Homo Deus: a brief History of Tomorrow

Communist  Manifesto  brilliantly  put  it,  the  modern  world  positively  requires
uncertainty and disturbance. All fixed relations and ancient prejudices are swept
away, and new structures become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is
solid  melts  into  air.  It  isn’t  easy  to  live  in  such  a  chaotic  world,  and  it  is  even
harder to govern it.
Hence modernity needs to work hard to ensure that neither human individuals
nor  the  human  collective  will  try  to  retire  from  the  race,  despite  all  the  tension
and chaos it creates. For that purpose, modernity upholds growth as a supreme
value for whose sake we should make every sacrifice and risk every danger. On
the  collective  level,  governments,  firms  and  organisations  are  encouraged  to
measure  their  success  in  terms  of  growth,  and  to  fear  equilibrium  as  if  it  were
the  Devil.  On  the  individual  level,  we  are  inspired  to  constantly  increase  our
income  and  our  standard  of  living.  Even  if  you  are  quite  satisfied  with  your
current  conditions,  you  should  strive  for  more.  Yesterday’s  luxuries  become
today’s  necessities.  If  once  you  could  live  well  in  a  three-bedroom  apartment
with one car and a single desktop, today you need  a  five-bedroom  house  with
two cars and a host of iPods, tablets and smartphones.
It wasn’t very hard to convince individuals to want more. Greed comes easily
to  humans.  The  big  problem  was  to  convince  collective  institutions  such  as
states  and  churches  to  go  along  with  the  new  ideal.  For  millennia,  societies
strove  to  curb  individual  desires  and  bring  them  into  some  kind  of  balance.  It
was  well  known  that  people  wanted  more  and  more  for  themselves,  but  when
the pie was of a fixed size, social harmony depended on restraint. Avarice was
bad.  Modernity  turned  the  world  upside  down.  It  convinced  human  collectives

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that  equilibrium  is  far  more  frightening  than  chaos,  and  because  avarice  fuels
growth,  it  is  a  force  for  good.  Modernity  accordingly  inspired  people  to  want
more, and dismantled the age-old disciplines that curbed greed.
The  resulting  anxieties  were  assuaged  to  a  large  extent  by  free-market
capitalism,  which  is  one  reason  why  this  particular  ideology  has  become  so
popular.  Capitalist  thinkers  repeatedly  calm  us:  ‘Don’t  worry,  it  will  be  okay.
Provided the economy grows, the invisible hand of the market will take care of
everything else.’ Capitalism has thus sanctified a voracious and chaotic system
that  grows  by  leaps  and  bounds,  without  anyone  understanding  what  is
happening  and  where  we  are  rushing.  (Communism,  which  also  believed  in
growth,  thought  it  could  prevent  chaos  and  orchestrate  growth  through  state
planning.  After  initial  successes,  it  eventually  fell  far  behind  the  messy  free-
market cavalcade.)
Bashing free-market capitalism is high on the intellectual agenda nowadays.
Since  capitalism  dominates  our  world,  we  should  indeed  make  every  effort  to
understand  its  shortcomings,  before  they  cause  apocalyptic  catastrophes.  Yet
criticising capitalism should not blind us to its advantages and attainments. So
far, it’s been an amazing success – at least if you ignore the potential for future
ecological meltdown, and if you measure success by the yardstick of production
and growth. In 2016 we may be living in a stressful and chaotic world, but the
doomsday prophecies of collapse and violence have not materialised, whereas
the  scandalous  promises  of  perpetual  growth  and  global  cooperation  are
fulfilled.  Although  we  experience  occasional  economic  crises  and  international
wars,  in  the  long  run  capitalism  has  not  only  managed  to  prevail,  but  also  to
overcome  famine,  plague  and  war.  For  thousands  of  years  priests,  rabbis  and
muftis explained that humans cannot overcome famine, plague and war by their
own  efforts.  Then  along  came  the  bankers,  investors  and  industrialists,  and
within 200 years managed to do exactly that.
So the modern deal promised us unprecedented power – and the promise has
been kept. Now what about the price? In exchange for power, the modern deal
expects us to give up meaning. How did humans handle this chilling demand?
Complying  with  it  could  easily  have  resulted  in  a  dark  world,  devoid  of  ethics,
aesthetics  and  compassion.  Yet  the  fact  remains  that  humankind  is  today  not
only  far  more  powerful  than  ever,  it  is  also  far  more  peaceful  and  cooperative.
How did humans manage that? How did morality, beauty and even compassion
survive and flourish in a world devoid of gods, of heaven and of hell?
Capitalists  are,  again,  quick  to  give  all  the  credit  to  the  invisible  hand  of  the
market.  Yet  the  market’s  hand  is  blind  as  well  as  invisible,  and  by  itself  could
never have saved human society. Indeed, not even a country fair can maintain

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itself without the helping hand of some god, king or church. If everything is for
sale, including the courts and the police, trust evaporates, credit vanishes and
business  withers.
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 What,  then,  rescued  modern  society  from  collapse?
Humankind  was  salvaged  not  by  the  law  of  supply  and  demand,  but  rather  by
the rise of a new revolutionary religion – humanism.

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7
The Humanist Revolution
The modern deal offers us power, on condition that we renounce our belief in a
great  cosmic  plan  that  gives  meaning  to  life.  Yet  when  you  examine  the  deal
closely, you find a cunning escape clause. If humans somehow manage to find
meaning  without  deriving  it  from  a  great  cosmic  plan,  this  is  not  considered  a
breach of contract.
This  escape  clause  has  been  the  salvation  of  modern  society,  for  it  is
impossible  to  sustain  order  without  meaning.  The  great  political,  artistic  and
religious project of modernity has been to find a meaning to life that is not rooted
in  some  great  cosmic  plan.  We  are  not  actors  in  a  divine  drama,  and  nobody
cares about us and our deeds, so nobody sets limits to our power – but we are
still convinced our lives have meaning.
As  of  2016,  humankind  indeed  manages  to  hold  the  stick  at  both  ends.  Not
only  do  we  possess  far  more  power  than  ever  before,  but  against  all
expectations,  God’s  death  did  not  lead  to  social  collapse.  Throughout  history
prophets  and  philosophers  have  argued  that  if  humans  stopped  believing  in  a
great  cosmic  plan,  all  law  and  order  would  vanish.  Yet  today,  those  who  pose
the  greatest  threat  to  global  law  and  order  are  precisely  those  people  who
continue to believe in God and His all-encompassing plans. God-fearing Syria is
a far more violent place than the atheist Netherlands.
If there is no cosmic plan, and we are not committed to any divine or natural
laws, what prevents social collapse? How come you can travel for thousands of
kilometres,  from  Amsterdam  to  Bucharest  or  from  New  Orleans  to  Montreal,
without  being  kidnapped  by  slave-traders,  ambushed  by  outlaws  or  killed  by
feuding tribes?
Look Inside
The  antidote  to  a  meaningless  and  lawless  existence  was  provided  by

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humanism, a revolutionary new creed that conquered the world during the last
few centuries. The humanist religion worships humanity, and expects humanity
to play the part that God played in Christianity and Islam, and that the laws of
nature played in Buddhism and Daoism. Whereas traditionally the great cosmic
plan  gave  meaning  to  the  life  of  humans,  humanism  reverses  the  roles,  and
expects  the  experiences  of  humans  to  give  meaning  to  the  great  cosmos.
According to humanism, humans must draw from within their inner experiences
not  only  the  meaning  of  their  own  lives,  but  also  the  meaning  of  the  entire
universe.  This  is  the  primary  commandment  humanism  has  given  us:  create
meaning for a meaningless world.
Accordingly, the central religious revolution of modernity was not losing faith
in  God;  rather,  it  was  gaining  faith  in  humanity.  It  took  centuries  of  hard  work.
Thinkers wrote pamphlets, artists composed poems and symphonies, politicians
struck  deals  –  and  together  they  convinced  humanity  that  it  can  imbue  the
universe  with  meaning.  To  grasp  the  depth  and  implications  of  the  humanist
revolution,  consider  how  modern  European  culture  differs  from  medieval
European culture. People in London, Paris or Toledo in 1300 did not believe that
humans could determine by themselves what is good and what is evil, what is
right  and  what  is  wrong,  what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  ugly.  Only  God  could
create and define goodness, righteousness and beauty.
Although humans were viewed as enjoying unique abilities and opportunities,
they  were  also  seen  as  ignorant  and  corruptible  beings.  Without  external
supervision  and  guidance,  humans  could  never  understand  the  eternal  truth,
and would instead be drawn to fleeting sensual pleasures and worldly delusions.
In  addition,  medieval  thinkers  pointed  out  that  humans  are  mortal,  and  their
opinions and feelings are as fickle as the wind. Today I love something with all
my heart, tomorrow I am disgusted by it, and next week I am dead and buried.
Hence  any  meaning  that  depends  on  human  opinion  is  necessarily  fragile  and
ephemeral.  Absolute  truths,  and  the  meaning  of  life  and  of  the  universe,  must
therefore be based on some eternal law emanating from a superhuman source.
This  view  made  God  the  supreme  source  not  only  of  meaning,  but  also  of
authority. Meaning and authority always go hand in hand. Whoever determines
the  meaning  of  our  actions  –  whether  they  are  good  or  evil,  right  or  wrong,
beautiful  or  ugly  –  also  gains  the  authority  to  tell  us  what  to  think  and  how  to
behave.
God’s role as the source of meaning and authority was not just a philosophical
theory. It affected every facet of daily life. Suppose that in 1300, in some small
English town, a married woman took a fancy to the next-door neighbour and had
sex with him. As she sneaked back home, hiding a smile and straightening her

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dress, her mind began to race: ‘What was that all about? Why did I do it? Was it
good  or  bad?  What  does  it  imply  about  me?  Should  I  do  it  again?’  In  order  to
answer  such  questions,  the  woman  was  supposed  to  go  to  the  local  priest,
confess  and  ask  the  holy  father  for  guidance.  The  priest  was  well  versed  in
scriptures,  and  these  sacred  texts  revealed  to  him  exactly  what  God  thought
about  adultery.  Based  on  the  eternal  word  of  God,  the  priest  could  determine
beyond all doubt that the woman had committed a mortal sin, that if she doesn’t
make amends she will end up in hell, and that she ought to repent immediately,
donate ten gold coins to the coming crusade, avoid eating meat for the next six
months  and  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  St  Thomas  à  Becket  at
Canterbury. And it goes without saying that she must never repeat her awful sin.
Today things are very different. For centuries humanism has been convincing
us that we are the ultimate source of meaning, and that our free will is therefore
the highest authority of all. Instead of waiting for some external entity to tell us
what’s what, we can rely on our own feelings and desires. From infancy we are
bombarded  with  a  barrage  of  humanist  slogans  counselling  us:  ‘Listen  to
yourself, follow your heart, be true to yourself, trust yourself, do what feels good.’
Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  summed  it  all  up  in  his  novel  Émile,  the  eighteenth-
century  bible  of  feeling.  Rousseau  held  that  when  looking  for  the  rules  of
conduct  in  life,  he  found  them  ‘in  the  depths  of  my  heart,  traced  by  nature  in
characters  which  nothing  can  efface.  I  need  only  consult  myself  with  regard  to
what I wish to do; what I feel to be good is good, what I feel to be bad is bad.’
1
Accordingly, when a modern woman wants to understand the meaning of an
affair she is having, she is far less prone to blindly accept the judgements of a
priest or an ancient book. Instead, she will carefully examine her feelings. If her
feelings aren’t very clear, she will call a good friend, meet for coffee and pour out
her  heart.  If  things  are  still  vague,  she  will  go  to  her  therapist,  and  tell  him  all
about  it.  Theoretically,  the  modern  therapist  occupies  the  same  place  as  the
medieval priest, and it is an overworked cliché to compare the two professions.
Yet in practice, a huge chasm separates them. The therapist does not possess
a holy book that defines good and evil. When the woman finishes her story, it is
highly  unlikely  that  the  therapist  will  burst  out:  ‘You  wicked  woman!  You  have
committed a terrible sin!’ It is equally unlikely that he will say, ‘Wonderful! Good
for  you!’  Instead,  no  matter  what  the  woman  may  have  done  and  said,  the
therapist  is  most  likely  to  ask  in  a  caring  voice,  ‘Well,  how  do  you  feel  about
what happened?’
True, the therapist’s bookshelf sags under the weight of Freud, Jung and the