Human Flourishing

Taylor makes an important distinction between what he calls older religions and the "higher" or post-Axial Religions. This term comes from what Karl Jaspers called the Axial Age, that period…

Taylor makes an important distinction between what he calls older religions and the "higher" or post-Axial Religions. This term comes from what Karl Jaspers called the Axial Age, that period in the first millennium BCE when various higher forms of religion appeared seemingly independently in different civilizations, marked by such figures as Confucius, Gautama, Socrates, and the Hebrew prophets. 

Taylor talks about how these Axial religions initiated a break from what might be thought of as the kind of human embeddedness in a "given" world of spirits, demons, angels, and gods Barfield talks about as the "original participation" that typifies shamanic or animistic religions. These "early" religions accepted the world as they found it, and religion was simply a tool to help them manage, mainly through propitiation, the spiritual world whose powers determined their fate, and in doing so to obtain their assistance in achieving a level of human flourishing.  The higher religions challenged the idea that the "given" world of ordinary collective experience was all there was:

This what makes the most striking contrast with what we tend to think of as the "higher" religions.  What the people ask for [in the early religions] when they invoke or placate divinities and powers is prosperity, health, long life, fertility; what they ask to be preserved from is disease, dearth, sterility premature death. There is a certain understanding of human flourishing here which we can immediately understand, and which, however much we might want to add to it, seems to us quite "natural". What there isn't, and what seems central to the later "higher" religions,  . . . is the idea that we have to question radically this ordinary understanding, that we are called in some way to go beyond it.

. . . There is a sense in which, for early religions, the Divine is always more than just well-disposed toward us; it may also be in some ways indifferent; or there may also be hostility, or jealousy, or anger, which we have to deflect.  Although benevolence, in principle, may have the upper hand, this process may have to be helped along, by propitiation, or even by the action of "trickster" figures.  But through all this what remains true is that Divinity's benign purposes are defined in terms of ordinary human flourishing. . . .

By contrast, with Christianity or Buddhism, for instance, as we saw in the first chapter, there is a notion of our good which goes beyond human flourishing, which we may gain even while failing utterly on the scales of human flourishing, even through such a failing (like dying young on a cross); or which involves leaving the field of flourishing altogether (ending the cycle of rebirth). The paradox of Christianity, in relation to early religion, is that on one hand, it seems to assert the unconditional benevolence of God towards humans; there is none of the ambivalence of early Divinity in this respect; and yet it redefines our ends so as to take us beyond flourishing.

In this respect early religion has something in common with modern exclusive humanism; and this has been felt, and expressed in the sympathy of many modern post-Enlightenment people for "paganism"; "pagan self-assertion", thought John Stuart Mill, was much superior to "Christian self-denial". (This is related to, but not quite the same as the sympathy felt for "polytheism", which I want to discuss later.) What makes modern humanism unprecedented, of course, is the idea that this flourishing involves no relation to anything higher. (ASA, p. 150-51)

In other words, in the older religions, humans are embedded in the given society, society in the given cosmos, and the cosmos holds within it the divine.  The Axial transformations break this chain in several important ways, one of the most critical being the Jewish idea of the world being created from nothing. This is important and original because of the way it takes God out of the cosmos–he is above and beyond it; he transcends it; he cannot be contained by it. Says Taylor, "This meant that potentially God can become the source of demands that we break with 'the way of the world'; and what Brague refers to as 'the wisdom of the world' no longer constrains us."

This is the key to understanding the difference between paganism and the higher religions represented by the Platonic-Judaeo-Christian complex in the west and primarily the Hindu/Buddhist complex in the East.  While there are important differences that distinguish them from one another, the important thing for our purposes here is to understand how they are distinguished from both early pagan and modern humanistic naturalism.

My goal here is not to argue for the superiority of one side or the other.  The naturalists, whether shamanic or modern, have good reason to suspect the higher religions of not being what they represent themselves to be.  Naturalists who stereotype fundamentalist Christians as anti-intellectual and naive and Catholics as sheepishly authoritarian have good reason to do so, and I have to agree that if it were a matter of quantity rather than quality, Christianity's claims to be a higher religion would be laughable.

But Christianity and the other higher religions in their deepest essence have never been about quantity.  They are about moving off the axis of quantity onto the axis of quality, which is not an easy thing to do.  And as with any extraordinarily difficult human endeavor there are beginners and experts; there are the greater number who either never try, or if they do fail, and a fewer number who succeed.  And so it's possible to say that there's a qualitative difference between someone like Francis of Assisi and Pat Robertson, Martin Luther King and Bill Donahue, Teresa of Avila and Ann Coulter, Soren Kierkegaard and James Dobson, Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Tim LeHaye. 

They all profess to be Christians, but clearly some are better than others, and to say so suggests some standard by which they could be judged.  And I would say that standard has nothing to do with normal, healthy human flourishing or success as it is ordinarily understood–but rather with the first person's in each of these pairings willingness to embrace in one way or another the Christian logic of kenosis–a willingness to give up normal human flourishing in order to create an emptiness that can be filled by something outside the system of ordinary human flourishing.  And it might also be pointed out that the logic of kenosis being what it is, the exemplars of kenosis are largely hidden from the public view.

It's possible that I'm being unfair to the second person in each of these pairings.  I don't judge their interior struggles, which are unknown to me, but I think it's possible to discern something of the spirit that animates their public lives from the fruits of those lives. And those fruits are not hard to describe as singularly un-Christian from the perspective of someone who sees kenosis as the criterion. For the fact is that many who think of themselves as Christians really are more in the naturalist pagan camp for whom normal, natural human flourishing is the goal, no matter what they might think contrariwise.

That was my point in the post earlier this week about the Weather Gods in a Disenchanted Cosmos.  Many Christians have ascribed to the transcendent God powers that in the old religion were understood to be the powers of the immanent nature spirits that lived in their neighborhood.  That's confused thinking. I would argue the transcendent God of Judaeo-Christian theism, while he may know the number of hairs on your head, doesn't care particularly whether you're going bald.  His primary concern is not about human flourishing in the immanentist sense.  "Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth," says St. Paul in Col 3:2. "I come not to bring peace, but to bring a sword," says Jesus.  He does not come to make nice. He comes to sever us, to disembed or separate us from the normal world of human flourishing with its pleasures and pains.  He comes as a liberator who longs to cut us out and remove us from that world of normal human flourishing. The peace and the love that he brings is of a different order than the peace/love in the natural world, and the more we are embedded or enmeshed in that world, the less vulnerable are we to waking up to this different order of things from whence our liberation lies.

That needs some qualifying.  I don't think the "kenotic" ideal in Christianity is in complete opposition to normal human flourishing, but such flourishing is not the ultimate goal. It's clear from the gospel accounts that Jesus cares about the ordinary happiness of the people he meets. The Cana story on its most accessible level would support that. The healings and revivifications, the feeding of the 5000.  (Obviously there are other more important meanings to all these stories, but the ordinary health and well being of the people affected by these actions is certainly part of that meaning.)  I think it's safe to say, even by the most rigorous kenotic standard, that it is not a good thing that humans suffer, that children get sick and die, that bad things happen to good people.  But they do. 

There are lots of religious explanations for why things are now set up that way.  But whether those explanations satisfy or not, the central insight in both Christianity and Buddhism is that this system in which human suffering is so pervasive is not the only option, and that the usual ways that humans try to manage suffering using the time-honored avoid-pain/seek-pleasure methodology leads ultimately to a dead end, even if one is relatively successful in that regard. Success in this  project is the goal of Kierkegaard's aesthetic man. And the Christian doesn't move beyond the aesthetic man so long as he is concerned with finding peace in which peace is defined by more pleasure and less pain in the naturalistic sense. Both Buddhism and Christianity agree that the solution to the problem of human suffering lies outside or above the "natural" system.

And so propitiating God about concerns that relate to our pains and pleasures, our natural hopes and fears is a waste of his time if it does nothing to break us out of the dead end. What we may think of as 'our good' may not be, and probably isn't, what God thinks of as our good.

Taylor says of the effect of this basic insight of the higher religions on the societies in which they emerged:

The highest human goal can no longer just be to flourish, as it was before.  Either a new goal is posited, of a salvation which takes us beyond what we usually understand as human flourishing.  Or else Heaven, of the Good, lays the demand on us to imitate or embody its unambiguous goodness, and hence to alter the mundane order of things down here.  This may, indeed usually does involve flourishing on a wider scale, but our own flourishing (as individual, family, clan or tribe) can no longer be our highest goal.  And  of course, this may be expressed by a redefinition of what "flourishing" consists in. . . . (ASA, p. 153)

These don't at once totally change the religious life of whole societies.  But they do open new possibilities of disembedded religion: seeking a relation to the Divine or the Higher, which severely revises the going notions of flourishing, or even goes beyond them, and can be carried through by individuals on their own, and/or in new kinds of sociality, unlinked to the established sacred order.  So monks, bhikhus, sanyassi, devotees of some avatar of God, strike out on their own; and from this springs unprecedented modes of sociality: initiation groups, sects of devotees, the sangha, monastic orders, and so on.

In all these cases, there is some kind of hiatus, difference, or even break in relation to the religious life of the whole larger society.  This may itself be to some extent differentiated, with different strata or castes or classes, and a new religious outlook may lodge in some of them.  But very often a new devotion may cut across all of these, particularly where there is a break in the third dimension, with a "higher" idea of the human good. (ASA, p. 154)

There is so much more to say about this.  Are, for instance, concerns about economic justice then no concern of the higher religions? Are the Buddhist monks of Burma failing to aspire to the higher goal? Rejection of this world and its concerns has frequently been the response of those who strive for the goals prescribed by the higher religions. And the attempts of those who have tried to change the world to conform to the higher ideal have more often than not ended in disasters. But I will explore these themes in future posts or if questions about those issues come up in the comments to this post. 

The main goal here is simply to make the distinction between, on the one side, the goals of naturalism, whether of the archaic or modern variety, and of the higher religions on the other.  And also to point out that much of what passes for "higher religion" has more in common with the goals of naturalism with whom it  disputes not about ends but the means to attain them: Is it more important to pray for continued good health or to see the doctor regularly.

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