02 November 2014

All Souls: For the Day that's in it

Adapted from my journal last year...
It being November, today is the feast of All Souls, or The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed, as my missal has it.
I was somewhat bemused just before All Souls' Day last year when a dear Anglican friend asked me whether Catholics celebrate All Saints’ day, or “All Hallows”, as she called it; we do, I thought, surprised that Anglicans celebrated the day, and wondering what it meant for them; Catholics believe the saints in heaven are praying for us and acting for us and can be addressed by us as we seek their prayers, but I’m not sure what Anglicans believe on this score.
The funeral rites of the Church of England’s official prayer-book say of each dead Christian that he or she died “in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life”, but I don’t think Anglicans, as a rule, believe that the saints can intercede for us; indeed, I’ve been quizzed in the past about why it is that I think the saints are even aware of our prayers, let alone that they can act in response to them.
The confidence of the Anglicans’ “sure and certain hope” seems to me unwarranted, in any case; while it’s easy to believe that the greatest of our predecessors were graced by God in this life and are now blessed by him and partaking in the Divine Vision, but what about the rest of us? What about those of us who’ve done monstrous things, who are not merely sinners but who are, by sheer force of habit, sinful?  What about ordinary plodders like me and probably most of us, who try to love God and live as he wishes us to, but who stumble and fall through our lives, and leave this world sullied and stained by the muck of our human frailty – what of us?
The Bible’s pretty clear that nothing imperfect can enter heaven and just as gold must be refined by flame, so too those of us who are not purified in life are purified in death by God’s consuming fire; Catholics used to envisage Purgatory as a mountain we climb towards heaven, confident of our ultimate and eternal destination, but whether we think of Purgatory as a place or as a process or as an event, we cannot get away from how for Catholics the Church is seen as a Divine ecology, where we seek the prayers of our brethren in heaven, while offering prayers for our brethren in Purgatory. We all help each other.
“Show me where it says, in the Bible, ‘Purgatory,’” sneers Thomas Cromwell to himself, mentally addressing Thomas More, in Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. More, of course, wouldn’t accept the premise of the question: “Show me where it says, in the Bible, ‘Trinity’,” he might counter, before explaining that though Catholic teaching must always be in harmony with the Bible, it does not and never has originated with the Bible; the Church came first, after all, and the Bible was written within and canonised by the Church as a book – indeed, as the book – of the Church. And he could have pointed to plenty of reasons outside the Bible for the Catholic belief.
Still, he might then have indulged Cromwell by pointing to how 2 Maccabees 12:39-45 shows how the ancient Jews who rededicated the Temple before Our Lord’s day believed that prayers for the dead mattered, and if they mattered, one is forced to wonder how; the blessed hardly needed our prayers, and they surely couldn’t benefit the damned. Jesus seems never to have condemned this practice, and evidently joined in celebrating the Maccabees’ achievements, so it seems he agreed with this, and even in Cromwell and More’s own day, as now, Jews would pray for the purification of their brethren after they died. Again the question must be “why?”
Of course, Cromwell would counter by saying that he didn’t regard either book of Maccabees as being part of the Bible, glossing over how More would simply have cited it as a historical attestation to a practice that had continued through Our Lord’s time into their own day, with a belief implied by that practice, rather than as an inspired Scriptural mandate, so More would probably have been forced to look elsewhere.
Nothing unclean shall enter Heaven, according to Revelation 21:27, and after death what we’ve done will be tested by fire, with some of us being saved through fire with our badness burned away, if 1 Corinthians 3:13-15 is to be believed.  God, after all, as Malachi 3:2-3 points out, is like a refiner’s fire; he purifies us, refining us like silver and gold till we can “present right offerings to the Lord”.
One of the great works of mercy the Church requires of us, according to the famous image of the Sheep and the Goats at Matthew 25:31-46, is that of visiting those in prison. Oddly, though, prison is scarcely mentioned in the New Testament; aside from in that dramatic image of the Last Judgment, Jesus only mentions it when talking of people being put in prison until their debt is paid, notably at Matthew 18:23-35 and Matthew 5:25-26, where he juxtaposes “prison”, with those in prison not being released till they have “paid the last penny”, with Hell, from where there is no release.
It’s clear from the text that Jesus isn’t talking of earthly imprisonment, which invites the question of what this prison is where we can be placed till we have paid the last penny – and it’s worth remembering how the New Testament tends to use the language of debt when speaking of sin. Could this be the same prison that 1 Peter 3:19 has in mind in referring to how, after the Crucifixion, Jesus “went and preached to the spirits in prison”?
The word “Purgatory” may not appear in the Bible, but that doesn’t mean the doctrine isn’t there, readily drawn out from references to prayers that help the dead, to a fire that purifies us after death, and to a prison where souls go till their debts are paid.
Just as it’s for the Blessed to pray for us, so it is for us, then, to visit those souls in prison, praying for those destined for heaven that they may be purified less painfully and may more quickly reach the top of Dante’s mountain of hope.
With that in mind, then, I pray today for all those for whom I prayed this time last year, and also those, dear to me and dear to those near to me, who have joined them over the past year, including Christy Bailey, Agueda Pons, David Fitzgerald, Mary Ward, Tom O'Gorman, Michael Kerrigan, Marian Emerson, Kitty Temple, Michael Heywood, Christine Buckley, Agnes and John Ainsworth, Tom Savage, Clare Edmonds, Spiros Polyzotis, Audrey Gilligan, Phyllis Shea, Brian Spittal, Noel Sweeney, Joe Harris, and Father Martin Ryan.
May the Lord God almighty have mercy on their souls, and may his perpetual light shine upon them; may they rest in peace.

22 October 2014

Converts and Reverts: Floundering towards a Catholic Taxonomy

'It is a curious thing, do you know,' says Stephen Dedalus' friend Cranly to Dedalus in James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, 'how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve.'
I've been thinking about this in recent weeks, following discussions with friends where the subject of Catholic 'reverts' -- those who'd been raised Catholic, but left the Church, only to return as adults -- has come up.
I don't mean cradle Catholics who just turned their back for a few months, or lapsed for a little bit, or doubted. The latter, especially, is pretty normal: as Pope Benedict said back in the day, believers never really are free from doubt, and it's that doubt that saves them from complete self-satisfaction; as Flannery O'Connor puts it, 'Even in the life of a Christian, faith rises and falls like the tides of an invisible sea.' For plenty of us, though, that doubt has implications that can lead us, perhaps combined with laziness or misery, away from the Church, at least for a while.
No, I mean Catholics who've lapsed or who've determinedly rejected the Church for significant periods of their lives, baptised Catholics who've abandoned ship and spent years away from it, living apart for a period that can't be dismissed as a passing phase, a mere whim, only to come back to it, whether following a sudden change or slowly, painfully, inch by reluctant inch.
Does it make sense, as has been ventured in recent conversations, to think of these reverts as more akin to converts than to cradle Catholics? Or are they a separate breed altogether?
Friends have said they're best thought of as closer to converts than cradle Catholics. I'm not so sure. Some weeks ago, when researching an Aleteia piece, I was advised by a priest friend that it was especially important for vocations directors to visit secondary schools in order to help build a 'culture of discernment', by planting seeds that may come to fruition later. There's more than one important point there, I think, and one of them is that the blossoms and fruits of our adult lives may well spring from seeds planted much earlier: the faith of reverts may have very deep roots.
One of the more interesting -- if sometimes far from persuasive -- books I've read on Catholic culture is Andrew Greeley's The Catholic Imagination. He talks at great length of how our religious cultures shape our minds, something which may horrify the more ardent secularists among us, but only if they are, as George Weigel puts it, 'the most ghettoized people of all [...] who don't know they grew up in a particular time and place and culture, and who think they can get to universal truths outside of particular realities and commitments.'
Religious culture, if Greeley is right, can saturate our minds, such that even artists who've left the Faith -- one might think of Joyce, Anthony Burgess, Umberto Eco, Don DeLillo, Frank Capra, Martin Scorcese, P.T. Anderson -- still 'feel' Catholic in some sense when you read them or watch their films. Growing up Catholic isn't indoctrination -- massive lapsation rates are proof of that -- but it is inculturation, and something of their Catholic upbringing stays with Catholics as they grow and lapse. When reverts return to the Church they bring that back with them.
Reverts have something important in common with converts, of course, in that both groups practice and believe largely because of conscious adult decisions and have probably had a lot of catching up to do. They differ too, though, because reverts tend to have loads of mental furniture that converts lack; it's inevitable, really, given sacramental preparation, innumerable Masses, childhood prayers, local churches as focal points of childhood, and the sacramental small change of Catholic family life.
And that leaves aside the realities of grace brought about through having been baptised and even confirmed in childhood, not to mention having received communion and absolution a fair few times! It makes sense to dismiss the importance of this if you don't believe in sacramental realities, of course -- if it's a symbol, then to Hell with it, as O'Connor famously said of the Eucharist --  but what if you do?
Taxonomy is a tricky game, and I haven't even gotten here into whether there tend to be cultural, philosophical, theological, or imaginative differences between converts from other Christian traditions, other religions, or atheisms. As it stands, though, I'm really far from convinced that reverts are more like converts than cradle Catholics. It seems, to be blunt, that reverts actually are cradle Catholics, albeit ones who've followed a strange path in life.
I say strange. I don't mean unusual. The other day, I heard of how research on Maynooth seminarians found that 42% of those surveyed identified with the statement 'I fell away from the Catholic faith at some point in my life but later returned to it'.
It looks like there are are fair few of us around.

21 October 2014

Put Not Your Trust In Princes

'Put not your trust in princes.'
So Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, bitterly remarked on hearing that Charles I had signed his death warrant. Or, at any rate, so I was taught when I was thirteen. I didn't know then it was a quotation from the Psalms; I'm not sure, now I think of it, whether I was told that or not.
I have, for reasons I'll not go into here, been pondering that phrase a lot over the last year, and was mulling it over this afternoon when I visited Westminster Cathedral, puzzling briefly as I slipped in over why a Union Jack was fluttering next to the Vatican flag: the cathedral is mother church of England and Wales, after all, not of the entire UK.
As usual, once in the cathedral I turned right to the little chapel where Basil Hume is buried; with its mosaic of Saints Gregory and Augustine, it's always been a special place to me, and is a spot where I made a very important decision some years ago. It came to naught, as our plans so often do, but still, for good or ill it mattered, and pointed me along my path for a few years.

The path ultimately led to a cul-de-sac, but there you have it. These things happen. Still, the old decision was very much in my mind as I knelt down in the chapel and looked up at the mosaic.
The mosaic, as you'll see, is centred upon a picture of Pope St Gregory the Great and St Augustine of Canterbury, sent in the late sixth century as 'apostle to the English' after Gregory's hilarious 'not Angles but Angels' gag. A dove, representing the Holy Spirit, hovers above Gregory, while Augustine is holding an image of Christ, presumably that described by Bede in his accounts of Augustine's dealings with Ethelbert of Kent in 597.
As Bede puts it in chapter 25 of book one of his Ecclesiastical History of the English People,
'Some days after, the king came into the island, and sitting in the open air, ordered Augustine and his companions to be brought into his presence. For he had taken precaution that they should not come to him in any house, lest, according to an ancient superstition, if they practiced any magical arts, they might impose upon him, and so get the better of him.
But they came furnished with Divine, not with magic virtue, bearing a silver cross for their banner, and the image of our Lord and Saviour painted on a board; and singing the litany, they offered up their prayers to the Lord for the eternal salvation both of themselves and of those to whom they were come.
When he had sat down, pursuant to the king's commands, and preached to him and his attendants there present, the word of life, the king answered thus: ­ "Your words and promises are very fair, but as they are new to us, and of uncertain import, I cannot approve of them so far as to forsake that which I have so long followed with the whole English nation. But because you are come from far into my kingdom, and, as I conceive, are desirous to impart to us those things which you believe to be true, and most beneficial, we will not molest you, but give you favourable entertainment, and take care to supply you with your necessary sustenance; nor do we forbid you to preach and gain as many as you can to your religion."
Accordingly he permitted them to reside in the city of Canterbury, which was the metropolis of all his dominions, and, pursuant to his promise, besides allowing them sustenance, did not refuse them liberty to preach. It is reported that, as they drew near to the city, after their manner, with the holy cross, and the image of our sovereign Lord and King, Jesus Christ, they, in concert, sung this litany: "We beseech Thee, O Lord, in all Thy mercy, that thy anger and wrath be turned away from this city, and from the holy house, because we have sinned. Hallelujah."'

I've always thought of the chapel as being a chapel of Gregory and Augustine, but looking at it earlier it struck me that the chapel's less a commemoration of the two saints than it is of the Gospel they brought. They're very much commemorated as missionaries, as conduits, as mediums for the message. Look at the heart of the image.
Gregory's hand is raised in blessing, but in doing so draws our eyes and thoughts to the Holy Spirit, which seems to be speaking to him, as though his blessing only has merit insofar as he's guided by that Spirit; Augustine points directly at an image of our Lord, directing us to look solely to him. It's as if they're saying that in themselves they don't matter at all, and only have any significance insofar as the grace of the Spirit leads us through the Cross to Christ.
Those of us who find it difficult to trust can sometimes overcompensate, I think, placing our trust in those who haven't earned it, whether princes or priors, presidents or pretenders: in this imperfect world, getting the balance right can be very tricky, but in the meantime, the meaning of the system lies outside the system.

11 October 2014

Blackboard Politics: UKIP and BBCQT

A good, smart, and principled friend of mine posted the below picture on his Facebook feed earlier today. It makes a case I've heard time and again over the last few years, that being that UKIP is disproportionately present on BBC Question Time when compared to, say, the Green Party, which actually won a parliamentary seat in the last election.

Now, without getting into the fact that Nigel Farage is what TV producers would describe as "good value" from a viewing standpoint, or how Caroline Lucas's vote in Brighton was a mere 31.3%, which is hardly a resounding mandate, such that it's fair to say that her victory was an odd quirk of the First Past the Post system which requires candidates not so much to be "first past the post" as to be "just one vote more popular than the next candidate", I think this is a dodgy approach to the issue.

The fact is, as I said to my friend, that I think this chart is misleading for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that MP stands for "Member of Parliament", not "Member of Panel show."

First, the unbalanced nature of the UK's demographics means that if parties aren't seriously active in England, they're basically not playing the national game. I'm not saying that parties shouldn't be regarded as serious ones unless they're present in the rest of the Union too, but the reality is that England, with 85% of the population, is key to the whole thing, and this matters when it comes to presence on a national television programme. 

Second, if the BBC site is right, the Greens (1%), Sinn Fein (0.6%), the DUP (0.6%), and Plaid Cymru (0.6%) combined got 2.8% of the national vote in the 2010 general election, compared to UKIP's 3.1%. If anything, it looks like UKIP is slightly underrepresented compared to them.

Third, given the unrepresentative nature of the British electoral system, where the typical voter is less likely to have voted for his or her MP than otherwise, using the number of MPs as a measure of anything seems unwise. 

Fourth, in the 2009 European elections, UKIP was the second party across the UK, with 16.5% of the vote, and in the 2014 elections they were the leading party, with 27.5%. Aside from beating Labour, the Tories, and the Lib Dems, that's roughly three times what the four parties on this blackboard got combined.

I think UKIP gives wrong answers -- even dangerously and stupidly wrong answers -- to things perceived as serious problems, but I think their answers, and the problems they're addressing, need to be tackled properly.

And I don't think stuff like this helps.

07 September 2014

The Carthaginian Mask of Command: Leadership in a Multinational Army

Warfare has traditionally been studied, as a rule, from the viewpoint of the commander with regard to such matters as strategy, tactics, and organisation. In the light of John Keegan’s pioneering work in such books as The Face of Battle and The Mask of Command such an approach seems fundamentally flawed. Even to see the commander’s role as inevitably being primarily focused on strategy, tactics, etc. is to ignore the fact that different societies expect different things of their leaders and military command can therefore widely differ in nature from society to society.

In practice, commanders have two broad areas of responsibility: ‘function related’, which mainly concern administration, and ‘output related’, which involve the army’s basic raison d’être: to defeat the enemy in battle at minimum cost to itself. ‘Output related’ responsibilities themselves require two sets of skills, those of generalship and leadership. The former are essentially technical in nature and concern such things as intelligence gathering, tactics, and putting those tactics into practice. Leadership is a more difficult concept to define which involves exploiting the psychological factors governing the behaviour of troops to encourage them to fight more effectively.

It is interesting that Polybius, a second-century BC Greek historian, in evaluating Hannibal as his commander, regards his leadership as far more important than his generalship, thinking it his supreme achievement to have actually kept his polyglot army together as an efficient fighting force:
‘For sixteen years he waged ceaseless war in Italy, and throughout that time he never released his army from service in the field, but, like a good pilot, kept those numbers under his control and free from disaffection towards himself or one another. He succeeded in this despite the fact that he was employing troops who belonged not only to different countries but to different races. He had with him Africans, Spaniards, Ligurians, Celts, Phoenicians, Italians, and Greeks, men who had nothing naturally in common, neither their laws, their customs, their language, nor in any other respect. None the less the skill of their commander was such that he could impose the authority of a single voice and a single will even upon men of such totally diverse origins.’ (9.19.3-5)
 This passage is highly significant as it largely flies in the face of modern military historiography, which has tended to emphasis the skills of generalship rather than those of leadership. This tendency is understandable as military history has generally been seen as most useful as an education for young officers and the principles of strategy and tactics are relatively straightforward.

Commanders have thus been evaluated primarily with regard to these easily understood principles. The problem with such an approach is that it assumes that the ‘rules of war’ and the commander’s role throughout history are unchanging. This is not the case. Armies are a reflection of the societies from which they issue and fight for their objectives and according to their values. As societies differ so too do armies, and the commander’s role varies in accordance with this fact.

Carthage, a powerful commercial city on the North African coast, seems to have been something of an anomaly in Antiquity in that her army was not essentially based on her citizen body; by the late third century BC there was no real citizen militia except for a small force of cavalry supplied by the aristocracy. Instead, the Carthaginian army, led by an officer corps of Carthaginian aristocrats, was made up of allied levies augmented by foreign mercenaries. This polyglot force was of many races: Libyans and Liby-Phoenicians from Carthage’s hinterland, Numidians, Moors, Balearics, Iberians, Celtiberians, Celts, Greeks, and Italians of various types.

Such an army, essentially fighting for booty, would have had no real commitment to the army, though in theory defeated generals could be crucified. The generals were evidently not trusted as, though elected for a specific campaign rather than a restricted time period, their role was a purely military one with no civil powers whatsoever. This peculiar limitation of powers may have been unique in the Classical world.

To a large extent then, the army was isolated from Carthage and became a society in its own right with a rather special link between the general and troops. In fact, by the time of the Second Punic War, in the late third century BC, the Barcid family, of which Hannibal is the most well-known member, had effectively become an imperial dynasty leading Carthage’s army in Spain.

In practice it seems that the citizen’s assembly in Carthage merely ratified the army’s choice as general, if Diodorus Siculus (25.12.1) and Polybius (3.13.3-4) are to be trusted in their accounts of the successions of Hasdrubal and Hannibal respectively. This may not always have been the case but the soldiers’ choice was certainly an important feature in the First Punic War, when they were so impressed by the generalship of the Spartan mercenary Xanthippus that the generals gave way to the soldiers’ demands for him to lead them into battle (Polyb. 1.22.4-5). In Carthage’s subsequent war with her former mercenaries and Libyan subjects the joint commanders of Carthage’s own army, Hamilcar and Hanno, quarrelled and the army was allowed to reject one of the two (Polyb.; Hanno was rejected and Hamilcar, Hannibal’s father, led his men to victory.

Such an arrangement as developed would certainly have made sense as the army would be picking a tried soldier who had served with them as a junior officer and in whose abilities they would have had confidence. This would have allowed an impressive esprit de corps to develop, focused on the mystique of the commanders who virtually became a hereditary monarchy in Spain with political power in Carthage, based on and justified by their military authority and success.

However, to command effectively, commanders cannot solely rely upon their hierarchical link with their men. Rather they must know how to speak directly to them, especially at times of crisis, such as the eve of battle. This is what Keegan identifies s ‘The Imperative of Prescription’, one of the most important duties of any commander. The failure to fulfil this can lead to a distinct lack of morale among the men, as the ‘chateau generalship’ of the First World War clearly showed. Troop morale was described by Montgomery as ‘the single most important factor in war’ and while as a rule the Carthaginian commander would have been a significant enough focus for the soldiers’ loyalty to bind them together, this was not necessarily so at times of crisis.

Prior to his account of the Battle of Cannae in late Summer, 216 BC, Polybius has Aemilius Paulus, the Roman commander, declare to his men that he has no real to exhort or address them before battle as they are already fully commented as they are fighting for their homes and families, but that:
‘For those who in some countries serve for hire or for those who are about to fight for their neighbours by the terms of an alliance, the moment of greatest peril is during the battle itself but the result makes little difference to them, and in such a case exhortation is necessary.’ (3.109.6)
 Whether Paulus ever said such a thing is debatable; the speeches before Cannae have been described as full of commonplaces and unlikely to go back to a genuine record. Nevertheless, what is significant is that Polybius deems such a sentiment worthy of inclusion and favours a citizen militia as being more highly motivated than an army consisting of hired troops, as he points out elsewhere in his Histories, when he contrasts the military system of Carthage with that of Rome (6.52.).

An examination of the early books of Polybius seems to support the claim attributed to Paulus, as exhortation is far more frequently referred to in a Carthaginian context than a Roman one. Polybius refers to exhortations by Carthaginian officers several times in his account of the First Punic War (1.27.1, 32.8, 44.1, 45.2-4, 49.10) but never mentions any Roman exhortations. Furthermore, Polybius only refers to two instances of exhortation by Romans in the Second Punic War prior to the battle of Cannae (3.64, 109), one of which, being that of the elder Scipio at the Trebia, is definitely unhistorical, and the other, being Paulus’ speech prior to Cannae, is fraught with problems, whereas he mentions Hannibal exhorting his offers or men at least eight times (3.34.7-9, 43.11, 44.4-13, 54.1-3, 63, 71.8, 71.10-11, 111). It would seem that exhortation was one of the most important duties of Carthaginian commanders and its frequency was a hallmark of their leadership style.

Of course, the question must then be asked of how this was done. The first obvious problem is one of scale. Apparently Hannibal had over 50,000 troops at Cannae, yet he is presented as addressing the entire army at once. If this was the case it seems unlikely that he could have been heard by the bulk of the army. To take some modern examples, Benjamin Franklin was able to prove to his own satisfaction that a certain travelling preacher, reputed to have addressed crowds of 25,000, could have actually addressed up to 30,000 at once, but Lincoln was badly heard at Gettysburg, addressing 15,000. Gladstone was regularly heard by crowds of 5,000, but that was indoors. In practice it seems that it would not have been feasible to address gatherings larger than 5,000 unless a natural amphitheatre was used. This may well have been done – Philip V of Macedon addressed his men in Corinth’s amphitheatre at one point (5.25.4-5). It would seem to have been more common to ride along the line of battle or among the army addressing units of troops, as was done by Ptolemy and Antiochus at the Battle of Raphia in 217 and by Scipio Africanus at Zama in 202 (5.83.1-2, 15.10.1). It is worth noting that even doing this, Philopoemen had difficulty being heard at the Battle of Mantinea because of the reaction of his men:
‘Such was their ardour and zeal that they responded to his address with what was almost a transport of enthusiasm, exhorting him to lead them on and be of good heart.’ (11.12.2)
 Another major problem for Carthaginian commanders would have been that the army, being multinational in character, lacked a common tongue. Such problems weren’t unique to Carthaginian armies, as Persian armies had been polyglot in character too, as was Alexander’s army after the conquest of Persia.

Interpreters could be used to address armies, as they were at Raphai (5.83.7), and Hannibal did have interpreters with him (e.g. 3.44.5), but there is no record of him using them to address his army. Hannibal’s own knowledge of languages other than Punic and Greek is uncertain, though Zonaras claims he knew several languages, including Latin (8.24). At Zama, having arranged for the Ligurians, Celts, Balearics, and Moors, as well as the Carthaginians themselves, to be addressed by their own leaders (Polyb. 15.11.4-5), he apparently addressed the troops he had brought from Italy himself, imploring them to ‘remember their comradeship of seventeen years’ (15.11.6). He may well have addressed them in Punic rather than in their own languages or through an interpreter, as this seems to have been a lingua franca, to some extent, among veterans in Carthaginian armies; in the mercenary army that rose against Carthage after the First Punic War, a Celt named Autaritas became very influential due to his command of Punic, a language which all the mercenaries were familiar with to some degree (1.80.5-7).

Assuming the army was not addressed as a whole, Hannibal would have been able to appeal to each national grouping on different grounds. It was not unusual to exhort different parts of armies in different ways; for instance, at Raphia both Ptolemy and Antiochus spent more time addressing their phalanxes than any other part of their armies, as these were seen as the most important part (5.83.2). Such an approach made sense in forces as diverse as Successor or Carthaginian armies as the various contingents had their own very different reasons for fighting. Livy effectively describes how Hannibal and his officers did this at Zama, where:
‘In an army composed of men who shared neither language, customs, laws, weapons, dress, appearance, nor even a common reason for serving , the best means of arousing the fighting spirit was no simple matter; hopes and fears, to suit the case, had to be danged before their eyes.’ (30.33)
Different appeals were made to each grouping: booty as well as cash was offered to the auxiliaries; the Celts were inspired by their hatred of the Romans; the Ligurians were reminded of the riches of the plains of Italy; Moors and Numidians were threatened by the prospect of being ruled by the pro-Roman Masinissa; and the Carthaginians were urged to think of what they had to lose. In Polybius’ account the various national contingents are also described as being addressed in different ways.

To conclude, the commander’s role in any army is not limited merely to the traditional tasks of generalship, nor are these inherently his most important tasks. In the polyglot army of Carthage the leader’s skills were more important for commanders such as Hannibal than were the more technical skills of the general, though it must of course be borne in mind that the two were not necessarily mutually exclusive and exclusive and could often overlap.

Being chosen by the army for their ability, Carthaginian commanders had enough influence to bind the diverse elements under their command into an effective fighting force personally loyal to them, if not to the distant paymaster that was Carthage. However, at times of crisis, such as on the eve of a battle, that esprit de corps might not be enough to convince the troops to risk their lives, and so it would fall to their commander to speak to them and rouse their spirits. Despite the many obstacles to doing this effectively in such a large multiracial force, Hannibal proved so adept at this that Polybius considered the fact that he kept his army together in hostile territory for so long to have his supreme achievement.

-- Limerick, August 1997.


My first ever paper, this is another piece discovered recently in the parental shed, originally given as a talk to the Classical Association of Ireland's annual conference, which that year was held in Mary Immaculate College in Limerick. Some of this I still think holds up well, but other bits rather channel Keegan a bit too much.

If you've liked this, before I wrap up, then I suspect there's a high chance you'll also like Darkness Over Cannae. Don't take my word for it. Take a look.

01 September 2014

Classic Comics: Thoughts from 1997

Most people think they know what comics are: “crude, poorly drawn, semiliterate, cheap, disposable kiddie fare” in the words of Scott McCloud in his groundbreaking 1993 work Understanding Comics. Recognising this to be a ridiculously narrow, not to mention subjective, definition, McCloud set out to discredit it. Starting from Will Eisner’s description of comics as “sequential art”, McCloud eventually reached a far more precise and comprehensive definition of comics as “juxtaposed pictorial and other images in deliberate sequence, intended to convey information and/or to produce an aesthetic response in the viewer.”

Having seen McCloud demonstrate how things as diverse as the Bayeux Tapestry and the Stations of the Cross can thus be regarded as comics, I began to consider whether or not the classical world might have contributed to the artform. When I was fortunate enough to meet McCloud in 1994, he persuaded me that there were probably plenty of examples of comics in classical art and a course in Roman relief sculpture later that year convinced me of this. 

In this article I shall not attempt a comprehensive survey of such examples, as, space restrictions aside, I am hardly qualified to do so. Instead, I shall focus on a very small number of art works that clearly illustrate that the principles of comics were quite evident in Greek art.

Narrative was a vital element in ancient art and by the middle of the seventh century BC Attic vase painters were painting pictures that often continued around vases, separated by bands of decoration. Having an oblong shape, the pictures lent themselves to subjects such as processions, races, and hunts, as, being essentially narrow friezes, they required many figures to fill them. Though these friezes did not always have a chronological element they certainly sometimes did, an excellent example of this being found on the Francois vase, painted by Kleitias around 570BC.

Along with more conventional subjects such as the procession of guests at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis and the funeral games of Patroklos, the vase also illustrates the story of the pursuit of Troilos. The frieze extends halfway around the vase and shows a number of distinct scenes, clearly separate from each other in both time and place, on a continuous background. At the far left is a fountain house where a girl stands waiting for her hydra to fill. Next are the figures of Hermes, Thetis, and Troilos. After is Priam receiving the bad news in sorrow, and finally two of Troilos’ brothers can be seen setting out from the city gates to avenge his death. Assuming that the frieze is “read” in this way, its sequential nature is clear.

Greek art was clearly not “photographic” in nature, in that it was not taken for granted that a single image should represent a single moment. A good example of this is evident on the neck of a mid-seventh-century Attic amphora found in Eleusis. It features an illustration of Odysseus and his men blinding the Cyclops Polyphemos. In the Odyssey the story is clearly related: Odysseus plied Polyphemos with alcohol, the Cyclops then fell asleep, and Odysseus blinded him. Here, however, the Cyclops is depicted sitting up, with one hand trying to push away the heated stake wielded by Odysseus, while clutching his wine cup with the other. Clearly the wine cup, which really belongs to an earlier part of the story, is depicted in order to hint that the Cyclops is drunk rather than still drinking.

Perhaps the most well-known “non-photographic” image in Greek art is a scene showing Achilles and Ajax playing some form of board game on an Attic black-figure amphora made and painted by Exekias between 540 and 530 BC. 

This vase features “speech balloons”, perhaps the most distinctive element of modern comics, a device which through attempting to represent sound in a scene also introduces the concept of time. 

Extracts from Understanding Comics, explaining how in comics speech bubbles can subvert otherwise 'photographic' images.

Achilles says “four” and Ajax responds “three”, possibly referring to dice scores. It is not clear whether Ajax is responding to Achilles, Achilles is responding to Ajax, or both men are speaking at once; what is certain is that this image does not represent a single moment, but rather the length of time it takes the two men to speak.

The two heroes are labelled above their heads: Achilles is on the left, with Ajax on the right.

One black-figure vase, Boston 08.292, is a perfect example of Greek comics. This vase features what McCloud calls an “action to action” transition, probably the most common type of “panel to panel” progression in comics. One side of the vase shows a man in a vineyard courting a young boy. When the vase is turned around, however, the young boy is jumping to embrace the man. Though the background remains continuous, the pictures are clearly intended to represent the same couple, with one scene obviously following the other.

Greek vase painting, therefore, clearly provides examples of what would now be termed comics, but there are also examples to be found in architectural sculpture.

The low-relief metopes on temples offered an obvious opportunity to tell a story in pictures, but it is difficult to tell how often this opportunity was taken. The Parthenon metopes, for instance, seem to have been put in place in such a way that sequence was largely irrelevant, whereas the metopes on the temple of Zeus at Olympia, dating from the second quarter of the fifth century BC, may have been intended to tell a story.

The twelve metopes there represent the twelve labours of Herakles, and are ordered in such a way that Herakles is evidently older in the twelfth metope than the first. The final metope depicts the cleansing of the Augean stables, two places later than conventionally related, with the acquisition of the apples of the Hesperides and the capturing of Cerberus being brought forward to the tenth and eleventh places. This might suggest that the metopes are merely showing scenes for Herakles’ life in no particular order, but as the traditional order postdates the building of the temple at Olympia this seems an unsafe conclusion; it seems more likely that this collection may represent the first attempt to assemble the twelve episodes into one story.

Atlas offering the apples of the Hesperides to Heracles, with Athene watching.

The continuous frieze common to temples built in the Ionic order, however, can be seen to demonstrate principles of comics with remarkable subtlety. The Parthenon offers an excellent example of this.

The Parthenon’s Ionic frieze was about 160 metres long and showed an idealised version of the Panathenaic procession. Though the frieze was continuous and therefore seemed to be one image, there was clearly chronological progression in it. 

The western end, the first to be seen by people coming from the Propylaea, featured horsemen gathering for the procession, which begins at the south-west corner. Continuing along the northern side the procession had many elements –  horsemen,musicians, etc – before reaching the eastern end. Here it culminated with the gods looking on as a group of people held a peoplos, which would have been presented to the sacred olive-wood statue of Athene on the Acropolis. The south side of the frieze, which was not as visible as the other three sides, also had an eastwards direction converging at this scene.

The Parthenon frieze, assembled as one text, read from right to left and top to bottom.

Clearly this was sequential art, the appearance of which would have been heightened by the bright colours in which it was painted. 

The fact that it would have also been seen through gaps between columns would also have given it an added element of timing – the columns would have acted as “gutters” or panel divisions.

Overall, therefore, I think it can be plainly seen that the principles that make comics what they are were quite evident in Classical Art. Though I’ve only dealt with Greek art up to the mid-fifth century BC, the traditions of sequential art continued throughout the Hellenistic period as can be seen in the Telephus frieze surrounding the altar of Zeus at Pergamon and thrived in the Roman world, with Trajan’s column being but the most obvious example.


Originally published in UCD Classical Society Journal, 1996/1997, and tweaked here merely to amend the most clunky of sentences. I found this in the shed today, and was amused to see how my writing had changed. Glad, too. Mind, it has been a very long time. 

24 August 2014

X and Y, or Being Careful What You Ask For

"The constitutional equal right to life of pregnant women and unborn children means that viability closes off the possibility of abortion," wrote Fiona de Londras in Tuesday's Irish Independent. It's a powerful soundbite, but in some ways a redundant one, as it's not really Bunreacht na hEireann that causes viability to close off the possibility of abortion. It's basic medical reality that does that.

The Oxford English Dictionary's primary definition of abortion says that an abortion, of its very nature, occurs before a child "is capable of independent survival". The previous edition of the OED spelled out that from a medical point of view, "abortion is limited to a delivery so premature that the offspring cannot live, i.e. in the case of the human foetus before the sixth month." Stedman's medical dictionary spells this out, saying that abortion takes place "before viability" which it defines as "(20 weeks' gestation [18 weeks after fertilization] or fetal weight less than 500 g)".

If we trawl the report of 2000's All Party Oireachtas Committee on Abortion we find that the then-Master of the Coombe said that abortion constituted the premature ending of a pregnancy at any point before the foetus or baby is viable, with both the then-President of the Medical Council and the then-Master of the National Maternity Hospital saying that abortion meant the ending of a pregnancy in the first trimester, so within fourteen weeks.

There's obviously some disagreement here, but still, it seems clear from all of these points that medically speaking it is oxymoronic to talk of aborting a child who could -- with help -- survive without depending wholly upon its mother. In other words, it's just not that it's immoral or illegal or against the Constitution to abort a viable child. Medically speaking, it seems to be impossible. 

That's not to say that it's impossible, medically speaking, to kill that child. Just that such an act may not, medically speaking, be abortion. Or so, at least, the medical authorities would seem to believe.

With that it mind, it's worth considering what happened in the horribly sad case of the lady we'll presumably all know henceforth as 'Miss Y', a story which is filling Ireland's papers and which has two victims: a small child, prematurely taken from the womb and currently fighting for its life, and a young woman who has been the victim of a rapist, a culture that left her terrified of pregnancy, a state unprepared to help asylum seekers let alone pregnant ones, and a pro-choice charity that her own account suggests allegedly gave advice both incorrect and incomplete. 

The backstory we can only imagine, of course, but if all the papers other than the Irish Times are right, Miss Y arrived in Ireland as an asylum seeker and someone who'd been raped before leaving her home country; here she would have lived in one of those pitiful Direct Provision centres, and a fortnight or so after arrival she underwent a medical examination.

This examination established that she was eight weeks pregnant; shocked by this news she immediately expressed a desire to end the pregnancy,and the nurse with whom she was dealing suggested she talk to the IFPA. It makes no sense to paint this as her having been denied an abortion at this point, as she'd not spoken to the proper people, and there's no suggestion in her recent Irish Times interview that she was immediately suicidal. In shock, yes, and distressed and surely sick with worry, yes, but not suicidal. 

It looks like she was given no meaningful care at all at this stage, which doesn't reflect well at all on how we treat those who would seek asylum among us. 

Anyway, Miss Y followed the nurse's suggestion and contacted the IFPA, which on the face of it seems to have mucked her about for ages: it talked about 28-week limits in Britain when the reality is that there's a 24-week limit there -- leaving aside how most abortions in England are almost certainly technically illegal -- and it apparently never told her about how such pro-choice charities as the Abortion Support Network might have helped her with money. It seems too that it didn't send her to doctors or arrange for her to get proper counselling or psychiatric help. Certainly, she said nothing about such things when being interviewed.

During this period she became genuinely suicidal, even attempting suicide -- she tried to hang herself -- shortly after the IFPA informed her that it would cost her €1500 to go to England for an abortion. In an article she wrote a day after interviewing Miss Y, Kitty Holland said it is understood that Miss Y was referred to the HSE in May, which suggests that if she was referred to the HSE it happened in the aftermath of this incident. However, leaving aside how it is unclear whether Miss Y ever acted on the reference and contacted the HSE, it is difficult to accept this detail as true: if this really happened, did Miss Y say it in the Irish Times interview with Kitty Holland? If she said it, why didn't Kitty report it? Is it really plausible that Kitty failed to ask whether Miss Y had any dealings with the HSE between her initial examination and her mid-July approach to a GP?

Eventually, during her twenty-third week of pregnancy, she went to a GP who directed her to hospitals where she was established as being both suicidal and 24 weeks pregnant; although she wanted an abortion, she was told that it was too late for one. She then attempted to starve herself to death -- technically this was her second suicide attempt, and should probably be seen as such rather than as a hunger strike -- and the HSE took out a court order so she could be forcibly hydrated, though this was not acted on, as Miss Y was persuaded to start eating again in the belief that she would need to be strong if there was to be an abortion. 

Instead, though, she was presented with the decision of her termination panel to the effect that her pregnancy could be terminated by by premature delivery through caesarian section. Miss Y accepted this, as she felt she had no choice, and the delivery took place, it appears, on Wednesday 6 August, 26 weeks into Miss Y's pregnancy, and two weeks after her arrival in hospital. 

(Nothing that has been reported suggests that the criteria for evaluating risk were established in line with the sensible principles laid down by the High Court in the 2006 Cosma case, which required that patients should be evaluated in the context of ongoing therapeutic relationship involving counselling and all psychiatric treatment that she needed and that the evaluation should show that all other ways of treating suicidality should have been considered properly before the 'last resort' was deemed necessary. But perhaps these principles have been deemed null and void by the X Legislation; I am no expert, and cannot say. I would like to know, just as I would like to know what is the normal therapeutic response when presented with a suicidal patient, and indeed with a patient seeking to starve herself to death. Without knowing these answers, I'm loath to comment.)

Now, much of the early outrage on this -- and you'll see it being picked up on in the likes of the Guardian and following that the New York Times -- seems to have been based on the assumption that Miss Y had sought an abortion for seventeen weeks and had been deliberately denied one until it was too late and a caesarian was the only option. However, by her own account she only went to the proper authorities in the twenty-third week of her pregnancy; things moved quickly after that.

It seems, therefore, to have been on the first day of her twenty-fourth week of pregnancy that Miss Y went to hospital to be assessed and scanned. Should she have been granted an abortion at that point?

Many, clearly, think so; many others, equally clearly, do not; both views are defensible, depending on one's premises. Medically, though, it seems that there's a case that an abortion at that point would have been not merely illegal or immoral, but, as detailed above, impossible. Miss Y's child was by this point not simply a unique human being, but a unique and viable human being, and it is impossible to abort viable human beings. You're not engaging in an abortion then, medically speaking. You're doing something else.

It is crucial to remember that this very scenario was foreseen during the discussions surrounding last year's X legislation. Indeed, the heads of the bill spelled out the obligation to preserve the life of the unborn child if at all possible, noting that:
"In circumstances where the unborn may be potentially viable outside the womb, doctors must make all efforts to sustain its life after delivery. However, that requirement does not go so far as to oblige a medical practitioner to disregard a real and substantial risk to the life of the woman on the basis that it will result in the death of the unborn."
Last year's legislators didn't pluck this obligation out of the air. They were acting, after all, in strict accordance with the provisions of the 1992 X judgment, which the aforementioned Fiona de Londras summed up last year as demanding the following reading of the Constitution:
"Article 40.3.3 of the Constitution recognises the equal right to life of pregnant women and the unborn. This means that abortion is generally prohibited in Ireland but is constitutionally permissible where three conditions are met: (i) there is a real and substantial risk to the life of the woman, (ii) in all probability that risk can be averted only by termination of the pregnancy, and (iii) the foetus is not viable such that abortion (rather than early delivery) is the appropriate means of termination."
(It should be remembered that in 1983, when article 40.3.3 was added to the Constitution, twice as many people voted for it as against it; it's utter nonsense to talk of a cadre of "Catholic fundamentalists" getting their hands on Bunreacht na hEireann and jamming the eighth amendment into it, as I saw one particularly crude piece claiming during the week. The eighth amendment was twice as popular than it was unpopular, and of those eligible to vote, only one person in six voted against it.)

So the X judgment ruled that abortion was permissible only when there was no other way of saying a woman's life, or, if you like, that it was legitimate to take one human life if not doing so meant the loss of two. It did not rule that abortion was permissible when it was the best, or the most humane, or the least distressing way of saving a woman's life. It ruled that it was permissible if it was only way of doing so.

What does this mean? Well, to start with, every single person who for the last twenty years and more has been arguing that we should be legislating for the X judgment has in effect been campaigning for what happened to Miss Y. I'm not saying that they were campaigning for this knowingly; I don't believe that for a moment. I am, however, saying that all their slogans and marches and articles and banners have implicitly demanded the very mess that happened in the last month or so. Every single one. They can hardly say they weren't warned. 

Breda O'Brien, for instance, wasn't joking when she wrote in the Irish Times on 6 July 2013 that the bill allowed that "a baby can be delivered prematurely, but cannot be killed after viability." Scorning the notion that this supposed "protection" for the unborn was an appealing facet of the Bill, Ms O'Brien described this "much vaunted provision" as a "truly monstrous proposal", posing a grim and challenging rhetorical question: 
"In a couple of decades, there will be young adults appearing before tribunals, passionately demanding to know why they, as perfectly healthy unborn children, were singled out for deliberate premature delivery, and left blind, disabled or suffering from cerebral palsy? All in the complete absence of any demonstrable benefit to their mothers."
One would, at the very least, wonder where the burden of proof would lay in such cases. Would doctors be obliged to demonstrate that there they couldn't think of any other way to keep desperate mothers alive? 

Breda O'Brien was hardly alone in pointing this out. It was in the heads of the bill, after all. Everyone who campaigned for X legislation, who voted for X legislation, who supported politicians because they'd promised X legislation, who cheered when X legislation was passed -- this is their mess. And that includes those who saw this as a step towards the repeal of the Eighth Amendment, and the eventual introduction of openly pro-choice legislation, because they were willing to allow situations like this, horrible messes like this, as a 'step'. They were willing to use human beings as a means to the end they wanted. 

They were willing to treat people like things.

It won't do for supporters of the X legislation to say that they didn't realise this would happen: they were campaigning for X to be given legislative force, and as such it was their duty to understand what it was they were campaigning for. If they campaigned in ignorance then, why should they be assumed to be campaigning in an informed way now? Why would they even believe that of themselves?

I'm not blaming those who were open in their opposition to so-called 'Protection of Life During Pregnancy Act'. I may disagree with those who want to repeal the Eighth Amendment, but at least they're consistent in their thinking, wrong though I believe it to be. No more than Ireland's pro-lifers who opposed legislating for X, they didn't do this. They'd rather the problem had been dealt with discreetly in the first place. Out of sight, out of mind.

24 July 2014

Oh, Sam... Part Two

My annoyance with Sam Harris’s Moral Landscape led me to revisit the rather better-received The End of Faith, which I’d disliked for a range of reasons when I’d first read it a few years ago. 

It turns out that on close reading, the book's even worse than I remembered. The chapter entitled ‘In the Shadow of God’, for instance, is intended as a sweeping historical overview of Christian wickedness, but is riddled with clichés and errors that should cause any informed atheist to cast the book aside in embarrassment.

Among the chapter’s more egregious blunders… 

  • Harris seems oblivious to the fact that heresy and apostasy are very different things in the Christian mind, and thinks Christians regard Jews as heretics of a particularly offensive kind, despite St Thomas Aquinas, for instance, explicitly saying that the disbelief of heretics is more sinful than that of Jews.
  • Harris says Christianity became Rome’s state religion under Constantine in 312 although this didn’t happen until 380 under Theodosius.
  • Harris misses the import of a passage from Bertrand Russell he quotes in his endnotes and proclaims in his main text that the Inquisition began in 1184, rather than almost fifty years later.
  • Harris declares that it was only after 1215 that the belief that the communion host was transformed into the body of Christ became a dogma and centrepiece of Christian faith, despite numerous clear attestations to that effect over the previous thousand years and more.
  • Harris cites a sixteenth-century execution to support his claim that it was a capital offence in the Middle Ages to own a Bible in any of Europe’s vernacular languages, apparently ignorant of how the sixteen century certainly wasn’t in the Middle Ages, and how prior to the early Modern period vernacular Bibles were as a general rule both legal and as common as one might expect given that books were incredibly expensive and the few people who could afford them could generally read Latin.
  • Harris confuses the historical critical method, described by Pope Benedict in his 2007 Jesus of Nazareth as an indispensable tool for the interpretation of Scripture, with the heresy of ‘Modernism’, and says it was condemned by Rome, despite it never having been condemned in its own right save when conducted in tandem with certain naturalistic presuppositions which led, inevitably, to naturalistic conclusions.
  • And, of course, after falsely claiming that all critical studies of the Bible were placed on Rome’s Index of forbidden books, Harris states that Darwin’s Origin of Species was also on the Index when it – like the works of Marx and Freud – rather famously wasn’t. 

These might seem mere slips, but there are so many that they must be recognised as sheer carelessness. What’s more, these blunders are hardly trivial; it’s one thing for Norman Davies, for instance, in a vast survey of European history, to get the Darwin fact wrong in a single table in a 140-page appendix, drawing his belief from a book based on a book subtitled ‘Informal Notes on Some Books Banned for Various Reasons at Various Times and in Various Places’, because the table was in no way central to his thesis, but it’s rather different for an author who’s setting out to attack Christianity and Christian institutions to wheel out such a claim without checking whether it was right.[1]

By the same token, if Harris is to challenge the heresy-hunting aspects of Christianity’s past – and it’s worth doing – then he’s beholden to understand what exactly Christians mean and have meant when they speak of heresy, why Jews most certainly were not heretics, when Christians began to regard the Eucharist as the actual body of Christ, and the difference between the secular process of inquisition and the various ecclesiastical institutions that we colloquially and collectively tend to refer to as ‘the Inquisition’. For starters.

It simply won’t do to say that if people took the time checking this sort of stuff, books wouldn’t be written; the world is heaving with carefully researched books published by reputable academic publishers, they’re not all flawless, by any means, but the anonymous reader system and simple academic integrity ensure that few are so replete with errors and incomprehension as this; the world isn’t quite so desperately in need of Sam’s words of wisdom that it couldn’t have waited another year or two for him to check his facts or rethink his argument.

Part of the problem seems to be that Harris likes to refer to old and often highly anecdotal books; it’s hardly a surprise that his polemic is a litany of cliché given that he is, putting it bluntly, reading the wrong stuff. Charles MacKay’s 1841 crowd-pleaser Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, cited several times, is immensely entertaining, but few serious scholars would look to it nowadays except as a wonderful window into the Victorian mind, and while Bertrand Russell’s 1935 Religion and Science is great reading it has to be recognised that Russell was no more a historian than Harris is, and was grinding a similar axe.

A glance through the endnotes for the chapter reveals that Harris’s thesis rests in large part on books published in 1950, 1945, 1943, 1931, 1860, and 1764; this is somewhat baffling, as his citation of a 1996 book to the effect that popular conceptions of witch-burnings are out by a factor of up to 200 shows him to be not entirely unaware of how historical scholarship develops just as scientific research does. It seems odd, given this, that he more readily turns to antiquated polemics rather than the work of contemporary professional historians.

Despite the nod to statistical reality and modern research, the section on witch-persecution suffers especially from Harris’s approach and agenda. His thesis, in short, is that somewhere between 40,000 and 50,000 people were murdered as ‘witches’ over three centuries, targeted by ‘the church’, which Harris seems to use as a catch-all term for the Catholic Church and the various Protestant churches. Medieval Christians, Harris says, were convinced that certain people could get up to all manner of sinister supernatural shenanigans, and could harm people by occult means; ‘only the advent of science,’ he says, ‘could successfully undercut such an idea,’ and it was only after nearly four hundred years that ‘some ecclesiastics began to appreciate how insane this all was.’

Now, though you wouldn’t know it to read Harris, witches – or, rather, people believed to be witches – had been hated in Europe for centuries before witchhunting took off in the second half of the fifteenth century, common superstition having always aroused suspicion against people who claimed access to supernatural gifts, and the Church had long protected them: St Boniface had declared in the early eighth century that belief in witches was contrary to Christianity, Charlemagne around 800 had ruled that the burning of ‘witches’ was a savage pagan custom that should itself be punishable by death, and the early tenth-century canon Episcopi stated that those who believed in such pagan superstitions as witchcraft and magic were deluded.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t to last, and as the Middle Ages ended Europe entered a frenzy of witch-hunting. Witch-hunting was thus a peculiarly modern phenomenon, and one supported by such Enlightenment luminaries as Thomas Hobbes and the scientist Robert Boyle. Norman Davies, in Europe: A History – a book Harris passingly admits to drawing on despite his evident failure to digest it – remarks that one of the major problems faced by historians of this period is how to explain why the early Modern period ‘proved so much more vicious in this regard than the so-called Dark Ages, why superstition came to a head when humanism and the scientific revolution were supposedly working in the opposite direction.’

Diarmaid MacCulloch, in 2003’s Reformation: Europe’s House Divided, attributes this in large part from ‘a newly confrontational attitude to witchcraft on the part of the intellectual elite’, whether jealous of what might be deemed rivals in esoteric activities or determined to demonstrate religious purity, especially in the context of the Reformation. What was new, in effect, was that the intellectual elite at the dawn of modernity came to share the anxieties and enthusiasms of the populace at large, and that in Germany and the Alps – where witch-hunting was especially common – the leaders of small polities were especially prone to acting in tandem with the mob.

Perhaps the most famous manual of witch-hunting was the so called Hammer of Witches published in 1487 by the German Dominican friar Heinrich Krämer, but the significance of this is often overrated; just three years earlier Krämer’s witch-hunting had caused him to be thrown out of the Tyrol by the local bishop, the book was condemned shortly after its publication, and though it went through twenty editions in little more than thirty years, there were no fresh editions of it between 1520 and 1585.

Insofar as the Hammer and later manuals had an impact, it was largely in the secular courts of small states, especially those largely populated by Reformed Protestants; witch-hunting was far less common among the Holy Roman Empire’s Lutheran states than its Reformed or Catholic ones, was relatively rare in large polities like England with established legal systems, and was almost unheard of in Ireland and in Iberia, where MacCulloch – no friend of the Catholic Church – remarks that ‘the unlikely heroes of this self-denial were the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions’.

The crown and the secular courts had led the attack on witches in the Spanish Netherlands, where the Inquisition did not operate, and some of their colleagues in northern Spain’s secular administration enthusiastically followed their lead. In response to this, MacCulloch explains,
‘Inquisitors scrutinized various outbreaks of persecution that did occur in the peninsula, particularly on the fringes of Iberia in the Basque country. They decided that evidence required for a satisfactory verdict of guilty was extremely difficult to obtain, and that in fact there was very little evidence for the widespread existence of witches, let alone active pacts with the Devil. They regarded even most confessions of witchcraft as delusions, to be treated with pastoral discipline not death, and they generally disciplined colleagues who took extreme measures, much to the fury of various secular officials who wanted to forward persecution.’
The Inquisition in fact worked to prevent persecution of ‘witches’ whether conducted by secular authorities or angry mobs, these, rather than ‘the church’, being the typical perpetrators of witch-hunting during the eras we know as the Reformation and the Enlightenment. Harris may claim that only the advent of science could undercut belief in witchcraft, but it seems clear that a combination of common sense, theological training, and thorough and fair-minded investigation was quite capable of just this; his assertion that it was only around 1700 that ‘some ecclesiastics’ began to question the persecution of witches is, it’s clear, a patent falsehood.

It might seem strange to be upholding the Spanish Inquisition as champions of reason and fairness, but nonetheless the facts support this reading; research over recent decades, dependent on contemporary records rather than foreign polemics, seems to indicate that the popular image of the Inquisition is based far less on historical reality than on Protestant – and primarily British – prejudice and hostility towards Catholic Europe and especially Spain.

Before talking of the Inquisition, it’s important to grasp that the term can be applied in several ways, something to which Harris seems oblivious. Inquisition, to begin with, was a secular legal practice – still the model for continental trials to this day – which the Church adopted in the twelfth century. The process of ‘inquisition’ therefore, needs to be distinguished from the institutions called ‘Inquisitions’; modern historians will often use the Latin term inquisitio to denote the legal process.

The origins of the Inquisition lay with the thirteenth-century German emperor Frederick II's issuing of an edict for state officials to hunt out heresy; Gregory IX, the pope of the day, fearing Frederick’s ambitions, tried to take control of the situation by claiming this as a religious rather than a secular activity. The Office of the Inquisition, then, was established in 1231 or 1232, initially to deal with issues in Germany and Italy, and was enforced in France in 1233 and in Languedoc in 1234; this system of tribunals is usually called the ‘Papal’ or ‘Medieval’ Inquisition.

Cathars, Dominicans, and the Inquisition
It really does seem that Harris appears to have no understanding of what the Albigensian heresy actually involved. To be fair, there’s no consensus on this point, but real historians tend to be aware of this, and are suitably tentative on the issue. It’s by no means true that history is always written by the winners, but in the case of the Cathars, it’s more or less correct; we know very little about how the Cathars described themselves, and have to rely, in the main, on what Catholics chose to say about them, often with hindsight and in the context of a war, where demonization of one’s enemies is common.

Harris quotes Bernard of Clairvaux, talking about early Cathars in the first half of the twelfth century, to the effect that they – or some of them at any rate – were good people of unimpeachable morals and conversation, and says that ‘there seems, in fact, to have been nothing wrong with these people apart from their attachment to certain unorthodox beliefs about the creation of the world.’ These ‘unorthodox beliefs’ included, of course, the belief that all matter was evil, and that as such anything that was deemed to promote creation – reproduction, most obviously – was wicked, and indeed was the only real sin.

Were Harris to have looked to writers from the thirteenth century, however, from the era when the Albigensian heresy had grown in numbers, he might start to understand why the Cathars’ contemporaries had problems with them. Peter of Les Vaux de Cernay, for instance, writing the best part of a century after Bernard, wrote that:
‘Those called “believers” were dedicated to usury, robbery, murder and illicit love… some of the heretics declared that no one could sin from the navel downwards; they characterised images in churches as idolatry; they maintained that church bells were the trumpets of devils; and they said it was no greater sin for a man to sleep with his mother or his sister than any other woman.’
How much of accounts like Peter’s we can believe is a question worth asking, of course – I’m highly sceptical of it – but it’s by no means implausible that such licence could well have arisen in a society where the whole physical world was deemed wicked anyway. In any case, what appears beyond dispute is that this is how Catholics of the time saw the Cathars: as threats to the social order at a time when such social order was in a state of flux and when many medievals feared it could disintegrate, them being all too aware of how Rome had fallen and Europe had been barbarised once already. Moore’s The War on Heresy is rather good on the general issue, and it’s worth reading him not least to help put to bed such crude interpretations of the Cathar as Harris’s facile observation that, ‘… heresy is heresy. Any person who believes that the Bible contains the infallible word of God will understand why these people had to be put to death.’

It’s also important to point out that just as Catholics regarded Cathars as heretics, so did Cathars regard Catholics. We should resist an temptation to think of them as fluffy new-age types; the Albigensian Crusade was launched after the murder of a papal legate, for instance, and the first Dominican convent was established as a place of refuge for Albigensian girls who had been driven by their families and neighbours out of their homes and villages into lives of destitution and prostitution because they had converted to Catholicism.

Harris’s piece on the Dominicans is problematic, to say the least, not least because he places it in the context of the Inquisition getting worse – ‘with the founding of Dominic’s holy order of mendicant friars,’ he says, ‘the Inquisition was ready to begin its work in earnest,’ despite the rudimentary fact that ‘the Inquisition’ was not established until more than a decade after the  Dominicans. 

He quotes a speech originally attributed to Dominic by one Stephen of Salagnac, a Dominican historian who wrote after 1278, more than half a century after Dominic’s death; the speech is unattested in any earlier writers, which invites the question of how Salagnac might have known about it, if indeed he did not simply make it up; he was not the most reliable of historians, wrongly believing that at the time of the speech Simon de Montfort was then dead and that Louis de France was a crusader. Certainly, the speech, as reported, makes no sense in the context in which Salagnac places it, dating it to 15 August 1217: Salagnac has Dominic saying that as peaceful preaching had failed, the Catholics would now be forced to turn to violence, and would make war on the Cathars in an attempt to convert them by force; that Dominic would have promised in 1217 that the Catholics would have resort to the sword is, of course, incomprehensible, given that the Albigensian Crusade had been launched eight years earlier.

Pierre des Vaux de Cernei, who knew Dominic, reports a very similar speech having reportedly been given at the more chronologically plausible 1206 or 1207 by Pierre’s uncle Berengar of Carcassone; it looks as though Salagnac or a lost source has merged Berengar’s speech with a Castilian proverb and attributed it to Dominic. Later historians of the Dominicans were keen to boost Dominic’s reputation in the eyes of those who supported the Inquisition by making Dominic seem a kind of proto-inquisitor – indeed, Bernardo Gui identified him as the ‘First Inquisitor’, despite the Inquisition not having been established until a decade after his death – but there is no contemporary evidence that suggests anything of the sort.

That said, I think Harris can to some degree be forgiven his deployment of this passage. This is obviously something about which there can be historical debate, such that unlike his other blunders I’m unwilling to dismiss this as a monumental slander, though his reliance on a strange work of 1980s pop history for this detail is a marker of just how far he’s out of his depth on this stuff.

The passage about Raymond de Fauga is depressing, to say the least, and it’s something I’ve wrestled with for some time, having read it in full and in context in Wakefield’s Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition in Southern France 1100-1250. Although there were almost a hundred Dominican communities across Europe by this point, with the radically decentralised nature of the Order – and the obvious limitations that marked long-distance communications until little more than a hundred years ago – being such that these Dominicans in Toulouse would have been, in effect free agents, the fact remains that these were early Dominicans, with the bishop having been one of Dominic’s first twenty or so friars; granted, the Apostles included Judas in their ranks, but I don’t think that makes this kind of stuff any easier to deal with.

Anyway, I think it all too plausible, at least in its broad thrust, not least because Guilhem Pelhisson, who described in the late 1260s what had gone on in Toulouse in the late 1230s, had been present at the time of the horrendous episode, and was as such in a position to describe things accurately. Pelhisson's boastful tone suggests that he’s coloured it somewhat and the pace of events as he relates them looks implausible – Wakefield calls the narrative ‘lively, if sometimes carelessly written’ – but I don’t see these as reason to contest the basic structure facts of his story. Nonetheless, we shouldn’t assume that Raymond’s actions met with general approval. It may not be insignificant that Jordan of Saxony, second Master of the Order, had been so uneasy with Raymond becoming Bishop of Toulouse in 1232 that he barred other Dominicans from becoming bishops without permission from the Pope and the Master, and not long after the described event the Pope suspended the Dominicans in Toulouse from inquisitorial proceedings. 

Not, it’s worth adding, that this was an inquisitorial action in any case, something which seems to have passed Harris’s notice; this was, rather, a personal investigation by the local bishop. The bishop was doubtless cheered on by the friars, but it was nonetheless certainly not something that should be understood as relevant to ‘the Inquisition’, whether ‘Papal’, ‘Spanish’, or ‘Roman’.

Harris opens his chapter with lurid descriptions of torture, especially as conducted by the Spanish Inquisition, and later comments that the Inquisition was duly infamous for torture, which it was first officially authorised to use in 1215 – almost twenty years before the Inquisition was established, of course. The Spanish Inquisition’s record on torture is something that’s been coming under the historical microscope in recent years, such that the popular picture is starting to look a tad hyperbolic – from the examination of official records, Thomas Madden, for instance, estimates that Spanish Inquisitors used torture in about 2 pc of the cases they handled, but without getting bogged down in the extensive modern historiography of said Inquisition, which Harris wholly disregards, it’s worth quoting what Harris says on the Middle Ages:
‘As practiced by medieval Christians, judicial torture was merely a final, mad inflection of their faith. That anyone imagined that facts were being elicited by such a lunatic procedure seems a miracle in itself.’
The simple fact is that torture was a commonplace of secular legal systems well before the Church permitted it to be used in a less brutal fashion in ecclesiastical courts; obviously, I don’t believe the Church should ever have done this, but at the same time I think it ludicrous to argue that torture arose because of Christianity. If the Church allowed torture, it did so because the civic authorities already did so, said authorities justifying such degrading practice largely on the basis of Roman precedent; what’s more, many people believed that torture worked, though one wonders what those who became familiar with Aristotle’s writings later in the thirteenth century thought of his insistence that it didn’t. In any case, even aside from the evidence, I think it extraordinarily naïve of Harris to claim that faith was the driving force behind torture in the medieval world. Orwell was far closer to the truth when he had 1984’s O’Brien say that, ‘The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power.’ People, in short, will torture. Because they can.

One of the stranger parts of the chapter is when Harris, casting around for supposed Biblical justifications for torture and persecution, cites John 15:6 as an instance of Jesus suggesting that heretics and unbelievers should be killed, whereas a plain common-sense reading of this would entail taking it as Jesus describing the ultimate and eternal fate of those who reject him; Jesus’ use of indicative rather than imperative forms is a clue in that direction for those of us who have mastered basic reading skills. Harris bizarrely goes on to say on this that ‘whether we want to interpret Jesus metaphorically is, of course, our business,’ as though – oblivious to simple grammar grammar and traditional Christian readings of the passage – he thinks his bizarre understanding of the passage is the obvious one, and then says that ‘the problem with scripture’ is that it can be interpreted in ways that can be used to justify atrocities.

It seems a bit odd that he’s accusing the churches of failing to tell people exactly what to think, but anyway, he’s certainly on to something here, in that people who want to commit atrocities can read whatever they want into Scripture, which is why the Catholic Church has always said Scripture needs to be read within the Church, and opposed the ripping of passages out of context, as Harris does here. Besides, as Philip Jenkins observes in the admirably frank Laying Down the Sword: Why we can’t ignore the Bible’s violent verses
‘To say that terrorists or extremists can find religious texts to justify their acts does not mean that their violence actually grows from those scriptural roots. Indeed, such an assumption itself is based on the crude fundamentalist formulation that everything in a given religion must somehow be authorized in scripture – or, conversely, that the mere existence of a scriptural text means that its doctrines must shape later history.’
Correlation isn’t causation, after all, and it makes precious little sense to say that the problem with Scripture is that it can be abused, except in the utterly banal sense that it shares this with nuclear physics, the writings of Karl Marx, microbiology, the Iliad, historical facts, and kitchen knives. 

Virgin Birth?
Having mentioned the Bible, it’s worth turning to one of Harris’s lazier canards. To quote the man, 
‘The writers of Luke and Matthew, for instance, in seeking to make the life of Jesus conform to Old Testament prophecy, insist that Mary conceived as a virgin (Greek parthenos), harking to the Greek rendering of Isaiah 7:14. Unfortunately for fanciers of Mary’s virginity, the Hebrew word alma (for which parthenos is an erroneous translation) simply means “young woman,” without any implication of virginity. It seems all but certain that the Christian dogma of the virgin birth, and much of the church’s resulting anxiety about sex, was the result of a mistranslation from the Hebrew.’
Now, I think it’s best to leave aside the stuff about the Church’s supposed anxiety about sex in order to focus on the salient point here, which Harris backs up by observing that such other biblical authors as Mark, John, and Paul all seem unaware of this tradition. It’d be easy to dismiss this whole passage as a bit of hackery, cheerfully lifted from another atheist polemic, but Harris does at least cite a credible authority for this, being Metzger and Coogan’s The Oxford Companion to the Bible, which just so happens to be sitting on the shelf above my head.

(He also cites A.N. Wilson’s Jesus, which I also have, albeit in an inaccessible English attic; Wilson’s book, written shortly after his becoming an atheist – he has since returned to Christianity – isn’t a bad one, if I recall rightly, but Wilson’s certainly no Scripture scholar, so of the two books Harris admits to drawing on at this point, it’s the Oxford Companion that should, at first sight, be more dependable, and indeed more neutral.)

What does the Oxford Companion say on this subject? Daniel Showalter, author of the relevant entry, says that belief in Jesus’ virgin birth is based on the stories of Jesus’ birth found in the gospels of Matthew and Luke; he does not, significantly, say it was based on those gospels, however, as Biblical scholars tend to realise that the Gospels arose within Christian communities and reflected the stories they told – it takes especially inept ones to claim that traditions began with the Gospel accounts, not least as that presupposes that the early Christian communities would have been happy to see their stories dramatically modified.

Showalter starts with Luke’s account of things, relating how Luke’s principal aim was to hammer home the reality of the virgin birth and says that the nature of the dialogue between Mary and Gabriel ‘suggests that the author of Luke was responding to specific questions about the virgin birth of Christ’. If Showalter is right in this, this implies, as one would expect, that the virgin birth was an existing part of the Christian tradition at the time that Luke wrote.

Showalter then turns to Matthew, which seems fitting as the Oxford Companion on balance favours the theory that Luke predated Matthew by a few years, saying that Matthew ‘takes the tradition about Jesus’ miraculous conception and develops it in a slightly different way’. The key thing to take from this is that Showalter believes that the tradition of the virgin birth predated Matthew as he evidently believes it also did Luke, with both authors merely giving us their own take on things. This is entirely in keeping with ancient historical writing when dealing with events primarily harboured in popular memory and oral traditions: the ‘structure facts’ remain solid, because they’re the sort of things everyone would insist on as unchangeable, but narrative embroidery and interpretation of detail will vary. Matthew and Luke in fact provide us with a good instance of a case where two distinct and clearly independent traditions have retained the same structure facts, notably being Mary, Joseph, angelic message, virgin birth, and Bethlehem.

What then of the Isaiah reference? Well, despite Harris citing him as a source for this stuff, Showalter says nothing at all about Matthew and Luke seeking to make Jesus’s birth narrative conform to Jewish prophecy, which is just as well, given that the arguably earlier Luke never mentions Jesus birth as having been prophesied at all. Matthew, which Luke shows no sign of having read, does link Jesus’ birth with the prophecy, but it’s clear from Showalter’s account that this was an instance of someone following the approach of Acts 17:10-11, where the Beroeans reportedly ‘searched the Scriptures daily’ to see if the things Paul had told them were true.

Showalter shows Isaiah 7:14 to be a passage which was already perfectly well understood as relating to the salvation that was promised to Ahaz, king of Judah, when threatened more than seven centuries earlier; in other words, it was not something on which first-century Jews were inclined to reflect, and it certainly was not seen as a prophesy of a messiah who was yet to come. It would have been very peculiar for Matthew – or any early Christian – to have invented a major detail of Christ’s life story in order to make it conform to a prophesy that had no tradition of being interpreted in a messianic light.

A rather simpler solution is to hypothesise that early Christians knew the various traditions of Jesus’ life, and scrutinised their Bibles – in whatever language – in search of passages that might seem to point to him. The Bible is full of Old Testament passages which early Christians later interpreted as having pointed to Jesus; it’s remarkable how few of them had been seen, before Jesus’ day, as predictions about the Messiah.

It’s worth adding that while Showalter does acknowledge that there’s a problem in how almah was translated parthenos in the Septuagint, he certainly doesn’t regard this as ‘an erroneous translation’, despite Harris’ belief that it was such. On the contrary, he says, 
‘The Hebrew word used, ʿalmâ, means simply “young woman,” without any implication of virginity. The Greek work parthenos used to translate ʿalmâ can mean either a young woman or a virgin. Matthew used a Greek Bible, so he naturally interpreted Isaiah 7:14 as a prophesy referring to the virgin birth of Jesus. For the evangelist, Isaiah’s original meaning was superseded by the identification of Jesus as Immanuel.’
There was no error in translation; parthenos can mean ‘a young woman’ just as easily as it can ‘virgin’, such that the Septuagint translators had merely translated a Hebrew word meaning ‘young woman’ by using a Greek word encompassing that same meaning. While the aforementioned Hebrew word certainly contained in itself no intrinsic implication of virginity, it should also be recognised that at the time it was natural to assume that an unmarried young woman was indeed a virgin. 

None of this is to say that the virgin birth of Christ really happened, of course, that being an entirely separate discussion; all I’m saying here is that Harris’ objection is historically unfounded and scripturally clueless tosh.

Even Harris’s attempts to touch on other parts of the New Testament are iffy here; does Paul’s comment that Jesus was ‘born of the seed of David according to the flesh’ mean that he was the son of Joseph? Well, arguably so, but it’s worth noting that that reference in Romans 1:3 is paired with a comment on Jesus’ identity ‘according to the spirit’, such that what’s clearly going on here is a contrast between Jesus’s human and divine natures, the term ‘flesh’ often appearing in the New Testament as a straightforward codeword for all that is natural, earthly, and human.

In this light, it’s worth pointing out that both evangelists who relate traditions of Jesus’ virgin birth nonetheless reel off a list of Jesus’ ancestors – or supposed ancestors – in such a way as to show a descent from David via Joseph, despite both men believing that Joseph wasn’t Jesus’ natural father. For the Jews of the first century, legal descent was as good as natural descent, and for the early Christians, both the law of man and the seed of man were both expressions of the natural human world, that ‘flesh’ so often contrasted with ‘spirit’ or with God himself.

Talking of Jews, I’d be remiss if I didn’t address properly Harris’s comments on Christianity and Judaism in this chapter. There are lots of other things that could be picked up on, of course, but this is rather too important to pass over here.

Harris states without a shade of nuance that ‘From the perspective of Christian teaching, Jews are even worse than run-of-the-mill heretics; they are heretics who explicitly repudiate the divinity of Jesus Christ,’ later adding that, ‘For centuries, religious Germans had viewed the Jews as the worst species of heretics’.

This, of course, could hardly be more wrong, not least because mainstream Christian teaching has never regarded Jews are heretics, and indeed could not regard Jews as such. That Harris doesn’t grasp this shows just how wrongheaded his approach to this field is; I cannot figure out, however, whether he doesn’t grasp this because he’s stupid, lazy, or dishonest, or some combination of these attributes; certainly it says something about the man that he tries so hard to persuade others of his views when he has so negligible an understanding of that which he would attack.

Absent from Harris’s bibliography, for instance, is the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which describes heresy, apostasy, and schism as ‘ruptures that wound the unity of Christ’s Body’, thus identifying heretics, apostates, and schismatics as varieties of Christians or former Christians. Heresy is later specifically defined as ‘the obstinate post-baptismal denial of some truth which must be believed with divine and catholic faith, or it is likewise an obstinate doubt concerning the same’. This isn’t just a Catholic definition, either; it’s a standard Christian understanding of the term, with, say, the 1850 Lutheran Book of Concord explaining that heresies entail distortions of the Gospel and arise from schisms and enmities in the Church. In short, from a Christian viewpoint one cannot be a heretic unless one has first been baptised.

In his Summa Theologiae, the basic theology textbook he wrote over seven hundred years ago, Aquinas specifically distinguished between Jews who ‘by being unwilling to assent to Christ, get the goal wrong’ and heretics who ‘intend to assent to Christ but make a wrong choice of what to assent to’, noting that ‘disbelief of heretics, who resist and distort a gospel they once professed, is a worse sin than the disbelief of Jews who never accepted it.’

Harris goes on to say that anti-Semitism is ‘as integral to church doctrine as the flying buttress is to a Gothic cathedral’, which is about as impressive a slander as there can be. ‘Integral’ simply means ‘necessary’ or ‘indispensable’, so what he’s saying is that without anti-Semitism there can be no Christian teaching. That’s quite the claim, and one easily refuted – again – by referring to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, the basic handbook of Catholic doctrine, and something conspicuously absent from Harris’s bibliography.

(Again, the bibliography thing really matters here. There’s a basic thing you learn when marking students’ work which is to check what they’ve read, or at least what they say they’ve read. It gives a sense of how up-to-date they are with scholarship, whether they’ve taken on board differing views in their strongest possible forms, and how comprehensive their understanding of a subject is. As you should have realised by now, Harris’s bibliography is embarrassingly poor, which is, of course, reflected in his analysis, such as it is. The same problem, you’ll recall, marks his more recent The Moral Landscape.)

Section 839 of the Catechism quotes from Paul’s letter to the Romans to say that to the Jews ‘belong the sonship, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises; to them belong the patriarchs, and of their race, according to the flesh, is the Christ,’ adding the later point in Romans that ‘the gifts and call of God are irrevocable.’ The Second Vatican Council’s document Nostra Aetate, dealing with relations between the Church and non-Christian religions, makes clear that all peoples comprise a single community, sharing a common world and a common goal in God himself, and specifically acknowledges the greatness of the spiritual patrimony common to Christians and Jews, recognising that of all peoples the Jews are most dear to God.

While this attitude is obviously in large part something that arose after witnessing the horror of the Holocaust and reflecting on the extent to which traditional Christian anti-Semitism had indeed played a huge role in preparing the ground for the Nazis’ crimes, it’s instructive to see that older texts like the Maynooth Catechism clearly don’t feature anti-Semitism as an ‘integral’ feature of Christian teaching. Of 433 questions in that catechism, only one mentions Jews, this being question ‘96: Who condemned Christ to death?’, the answer to which being ‘Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, condemned Christ to death at the desire of the Jews.’

While this kind of statement is far from unproblematic, it needs to be seen in light of, say, question 205, the answer to which lists ‘hatred of neighbour’ as being among the principle sins against charity. The Pre-Vatican II Church would have regarded the Jews as being just as much our neighbours as anyone else, so it needs to be recognised that hatred of them, along with incitement of hatred against them, was regarded as grievously sinful. That's not to say that people didn't sin, and didn't sin horribly, but that doesn't mean they did what they did because of Catholic teaching. Even the notion that ‘the Jews’ conspired to organise Christ’s death needs to be considered in light of the deeper Catholic teaching that we all contribute to his death, as commemorated in the Good Friday service when it is the congregation who are called upon to shout ‘Crucify him! Crucify him!’

One of the oddest parts of Harris’s diatribe on Christians and Jews is when he says that to some degree the Jews ‘brought their troubles upon themselves’. He notes that in the ancient world – certainly in pagan Rome – Jews tended to be objects of suspicion and occasional persecution because of their refusal to assimilate, with their belief that they were a ‘chosen people proving offensive in the lands where they settled. He clearly thinks that contemporary Judaism is similarly offensive, but it’s very hard to establish where he stands on Judaism between, say, 300 and 1950, other than to see this as a period where ‘their explicit demonization as a people required the mad work of the Christian church,’ whatever he means by ‘the Christian church’. Michael Burleigh comments in Sacred Causes: The Clash of Religion and Politics from the Great War to the War on Terror that Freud’s 1939 Moses and Monotheism made a similar claim to Harris, arguing that ‘the Jewish claim to chosenness and moral superiority’ had made its way into ‘the unconscious of the peoples’, engendering resentment and hatred. 

It’s difficult to tell what Harris means when, of Jesus himself, he says, ‘There is no evidence whatsoever, apart from the tendentious writings of the later church, that Jesus ever conceived of himself as anything other than a Jew among Jews, seeking the fulfilment of Judaism – and likely, the return of Jewish sovereignty in a Roman world.’ 

Barring passing references by Josephus, Tacitus, Suetonius, and Pliny, is there any evidence for who Jesus was at all other than those early Church writings we know as the New Testament? What does Harris mean when he says ‘the later church’? Does he mean the Church in which the Pauline letters were written, two and three decades after the Crucifixion? Does he mean the Church in which the rest of the New Testament was written, three, four, maybe five or at most six decades after the Crucifixion? Is there any evidence at all to support the notion that Jesus sought ‘the return of Jewish sovereignty in a Roman world’?

It seems to me that all Harris is really just saying here is that ‘There is no evidence whatsoever, other than the evidence we’ve got – all of which I intend to disregard – starting with letters written to already established and believing Christian communities within twenty years of the Crucifixion, that Jesus conceived of himself other than as I think of him.’

Almost as perplexing is the line, following his wrongheaded rant about the virgin birth, where Harris says ‘Even today, the apparent confirmation of prophecy detailed in the New Testament is offered as the chief reason to accept Jesus as the messiah.’ If I were marking this as an essay, I’d have taken my red pen to that comment. ‘Is offered? By whom? Is this really the chief reason offered? What other reasons are offered, and how have you quantified this?’ Just looking through my shelves, I don’t see the confirmation of prophecies having a high priority in the writings of C.S. Lewis, Ronald Knox, Scott Hahn, Peter Kreeft, Francis Spufford, Joseph Ratzinger, Tom Wright, or Nicky Gumble. I'm not saying that some apologists don't mention such things, but as a general rule, far from this being ‘the chief reason’ to accept Jesus, it looks to me to be something of a side issue.

Harris states that ‘the explicit demonization of the Jews appears in the Gospel of John’, quoting an oddly old-fashioned translation of John 8:41-45, seemingly oblivious to the nature of rabbinical hyperbole and to the fact that this passage is addressed to a particular group of Jesus’ fellow Jews, as part of a discussion that continued back and forth, with these Jews only turning to violence after Jesus claimed to be God himself.

I’m not sure where Harris gets the idea from that Christians at the time of the destruction of the Temple in 70 AD thought that they were witnessing God’s punishment of Christ’s betrayers. There are no clear references to the destruction of the Temple in any first-century Christian writings, after all, which is one reason why J.A.T. Robinson argued in Redating the New Testament that it seems likely that every New Testament text was written before the Temple fell; the destruction of the Temple was an event of such enormity that it’s hard to discern why Christian texts written after the destruction would have refrained from mentioning it directly.

Harris moves on from this to the issue of medieval blood libels; sadly, much of what he says on this is true, at least in its broad thrust; it is about as serious a stain on the history of Christianity and Christian culture as there is, though even then I’d be inclined to doubt seriously the credibility of his comment that ‘Historical accounts suggest that as many as three thousand Jews were murdered in response to a single allegation of [host desecration]’. I don’t doubt this merely because the nearest we get to a source for this claim was a book written a full seven decades ago, during World War Two, at a time when vastly less was known about medieval history than is known now; no, rather my main concern is that anybody who knows anything about medieval history knows that numbers in medieval chronicles simply aren’t to be trusted. Sometimes we can reduce them by a factor of ten or more, and sometimes we can ignore them altogether. As Barbara Tuchman put it when introducing A Distant Mirror, her popular study of fourteenth-century Europe: 
‘It should be assumed that medieval figures for battle forces, battle casualties, plague deaths, revolutionary hordes, processions, or any groups en masse are generally enlarged by several hundred percent. This is because the chroniclers did not use numbers as data but as a device of literary art to amaze or appal the reader.’

The Holocaust and the Catholic Church
Moving on to the Holocaust, Harris repeats his slanderous canard about Christians regarding Jews as arch-heretics, and then claims that ‘while the hatred of Jews in Germany expressed itself in a predominantly secular way, it was a direct inheritance from medieval Christianity’. So, as he sees it, while the Nazis’ crimes were secular crimes in a superficial sense, they were really religious crimes deep down. And specifically Catholic crimes at that, given Harris’s apparently almost total silence about the Reformation and Luther’s fervent anti-Semitism, not to mention his failure to even nod towards those atheist or Protestant members of Germany’s Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment intelligentsia who had long nurtured German anti-Semitism. Having glossed over four centuries of Germany's history, Harris proceeds to cherry-pick a few handy passages and episodes that really do reflect very shamefully on the Catholic Church, but in doing so disregards the fact that two-thirds of Germany’s population during the Nazi period were Protestant with individual Protestants proving more likely than individual Catholics to support the Nazis, and heedless of the extent to which opposition to the Nazis within Germany and without was often Catholic in nature.

This may run contrary to the popular myth of course, but it's well worth reading, say, Michael Burleigh’s Sacred Causes on this; even if somewhat uneven overall, Burleigh, author some years ago of the critically acclaimed The Third Reich: A New History, knows his stuff on Nazi Germany and so goes a long way towards correcting Harris’s nonsense. It’s well worth looking, too, at David Dalin’s flawed but useful The Myth of Hitler’s Pope and Gordon Thomas’s The Pope’s Jews, as both are straightforward modern studies of Pius XII’s actions to save many thousands of Jewish lives. Dalin reckons, if I remember rightly, that Pius XII should be credited with having worked to save the lives of 700,000 Jews, and I recall reading a couple of years back how it had been argued that just three weeks after Kristallnacht, Cardinal Pacelli, as Pius XII then was, had taken action to arrange for 200,000 Jews to flee from Germany. Even if these numbers are inflated, as I suspect they are to quite a degree, Harris looks at best churlish when he says:
‘… one is often reminded that others in the Vatican helped Jews escape as well. This is true. It is also true, however, that Vatican aid was often contingent upon whether or not the Jews in question had been previously baptised.’
Predictably, Harris doesn’t say how often this was the case, and his source for this turns out to be not a survey of the issues rooted in modern historical scholarship and research, but a celebrated 1970s book-length interview with a concentration camp commandant. Is it really likely that that presents credible big-picture evidence for this claim? Does Harris think that it does? Does he really think that unsubstantiated anecdotes are substitutes for statistical data?

Onwards Harris rolls: misrepresenting excommunication in Catholic discipline – imposed excommunications are essentially medicinal acts not punitive ones and latae sententiae excommunications merely recognise objective realities; missing the point that in terms of how seriously the Church takes things, excommunication means that one is no longer in communion with the Church whereas being in mortal sin is an even more serious matter as it means one has cut oneself off from God; defaming Pius XII; misunderstanding what ‘modernism’ was in a Catholic context and conflating ‘modernism’ with ‘higher criticism’; falsely claiming that Darwin was on the Index of Proscribed Books (and making this mistake when, it seems to me, plagiarising Norman Davies’ Europe: A History); and talking of how few generations had passed since the Church ceased ‘torturing scholars to the point of madness for merely speculating about the nature of the stars’, something which as far as I can tell never happened. No, not even with Galileo.

All of which leaves me thinking how ironic it is that Harris goes on to accuse John Paul II – or indeed, anyone, of ‘sophistry’, that he scorns the ‘poor scholarship’ of the Evangelists, and that he says ‘it is no accident that religious doctrine and honest inquiry are so rarely juxtaposed in our world.’ 

The phrase, I think, involves pots, kettles, and the quality of blackness.

-- From the files, January 2014.

 [1] Harris doesn’t provide a citation for his Darwin claim, but it seems likely that he drew this factoid from Davies, who he cites later on in his book, albeit only once; Harris fails to cite any book as having been on the Index other than ones included in Davies’ short selection of banned books, he lists his books in the same order as Davies, and like Davies he cites the writings of Swedenborg, Montaigne, Voltaire, Diderot, and Rousseau by their original titles, but cites Kant’s work in English and cites Descartes with the catchall term ‘selected works’. If this happened in an essay I were marking, I’d have serious words with my student as it’s often a reliable indicator of that form of academic dishonesty known as plagiarism. 

I had a similar thought when struck by how Harris’s dismissal of Kenneth Miller’s Finding Darwin’s God in The Moral Landscape seemed to echo Richard Dawkins’ dismissal of said book in The God Delusion; it turned out, however that Dawkins follows Harris, rather than the other way around, in saying that Miller is a Christian and that his book is a very effective argument against intelligent design. Unfortunately neither man gives any sign of being aware of Miller’s denomination much less of having engaged with his arguments or understood his book, so my main reservations on this point still stand.