the Philosophical Sciences, 561–77. On Hegel’s appreciation of the achievement of the Church Fathers, see also the introduction to part 2 of the History of Philosophy.

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has a pedagogical advantage over Hegel’s system: it contains “the truth for all men” – that is, it makes it accessible to non-philosophers as well (Encyclopedia, 573). As “Tertullian says: now children know of God what only the greatest sages of Antiquity knew” (Geschichte der Philosophie, 498). What Lessing, Kant, and Hegel have in common is that they disregard the hermeneutical principle through which Spinoza proposes to put the interpretation of Scripture on firm grounds: “to neither affirm anything of [Scripture] nor to admit anything as its doctrine which I did not most clearly derive from it.” Instead, they make use of strategies that belong to the stock in trade of proponents of a philosophical religion. These depend on assumptions for which the evidence is as scarce as for those underlying Maimonides’s interpretation of the Bible that Spinoza rejects in the TTP. Recall d’Holbach’s assessment of the Bible which I quoted in the introduction: the Bible consists in a collection of fables, superstitions, and arbitrary laws which have no place in a life guided by reason. To these and similar criticisms of religion, set forth from the Enlightenment onwards, Lessing, Kant, and Hegel would reply that they stem from a confusion of the “letter” and the “spirit” of the Bible.

philosophy’s new handmaid? art as a pedagogical-political program A different way out of Spinoza’s impasse is to propose an alternative to the historical forms of religion for the role of the pedagogical-political program. The most prominent candidate for this role is art. Lessing can again serve as a first example. He did not write a philosophical treatise on tolerance but a theater play, Nathan the Wise. Moreover, in the play the core thesis on tolerance is set forth as a parable, for “we do not feed tales [M¨archen] to children only” but also to adults who, like Saladin, lack a philosophical education. Literature thus can take the place of religion as the handmaid of philosophy. In Lessing’s case it is put into the service of disseminating Enlightenment ideas. The most elaborate case for art as a pedagogical-political program was made by the German poet Friedrich Schiller (d. 1805) in On the Aesthetic Education of Man in a Series of Letters (1794). Although Schiller’s philosophy of art is complicated, the most important points for my purpose were made succinctly in an earlier essay on “The Theater Considered as a Moral Institution” (1784). In this essay Schiller explains why a “wise lawgiver” would put theater at the center of his pedagogical-political efforts. He

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explicitly compares it to religion and argues that theater can fulfill religion’s role more efficiently, in particular since religion’s images – for example the depiction of “heaven and hell” – have lost much of their power in his time. The key achievements of theater include “moral education” (sittliche Bildung) and the “enlightenment of reason” (Aufkl¨arung des Verstandes). With respect to “moral education” Schiller describes theater as a “school of practical wisdom.” From the “pure fountain” of “wisdom and religion,” theater: draws its lessons and examples, and clothes stern duty in a charming and alluring robe. How it fills our soul with great emotions, resolves, passions, how it sets up for us divine ideals for imitation [Nacheiferung]! (Schaub¨uhne, 147)

And conversely, “in the theater’s fearsome mirror, the vices are shown to be as ugly as virtue is lovely” (ibid.). Schiller’s account of the “enlightenment of reason” makes it even clearer how the function assigned to religion’s historical forms by proponents of a philosophical religion is transposed to art: The theater is the common channel through which the light of wisdom [Licht der Weisheit] streams down from the thinking, better part of the people, from there spreading in milder beams throughout the entire state. More correct notions, unadulterated principles, purer emotions flow from here through all the veins of the people; the fog of barbarism and dark superstition disperse; night yields to triumphant light. (Schaub¨uhne, 115)

Among the examples for the successful mediation of ideas through theater Schiller mentions Lessing’s Nathan the Wise. Lessing’s and Schiller’s conception of theater as the handmaid of philosophy is taken up by later authors, for example Bertold Brecht, who uses “epic theater” to convey Marxist ideas to the proletariat. To say that art takes on some of the functions previously assigned to religion suggests a somewhat misleading dichotomy, however. For proponents of a philosophical religion explain the role of religion as philosophy’s handmaid precisely in terms of the pedagogical-political use of art: from Plato’s “musical” education in the Republic and the claim that the divine nomoi of Magnesia are the city’s model “tragedy” to the view of medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers that poetry and oratory are the distinctive skills of the prophet and the imagination the distinctive prophetic faculty.

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making the handmaid redundant: equality as a moral-political value The main challenge to the concept of a philosophical religion stems from a new moral-political paradigm that emerges in the early modern period. According to this paradigm all human beings are equally able to rationally rule themselves. Hence no pedagogical-political program is required to order the lives of non-philosophers towards what is best. One version of this challenge is already present in Lessing: once we arrive at the stage of the “new eternal gospel” in the tripartite scheme of humankind’s progress, religion’s historical forms retain no more than antiquarian value. Similar teleological considerations can be found in Kant and are, of course, at the heart of Hegel’s system. Already in the eighteenth century Mendelssohn objected to Lessing’s narrative of progress. There is, he argued, no empirical evidence for such a view: I, for my part, cannot conceive of the education of humankind as my late friend Lessing imagined it under the influence of I-don’t-know-which historian of humankind. One pictures the collective entity, the human race, as an individual person and believes that providence sent it to school here on earth, in order to raise it from childhood to manhood. . . . That we should again and again resist all theory and hypotheses, and want to speak of facts [Thatsachen], to hear nothing but of facts, and yet should have the least regard for facts precisely where they matter most! You want to divine what designs [Absichten] providence has for humankind? Do not frame hypotheses; only look around you at what actually happens and, if you can survey history as a whole, at what has happened since the beginning of time. This is fact, this must have been part of the design. . . . Now, as far as humankind as a whole is concerned, you will find no steady progress in its development that brings it ever closer to perfection. . . . Individual man advances, but humankind continually fluctuates within fixed limits, while maintaining, on the whole, about the same degree of morality in all periods – the same amount of religion and irreligion, virtue and vice, happiness and misery. (Jerusalem, 162–64/95–97)

Narratives of progress, however, are only one form in which this challenge is presented. Another version of it is the deist claim that we can do without Scripture’s guidance altogether because the religion of reason is equally accessible to all. According to Herbert of Cherbury (d. 1648), for example, the metaphysical and moral concepts of “natural religion” are “common notions” which every human being can grasp through reason: I firmly maintain that it is and always has been possible for all men to reach the truths [of natural religion]. (De Veritate, 305)

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Mendelssohn makes a similar case for “common sense” (Menschenverstand). In To Lessing’s Friends (1785) he uses the 1733 mission of the Moravian church to Greenland as a setting to stress the universal access to “natural religion”: It seems to me that the evidence of natural religion is as clearly obvious, as irrefutably certain, to uncorrupted common sense that has not been misled, as is any proposition in geometry. At any stage of life in which man finds himself, at any level of enlightenment, on which he stands, he has sufficient information and capability, opportunity and power, to convince himself of the truths of the religion of reason [Vernunftreligion]. The argument of the Greenlander who was walking on the ice with a missionary one beautiful morning, saw the dawn flashing forth between the glaciers, and said to the Moravian: “Behold, brother, the new day! How beautiful must be he who made this!” – this argument, which was so convincing to the Greenlander, . . . is still convincing to me. It has the same strength for me as the simple, straightforward argument of the Psalmist: “He who planted the ear, does he not hear? He who formed the eye, does he not see? He who teaches man knowledge, the Lord, knows the thoughts of man” [Psalm 94:9–11]. This natural inference, childishly easy [kinderleicht], carries for me all the evidence of a geometric axiom . . . and victorious power of an apodictic demonstration. (An die Freunde Lessings, 197–98/164)11

The optimism about the ability of all human beings to attain rational selfrule that gains momentum in the early modern period shares a number of features with the position I attributed to Socrates, Celsus, and Ab¯u Bakr al-R¯az¯ı. It is expressed succinctly in Kant’s claim that we only submit to the guidance of “books” and “priests” because of our “laziness and cowardice” (Aufkl¨arung, 35/54). In principle, therefore, we can rule ourselves, if only we dare to use reason. According to Jerome Schneewind, Kant’s view is “centered on the belief that all normal individuals are equally able to live together in a morality of self-governance. All of us, on this view, have an equal ability to see for ourselves what morality calls for and are in principle equally able to move ourselves accordingly.”12 This view also has important political implications as Schneewind notes. It provides “a conceptual framework for a social space in which we may each rightly claim to direct our own actions without interference from the state, the church, the neighbors or those claiming to be better or wiser than we. . . . The early modern moral philosophy . . . thus made a vital contribution to the rise of the Western liberal vision of the proper relations between individual and 11 12

Mendelssohn thus would reject the fal¯asifa’s hierarchy of logical proofs that underlies their distinction between the knowledge of philosophers and the knowledge of non-philosophers. Schneewind (1998), 4.

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society.”13 Many factors from the sixteenth century onwards contributed to establishing equality and freedom as the core moral and political values of the West. Here is not the place to examine the reasons for this shift. It should be clear, however, that the equality thesis subverts the concept of a philosophical religion. A philosophical religion is based on the ultimately paternalist premise that only philosophers are capable of perfect rational selfrule whereas non-philosophers must follow their prescriptions in order to live well – preferably on the basis of consent, but if necessary also through coercion. Spinoza’s critique of religion only questions the legitimacy of interpreting the historical forms of a religious tradition as a pedagogicalpolitical program designed by philosophers for non-philosophers. If, on the other hand, some version of the equality thesis is true, there is no need for a pedagogical-political program in the first place: all human beings attain rational self-rule at the end of humankind’s moral and intellectual progress, for example, or just follow “common sense” which is “childishly easy” in Mendelssohn’s words. More than any scientific revolution in the early modern period, this new moral-political paradigm accounts for why the concept of a philosophical religion looks strange to us today. prospects of a philosophical religion On my reading, Socrates, Celsus, and Ab¯u Bakr al-R¯az¯ı held a version of the equality thesis: pedagogical-political guidance is not necessary since all human beings are capable of rational self-rule. Proponents of a philosophical religion thus were aware of the challenge outlined above. Would they continue to defend the concept of a philosophical religion if they were to take part in a debate about religion today? A full answer to this question would require situating and defending the elements of a philosophical religion in a wide range of philosophical debates: metaphysics, epistemology, ethics, political philosophy, philosophy of law, and philosophy of religion. This I cannot take on here. But I want to briefly examine the key feature of a philosophical religion as a hermeneutic project: the philosophical reinterpretation of religious traditions. Had everyone heeded Kant’s call to replace books and priests through rational self-rule, reinterpreting religious traditions would have become obsolete. Why should we engage religious beliefs, practices, and institutions if secularization gradually rid the world of them?14 A look around us, however, quickly reveals that the 13

Ibid., 4–5.

14

See Weber (1919), 16–17.

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secularization thesis is in trouble.15 Many citizens choose to live according to God’s will as interpreted by their books and priests. In this context, it is instructive to consider an important shift in liberal political theory with respect to the foundation of political norms.16 A pressing question these days is how citizens who submit to God’s will can be led to endorse the norms of a liberal state which are only valid if its free and equal citizens consent to them. Appealing to reason is not enough in the case of citizens for whom reason holds less authority than God. One prominent proposal to get all citizens on board is the “overlapping consensus”: secular citizens endorse freedom, equality, and tolerance for secular reasons and religious citizens for religious reasons.17 Among Christians, for example, a key move to this end is the claim that our creation in God’s image according to Genesis 1:26 means that all human beings have dignity which, in turn, is the foundation of freedom, equality, and tolerance. Consider the interpretation proposed by Joseph Ratzinger: Human life stands under God’s special protection, because each human being, however wretched or exalted he or she may be, . . . however good-for-nothing or important . . . is God’s image. This is the deepest reason for the inviolability of human dignity, and upon it is founded ultimately every civilization.18

Ratzinger adds that this supposedly biblical concept of human dignity is well captured by Kant who derives it from “moral freedom.” As we saw, proponents of a philosophical religion offer a quite different interpretation of Genesis 1:26 based on Platonic and Aristotelian commitments: since God is Reason, to be created in God’s image means to have reason. However, on their interpretation the biblical verse refers only to reason’s potential which must be realized through study, culminating in knowledge of God. Hence to be created in God’s image does not in itself confer value on human beings. Indeed, Maimonides quotes Psalm 49:13 to describe Adam’s loss of 15 16 17

18

See, for example, Casanova (1994). Compare, for example, Rawls (1971) with (1993) and see the introduction to the latter for a discussion of one version of the shift I have in mind. See Rawls (1993), part 2.4. For an attempt to extend both the content and the scope of the overlapping consensus, see Nussbaum (2000). Nussbaum argues that the key features of a flourishing human life can be the object of an overlapping consensus among all cultures, not only cultures shaped by liberal-democratic political institutions. For strategies of reinterpreting Catholicism, Confucianism, and Islam to achieve an overlapping consensus on human rights, see Cohen (2004), 201–10. The precise role of the overlapping consensus is disputed. For Rawls it does not seem to be a condition for the legitimacy of enforcing laws, but only for stability: it provides citizens with reasons to follow the laws from within their diverse comprehensive doctrines. For my argument it is not necessary to settle this question, since either way the overlapping consensus depends on reinterpreting religious or cultural traditions in light of commitments not derived from them. Ratzinger (1986), 78.

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intellectual perfection: “Adam, unable to dwell in dignity [bi-yeqar], is like the beasts that speak not” (Guide 1.2, 17/26). Proponents of a philosophical religion would thus reject Ratzinger’s claim that human beings have dignity no matter how “wretched or exalted” they are. Bible scholars, finally, who follow the historical-critical method, would reject both the Kantian and the Platonic-Aristotelian interpretation of Genesis 1:26. They would point out that in the ancient Near East a king was often described as an image of the divine to indicate that his rule was divinely sanctioned. The author of the biblical creation story extends this concept to all human beings: as God rules the world, human beings “rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, the cattle, the whole earth, and all the creeping things that creep on earth” as the second part of Genesis 1:26 elaborates. This, then, is the dilemma that Spinoza left us: the historical-critical method which the TTP’s critique of religion helped to establish is our best bet to get to the true meaning of religious texts. At the same time it leaves us with no respectable option for interpreting religious texts in light of intellectual commitments external to them. Attaining an overlapping consensus, however, clearly depends on philosophical reinterpretation. For the endorsement of freedom, equality, and tolerance are not prominent features of Judaism, Christianity, or Islam in their historical forms, at least not in the sense in which these concepts are used in contemporary political discourse. To make Moses, Christ, and Muhammad teach freedom, equality, and tolerance is, of course, no greater hermeneutic challenge than making them teach the ideal of Godlikeness through contemplation. Spinoza’s critique of the philosophical reinterpretation of religious traditions, however, applies equally to both of them. The overlapping consensus is, of course, just one of many contexts in which this problem arises. In State Islamic Universities in Indonesia, for example, science classes are co-taught by an expert in the relevant academic discipline and an Islamic scholar who points out ways to reconcile the scientific contents with the Muslim tradition. Another example are First Nations communities in Canada: after centuries of colonial oppression they are trying to rebuild their ancestral cultural traditions while at the same time reinterpreting them to make them suitable for the world they now live in.19 Ultimately any attempt to integrate new beliefs, practices, and institutions with existing religious and cultural traditions will have to rely on hermeneutic strategies similar to those used by the philosophers 19

See my forthcoming book, Teaching Plato in Palestine.

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examined in this book. While advocates of the historical-critical method will view such attempts with suspicion, to effect change they remain an attractive alternative to the cultural revolution proposed by Plato in the Republic and, in a different way, by radical Enlightenment thinkers like d’Holbach.

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Index

Aaron (Moses’s brother) 176 Abbasid caliphate 162 Abraham (biblical patriarch) 110, 120, 168, 278 and Hagar and Sarah 111, 118, 124 Account of the Beginning 178, 189, 190n, 191, 204 Account of the Chariot 178, 183, 189, 190n, 191, 204 Adam 98, 107, 224–25, 278 before the Fall 194–96, 213, 221, 241 see also the Fall afterlife 23 Alexander of Aphrodisias 179 Alexandrian philosophers 30, 88, 90, 103, 106, 118, 144–47, 174, 178, 186, 194, 198, 213, 237, 292 and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı 155–56, 158–59 and Platonic interpretation of Judaism and Christianity 92 and the Stoics 91 Alfakhar, Judah 232, 276 Al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı 24, 26, 29, 144–47, 153, 155n, 156n, 169, 173, 175, 181–82, 190, 197–98, 200–201, 254, 263 vs. al-Kind¯ı 155, 162 vs. al-R¯az¯ı 196 Attainment of Happiness 156, 168 Book of Letters 154 influence on Averroes and Maimonides 164–68 on Divine Law 157 Enumeration of the Sciences 155–56 Epitome of the “Laws” 34, 144, 158, 164 on happiness as the end of philosophy 156 on levels of parables 163 between the mutakallim¯un and al-R¯az¯ı 155, 162 on non-philosophers 158, 161–62 On the Appearance of Philosophy 154 on Plato 32–35 on the philosophical curriculum 156–57

Philosophy of Aristotle 156 Philosophy of Plato 156 political philosophy of 157–59 The Political Regime 162 The Principles of the Opinions of the Citizens of the Virtuous City 162 on prophecy 67, 158, 160–61 and the reception of Greek philosophy 154–56 on religion as a pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers 158–60 and religious pluralism 164, 179, 193 on virtuous religion 63–64, 159–64 Al-Ghaz¯al¯ı 145, 165–66 Al-Kind¯ı 155, 162 allegorical and literal content of the Bible 89–91, 106, 111, 114–16, 118, 135, 205–7, 212, 219–21, 225–29, 233, 241, 258–59, 270, 274, 276, 278, 286, 288, 290 of Homer and Hesiod 107 of the Islamic Law 169–71 of the Law of Moses 97–98, 114–15, 118–21, 178, 180–83, 188–90, 208–9, 211, 274, 202–3, 225 see also reinterpretation, philosophical Almohads 184–85, 203–4, 217, 255 Al-R¯az¯ı, Ab¯u Bakr 3, 145, 155, 162, 164, 195–96, 296–97 Ambrose, Bishop of Milan 138 Anaxagoras 47, 103 anthropocentrism 7, 177 Apion 118 appetite see desire Aquinas, Thomas 26 Aristobulus 93, 103 Aristophanes 41n The Clouds 41n Aristotle 16–17, 19, 25, 41n, 65, 90, 95, 106, 110, 145, 149n, 178–79, 196, 209–10, 291, 298 Aristotelian epistemology 201 Aristotelian logic 156 Aristotelian metaphysics 183

319

320

Index

Aristotle (cont.) Aristotelian physics 166–67, 183 as authority for fal¯asifa 154–56, 160–61, 166–67 Averroes’s commentaries on 4, 167–68, 171, 174, 260 De anima 150, 161 on divine nomoi 4, 148, 151, 153 esoteric writing practice of 158–59, 171 Eudemian Ethics 4, 150 on God 13, 148, 150 on habituation 195 on happiness 148–50, 152 medieval Aristotelianism 206, 251 Metaphysics 41n, 148, 149n, 150n, 291 Nicomachean Ethics 57n, 148, 149n, 152–53, 166 Organon 147, 156, 160, 168, 171 Physics 150n agreement with Plato 146, 148, 156, 160 Poetics 157 Politics 146–48, 152–53 on politics 150–53 Posterior Analytics 147 on practical wisdom (phronˆesis) 57n, 149–53 Protrepticus 149 as proponent of philosophical religion 25, 148–53 Rhetoric 150n, 157 on theoretical wisdom (sophia) 57n, 148, 152 art as substitute for religion 293–94 atheism and Socrates 46–47 and Spinoza 214–15, 235, 262, 278, 281, 284 Plato on 64 Athens 42–43, 45, 48 and Jerusalem 25, 30–32 and Sparta 42 Augustine 26, 141 autonomy see self-rule Averroes (Ibn Rushd) 24, 61n, 144–46, 153, 169n, 179, 198–99, 199n, 200, 204–9, 211–12, 217, 255–58, 260–61, 263, 279 and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı 157, 164–67 Bid¯ayat al-mujtahid 172, 174–75 Christian Averroism 26, 208 commentaries on Aristotle 167–68, 171, 174, 260 Commentary on the “Republic” 168 corpus of 166 Decisive Treatise 165, 168, 174, 198–99, 211 Exposition of the Methods of Proof Concerning the Foundations of Religion 174

Incoherence of the Incoherence 165, 172–73 on the Islamic Law 3, 166, 168–73, 175 Long Commentary on the “De anima” 167 compared with Maimonides 166, 175, 177, 182 on the relationship between falsafa and Islam 165–66, 168–71, 174 on virtuous religion 1, 3, 5, 27, 36, 168–70, 173 Avicenna 27 on wine 22 Bacon, Francis 280 Berlin, Isaiah 3n Berman, Lawrence 164 the best life as philosophical/contemplative life 7–9, 41, 63, 78, 81, 144, 155, 167 as virtuous life 54–55 and worship 52 Bible 1, 2, 16, 36, 95, 110, 206, 212, 214–15, 217–18, 224, 248–50, 254, 256–61, 265, 269–81, 284–90, 292–93, 295 Colossians 274 Corinthians 289 Deuteronomy 125, 178 Ecclesiastes 203 Exodus 96, 179 Ezekiel 178 Genesis 101, 112, 114, 123, 144, 175, 178, 237, 292, 298–99 Hebrews 96–97 John 123 Numbers 115 Proverbs 109, 178, 202–3 Psalms 203, 218, 290, 298 Romans 272–73 Song of Songs 203 Blyenbergh, Willem van 220, 222–29, 258, 280 Boethus of Sidon 117 Bouwmeester, Johan de 231 Brecht, Bertold 294 Buffi`ere, F´elix 26 Byzantium 27 Caligula 118 Calvin and Calvinism 36, 217, 276, 279 Celsus 3, 89, 137, 296–97 Chadwick, Henry 31 children see non-philosophers and not-yet-philosophers Christ 14, 24–25, 35, 87–91, 102, 106, 173, 214, 270, 274–75, 299 as didaskalikos 89, 91, 130, 134, 138–39

Index as doctor of the soul 130 as God’s infinite intellect 213, 224, 265, 268, 278 historical 266–68, 278, 292 incarnation of 26, 35, 126–27, 137, 267, 269 as Logos 123, 126–27 as Nous 122 as paidagogos 89, 91, 130–34, 138–39, 141 parables composed by 106 as philosopher 266–67, 289 as protreptikos 131 resurrection of 233 as wisdom 6, 102, 123–24 Christianity 2, 14, 16, 24, 31, 87–103, 106, 116, 213, 215–17, 223, 272–73, 280, 285–88, 290–92, 298–99 and apologetics 93, 100 Arabic 27 Byzantine 27 and Divine Law 5 early 30, 31 and Greek philosophy 31 opposed to philosophy 31 philosophical reinterpretation of 233–34, 236, 257, 261, 274 as philosophical religion 11, 26, 92, 102, 122–39, 141, 205, 216, 218, 233, 236, 265–70, 274, 281 and Platonism 27 as turning-point in history 21 Cicero 41n, 102 Tusculanae disputationes 41n Clement of Alexandria 24, 26, 29, 31, 32, 50n, 89, 90n, 92, 102–3, 106, 126n, 127, 129, 132–36, 138–39, 141–42, 144, 165, 182–83, 263 as apologist 88 on Christ’s philosophical teachings 138–39 on the embodied life 132–33 on faith 133–34 and the philosophical reinterpretation of the Law of Moses 125–26 on Plato’s debt to Moses 124–26 Protrepticus 131 Stromateis 138, 183 coercion 69–70, 119, 133, 151, 191, 200–201, 247, 250, 254–55, 260–61, 268, 278, 286 Collegiants 215, 217 Constantine the Great 142 cultural revolution 14, 20, 40, 82, 84–85, 91, 105, 108, 131, 217 David (biblical king) 130, 203 deism 282–84, 295

321

Delmedigo, Elijah 27, 205–7, 207n, 208–12, 217, 255–58 not advocating double truth doctrine 208–10 Examination of Religion 205, 208, 255 as source of Spinoza’s Averroism 205, 255–58 democracy 3, 42–43, 48, 61–62, 104, 214, 241, 253 as theocracy 7, 243, 253 demonstration (Aristotelian) 154, 160, 162, 170–71, 183–84, 190, 197–201, 206–7, 216, 260 Descartes, Ren´e 220, 222 Principia Philosophiae 220, 222 desire non-rational 54–57, 89, 119, 122, 133, 195–96, 238–39, 242, 245–46, 250, 252–53, 263 necessary vs. unnecessary 56 rational/for the pleasure of contemplation 56, 111–12, 152–53, 173, 196, 272 dialectic 53, 67–69, 74–75, 78, 81, 90, 124, 135, 137, 154, 160, 162, 168, 177, 193, 197, 206, 211 Hegelian 291–92 see also elenchos dialectical method see dialectic dialectical, rhetorical, and poetical arguments 160, 162–63, 168–69, 171, 177, 184, 189, 193, 197, 199, 206, 211 contrasted with demonstrative arguments 160, 164, 169, 184, 189, 197, 199, 206 Dissoi Logoi 42n Divine Law 194–96, 198–201 Delmedigo on 206, 209, 211 Maimonides on 175–76, 202–4, 225 as pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers 176 Spinoza on 213, 238–45, 250, 264–67, 270–71, 273–74, 277–78 as aiming at wisdom 175 divine nomoi 24, 49, 64, 65, 65n, 66, 68, 68n, 71, 85–86, 94, 159, 213, 263, 294 and Law of Moses 103–4, 109, 158 as pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers 76 division of labor 54, 80, 192 doctor of free men see doctor of the soul doctor of the soul 43, 45–47, 51, 63, 75, 77, 89, 170 Christ as 130 Moses as 113, 116 Dodds, E. R. 67n dogmatism 288 and Maimonides 216, 230–301 and Spinoza 217–32, 276–80 Duran, Profiat 264 Dutch Republic 244, 279

322

Index

education 18, 32, 38, 46n, 58–59, 61, 67–68, 71–72, 75–76, 78, 81, 90, 95, 104–5, 107n, 108, 198, 111, 116, 118, 135, 139–40, 151, 174, 239, 241, 245, 253, 255–56, 261, 286–88, 293–95 see also pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers egalitarianism/equality 16n, 21, 243, 287, 289 vs. elitism 15–16, 35, 155n, 157, 192, 243, 297–99 elenchos 44–45, 46–47, 53, 60, 66, 77, 98, 260 Enlightenment 202, 282–83, 293, 300 French 1 and Kant 3, 242, 283 medieval Jewish 202–5 radical 1, 36, 277 and religion 2, 5, 253, 286–87 Enoch 99 Epicurus 25, 48, 88, 111, 289 esoteric and exoteric content see allegorical and literal content esoteric teaching/writing practice 7n, 33–34, 97, 138, 145, 158, 159n, 165, 171, 178, 183, 276n Eusebius of Caesarea 26, 87, 92–94, 94n, 95n, 95–100, 116, 138, 142, 144, 173, 186 Apology for Origen 92 on the agreement of Moses and Plato 92–100 on a Christian world state 142–43 on Constantine the Great as philosopher-king 142 Demonstration of the Gospel 92 Ecclesiastical History 92 Praise of Constantine 142 Preparation for the Gospel 26, 92, 100 Fabian, Bishop of Rome 138 falsafa and the fal¯asifa 145, 155, 158, 165–68, 181, 183–84, 190, 192, 194–96, 198, 200–202, 205, 213, 216, 246 Fall, the (of Adam or humankind) 21, 89, 91, 98, 112, 126, 128, 138, 215, 225, 270, 276–77, 298–99 Feuerbach, Ludwig 5 Ficino, Marsilio 27 Forms 19, 49, 50, 52–54, 68, 75, 78, 140 and God’s mind 97, 109–10, 122 order of 52 vs. their instantiations 52 founder and leader of religious community 4, 12, 14, 20, 23 difference from philosopher 12 motivations of 13 pedagogical and political skills 12 Galen on Christian parables as Platonic mythoi 132

on Plato 146 Summary of Plato’s “Republic” 132 Gebhardt, Carl 215 Gnosticism 90, 134n, 135n God 206, 209, 230, 250, 254, 264, 266–69, 271–73, 282, 287, 291–92, 298 of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob 214–15, 235, 248, 251–53, 260, 262, 275, 278 anthropomorphic representation of 21, 65, 97, 108, 115–16, 119, 169, 171, 183–85, 188–89, 225, 240, 254 as architect 109, 148 of the Bible 94n, 214–15, 249, 251–52, 258, 277 as craftsman 80 as the final cause of a political community 12, 17, 110, 265 as the final cause of the world 7, 10, 50, 104, 238 as the first cause of things divine and human 20, 111, 168, 197, 261 human beings as the image of 89, 99, 112–13, 142, 194, 213, 236–37 intellectual love of 176–77, 213, 237, 245, 265, 285, 287 as lawgiver 13–15, 18, 76, 80 of Moses 103 or Nature 214, 216, 252, 256, 273, 282 as ordering things towards what is best 104 of the philosophers 214–15, 248, 251, 253–54, 258, 261–62, 275 Plato on 49–51 proof for existence of 4, 168, 191, 199–200, 206 rule of 51, 104, 109, 239, 241, 244, 263, 265 Tetragammaton 270 of the Timaeus 62, 109 see also Reason/Nous (Divine) Godlikeness 88, 113, 265, 299 degrees of 77 as the perfection of reason 51–52, 57, 79, 112, 198 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 215 good, the 176, 194, 244 the Form of 50–51, 52n, 60, 78, 89, 140 for human beings 197, 230, 237, 239, 243, 245–46, 263, 273 see also Godlikeness G¨orgemanns, Herwig 64 Gregory Thaumaturgus 135–39 Address of Thanksgiving to Origen 135 on Christian philosophers in paradise 139 on Origen’s educational curriculum 135–38 habituation 58–59, 70, 95, 151, 171–73, 183–85, 188–90, 195, 200, 204, 252, 258 Halevi, Judah 165

Index handmaid of philosophy, religion as the 63, 89–91, 93, 160, 214, 217, 220, 244 Hebrew Bible see Bible Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 24, 295 on Christianity as a philosophical religion 291–93 Encyclopedia of the Philosophical Sciences 291 Heraclitus 40, 101 Heraclitus (1st cent. CE) Homeric Allegories 106 Herbert of Cherbury 295 Herodotus 42 Hesiod 48, 66, 71, 82, 101–2, 105–7 Holbach, Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron de 1, 2, 36, 293, 300 Homer 26, 48, 66, 71, 82, 101–2, 105–7 Iliad 42n Odyssey 101, 105, 107 House of Orange 279 human reason see reason (human) Ibn B¯ajja 27 Ibn Rushd see Averroes Ibn Sina see Avicenna Ibn Tibbon, Samuel 27, 202–5, 208 as founder of Maimonideanism 202 Treatise ‘Let the Waters be Gathered’ 204 Ibn Tufayl 27, 169–70, 190 H . ayy ibn Yaqz.a¯ n 169 imagination faculty of 152, 214, 216, 245–48, 250–53, 257, 259–61, 268–69, 271, 273, 278 language of 96, 129, 178, 225, 248, 259, 275 and prophecy 160–61, 176, 275, 294 intellect see reason (human) Isaac (biblical patriarch) 110, 120, 278 Isaiah (biblical prophet) 221, 274 Islam 1, 2, 14, 16, 24, 145, 285, 288, 290, 299 medieval Islamic philosophy 26, 32, 34, 37 as philosophical religion 5, 11, 144, 164, 167–68, 204–5, 217 Islamic Law 3, 157, 166, 168–75, 194, 198, 202 Israel, Jonathan 35–36 Jacob (biblical patriarch) 110, 120, 278 Jacobi, Friedrich Heinrich 215, 282–84 Jelles, Jarig 215, 217 Jewish constitution see Law of Moses Joseph ben Judah 182 Josephus, Flavius 49n, 93, 103–4, 118 Against Apion 49n Judaism 2, 14, 16, 24, 145, 282, 285–86, 288, 290, 299 and apologetics 118 Hellenistic 30, 31 Jewish Diaspora 88

323

medieval Jewish Enlightenment 202–5, 288 as philosophical religion 11, 92, 102, 108–22, 144, 164, 167, 204–5, 216–17 justice perfect and imperfect forms of 60 Kant, Immanuel 3, 242, 283, 289–90, 293, 295–98 categorical imperative 289 on Christ as philosopher 289 and the coming of the Kingdom of God 289 and the philosophical reinterpretation of religious traditions 290–91 and religious pluralism 289 Kimchi, David 232 Koran 16, 168, 174 Laks, Andr´e 64 Lamberton, Robert 26 La Mettrie, Julien de 2 Law of Moses 24, 94, 96, 172–73, 184–85, 192, 194, 199–200, 202, 215, 261 allegorical and literal content of 97–98, 114–15, 121, 174 and Christianity 99–100 as Divine Law 175–77, 179–80, 193 as image of philosophy 97, 177 as handmaid of philosophy 95, 100 not leading to wisdom 116–18 and levels of argumentation 99 as pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers 116, 118–19, 205–12 and Plato 92–100 as Platonic divine nomoi 87, 103–4, 109, 158 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 2, 24, 215, 283–89, 293–95 defense of revealed religion 284–86 on the education and progress of humankind 286–87 The Education of Humankind 286, 288 Fragments of an Unnamed Person 283 Nathan the Wise 285, 293–94 On the Genesis of Revealed Religion 284 On the Reality of the Things outside God 284 vs. Reimarus 283–86 and religious pluralism 285–86, 288 on the universal religion of reason 284 Lipsius, Justus 28 Logos 91, 115, 122, 144, 186 and Christ 123–24, 126–27, 131, 133, 138 and Nous 50n, 87, 89, 109 rule of 89, 133 see also Reason/Nous (Divine) Lucas, Maximilian 218

324

Index

Maimonides 3–5, 19, 24, 29, 36, 62n, 144–46, 153, 158n, 166n, 185n, 198–200, 200n, 201, 205, 207, 209–10, 216–17, 219–20, 230–31, 237, 241, 255, 258, 263, 274–75, 282, 298 and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı 157, 164–67 on Aristotle 167 compared with Averroes 166, 175 Book of Knowledge 167 Commentary on the Mishnah/Sir¯aj 166, 192 concept of a philosophical religion different from that of the fal¯asifa 181–93 corpus of 166–67 on Divine Law 175–76, 225 on division of labour 192 esoteric and exoteric doctrines of 165 on gradual reform of religious beliefs and practices 186–90, 193 Guide of the Perplexed 62n, 165–67, 180, 182–89, 191, 193, 203–4, 258, 263–64 on habituating non-philosophers to true beliefs 183–85, 188–89 and the Jewish philosophical tradition 27 and medieval Jewish Enlightenment 202–5 on the Law of Moses 3, 4, 166–67 as Divine Law 176–77, 179–80, 193 as superior to all other religious traditions 111, 176–80, 192–93 on leading Jews to intellectual perfection 191–92 Mishneh Torah 166–67, 180, 188, 192–93, 199 on Moses as having a superhuman intellect 179–80 parable of king’s palace 191–92 on Plato as prophet 158 on religious pluralism 179–80, 193 Treatise on the Art of Logic 166 Maltranilla, Captain Miguel Perez de 219 Marx, Karl 5, 294 Matthew (New Testament author) 96 Mendelssohn, Moses 2, 282, 295–97 on common sense and equal ability for self-rule 296–97 criticism of Lessing’s concept of progress 295 Jerusalem 282 To Lessing’s Friends 295 Meyer, Lodewijk 215, 217, 280, 288 Philosophia Sanctae Scripturae Interpres 229–32, 280 on Spinoza’s philosophy as the key to the right interpretation of the Bible and the reconciliation of the Christian church 215, 229–32 Middle Platonism 51n, 115, 117 Midrash 153

Miriam (Moses’s sister) 176 Morrow, Glenn 83 Moses 4, 14, 16, 145, 173, 179, 218, 266, 270, 299 as doctor of the soul 113, 116, 118 emulation of 115, 120 as God’s interpreter 114 and habituation of the religious community 186–88 and monarchy 243 philosophical doctrines of 115, 117 philosophical education of 109–11 as philosopher-lawgiver 95–97, 202, 204, 248, 252–53 as philosopher-poet 106–8 as philosopher-prophet 177, 192 as philosopher-ruler 109–18, 177 agreement with Plato 92–100, 114, 116 as having superhuman intellect 179–80 see also Law of Moses Muhammad 4, 14, 16, 145, 173, 274, 299 as philosopher-ruler 173 musical education 70–73, 78, 95, 130–31, 294 and religious worship 76, 169 see also habituation mutakallim¯un 155, 162 Narboni, Moses 204 Neoplatonism 24, 26, 34, 146–47, 156n, 161 New Testament see Bible Nietzsche, Friedrich 5 noble lie and Christ’s teachings 131 and Law of Moses 97, 114 and Plato 80 nomoi of Magnesia see divine nomoi of Moses see Law of Moses non-philosophers and not-yet-philosophers 66–67, 95–96, 113–14, 116, 122, 179, 182, 189–90, 194–201, 208, 211, 213, 225, 255–57, 260, 269, 273, 275, 278, 281, 282–84, 293, 295 and the non-rational soul 59, 89 before reason takes charge 72 and pedagogical guidance 58–59, 251, 258, 261 distinction from philosophers 40–41, 58, 202, 206, 252–53 and political guidance 59–60, 90, 204, 206, 246–48, 250–51, 254, 276 and practical wisdom 60–61, 79–80, 121 and temporary childhood 100 and theoretical wisdom 81, 121, 192 Nous 50, 57, 263, 291 and Logos 50n see also Reason/Nous (Divine)

Index Numenius of Apamea 101–2, 107, 164 on religious and cultural pluralism 101–2 obedience see coercion Oldenburg, Henry 37, 222, 231, 233–34, 265, 267, 279 Old Testament see Bible O’Meara, Dominic 36 Origen of Alexandria 21, 24, 26, 29, 31–32, 50n, 89, 91–93, 122–28, 127n, 128n, 129–31, 132n, 133, 135–39, 139n, 144, 180, 192, 218, 263, 266, 287, 289 Against Celsus 137 as apologist 88 on the Christian epistemic hierarchy 130–31 on Christ’s incarnation 127 on Christ’s philosophical teachings 137–38 on the Fall 126, 139 and the education of Gregory Thaumaturgus 135–38 On First Principles 127, 137–38 on successive embodiments and progress in perfection 139–40 Orpheus 102 Ostens, Jacob 213 paganism 14, 20, 26, 131 Sabians 186, 188, 203–4 Paine, Thomas 2, 282 Panaetius 117 parables 132, 169, 225, 269, 292 al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı on 161–64 of Christ 106, 134 of Plato 105, 158, 160 of the prophets 181, 224, 226–29 Parmenides 40 Pascal, Blaise 214 Patristics 26–27, 31 Paul (New Testament author) 31, 129–30, 134, 221, 233, 266, 272 pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers 65, 182, 186, 193, 271, 276–77, 279, 281–84, 288, 293, 295 of al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı 158–60 of Christ 89, 91, 129–34, 269 and community of free men 63, 202 as imitation of philosophy 113, 121 and literal content of the Bible 89, 106, 176, 225 and literal content of the poets 106 of Moses 89, 91, 95, 113–14, 121 Plato on 58–82, 158 and practical wisdom 79 religion as 76, 89, 216, 250

325

P´epin, Jean 26 Pericles 48 Philo Judaeus 24, 26, 28–32, 35–37, 50n, 89, 92, 102–4, 107n, 108n, 122n, 146, 172, 263 and the allegorical content of the Bible 111, 114–16, 118–19 as apologist 88, 118 De animalibus 122n The Delegation to Gaius 118 De opificio mundi 116 De providentia 117, 122n De somniis 108 as a determinist 90 on divine revelation 95, 109 on God 108–9 and the study of Greek philosophy 117 on Homer and Hesiod as philosopher-poets 107–8 on Moses as philosopher-poet 106–8 on Moses as philosopher-ruler 109–18 on the order and purpose of the nomoi of Moses 118–19 On Abraham 120 On the Decalogue 118 On Flaccus 118 On the Life of Moses 120 On the Special Laws 118 On Virtues 118 philosophical education of 117 on Judaism as a philosophical religion 100, 108–22 philosopher-ruler 61–63, 65–67, 96–97, 109–18, 173, 177, 244 phronˆesis see wisdom, practical physician of the soul see doctor of the soul Plato 16, 17, 25–26, 30, 41n, 42–43, 46, 48, 49–51, 52–57, 89–90, 110, 144–45, 194, 196, 198, 200, 213, 218, 234, 244, 251, 253, 260, 263, 283, 292, 294, 298, 300 and al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı 154–60, 164 agreement with Aristotle 146, 148, 156, 160 Apology 41n, 45–47, 51, 53, 60 on cultural revolution 82, 105, 108, 186 Charmides 46 Clitophon 157 Critias 38, 66n Crito 45n Euthydemus 41n Euthyphro 46–47 Gorgias 41n, 45, 48, 66 Ion 46 Laches 41n, 46 and the Law of Moses 92–100

326

Index

Plato (cont.) Laws 14, 24, 32, 34–35, 38–40, 41n, 49–51, 52–53, 55n, 57, 63n, 64, 66–72, 74–77, 80–81, 83–86, 92, 94–95, 101, 106, 153, 157–59, 283 Meno 43, 73 not a monotheist 50 and Moses 92–100, 103–4 and Numenius 101–2 Oriental sources of 101 on a pedagogical-political program for non-philosophers 58–82, 158 Phaedo 33, 39n, 47–49, 75 Phaedrus 41n, 67, 73–74, 78–79, 98, 158 Philebus 49 on the poets and poetry 48, 66–67, 71, 95, 105–7 Protagoras 41, 41n, 42n, 43, 48 Republic 14, 38–39, 41n, 46n, 48–51, 53n, 54, 55n, 57, 60, 62, 65–69, 71–72, 74, 76, 78–80, 82–85, 92, 94–96, 98, 104–6, 108–9, 140, 153, 157–58, 174, 186, 192, 200, 260, 283, 294, 300 on rhetoric 66–67, 73 and philosophical reinterpretation of Greek culture 29, 14, 32, 83–86, 101 Seventh Letter 42, 42n, 96 vs. Socratic politics 58–63, 77–78, 157, 170 Statesman 38, 48, 64n, 66, 73, 78 Symposium 48n, 52n, 79, 98, 111 Theaetetus 42n, 52, 95 Timaeus 13, 34–35, 38, 48–49, 51n, 52n, 60, 62, 67, 80, 109, 116, 158, 160 transmission to the Islamic world 146–47 pleasure 245–46 of contemplation 148, 151–52, 172, 176, 201 of the soul vs. of the body 55 Plethon, Georgius Gemistus 27 Plotinus 79, 98n, 197 Enneads 198 poetic education see musical education poetry 294 Plato on 66–67, 71, 95 the poets Plato against 48, 105–7 theology of 47 Porphyry 93, 156, 166 Eisagˆogˆe 157, 166 preludes (to the laws) 72–75, 99, 120–21 Presocratics 93, 102 principle of plenitude 7, 50, 264 principle of self-limitation 113, 116 prophecy and prophets 147, 155, 206–7, 214, 224–29, 277–78, 280, 283, 294

al-F¯ar¯ab¯ı on 158, 160–61 Averroes on 169–70, 174 Maimonides on 176–77, 179 as model of human perfection 95 and Moses 113 and parables 181, 183 and the philosopher-ruler 160 as philosophers 274–76 Plato as 94, 99, 158 and reason 156 Spinoza on 266, 270–71 Protagoras 52 Protestantism 217 Pseudo-Dionysus 26, 141 Pyrrho 25 Pythagoras 101 Quakers 28 rational persuasion 72, 99, 120, 191 see also preludes to the laws Ratzinger, Joseph 298–99 Reason/Nous (Divine) 49, 50, 50n, 51, 117, 144, 216, 287 Anaxagoras on 47 becoming like 48, 52–53, 68 as Christ 265 as craftsman 49–50, 67 and the Forms 50–51, 109 and the Form of the good 50–51 God as 3, 6, 7, 10–11, 13, 21, 34, 47–49, 52–53, 58, 65, 68, 94, 103–4, 144, 194, 263, 282, 291, 298 human beings as image of 112 as Logos 87, 89, 109 as ordering things towards what is best 47, 49, 50, 51n, 109 rule of 47, 49–51, 53, 66, 68, 87, 94, 263 as Sophia 109 reason (human) 230, 268, 276, 280 compared to Divine Reason 53 and desire for knowledge 56, 60, 111–12 vs. faith 132–33 as handmaid of theology 226, 235, 261, 279 vs. imagination 253, 257, 259, 278 life of 39, 56–58, 129, 194, 213, 238, 240, 247 and non-rational parts of the soul 55, 56, 58–59, 70, 79, 112 perfection of 6–9, 12–13, 16, 19, 39, 51, 53–54, 56–57, 61, 68, 112, 144, 151–53, 173, 179, 196–98, 201, 213, 236–37, 239, 251, 263, 265, 272–73, 278, 287, 299 rules/prescriptions of 55, 57–58, 60–61, 63, 70, 112, 118, 132–33, 149–51, 169, 172, 177, 195,

Index 237–38, 240–42, 244–46, 250, 252, 254, 256, 258, 263, 265, 269–70, 274, 278 and self-rule 2, 44, 57, 61, 195–96, 200 Reimarus, Hermann Samuel 2, 282–85, 288 Apology or Defense of the Reasonable Worshippers of God 283 reinterpretation, philosophical 87, 90 of the Bible 137, 183, 212, 215, 219, 225, 229–32, 258–62, 272–73, 288, 290 of Christ 126 of Christianity 217–18, 233–34, 236, 257, 261, 268, 274, 281, 283 of the Greek cultural tradition 101, 105–8 of Islam 168, 171, 174, 217 of the Jewish tradition 118 of the Law of Moses 92, 99–100, 103, 119–21, 125, 175, 185, 210, 217 of pagan religions 26 tradition of in antiquity 101–3 see also allegorical and literal content religion 210, 277, 280 of the ancient Hebrews 99–100 as image/imitation of philosophy 63, 97, 159, 161–63, 171, 177 philosophical religion 7, 11, 25–26, 92, 100, 102, 108–39, 141, 152, 164, 167–68, 205, 213, 217–18, 233–34, 236, 239, 241, 245–50, 265, 274, 281–84, 294–95 universal faith 256–61, 266, 268–69, 274, 278, 284–86, 298n virtuous religion 1, 3, 5, 27, 36, 159–64, 168–70, 173, 193 Renaissance 27 revelation see prophecy rhetoric and musical education 73 Plato on 66–67 Robles, Tomas Solano y 219 Rubin, Shlomo 288 Runia, David 30–31 Schiller, Friedrich 293 on art as a substitute for religion 293–94 On the Aesthetic Education of Man in a Series of Letters 293 “The Theater Considered as a Moral Institution” 293 Schneewind, Jerome 29–30, 296 Schofield, Malcolm 64, 67n, 72n scholasticism 29 Scripture see Bible self-rule/autonomy 283, 287 coincidence with God’s rule 3, 7, 11, 30, 47, 51, 58, 60, 151, 194, 202, 213, 239

327

degrees of 3, 19, 76, 198, 250–54 contrasted with enslavement 9, 57–58, 70, 76, 78, 120, 152n, 198, 240, 245, 252 and knowledge of the good 44, 78 and the Law of Moses 121 maximizing 30 and musical education 72, 72n of non-philosophers 75–76, 80, 251–52 and reason’s rule 2, 57, 61, 195–96, 200, 240, 286 and religion 17–19 skepticism 217, 226, 232 Socrates 34, 40–48, 51, 53–54, 57–58, 60–61, 196, 213, 296–97 and Anaxagoras 47 and atheism 46–47 on elenchos/philosophical debate 44–45 as key to the good life 44–45 as political project 45–46 as religious project 46–47 as gadfly 46–47, 62–63 as imitating God’s goodness 47–48 and Moses 96 public vs. private life 45 and the true science of politics 45, 48, 157 Solomon (biblical king) 130, 203 soul 263 immortality of 23–24, 33, 52, 75, 129, 218, 257n, 284, 286–87 Plato on 53, 79 Spinoza, Benedictus de 146, 153, 212, 219n, 220n, 234n, 257n, 273n, 283, 293 and atheism 214–15, 235, 262, 278, 281, 284 and Averroism 205, 255–58 correspondence with Blyenbergh 220, 223–29 break with Judeo-Christian tradition 35–37 and Christianity 27, 35–37, 205, 265–70, 274, 281 Cogitata Metaphysica 37, 220–25, 227, 229, 232–33, 257 on the conatus 236, 245, 254 critique of religion 35–37, 214, 216–18, 233, 235, 261–62, 274–83, 288, 297, 299 critique of utopianism 241–44 and Delmedigo 205, 255–58 on Divine Law 213, 238–45, 250, 253, 264, 266–67, 270–71, 273–74, 277–78 vs. human law 242–43, 263 and dogmatism 218–33, 235, 256, 258–60, 262, 270, 276–80 epistemology of 236, 251 Ethics 214–15, 225, 230–34, 239–40, 244, 246, 260–62, 264–65, 267, 270–71, 288

328

Index

Spinoza, Benedictus de (cont.) and freedom 213, 215–16, 240–41, 243, 245, 251–52, 254, 278 of expression/of thought/to philosophize 214, 217, 235, 244, 254–62, 278–79, 280–81 on human nature 214, 242–43, 253–54, 263–64, 269 on Maimonides’s interpretation of Scripture 219–20, 230–31, 241 metaphysics of 262–65, 270 and Lodewijk Meyer 229–32 on Moses 252–53 Opera Posthuma 215 on the pious non-philosopher 250–54 on philosophical religion 7, 205, 233–34, 236, 239, 241, 245–53, 257, 262–65, 281–82 compared with Plato 251, 253 Political Treatise 240, 243, 254 on power 264–65 Principia Philosophiae Cartesianae 224 on religion vs. superstition 261–62, 278 on religious pluralism 259, 262, 274 Short Treatise on God, Man and Man’s Wellbeing 223–24, 230, 265 and skepticism 216, 226, 232, 276–77, 279–80 and Stoicism 25 on theocracy as democracy 7, 243, 253 Theological-Political Treatise 37, 213, 215–19, 219n, 222, 225–56, 228–34, 234n, 235, 240, 243–44, 251, 254, 257, 259–62, 264–68, 270–71, 273, 276–81, 288, 293, 299 Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect 214, 222, 238, 244 Stoicism 25, 106, 111, 128–29, 132, 289 Neostoicism 28 Stolle, Gottlieb 218 Strauss, Leo 28, 33–35

Talmud 145, 190–91, 206, 225 teaching see dialectic ´ Tempier, Bishop Etienne 27 Tertullian 30–32, 293 Theagenes of Rhegion 25, 106 theocracy 3, 6–7, 17, 30, 49, 49n, 50–51, 66, 94, 103–4, 194–95, 240–41, 244, 251 and autonomy/self-rule 7, 17–20, 30, 194–202 as democracy 7, 243 as rational political order 51, 153 Theophrastus 93 Thucydides 42 Torah 178–79, 181, 202 tradition (authority of ) 41–42, 76, 86, 182, 184, 190–91 Trinity 26, 287, 291 true belief 185, 189–90, 204, 260, 280 vs. knowledge 42 and luck 43 tying down of 43–44, 73, 76, 121, 134 Voltaire 2, 282 Vries, Simon de 231 Walzer, Richard 162 wisdom 6, 17 imperfect forms of 78 political see practical practical 10, 12, 19, 57, 59n, 60–61, 79, 121, 133, 136, 149–53, 169n, 171, 196, 294 practical vs. theoretical 57, 79, 121 theoretical 10, 12, 57, 73, 121, 169n, 172, 175, 178, 192 Witt, Johan de 279 Wolfson, Harry 28, 35–36 Xenophanes 25, 106 Xenophon 41n, 46n, 84n Constitution of the Lacedaemonians 84n Memorabilia 41n Zeno of Citium 88, 289