Homo Deus: a brief History of Tomorrow

Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). Yet these are not
holy scriptures. The DSM diagnoses the ailments of life, not the meaning of life.

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Most psychologists believe that only human feelings are authorised to determine
the true meaning of our actions. Hence no matter what the therapist thinks about
his  patient’s  affair,  and  no  matter  what  Freud,  Jung  and  the  DSM  think  about
affairs in general, the therapist should not force his views on the patient. Instead,
he should help her examine the most secret chambers of her heart. There and
only there will she find the answers. Whereas medieval priests had a hotline to
God,  and  could  distinguish  for  us  between  good  and  evil,  modern  therapists
merely help us get in touch with our own inner feelings.
This partly explains the changing fortunes of the institution of marriage. In the
Middle Ages, marriage was considered a sacrament ordained by God, and God
also  authorised  the  father  to  marry  his  children  according  to  his  wishes  and
interests. An extramarital affair was accordingly a brazen rebellion against both
divine and parental authority. It was a mortal sin, no matter what the lovers felt
and thought about it. Today people marry for love, and it is their inner feelings
that give value to this bond. Hence, if the very same feelings that once drove you
into the arms of one man now drive you into the arms of another, what’s wrong
with  that?  If  an  extramarital  affair  provides  an  outlet  for  emotional  and  sexual
desires  that  are  not  satisfied  by  your  spouse  of  twenty  years,  and  if  your  new
lover is kind, passionate and sensitive to your needs – why not enjoy it?
But wait a minute, you might say. We cannot ignore the feelings of the other
concerned  parties.  The  woman  and  her  lover  might  feel  wonderful  in  each
other’s  arms,  but  if  their  respective  spouses  find  out,  everybody  will  probably
feel  awful  for  quite  some  time.  And  if  it  leads  to  divorce,  their  children  might
carry  the  emotional  scars  for  decades.  Even  if  the  affair  is  never  discovered,
hiding it involves a lot of tension, and may lead to growing feelings of alienation
and resentment.
The  most  interesting  discussions  in  humanist  ethics  concern  situations  like
extramarital affairs, when human feelings collide. What happens when the same
action  causes  one  person  to  feel  good,  and  another  to  feel  bad?  How  do  we
weigh  the  feelings  against  each  other?  Do  the  good  feelings  of  the  two  lovers
outweigh the bad feelings of their spouses and children?
It  doesn’t  matter  what  you  think  about  this  particular  question.  It  is  far  more
important  to  understand  the  kind  of  arguments  both  sides  deploy.  Modern
people  have  differing  ideas  about  extramarital  affairs,  but  no  matter  what  their
position is, they tend to justify it in the name of human feelings rather than in the
name  of  holy  scriptures  and  divine  commandments.  Humanism  has  taught  us
that  something  can  be  bad  only  if  it  causes  somebody  to  feel  bad.  Murder  is
wrong not because some god once said, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Rather, murder is
wrong because it causes terrible suffering to the victim, to his family members,

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and to his friends and acquaintances. Theft is wrong not because some ancient
text says, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Rather, theft is wrong because when you lose
your property, you feel bad about it. And if an action does not cause anyone to
feel bad, there can be nothing wrong about it. If the same ancient text says that
God  commanded  us  not  to  make  any  images  of  either  humans  or  animals
(Exodus 20:4), but I enjoy sculpting such figures, and I don’t harm anyone in the
process – then what could possibly be wrong with it?
The same logic dominates current debates on homosexuality. If two adult men
enjoy having sex with one another, and they don’t harm anyone while doing so,
why  should  it  be  wrong,  and  why  should  we  outlaw  it?  It  is  a  private  matter
between these two men, and they are free to decide about it according to their
inner  feelings.  In  the  Middle  Ages,  if  two  men  confessed  to  a  priest  that  they
were  in  love  with  one  another,  and  that  they  never  felt  so  happy,  their  good
feelings would not have changed the priest’s damning judgement – indeed, their
happiness  would  only  have  worsened  the  situation.  Today,  in  contrast,  if  two
men love one another, they are told: ‘If it feels good – do it! Don’t let any priest
mess  with  your  mind.  Just  follow  your  heart.  You  know  best  what’s  good  for
you.’
Interestingly  enough,  today  even  religious  zealots  adopt  this  humanistic
discourse when they want to influence public opinion. For example, every year
for  the  past  decade  the  Israeli  LGBT  community  holds  a  gay  parade  in  the
streets  of  Jerusalem.  It  is  a  unique  day  of  harmony  in  this  conflict-riven  city,
because  it  is  the  one  occasion  when  religious  Jews,  Muslims  and  Christians
suddenly find a common cause – they all fume in accord against the gay parade.
What’s really interesting, though, is the argument they use. They don’t say, ‘You
shouldn’t hold a gay parade because God forbids homosexuality.’ Rather, they
explain to every available microphone and TV camera that ‘seeing a gay parade
passing through the holy city of Jerusalem hurts our feelings. Just as gay people
want us to respect their feelings, they should respect ours.’
On 7 January 2015 Muslim fanatics massacred several staff members of the
French magazine Charlie Hebdo, because the magazine published caricatures
of  the  prophet  Muhammad.  In  the  following  days,  many  Muslim  organisations
condemned  the  attack,  yet  some  could  not  resist  adding  a  ‘but’  clause.  For
example,  the  Egyptian  Journalists  Syndicate  denounced  the  terrorists  for  their
use of violence, and in the same breath denounced the magazine for ‘hurting the
feelings  of  millions  of  Muslims  across  the  world’.
2
 Note  that  the  Syndicate  did
not blame the magazine for disobeying God’s will. That’s what we call progress.
Our  feelings  provide  meaning  not  only  for  our  private  lives,  but  also  for  social

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and  political  processes.  When  we  want  to  know  who  should  rule  the  country,
what foreign policy to adopt and what economic steps to take, we don’t look for
the  answers  in  scriptures.  Nor  do  we  obey  the  commands  of  the  Pope  or  the
Council  of  Nobel  Laureates.  Rather,  in  most  countries,  we  hold  democratic
elections and ask people what they think about the matter at hand. We believe
that the voter knows best, and that the free choices of individual humans are the
ultimate political authority.
Yet how does the voter know what to choose? Theoretically at least, the voter
is supposed to consult his or her innermost feelings, and follow their lead. It is
not always easy. In order to get in touch with my feelings, I need to filter out the
empty  propaganda  slogans,  the  endless  lies  of  ruthless  politicians,  the
distracting  noise  created  by  cunning  spin  doctors,  and  the  learned  opinions  of
hired  pundits.  I  need  to  ignore  all  this  racket,  and  attend  only  to  my  authentic
inner  voice.  And  then  my  authentic  inner  voice  whispers  in  my  ear  ‘Vote
Cameron’  or  ‘Vote  Modi’  or  ‘Vote  Clinton’  or  whomever,  and  I  put  a  cross
against that name on the ballot paper – and that’s how we know who should rule
the country.
In the Middle Ages this would have been considered the height of foolishness.
The  fleeting  feelings  of  ignorant  commoners  were  hardly  a  sound  basis  for
important political decisions. When England was torn apart by the Wars of the
Roses,  nobody  thought  to  end  the  conflict  by  having  a  national  referendum,  in
which  each  bumpkin  and  wench  cast  a  vote  for  either  Lancaster  or  York.
Similarly,  when  Pope  Urban  II  launched  the  First  Crusade  in  1095,  he  didn’t
claim  it  was  the  people’s  will.  It  was  God’s  will.  Political  authority  came  down
from heaven – it didn’t rise up from the hearts and minds of mortal humans.

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The Holy Spirit, in the guise of a dove, delivers an ampulla full of sacred oil for the baptism of King Clovis,
founder of the Frankish kingdom (illustration from the Grandes Chroniques de France, c.1380). According
to the founding myth of France, this ampulla was henceforth kept in Rheims Cathedral, and all subsequent
French kings were anointed with the divine oil at their coronation. Each coronation thus involved a miracle,
as the empty ampulla spontaneously refilled with oil. This indicated that God himself chose the king and
gave him His blessing. If God did not want Louis IX or Louis XIV or Louis XVI to be king, the ampulla would
not have refilled.
© Bibliothèque nationale de France, RC-A-02764, Grandes Chroniques de France de Charles V, folio 12v.
What’s true of ethics and politics is also true of aesthetics. In the Middle Ages
art  was  governed  by  objective  yardsticks.  The  standards  of  beauty  did  not
reflect  human  fads.  Rather,  human  tastes  were  supposed  to  conform  to
superhuman  dictates.  This  made  perfect  sense  in  a  period  when  people
believed  that  art  was  inspired  by  superhuman  forces  rather  than  by  human
feelings.  The  hands  of  painters,  poets,  composers  and  architects  were
supposedly moved by muses, angels and the Holy Spirit. Many a time when a
composer penned a beautiful hymn, no credit was given to the composer, for the
same  reason  it  was  not  given  to  the  pen.  The  pen  was  held  and  directed  by
human fingers which in turn were held and directed by the hand of God.
Medieval scholars held on to a classical Greek theory, according to which the
movements  of  the  stars  across  the  sky  create  heavenly  music  that  permeates
the  entire  universe.  Humans  enjoy  physical  and  mental  health  when  the  inner
movements  of  their  body  and  soul  are  in  harmony  with  the  heavenly  music
created by the stars. Human music should therefore echo the divine melody of

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the  cosmos,  rather  than  reflect  the  ideas  and  caprices  of  flesh-and-blood
composers. The most beautiful hymns, songs and tunes were usually attributed
not to the genius of some human artist but to divine inspiration.
Pope Gregory the Great composes the eponymous Gregorian chants. The Holy Spirit, in its favourite dove
costume, sits on his right shoulder, whispering the chants in his ear. The Holy Spirit is the chants’ true
author, whereas Gregory is just a conduit. God is the ultimate source of art and beauty.
Manuscript: Registrum Gregorii, c.983 © Archiv Gerstenberg/ullstein bild via Getty Images.
Such  views  are  no  longer  in  vogue.  Today  humanists  believe  that  the  only
source  for  artistic  creation  and  aesthetic  value  is  human  feelings.  Music  is
created and judged by our inner voice, which need follow neither the rhythms of
the stars nor the commands of muses and angels. For the stars are mute, while
muses and angels exist only in our own imagination. Modern artists seek to get
in  touch  with  themselves  and  their  feelings,  rather  than  with  God.  No  wonder
then that when we come to evaluate art, we no longer believe in any objective
yardsticks.  Instead,  we  again  turn  to  our  subjective  feelings.  In  ethics,  the
humanist motto is ‘if it feels good – do it’. In politics, humanism instructs us that
‘the voter knows best’. In aesthetics, humanism says that ‘beauty is in the eye of
the beholder’.
The  very  definition  of  art  is  consequently  up  for  grabs.  In  1917  Marcel
Duchamp took an ordinary mass-produced urinal, named it Fountain, signed his
name at the bottom, declared it a work of art and placed it in a Paris museum.
Medieval  people  would  not  have  bothered  to  even  argue  about  it.  Why  waste
oxygen on such utter nonsense? Yet in the modern humanist world, Duchamp’s
work  is  considered  an  important  artistic  milestone.  In  countless  classrooms
across  the  world,  first-year  art  students  are  shown  an  image  of  Duchamp’s