Review of Jeffrey Burton Russell's "Mephistopheles: The Devil in the Modern World"

To be frank, I haven’t read any of the previous three of Jeffery Burton Russell’s books which together comprise a “history of the Devil” from antiquity through the twentieth century. I started at the end, because the only other volume I own, the third in the series, is packed away in a box somewhere and it didn’t have the chance to catch my eye. The reason why series like these attract me so much is beyond me – maybe I’m just drawn to big, unwieldy reading projects. However, judging from the last volume alone, this seems to be at a superficial treatment, with little to offer someone already interested in the history of religious ideas.

This volume picks up with the beginning of the Reformation, whose emphasis on sola fide revitalized older medieval ideas of diabology. Some interesting, and scary, fragments of Martin Luther’s life are retold, including the tidbit that one of his most important biographers, Heiko Oberman, described Luther’s whole existence as a “war with Satan.” He also uses this section of the book to look at the diabology of John Calvin and sixteenth-century mystic-contemplatives St. John of the Cross and Teresa of Avila. 

With the appearance of the Enlightenment, increasing popularity of empiricism, rationalism, and use of the scientific method, people started to take diabology – or at least the possible existence of the Devil – much less seriously (which is hardly a surprise). In this section of the book, Chapter III, the reader gets a plodding, thirty page-long piece of exegesis on Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” which while it is a poem largely about the Devil, seems to consist of too much summary and too much ham-handed literary analysis. Its appearance is abrupt and completely out of place in an otherwise smooth (at least until that this point) history of ideas. 

When Russell begins to talk about the Enlightenment and some of its most prominent thinkers, he weirdly and biliously starts tossing around pejoratives, like “propagandist.” He doesn’t seem to except the modern biological consensus position on evolution, stating “new reflections on randomness and time suggest that even in billions of years the information of intelligent life by random processes is virtually impossible,” though he intelligently stops short of trying to argue that a supernaturally intelligent being is responsible for the diversity of life on Earth (p. 151). 

He has a particular dislike for Hume, especially his argument against miracles, which Russell again endlessly belabors, attempts to rebut, and fails. He hilariously claims that de Sade is the “logical conclusion of atheism” – an interesting admission concerning an author whose work perhaps more than any other in the eighteenth century confirms the existence of evil in the world. He reads de Sade as an inveterate misanthrope and sexual deviant (which is much too easy) instead of as an ironist who is actually trying to make cogent points about the very real existence of good and evil in society. None of this bodes well for his reading of Goethe’s “Faust” – which is much shorter than his reading of Milton, though just as uninteresting. 

The overall tone of this book comes across as a later-day apology for religious ideas which don’t really jibe with modernity, which probably explains his hostility to several facets of it. Russell’s obvious trouble reconciling himself to commonly accepted scientific positions (like evolution), the long, meandering renditions of literary works (of which I only mentioned two, but there are several more of less important writers), and his obvious disdain for the Enlightenment make for a perfect storm which make this book both sad and funny to read. Russell’s specialization is the medieval time period, so maybe I just caught him trying to tie up loose ends in a historical period with which he has little familiarity. This can be forgiven. As soon as third volume finds its way out of a box and onto a bookshelf, I might pick it up.

Review of Charles Lemert's "Why Niebuhr Matters"

[The above is mostly a reading of the text below, with an occasional aside thrown in for good measure as they strike me as relevant.  I welcome questions, comments, or concerns about the material contained in this video.]

For several years, I’ve had Reinhold Niebuhr’s “Moral Man and Immoral Society” and “The Nature and Destiny of Man,” by far his two most well-known books, resting on my bookshelf, but never felt it urgent enough to read them any time soon. In some ways, Charles Lemert’s book about the elder Niebuhr brother changed this. This book’s main strength is Lemert’s hagiographic voice, one that is almost always prepared to mount a passionate and reasoned defense of Niebuhr’s views; its main weaknesses are frequent and somewhat lengthy jeremiads into political and social issues Niebuhr was never able to address himself, because they took place after Niebuhr’s death, and which often come across as sanctimonious grandstanding on the part of Lemert.

Niebuhr was born in Missouri, the son of German immigrants. His father was a German Evangelical pastor (which was absorbed into the United Church of Christ in the 1950s). His origins were austere, but there must have been something truly special going on in the Niebuhr household: not only did Reinhold become a leading theologian and ethicist, his brother Richard taught the history of religion at Yale, and his sister Hulda was a vocal proponent of Christian education and professor of divinity in Chicago at a time when women were still rarely afforded the opportunity to attend university, let alone be awarded teaching positions.

After attending Yale Divinity School and taking his M.A. (but never the terminal Ph.D.), Niebuhr took became a pastor at a small church in Detroit where he quickly became enamored with the culturally and economically liberal message of the Social Gospel, and spoke out against what he thought were the abuses and greed of Henry Ford. Lemert discusses Niebuhr’s roots in concepts of social justice, his activism, his ever-patient pastoral care while in Detroit, and his eventual move to Union Theological Seminary in New York. While, as we’ll see in a moment, Niebuhr soon abandoned his political liberalism (understood in the contemporary sense of socially and economically progressive), his early experiences undoubtedly shaped one of the questions that would continue to shape his life’s work: How can one balance individual liberties and issues of social justice?

Niebuhr went to Union Theological Seminary to teach in 1930 where he would remain for a generation. Soon after arriving, his avowed Marxism slowly started to change into what we would recognize today as Christian Realism. His earlier liberalism (here understood in the broader sense of the word) affirmed humanity’s ability to better itself through the application of reason, technology, science, and legislation, whereas Christian Realism posits that societies are corrupt and – and here is perhaps the most damning part – that people are unwilling to admit these deficiencies to themselves because of sin. Niebuhr thinks of sin not so much as a theologically or ontologically unchanging category. Rather, he saw it as the inability of people to recognize their own limitations - probably something an atheist could get behind, even if they are wary of the word “sin.” 

Soon after he arrived at Union, Niebuhr published “Moral Man and Immoral Society” (1932), a trenchant critique of American liberalism (again, the broad sense). He says that while individuals are often capable of moral behavior, nation-states and societies rarely are because their actions are so tied up with various interests which complicate to the point of impossibility ethical action. Niebuhr courageously takes their ideas to their natural conclusion: National values – sometimes, though not always expressed by those chest-thumping “patriots” – must be corrupt. This is a daring suggestion, and one that Niebuhr would maintain throughout his life which spanned much of the Cold War, a time when such chest-thumping was popular. What is the solution? Increased devotion or time in church? Not really. His critique of the Church was just as harsh. In “Moral Man and Immoral Society,” Niebuhr says of the religion and the Church that they “encourage love and benevolence … by absolutizing the moral principle of life until it achieves the purity of absolute disinterestedness and by imparting transcendent worth to the life of others” (p. 61). In other words, they have a bad habit of making otherworldly (or “transcendentalizing”) very worldly concerns, allowing us to focus on them less and less. Niebuhr’s later book, originally a set of Gifford Lectures published in 1943 as “The Nature and Destiny of Man,” is a truly sobering account of human beings and their place in the world which touches on some of the same issues and more fully develops them. 

It may be clear why skeptics or even atheists can see something to agree with in the corpus of Niebuhr’s thought. There used to be, and it still might be around, a group that identified themselves as Atheists For Niebuhr. Morton White, the American philosopher and historian of ideas, wrote this about them: “Those who applaud his politics are too liable to turn to his theory of human nature and praise it as the philosophical instrument of Niebuhr’s political agreement with themselves. But very few of those whom I have called “atheists for Niebuhr” follow this inverted logic to its conclusion: they don’t move from praise of Niebuhr’s theory of human nature to praise of its theological ground. We may admire them for drawing the line somewhere, but certainly not for their consistency.” 

In a time when the United States is probably the most religious of first-world countries, it’s more than curious why a figure like Niebuhr would be marginalized as much as he is. It may be because most American Protestant evangelicals are politically conservative, whereas Niebuhr, even the later Niebuhr, was progressive regarding secular issues. Or maybe, especially after 9/11, our naïve ideas about national innocence and purity are too unquestioned to spark a sincere appreciation for and conversation with a thinker who derided cheap patriotism and national exceptionalism. But if the United States ever develops something resembling a left-wing cultural evangelicalism, its founders could do worse than to look to Reinhold Niebuhr – a thinker whose willingness to criticize both his own intellectual roots and those of his country was never weakened by a felt need for conformity or popularization. 

Lemert’s personal polemics and grudges sometimes come through in the book, but those faults are his own. His exposition of Niebuhr, however, made me curious to pick up Niebuhr’s original work and finally – finally – read him for myself.

Review of Michael Frassetto's "The Great Medieval Heretics: Five Centuries of Religious Dissent"

[The above video is mostly a reading of the text below, with an occasional aside thrown in for good measure as they strike me as relevant.  I welcome questions, comments, or concerns about the material contained in this video.]

More than perhaps any other time, the average person of the European middle ages found their identity bound up in religious and moral norms. In this book, Michael Frassetto discusses what can happen when some thinkers pushed the boundaries of traditional religious understanding, and were eventually branded as "heretics." What is particularly special about this text is that the author does not present the heresies compartmentalized from their social context; rather, he integrates apropos aspects of the cultural and political milieu so that the reader fully understands how they came about, the purposes they serve, and, inevitably, the nature of their demise. 

The modern mind ties the word "heretic" to a sort of radical libertinism that flirts with godlessness and amorality. As Frassetto explores the varies heresies of the Church, we found out that most of these vanguards attacked the Catholic Church (I say "Catholic Church" here since all of the heresies explored herein are very much pre-Reformation, though one could argue that they had influences on Luther and Calvin) from "the other side." They claimed the Church was too materialistic, too worldly, that it had lost touch with God and His ways. In a word, many of these heresies were conservative in nature, in the sense that they wished to conserve an older worldview of godly purity, apostolic holiness, and in many cases, vows of extreme poverty. The only change these thinkers wanted to impose was to erase the all-too-worldly influences that the Church had grown complacent in and with. 

So, who are the fascinating people that Frassetto talks about? Each chapter tells the story of one or two heretics, or discusses a movement they were tied with. Discussed herein are Bogomil, Stephen and Lisois (leaders of a sect at Orleans), Henry the Monk, Peter Waldo (associated with the Waldensians), Raymond VI of Toulouse and his connection with the Cathars, Pierre Autier, Fra Dolcino, Marguerite Porete, John Wycliffe, and Jan Hus. 

Henry the Monk of Lausanne (fl. 1110 - 1148), hardly a heretic by today's standards, preached a return to apostolic poverty, saintliness, and orthodoxy, and spoke out against the Church's worldliness. And while the life of Peter Waldo (c. 1140 - 1218) very much resembled the lives of other now-canonized saints, his emphasis on self-imposed poverty and the importance of lay preaching rendered him a danger in the opinion of the Third Lateran Council. The stories of John Wycliffe and Jan Hus, whose names are probably most recognizable to those interested in the topic, portend the later religious wars of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 

Because each chapter tells the self-contained story of a movement over a relatively short period of time, this book makes for an interesting and handy reference book, as well as fascinating reading for those wishing to gain a rudimentary understanding of heterodox religious thought on the periphery of the Church during the first half of the second millennium. This comes especially recommended for those interested in the historical development of the Catholic Church and anyone interested in medieval history. Nota Bene: As should be deduced from the size of this book (it is a rather slim volume), this is not a scholarly text. It is one that introduces material on the beginner to intermediate level, though a list of more specific monographs are listed in the back in an extensive bibliography. 

Review of Louise Collis' "Memoirs of A Medieval Woman: The Life and Times of Margery Kempe"

[The above video is mostly a reading of the text below, with an occasional aside thrown in for good measure as they strike me as relevant.  I welcome questions, comments, or concerns about the material contained in this video.]

Louise Collis' book stands of the interesting tradition of "books that are about books." While Kempe (c. 1373 - 1438) wrote what is quite possibly the first autobiography in the English language - and quite a fascinating book in its own right - Collis' re-telling of the story adds the occasionally much-needed and very helpful narrative voice of a twentieth-century historian. At the same time, her voice is never intrusive, always letting Margery's story shine through any additional insight she might have. 

Margery Kempe was born in or around the year 1373 to one John Brunham, the long-time mayor of Lynne (now King's Lynn) in Norfolk. In 1393, she would marry John Kempe and have her first child quickly thereafter. It was around this time when Margery had her first ecstatic religious vision when, according to her, Jesus appeared to her in a purple robe. Thirteen more children would follow over the years. 

One day, while lying in bed with her husband, she has another vision, she tells John that she has decided to give up her sex life with him in order to give herself fully to God. This was one of the larger decisions that was made on the way to her becoming a fully repentant saint, whose spiritual ablutions and contrition would irritate many of the people that used to love her the most. In 1414, she took a dangerous trip to the Holy Land (the threats of vagabonds and brigands made long-term travel much more of an adventure than we could ever imagine it today), returning home a year later; in 1417, she took a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella. Both of these trips are beautifully detailed in the text. During her travels, she was hardly able to control her grippingly emotional visions. While today we would imagine that everyone would admire her for such religious fervor, many of the people that she would encounter on her travels thought that she was either being histrionic and sanctimonious, or possessed by the devil. 

There is absolutely no doubt that Margery was a brilliant woman. While unlettered, she knew enough about Church dogmatics to defend herself when she was accused by some of being a Lollard (a follower of John Wycliffe). On other occasions, she was accused of being a heretic of other stripes, but always received commendations from those in a position to say what was orthodox and what wasn't. 

While the comparatively secular modern mindset might find Margery's religious devotion neurotic or overly compulsive, Collis' careful and considerate explication enables the reader to approach the text with more cultural and sociological sensitivity. No one would ever accuse Margery of being an uncomplicated woman. She was strong-willed and adamantine. But her sincerity, selflessness, and refusal to compromise those values which she found most important make her oddly likeable, and one of the more interesting religious figures to come out of early fifteenth century English religious history. 

This book comes highly recommended for those interested in religious (auto)biography, the history of the Catholic Church, or English history on a larger scale. 

Review of Michael Allen Gillespie's "The Theological Origins of Modernity"

[The above video is mostly a reading of the text below, with an occasional aside thrown in for good measure as they strike me as relevant.  I welcome questions, comments, or concerns about the material contained in this video.]

Modernity, broadly understood as a “realm of individualism, of representation of subjectivity, of exploration and discovery, of freedom, rights, toleration, liberalism, and the nation state,” is often assumed to be rooted in a growing hostility toward, or at least indifference to, theological ideas. Michael Allen Gillespie, a professor of political science and philosophy at Duke University, uses this book to argue against this point. Rather than a disengagement from theological discourse, he suggests modernity has actually been a completely different set of answers to questions that we would recognize as explicitly theological.

He begins his discussion by going all the way back to medieval Scholasticism, and in particular looking at the rift between Scholastic realism (or universalism) and nominalism. Scholasticism was dominated by realist thought, which said that everything in the world was merely a kind of Platonic simulacra of the only thing that was real – the perfectly rational, divine mind of God. During the early fourteenth century, William of Ockham became one of the most outspoken opponents against realism and for a position known as nominalism. Nominalism rejected the central position of realism, and suggested that such a divine reason which human beings could access and understand didn’t even exist in the first place. (Ockham was not, for clarity’s sake, proposing atheism. He was instead saying that the mind of God was something so distant from the frailties of the human intellect that we will never understand it – i.e., the deus absconditus of Martin Luther.) This got him into a lot of trouble with Pope John XXII, who eventually excommunicated him. The important thing to take away from Gillespie’s discussion of Ockham is that Scholasticism’s marriage of the human and divine intellect is ruptured by nominalism, which “replaced it with a chaos of radically different beings” and focused on a God of extreme will and omnipotence instead of one whose rational mind was reflected in the perfection of nature.

The rest of the book is taken up with how these ideas have been taken up in subsequent thinkers. The first person Gillespie understands as being in conversation with Ockhamite nominalism is Petrarch, Ockham’s contemporary. Petrarch’s idea of the moral life is one, starkly in contrast with Aristotle’s conception of the zoon politikon, pursued mostly in private conflicts drastically with the Roman authors, especially Cicero, whose lives and works he so cherished and revived. His several books, including “Rerum Memorandum” (“Memorable Things”) and “Africa,” an epic poem presenting the parallel lives of Scipio, Caesar, and Hannibal, serve to detail his ideas in these respects.

Next, Gillespie moves on to give a rather conventional account of Renaissance humanism and some of its major figures, including Machiavelli, Salutati, Ficino, Pico della Mirandola, and Erasmus. He argues, very much in line with mainstream historical understanding, that these humanists placed an emphasis (or, as Gillespie phrases it, “ontic priority”) on human reason and cognitive faculties, rather than a divine being, even though almost none of the memorable humanists concluded anything like atheism. 

Much of the rest of the book discusses two pairs of thinkers, and uses each pair to compare and contrast the influences of nominalism and humanism that each offered. The first of these pairs is Luther and Erasmus. Gillespie never assumes too much of the reader, and therefore spends quite a bit of time giving introductory information about each of these. He suggests that both, but especially Luther, were influenced by nominalism and therefore God’s radical separation from man. He sums up the differences and similarities between the two thus: “…modernity proper was born out of and in reaction to this conflict [the debate between Luther and Erasmus], as an effort to find a new approach to the world that was not entangled in the contradictions of humanism and the Reformation. To this end, thinkers such as Bacon, Descartes, and Hobbes sought a new beginning that gave priority not to man or to God but to nature, that sought to understand the world not as a product of a Promethean human freedom or of a radically omnipotent divine will but of the mechanical motion of matter. Modernity in this sense was the result of an ontic revolution within metaphysics that accepted the ontological ground that nominalism established but that saw the other realms of being through this new naturalistic lens” (p. 132). Gillespie then goes on to discuss the second pair, Descartes and Hobbes, and their relative understanding of physics, human psychology, and epistemology. He gives a heavily historical account of their thought refracted through personal and biographical experiences. 

Gillespie’s last chapter discusses some more ideas of modernity, including those of Kant (“Sapere aude!”), Hegel, and the German Romantics. One of the most interesting ideas he talks about here is how Heidegger formulated this problem, namely not one as a de-theologizing or secularization, but as God becoming increasing “concealed” or “withdrawn” from public discourse. I’ve always found Heidegger an enigmatic, but fully rigorous thinker and thought that this was an interesting way to resituate an extraordinarily complex historical question.

There are a couple of critical things I have to offer about the book. I find it perhaps not flatly wrong, but at least odd, to suggest that much of the above thought is explicitly answering theological questions. To say that “The Enlightenment was all about theology, because many of its thinkers disavowed theism” seems to be self-consciously defining a movement negatively, instead of taking its real, central concerns to heart. Could one not just as easily write a book called “The Platonic Origins of Modernity,” arguing how all of modernity was a response to the Platonic forms? 

This shouldn’t detract someone from the book, though, especially if they’re interested in a great synthetic treatment of all these thinkers backed up by solid historical and philosophical understanding. I may not have agreed with all of Gillespie’s conclusions, but this book offers up a lot of questions for anyone with a soft spot for intellectual history.