Will Morrisey Reviews

Pierre Manent: La Loi Naturelle et Les Droits des Hommes. Paris: Press Universitaires de France, 2018.

Originally published in Social Science and Modern Society, Volume 56, Number 3, May/June 2019. Republished with permission.

 

We are told to respect ‘human rights.’ But why? Where do such rights come from, and why should anyone acknowledge that source as authoritative?

Philosophers once derived human rights from natural law. But, as Pierre Manent observes, natural law “has been radically discredited by modern philosophy and is today the object of unanimous contempt of enlightened opinion,” dismissed as an “archaism” by all but a few Catholic thinkers. If, then, our rights do not and cannot originate in “the laws of Nature and of Nature’s God,” as independence-minded Americans famously proclaimed, does any non-arbitrary criterion of judgment exist?

Evidently not. “Citizens of modern democracies” show themselves eager to reform their own ‘culture’ (usually in the name of equality) while refusing to judge the ‘cultures’ of others, even when bearers of foreign ‘cultures’ arrive in their countries. Both the eagerness to judge and the refusal to judge is judged to derive from human rights, on the grounds of an implied pseudo-syllogism: “All human beings are equal, ergo, all cultures are equal.” As a result (for example) “it is not a rare spectacle to see the same person become indignant at the condition of women in the Muslim regime, and in the same breath condemn all pejorative estimation or criticism of Islam as a human ‘whole’ or form of life.” What begins as an assertion of universal equality ends in unequal treatment, an incoherent assertion of human rights applied to some humans but not to others.

So conceived, the “authority” of human rights simultaneously “excites and hobbles our desire to judge and hobbles our faculty of judgment.” We can only exempt other humans from judgments founded on human rights if the human nature in which those rights inhere has no real nature at all, if human nature is plastic; “the almost limitless diversity of life-forms manifests humanity’s almost limitless ability to self-actualize without rule or criterion“—without law—”whether this rule or criterion derives its strength from human nature or human reason.” Cultural diversity is taken as evidence of exactly this plasticity or no-nature, the “ontological weakness” of any moral criterion grounded in human nature or natural law. According to modern human-rights advocates, “there is no law valid for all men, which they would be free to obey or disobey.” Yet if human rights have no origin in nature, including natural reason, does this not return us to the ‘state of nature’?

Indeed it does—to the sophisticated state of nature called ‘postmodernism.’ Without the laws of Nature and of Nature’s God as the criterion of judgment, “what is truly human can be constructed and deconstructed as we wish, since it lacks a natural basis whose determinative or inspiring force we should recognize.” Thus unmoored, ‘human rights’ become in principle part of “an indefinite social, moral, and political movement.” But unlike the movement of ‘History’ as understood variously by Hegel, Marx, and Dewey, this movement, like nature, has no purpose, no telos. Like Topsy, it just grows, although unlike Topsy its indignation at perceived affronts grows with it. Christianity would say: Absent a criterion of truth, human beings will fall back on pride; and in a democratic society the points of pride will turn petty.

The ‘human rights’ movement radicalizes not only equality but liberty, there being no knowable constraints on human self-deconstruction and construction. At the same time, such radicalized equality and liberty seeks some goal for itself, a goal its own assumptions deny it. “The prior act of deconstruction meets the resistance or the or the opposition of a tendency to re-naturalization”; in choosing one’s ‘identity’ one cannot escape the secret desire to have some reason to prefer this identity over that, and moreover to keep one’s aspirations within the notion of ‘human rights,’ lest one’s choice turn out to be, well, wrong. Even one of the most urgent natural desires, sexual desire, becomes de-naturalized as a choice of ‘gender’—a term once reserved for grammar, the province of the unlusty. Under such an ideology, “sexual desire no longer has its movement and its destination inscribed in the sexual nature of beings,” instead becoming random, dependent “on the specific nature of each subject,” of each individual. Natural equality no longer inheres in human beings as a species but in human beings as individuals. This reproduces (if I may be permitted a dash of heterosexualist speech) the same dilemma as cultural relativism: How do we judge contradiction or indeed violent clashes between and among self-defining individuals?

Since we obviously cannot, Manent next asks where this self-defeating passion for overturning natural law came from. Beginning with Machiavelli, modern political philosophers rejected the claim that human beings are social and political animals. For them, “all that is natural is gathered and concentrated” in the individual. This comports with early modern science generally: atomistic, focused on efficient, material, and formal causes as fully explanatory of natural attraction and repulsion, to the exclusion of ‘final’ causes or purposes. For Machiavelli and Hobbes, “the desire for power is the fundamental trait of human nature,” which, like all else in in nature, amounts fundamentally to matter in motion. Politically, this means that all purposes or ends of human life must be established by the prince, the sovereign, he who has won the struggle for power; whereas Machiavelli lauds this struggle and the virtù exhibited in it, the more timorous Hobbes looks to the sovereign to impose order on the human ‘atoms’ which would otherwise collide with destructive velocity. Positing fear as the most powerful of the human passions, he initiates the ‘rights talk’ of modernity, making Machiavelli’s invention, lo stato, the modern centralized state, the guarantor of the right to life of the sovereign’s subjects. Recalling Aristotle’s definition of politics as the practice of ruling and being ruled in turn, Manent observes that the modern state, ‘Leviathan,’ isn’t really political in that sense at all; rather, it is a construct instantiating a theory about the nature of the universe. Far from being an expression of the reality of human life, the Hobbesian sovereign is “metaphysical,” or, as Hobbes puts it, a “mortal god,” laying down his law and enforcing it on his subjects. He differs from the God of the Bible in that his subjects are not his creatures, and he is by no means all-powerful or all-wise. Since the materialist Hobbes doesn’t believe that the God of the Bible exists, Leviathan will be (as Americans like to say) close enough for government work.

Machiavelli derides the unreality of “imaginary republics,” designed by prophets and philosophers, but the Florentine “does anything but look at human action ‘as it is,’ since he substitutes for action ‘as it is’ in practical activity, I dare say, a theoretical action, that is to say an action as it can be fully taken into view by the theoretician.” What Machiavelli calls “the effectual truth”—anticipating utilitarianism by four centuries—supersedes what he dismisses as the unreality of Biblical and classical morality, whose precepts fail to correct human behavior but only confuse those who pay attention to them. Whereas natural law unites citizens and subjects only in imagination, fear unites them in reality. Fear of visible men (in a republic) or one visible man (in a principality) replaces fear of the invisible divine and natural laws, and of the natural and/or spiritual consequences of defying that law.

What makes this unreal is that Machiavelli requires of his prince “an action greater than action,” by which Manent means an action “no longer subject to the limits arising from the fact that the action is naturally produced by an agent and therefore depends upon the virtuous or vicious dispositions of that agent.” Machiavelli holds out a vision of human mastery of fortune, mastery of circumstances, with no limits, no “practical reason” which respects circumstances, a mastery that manipulates the fears of ‘lesser’ men. Whereas Aristotle distinguishes theoretical from practical reason, Machiavelli posits an “unlimited indetermination” to replace “the limited indetermination proper to the action of an agent whose provisions and ends are relatively stable.” Whereas the Bible teaches that fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, Machiavelli, anticipating Hobbes, teaches that fear of man is “the beginning of wisdom,” and that wisdom tout court amounts to knowledge of how to exploit that fear in order to master fortune. Heavenly angels give way to masterly princes whose God is Machiavelli.

All of this closes us off from “the field of practical life, that is to say, action under the law.” There is indeed “a great difference between what men do and what they should do,” as Machiavelli insists, but that very difference, and our acknowledgement of it, seen in both the Bible and in the writings of Plato and Aristotle, is the real realism. Machiavelli’s attempt to escape reality, to remold it into the fulfillment of a dominance fantasy, calls for men to produce “an unprecedented action which is no longer guided and therefore limited by practical reasoning or by ‘thoughtful choice.'” Prudence and what Manent understands as its Christian equivalent, conscience, gives way to vulpine cunning and leonine fearsomeness.

Manent considers Martin Luther and his three ‘solas‘ to have advanced a spiritual equivalent of Machiavellian reductionism. Unlike Machiavelli and Hobbes, Luther is of course no atheist, but he reduces the divine law to the simple Law of Love, and dismisses the natural law as irreparably polluted by sin. Like the modern philosophers, Luther centers human action on the individual—his conscience, his faith, his salvation; for him, my certainty of my salvation is the guarantee of “the authenticity of my faith.” The Church becomes a congregation, not to say a congeries, of individuals, with no need for guidance from the learned interpreters of the Bible and no need for the patient effort at improving or ‘perfecting’ one’s soul by obedience to the divine and natural law. Both Machiavelli and Luther “see and postulate an exist from and an access beyond the practical condition of men, which for both is characterized by a supremely shocking and decisively illuminating difference between the real life of men and the law that they hear or claim to follow.” Both maintain that human nature cannot have “the capacity for perfection.” Machiavelli then seeks radical change of man’s outer condition, in the course of which project virtuosity must replace virtue guided by divine and/or natural law. For Luther, a simple pietism at the command of the Holy Spirit replaces natural law.

How could Machiavellian ‘realism’ issue in a natural right teaching? The interplay of princely libido dominandi and the fear the prince inspires in his subjects recalls not the political rule that prevails between husband and wife or the kingly rule between parents and children, as described by Aristotle, but the masterly rule over slaves. How can this underlie a teaching on moral and political right? “As much as we are to be the sovereign authors of the human order and to depend only on our freedom, modern political construction could never have begun without relying on our nature, more precisely on the passivity of our nature, as it is imposed on especially by the affect of fear,” the central “node of passion” for the subjects of the prince. Hobbes sees that this master-slave relationship entails a sort of ‘good’ for both parties. The master wants to rule his subjects without too much trouble, especially such unpleasantnesses as regicide and rebellion; the subject wants to get away from the natural war of all against all, in which would-be masters contend for rule over the dead bodies of the slavish. Establishing a contract between master and slave stipulating that the master will protect the slave’s life in exchange for the slave’s obedience to the master solves both problems. Although right in the state of nature “has no meaning,” remaining indefinite and unenforceable, life in civil society under the social contract becomes decidedly less solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.

The plasticity of human nature in the state of nature leads to the plasticity of rights in civil society, inasmuch as what begins as a minimalist contract of mutual protection soon elaborates, as both masters and slaves gain confidence in their security. In the name of “progress” new rights are invented. “To declare human rights in such a perfectly indeterminate and undeterminable way” (as eventually has come to be the case) “is to give anyone the formal authority to take whatever of the human world they judge or feel entitled to.” That is, the Machiavellian and Hobbesian desire for acquisition, understood comprehensively as the conquest of fortune and of nature, makes the accumulation of ‘rights’ yet another form of empire, with this gain, however, there is a loss. “What is lost sight of in particular is the determinacy and specific rule of the law as a rule of action, since the right, now understood as anterior to the law and independent of it, is presented to us as a sufficient principle of action, a function it cannot in any way fulfill” (emphasis added). In contrast, by defining man as a “political animal,” Aristotle (following Socrates) grounds human life in the concrete circumstances of human deliberation and action, where our elementary appetites and desires form the ‘lower’ limit and our natural capacities for speech and reason form the ‘higher’ limit.

“When,” departing from Aristotle, “we define man as ‘the being who has rights,’ or of ‘having always and everywhere the right to claim human rights,’ we say nothing about what constitutes and gives form to human life,” having followed Machiavelli and Hobbes in grounding political life in the subpolitical, in “a state or condition in which all human traits are absent.” “That is why Socratic political science, that political science which Aristotle presents as the specific science of the human world, proceeds from a description of the nature of which human cities are determined in their own eyes, that is, how they understand themselves and speak to one another, therefore from the opinion of the citizens on their city.” Socrates begins not only ‘politicking’ but philosophizing itself by talking with his fellow citizens, examining (and cross-examining) their opinions. This results in a practical, not theoretical, and an active, not passive, political science. By contrast, “modern natural right does not rest properly on a political philosophy [emphasis added] but on a doctrine of the State,” a doctrine that takes the majority of men to be passive subjects, not citizens at all.

Christianity complicates this classical understanding of political life, as the City of God cross-cuts the City of Man. Man understood as a creature of God is a more ‘determined’ being than a political animal especially because he is as much a slave in his own way—a slave to sin—as the subject dwelling in the Machiavellian state. One cannot simply start political science from an examination of opinion, anymore, not only because all opinions are likely to be corrupt but because true, Christian ‘opinion’—the promptings of the Holy Spirit—is invisible and hearable only by those who have ears to hear, by the grace of God. “The center of gravity of Christendom resides in an interiority” that makes it harder to estimate the trustworthiness of the fellow-citizen with whom we are speaking. It is this interiority—leading to this confusion—which the “doctrinaires of modern natural right” zeroed in on and attempted to sweep aside. “The effort of modern natural right and the State that it inspires and informs was to produce at this time”—and in this world—”a being defined by a right to be or to do what would not be limited or ordered by either the law of the city or the law of conscience.” This being would inhabit a “thoroughly human,” i.e. man-made world, the world of the modern state, offering equality of subject under its rule by eliminating the intermediary authorities (clergy, aristocrats) between itself and them. If life thereafter consists simply in command and obedience, “one does not have to worry about the inner rule of action.”

If, as Hobbes maintains, men are “naturally free and equal,” even in civil society under the rule of the state they will remain “essentially recalcitrant.” Hobbes’s new political science therefore amounts to “a science of obedience.” But even under the terms of the social contract, might I not wonder about “the morality of the State”? How does it intend to use its immense physical power? Moreover, by suppressing human action, citizens life, the state obscures our understanding of human action by causing it to fall into desuetude; we see countries like contemporary Iraq, where subjects liberated from the reigning tyrant fall into a state of war of all against all, if only because they do not know how to do better. Even the success of the modern state—success defined by its philosophic architects and princely executives—pushes toward a conquest of nature which includes the replacement of natural rights (however vaguely defined) with state-produced civil rights serving the purpose of—what,, if not the state? By constructing itself, the state also deconstructs the trust implied by the social contract that calls it into existence.

Manent then looks closer at the way moderns conceive of ‘command.’ If “the actions of the sovereign are authorized by those who obey him,” then they and not the sovereign “are the true authors of these actions.” In Hobbes and all subsequent moderns, this limits command, inasmuch as the social contract aims at preserving the life of the subject; if the sovereign threatens my life, I am entitled to resist, escape, even kill him. Locke notices that he would take away my liberty might easily take my life, and uses this as justification of resisting tyrants. As modernity has continued, the scope of ‘human rights’ widens, so much that we now hear claims of ‘autonomy,’ of subjects given themselves law. In contemporary states we don’t so much obey commands as we ‘go along with’ the policies of states that don’t really command—a condition reminiscent of Tocqueville’s sketch of ‘soft despotism.’ All of this follows from the seeming strength but actual weakness of the modern state at its theoretical origin: “the idea that one could produce command from a condition of non-command, from a state of nature, or of natural liberty.” But there is no “natural liberty,” no “human condition without command” because “the human world is essentially though potentially orderly,” a place where command aims at action but must stem from the deliberation and decision which are “implicit in practical life.”

This is the crucial part of Manent’s argument. Human beings are political and rational animals not only in the sense that they are innately (if often only potentially) capable of discussing amongst themselves what they intend to do and capable of thinking in accordance with the principle of non-contradiction as they discuss it; for human beings, speech and reason also form ineluctable parts of human action, part of “the very constitution of the human world, a world which supposes, to be thinkable, that action ahs reasons which govern it in principle.” Unless under such extreme duress or excitement that we active instinctively, we decide on an action and then command it—as individuals commanding our bodies to walk in a certain direction, as families managing a household, as citizens ruling and being ruled in a political community— after thinking things over. A genuinely human command derives from thought and not from libido dominandi. A political regime commands, makes the potential orderliness of human life real, but the modern state, deriving from a lawless ‘state of nature,’ lacks in principle any such humanly authoritative guidance. The natural law is not only a law of being but a law of action.

Rightly understood, political law derives from natural law. Political law has two dimension. In its “directive” aspect it guide the political community; in its “coercive” aspect it exercises “the right and the power to repress by force any contravention of it commands,” subject to review by a constitutional court. That is, genuine commands have their origin in rational deliberation and are subject to review and, if necessary, correction by rational deliberation. Because “the modern state intends to regulate a human world that believe itself to be without law or rule” but only ‘right’ that it constantly invent for itself—right derived from a “natural liberty” which has no real content—”the law from now on propose to give societies only commands necessary to lead a life without law” “We have charged political law to act contrary to it essence as law.” To counter this contradiction, we substitute ‘social laws’ for political ones; social pressures (sort of) rule us. Our characteristic social science become sociology, a science that avoids the essence of political life, which is the character of rule. For sociologists, feeling and folkway matter, but feeling and folkway do not address the human potential for purposeful deliberation, decision, and command. “What is in fact the modern republic in it time… if not a common action in search of its rule?”

For Manent, the “inflection point” of challenge to the modern state generated by claims of ‘autonomy’ was the évènements of May 1968, the rebellion of French students (temporarily in alliance with labor unions), asserting ‘rights’ against public order itself. “It should be emphasized that this ‘right’ was understood in a more and more extensive way, in a truly unlimited way, as the right to be whatever we are or want to be.” This went beyond even Aristotle’s description of how democrats define freedom badly, as doing what one likes; it speaks to being itself, beyond mere action. If our being has no law rightly to guide it, how can our actions be law-governed? Self-defined rights issue in non-law law; that is, law becomes “the slave of rights,” specifically, of the supposed right to be ‘recognized’ as whatever one says one is. “The human being from now on, if it is still likely to be defined, in a sentient or sensitive animal: an I qualified by the way it feels its life, or is ‘affected’ by it, a firm circle of the adherence to self, tautology of feeling of self from which no question is formed and which cannot be understood by anyone,” entitled to unquestioned recognition and indeed affirmation by everyone. “Instead of social energy being expended mainly to ‘get out of oneself,’ to enter into shared activities and to participate in the common life [of the political community], a growing part of [this energy] is diverted to assert the incommunicable feeling of the living ‘I,’ sentient or sensitive.” The ‘I’ ‘comes out’ as x, y, or z, but this coming-out never gets out of itself, merely asserting itself in an exercise of democratized or egalitarian will-to-power. Its slogan ought to be, Nietzcheism for everybody.

In moving to the modern state, human life has seen an increase and intensification of “activity,” of movement to satisfy man’s desire, as distinguished from “action,” movement toward purposes set by and planned for with “reflective choice.” The social conditions in which activity occurs have been equalized, at least in the sense that the tiled aristocrats, born to rule, have declined. And the scope of action has diminished, at least in comparison to the vigorous civic life of the Greek poleis. Esteem for conatus, for the effort at perfecting the human soul in part by means of participating in that civic life, has given way to the passivity of the ‘good subject’ (hardly a citizens) of the modern state, a passivity enlivened by the touchy self-righteousness of the demand for ‘recognition,’ which Christians would instantly recognize as a form of pride. Under modern conditions, liberty, which once meant free will and free choice, now means the liberation of “our natural necessity,” our physical desires. In Manent’s terminology “the free agent” or actor has been replaced by “the free individual.”

One practical consequence of this is euthanasia; “the modern state tends almost irresistibly to institutionalize euthanasia in one form or another.” Why? If freedom means liberating our physical desires from all external obstacles; if death is “the obstacle par excellence” for modern man, the fear of death “the king of terrors,” as Hobbes calls it; then modern man will want not only to avoid death as long as possible but to choose the moment he dies, and not allow death to ‘choose’ that moment for him. And if the modern state has been “entrusted” as the guarantor of modern freedom; if the modern state has no natural law above it to guide its choices; if, moreover, the state’s law by its very character as human law cannot possibly ‘know’ when and how to make life-or-death decisions regarding a person innocent of any objectively determinable criminal act; the ‘legal’ act of euthanasia must be arbitrary, which is to say lacking the character of law. This is a consequence of “the perspective of modern liberty, which defines death as an extrinsic accident of life.” This involves the modern state in self-contradiction, in legalizing what is non-legal in the strict sense.

Although much changes under the conditions of statism, the regime question remains. Manent does not in any way trivialize the importance of such republican principles as representation (“the great invention of modern politics”) and consent, especially given the alternative regimes of modern tyranny and oligarchy in the forms of bureaucratic despotism or of military juntas. But even consent to be governed by elected representatives does not match actual participation in political rule. This matters because “natural law is not a rule foreign to human action as would be a physical or metaphysical criterion elaborated by theoretical reason; it is a friend of action, motivating for action.” It lends judgment to action because practical reason originates, guides, and evaluates the results of action. Politics rightly understood is architectonic and politics animated by deliberation could not be farther removed from modern theory, in which the beginnings of human life are anarchic. Under modern conditions, “human association” becomes “more and more opaque to itself; it understands itself less and less since, as the practical and archic operation is more and more obscured by an-archic conventions and frameworks the bases of actions and of institutions and the sources of citizens’ own actions and institutions are less and less accessible to them.”

Under the condition of passivity induced by statism, we are often told not to be ‘judgmental.’ On the contrary, Manent remarks, “we cannot avoid judging one another.” We cannot, because the “objective components of human nature” consist in large measure of three motives: the pleasant, the useful, and l’honnête —an untranslatable French word meaning both the honorable and the just. We cannot avoid pursuing these motives, judging which one will prevail in each circumstance we face. “The agent’s motives are not up to him, as to either their presence or their nature; they belong to the human being as such, to human nature; but the way they become his action is up to him.” We may have wrong ideas of the honorable and the just, as (for example) Islamic terrorists do; we frequently make mistakes about what’s useful, and we even make wrong judgments about the pleasurable, as addicts do. But even in the case of terrorists and tyrants, “it is less the idea that is false than their relation to the idea.” Heroic self-sacrifice for the sake of God is not in itself a bad idea, but the way terrorists and tyrants seek to honor God does indeed leave a couple of things to be desired—namely prudential reasoning and a refusal to sacrifice others along with oneself.

Given the inherent human desires for the pleasant, the useful, and the noble and just, Hume’s radical division between the ‘is’ and the ‘ought’ (a sensible response to modern philosophic doctrines) no longer holds. The human ‘ought’ is implicit in the human ‘is.’ This doesn’t mean that the ‘ought’ of natural law acts like a computer program, producing a detailed course of action; rather, it more nearly resembles DNA, which provides the core of our natural being while making that life both available for enhancement and susceptible to ruin, depending on our choices and circumstances, on how we ruled and are ruled. Natural law “help[s] us apply a simple and concrete criterion for determining whether it is possible for human nature to find satisfactory fulfillment in a given institution, political regime, or framework of action I general.” This practical, prudential character of natural law “save[s] us from the tyranny of the explicit and the exhaustive that is the fate and the scourge of the philosophy of human rights,” whose “dogmatism” has “ruined the whole architecture of practical life” by undermining deliberation and the true command that issues from deliberation. Natural law guides without commanding, leaving it to “the agent, enlightened by the natural law and alert to particular circumstances,” to “make the reflective choice that leads to effective action and commands it.” Natural law points human beings to “a happy life—that is to say a reasonably pleasant, useful and noble life.”

 

 

G. W. F. Hegel: Lectures on the Philosophy of History. Ruben Alvarado translation. Wordbridge, 2011.

Paul Franco, ed.:  Leo Strauss on Hegel. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2019.

 

Note: This is the fifth and final essay of a series on Hegel’s Lectures and on Strauss’s commentaries.

 

As Strauss has remarked before, Hegel refers to the Oriental, Greek, Roman, and Germanic worlds not in the sense of the worlds in inhabited by Asians, Greeks, Romans, and Germans but in the sense of the “folk minds” of those cultures. Hence “Germanic,” not “German”—the Geist, the spirit of the Germans. Strauss explains to his English-speaking students that “Germanic” or Germanisch does not mean the same thing as “German” or deutsch. The distinctive characteristic of the Germanic is Gemüt, an “absolutely untranslatable” word often rendered as “heart,” meaning at once easygoing, friendly, and warm. Hegel considers this a characteristic of the inner man, and therefore a pervading spirit within the German people as individuals.

“The Germanic spirit is the spirit of the new world,” a spirit aiming at “the realization of absolute truth as the infinite self-determination of freedom,” a freedom “which has its own absolute form as its content.” “The destiny of the Germanic peoples is to be the bearers of the Christian principle,” the “principle of spiritual freedom” which reconciles God and Man by knowing “God” or Absolute Spirit to be immanent in Man. The ‘end of history,’ its purpose, has been attained in the Germanic world.

As always in Hegel, this self-consciousness came not all at once but in dialectical stages. But the Germanic evolution differed from those seen in Greece and Rome. “The Greeks and Romans had reached maturity within, ere they directed their energies outwards.” Self-development preceded empire. “The Germans, on the contrary, began by flowing outward, deluging the world, and overpowering in their course the inwardly rotten, hollow states of the civilized nations. Only then did their development begin, kindled by a foreign culture, a foreign religion, polity, and legislation. They cultivated themselves by taking up and overcoming the foreign element….” This was the process conducive to “the infinite self-determination of freedom” because the Germans began their conquests as a very nearly ‘blank slate,’ civilizationally and culturally—freer to transform themselves than bearers of any other world-historical national spirit had been. By contrast (as Strauss remarks), “in Byzantium the opposite was the case: the classical pagan culture antedated the Christianization.” “And therefore,” Strauss continues, “the modern world which arose from Latin Christianity and not from Greek Christianity is radically Christian.”

Christianity lends itself to such willing ‘capture’ and full integration by a barbarian people. Christianity has no nationality. Arising out of Judaism, it transcends the Jewish people, reaching beyond them to transform ‘the world.’ Moreover, the Christian church has “the Spirit of God actually present in it, it forgives the sinner and is a present kingdom of heaven,” albeit a community expecting a future, perfected kingdom of heaven on earth ruled directly by the Christ. The Christian church—assembly, ecclesia—freely offers membership to all comers, in exchange for their conversion, their freely-willed turning of their souls around, their openness to receiving the Spirit and thereby their coming-back to their true selves as children of God. In converting to Christianity, Germans were in no danger of making Christianity a national religion: Germans were Christianized; the Christian spirit filled vessels that were nearly empty. As barbarians, Germans could not Germanize Christianity, as they brought so little to the cultural ‘table.’

“The Germanic world took up the Roman culture and religion in their completed form,” incorporating these into itself. Church authorities in that world possessed “the whole culture, and in particular the philosophy, of the Greek and Roman world, a perfected dogmatic system; the church, too, had a completely developed hierarchy,” with a “perfectly developed” language, Latin, and fully developed political forms. “Thus the Germanic world appears, superficially, to be only a continuation of the Roman. But there lived in it an entirely new spirit, through which the world was to be regenerated—the free spirit, which reposes on itself, the absolute wilfulness of subjectivity.” Instead of the dialectical division of an inner world and an outer world—e.g., the matured Roman spirit conquering Asia—the Germanic world would see an entirely ‘inner’ dialectic, the dialectic between church and state. The church there developed itself “as the existence of absolute truth,” the “consciousness of this truth and at the same time the agency for rendering the individual harmonious with it” via the sacraments and teaching of the church. Meanwhile, the “secular consciousness,” embodied in the state, also develops itself. “European history is the exhibition of the development of each of these principles for itself, in church and state; then of an antithesis of both, not only of the one to the other, but within each of them, given that each is itself a totality; lastly, of the reconciliation of this antithesis” in a final synthesis. As in all Hegelian syntheses, one of the original elements will dominate; in the modern world, the state element will dominate the church element, in what Hegel calls secularization.

Three historical “periods” of the German world correspond to these dialectical stages. The first begins with “the appearance of the Germanic nations in the Roman empire” and culminated in the empire of Charlemagne. The second “develops the two aspects”—the church as theocracy, the state as feudal monarchy—and sees the confrontation of them, resulting in the corruption of one element, the church. This period ended with the reign of Charles V. The third period finds “secularity… coming to consciousness in itself” as a rights-bearing entity. This led to “the restoration of Christian freedom” in the Reformation, the purifying reform of the corrupted church. This dialectic transformed not only the church but philosophy; “from this principle are evolved the universal axioms of reason” because “thought received its true material first with the Reformation, through the resurgent concrete consciousness of free spirit.” And from this revolution in thought, in philosophy, came a reconstructed “constitution of the state,” as “customary morality, traditional usage loses its validity; the various rights must prove their legitimacy as based on rational principles,” thereby enabling “freedom of spirit” to be “first realized,” fully embodied for the first time in human history. “We may distinguish these periods as kingdoms of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit,” Hegel boldly declares. His ‘God,’ the Absolute Spirit, carries the dialectic within it. He adds parallels with previous world-historical empires: Charlemagne’s time corresponds to Persia; the divided world of Charles V to split-up Greece; and the unified Reformation world to the Roman world.

The Germanic world in its completion nonetheless differs from the completed Roman world, as it instantiated not merely “the unity of abstract world rule” but “the hegemony of self-conscious thought,” as “privileges and particularities melt away before the common object of the state” and “the “peoples will the right in and for itself.” Religion, philosophy, and politics combine in a well-articulated unitary, but never homogenized, system. “As little can religion maintain itself apart from thought, but either advances to the concept or, compelled by thought itself, becomes intensive belief—or lastly, from, despair of finding itself at home in thought, shrinks back from it in pious horror, and becomes superstition.” It should be recalled that the Apostle Paul describes the Church in exactly such terms—as a unity, but an articulated unity which he likens to a human body with many organs coordinated by the head, Christ (Letter to the Ephesians, 4:1-16). Hegel takes this thought, including the organicism, and extend it to the modern state, which integrates the several religious communities within itself. This is what makes the modern state as conceived by Hegel somewhat ‘churchy’ even in its secularity—undertaking public charity, for instance.

Strauss interrupts his class’s ongoing discussion of the Lectures with an instructive account of the idea of “the philosophy of history,” as distinguished from earlier philosophies of nature, of God (theology), and of politics. Political philosophy “was based from the very beginning on the difference between the good and the ancestral: the agathon and patrium.” If the good is the rational—the whole, without self-interfering contradiction—then the ancestral may be said to be “divinations or fragments of the good or even soiled fragments of it,” as Plato suggests. Hegel rejoins, “No, there is an order among these ancestrals,” indeed “an ascending order” aiming at an end, a telos. Both the end and the way to the end are rational; history could not have unfolded any other way. “Therefore, one can also say, turning it around, that the rational is the final ancestral”; “at the end there is complete reconciliation of reason and tradition.”

Whereas Vico presented a philosophy of history, this was “an ideal history and therefore not history pure and simple.” It was Rousseau in the Second Discourse who “explicitly gives a history of man which is truly philosophic in inspiration.” Although Plato and Lucretius both present early human beings as barbaric, “this view did not lead in antiquity to anything like a philosophy of history.” What changed, between antiquity and Rousseau? For one thing, Lucretius thinks that the process of the ascent from barbarism to civilization, followed by a decline into barbarism, occurs “infinitely often.” In the moderns, however, “there is only one historical process.” Whereas “classical philosophy, whether Platonic or Epicurean, was, we can say, cosmological,” placing human beings squarely “within the cosmos” and its cyclical rhythms, modern philosophy discards the rational attempt to understand the cosmos ‘as it is.’ Hobbes regards mere investigation and discovery insufficient to bring understanding, as nature is opaque to human understanding, as mysterious in its own way as the Creator-God of the Bible. Hobbes teaches that “we understand only what we make,” since we then know its origin, the materials we put into it, the design in which we ordered those materials, and our purpose in undertaking the project. “Since we obviously didn’t make the cosmos, the cosmos can no longer be the guiding theme. For Descartes, the beginning is the thinking ego, not the cosmos.” Another way to say this is that pre-modern philosophy is ‘objectivistic,’ modern philosophy ‘subjectivistic.’ For the moderns, “the thinking, understanding subject is the origin of all meaning” that we can discern. In terms of political philosophy, this leads away from natural law and toward the rights of man, “subjective rights.”

The assertion of subjectivism is “the necessary but not sufficient condition of the discovery of history”—insufficient because ‘history’ in the modern sense isn’t in Hobbes or Descartes any more than it’s in Lucretius or Plato. So, “What is at the bottom of the fact that in the last 150 years people speak of history as philosophically relevant?” The first element predates Hobbes and Descartes. Machiavelli disparaged the ancients’ “concern with the best regime,” calling for philosophers consider how men really live, not how they ought to live. This move “still led to ideals, but to a new kind of ideal, closer to earth, whose actualization is probable” because “enlightenment is probable.” Machiavelli advises non-philosophers, princes, to exercise their virtù, to make the effort to realize such regimes. Locke addresses “opinion leaders, as they are now called,” men of the gentry class “who influence the nonliterate and half-literate people,” including their initially nonliterate and half-literate children. “If enlightenment is necessary” to the founding of the best regime, “if the spreading of knowledge is a necessary consequence of the acquisition of knowledge, then the actualization of the best regime is necessary” because “chance is controlled.” Further, another thing also is necessary: “intellectual progress.” Pascal modestly remarks that even “dwarfs standing on the shoulders of giants see farther ahead than the giants.” “By the spread of knowledge the people become enlightened and opinion is changed; and if opinion is changed, power is changed, because power will now move in a different direction than it moved before it was enlightened.” We know what we make; we can make good and useful things if we lower our standards from out of the clouds; and every reasonably intelligent man can contribute to the progress of such knowledge by standing on giants’ shoulders (building on the solid results of experimental science, for example). “All of this is presupposed by Hegel, integrated into his philosophy.” In putting this all together into a philosophy of history, the claim that human progress has unfolded dialectically, in a rationally knowable way, Hegel can claim to be the first philosopher to see “that the actual and the rational necessarily coincide,” by necessity not by chance, even as the conclusion of a syllogism follows the premises by logical necessity. Hegel can say that he and his contemporaries live in “an absolute epoch,” an absolute moment in the course of events (now called “history”), “in which the full coincidence” of the actual and the rational “takes place,” “the epoch in which all fundamental theoretical problems” have been solved. This is ‘the end of history,’ whereby philosophers no longer merely love wisdom but have self-consciously achieved it.

This sounds mighty fine, but Hegel also sees a problem. “This theoretical wisdom has the unfortunate characteristic that it belongs to a period of decay.” The owl of Minerva takes wing at dusk. “So when we have reached wisdom, the dusk begins.” Full enlightenment shadows forth endarkenment. How do we know this? For Hegel, as Hegel has insisted and Strauss has repeatedly remarked, “a nation gives itself the definition in its religion.” Christianity is “the absolute religion.” It has “permeate[d] the world.” “Christianity becomes worldly, i.e., it completely transforms the world,” becoming “completely secularized.” The rational state of modernity is “indifferent to religion,” and religion itself “has been transformed into philosophy taught by Hegel at the University of Berlin.” When “the common people” eventually get wind of this new spirit they will not, however, become philosophers. They will remain unwise, taking secularism in the only way ordinary folk can take it—as opinion. They will esteem science and scientists, enjoy the benefits of technological progress, but they will not understand what those things are, and what those persons are doing. “Hegel has no comfort for us at this point.” That is why the “end stage” of history is also “the beginning of the way down.” Deprived of their former belief in a transcendent and unquestionably good end in the afterlife, they are left with their own mortality, the finitude of a life spent fiddling with gadgets provided for them by scientists, a life less hopeful, less decent, and therefore less genuinely human than they had before. Nietzsche beckons, but ‘the many’ won’t read him; they will hear Nietzschean motifs as they have been dumbed-down by lesser thinkers, and by the thoughtless, and by demagogues and sophists.

Hegel divides his lectures on the Germanic spirit into three groups. As usual, he begins with the ‘makings’ of the national spirit, in this case “The Elements of the Christian Germanic World.” There are three of these elements: the barbarian “migrations” or conquests of Rome; “Mohammedanism”; and “The Empire of Charlemagne.” The second group of lectures discusses “The Middle Ages” in four sections: “Feudalism and the Hierarch” (of the Church); “The Crusades”; “The Transition from Feudalism to Monarchy”; and “Art and Science as Dissolution of the Middle Ages.” The third group, “The Modern Age,” consists of “The Reformation,” “Influence of the Reformation on Political Development,” and “The Enlightenment and the [French] Revolution.”

The migration of barbaric Germans south, into Rome, begins in the forests of Germany, where not-so-noble savages lived. True, the savage knows nothing of the exquisite agonies of civilization which so tormented Rousseau, but such a freedom is “merely negative, whole freedom must be essentially affirmative.” “The goods of affirmative freedom are first and foremost the goods of the highest consciousness,” not the ignorance of savages. The (negatively) free savages “inundat[ed] the Roman empire” in their quest for new and more fertile territories. Some of them joined with the Roman armies, becoming acquainted with Roman goods both material and mental. This issued in a distinction “between the Germanic nations who remained in their ancient habitations and those who spread themselves over the Roman empire and mingled with the conquered peoples.” But “however different might be the fates of these [Germanic] peoples” who did spread and mingle, “they nevertheless had one aim in common, to procure for themselves possessions, and to form themselves into a state.”

Although undeveloped, Germans did have a way of life which they brought to these experiences. “Among the Germans, the community did not lord it over the individual, for the element of freedom is the first consideration in their union in a social relationship”; they were already “famed for their love of freedom,” and “freedom has been the watchword in Germany down to the most recent times.” In practice this meant, for example, that even homicide “could be expiated by a pecuniary penance, because the individuality of the free man was regarded as sacred, permanently and inviolably, whatever he might have done”—prior even to the right to life. Freedom also meant that social organizations “formed by free association and by voluntary attachment to military leaders and princes,” a practice that valorized faithfulness, “the second watchword of the Germans.” “This we find neither among the Greeks nor the Romans.” The German heart freely “sets itself as dependent upon the person and the thing, renders this relation a compound of faithfulness and obedience.” In most places, states form in which “duties and rights are left no longer to arbitrary choice but are fixed as legal relations, precisely so that the state be the soul of the whole, and remain its ruler.” It is “the peculiarity of the German states” that “the laws are absolutely particular, and the entitlements are privileges,” the state being “composed of private rights” and duties. “Only much later, with difficulty, through struggles and convulsions, did a rational state life come about.” And such a state life would need to be made consistent with the German spirit of freedom and faithfulness. Meanwhile, as Strauss succinctly puts it, “according to Hegel there is no public right in the Middle Ages”; “there are only private rights because there is no general will.”

All of this made Germans receptive to Christianity, which itself puts so much emphasis on freely chosen fidelity to a Person. Although “initially only the clouded will is present,” and “a long process is required to complete this purification so as to realize concrete spirit,” the Christian spirit will work its way in and through the German peoples. At first, however, the confrontation of religion with “the violence of the passions” only “rouses them to madness.” “We behold the terrible spectacle of the most fearful extravagance of passion in all the royal houses of that period,” as the newly Christian Germans were only very incompletely Christian, their will “struggling with itself” and often losing. Although we often see a worldly man who “suddenly repudiates it all” and “betakes himself to religious seclusion,” in political life “secular business cannot be thus repudiated; it demands accomplishment, and ultimately the discover is made that spirit finds the goal of its struggle and its satisfaction in that very sphere which it made the object of its resistance,” finding “that secular pursuits are a spiritual occupation.” In Hegel we are only a few decades away from Weber, from “politics as a vocation.” Early on, Europe “comes to the truth” in its very struggle with the truth, in dialectic. “In this moment, Providence in the strict sense”—the Hegelian, not the Biblical sense—”rules, while through misfortune, suffering, private aims, and the unconscious will of the peoples, it realizes its absolute purpose and its honor.”

Meanwhile, in the East at this time we see another “purification of absolute spirit,” one “accomplished much more quickly” and indeed “suddenly in the first half of the seventh century.” This new Asian spirit will soon confront the West as the second “element” of the Christian Germanic World. Hegel knows that Muslims call their religion Islam, not Mohammedanism. He nonetheless calls it that, not out of disrespect but to contrast the founder of Islam with the Founder of Christianity. Islam itself differed in its effect on the ‘Near East’ from the effect of Christianity. Christianity left the nations of Europe intact; under it, “the West began to settle itself in contingency, complication, and particularity.” But “the revolution in the East… destroyed all particularity and dependence and completely enlightened and purified the hear, in that it made the abstract one into absolute object, and just, so, the pure subjective consciousness, the knowledge of this one, into the sole goal of reality—making the relation-less,” the abstract one, Allah—”into the relation of existence” for Man.

Judaism had exalted God as the One, but “Jehovah was the God of that one people”; “only to this people had He revealed himself. “Mohammedanism” eliminated this particularity. The worship of the one, of Allah, “is the sole final end of Mohammedanism, and subjectivity only has this worship as the content of its activity, as well as the design to subjugate secular existence to the one.” Thus human subjectivity under Islam becomes “living and unlimited,” universalized and universalizing, releasing “an energy which enters into secular life with a purely negative purpose, and busies itself and interferes with the world, only in such a way as shall promote the pure adoration of the one.” Mohammed himself is a prophet, not a Man-God, who with maximum energy fights to eliminate all social and political bonds, everywhere, “so that worship of the one remains the only bond by which the whole is capable of uniting.” National, caste, and class distinctions must go. In this struggle, this jihad, “the highest merit is to die for the faith.” “He who perishes for it in battle is sure of paradise.” Hegel links this spirit to the geography of the Arabs, among whom Islam began: “here spirit exists in its simplest form, and the sense of the formless is here at home; for in these deserts nothing can be formed” on the ever-shifting sands, shaped and reshaped perpetually by windstorms.

“Abstraction swayed the minds of the Mohammedans,” as they aimed to “establish an abstract worship” and “struggled for it with the greatest enthusiasm” or “fanaticism, that is, an enthusiasm for something abstract, for an abstract thought which relates negatively to what exists.” Because it is both abstract and valorized, such a thought would negate, destroy, everything in its path in order to replace all other things with itself, in its purity. “Desolating” and “destructive,” “Mohammedanism was, at the same time, capable of the greatest elevation, an elevation free from all petty interests, and united with all the virtues that appertain to magnanimity and valor.” As Robespierre would later unite liberty and terror, so Mohammedanism united religion and terror.

And this is the problem with both the religion and modern ideologies. “Real life is nevertheless concrete,” stubbornly so, with “particular aims,” specifically the “sovereignty and wealth” conquest confers to dynasts and peoples. But in his abstraction-in-principle from such matters, “the Mohammedan is really indifferent to this social fabric,” and as a result all he accomplishes “is only contingent and build on sand, here today and gone tomorrow.” The Mohammedan founds kingdoms and dynasties only to see them dissolve, “destitute” as they are “of the bond of organic firmness.” And in the meantime, individuals in the Muslim world, insofar as they pursue concrete aims, do so cruelly, cunningly, boldly, generously, and above all recklessly. “Never has enthusiasm performed greater deeds,” so quickly and so widely. But “the great empire of the caliphs did not last long, for on the ground of universality nothing is firm.”

It was the Ottomans, not the Arabs, who “at last succeeded in establishing a firm dominion” with a military elite at its core. The science, knowledge, poetry, and philosophy that “came from the Arabs into the West” remained, “but the East itself, when by degrees enthusiasm had vanished, sank into the grossest depravity.” The “sensual enjoyment” that was “sanctioned in the first form which Mohammedan doctrine assumed, and was exhibited as a reward of the faithful in paradise,” “took the place of fanaticism,” and Islam “vanished from the stage of world history” “retreat[ing] into Oriental ease and repose,” even as Christian Germanic Europe retained the intellectual and artistic fruits harvested from its evanescent presence on that continent.

The third and final element of the Germanic World was the empire of Charlemagne. Clovis founded the Frankish empire ruled by his Merovingian dynasty. The Merovingians were replaced by the Carolingians, as Pepin the Short became king of the Franks in the year 752. He allied with the Catholic Church, then “severely pressed by the Lombard kings.” His son Charlemagne was crowned Emperor by the Pope in A.D. 800; “hence originated the firm union of the Carolingians with the Papal See,” whose Roman lineage “continued to enjoy the prestige of a great power among the barbarians… as the center from which civil dignities, religion, laws and all branches of knowledge” grew. The Frankish empire became a new Rome, as the “Roman emperor”—Roman in the sense of having been legitimated by the Church of Rome—”was the born defender of the Roman church.”

“This great empire Charlemagne formed into a systematically organized state, and gave the Frankish empire settled institutions adapted to impart its strength and consistency.” It did not, however, succeed in so imparting such strength or such consistency, as it did not form a true “constitution” of the empire. Charlemagne was indeed “master of the armed force” of that empire and its largest landowner, as well as the holder of supreme judicial power. He manned his imperial troops by universal conscription, and he could fund his enterprises not with onerous and irritating taxes but with the revenues from his lands. He encouraged Catholic bishops to build cathedrals, establish seminaries and universities, “endeavor[ing] to restore scientific endeavor, then almost extinct, by promoting the foundation of schools in cities and towns.” “Such was the state of the Frankish empire—that first consolidation of Christianity into a political form proceeding from itself, the Roman empire having been swallowed up by Christianity.”

Yet it was all short-lived. After Charlemagne died his empire “proved itself utterly powerless” against such foreign invaders as the Normans, Hungarians, and Arabs, “internally inefficient in resisting lawlessness, spoliation, and oppression of every kind.” The empire hadn’t adequately developed itself internally, ‘organically,’ as Hegel would say (and has said) about some previous empires. “Such political edifices need, for the very reason that they originate suddenly, the additional strengthening afforded by negativity within themselves”—by dialectical testing and refining in the crucible of thoughts and events; “they need reactions in every way, which in the following period manifest themselves.” Because the Christian Germanic world retained a concrete, real-world character lacking in the abstractions of Islam flickering across the sands of Arabia, it could maintain itself, even if the Franks could not maintain their empire over it. The epoch of dialectical testing and refining was the Middle Ages.

Hegel’s second group of lectures, “The Middle Ages,” consists of one section each on three “reactions” to the imposing but shaky Frankish empire, followed by a section on the dissolution of the Middle Ages as world history transitioned to “The Modern Age.” The first reaction consisted of the resistance of nationalities, of particularism against universalism; the second was the resistance of individuals “against legal authority and the state power”; the third was the reaction of the church against “worldly ferocity.” The “universal instability” which resulted from these rivalries eventuated in the Crusades, but the lasting result was the “internal and external independence” of “the states of Christendom.”

Kings and peoples asserted “particular nationality against the universal rule of the Franks.” The resistance succeeded because “the entire political system” of the Franks “was held together only by the power, the greatness, the regal soul” of Charlemagne, not “the spirit of the people,” as Charlemagne’s spirit hadn’t “become a vital element” in that spirit. Hegel compares Charlemagne’s rule to that of Napoleon’s over Spain, “which disappeared with the physical power that sustained it.” What “makes for the reality of a constitution is that it exists as objective freedom—the substantial way of the will—as duty and obligation acknowledged by the subjects themselves.” The Germanic spirit acknowledged no such reality, rather being given over to “an inwardness of indifferent, superficial self-seeking.” Charlemagne’s constitution or regime “was destitute of any firm bond; it had no objective support in subjectivity; for in fact no constitution was as yet possible.”

The second reaction succeeded for the same reason. Individuals resisted the empire’s legal power, which had “no vital existence in the peoples themselves.” When “the brilliant administration of Charlemagne vanished without a trace,” individuals were left defenseless against outlaws. Barbarians “look upon it as a limitation of their freedom if their rights must be guaranteed them by others”; they begin to feel the need for protection only by experiencing ruination. The dialectic of history’s slaughter-bench was the only teacher they would heed. “The impulse towards a firm organization did not exist: men had first to be placed in a defenseless condition, before they would become sensible of necessary appearance of the state.” The central, imperial state proved too weak to serve that need because the Germans as yet felt no duty towards it. “Individuals were therefore obliged to take flight to individuals, and put under the power of a few rulers who, out of that authority which formerly belonged to the generality [the empire], formed a private possession and personal sovereignty”: in a word, feudalism. Men “committed their estates to a lord, a monastery, an abbot, a bishop, and received them back, encumbered with feudal obligations to these lords. Instead of freemen they became vassals—feudal dependents.” “Feudum is connected with fides; faithfulness is here a bond through injustice, a relation intending something lawful, but just as surely with injustice as its content: for faithfulness on the part of vassals is not a duty toward the generality, but a private obligation which equally is left to contingency, arbitrariness, and violence.” Such conditions revived “the martial spirit,” but on behalf of “subjective interests”—particularities, not an overall, general state. “Only in a few cities, where communities of freemen were independently strong enough to secure protection and safety without the king’s help, did relics of the ancient free constitution remain.” Everywhere else, arbitrary personal rule by local aristocrats (secular or churchly) prevailed. “Thus all right vanished before particular might; equality of rights and rationality of laws, which is the goal of the state, had no existence.”

The Catholic Church mounted the third reaction, but by promoting an “element of generality,” indeed of catholicism, against feudal particularism. Given the violence that permeated the continent, “in the eleventh century the fear of the approaching Judgment Day and the belief in the speedy dissolution of the world spread through all Europe.” The church benefited, as some gave their possessions to it and turned to lives of humble penitence, while others, the majority, “dissipated their possessions in riotous debauchery.” Either way, the church’s relative power and authority waxed, as famines killed the worldlings. Corruption entered the church itself; to resist it, Pope Gregory VII introduced the rule of clerical celibacy, attacked simony, and laid claim to secular power (this last as a counter to attempts to take over monasteries by aristocrats). The church’s claim to power rested on “the abstract principle that the divine is superior to the secular.” This claim met with some substantial success, as “whole countries and states, such as Naples, Portugal, England, and Ireland came into a formal relation of vassalage to the papal chair.” Church authorities took care to buttress their abstract claim based on divine right with binding agreements. If, for example, a prince wanted a divorce, he could get permission from the church only if the met clerical demands; similarly, clergy could intervene as mediators in otherwise unstoppable private feuds. “But in these proceedings the church brought to bear against opponents only a force and arbitrary resolve of the same kind as their own, and mixed up its secular interest with its interest as a spiritual, i.e., divine substantial power.” Such hypocrisy was best known on the papacy’s home turf; “Italy was the country where the authority of the popes was least respected; and the worst usage they experienced was from the Romans themselves. Thus what the popes acquired in point of land and wealth and direct dominion, they lost in regard and esteem.”

On the spiritual side, the church also entangled itself in contradiction. Christianity teaches that “Man realizes his spiritual essence only when he conquers his naturalness. This conquest is possible only on the supposition that the human and the divine nature are one in and for themselves,” that the indwelling divine spirit can resist the indwelling natural sinfulness of the (fallen) human soul. Christ exemplifies this unity of human and divine. “The main thing is, therefore, that man should lay hold of his consciousness, and that it should be continually roused in him.” For this purpose the church established the mass and the host, whereby “Christ is set forth as present.” In this the church erred. “The host is adored even apart from its being partaken of by the faithful” as a “sensorial object.” This places “the presence of Christ” “not in the imagination and spirit” but in a physical lump of bread. Later, Martin Luther “proclaimed the great doctrine that the host was only something, and Christ was only received, through faith in Him; apart from this, the host was a mere external thing, possessed of no greater value than any other things. But the Catholic falls down before the host; and thus is the outward made into something holy.” The church compounded this mistake, this taking of “the holy as thing,” as an “externality,” by establishing “a separation between those who possess this [thing] and those who have to receive it from others—between the clergy and the laity.” “The laity as such are alien to the divine.” This meant that church doctrine became exclusively the domain of the church; “it has to ordain, and the laity have simply to believe,” faithfully and blindly, “without insight on their part.” “This relation rendered faith a matter of external law and progressed to compulsion and the stake.” To approach God, the laity could not pray directly to Him, but only through such “mediators” as saints and relics. “To this degree, the essential unity of the divine and human is denied, since man, as such, is declared incapable of recognizing the divine and of approaching thereto.” When guilty of sin, the laity could not ask for God’s forgiveness; only the clerical confessor could call upon God to grant the sinner His grace.

“Thus the church took the place of conscience: it put men in leading strings like children,” “stupefy[ing] the soul” of the layperson. This “produced an utter derangement of all that is recognized as good and moral in the Christian church”; a “condition of absolute unfreedom is therefore brought within the principle of freedom itself.” By imposing this “absolute separation of the spiritual from the secular principle generally,” the church effected a “perversion” of both the intellectual and the ethical “divine kingdoms.” Mere piety does not question, does not inquire; nor does it exert itself in a free, legal, ethical way. “Piety is outside of history and has no history; for history is rather the empire of spirit present to itself in its subjective freedom, as the ethical kingdom of the state.” But in the Middle Ages there was no such “actualization of the divine”; rather, the antithesis was left unresolved. Instead of love and marriage, chastity was revered; instead of activity and labor, poverty; instead of rational, consensual obedience, thoughtless servitude. “All morality was degraded,” as the church “was no longer a spiritual power, but an ecclesiastical one; and the relation which the secular world sustained to it was unspiritual, volitionless, and insightless.” “Accordingly, the church of the Middle Ages exhibits itself as a manifold contradiction to itself.”

The medieval state was no better off, equally “involved in contradictions.” Imperial rule had become “an empty title.” The basis of the feudal state, “which we call faithfulness, [was] left to the arbitrary choice of the heat which recognizes no objective duties”—a faithless fidelity, self-contradictory, faithful only for “selfish aims.” Within individuals under feudalism, piety burned aside barbaric passions. “We find an acquaintance with abstract truth, and yet the most uncultured, the rudest ideas of the secular and the spiritual; cruel rage of passion and yet a Christin sanctity which renounces all that is worldly, and devotes itself entirely to holiness.” Hegel fulminates against this hypocrisy, calling it “the most disgusting and revolting spectacle that was ever witnessed,” one that “only philosophy can comprehend and hence justify.” Only the philosopher of history can see, and bring his students to see, that this was “a necessary antithesis, which must arise in the consciousness of the holy, when this consciousness is still primitive and immediate.” The antithesis itself was necessary because when “the individual is not yet protected by laws, but only by his own exertion, there is present a general vitality, activity, and excitement.” “Certain of eternal salvation through the instrumentality of the church,” with its sacraments external to the inner man, the “ardor in the pursuit of worldly enjoyment becomes the greater,” as “the church bestows indulgences, when required, for all caprice, iniquity, and scandal.”

All of this recalls the old joke, beloved of lecturers on European history, that the Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire. Only in the cities could reaction against feudal church and state rise to an ethical life. There and then “for the first time we behold the few feeble commencements of a reviving sense of freedom,” that freedom of property the “ancient Germans” had prized. In joining together in cities, individuals “formed among themselves a kind of union, confederation, or conjuration,” agreeing freely “to be and to perform on their own behalf that which they had previously been and performed in the service of their feudal lord alone.” They formed militias, courts, treasuries, systems of self-taxation. City life conduced more to artisanship than to agriculture; there are no serfs in cities, “forcibly driven to work” by landlords; artisans “displayed activity really their own, and a corresponding diligence and interest in the result of their labors.” As they amassed property, the citizens began to purchase their rights from the aristocrats; indeed, whole cities did so. Such factions as arose were along lines of wealth, not birth, and oligarchic power can be overcome by the diligence of the ‘democrats,’ the many, more readily than fixed ranks maintained by ‘noble’ birth. And the cities could also successfully resist the claims to rule asserted by the German emperors. Marx (who wrote his dissertation on Hegel) would soon describe this as the rise of the bourgeoisie.

Meanwhile the emperor and the pope, Henry V and Clixtus II, finally settled their differences in 1122, resolving the ‘investiture controversy’ by reserving the scepter for the emperor, the ring and crosier for the pope. This left the pope and the church with spiritual authority over emperors, and in the Christian German world that was decisive. It led to popes demanding, and receiving, imperial armies for fighting the Crusades.

Why were the Crusades plausible as a real-world undertaking? Part of the reason was the belief that with God anything is possible. If Christ is present in the Eucharist, why might He not appear to devout Christians in their daily life? And why not the Holy Mother? Sightings abounded. “The church present[ed] the aspect of a world of miracle; to the community of devout and pious persons, natural existence [had] utterly lost its stability and certain; rather, absolute certainty [had] turned against it, and the divine is not conceived of by Christendom in general as the law and nature of spirit, but rather manifest[ed] itself in individual manner, in which rational existence [was] perverted.” At the same time, what Christianity lacked in its geographical place of origin was territory; neither the approach to the Holy Land from Europe nor the Holy Land itself were “in possession of the church.” The Crusades seemed both possible and imperative.

Here Strauss intervenes with a key point. “In Catholic Christianity, the divine is within the world not as law and nature of the spirit, but as interruption of the lawfulness,” that is, as the miraculous. But more than that, the obsession of with conquest of Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulcher bespeaks the aforementioned “carnal understanding of Christianity,” the location of God in the Host, an object. The Sepulcher was the ultimate version of such carnality, inasmuch as it is the one supreme holy object, not one of many pieces of bread consumed at every Sunday church service. When that supreme holy object was discovered to be empty, the purpose of the Crusades was defeated, even as the crusading forces triumphed.

“The West once more sallied forth in hostile array against the East,” Hegel says. It was the enthusiasm of Islam transferred to Christendom, but with no Mohammed at the helm, nor any Agamemnon or Alexander. The first Crusaders consisted of “an immense mass of rabble” who did more damage while passing through southeastern Europe than in the Holy Land. Eventually, “with much trouble and immense loss, more regular armies attained the desired object.” “Jerusalem was made a kingdom, and the entire feudal system was introduced there—a constitution which, against the Saracens, was certainly the worst that could be adopted.” This triumph was empty, quite literally. The hard-won Holy Sepulcher was empty. “The Christian world received a second time the response given to the disciples when they sought the body of the Lord there: “Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.” As Hegel glosses it, “You must not look for the principle of your religion in the sensorial, in the grave among the dead, but in the living spirit in yourselves.” “The absolute result of the Crusades” was the recognition that “man must look within himself” for the “particular concrete individual which is of a divine nature”; in this “subjectivity receives absolute authorization, and in itself has the determination of relation to the divine.” The Crusades began “self-reliance and spontaneous activity” in the West. As Strauss remarks, “the bond between the worldly and the eternal must be found in a this one, but not in any thing, only in the subjective consciousness, in the ego. I, this one. Because the ego, too is a this one. Another man is not I.” To be certain, to know: this condition can only occur within myself, within each self. This discovery truly inaugurated the modern world.

As Hegel puts it, “At the Holy Sepulcher, the West bade an eternal farewell to the East, and grasped its principle of subjective infinite freedom.” “From this time forward we witness religious and intellectual movements in which spirit, going beyond repulsive and irrational existence, either finds its sphere of exercise within itself, and draws upon its own resources for satisfaction, or throws its energies into an actual world of general and morally justified aims, which are therefore aims of freedom.” We witness Descartes, with respect to thought, and we witness Luther, with respect to the will.

The Crusades also weakened respect for the Papacy. “Zeal for the holy cause was exhausted among the princes of Europe.” Princes no longer heeded the papal “lamentations and entreaties” to continue; “princes and peoples” alike “were indifferent to papal clamor urging them to new crusades.” The superiority of divine claims to rule over the claims of princes and emperors could no longer sustain itself.

Within the church itself, thought began to declare its independence from dogma. “Thought was first directed to theology, which now became philosophy under the name of scholastic theology”; in the beginning scholastics devoted their energies to proving the content of Christian doctrine. “Philosophy was indeed called an ancilla fidei, an aid to faith.” However, “it was impossible for the opposition between thought and belief not to manifest itself,” as “intellectual jousting” began to imitate the jousting of knights in armor at the tournaments.

As the church hesitated, its secular power diminished and its spiritual power dividing against itself in the great scholastic debates, the political realm began to consolidate. “Feudal rule is a polyarchy: we see nothing but lords and serfs; in monarchy, on the contrary, there is one lord and no serf, for servitude is abrogated by it, and in it rights and law are recognized; it is the source of real freedom.” This is so, Hegel claims, because “in monarchy the caprice of individuals is kept under, and commonality of rule is established.” As monarchic power extends over the feudal lords, the territory controlled by the monarch accretes. The very extent of the monarch’s territory “necessitates general” rather than particular “arrangements for the purposes of organization, and those who govern in accordance with those arrangements are likewise essentially obedient: vassals become state officials who duty it is to execute the laws by which the state is regulated.” Further, the monarch’s own power “can no longer be merely arbitrary” in such a large place, requiring now “the consent of the estates and corporations,” which he will last only if he “ordain[s] what is just and fair.” Eventually, as Strauss observes, this will require not only the modern state was the sole legitimate enforcer of the laws but also the modern state as controlled by rational administrators, professional bureaucrats.

State formation occurred along three pathways: by straightforward subjugation of his independent vassals; by seizing territory; or by consent, “unit[ing] the several particular lordships with his own and thus [becoming] master of the whole.” Forceful subjugation was aided by the invention of gunpowder. (“Humanity needed it, and suddenly there it was.”) The military prowess of the aristocrats had consisted of strong arms and strong hearts; guns enabled “a cowardly wretch at safe distance in an obscure hiding place” to kill “the bravest, the noblest” lord. Thus gunpowder made “a rational, considered bravery—spiritual valor—the essential thing,” as the new warrior must go into battle “calmly, sacrificing himself for the generality,” thereby exhibiting “the valor of cultivated nations.” Such valor “does not rely on the strong arm alone, but places its confidence essentially in the intelligence, the generalship, the character of its commanders and, as was the case among the ancients, in the cohesion and consciousness of the whole.”

This was the world of Machiavelli, of The Prince. “This book has often been thrown aside in disgust as being replete with the maxims of the most revolting tyranny; but nothing worse can be urged against it than that the writer, having the profound consciousness of the necessity for the formation of a state, has here exhibited the principles on which alone states could be founded in the circumstances of the times,” times in which “individual lords and dominions had entirely be subdued” in no other ways but force and fraud, since they could be subdued “in no other way, since an indomitable contempt for principle and an utter depravity were thoroughly ingrained in them.” Machiavelli merely tells his reader to fight fire with fire.

Forceful subjugation and territorial seizure thus prevailed in Germany and Italy. France saw “the converse of that which occurred” in those countries. Hereditary monarchy had already been established there. In 1302 Philip the Fair convoked representatives of the cities as a third estate along with those of the first estate (the clergy) and the second estate (the aristocrats). By ‘institutionalizing’ (as we would now say) the three major elements of French political society, “the kings of France very soon attained very great power.” And in England, where Norman kings held sway after their conquest three centuries earlier, struggles over the throne induced contenders for the monarchy to ‘reach down’ for support from aristocrats and cities. The Magna Charta’s limitations on monarchic power emerged from this.

“A general goal for secularity, a goal perfectly justified in itself, arose in state formation, and the will, desire, arbitrariness of the individual subjected itself to this goal of commonality.” The Middle Ages had done its disciplinary work with “two iron rods”: the church and serfdom. “The church brought the heart out of itself, made spirit pass through the severest bondage, so that the soul was no longer its own; but it did not degrade it to Indian torpor, for Christianity is an intrinsically spiritual principle and, as such, has a boundless elasticity.” And serfdom, “which made a man’s body not his own,” “dragged humanity through all the barbarism of slavery and unbridled desire,” in the process destroying that desire “by its own violence.” “It was not so much from slavery as through slavery that humanity was emancipated.” Both the spiritual warfare of the church, with its threats of hellfire, and the physical warfare of master and slave used terror to “break down the spirit of barbarism and to tame it into repose.” This “phase of negation is, indeed, a necessary one in man” in any epoch, but thereafter it could take “the tranquil form of education, so that all the fearfulness of inward struggle” vanishes. “In its reality, in secularity, humanity has attained the feeling of actual reconciliation of spirit in itself, and a good conscience. The human spirit has come to stand on its own feet,” without rebellion against the divine but rather as “a manifestation of that better subjectivity which feels itself divine in itself, which is imbued with the real, and directs its activities to general goals of rationality and beauty.”

The first step toward secular culture occurred in the church, in the realm of art—the grand architecture of the cathedrals, decorated with their noble sculptures and beautiful stained-glass windows which liberate the spectrum of the light of the sun. “Art spiritualizes,” taking the sensorial and giving it a form, “a soulful form.” The host, a piece of bread, or a saint’s relic, a fragment of bone or piece of wood from a cross pale before “an intelligent painting or a beautiful work of sculpture, in which soul relates to soul and spirit to spirit.” You only know what you make, Hobbes would later assert; art is a pathway to knowledge. Nonetheless, art has a limitation. “This element of truth as it manifests itself is only a sensorial form, not one in accordance with itself,” not a manifestation of the spirit in spiritual form. The church “separated itself from the free spirit which emerged from art, when [art] elevated itself to thought and science.”

Art did this because to improve their technique artists began to study the ancients. The turn to the ancients brought back more than technique, and also more than the emptiness of the Holy Sepulcher. “Through this study the West became acquainted with the true and eternal element in the activity of man.” At the same time, such study also caused a certain ‘cognitive dissonance’ in the Christian Germanic world, as “the Greeks in their works exhibited quite other moral commands than those with which the West was acquainted.” “Scholastic formalism had to make way for a body of speculative thought of a widely different complexion; Plato became known in the West, and in him a new human world presented itself.” Disseminated with the help of the new art of printing, “these novel ideas” circulated widely and rapidly.

Finally, the ‘outward’ or evangelical energy of Christianity, coupled with the new secularity, took on the project not of crusading but of discovering new lands, a project animated by “that desire of man to become acquainted with his world.” Chivalry embodied itself not in the knight-errant out to conquer Jerusalem but in “the maritime heroes of Portugal and Spain.” And the church’s task of conversion found its outlet in the voyages of Columbus, who aimed not only at riches but at a rich harvest of souls for God.

All of these events “may be compared with that dawn which after lengthy storms first betokens the return of a bright and glorious day,” the “day of universality which breaks upon the world after the long, eventful, and terrible night of the Middle Ages, a day which is distinguished by science, art and the drive for discover, that is, by the noblest and highest, which the human spirit, rendered free by Christianity and emancipated through the instrumentality of the church, exhibits its eternal and true content.”

The “Modern Age” began and, as usual, it has consisted of three stages: the Reformation, “the all-transfiguring sun following on that dawn at the termination of the medieval period; post-Reformation development; and the years following the French Revolution. As do all things for Hegel, the Reformation resulted from its dialectical antithesis, “the corruption of the church.” Nor was this corruption accidental. “The corruption of the church developed from out of itself”; as he’s argued, the Catholic practice of attempting to present the divine in “sensorial” or material form proved ruinous to Christian thought and practice. The “world-spirit” or Absolute Spirit moved on, “transcended it.” “It is externality in the church itself”—its sensorial worship practices—”which becomes evil and corruption, and develops itself as a negative principle with the church’s own bosom.” Catholic piety became superstition, seen in its “slavish devotion to authority, whereby spirit ‘inside’ the human soul becomes “unfree” and self-contradictory, “in itself outside of itself.” Superstition also may be seen in Catholic belief in “miracles of the most inane and silly form,” and in “lust of power, riotous debauchery, all the forms of barbarous and vulgar corruption, hypocrisy and deception.” These failures occurred because in the church the sensorial wasn’t “subjugated and trained by the understanding.” This freed conduct gratifying the senses “in a crude and barbarous way,” while such virtue as remained did “not know how to be moral within sensoriality, and therefore [was] only fleeting, renouncing, lifeless within reality.” To reconcile this contradiction, the church turned to the practice of offering “indulgences” to those who paid for them, thereby offering forgiveness to sinners “in the most grossly superficial and trivial fashion.”

Against this stood “the ancient and thoroughly preserved sincerity of the German people.” The other European nations sought wealth and power in overseas exploration and conquest, but in Germany “a simple monk,” Martin Luther consulted his true, German “heart” (Gemüt), “detect[ing] the perversion of the absolute relation of truth in its minutest features.” He set out to annihilate that perversion. He did so by calling for the “removal of externality” from church practices and replacing them with an ‘inward’ worship founded on faith and joy in God—”the subjective assurance of the eternal, of truth in and for itself, the truth of God,” produced by “the Holy Spirit alone” with no sensorial intermediaries. “Christ is an actual presence,” not in the Eucharist but “in faith and in spirit.” Luther “maintained that the spirit of Christ really fills the human heart”; “man sustains an immediate relation to Him in spirit.” This enables man precisely to be moral “within sensoriality” because the sensorial gradually becomes ruled by the spirit. Jesus became not only a presence in the souls of Christians but the ruling presence.

How? “The spirit dwells in him, that is, in the language of the church, he has come to brokenness of heart and the breakthrough of divine grace.” Man’s nature is sinful, ‘fallen.’ “Man is not what he ought to be”; “the human heart is not what it should be.” The first step away from this condition is self-consciousness, knowledge of oneself as evil by nature, then seeing that “only by a transforming process”—by progress in historical time—”does he arrive at the truth.” The individual Christian must both “know himself to be depraved, and that the good spirit dwells in him.” He then prays to God, studies the Bible, and opens himself to spiritual correction.

This obviates the distinction between priests and laymen, as all men can possess “the content of the truth” because “the heart, the feeling spirituality of man” is the common potential “of all mankind.” “Subjective spirit has to receive the spirit of truth into itself, and allow it to dwell in itself,” gaining both “absolute inwardness of soul” and “freedom in the church.” Freedom consists in the necessary coincidence “subjectivity and the certainty of the individual” with “the objectivity of truth,” and also with the fact that “truth with Lutherans is not a finished and completed thing; rather, the subject himself must become genuine” as he “makes this truth his own.” “Thus has Christian freedom become real.”

This reality in the Protestant church then pervades culture generally. “Law, property, ethics, government, constitutions… must be determined in general manner”—not in the particularistic arrangements of feudalism. Placing all things under the universal God enables these features “to accord with the concept of free will and to be rational.” “While the intensity of the subjective free spirit,” which is destructive when it takes the particular (passions, material interests) as its object, moves to the form of universality,” the general or common good, “objective spirit is able to manifest itself.” “This is the sense in which we must understand the state to be based on religion. States and law are nothing else than religion manifesting itself in the relations of reality.” “This is the essential content of the Reformation: man sets himself to be free.”

Such freedom is good, but from where will it derive its content, if no longer from Catholic theology? Luther “repudiated” the authority of the church, “and set up in its stead the Bible and the testimony of the human spirit.” This meant that each individual can freely learn from God’s Word, freely “directing his conscience in accordance with it.” “Luther’s translation of the Bible has been of incalculable value to the German people,” making the Bible “a people’s book, such as no nation in the Catholic world can boast.” In reading the Bible, in thinking about it, in attempting to follow its teachings, Germans engaged in a form of self-education, of enlightenment-before-the-Enlightenment. In this carefully limited sense (as Strauss observes) Hegel is a democrat. Although no Hegelian, Tocqueville would concur with this claim that equality, the democratic principle, entered the world as a condition of social life via Christianity.

Hegel poses two questions for himself: “Why was the Reformation limited to certain nations, and why did it not permeate the entire Catholic world.” For the Reformation “struck root only in the purely German nations.”

He begins by observing that “authority has much greater weight than people are inclined to believe.” We easily fall into “the habit of receiving” our “fundamental principles” on “the strength of authority.” In Austria and southern Germany, force of arms, stratagem, and persuasion “indisputably stifled” the Reformation. Among the Slavic nations, meanwhile, agricultural life prevailed, not the urban life of the Germans. “In agriculture the agency of nature predominates; human industry and subjective activity are on the whole less brought into play in this department of labor than elsewhere.” Nature, as we’ve seen, consists of (very) congealed spirit; add the lord-serf relation to that stubborn physicality, and the appeal to freedom in the spirit will likely fall flat. As for the “Romanesque nations” (Italy, Spain, Portugal, parts of France), force “perhaps did much to repress” Protestantism, but they are also afflicted with “the principle of division.” That is, “they are a product of the fusion of Roman and German blood, and still retain the heterogeneity thence resulting.” These nations lack the wholeness, the capacity to will a single purpose in a fully self-integrated way, “lack[ing] [the] entirety of spirit and sentiment which we call heart; there is not that pondering of spirit within itself; rather, in their inmost being they are outside of themselves,” prone to abstraction or dualism of the spirit and the sensorial, an inability to blend the two in a coherent synthesis. “Cultivated Frenchmen,” for example, “therefore feel an antipathy to Protestantism because it seems to them something pedantic, depressing, pettily moralistic, since it requires that spirit and thought should be directly engaged in religion: in attending mass and other ceremonies, by contrast, no thought is required, but an imposing spectacle is presented to the senses, which does not make such a demand on one’s attention as entirely to exclude a little chat, while yet the duties of the occasion are not neglected.”

As an example of the right integration or synthesis of the spiritual and the mundane, Luther commended marriage over celibacy. “The family introduces man to commonality, to the reciprocal relation of dependence in society” (as Aristotle remarks), and this association is an ethical one, while on the other hand the monks, separated from ethical society”—in Aristotelian terms, from the political community of which the family is the foundational element—”formed as it were the standing army of the pope, as the Janissaries formed the basis of the Turkish power.” “The marriage of priests entails the disappearance of the outward distinction between laity and clergy,” even as reading the Bible makes the inward distinction between them disappear. Further, “unemployment no longer was held to be something holy.” What Weber would later call the Protestant work ethic made to “more commendable for men to rise from a state of dependence by activity, intelligence, and industry, and to make themselves independent” economically, even as Bible-reading frees them spiritually. In sum, “The rational no longer meets with contradiction on the part of the religious conscience.” As Strauss paraphrases it, “Hegel sees in the asceticism of the Catholic Church the root of immorality”; “true morality is not ascetic.” One might add that true morality leads into, and is consistent with what Hegel calls the ethical, the instantiation of morality within a civil society.

It is for that reason that the epoch of church reform also saw political reform. Modern, centralized states, initially under the regime of monarchy, replaced the feudal state. Hegel considers monarchy indispensable to state formation because a “ruling dynasty,” a regime in which “hereditary right” determines who rules, “gives the state an immovable center.” Before primogeniture, German kings were elected by aristocrats, a practice which “prevented [the state] being consolidated into one state; for the same reason, Poland has vanished from the circle of independent states.” “The state must have a final decisive will: but if an individual is to be the final deciding power, then [under dynastic rule] that decisiveness of necessity takes place in an immediate natural way, not in terms of election, collective wisdom, and the like”—all of which introduce the element of “arbitrary volition” into the succession. Just as important, both the royal domains and the state offices must be understood as public entities. Monarchs may no longer own the royal lands, and state offices may no longer be purchasable. Finally, standing armies, not militia, “supply the monarchy with an independent force. All of these reforms contributed to “the lowering of the aristocracy in the several states in Europe,” serving an interest “common to both king and people” and leading to greater political freedom as Hegel defines it, just as the Reformation led to greater religious freedom.

Why would substantially increased state power produce freedom? Hegel insists, “When freedom is spoken of, we must always be careful to observe whether it is not really the assertion of private interest which is thereby designated.” Aristocratic ‘freedom’ entailed the suppression of the people under conditions of serfdom, the denial of the people’s right to sell the things they worked to produce. “The supreme interest of emancipation from this condition redounded both to state power and to the subjects themselves that they as citizens now also be truly free individuals, and that which was to be performed for the generality be meted out in terms of justice rather than contingency.” Statism regularized the laws, bringing whole populations into a condition more nearly resembling equal protection under the laws. Meanwhile, in “lowering” the aristocracy statism placed aristocrats in “the binding middle position,” by which Hegel means that they became employees of the state, administrators working on behalf of its “generality,” and thus redirecting its energies toward state interests, not their own particular interests.

Internationally, there now arose “a system of states and a relation of states to each other.” Now well-financed, with standing armies at their disposal, and with no worry that rogue aristocrats would betray them, monarchs fought foreign wars for the purpose of conquering territories. “From these wars between state powers there arose common interests,” particular the interest every state shared in maintaining their independence. Rulers began to strategize in terms of “the political balance of power,” that is, “the protection of the several states from conquest.” The balance of power took “the place of the previous general goal, the defense of Christendom, the center of which was the papacy.” Although several rulers made bids to conquer Europe—Charles V, Louis XIV, Charles XII—each one was thwarted and the balance was maintained. At the same time, European monarchs could unite freely if faced with an alien threat—specifically, the Ottoman Empire. As the Reformation led to secularization within the European states, so the system of states led to secularization by reducing the international power of the papacy, refocusing rulers’ attention to power-balancing. This too meant freedom, as Catholicism, once praised for “promoting the security of the government of princes,” but at the price of “slavish religious obedience” to the popes, was forced to give way to more strictly political and military calculations. “If the constitution and laws are to be founded on a veritable eternal right, then security is to be found only in the Protestant religion, in whose principle rational subjective freedom also attains development.” Thus freedom of monarchic action in the international sphere reinforced freedom within the newly-empowered states.

The 1648 Peace of Westphalia, whereby European states agreed not to intervene in each other’s internal affairs, had a double-edged effect. This set of treaties was enacted “to the great mortification and humiliation of the Catholic church,” a fact that troubles Hegel not at all. But it also solemnized the breakup of the German empire, legitimizing “the particular rights of the countries into which Germany had been broken up,” and therefore “involv[ing] no thought, no conception of the proper aim of a state” but instituting “a constituted anarchy” among the states. But even this did result, through the historical dialectic, in what Hegel regards as a very favorable result. “The Protestant church finalized its political guarantee by the elevation of one of its member states to the level of an independent European power,” a power that “came out of nowhere.” Prussia, where Hegel happens to be lecturing, under the rule of Frederick the Great, emerged as the leading state of Germany. “Frederick the Great not only made Prussia one of the great powers of Europe as a Protestant power, but was also a philosophical king, an altogether peculiar and unique phenomenon in modern times.” Frederick “took up the Protestant principle in its secular aspect,” having “consciousness of universality, which is the profoundest depth of spirit and the force of thought,” now “conscious of itself” in the monarch’s own mind. Plato’s philosopher-kings rule an imaginary polis; in modernity, such a monarch can, and did, rule in this world. Frederick was the Hegelian philosopher-king, before Hegelianism itself existed.

Hegel concludes his book by considering the Enlightenment, the French Revolution, and its aftermath. In his account, the Reformation, a religious event, led dialectically to the Enlightenment, the secular event par excellence. By turning men’s spiritual attention inward, away from the external and “sensorial” church rituals, the Reformation emphasized both the evil that exists within every soul and also the good qualities of external or ‘worldly’ things, if purged of false claims of spiritual content. Indeed, the modern state could become an instrument for the good if it protected Protestant countries against the depredations of Catholics. “This dialectic, in which everything particular is unsettled, while evil is converted into good and good into evil”—a dialectical reversal—”left at last nothing remaining but the mere activity of inwardness itself, the abstract of spirit—thought.” Thought generalizes; modern thought (as per Hobbes) not only generalizes, it issues in “activity and production of the universal.” “In thought, self is present to itself, its objects are just as absolutely present to it; for, in that I think, I must elevate the object to universality”—that object of which I am thinking is a tree, a member of a species, a specimen of a general category, and not ‘Ed’ or ‘Louise.’

Now, in both scholastic and Protestant thought the content of thought consists of other-worldly things. But thought in and of itself is “absolute freedom per se, for the pure ‘I,’ like pure light, is with itself per se; hence that which is diverse from it, whether sensorial or spiritual, is no longer to be feared, for in contemplating such diversity the ‘I’ is inwardly free and can freely confront it.” This radical denial of the need in principle to fear nature, or God-as-holy or external, or Hellfire, sounds very much like Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am”—the Cartesian “I am” obviously a ‘humanist’ or ‘secular’ response to the “I am” of God when He spoke to Moses out of the burning bush. Sure enough, Hegel observes that “Consciousness of thought was first extricated by Descartes from that sophistry of thought that unsettled everything.” “Man is not free,” Hegel writes, “when he is not thinking,” and Descartes liberated pure thought thinking itself. Strauss adds that “Descartes was a Catholic,” at least formally, which means that modernity in terms of thought, as distinguished from modernity in terms of action, practice, morality, ethics, derives as much from the 17th-century Catholic milieu as from the Protestant.

Pure thought clears away “sophistry,” all illogical or self-contradictory thought-content. In doing so, as it considers things other than itself it discovers that “reason is the substantial foundation both of consciousness and of the external and natural.” “Inner” and “outer” have rational order in common. “Thus the opposing is no longer something other-worldly; it is not of a substantially different nature.” In the Enlightenment “spirit perceives that nature, the world, must also have some reason in itself, for God created it rational,” a coherent structure which He called good. “A general interest in the contemplation and comprehension of the present world now arose,” with the gathering of empirical knowledge having become interesting to the human spirit, which for the first time has seen its affinities with ‘the other,’ the external. “The human eye became clear, perception excited, thought industrious and explanatory,” attentive to the discovery of “the laws of nature” while rejecting “all notions of mighty alien powers which magic alone could conquer.” “The dominion of the subject in its own strength was posited against faith based on authority and the laws of nature were recognized as the only link connecting external with external.” No more miracles. The dominion of the subject also recognized the laws of nature as the only link between internal and external. [1] “Thought was then also directed to the spiritual side: law and ethics came to be looked upon as being founded upon the present will of man, whereas formerly it was referred only to the command of God enjoined externally, written in the Old and New Testaments, or appearing in the form of particular right, in old parchments, as privileges, or in treaties.” General goals of state replaced particular goals of aristocrats. “Frederick II may be mentioned as the ruler through whom the new epoch emerged into reality, in which interest of state attains its generality and highest entitlement.” In this, of course, Frederick simply followed Machiavelli.

Hegel vigorously points to the secularization arising from the Reformation, which intended no such thing. “Luther had secured to mankind spiritual freedom and the concrete reconciliation” of the human spirit with the Absolute Spirit. “He triumphantly established that man’s eternal repose must take place in himself. But the content of that which is to take place in him, and which truth is to become vital in him, was taken for granted by Luther as something already given, something revealed by religion.” No longer. “Now the principle was established that this content must be something current, something of which I could convince myself inwardly, and everything must be capable of being reduced to this inward ground.” This is of course Descartes’ claim: The Bible says that the Holy Spirit gives you certain knowledge of God, but from introspection I learn that the truly certain certainty, as it were, is my consciousness of myself thinking.

Hegel applauds, but stops. “This principle of thought initially makes its appearance yet abstractly.” Cartesian logic still bases itself “on the axiom of contradiction and identity,” on the same principle of non-contradiction first enunciated by Plato’s Socrates in the Republic and systematized by Aristotle in his books on logic. Such logic assumes that the content of thought is finite; “the Enlightenment utterly banished and extirpated all that was speculative from things human and divine.” But although this rejection of ‘metaphysical’ thought was “of incalculable importance” in reducing “the multiform complex of things” to “its simplest conditions” and in bringing that complex of things “into the form of universality,” this was an “abstract” operation. It “does not satisfy the living spirit, the concrete heart” or Gemüt. Classical logic leaves no room for change, for the vitalism Hegel prizes, for the organic, dialectical progress and growth that characterizes the Absolute Spirit, rightly conceived. But its acknowledgement as a “formally absolute principle brings us to the last stage of history, our world, our own time.”

“Secularity is the spiritual kingdom in existence”; that is, it is the rule of spirit in the world of practice, “the kingdom of the will.” The will is the moral equivalent of thought: inward and purged of sentiment and sensoriality. “That which is just and ethical pertains to the essential will existing in itself,” for “to know what true law is, one must abstract from inclination, impulse, and desire, as from the particular; one must thus know what is the will in itself.” The will is truly free only “when it wills the will,” as “absolute will is the will to be free.” The freedom of the will “is even that through which man becomes man, thus the fundamental principle of spirit.” The Absolute Spirit goeth where it listeth. If so, then how does it fix on any determinate action? How does it make moral and ethical decisions?

“It can here be noted that the same principle was proposed theoretically in Germany, in the Kantian philosophy.” In positing his categorical imperative Kant firmly rejects all moralities based on teleology (e.g., Aristotelian eudaimonia), moral sentiment, or utility. Kantianism is a moral form of Cartesianism—pure will willing itself. “Among the Germans this remained tranquil theory; but the French wished to put it into practice. Hegel interprets the French revolutionaries ‘Rights of Man’ as freedom under the name of natural right, freedom seen especially in equality of rights before the law. [2] Since in both Descartes and Kant purity of spirit remains on the level of abstraction, not Hegelian speculation, the attempt to transfer abstract morality directly into ethical/political practice proved disastrous—the imposition of rigid categories on the rich, concrete variety of the practical world. [3]

Why did the French so badly abuse Kantian morality? “In Germany the formal principle of philosophy encounters a concrete world and reality where there is inward satisfaction of spirit and where conscience is at rest,” a world in which Protestantism had “advanced so far in thought as to realize the absolute culmination of self-consciousness,” and where it enjoyed the assurance that it served as “the fountain of all legal content in private law and the state constitution.” That is, “in Germany the Enlightenment was conducted in the interest of theology.” Hardly so in France, where Voltaire and his allied railed against still-existing abuses of the Catholic Church, with its “dead wealth” and supposed virtues which were “the sources and occasion of vices.” In Germany, Protestantism had prepared the ground for Enlightenment; in France Catholicism had impeded it. In France, “the principle of the freedom of the will, therefore asserted itself against existing law,” against “the confused mass of privileges altogether contravening thought and reason,” the “corruption of morals,” and the whole “realm” of “shameless injustice” that was the French regime. The revolution “was necessarily violent, because the work of transformation was not undertaken by the government,” imbecilic and rotten as it was. “The thought, the concept, of law imposed itself all at once, and the old framework of injustice could offer no resistance.”

“Never since the sun had stood in the firmament and the planets revolved around it had it been perceived that man stands on his head, that is, on thought, and reality is constructed in terms of it,” that “thought ought to govern spiritual reality.” “Spiritual jubilation” reigned, “as if for the first time it had come to a true reconciliation between the divine and the world.” But with what result? What kind of state could issue from such a jubilee?

A genuinely “vital state” has three “elements and powers”: laws of rationality (freedom of property and person, removal of all feudal relations, based “on the thought and consciousness of man recognizing the spiritual character of his existence”); a government that executes the laws impartially, representing the many through a scientific administration and defending the nation “against other nations”; and “disposition,” “the inward willingness regarding the laws—not mere habit,” the active will to obey the laws. “Nothing must be considered higher and more sacred than good will towards the state, or, if religion be looked upon as higher and more sacred, it must involve nothing really alien or opposed to the constitution, since “at bottom” religion and state “are one, and the laws have their highest confirmation in religion.” “Here it must be stated frankly that with the Catholic religion no rational constitution is possible; for government and people must mutually share that final guarantee of disposition, and can have it only in a religion that is not opposed to a rational political constitution.”

The French therefore lacked the right disposition, having had their spirits formed by the Catholicism they rebelled against. “Robespierre set up the principle of virtue as supreme, and it may be said that with this man virtue was an earnest matter,” as he made virtue and terror “the order of the day”—a “subjective virtue [which] brings with it the most fearful tyranny.” Essentially a secularized echo of Islam, “this tyranny could not last, for all inclinations, all interests, reason itself revolted against this terribly consistent freedom, which in its concentrated intensity exhibited so fanatical a shape.” First the regime of the five-man Directory, and then one man, Napoleon, took control. Napoleon dispersed the “lawyers, ideologues, and men of principle,” ruling the French by inspiring in them “respect and fear.” “He then, with the vast might of his character, turned his attention to foreign relations, subjected all Europe, and diffused his liberal institutions in every quarter,” like a modern Charlemagne. The spirit of nationality in the conquered eventually defeated him, and the French ever since have oscillated among regimes of the many and the one.

The problem is with liberalism itself, which opposes “the establishment of rational rights, with freedom of person and property, with the existence of a state organization within which are spheres of civil life each of which conducts its own affairs, wherein the intelligent members have influence among the people and enjoy their confidence” to liberalism’s “atomistic principle which insists upon the sway of individual wills, maintaining that all government should emanate from their express power, and have their express sanction.” That is, liberalism opposes reason in the name of caprice. “This conflict, this knot, this problem is that with which history is now occupied, and which in the future it has to solve.” Fundamentally, however, there can be no “Revolution without a Reformation.”

Because Germany had that Reformation, it eliminated feudalism in an orderly manner. “Offices of state are open to every citizens, aptitude and usefulness being of course the necessary conditions” for membership in the German civil service, whose ruling decisions are ratified by the monarch in his capacity as the symbol of the national will. The strength of a great state “lies in its reason”; “the knowledgeable are to rule, not ignorance and the vanity of know-it-alls.” This is now possible because “in the Protestant world there is no sacred, no religious conscience separated from or indeed hostile to secular law,” consciousness having attained objective freedom, the laws of real freedom,” which “demand the subjugation of the mere contingent will.” In the German state “Philosophy concerns itself only with the glory of the idea mirroring itself in the history of the world,” as world history is “the course of development and the actual development of spirit,” “the true theodicy, the justification of God in history.”

With respect to the regime issue, Strauss concludes that “Hegel was a liberal but not a democrat.” He was a liberal in the sense that he loved liberty, but he defined liberty differently tha previou liberals had defined it. “If one wants a single formula indicating what Hegel’s philosophy of right stands for, it would be ‘rights of man’ plus a wholly independent civil service.” The excesses of the French Revolution had soured him on democracy. Attempts at establishing a constitutional, liberal democracy he regarded as chimerical. “Hegel does not see a clear way of how the West will finds its way between the acceptance of the rights of man with its political implications—in other words, the democratic solution—or what he regards as better, the rights of man without the political implications, i.e., without democratic consequences.” He prefers the Prussian constitutional monarchy (“which was not very constitutional”). He might have preferred the “Napoleonic Caesarism which came to France after the failure of liberalism in 1848,” years after Hegel’s death. Had he lived an impossibly long time, he might have pointed to the American Civil War, and the subsequent replacement of democratic republicanism with a mixed regime ruled in part by an increasingly large and imposing bureaucratic element, as confirmation of his distrust of democracy. For his part, Strauss remarks that the course of events since Hegel’s time has shown that the regime of constitutional democracy “is not necessarily such a terrible thing, as we have come to see in some of the more stable countries.” Those who pretend to find some sort of incipient authoritarianism or even fascism in Strauss will need to avert their eyes from his actual remarks to his students.

 

Note

1. Strauss unpacks this very carefully. The sphere in which inner and outer, subjective and objective, may be reconciled initially is the sphere of thought, “because thought knows no beyond. This is the meaning of the thesis that thought is free.” (Strauss, 361) That is, “As Hegel understands it, thought is never dependent on something other than thought.” (361) Unfreedom means dependence on something or someone outside oneself. If nature can be found to operate according to rational laws (gravitation, for example) then nature is rational and, in Hegel’s words, “embodies Universality.” If the world is rational, and can be shown to be so by experience (that is, experimental science), then reason pervades both the human subject and non-human, objective nature. In Strauss’s words, “therefore nature is reason.” (364) This applies “to moral-political matters,” as well: there is “no longer reliance on tradition or authority.” (364) “The present will of man is the basis of everything”. (364) “The truly free will wills nothing but itself, because otherwise it would be dependent on something, i.e., the truly free will wills nothing but its freedom, its self-determination.” (367) Thus far, Kant. But (and here is where Hegel goes beyond Kant) if ‘God’ or the Absolute Spirit is immanent in subject and object alike, then the course of events, now called ‘history,’ can be seen as giving real content or substance to human willing. In freely giving our consent to the historical dialectic, we link the inner and the outer, thought-certainty and experimental/experiential certainty, while also linking moral certainty with ethical certainty within civil society in the modern state. In so freely consenting to the dialectic, we endorse the course of events, history, the unfolding of the Absolute Spirit in time; we avoid being (as later historicists would say) ‘reactionaries,’ ostriches blinded by the sand in which we bury our heads. Hegel tells such people: The sands are always shifting. They offer no secure refuge.
2. Strauss rightly doubts this. “Hegel imputes wrongly… that this Kantian notion of freedom was the motivation for the French Revolution; whereas it was really a much more old-fashioned notion of freedom which animated the French people. That could easily be shown by a study of Rousseau.” “The Rousseauan concept of freedom is not the Kantian concept,” as the Rousseauan concept is still bound up with the natural. (Strauss, 401 n.17)
3. Strauss traces this problem back to the Reformation and what Hegel calls the “painful introspection” of Protestants. “This is the essential defect of Protestantism, according to Hegel.” In his introspection, the Protestant can arrive at “no objective certainty,” as “the certainty of salvation must be found within the individual.” In seeing sinfulness in himself and also “the breakthrough of divine grace,” the Protestant risks “a distorted view” of himself because he has “no terms of comparison.” “Hegel’s own view is that the individual cannot know what he is except through his deeds, through the whole course of his life.” (Strauss 355) His readers see this in the famous passage Hegel inserts into his Phenomenology of Spirit, where he speaks of the master-slave dialectic. As Strauss summarizes it, the slave, “subjugated by the master, succumbing to the master because of a failure of nerve in the life-and-death struggle… has to work and does not enjoy the fruits of his work,” which “are enjoyed by the master.” However, the slave’s work “is the origin of a higher culture because he is compelled to actualize all the powers of his mind and his heart in order to acquire self-respect. (Strauss 346) What this means is that for Strauss morality and knowledge both have a social dimension lacking not only in Protestantism but in the Kantian and Rousseauian moralities that derived from it. Further, the Catholic Descartes derives his theory of knowledge not from Catholicism simply but from the introspective Jesuit Catholicism of the 17th century; this too lacks the social dimension, what Hegel calls the objective content that is needed to substantiate subjective certainty, whether in morality or in thought. Descartes and Kant are therefore both indispensable and inadequate to the full unfolding of the Absolute Spirit.