Introduction

The Higher Criticism could no longer be discussed rationally, since it evoked fundamental fears. When Charles Briggs, a liberal Presbyterian, was charged with heresy and put on trial by the New York Presbytery in 1891 for his public defense of the Higher Criticism, the story hit the front page of the New York Times. When he was acquitted, this was hailed by the New York Tribune as a victory for the Higher Criticism, but the General Assembly of the denomination overturned the verdict and Briggs was suspended from the ministry. The trial was bitter and acrimonious; the uproar split the denomination down the middle. Out of two hundred presbyteries polled afterward, ninety were opposed to Briggs’s views. This was only the most publicized of numerous heresy trials at this time, during which one liberal after another was thrown out of his denomination.
By 1900, the furor seemed to have died down. The ideas of the Higher Criticism appeared to have gained ground everywhere, liberals still held important posts in most of the denominations, and the conservatives seemed stunned but quiescent. Yet this apparent peace was deceptive. Observers at this time were aware that within almost all the denominations-Presbyterian, Methodist, Disciples, Episcopalian, Baptist--there were two distinct “churches,” representing the “old” and the “new” ways of looking at the Bible.
Some Christians had already started to mobilize for the struggle that lay ahead. In 1886, the revivalist Dwight Moody (1837--99) founded the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago to combat the teachings of the Higher Criticism. His aim was to create a cadre of “gap-men,” who could stand between the ministers and the laity and combat the false ideas which, he believed, had brought the nation to the brink of destruction. Moody has been called the father of American fundamentalism, and his Bible Institute would, like Princeton, become a bastion of conservative Christianity. But Moody was less interested in dogma than the Hodges and Warfield. His message was simple and primarily emotional: the sinful world could be redeemed by Christ. Moody’s priority was the salvation of souls, and he was ready to cooperate with any Christians, whatever their beliefs, in the work of saving sinners. He shared the liberals’ concern for social reform: the graduates of his Institute were to become missionaries to the poor. But Moody was a premillennialist, convinced that the Godless ideologies of the age would lead to the destruction of the world. Things were not getting better, as the liberals believed; they were getting worse every day. In 1886, the year he founded his Bible Institute, there was a tragedy in Haymarket Square, Chicago, which shocked the nation. During a trade-union rally, when the demonstrators clashed with the police, a bomb killed seven policemen and injured seventy others. The Haymarket Riot seemed to epitomize all the evils and dangers of industrial society, and Moody could see it only in apocalyptic terms.
“Either these people are to be evangelized,” he prophesied, “or the leaven of communism and infidelity will assume such enormous proportions that it will break out in a reign of terror such as this country has never known.”
The Bible Institute would become a crucial fundamentalist institution.
Like the Volozhin yeshiva, it represented a safe and sacred enclave in a godless world, which would prepare a cadre for a future counteroffensive against modern society. Other conservative Protestants, who would play a leading role in the coming fundamentalist movement, followed Moody’s lead. In 1902, William Bell Riley founded the Northwestern Bible School, and in 1907, the oil magnate Lyman Stewart established the Bible Institute of Los Angeles. Conservatives who felt outmaneuvered by the liberals in the mainline denominations were beginning to band together. The first Prophecy and Bible Conferences were held during the last years of the nineteenth century.
Here conservative Protestants could gather to read the Bible in a literal, common-sense manner, cleanse their minds of the Higher Criticism, and discuss their premillennial ideas. They were starting to establish a distinct identity, and during the increasingly crowded conferences became aware of their potential as an independent force.
The creation of a special, unique identity was a natural response to the modern experience. The newly industrialized northern cities were a melting pot. By 1890, four out of every five New Yorkers were either new immigrants or the children of new immigrants. At the time of the Revolution, the United States had been an overwhelmingly Protestant nation. Now the WASP identity seemed about to be obliterated by the “Papist” flood. Unfortunately, the quest for a distinct identity often goes hand-in-hand with the development of a terror of the stereotyped “other” against whom people measure themselves. A paranoid fear of conspiracy would continue to characterize the response to the upheavals of modernization, and would be especially evident in the fundamentalist movements created by Jews, Christians, and Muslims, all of which would cultivate a distorted and often pernicious image of their enemies, who were sometimes depicted as satanically evil.
American Protestants had long hated Roman Catholics, and had also feared conspiracies of deists, Freemasons, and Mormons, who were all, at one time or another, believed to be undermining the Christian fabric of society. In the late nineteenth century, these anxieties flared again. In 1887, the American Protective Association was formed and became the nation’s largest anti Catholic body, with a membership that may have reached 2,250,000. It forged “pastoral letters,” supposedly from American Catholic bishops, urging their flocks to murder all Protestants and overthrow the heretical government of the United States. In 188), Josiah Strong published Our Country:
Its Possible Future and Its Present Crisis, which listed the “Catholic threat” as the most destructive danger faced by the nation. Giving Catholics the vote would make America vulnerable to satanic influence;
already the United States had suffered an immigration of Romanists that was twice as large as that of the invasion of the Goths and Vandals which had brought down the Roman empire in the fifth century. Americans were cultivating fantasies of utter ruin; paranoid conspiracy theories enabled them to pin their nameless and amorphous dread onto concrete enemies and thus helped to make it manageable.
In europe, the conspiracy fears linked to the creation of a distinct identity took the form of a new, “scientific” racism, which would not reach the United States until the 1920s. It centered largely upon the Jewish people, and was a product of the modern scientific culture which had enabled Europeans to control their environment with unprecedented skill. Modern pursuits, such as medicine or landscape gardening, taught people to eliminate things that were harmful, inelegant, or useless. At a time when nationalism was becoming the chief ideology of the European states, Jews seemed inherently and irredeemably cosmopolitan. The scientific theories that were evolved to define the essential biological and genetic characteristics of the Volk were too narrow to include the Jews. As the new nations redefined themselves, they needed an “other” against whom they could determine their new selves, and “the Jew” was conveniently at hand. This modern racism, which yearned to eliminate Jews from society as a gardener would root out weeds or a surgeon cut out a cancer, was a form of social engineering, which sprang from a conviction that some people could not be improved or controlled.
It drew upon centuries of Christian religious prejudice, and gave it a scientific rationale.
At the same time, however, “the Jew” also became a symbol upon which people could fasten their fears and reservations about the social upheaval of modernization. As Jews moved out of the ghettoes into Christian neighborhoods, and enjoyed extraordinary success in the capitalist economy, they seemed to epitomize the destruction of the old order. Europeans also experienced modernity as a frightening “melting pot.” The new industrialized world was breaking down old barriers and some experienced this now apparently formless society, which had no clear boundaries, as anarchic and annihilating. Those Jews who had assimilated to the mainstream seemed especially disturbing. Had they now become “non-Jews” and overcome what many still felt to be an impassable divide? Modern anti-Semitism gave those who were disturbed by the turmoil of modernization and the awesome scale of social confusion a target for their distress and resentment. To “define” was to set limits on these frightening changes; as some Protestants sought certainty by stringent doctrinal definitions, others kept the void at bay by trying to re-erect old social boundaries.
By the 188os, the tolerance of the Enlightenment was shown to be tragically skin-deep. In Russia, after the assassination of the liberal Tsar Alexander II in 1881, there were fresh restrictions on Jewish entry into the professions. In 1891, over ten thousand Jews were expelled from Moscow, and there were massive expulsions from other regions between 1893 and 1895. There were also pogroms, condoned or even orchestrated by the Ministry of the Interior, in which Jews were robbed and killed, and which culminated in the pogrom at Kishinev (1905) where fifty Jews died and five hundred were injured. Jews began to flee westward, at an average of fifty thousand a year, settling in western Europe, the United States, and Palestine. But the arrival in western Europe of these eastern Jews, with their strange clothes and outlandish customs, stirred old prejudices. In 1886, Germany elected its first parliamentary deputy on an officially anti-Semitic platform;
by 1893, there were sixteen. In Austria, the Christian socialist Karl Lueger (1844--1910) built a powerful anti-Semitic movement, and by 1895 he was mayor of Vienna. The new anti-Semitism even struck France, the first modern European nation to emancipate its Jews. On January 5, 1895, Captain Alfred Dreyfus, the only Jewish officer on the general staff, was convicted on fabricated evidence, of transmitting secrets to the Germans, while an excited mob yelled, “Death to Dreyfus! Death to the Jews!”
Some Jews continued to assimilate, either by converting to Christianity or by living entirely secular lives. Some turned to politics, becoming revolutionary socialists in Russia and other eastern European countries, or leading members of trade unions. Others decided that there was no place for Jews in gentile society; they must return to Zion, to the Holy Land, and build a Jewish state there. Others preferred a modernizing religious solution, such as Reform, Conservative, or Neo-Orthodox Judaism. Some continued to turn their backs on modern society and clung to traditional Orthodoxy. These Haredim (“the trembling ones”) were anxious about the future of Judaism in the new world and would try desperately to re-create the old. Even in western Europe or the United States, they continued to wear the fur hats, black knickers, and caftans that their fathers had worn in Russia or Poland.
Most were striving to retain a Jewish identity in a hostile world, struggling to fend off annihilation, and to find some absolute security and certainty.
Many felt embattled; some became more militant in their determination to survive.
The mood was epitomized by a new development in Habad Hasidism, which was now based in Lubavitch, Russia, and ruled by a hereditary dynasty of the descendants of Rabbi Schneur Zaiman. The Fifth Rebbe, R. Shalom Dov Her (1860--1920), who succeeded to the title in 1893, was deeply worried about the future of Judaism. He had traveled widely, kept in touch with the Misnagdim in Lithuania, and could see the decline in religious observance. In 1897, he established a Habad yeshiva modeled on the Misnagdicyes/iivot of Volozhin, Slobodka, and Mir. He too wanted to create a cadre of young men to fight “the enemies of the Lord.” These “enemies” were not the tsar and his officials; Lubavitch Hasidism was becoming a fundamentalist movement, which, in the usual way of such movements, began with a campaign against co religionists For the Fifth Rebbe, God’s enemies were other Jews: the Maskilim, the Zionists, the Jewish socialists, and the Misnagdim, who were, in his view, gravely endangering the faith. Hisyeshiva students were called the Tamimim: “the pure ones.” They were to be “soldiers in the Rebbe’s army,” who would fight “without concessions or compromise” to ensure that true Judaism would survive. Their struggle would pave the way for the coming of the Messiah.
Zionism, the movement to create a Jewish homeland in Palestine, was the most far-reaching and imaginative of these new Jewish responses to modernity.
It was not a monolithic movement. Zionist leaders drew on quite varied currents of modern thought: nationalism, Western imperialism, socialism, and the secularism of the Jewish Enlightenment. Even though the Labor Zionism of David Ben-Gurion (1886--1973), which sought to establish a socialist community in Palestine, would ultimately become the dominant Zionist ideology, the Zionist enterprise also relied heavily upon capitalism.
Between 1880 and 1917, Jewish businessmen invested millions of dollars in the purchase of land from Arab and Turkish absentee landlords who had estates in Palestine. Others, such as Theodor Herzl (1860--1904) and Chaim Weizmann (1874-1952), became political lobbyists. Herzl saw the future Jewish state as a European colony in the Middle East. Still others did not want a nation-state, but saw the new homeland as a cultural center for Jews.
Many feared an impending anti-Semitic catastrophe; in order to save the Jewish people from extermination, they must prepare a safe haven and refuge. Their terror of annihilation was not of a moral or psychological void, but a realistic assessment of the murderous potential of modernity.
The Orthodox were appalled by the Zionist movement in all its forms.
There had been two attempts to create a form of religious Zionism during the nineteenth century, but neither had received much support.
In 1845, Yehuda Hai Alkalai (1798--1878), a Sephardic Jew of Sarajevo, had tried to make the old messianic myth of the return to Zion a program for practical action. The Messiah would not be a person but a process that “will begin with an effort of the Jews themselves; they must organize and unite, choose leaders, and leave the land of exile.
Twenty years later, Zvi Hirsch Kallischer (1795--1874), a Polish Jew, made exactly the same point in his Devishat Zion (“Seeking Zion,” 1862). Alkalai and Kallischer were both attempting to rationalize the ancient mythology and, by bringing it down to earth, were secularizing it. But to the vast majority of devout, observant Jews, any such idea was anathema. As the Zionist movement gained momentum during the last years of the nineteenth century, and achieved an international profile in the big Zionist conferences held in Basel, Switzerland, the Orthodox condemned it in the most extreme terms. In the premodern world, myth was not supposed to be a blueprint for practical action, which was strictly the preserve of logos. The function of myth had been to give such action meaning and ground it spiritually. The Shabbetai Zevi affair had shown how disastrous it could be to apply stories and images that belonged to the unseen world of the psyche to the realm of politics. Since the shock of that fiasco, the old prohibition against treating the messianic mythos as though it were logos, capable of pragmatic application, had acquired in the Jewish imagination the force of a taboo. Any human attempt to achieve redemption or “hasten the end” by taking practical steps to realize the Kingdom in the Holy Land, was abhorrent. Jews were even forbidden to recite too many prayers for the return to Zion. To take any kind of initiative amounted to a rebellion against God, who alone could bring Redemption; anyone who took such action was going over to the “Other Side,” the demonic world. Jews must remain politically passive. This was a condition of the existential state of Exile.39 In rather the same way as Shii Muslims, Jews had outlawed political activism, knowing all too well from Jewish history how potentially lethal it could be to incarnate myth in history.
To this day, Zionism and the Jewish state which the movement would create have been more divisive in the Jewish world than modernity itself. A response to Zionism and the State of Israel, for or against, would become the motive power of every form of Jewish fundamentalism.
It is largely through Zionism that secular modernity has entered Jewish life and changed it forever. This is because the first Zionists were brilliantly successful in turning the Land of Israel, one of the holiest symbols of Judaism, into a rational, mundane, practical reality. Instead of contemplating it mystically or halakhically, the Zionists settled the Land physically, strategically, and militarily.
For the vast majority of the Orthodox, in these early years, this was to trample blasphemously upon a sacred reality. It was a deliberate act of profanation that defied centuries of religious tradition.
For the secular Zionists were quite blatant about their rejection of religion.
Their movement was indeed a rebellion against Judaism. Many of them were atheists, socialists, Marxists. Very few of them observed the commandments of the Torah. Some of them positively hated religion, which they thought had failed the Jewish people by encouraging them to sit back passively and wait for the Messiah. Instead of helping them to struggle against persecution and oppression, religion had inspired Jews to retreat from the world in strange mystical exercises or the study of arcane texts.
The spectacle of Jews weeping and clinging to the stones of the Western Wall in Jerusalem, the last relic of the ancient Temple, filled many Zionists with dismay. This apparently craven dependence upon the supernatural was the obverse of everything that they were trying to achieve. The Zionists wanted to create a fresh Jewish identity, a New Jew, liberated from the unhealthy, confining life of the ghetto. The New Jew would be autonomous, the controller of his own destiny in his own land. But this quest for roots and self-respect amounted to a declaration of independence from Jewish religion.
The Zionists were, above all else, pragmatists, and this made them men of the modern era. Yet they were all profoundly aware of the explosive “charge” of the symbol of the Land. In the mythical world of Judaism, the Land was inseparable from the two most sacred realities, God and the Torah.
In the mystical journey of the Kabbalah, the Land was linked symbolically to the last stage of the interior descent into the self, and was identical with the divine Presence the Kabbalist discovered in the ground of his being. The Land was thus fundamental to Jewish identity. However practical their approach, Zionists recognized that no other land could really “save” the Jews and bring them psychic healing. Peretz Smolenskin (1842-95), who was bitterly opposed to the rabbinic establishment, was convinced that Palestine was the only possible location for a Jewish state. Leo Pinsker (1821--91) was only converted to this idea slowly, and against his better judgment, but he finally had to admit that the Jewish state had to be in Palestine.
Theodor Herzl had nearly lost the leadership of the Zionist movement at the Second Zionist Conference in Basel (1898) when he had suggested a state in Uganda. He was forced to stand before the delegates, raise his hand, and quote the words of the Psalmist: “Jerusalem, if I forget you, may my right hand wither!” Zionists were ready to exploit the power of this mythos to make their wholly secular and even Godless campaign a viable reality in the real world. That they succeeded was their triumph. But their endorsement of this mythical, sacred geography would be as problematic as ever when they tried to translate it into hard fact. The first Zionists had very little understanding of the terrestrial history of Palestine during the previous two thousand years; their slogan: “A land without a people for a people without a land!” showed a complete disregard for the fact that the land was inhabited by Palestinian Arabs who had their own aspirations for the country. If Zionism succeeded in its limited, pragmatic, and modern objective of establishing a secular Jewish state, it also embroiled the people of Israel in a conflict which, at this writing, shows little sign of abating.
the muslims of Egypt and Iran, as we have seen, had first experienced modernity as aggressive, invasive, and exploitative. Today Western people have become accustomed to hearing Muslim fundamentalists inveighing against their culture, denouncing their policies as satanic, and pouring scorn on such values as secularism, democracy, and human rights. There is an assumption that “Islam” and the West are quite incompatible, their ideals utterly opposed, and that “Islam” is at odds with everything that the West stands for. It is, therefore, important to realize that this is not the case. As we saw in Chapter 2, under the impetus of their own spirituality Muslims arrived at many ideas and values that are similar to our own modern notions.
They had evolved an appreciation of the wisdom of separating religion and politics and a vision of the intellectual freedom of the individual, and seen the necessity for the cultivation of rational thought. The Koranic passion for justice and equity is equally sacred in the modern Western ethos. It is not surprising, therefore, that at the end of the nineteenth century, many leading Muslim thinkers were entranced by the West. They could see that Europeans and Muslims held common values, even though the people of Europe had obviously moved on to fashion a much more efficient, dynamic, and creative society, which they longed to reproduce in their own countries.
In Iran, during the second half of the nineteenth century, a circle of intellectual thinkers, politicians, and writers were passionate in their admiration of European culture. Fathadi Akhundzada (1812--78), Malkum Khan (1833--1908), Abdul Rahim Talibzada (1834--1911), and Mirza Aqa Khan Kirmani (1853--96) were in some ways as rebellious as the Zionists.
They constantly clashed with the ulema, wanted to establish a wholly secular polity, and tried to use religion to effect fundamental change.
Like the Zionists, they believed that conventional faith--in their case, Shiism--had held the people back, put a brake on progress, and precluded the free discussion of ideas that had been so crucial to the Great Western Transformation. Kirmani was particularly outspoken. If religion was not practical, in his view, it was useless. What was the point of weeping over Husain, if there was no real justice for the poor?
While European learned men are busy studying mathematics, sciences, politics and economics, and the rights of man, in this age of socialism and struggle for the improvement of the conditions of the poor, the Iranian ulema are discussing problems of cleanliness and the ascension of the Prophet to heaven.
True religion, Kirmani insisted, meant rational enlightenment and equal rights. It meant “tall buildings, industrial inventions, factories, expansion of the means of communication, promotion of knowledge, general welfare, implementing just laws.” But, of course, Kirmani was wrong. Religion did none of these things; it was logos, rational thought, which addressed itself to these practical projects. The task of religion had been to provide these pragmatic activities with ultimate meaning. In one way, however, Kirmani was right when he accused Shiism of impeding progress. One of the tasks of conservative, premodern faith had been to help people accept the inherent limitations of their society and, if Iranians wanted to take a full part in the modern world, which was dedicated to progress, religion could no longer be allowed to do that. Islam would have to change. But how?