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    Archives for April 2021

    What Is “The Great Reset”?

    April 28, 2021 by Will Morrisey

    Klaus Schwab and Thierry Malleret: COVID-19: The Great Reset. Cologny: Forum Publishing, 2020.

     

     

    Written six months into the coronavirus pandemic, this book urges the use of the disease to accelerate the project variously known as ‘world government,’ ‘global governance,’ or ‘globalism’. Both authors are economists (the senior author no less than the executive chairman of the World Economic Forum); they keep their ultimate goal vaguely stated, but the end game is fairly obvious. More than three decades ago, I had a conversation with a young middle-management fellow who worked on Wall Street. He earnestly explained how the world would be much better off if executives of international corporations ruled it. Our authors are less blunt in their advocacy for a global oligarchy but it’s safe to say that that’s what they want.

    Their rhetorical strategy cannot be described as subtle. The pandemic is “our defining moment”; “many things will change forever.” Luckily, such “deep, existential crises” as this “favor introspection and can harbor the potential for transformation.” Indeed “people feel the time for reinvention has come.” What people? People like themselves, at least for starters, and what a heady thought that is: “A new world will emerge, the contours of which are for us to both imagine and draw,” now that “a fundamental inflection point in our global trajectory” has so happily occurred. How fundamental? Well, “Radical changes of such consequence are coming that some pundits have referred to a ‘before coronovirus’ (BC) and ‘after coronovirus’ (AC) era.” That would be fundamental, all right. One could almost say ‘messianic.’

    Past epidemics, notably the Black Death, have led to pogroms, wars, famines. Admittedly, this one “doesn’t pose a new existential threat,” as “whole populations will neither be exterminated nor displaced.” Nonetheless, “the pandemic is dramatically exacerbating pre-existing dangers that we’ve failed to confront adequately for too long,” the chief of which is “the partial retreat from globalization” seen in the rise of nationalism. The authors therefore undertake to show that the only cure for such a horror is a firm move towards internationalism, assuring their readers that “the possibilities for change and the resulting new order are now unlimited and only bound by our imagination, for better or for worse.” “We should take advantage of this unprecedented opportunity to reimagine our world, in a bid to make it a better and more resilient one as it emerges on the other side of this crisis.” “Better and more resilient” means (they assure us) “more egalitarian” not “more authoritarian,” with “more solidarity” not “more individualism,” “favoring the interests of the many” not “the few.” Exactly how the administrative rule of organizations like the World Economic Forum would make things more egalitarian, fraternal, and people-favoring has proved a puzzle for ‘progressives’ for the last two centuries or so. For the most part, our authors tiptoe around questions regarding the underlying political question: the regime they have in mind.

    Economists to the bone, they deploy textbook jargon in labeling the book’s three main topics: the “macro reset,” the “micro reset,” and “possible consequences at the individual level.” The “macro reset” consists of five categories: economic, social, geopolitical, environmental, and technological; it is noteworthy that “geopolitical” substitutes for political, which would bring up such messy problems of conflicting political regimes which rule sovereign countries.  Throughout the discussions of these categories they provide a “conceptual framework” which identifies “three defining characteristics of today’s world”: interdependence, velocity, and complexity. By “interdependence” they mean “the dynamic of reciprocal dependence among the elements that compose a system.” The “system” they have in mind is of course the world itself, which they liken to a cruise ship currently afflicted with a contagious disease spreading from cabin to cabin,” owing to “global governing failure.” By “velocity” they mean the “culture of immediacy” the Internet has wrought. Velocity engenders impatience, a time lag between events and the ability of rulers to react to them, and an overload of information that slows rulers’ decision-making still further. By “complexity” they mean “what we don’t understand or find difficult to understand”—the results of categories 1 and 2 combined with “non-linearity,” which means that “a change in just one component of a system can lead to a surprising and disproportionate effect elsewhere.” One might suppose that this would lead our authors to worry that “global governance” might well prove a hopeless task. One would be mistaken. For example, “Many Asian countries reacted quickly” to the pandemic “because they were prepared logistically and organizationally,” thanks to the previous SARS epidemic, to say nothing (which is exactly what they do say) about the lack of civil liberty under those many regimes. 

    How would global governance work? Planning, my boy, planning. In terms of economics, we already know that because “wars destroy capital while pandemics do not” economies rebound faster in the aftermath of wars, as people rebuild their cities and factories. When, at the beginning of the pandemic, “governments worldwide made the deliberate decision to shut down much of their respective economies”—a choice the authors endorse because a higher death rate would injure economic life even more—this caused “an abrupt and unsolicited return to a form of relative autarky, with every nation trying to move towards certain forms of self-sufficiency” at the cost of “a reduction in national and global output,” especially in such countries as the United States, where the ‘service sector’ (more seriously injured by policies of ‘social distancing’ than any other) provides 80% of the jobs. “Such a scenario will almost inevitably lead to a collapse in investment among business and a surge in precautionary saving among consumers, with fallout in the entire global economy through capital flight, the rapid and uncertain movement of large amounts of money out of a country, which tends to exacerbate economic crises.” Additionally, the pandemic will accelerate replacement of jobs with machines; while this normally boosts employment in the long run, the velocity of the current shift will lead to greater dislocations, especially among “low-income workers in routine jobs.” The rich may or may not get richer, but the poor will get poorer.

    Crucial to our authors’ ‘globalization’ argument is their need to link the global pandemic to another main ‘globalist’ talking point, climate change. Originally, internationalists advocated world government as a cure for war, but now that nuclear weapons have made world wars considerably less palatable to ambitious rulers, climate change has taken its place. “The deep disruption caused by COVID-19 globally has offered societies an enforced pause to reflect on what is truly of value. With the economic emergency responses to the pandemic now in place, the opportunity can be seized to make the kind of institutional changes and policy choices that will put economies on a new path towards a fairer, greener future.” This in turn “will require”—notice the imperative language—a “shift in the mindset of world leaders”—no longer merely statesmen—to “place greater focus and priority on the well-being of all citizens and the planet.” This means a concurrent shift in the “metrics” by which those “leaders” measure “progress”—specifically, a shift from emphasis on quantitative, material well-being measured by ‘gross domestic product’ (now much too gross and much too domestic—indeed, a form of “tyranny”) toward such ‘quality of life’ activities as “the care economy” (childcare, eldercare), education, and medicine. In keeping with the rhetoric of ‘progress,’ our authors identify “forward-looking countries” as those which “prioritize a more inclusive and sustainable approach to managing and measuring their economies, one that also drives job growth, improvement in living standards and safeguards the planet.” 

    This is all very well for countries that can afford it, our authors remark, but what about “emerging and developing economies”? “Most of them don’t have the fiscal space required to react to the pandemic shock.” This may well lead to a scenario that any respectable member of the World Economic Forum well might dread: politicians might push central banks into finance “major public projects, such as an infrastructure or green investment fund”—policies leading to huge financial deficits as governments give the banks’ money to their constituents and the consequent “uncontrollable inflation” as governments aim at paying for those expenditures with devalued money. Even in the affluent countries, politicians will be tempted to pursue such policies. If they occur in the United States the dollar itself—long the most trusted currency in the world and the lynchpin of the American economy as it has interacted with the rest of the world—could result in “a much reduced geopolitical role or higher taxation, or both” and more, the possible abandonment of the dollar as the world’s dominant currency. 

    “To a large extent, US global credibility also depends on geopolitics and the appeal of its social model.” Turning next to the “societal reset,” our authors cite the criticisms of governing institutions throughout the world, very much including the United States, and the exacerbation of social problems in the poorer countries. Countries that have fared better in the pandemic were (sure enough) those for whom “inclusivity, solidarity, and trust” are “core values.” In less hazy terms, that means “cost-effective and inclusive healthcare” systems, bureaucratic preparation, “rapid and decisive decisions,” and “citizens” (one would not wish to say ‘subjects’) who “have confidence in both the leadership and the information they provide” (not to be stigmatized as ‘propaganda’). Therefore, our authors rather breathlessly anticipate a “post-pandemic era” characterized by “massive wealth redistribution, from the rich to the poor and from capital to labor,” the “death knell of neoliberalism” which favors “competition over solidarity, creative destruction over government intervention and economic growth over social welfare.” “It is no coincidence,” they intone, “that the two countries that over the past few years embraced the policies of neoliberalism with most fervor—the US and the UK—are among those that suffered the most casualties during the pandemic.” Ah yes, the frightful Reagan and Thatcher: into the dustbin of History with them! “Massive social turmoil” is in the future of such malefactor societies, and they deserve it. 

    Help is on the way. “One of the great lessons of the past five centuries in Europe and America is this: acute crises contribute to boosting the power of the state.” This time, too, “governments will most likely, but with different degrees of intensity, decide that it’s in the best interests of society to rewrite some of the rules of the game and permanently increase their role,” “as happened in the 1930s.” They will move toward “a broader, if not universal, provision of social assistance, social insurance, healthcare and basic quality services” and toward “enhanced protection for workers and for those currently most vulnerable.” In particular, “the COVID-19 crisis has laid bare the inadequate state of most national health systems.” One might ask, “inadequate” for what? An worldwide emergency—that is, a thing by definition insusceptible to fully effective national responses. And what might meet such an international or global crisis other than “improved global governance”? Our authors hope that you will answer, “Nothing!” and take your bearings from precisely the global crisis instead of the routine national and even regional or local crises. 

    Hence their central “reset,” the “geopolitical reset.” In this century, “the determining element of geopolitical instability is the progressive rebalancing from the West to the East,” particularly the confrontation between the “rising power,” China, and the “ruling power,” the United States. The “progressive disengagement” of the United States from the world additionally causes countries which had relied on the United States for such “global public goods” as defense of sea lanes and counterterrorism “to tend to their own backyards themselves.” “The 21st century will most likely be an era devoid of an absolute hegemon”; “as a result, power and influence will be redistributed chaotically and in some cases grudgingly.”

    Economic globalization will continue, although the pandemic will slow and even reverse it for a time. Our authors instead maintain that economic globalization, political democracy, and the nation state are “mutually irreconcilable.” One of them will need to go, and it isn’t hard to anticipate which one they would like to kiss goodbye. “The rise of nationalism” is their bugbear, “global governance” their preference. As they define it, global governance isn’t exactly equivalent to a world government, at least not yet. Global governance is “the process of cooperation among transnational actors aimed at providing responses to global problems,” encompassing “the totality of institutions, policies, norms, procedures and initiative through which nation states try to bring more predictability and stability to their responses to transnational challenges”—an “effort bound to be toothless without the cooperation of national governments and their ability to act and legislate to support their aims.” That is, global government resembles the law of nations, except that “transnational actors” must seek to bring national actors into line with what transnationalists want to do. For this, the pandemic (added to climate change) may prove a useful crisis, as “COVID-19 has reminded us that the biggest problems we face are global in nature,” yet it hasn’t “triggered a set of measures coordinated globally,” but has instead done the opposite: “a stream of border closures, restrictions in international travel and trade introduced almost without any coordination, the frequent interruption of medical supply distribution and the ensuing competition for resources.” “In a functioning global governance network, nations should have come together to fight a global and coordinated ‘war’ against the pandemic” but the existing system “failed, proving either non-existent or dysfunctional.” Alas, the authors sigh, “the United Nations organization has no power to compel information sharing or enforce pandemic preparedness.” 

    You can tell that a contemporary political writer is getting desperate when he reaches for analogies to quantum mechanics. Supposedly, the quantum mechanics model teaches us that when it comes to political principles and regimes, “there isn’t a ‘right’ view and a ‘wrong’ view, but different and often diverging interpretations that frequently correlate with the origin, culture, and personal history of those who profess them.” That is, nature as seen through the lens of quantum mechanics yields moral and cultural relativism in world politics. You may “think that observation and measurement define an ‘objective’ opinion, but the micro-world of atoms and particles (like the macro-world of geopolitics) is governed by the strange rules of quantum mechanics in which two different observers are entitled to their own opinion (this is called a ‘superposition’: ‘particles can be in several places or states at once’).” Therefore, “a ‘Chinese’ view and a ‘US’ view can co-exist, together with multiple other views along that continuum—all of them real!” 

    What an entertaining sophistry! I exclaim, demonstrating that I too can deploy exclamation points. If nation-states are like subatomic particles, then they too should be capable of being in several places or states at once. But they’re not. A nation-state has borders over which it is sovereign. Those borders may change but they scarcely act as subatomic particles act, or seem to act, depending upon the position of the observer. What our authors could argue to make their argument coherent, if still dubious, is this: habits of mind and heart generally shared in one regime—or, more broadly, in one civilization—often differ radically from habits of heart and mind generally shared in another; the differences between those sets of habits may differ so radically that citizens or subjects within those regimes may form far different opinions concerning moral and political phenomena. Their divergent opinions are indeed equally ‘real’ in the sense that they are sincerely and deeply held. This reality must be taken into account by statesmen—sorry, ‘global leaders.’ But that doesn’t mean that “two different observers are entitled to their own opinion.” It only means that each does in fact have one.

    As with almost every political appeal to moral or cultural relativism, our authors’ quantum-mechanics jive covers their own political agendum. Sure enough, a few pages after instructing us on modern physics’ correlation to political science we read: “Wealthier countries ignore the tragedy unfolding in fragile and failing countries at their peril.” A consistent quantum mechanist in politics would add, “or not.” But now our authors have discovered themselves entitled to make such judgments despite their self-alleged incapacity to do so.

    Indeed, they insist on it. Both the pandemic and climate change amount to “existential threats to humankind”—objectively speaking, in their opinion. They share five attributes: first, “they are known…systemic risks that propagate very fast in our interconnected world and, in so doing, amplify other risks from different categories; second, “they are non-linear, meaning that beyond a certain threshold, or tipping point, they can exercise catastrophic effects” regionally or globally; third, “the probabilities and distribution of their impacts are very hard, if not impossible to measure”; fourth, and crucially for the ‘globalist’ argument, “they are global in nature and therefore can only be properly addressed in a globally coordinated fashion”; fifth, “they affect disproportionately the already most vulnerable countries and segments of the population.” Finally, both are tied to worldwide population growth, as crowding facilitates viral contagion and larger populations expend more of the pollutants that are said to contribute significantly to global warming. To combat both, “it will be incumbent on us all to rethink our relationship with nature and question why we have become so alienated from it.”

    I can answer that last one. We have become alienated from nature because nature can be harsh, with or without global warming. The same science that has theorized quantum mechanics was inaugurated as an effort to conquer nature for the relief of man’s estate—deemed to be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short by one of modern science’s earliest advocates. One need not take so extreme a view, or project so optimistic a solution, to see the point. 

    But to return to our authors. They propose four main preliminary approaches to these troubles. “Enlightened leadership” will “make ‘good use’ of the pandemic by not letting the crisis go to waste.” They “may want to take advantage of the shock inflicted by the pandemic to implement long-lasting and wider environmental changes”—clearly the intention behind this book. They will emphasize that “we ignore science and expertise at our peril”; that is, we should be more compliant with policies proposed and enforced by people like our authors. This means we must change our “behavior,” acknowledging that we have “no choice but to adopt ‘greener living.'” We should applaud “the motivation for change” which has been “emboldened” by the pandemic, “trigger[ing] new tools and strategies in terms of social activism.” How those “tools” differ from those familiar to anyone who recalls the ‘Movement’ politics of the 1960s remains unclear. However, unlike many on the old New Left, and many in the environmentalist movement, our authors would have us embrace technology, especially contact. But will technology turn into a tool of social and political oppression, as it has done in many of those regimes whose ‘points of view’ (we’ve been assured) are entitled to their own opinions? “It is for those who govern and each of us personally to control and harness the benefits of technology without sacrificing our individual and collective values and freedoms,” they intone, neglecting to suggest how they, and we, might go about doing that. They hurry on to the next level, the “Micro Reset.”

    Our authors define “micro” institutions as those governing business and industry. The message is simple: Get on board, or fail. Forget about “a return to business as usual. This won’t happen because it can’t happen.” For capitalists, “the key issue will be to find the apposite balance between what functioned before and what is needed now to prosper in the new normal.” More specifically, this means accelerating the trend toward “stakeholder capitalism,” a term that evidently denotes not simply concern for the demands of consumers and of workers but for the those of climate change activists, advocates of “gender diversity,” and similar groups self-classified as proponents of social justice (typically defined as social egalitarianism). “The pandemic leaves no doubt in boardrooms that the absence” of such considerations “has the potential to destroy substantial value and even threaten the viability of a business” through the “reputational cost” of lawsuits and boycotts. “The ‘price’ of not doing so will be too high in terms of the wrath of activists, both activist investors and social activists.” If sufficiently frightened by the scarecrow of activism, capitalists too can be deployed in cooperation with rather than in opposition to the global governors; both ‘sides’ will work (intentionally or not) at the service of globalists.

    As Tocqueville taught his readers nearly two centuries ago, such ‘intermediate’ institutions as townships and counties can inhibit the ambitions of statist centralizers and maintain the spirit of liberty among citizens. On the level of globalism, nation-states serve that function, but so do many capitalist institutions, cities, and universities. Our authors therefore applaud what they take to be the likelihood of de-urbanization in the pandemic’s wake, as companies shift their employees from working in offices to working at home. This will result in “far fewer tenants to rent empty office buildings,” “puncturing the global real estate bubble that [has] been years in the making” and bringing much of the residential real estate market in cities down with it. Same for universities (“particularly the expensive ones in the Anglo-Saxon world”): they, too, “will have to alter their business model or go bankrupt because COVID-19 has made it obsolete.” Why pay “the same high tuition for [the] virtual education” to which universities have resorted? Sure, the online model of education, or some hybrid form resulting from mating it with in-person education, “has the disadvantage of erasing a large aspect of social life and personal interactions on a campus.” Too bad, but that’s the way it will be. The noteworthy, if unstated, theme here is ‘divide and conquer.’ The fewer social “interactions” at work and at school and the more social life becomes ‘virtual.’ the less real resistance to global governance there can be. Traditional institutions capable of resisting globalism will weaken, and flash mobs organized by online agitators won’t stand up for long against well-organized, trained law enforcement officers—especially if they learn to talk the talk of ‘diversity’ and ‘inclusion’ which are becoming the (largely rhetorical) price of doing real business.

    Finally, the “individual reset.” Whereas natural disasters usually “bring people together,” pandemics “drive them apart.” “Psychologically, the most important consequence of the pandemic is to generate a phenomenal amount of uncertainty that often becomes a source of angst,” then shame, as we hesitate to step up and help one another for fear of infection. “Often, the fear of death ends up overriding all other human emotions.” Fueled by such fear, false rumors and conspiracy theories erode social trust. But this too is only one more crisis not to be wasted, as it invites a debate over what the common good is. For example, in the United States and Britain—those two bastions of the ‘neoliberalism’ our authors earlier scorned—there are persons who argue that recessions kill people as surely as diseases do, and that governments should not be too quick to shut down economic activity in an attempt to control the coronavirus. Ah, yes, our authors riposte, “in the US, recessions do indeed kill a lot of people because the absence of limited nature of any social safety net makes them life-threatening.” And so we are left with what is “ultimately a moral choice about whether to prioritize the qualities of individualism or those that favor the destiny of the community.” Individuals, too, stand in the way of global governance. Community “destiny” ‘must’—as a matter of both historical and moral necessity—take precedence. From complacency about social life in workplaces and schools, our authors now veer toward an endorsement of sociality. “We are social animals for whom the many minor and often nonverbal clues that normally occur during physical social interactions are vital in terms of communication and mutual understanding”; without such communicative clues, our brain is “simply overwhelm[ed], and “we get the feeling of being drained of energy and left with a sense of profound dissatisfaction,” which “in turn negatively affects our sense of mental well-being.” This points to a “reset” of sociality, away from workplaces and schools—let alone the civil associations of self-government Tocqueville admired in America—towards a bureaucratized society, its global governors well out of the reach of its subjects, in which sociality is somehow experienced through government-sponsored social welfare programs. It will be called a worldwide ‘social democracy’ but it will be a socialist oligarchy. 

    In preparation for this new order, ‘we’ shouldn’t let the crisis go to waste. “Offering as it did the gifts of more time, greater stillness, more solitude (even if an excess of the latter sometimes resulted in loneliness), the pandemic provided an opportunity to think more deeply about who we are, what really matters and what we want, both as individuals and as a society.” Alone, we can undergo a “period of enforced collective reflection”—a very fine turn of phrase, indeed, for connoisseurs of adroit self-contradiction. And what shall ‘we’ think about? Our authors stand ready with helpful suggestions: “Do we know what is important? Are we too selfish and overfocused on ourselves? Do we give too great a priority and excessive time to our career? Are we slaves to consumerism?” Having already pointed us toward their preferred answers, Mssrs. Schwab and Malleret hit their ‘environmentalist’ key: “One clear message has emerged from this: nature is a formidable antidote to many of today’s ills.” “Nature makes us feel good.” Very well then, as the Sixties Left once insisted, ‘If it feels good, do it.’ Forward with global governance in the name of climate protection.

    “We need to change; we should change. But can we?” “Simply put, will we put into motion the Great Reset?” The Great Reset is “about making the world less divisive, less polluting, less destructive, more inclusive, more equitable and fairer than we left it in the pre-pandemic era.” And what can ‘we’ do to effect this consummation so devoutly to be wished? “The absolute prerequisite for a proper reset is greater collaboration and cooperation within and between countries.” Without “shared intentionality” to “act together towards a common goal” we “simply cannot progress.” In the face of the prospect of a world “even more divided, nationalistic and prone to conflicts than it is today,” ‘we’ have “an opportunity to embed greater societal equality and sustainability into the recovery, accelerating rather than delaying progress towards the 2030 Sustainable Development Goals and unleashing a new era of prosperity.” For those so benighted as not to know what the “Goals” are, suffice it to say that they were adopted by the United Nations in 2015 (during the Obama administration) and center on the rather ambitious goal of ending poverty in the world.

    Our authors are confident that this can be done because “a multitude of surveys conclude that we collectively desire change,” including “international surveys finding that a large majority of citizens around the world want the economic recovery from the corona crisis to prioritize climate change and to support a green recovery.” Quite apart from the question of how effective wishful thinking is likely to be, this raises a problem our authors do not consider. What “international survey” of public opinion could register public opinion in, say, China, Russia, or any of the other illiberal oligarchies? And if regimes still matter, where does that leave the claim that all ‘opinions,’ like all subatomic particles, are entitled to vibrate with equal velocity? And if they are, where does that leave this rather dodgy ‘we’ for which our authors so confidently speak?

    Filed Under: Nations

    The First Epistle of John

    April 21, 2021 by Will Morrisey

    John the Apostle: The First Epistle

     

    This letter exemplifies the Apostle’s pastoral care. He writes out of a concern about false teachers, offering not a formal rebuttal of their doctrines but nonetheless intending to protect Christians from their teachings—encouraging them to live according to orthodoxy, right opinion. John evidently writes to no specific church (as Paul usually does); this is rather a circular letter, one intended to be copied and ‘sent around’ to a number of Christian congregations. 

    Commentators often write that the specific unorthodox, wrong opinion that concerns John is Docetism, which claimed that Jesus only appeared to have taken physical shape, that he remained a pure spirit who gave his witnesses the illusion of bodily life. This would make sense of John’s initial insistence on the physical reality of Jesus: “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, of the Word of life” (I.i)—that is, God incarnate, whom we heard, saw, felt—this is the Person John invokes. “From the beginning” refers to the opening words of John’s Gospel, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God and the Word was with God.” With Jesus Christ, that Word has “become flesh,” living among the Apostles; “the life was manifested” (I.ii).

    Because the Word of life has been manifested in the living Person of Jesus, “we have seen it, and bear witness, and show unto you that eternal life, which was with the Father” (I.ii). “We,” John, serve as the living witness of the living Word, that which has existed from the beginning, the Archē, the origin that gave form to the heavens and the earth. It is significant that John associates two of the three ways in which he has known God with his own physical organs, but not the first way. He saw Jesus with his eyes; he felt Jesus with his hands. He does not mention that he heard Jesus with his ears, only that he heard Him. He not only heard God but he believed the Word that he spoke, which is an operation of the mind. It is the mind, which apprehends and believes that Word; the mind is more important than any sense perception. ‘Seeing is believing’ but what you see isn’t always what you get; you may be looking at a mirage. What you feel is solid, physically real, but it (pace Machiavelli) it tells you nothing. Only words can convey the Word.

    This leads to a problem, however. What of the believers who never heard, saw, or felt God? How are they to believe?

    “That which we have seen and heard declare we unto you, that you also may have fellowship with us: and truly our fellowship is with the Father, and with his Son Jesus Christ (I.iii.).” What I, John, have witnessed, I now witness, declare, testify to you. As Jesus passed the Word to me, so I pass it on to you. I do so in order that you may have fellowship with me, be like-minded, alike in spirit, as I had fellowship with Him, Father and Son. “And these things write we unto you, that your joy may be full” (I.iv.). His written words bring assurance of the spoken Word, itself written down by the apostles who heard Him. The telos or purpose of writing these words expressing that Word is to bring your joy to fulfillment, your joy in salvation.

    What is the substance of that Word? And why should it bring you joy—that is, what is He saving you from? “This then is the message which we have heard of him, and declare unto you, that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all” (I.v). The message of the Word transmitted now to you, in writing, comes first in a metaphor, in “light,” as indeed in the beginning there was not only the Word of God, as the Gospel of John says, but the light, as the Book of Genesis says. “If we say that we have fellowship with him, and walk in darkness, we lie, and do not the truth” (I.vi). Without light you cannot see where you are walking, cannot follow the true way which the light illuminates for us. As the culmination of the acts of creation which began with the words, “Let there be light,” the good of the human being, which alone brings him joy, must follow that way of life, that regime of God, or else it will stumble and fall into misery. False words, lies, darken the mind; they contradict the words which convey the Word, which rightly guides our actions. “If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin” (I.vii). The life-blood of God is the only kind of blood that cleanses; all other kinds of blood leave a stain. But a sacrifice aims at cleansing, and that was the effect of the sacrifice Jesus made on the Cross, for those who attend to His words and walk in the way they map out for human beings, for their good and their joy in attaining it.

    However, “if we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (I.viii). If our own words, our own testimony before one another and before God, claims sinlessness for ourselves, we lack self-knowledge. The truth is not in us. But sin is. By so speaking, remaining in the sin we refuse to admit in words, we sever the bonds of true fellowship with God and with each other. We don’t ‘enlighten’ ourselves, when it comes to our sins; only God can do that, although we can turn our backs on Him and walk some other way, exile ourselves from His regime. The truth that the light illuminates is that when we deny that we sin we ‘have’ sin, whether we say we do or not. We testify against ourselves. Speech is the bond of all communities. Speak falsely and you break the bond, dissolve the community, by ruining the trust truthful words establish.

    Nevertheless, “if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (I.ix). That is, if we do have the truth in us, if the light that is God does illuminate our minds and hearts, and if we confess, speak out, use words to speak the truth about ourselves, to say that we have sins, God will cleanse us of them. He does this because, first of all, His actions never contradict His words; he is faithful to His covenants with His people, including his guarantee to save those souls who put their trust in Him with respect to their salvation. He is also just, a fair-dealer, not one to betray the trust souls who trust Him. When it comes to wrong acts, justice can inflict punishment but it can also seek the rehabilitation of the criminal. God is just in both ways. His fidelity and His justice lead him to forgive our sins; not only has He said He would do so, He knows us to be incapable of cleansing ourselves from our sins, needing His grace, His sacrifice, on our behalf to make us worthy of fellowship with Himself and with one another. Is there a difference between “sins,” which we have, and “unrighteousness,” which can be removed? There might be, in the sense that ever-sinful human beings might still follow the light along the right way, within the regime, the Kingdom, of God. It will be the written words of God, and the fellowship with other members of God’s regime—here, one of the Apostles—that we may become more mindful of that way, winning our consent to return to it when we walk off its boundaries. 

    If, rather, “we say that we have not sinned, we make Him a liar, and His word is not in us” (I.x). By denying that we commit sins we accuse God, pretending that He violates His own commandment against false testimony. This reverses the right relationship of judge and those judged. We then commit injustice; we then commit infidelity to God, to one another, and to ourselves as individuals. We have lost our self-knowledge as creatures of God, rightly ruled by Him by the light that is His Word, as conveyed by His words and those Spirit-guided writers who have set it down for us to read, long after their bodies, and Jesus’ body, departed from the earth, where we can no longer hear, see, our touch them.

    John calls his addressees “my little children” (II.i), recalling the theme of transmitting the Word, this time not through space but through time. He is their father inasmuch as he brings the words of the Son who followed His Father to the apostles. In commanding them “that ye sin not” (II.i), John exercises paternal authority, paternal wisdom, and paternal care. Knowing that human beings will commit sins despite the divine commands, he reminds them of divine grace; “if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous” (II.i), a defense attorney in the divine court. As members of God’s regime, before its court, the unrighteous have a righteous defender, one on whom we can rely, one who won’t betray us even when we unrighteously betray the Father.

    More than an advocate, Jesus Christ is “the propitiation for our sins”—the appeaser of the Father’s anger at us, the unrighteous. He took the penalty of God’s wrath upon Himself for us, an act by which the Father showed us His own graciousness, having sent His Son for that purpose. And not for the sins of the members of the Father’s regime, the sons in the Father’s family, did Jesus become the Christ; he did this “also for the sins of the whole world” (II.ii). All human beings are invited to become members of God’s regime and family.

    “And hereby we do know that we know him, if we keep his commandments” (II.iii). That is, we have self-knowledge but also knowledge of our fellows as members of God’s regime, His family, by obeying our acknowledged Ruler, by ‘being ruled’ in accordance with His commands. We know Him by knowing His mind, His stated intentions; to be laws, commands must not only be thought but promulgated. “He who saith, I know him, and keepeth not his commandments, is a liar, and the truth is not in him” (II.iv); saying must not only match doing, doing must match saying. “But whoso keepeth his word, in him verily”—truly and verifiably—is “the love of God perfected: hereby know we that we are in him” (II.v). 

    As the saying goes, What’s love got to do with it? God issued His laws out of love, as a parent does in commanding a child ‘for your own good.’ God’s love is perfected when those He loves do what is best for them. In obeying God’s commands we prove not to Him (who knows us already) but to ourselves (prone to self-deception at least as much as deception of others) that we are “in” Him; even more firmly and intimately than as consenting subjects of a regime or obedient children in a family, we are members of His body. And like members of a body, we move with that body. “He that saith he abideth in him ought himself also so to walk, even as he walked” (II.vi). Jesus walked in the way of His Father, the way of life set down by the Father’s commands, including His laws, part of the righteous order of His regime, His family. 

    John then addresses not “little children” but “brethren”—fellow Christians in their status as more nearly equal to himself, not as persons obligated to obey commands but as persons receiving commands. “I write no new commandment unto you,” he assures them, “but an old commandment which ye had from the beginning,” “the word which ye have heard from the beginning” (II.vii). God commands have always prohibited sinful acts. In this sense, we are under no new regime, with no new purpose, issuing no new commands. The Son faithfully obeys the laws of the Father, and so commands us to do.

    However, it is also “a new commandment I write you, which thing is true in him and in you: because the darkness is past, and the true light now shineth” (II.viii). The Word is new in the sense of a renewal. Israel has been the light unto the nations—outside them, beckoning them. Now, the regime and family of God have been extended to the nations; it is now in them, insofar as some among ‘the Gentiles’ have consented to God’s rule and therefore to the true ‘way.’ Love rules from ‘inside’.

    As the ‘spirit’ of God’s lawful commands, agapic love animates not only the relationship of God and man but the relationships among men themselves. “He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is in darkness until now. He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him. But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in darkness, and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness hath blinded his eyes.” (II.ix-xi). Light permits knowledge; agapic love enable the mind to direct our ‘steps’ rightly along the ‘way’ of God’s regime, whereas hatred of fellow citizens blocks the light, prevents the hater from knowing not only the way but the destination the way leads, God’s purpose in setting down His way.

    John now discloses his own purpose in writing this letter. Insofar as he writes to them as “little children,” he wants them to know that their “sins are forgiven you for his name’s sake”—one’s “name” being one’s reputation, and Jesus’ name being the Christ, the Savior (II.xii). The Father forgives your sins, your violations of the laws of His regime, in faithfully upholding the purpose for which He sent the Son, a purpose announced in his “name,” his title within the Father’s regime, his reputation. Rulers depend upon their reputation, and the Father upholds his son’s reputation just as Jesus upheld the reputation of His Father. As “little children” they have “known the Father” (II.xiv), understood his intention in sending His Son to take the acts that have enabled the Father to forgive them, thanks especially to the Son’s words on the Cross, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

    John writes to his correspondents as “fathers” or his equals insofar as they too have “known [God] from the beginning” (II.xiii). Some commentators identify the “little children” as new believers, particularly new Christians, and the “fathers” as the mature believers and/or perhaps as Jewish believers as distinct from Gentile converts.

    Finally, he writes to “young men,” who have “overcome the wicked one,” the ‘Satan’ or ‘enemy’ of God, His regime, His commands (II.xiv). Young men have strength. Insofar as they have shown strength in overcoming the one who would subvert God’s rule, the strength to resist sin, John’s addressees deserve their own good reputation, good standing in the regime of righteousness founded by God.

    In their strength or ‘youth’ the citizens need encouragement and continued right direction. “Love not the world,” John tells them, “neither the things that are in the world” (II.xv). “If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him” (II.xv). Why not? Because “all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world” (II.xvi). Lust is love misdirected, love directed away from the Father, the Creator of the world, toward the world He created. It is love unworthy of a human being, whom God made capable—alone among the creatures of the earth—of loving the true Ruler of the world. “The world passeth away; and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever” (II.xvii). The Creator-God is eternal, unlike the world He created. Love of the eternal, being godly or God-given, is also eternal, unlike the love of flesh, love of the visible, love that comes through the eyes and not through the ears. Although the apostles saw and touched Jesus, they loved Him as the Word of God, loved Him insofar as He told them things lastingly meaningful to their ‘hearts’—that is, their minds and their sentiments as perceivers of the invisible, the things that can only be heard, not seen or touched like bodies which, for all their beauty, are dumb.

    Addressing his correspondents again as “little children”—as knowers of God, as sinning members of His regime who understand nonetheless that their sins are forgiven—John reminds them of something else “ye have heard,” something about the wicked one, the enemy, whom they have overcome in their capacity as “young men.” “Ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now there are many antichrists,” many enemies of God and His regime (II.xviii). By this, “we know that it is the last time” (II.xviii). 

    The antichrists “went out from us, but they were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would no doubt have continued with us: but they went out, that they might be made manifest that they were not all of us” (II.xix.). That is, although they behaved like ‘missionaries,’ the antichrists had the opposite intention: subtracting from instead of adding to God’s family or regime. They are ‘expatriates’ and, worse than that traitors, pretended citizens and brethren who were never truly such. They did not partake of the spirit of God’s ecclesia or assembly. Whereas Jesus made manifest the Word of God, the antichrists make manifest the wrong word, the wrong teaching, the anti-Christian word. To put it in terms of the American regime, it is as if a legal citizen of the United States were to renounce the principles of the Declaration of Independence, maintaining that all men are not created equal with respect to their unalienable rights.

    By contrast, the remaining true Christians “have an unction from the Holy One, and ye know all things” (II.xx). “Unction” means authorization; specifically, it refers to the anointing of the new monarch’s head with an oil that symbolically confers supreme authority. For Christians, this authorization by the Holy Spirit confers knowledge of “all things,” meaning all things needed for salvation from the many other ‘regimes’ that enforce anti-Christian principles. Therefore, “I have not written unto you because you know not the truth, but because you know it, and that no lie is of the truth” (II.xxi). If Jesus embodies the Logos and if the Holy Spirit enters into the souls of Christians, conveying that Logos and anointing them with its authority, then logos or reason, thought governed by the principle of non-contradiction, rules out lies, any ‘word’ that contradicts the truth of God.

    “Who is a liar but he that denies that Jesus is the Christ?” (II.xxii). This is the premise of John’s logical argument, founded on the Logos and on logos, that he who denies the Christhood of Jesus denies the truth, contradicts the truth. “He is antichrist”—against the true claim that Jesus is the Christ—who “denies the Father and the Son” (II.xxiii). And therefore “whoever denies the Son, the same has not the Father: but he that acknowledges the Son has the Father” (II.xxiii). Father and Son constitute a family; logically, there can be no father without a son (or daughter) and no son (or daughter) without a father. To deny the Son-hood, the Christhood, of Jesus is to deny his true title to rule, effectively denying the Father whose intention it was to send His Son to embody His supremely authoritative commands, His Word, to human beings.

    The Holy Spirit, conveying the Word or commands of God to those who became Christians, following the Word that Jesus as Christ embodied “abides” within the souls of Christians. John commands Christians to keep “that which you have heard from the beginning,” God’s Word, the founding declaration of God’s family and regime, within themselves, within their minds and hearts (II.xxiv). Let that authoritative and authorizing Word “remain in you”; if you do, “you also shall continue in the Son, and in the Father” (II.xxiv). You will have within yourselves the Holy Spirit, the mind and heart, of God as Father, God as Son.

    Why should I want the Holy Spirit within me? Because God’s commands include His covenant with us, and that covenant entails “the promise he has promised us, even eternal life” (II.xxv). All other covenants are ‘worldly,’ temporary. They can be tempting to ‘sign on’ to, but, John says, “I have written unto you concerning [these things] that seduce you,” deceive you (II.xxvi)—perhaps more precisely, things that would deceive you if you had not the Holy Spirit to remind you of the truth. “The anointing which you have received of Him abides in you, and you need not that any man teach you: but as the same anointing teaches you of all things, and is truth, and is no lie, and even as it has taught you, you shall abide in Him” (II.xxvii). The authority-granting anointing also granted the knowledge that authorizes right rule, since it was an anointing by the Holy Spirit, who knows all that is needful for salvation, for eternal life in the best regime.

    Since the Holy Spirit ‘enrolls’ members of God’s family and regime invisibly, how are we to know who is a brother, who is a fellow-citizen? Partly by the words they speak but mostly by their actions: “If you know that [God] is righteous, you know that every one that does righteousness is born of him” (II.29).

    In the third chapter of his letter John discusses more precisely the character of that enrollment. We know God initially through hearing His Word. With this, we begin also to “behold”—to see—the “manner of love the Father has bestowed upon us,” the way of that love (III.i). Seeing is the use of the light of knowledge to know the way. We behold the way, the kind of love the Father’s love is, the love that makes us “sons of God” (III.i). This love is not erotic/desirous but agapic/graceful, an expression not of God’s need (He obviously has none) but of His care, His benevolence. He ‘adopts’ us into His family. As a consequence, “the world knows us not because it knew Him not” (III.i). The world did not recognize Jesus as the Christ, and therefore does not know Christians as sons of God, members of the ruling family.

    “Beloved, now we are the sons of God, and it does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see Him as He is” (III.ii). In this “last” time Jesus will appear, or reappear, this time “as He is”—knowable not only in hearing but in sight (III.ii). His transformation will cause a transformation in Christians, too; we shall, like God, “be what we shall be,” beholders of Christ as He is. A new sight, a new form of knowledge, transforms the seer, the knower. This will enable us to become more like Him, to increase our ‘family resemblance’ to Him. In the meantime, “Every man that has this hope in Him purifies himself, even as He is pure” (III.iii). 

    A Christian purifies himself, just as any obedient son or law-abiding citizen makes himself ‘more like’ the other members of the family or the regime by steadily acting according to the rules of the family or regime. Steady acting brings habituation, ‘habits of mind and of heart’ that accord with the prescribed way of life. “Whosoever commits sin transgresses also the law; for in sin is the transgressing of the laws” (III.iv). ”Commitment’ here means ‘habituation,’ steadiness of action. Such a person habituates himself to the way, the path, of some other family, some other regime. 

    All human beings sin, just as all members of families and countries disobey the commands of the rulers, including their rules or laws. This doesn’t mean that they are no longer members of the family or the country but it does mean something must be done about them if the family or country is to survive. Christians “know that He was manifested to take away our sins, and in Him there is no sin” (III.v). By that visible act, the sinless Ruler demonstrated Himself ready to redeem or forgive the sins of the ruled, forgive transgressions of the commands He issued to them. He will not forgive the transgressions of those who have renounced His regime altogether. 

    Insofar as Christians “abide in Him” they “sin not”; those who sin—sin habitually—show by their actions that they “have not seen Him, neither known Him” (III.vi). In the Gospel of John XV.iv Jesus tells His disciples, “Abide in Me and I will abide in you.” Abiding means staying; “in” suggests a very close, intimate bond between Ruler and ruled. It is a condition that points from being a family member by adoption toward being a family member by birth, being ‘born again.” 

    Hence John commands, “Little children, let no man deceive you: he that does righteousness is righteous, even as He is righteous” (III.vii). The deceiver will induce you to go in the wrong direction, along the wrong path or way. “He that commits sin is of the devil; for the devil sinneth from the beginning” (III.viii); the devil rebelled against God’s regime and has sought to add to the body of those ruled by him. Because this happened, God “manifested” His Son, “that he might destroy the works of the devil,” redeem those caught in the devil’s regime. Here the metaphor of birth appears: “Whosoever is born of God does not commit sin; for [God’s] seed remains in him; and he cannot sin, because he is born of God”; there is no sin in his ‘DNA,’ as it were (III.ix). The human being who abides in God and in whom God abides may think or behave in contradiction to this nature but it is still his nature. This is the strongest family bond of all, analogous to biological inheritance in being ineradicable so long as the human being exists. According to God’s covenant, that life will be eternal.

    Visually perceptible acts of righteousness express invisible agapic love. “For this was the message that you heard from the beginning, that we should love one another” (III.xi) as children of God and therefore brothers in Christ. Cain remains the example of brother-murder. As one who abided “in the wicked one,” Cain murdered Abel because “his own works were evil, and his brother’s righteous” (III.xii). Brothers in blood, they were enemies in spirit, members of rival spiritual families. It is then no wonder that the world hates Christians, just as Cain hated Abel. “Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer; and you know that no murderer has eternal life abiding in him,” having opposed the regime of eternal life, just as the member of God’s family wants life for his brother. Far from killing his brother, the Christian will imitate Christ, “who laid down his life for us” (III.xvi). Those who shut themselves off from agapic love for a brother in need cannot be said to have “the love of God” abiding, dwelling, in him (III.xvii).

    The physical reality of Jesus and of His physical act of self-sacrifice are, then, decisive for knowledge of Him and of Christian conduct. “My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth” (III.xviii). That is how “we know we are of the truth, and shall assure our hearts before Him” (III.xix). Shifting back to the regime metaphor from the family metaphor, John envisions a court in which God judges us. “For if [or “whenever”] our heart condemns us” God “is greater than our heart, and knows all things” (III.xx). By overruling our just apparently self-condemnation, God exercises His superior knowledge not only of ourselves but of the spiritual order within which we exist. Given the agapic love manifested in this judicial act, we are rightly humbled and accepting of God’s rule. Further, “if our heart condemns us not, then we have confidence toward God. And whatsoever we ask, we receive of Him, because we keep His commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in his sight.” (III.xxi-xxii). As Christians, our hearts have the Holy Spirit abiding in them, aiding our self-knowledge and self-judgment. If what we intend and do pleases God, the Holy Spirit will so advise us. Sight being the way to perceive actions, God will see the right things we do, consistent with the promptings of His Spirit and the Word of His Son.

    What does God want us to do? “This is His commandment,” first, “that we should believe on the name of His Son Jesus Christ” and, second, that we should “love one another” (III.xxiii). “And he that keeps His commandments dwells in Him, and He in him. And hereby we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit which he has given us.” (III.xxiv). This teaching may be compared and contrasted with Aristotle’s definition of politics, which he finds first of all in the relationship of a husband and a wife. Husbands and wives rule and are ruled, in turn. This reciprocity in ruling is the model of the political life, in contrast with kingship (rule for the good of the ruled) and tyranny (rule for the good of the ruler). John understands God’s rule as a kingship, rule for the good of the ruled, but it is a kingship whose bond is remarkably ‘tight’ or intimate, inasmuch as God’s subject abide in Him, and He in them; more, God’s agapic rule secures the good of the ruled by knowing the defects, the sinfulness, of the ruled and by forgiving them, so long as they abide in Him, within His regime, unlike the ‘apostates’ or ‘traitors’ who reject God’s regime and enroll in the regime of the devil.

    At the beginning of the fourth section of his letter, John addresses a problem crucial to his argument, the problem of how to distinguish Christians from “antichrists.” After all, those who separate themselves from God’s assembly often claim that the assembly has gone wrong, that they are the true Church. We are leaving, come with us. “Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world” (IV.1). But how are we to test persons animated by a spirit that is invisible and, even if it were visible, hidden within their minds and hearts? The Signers of the American Declaration of Independence acknowledged that only God can judge “the rectitude of our intentions,” yet in some proximate sense human beings must ‘judge’ or assess the motives of those we encounter.

    Here, John writes, is how to “know…the Spirit of God” (IV.2). First, “every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God,” while those who deny this are animated by “the spirit of antichrist,” which “even now already is…in the world” (IV.3). You will know them by their words. Knowing them, you overcome them, you are not deceived by them, because Spirit of God is “greater” than “he that is in the world” (IV.4). The more you hear from them, they easier they are to recognize. “They are of the world: therefore speak they of the world, and the world hears them” (IV.5). The world wants to hear about itself, about its concerns, and the antichrists want the world to hear them. Christians, however “are of God: he that knows God hears us; he that is not of God hears not us” (IV.6). We can distinguish “the spirit of truth” from “the spirit of error” not only by the substance of the words we hear but by their effect, by noticing who it is that listens to what we say and who it is that listens to what they say.

    Beyond words, Christians can tell fellow Christians from antichrists by observing actions. “Beloved, let us love one another; for love is of God; and every one that loves is born and God, and knows God” (IV.7). Conversely, “he that loves not knows not God; for God is love” (IV.8). To know God is to know that He is love (which is not to say that love is God). A child shares the nature of his father; Christians are children of God; Christians share (some) of the nature of God (in modern terms, they will have love in their ‘DNA’). Such love is manifest to the Christian by looking within himself but, when considering others, into whose souls we cannot see, we see love or the lack of love in actions. This supreme example of this is God Himself, into whose mind and heart no one can see, but whose love “toward us” was “manifested,” made visible, “because that God sent his only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through Him” (IV.9). “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins” (IV.10). What kind of God do those who renounce the Church uphold?

    Logical arguments concerning practice or action typically contain ‘if/then’ clauses. If x, then y: y follows logically, necessarily, from x; there is no contradiction. “Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another” (IV.11). Since “no man has seen God at any time” insofar has he abides or dwells within us, our acts of love toward one another give evidence of that abiding, that indwelling (IV.12). Further “his love is perfected in us” (IV.12); that is, it reaches its telos, its purpose and culmination. Loving one another, and doing so increasingly, manifests by action the intentions of Christians, against which the intentions of antichrists can be measured. This is how we “know” and not merely guess that “we dwell in Him, and He in us, because He has given us of His Spirit” (IV.13). 

    Although we cannot see the work of God’s Spirit within anyone other than ourselves as individuals, but can only listen for it in their words and look for it in their intentions as these manifest themselves in loving actions, John himself has in fact “seen and do[es] testify that the Father sent the Son to be the Savior of the world” (IV.14), as stated in v. 9. In the face of that world, which doesn’t know it wants to be saved and consequently does not listen to Christians, “whosoever shall confess”—say out loud and act in a manner that follows logically from what we say—that “Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him, and he in God” (IV.15). This saying expresses what is inside us, that “we have known and believed the love that God has to us,” that the God who is love dwells or abides in us (IV.16). 

    It is that abiding or indwelling that perfects “our love,” so that “we may have boldness in the day of judgment; because as He is, so are we in this world” (IV.17). Human nature has its telos, the perfection of its natural powers of body and soul, and especially of its reason, which distinguishes our nature from that of other living species or ‘kinds’. Adam could be ‘tasked’ with naming the other species in Eden precisely because he could recognize differences among those ‘kinds,’ through his capacity to think according to the principle of non-contradiction, of reason. This capacity doesn’t save us from sinning, however, and therefore does not save us from the consequences of sin. For that, Jesus Christ’s sacrifice and the Holy Spirit’s indwelling alone suffice. Only through that sacrifice and that Spirit can we achieve our true telos, which is living with God under His regime in his ‘state’ or kingdom, which is Heaven.

    Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. We rightly fear God for the punishments He can inflict upon us if we depart from His regime, His way. But fear is not the end, the purpose, the telos, the perfection of wisdom. “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear: because fear has torment. He that fears is not made perfect in love.” (IV.18). We did not initiate this love; He did. Christians have only responded to that love, with ours, but ‘only’ is nonetheless all-important when it comes to salvation from the punishments we would otherwise rightly fear. 

    Returning then to the problem of testing, “If a man say, I love God, and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he that loves not his brother whom he has seen how can he love God whom he has not seen?” (IV.20). The test of genuine fidelity to God, the visible and audible test, is love of brother, love of neighbor. That is the part of agapic love Christians can witness in others, as distinct from the part of agapic love they can witness in themselves and witness or confess to others. Loving one’s brother—the audible, visible, touchable human being in front of me—is the command that follows, and logically follows from, the command to love God. “And this commandment have we from Him, that he who loves God love his brother also” (IV.21). God speaks to us in order to say what we must do, and God’s words themselves are also actions, as seen in the act of Creation, speaking the world into existence, and the act of Crucifixion, saving that part of the world that sees and listens to Jesus Christ from the ruin inherent in the regime of God’s enemy and that enemy’s allies, the antichrists.

    That is how can I can test others. How can I test myself? In that, I have a resource unavailable when I consider others: introspection. “Whosoever believeth that Jesus is the Christ is born of God: and every one that loveth him that begat loveth him also that is begotten by him” (V.1); if you love the Father, you love His Son. Alexis de Tocqueville wrote that “the great writers of antiquity,” being “part of an aristocracy of masters,” had difficulty conceiving of human equality. “It was necessary that Jesus Christ come to earth to make it understood that all members of the human species are naturally alike and equal.” [1] Christianity makes the idea of human beings’ equality before God ‘thinkable.’

    The consequence of this is to extend our love of the Son of God to all the sons of God. “By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and keep his commandments” (V.ii). Christians believe Jesus is the Christ, born of God; that belief is the foundation of their knowledge of our love of neighbor, a love commanded (as we know from His words) by Jesus as the Christ and the Son of God. The command we know, obeying because we believe the One who commanded it is who and what He said He is, is “not grievous” or heavy (V.3); we therefore have no excuse to disobey it. We find obedience to the command to be a light burden because whoever “is born of God overcometh the world: and this is the victory that overcometh the world, our faith” (V.4). The world, unloving and unfaithful, finds obedience to Jesus’ commands to love God and neighbor to be unbearable; strengthened by Holy Spirit, Christians do not find it so. “Who is he that overcometh the world, but he that believeth that Jesus is the Son of God?” (V.5). 

    Jesus overcame the world for whomever believes in his Savior as the Son of God. “This is he that came by water and blood, Jesus Christ; not by water only, but by water and blood” (V.6). Commentators dispute the meaning of “water,” many associating it with baptism and recalling that water and blood both flowed from Jesus side when a centurion pierced it with a spear as He hung on the Cross. Jesus also “came” by water when He walked on it, and he proved His mastery over water by calming the storm on the Sea of Galilee. These images recall water as the condition of the cosmos before God ordered it—fluid, chaotic. If blood symbolizes life, the giving of blood sacrificing life, water may mean the setting-apart of the one who is baptized with it, citizenship in God’s kingdom as holy or separate from the kingdoms of this world; insofar as water also symbolizes chaos, rule over it symbolizes the triumph of the Son of God, and through His grace the children of His household and kingdom, over the worldly kingdoms. John the Baptist was entitled to perform the ceremony of separation but only the Christ can both separate His children from the world and sacrifice His life in order to save their lives.

    Baptism and sacrifice are acts. How can we know what they signify? Only by the mind, the capacity for understanding both deeds and words. But human minds can err. What guarantees the truth of their interpretation? A  superior mind: “It is the Spirit that beareth witness, because the Spirit is truth” (V.6). A body can baptize; a body can bleed; only a mind can witness. “There are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Ghost; and these three are one” (V.7). The Word is Jesus, the Logos made flesh. In a court of law, it is better to have three witnesses to testify to the truth of actions than it is to have only one. The Trinity, the three ‘persons’ or personae of God, are three in one: God as Father/Lawgiver; God as Son/Savior (from the stern verdict based upon the Law); God as Holy “Ghost” or Spirit, as the One who enters the minds of Christians and guides them respecting the substance of their belief. The Spirit is the link between heaven and earth. “There are three that bear witness in earth, the Spirit, and the water, and the blood: and these three agree in one” (V.8). That is, baptism and sacrifice are outward evidences of Christian belief, whereas the Holy Spirit witnesses the minds of Christians, leading them to those right actions of separation from the world and sacrifice for the sake of ‘worldlings’ or subjects to the worldly regimes. In denying that Jesus came in the form of a physical body, Docetists could affirm baptism but denied the blood, the sacrifice, the Cross.

    Other men will see what we do, hear what we say, but “if we receive the witness of men, the witness of God is greater” (V.9); indeed, “he that believeth on the Son of God hath the witness in himself,” in the form of the Holy Spirit (V.10). To deny that witness is to make God “a liar,” inasmuch as God gave us his Word, the “record” of “his Son” (V.10). That record clearly states that God’s Son’s sacrifice of His life on earth gave us “eternal life” so far as we trust in Him at his word—Himself embodying as well as speaking that Word, a Word of God the Father and from God the Father. “He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life” (V.12). 

    In conclusion, John tells his correspondents that he has written to them as fellow Christians to reaffirm the knowledge of their salvation, knowledge founded on their belief “the name of the Son of God” (V.13). The name of the Son of God is Jesus, meaning ‘deliverer’ or ‘rescuer.’ To believe in His name is to believe that He is what His name indicates that He is. “This is the confidence that we have in him, that, if we ask any thing according to his will, he heareth us” (V.14). Hearing us, He will heed our requests, but especially our requests to “deliver us from evil,” as the Psalmist writes. For example, “If any man see his brother,” his fellow Christian, “sin a sin which is not unto death, he [the petitioning Christian] shall ask, and he [Jesus, the Christ] shall give him life” (V.16). Not so, the one who commits “a sin unto death: I do not say that he [the petitioning Christian] shall pray for it” (V.16]. If “all unrighteousness is sin,” what is the specific form of unrighteousness that is a sin unto death, a deadly sin? (V.16). There are, famously, seven deadly sins, but all who commit them may be redeemed. It may be that the sin unto death simply means a sin that a sinning brother Christian continues to commit until death; or John might be saying, even more simply, that prayers to redeem a sinner will not avail after his death. 

    Or is the sin unto death idolatry, disbelief in God? John lists three things Christians know, based on our belief in Jesus as Son of God and as the Christ. “We know that whosoever is born of God sinneth not” at least insofar as he remains cognizant of the water and the blood of his rescuer; the “wicked one,” Satan, “toucheth him not,” cannot claim him for his regime of ‘the world, the flesh, and the devil’ (V.18). We also “know that we are of God, and the whole world lieth in wickedness” (V.19). In actions, then, and also in ‘family’ or in ‘regime’ Christians are distinct from and opposed to the ‘family’ or ‘regime’ of Satan. They are safe, ‘saved,’ because Jesus overcame, conquered ‘the world’ by the water and the blood of the Cross. Finally, “we know that the Son of God is come, and hath given us an understanding, that we may know him that is true, and we are in him that is true, in his Son Jesus Christ” (V.20). This third thing Christians know is itself threefold: we know the Messiah, the Rescuer has come; we know He has given us “an understanding”—not only a set of facts but the meaning of those facts—and we are “in him,” within His Spirit, a spirit who is true in the sense of being real and true in the sense of being trustworthy. “This is the true God, and eternal life” (V.20). Therefore, “little children, keep yourself from idols,” from the untrue—gods who are false and untrustworthy, agents of the evil one whose name means ‘enemy.’ 

     

    Note

    1. Alexis de Tocqueville: Democracy in America. II.i.3.

     

     

    Filed Under: Bible Notes

    Telemachus at War, Preparing for Peace: Books XII-XVIII

    April 14, 2021 by Will Morrisey

    François de Salignac de la Mothe-Fénelon: Telemachus, son of Ulysses. Patrick Riley translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999.

     

    Telemachus has one virtue Minerva cannot give him: courage. Although she placed him under her aegis of protection, he doesn’t know that she has. After leaving Salente for the war, “he applied himself to gain the affection of the old commanders,” Nestor and Philoctetes (XII.198). Nestor treats him like a son, but Ulysses’ old enemy, Philoctetes has initial reservations before the young man’s moderation (another virtue Minerva can’t bestow) “at last overcame the resentment” (XII.199); he too begins to call Telemachus “my son,” explaining that “virtue, when it is gentle, genuine, modest, and unaffected, at last surmounts everything” (XII.199).

    The older man ventures to explain his “violent hatred against Ulysses” (XII.199). Philoctetes had been a companion of Hercules, the monster-slayer who in turn fell victim to Cupid, lacking Telemachus’ moderation. Hercules’ wife punished him for his infidelity by laying out a tunic soaked in the poisonous blood of the Hydra of Lerna. In severe pain, he built a funeral pyre and asked Philoctetes to light it. “I saw him once more through the flames, and he appeared as calm and serene as if he had been partaking with his friends of the mirth and delicacies of a feast, crowned with flowers, and scented with perfumes” (XII.201-02). By the grace of Jupiter, his immortal soul ascended to Olympus to drink nectar and to marry the goddess of youth. In return for the favor of lighting the pyre, Hercules had given Philoctetes arrows dipped in the Hydra’s blood; when, at Troy, the allied kings were advised by the oracle of Apollo that they could not win the war without the arrows of Hercules, they sent word-savvy Ulysses to persuade Philoctetes to bring them. Accidentally poisoned by one of the arrows, Philoctetes “suffered the same excruciating pain as Hercules had undergone”; “the whole army shuddered to see me in such horrible pain, and concluded that it was a punishment inflicted on me by the just gods” (XII.203). His friend, Ulysses, “was the first to abandon me” in his concern for the soldiers’ morale, “preferr[ing] the common interests of Greece and victory to the obligations of private friendship and decorum” (XII.203). But Philoctetes didn’t know Ulysses’ motive at that time, instead taking his action as “the most horrible barbarity, and the blackest treachery” (XII.203). 

    The Greeks needed those arrows. Ulysses and Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, came to beg for them. Philoctetus refused until Jupiter intervened, commanding him to give them up. Philoctetus survived the poisoning, cured by two sons of Esculapius, the god of medicine. He then returned to Troy, confronting Paris, whose seduction of Helen had triggered the war. “I slew Paris like a timorous fawn,” and Troy itself “was soon lain in ashes,” but “I still retained a great antipathy to the sage Ulysses” which even “his virtue could not overcome.” However, “my acquaintance with his son, who resembles him, and whom I cannot help loving, has softened my heart for the father himself” (XIII.212). Thus Telemachus’ first achievement in a camp of war is an act of peace. At times, as he listened to the story, “he appeared very thoughtful, like one meditating deeply upon the consequences of things” (XIII.212).

    The army broke camp, “marching in good order against Adrastus king of the Daunians, who despised the gods, and sought only to deceive mankind” (XIII.214). Telemachus finds it difficult to “manage so many kings who were jealous of one another,” and even his nobility, benevolence, and sincerity didn’t help, unleavened as they were by liberality, “gratitude for the kindnesses done him,” or a “desire to reward merit” (XIII.214). “His mother Penelope, in spite of Mentor, had cherished in him a haughtiness and pride that tarnished all his good qualities” (“he had been flattered by his mother from his infancy”); as a result, he “looked upon himself as of a superior nature to the rest of mankind,” whom he conceived as his divinely appointed servants (XIII.214). (It is conceivable that Fénelon as his own pupil, the future Louis XV, in mind, although the king himself had been over-indulged by his own mother, Anne of Austria, who filled him with her notions of absolutism founded upon the supposed divine right of kings.) “Full of a noble ardor,” Telemachus “could be curbed and governed by Mentor alone,” but Mentor is no longer with him (XIII.215). 

    He came into conflict with the Lacedaemonian king, Phalantus, who treated his advice with contempt and ridiculed him in the war council. He fights with Phalantus’ brother, Hippias, a “quarrelsome and brutal” man; thanks to Minerva’s intervention, Telemachus wins” (XIII.216). “With victory, wisdom again took possession of the heart of Telemachus,” regretting “the fault he had committed in thus attacking a brother of one of the allied kings”; he “recollected, with shame and confusion, the sage counsels of Mentor” and “blushed for his victory,” which was undeserved (XIII.217). Accordingly, when attacked in turn by Phalantus, enraged by defeat of his brother, Telemachus “thought of nothing but repairing his fault by showing moderation” after drubbing Phalantus in turn (XIII.217). “He recognized how unjust and unreasonable he was in being carried away; he found something, vain, weak, and low in this measureless and unjust haughtiness of his,” losing “all patience with himself and roar[ing] like a furious lion” (XIII.218). He aspires to moderation but cannot attain it. 

    Except in one important respect. Adrastus orders his forces to attack, his timing based on intelligence he had gathered by bribed members of the allied camp, who in their turn had overheard the two garrulous elders, Nestor and Philoctetes, as they discussed their battle plans. Having “from his infancy” habituated himself to concealing his thoughts from his mother’s importunate suitors, Telemachus “knew how to keep a secret,” and did. He warns his elders that “some knowledge of what had passed in council had spread into the camp,” but is ignored: “old age has no pliancy; chained down by inveterate habits, it has no resource against its own defects”; “youth is the only season when a man may hope to combat bad habits”—another likely glance at Bourbons old and young (XIII.218). 

    The chief traitor is Eurymachus, “an adventurer who had attached himself to Nestor,” feeding information to Adrastus, from whom he “had received large sums” (XIII.222). In the battle, Adrastus’ troops rout the allies and burnt their camp; even Phalantus “was no longer able to make a stand against the enemy” (XIII.225). Armed by Minerva in the person of Mentor, who had suddenly arrived, Telemachus intervenes. Recalling Homer’s description of Achilles’ shield, Fénelon describes the engravings on Telemachus’ armor: they depicted the triumph of Minerva over Neptune, who had offered the inhabitants of a newly-founded city an olive tree, “emblem of peace and plenty, much to be preferred to the devastation of war,” symbolized by the horse offered by Neptune; for this, the people named their city ‘Athens’ (XIII.225). Other images include a representation of Minerva “giving counsel to Jupiter himself” and aiding Ulysses by giving him the stratagem of the ‘Trojan horse.’ A final engraving showed the goddess Ceres teaching agriculture to savages in Sicily, converting the iron they had used for weapons into plows for tilling the soil. “Even wolves were seen playing among the sheep in their pastures, and the lion and tiger had forgot their fierceness,” frolicking with lambs—all a picture of the “happiness of the golden age” (XIII.226-27).  In this armor, Telemachus displays Minervan wisdom, launching a surprise attack on the Daunians, saving Phalantus from them. The gods allowed Adrastus to escape, since Telemachus needed to “encounter more hardships and disasters, to learn the better how to govern mankind” (XII.228). Visiting the wounded allied troops, Telemachus “could not, without shuddering, and feeling the deepest compassion, behold [them] still alive, and doomed to a lingering, painful death,” looking like sacrificial victims “whose flesh has been burnt upon the altars” (XIII.229). “‘Alas,’ said Telemachus, ‘see what horrible scenes war produces! How great is the blindness and infatuation of wretched mortals! As life is short and miserable, why will they still make it shorter?” (XIII.229). “Man alone, despite his reason, does what animals without reason never did,” preying upon their own species (XIII.229). Kings ought to be “cautious…about engaging in wars,” fighting them only when they are not only just but “necessary for the public good” (XIII230). As he visits the sick and dying, he wins the esteem of the troops for his compassion, for which (no longer the callow, arrogant man he had been) he thanks Minerva. As do his men, who credit the goddess for giving Telemachus ‘the most valuable gifts which the gods can confer upon men,” namely “wisdom, and a heart susceptible of friendship” (XIII.234). As Phalantus recovers from his wounds, he reconciles with Telemachus, who now rules the camp. Even his body has matured, hardened by the exercise of war, manly.

    For all his struggles, Telemachus seems no closer to finding his father. At the camp, preoccupied by day with plans for advancing upon and defeating the Daunians, he finds himself haunted at night by dreams of Ulysses in the Elysian Fields. He determines to venture into the Underworld, which courageous mortals may do without dying, as its entrance is in a physical place, Acheruntia, not far from where he is. Minerva prevails upon Pluto “to receive him favorably,” and Jupiter himself intervenes to guarantee his safe passage (XIV.240). 

    Once there, he first meets the ghost of a Babylonian king, the very type of an absolute monarch, who confesses that in life “no one dared to contradict me without being immediately punished”; “I pursued pleasures and amusements but never enjoyed tranquility” (XIV.242). “Perpetually agitated by new desires, by hope and fear,” he sought to deaden his heart “by continual dissipation and amusement,” as “the least intrusion of reason, or calm serious reflection, would have been too bitter” (XIV.243). “So saying, the Babylonian wept like a weak man debauched by prosperity, who, by never having experienced adversity, was incapable of supporting it” (XIV.243). 

    Telemachus also sees many “impious hypocrites who had pretended to love religion, but in reality made use of it only as a plausible pretext to gratify their ambition, and impose upon credulous men” (XIV.245). Not even children who murdered their parents or wives who murdered their husbands, or traitors “who had betrayed their country and violated every oath” suffered so much as these (XIV.245-46). 

    Having thus warned Louis XIV and Bossuet, respectively, Fénelon draws Telemachus’ attention to a good man—a “magnificent, liberal, just, and compassionate” man—who nevertheless would spend eternity in the Underworld because he “charged all [his] virtue to [his] own account and not to the gods, whose gift it was” (XIV.246). More, he practiced virtue “only for the reputation and advantage of it”; “the only divinity you adored was yourself” (XIV.247). “There is no true virtue without love and reverence for the gods, to whom all is due” (XIV.247), and in the Underworld “a divine light reveals the error of [men’s] superficial judgment; for those whom they admired are often condemned; and those whom they condemned, acquitted and justified” (XIV.247). “At these words, the philosopher was struck as with a thunderbolt, and could not support himself: the complacency with which he formerly contemplated his own moderation, fortitude, and generous inclinations, was now changed into despair” (XIV.247). “My wisdom was but folly,” he cries; he knew neither the gods, mankind, or himself (XIV.248). Only now does the philosopher come to Socrates’ understanding, knowing that he knew nothing. 

    Returning to kings, Telemachus sees those “condemned for abusing their power,” in contradistinction from the Babylonian king who seems to have done very little but indulge himself (XIV.248). This is the other side of the Louis XIV coin: the man of “excessive vanity,” of hardness toward men, of insensibility to virtue, of “dread of hearing the truth,” of partiality to flatterers and other hangers-on, of pomp and magnificence “supported by oppression and the ruin of their people,” and of military ambition that purchases “a little glory by the blood of their subjects” (XIV.248). And, just as the philosopher was deemed a good man when alive, many kings consigned to the Underworld “were accounted tolerably good when on earth” (XIV.250). The reason for their punishment is their failure to rein in subordinates who committed “enormities…under the sanction of their authority” (XIV.251). Whatever the nature of their failures, bad kings are punished “much more rigorously” than “other guilty men”—so much so that Telemachus deems it “madness, to desire to be a king!” (XIV.251).

    But then Telemachus ventures on to the Elysian Fields, where he hopes to find his father. That is where the souls of the few good kings are. “As in Tartarus wicked princes were doomed to a punishment infinitely more rigorous than that of other bad men in private life, so on the other hand good kings enjoyed in the elysian fields a happiness infinitely superior to that of other men who had loved virtue on earth” (XIV.251). They are rewarded with “crowns that never fade,” but “there are only a few kings who have fortitude and resolution to guard against the intoxication of power, and the flattery of so many sycophants, continually endeavoring to excite their passions” (XIV.254). The shade who tells him this is his great-grandfather, Arcesius, who assures him that Ulysses is still alive and father and son will soon be reunited in Ithaca. Arcesius guides Telemachus through the rest of his journey in the Underworld, pointing out the “wise, just, and beneficent” kings, who “are indeed heroes”: Theseus, Ajax, Hector, Agamemnon, Inachus of Argos, and the Egyptian Cecrops (XIV.257-58).

    Arcesius also remarks Erycthon and Triptolemus, who give him the occasion for a final lesson, this on political economy. Erycthon invented silver money in order “to facilitate commerce among the isles of Greece” (XIV.259). It did, but it also became (as Erycthon himself foresaw and warned) “an incitement to avarice, ambition, and vanity,” vices which “soften and corrupt manners” and “make you despise agriculture, which is the support of human life, and the source of all its true riches” (XIV.259). Triptolemus, in contrast, “came with a plow in his hand, to make an offer of the gifts of the goddess [Ceres] to all those who should have resolution enough to overcome their natural sloth, and apply themselves vigorously to tillage” (XIV.259-60). In doing so, he “made the Greeks feel the pleasure of owing all their riches to their own labor,” the foundation of civilized life (XIV.260). “Even those fierce savages, that wandered through the forests of Epirus and Etolia, in quest of acorns for their food, became more civilized, and submitted to laws, after they had learned to raise crops of corn and to live on bread” (XIV.260). The preference for agriculture over mercantile commerce carries into Rousseau’s political thought and also that of Thomas Jefferson and some of the other American Founders; the recognition of the civilizing effect of agriculture carries into the political thought of George Washington and his policy respecting the Indians. “Happy would the Greeks have been,” Arcesius teaches, “had they steadfastly adhered to these maxims, so proper to render them powerful, free, happy, and worthy of being so by their genuine virtue. But alas! they begin to admire false riches, by little and little to neglect true wealth, and to degenerate from that marvelous simplicity” (XIV.26). 

    Back under the light of the sun and in the allies’ camp, Telemachus learns that a city formally allied with his coalition has now in fact allied with the Daunians, their rulers having been corrupted by Adrastus. Telemachus opposes a plan to seize the city, first, because that would be a violation of their treaty, and second, because the success of the attack would depend upon a traitor in that city, who has offered to open one of its gates to the allied troops. Even if the city rulers have surreptitiously broken our treaty with them, we must not betray our side of the bargain. “If the fear of the gods and the love of virtue do not move you, at least you ought to be influenced by your own interest and reputation,” which would be irretrievably damaged by such a “violation of your oaths of faith” (XV.265). It will even through the alliance itself into question: Why should we trust one another, if we are willing to violate the terms of treaties we make? And if the alliance breaks up, Adrastus and his Daunians will win the war. Nestor concurs, the other kings agree, and the alliance remains strong.

    Telemachus goes on to make some additional, equally high-minded, decisions, including his choice to turn over a would-be assassin of Adrastus to Adrastus. The tyrant “shuddered at the thoughts of the danger he had been in, and was quite amazed at the generosity of his enemies; for pure virtue is above the comprehension of bad men” (XV.270). As it happens, Adrastus has little time further to reflect upon virtue. In hand-to-hand battlefield combat with Telemachus, he attempts to kill the young hero after Telemachus had defeated him and offered him mercy. “Adrastus was no sooner dead than the Daunians, far from regretting their defeat and the loss of their chief, rejoiced at their deliverance; offering their hands to the allies, in token of peace and reconciliation” (XIV.280). Adrastus’ son, “whom his father had trained to maxims of dissimulation, injustice, and cruelty, like a coward, basely fled,” only to be stabbed in the back by one of his former slaves (XV.280). This gives Telemachus occasion to lament, “Thus it is that young princes are spoiled by prosperity; the greater their elevation and vivacity are, the farther do they recede from every virtuous principle they may have: and, perhaps, that would now have been my case, had not I thanks to the gods, by the misfortunes I have undergone from my infancy, and the instructions of Mentor, been taught moderation” (XV.280). Immediately aimed at the Bourbon father and Bourbon son, the lesson as well applies to monarchs generally.

    By now, Telemachus’ reputation among the kings and soldiers alike has turned completely around. Whereas they once had deemed him gifted but arrogant, they now call him—not to his face but “to one another in private”—the “greatest hero of the age,” a “humane, benevolent…fair and affectionate friend, compassionate, liberal, beneficent, and wholly attached to those whom he is bound to love,” having “entirely shaken off his former haughtiness, indifference, and pride” (XVI.285). He’s offered the kingship by the Daunians but remains steadfast in his intention to return to Ithaca, finding them a worthy king among their own people.

    Telemachus then voyages back to Salente, to be welcomed by King Idomeneus and Mentor. “I am content with you,” his governor tells him; “you have, it is true, committed great faults; but they have taught you to know yourself better, and to be more diffident than you were before,” inasmuch as failure so often teaches better than pride-swelling success (XVII.295). Prosperity exiles wisdom. And “is it not true” that your great actions during the war “were suggested and directed by something independent of yourself,” that “Minerva had, as it were, transformed you into something above yourself, to enable you to perform what you have achieved” by “suspend[ing] all your natural defects”? (XVII.295). Indeed.

    Telemachus remarks the great improvement of Salente, how “well cultivated” it has become, and “how little magnificence” there remains in it (XVII.294). Like Telemachus on the battlefield and in the Underground, Idomeneus had divine help, Mentor assures him. Monarchs incline to assume “unjust and violent authority” and to introduce luxury, which “corrupts moeurs” (XVII.296). Idomeneus was dethroned at Crete for his absolutism; “it was necessary that the gods should send us hither”—to Salente, where he had fled—to “disabuse him of that blind and excessive power, for which men are altogether unqualified; a kind of miracle was required to open his eyes” (XVII.297). As for luxury, it causes every social class in the city it infects to “live above their rank and income, some from vanity and ostentation, and to display their wealth; others from a false shame, and to hide their poverty” (XVII.297). Under such conditions, “a whole nation goes to wreck; all ranks are confounded” and “wealth is the sole pursuit,” poverty “accounted scandalous” (XVII.297). A pre-revolutionary condition prevails, and its evils can only be remedied “by changing the taste and manners of [the] whole nation” by giv[ing] it new laws” (XVII.298). “But who will undertake it,” Mentor asks, Socratically, “unless it be a king who is a philosopher, and who by setting an example of moderation, may bring contempt on those who love an expensive show, and give a sanction to the manners of the wise, who will be glad to have their decent frugality supported by such authority” (XVII.298).

    As for Idomeneus, he is “wise and enlightened,” Mentor allows (having made him so), but “too attentive to details” (XVII.299). In a king, this is a well-intended error. It is, nonetheless, an error. “To form great designs, the mind must be free and composed: it must meditate without restraint, wholly disengaged from the dispatch of thorny matters”; minds “engrossed” with “the affair of the day” slowly lose their ability for prudential reasoning, as they magnify the immediate at the expense of consideration of medium- and long-term consequences (XVII.299). The Idomenean-Mentorian re-founding of Salente resulted from precisely the kind of thinking a wise king needs to do: “forming a sound judgment of affairs…by comparing them all together, and ranging them in a certain order, so as to have sequence and proportion” (XVII.299). And Salente’s laws, institutions, and moeurs can be “only the shadow of what you will do one day in Ithaca, if your virtue responds to your destiny” (XVII.302). 

    Telemachus is reluctant to depart, admitting that he’s fallen in love with the king’s daughter, Antiope. “It is not a blind passion like that of which you cured me in the island of Calypso,” but a love based on “taste, esteem, and regard for merit”; in addition to her piety, “what charms me is her silence, her modest reserve, her constant employment…her attention to the economy of her father’s house, since the death of her mother; her contempt of the ornaments of dress, and her forgetting, or even seeming to be ignorant of her beauty” (XVII.302-03). It is as if she were Minerva incarnate, he says to Minerva incarnate. All this notwithstanding, he remains intent on returning to Ithaca; marriage can wait. Mentor approves.

    He does hesitate, however, when Idomeneus goes into mourning over the prospect of his departure. Mentor strengthens his resolve. Such compassion is good; “you were born hard and haughty,” but “at last you have become a man, and by the experience of your own misfortunes, you have learned to sympathize with those of others”—and indispensably kingly virtue, as “without such compassion, there is no good nature, virtue, nor capacity for the government of mankind” (XVII.311). Still, compassion “must not be carried to far, nor must an unmanly tenderness be indulged” (XVII.311). He insists that Telemachus tell the king of his continued resolve to return home, which he does, disclosing his intention to marry Antiope, once “I render myself worthy of her” (XVII.314).

    Looking ahead not only to his return to Ithaca but to his eventual accession to kingship there, Telemachus confides that while he considers the ability to “discern well the different characters of men, and to employ them according to their talents” crucial to ruling well, “I am at a loss to know” how to acquire such discernment (XVIII.318). Mentor replies, “To know men you must not only study them, but keep their company and deal with them” in speech and action—conversing with them and “test[ing] them” in minor positions to “discover whether they are qualified for higher functions” (XVIII.318). Also, talk about them “with other wise and virtuous men, who have long studied their characters”; just as one learns to distinguish good and bad poets by “the frequent reading of them, and talking of them with those who [have] a taste for poetry, just as you become a good judge of music by “diligent attention to the performances of good musicians,” so you must learn “human nature” by living among human beings (XVIII.318). Along with this practical understanding, however, you need theoretical understanding: “to be able to form a sound judgment of men, you must begin with knowing what they ought to be,” to have a standard of judgment (XVIII.318). “As in taking the dimensions of several bodies there must be a fixed measure, so there must be certain fixed principles by which we must regulate our judgment”; that standard is the purpose of human life, “what ought to be the end proposed in governing” men (XVIII.319). The elements of that standard have already been demonstrated in the course of the novel. They are the virtues of courage, moderation, justice, practical wisdom, compassion, and magnanimity, all conducing to happiness or the fulfillment of human nature. Given the thumotic character of Telemachus, he has especially needed to practice the virtue of patience. “It is in order to teach you patience, my dear Telemachus, that the gods oblige you to practice it so much, and seem to make sport of you, by keeping you continually wandering about in suspense and uncertainty” (XVIII.330)

    Here is the task of the “wise prince” (XVIII.321). “It is not enough to find good subjects in a nation; one must also form new ones”—a task Telemachus immediately sees as “a matter of great difficulty” (XVIII.321). Mentor denies it. If you, as king, exert yourself “to search for able and virtuous men, in order to prefer them, you stimulate all who have spirit and talents, so that they exert themselves to the utmost. How many languish in indolence and obscurity, who would become great men, if they were excited by emulation and the hopes of success?” (XVIII.321). In addition, if you advance your subjects “step by step from the lowest to the highest employments” you will by that practice ‘train them up’ under your observation (XVIII.322). This as it were ‘institutionalizes’ the kind of struggle the gods have caused you, Telemachus, to undergo; unlike you, most men won’t be heroes, nor will they need to be, but their virtues can be cultivated in a kingly regime that rewards virtue. Do not imitate tyrants. Do not make your subjects “miserable by your ambition, your ostentation, or imprudence; for if a nation suffers, it is owing to the maladministration of its rulers, whose duty it is to watch over it, and prevent its suffering” (XVIII.323). 

    But will ruling this way not make me miserable? Telemachus asks. Under your plan, a king is “the slave of all those whom he seems to command,” devoting himself to their interests, not his own, supplying their needs, serving the state and his subjects (XVIII.323); “he is a slave who has sacrificed his liberty and repose to the happiness and liberty of the public” (XVIII.324). But why should this make unhappy? Mentor answers. In “promoting the good of such a number of people” a king “represents the gods in leading the whole human race to virtue” (XVIII.324). Is there “not glory enough in maintaining the laws,” and in not grasping for the “false glory” vanity desires? (XVIII.324). Although you should expect “the ingratitude of mankind” for your efforts, “If genuine,” virtue “will always attach them to him who will have inspired it” (XVIII.324-325).

    “Mentor resolved to put the patience of Telemachus to the last, but severest trial” (XVIII.330). Before allowing him to board the ship that will return him to Ithaca and his father and mother, he proposes a ceremony of sacrifice to Minerva. Telemachus obeys, and Mentor metamorphoses into Minerva. “I am now going to leave you, son of Ulysses; but my wisdom shall never leave you, provided you always retain a due sense of your inability to do anything well without it” (XVIII.333). In regarding prudence or practical wisdom as the most important of the many virtues a good ruler needs to cultivate, Fénelon carries forward in modernity the classical line of moral thought, while inflecting it in some Christian directions.

     

    Filed Under: Philosophers

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