Tom Holland, in this lengthy tome, purports to establish that those of us who hold secular, liberal, Enlightenment values are all in fact Christians, whether we realise it or not. The truth, as we shall see, is precisely the reverse: liberalism was not a vehicle for the spread of Christianity; Christianity was a vehicle for the spread of liberalism, which in turn was a vehicle for the spread of utilitarianism, or what we might call sentientism.
The claim that some of the Enlightenment thinkers, in a society in which almost everyone was a Christian, were influenced by the ideas of Christians is as mundane as it is obvious. It is a claim, ultimately, about chronology. But Holland—who documents how Christians themselves owed some of their concepts to classical antiquity—would emphatically repudiate the claim that Christianity is nothing but an extension or synthesis of Greco-Roman or Persian culture. After all, Christians also challenged many of the assumptions of those cultures.
The same is true of modern secular ethics. Christian notions of the sanctity and dignity of human life, of natural law and natural rights, of marriage between a man and a woman, have been replaced by concepts altogether antithetical to them: an emphasis on quality of life; on wellbeing; on rights as instrumental, not intrinsic, goods. This can be seen in a number of domains, from abortion to euthanasia to animal welfare. This process, of picking and choosing the concepts that have the best consequences for society, is described well by Scott Alexander: "every culture is the gradual accumulation of useful environmental adaptations combined with random memetic drift… Universal culture is the collection of the most competitive ideas and products."
This was as true in classical antiquity as it is today. Robin Lane Fox writes: “Lawgivers like Solon did not claim divine inspiration or the gift of prophecy from the gods. Rather, they addressed social crises in the belief that human laws would avert them and that by giving up some of their interests, the protagonists could cohere in a new, sustainable order.”
Thus, it is not the Christianity of St Paul on which humanity was destined to settle; the work of earlier Christians was only accepted by later thinkers insofar as it promoted good consequences, particularly hedonic consequences. And this—the promotion of pleasure and the repudiation of pain—is truly universal, for all humans, all sentient beings, have the ability to experience them. Utilitarianism is a lodestar, as the economist Scott Sumner once put it. During the Enlightenment, “several strands of… intellectual thought led towards the ultimate destination of utilitarianism”, writes the historian Norman Davies. If in the 18th Century one had wished to predict the social and economic changes that would occur around the world over the next two to three centuries, it would not be to St Paul, or to Jesus, that one would turn: it would be to Bentham, Godwin, d’Holbach and the philosophes.
What these (and other) Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment thinkers did cannot be overstated: contrary to what Holland and others would claim, their beliefs and values were principally derived from reason, intuition and observation. They reasoned from first principles, questioning the fundamental tenets of morality in Christian Europe, and they, crucially, engaged in introspection. It is true that the hand of Christianity can be seen in the Enlightenment development of natural rights (one of the foundations of liberalism), but the atheistic Bentham famously called such concepts “nonsense on stilts”. And when he writes that nature “has placed mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure”, he is engaging in introspection: Christianity has nothing to do with this observation. This is especially clear when he goes on to write that pleasure and pain “govern us in all we do, in all we say, in all we think: every effort we can make to throw off our subjection, will serve but to demonstrate and confirm it."
Many philosophers of the period similarly derived their ethics from first principles. It is true that Godwin was the son of a dissenting Protestant minister and had a Christian upbringing. But it was at the age of 26, when he first read the works of the subversive philosophers d’Holbach and Helvetius, that his entire worldview shifted. He came to believe that society should be formed for human happiness, and to deny the divinity of Christ; he would become an atheist who held that marriage was evil, and the father of anarchism, one of the major political philosophies of the 19th and 20th Centuries.
D’Holbach and Helvetius were certainly not on the fringes of the Enlightenment project: the former maintained one of the key Parisian salons that were frequented by, among others, Diderot, Condorcet, Hume, Beccaria and Franklin. He once informed Hume, who questioned whether atheists actually existed, that he was sitting at a table with seventeen of them. His most famous book, The System of Nature, denied the existence of God, and argued that morality was to be sought not in scripture but in happiness: “so long as vice renders [a man] happy, he should love vice”. (Parts of the book may have been written by Diderot himself, who was of course the editor of the Encyclopedie, the “official corpus” of the Enlightenment.) Similarly, Helvetius postulated that pleasure and pain “are, and always will be, the only principles of action in man”. Beccaria, the father of criminal justice who influenced the Founding Fathers, was largely indebted to Helvetius, and Bentham (as should be obvious) was influenced by him.
True enough, this Enlightenment project happened to occur in Europe, even though there was Enlightenment thinking in other cultures (which was drawn upon by the philosophes), but this was not preordained. In the 10th Century, few would have predicted that the Enlightenment or the Industrial Revolution would later occur in the backward Christian West as opposed to the wealthiest and most intellectually sophisticated society in the world (the Islamic Caliphate), or the most sophisticated city in Europe (Islamic Cordoba). As the mediaeval historian Chris Wickham puts it: “there was no sign whatsoever that Europe would, in a still rather distant future, develop economically and militarily, so as to be able to dominate the world. Anyone in 1000 looking for future industrialization would have put bets on the economy of Egypt, not of the Rhineland and Low Countries, and that of Lancashire would have seemed like a joke”.
Ultimately, the clash between Protestantism and Catholicism—and the opening it gave for people to challenge all forms of authority—created the conditions that allowed for the Enlightenment to occur in Europe, but this can only be appreciated in hindsight. Had the Enlightenment occurred in the Islamic Middle East or even—had Charles Martel not triumphed in 732—in an Islamic Europe, there would no doubt have been an equivalent of Holland writing today explaining why the Enlightenment could only have occurred in an Islamic civilisation. Similarly, there may be a sophisticated explanation as to why it was predominantly Athens in which philosophy flourished in classical Greece, and not any of the other citizen-states. Or, as I suspect, it could be that cultures of learning and of ideas take hold in often unpredictable ways, and then begin to self-propagate, overcoming innumerable barriers (dogmatism, nationalism, and so on).
In any case, the Enlightenment itself set off a chain reaction from which Christianity could not recover. An unbroken succession of thinkers, from Bentham to Mill to Russell to Parfit to Singer, would come to dominate Western thought, and they were, and are, decidedly atheistic and anti-Christian.
For instance, Singer – who has been labelled the most influential of contemporary philosophers – has a chapter in his seminal Animal Liberation which excoriates the Judeo-Christian tradition on account of its disregard for animals. Its title, bringing to mind the title of this book, is Man’s Dominion. In it, he notes that while Christian doctrine was in many ways progressive “in its application to human beings”, the same doctrine “served to confirm and further depress the lowly position nonhumans had". It was only “the growth of anticlerical feeling” that improved the status of animals in the West; Voltaire drew upon Hindu thinking on the status of animals to advocate vegetarianism, while Rosseau cited the pro-animal views of the philosopher Plutarch – one of a few Roman thinkers, along with Ovid and Seneca, to attack the use of animals for human pleasure. Christians who shout Singer down when he gives public lectures, because he wishes to equate the wellbeing of animals with the wellbeing of humans, are right to fear the radically anti-Christian doctrine that he espouses.
Parfit, meanwhile, has been called the greatest moral philosopher of the late 20th and early 21st Centuries. Yet, in his Reasons and Persons – perhaps the most significant work of moral philosophy since the 19th Century – Jesus is not mentioned once, whereas the Buddha is mentioned repeatedly. Buddha’s view that the ‘individual’ does not exist, and that we are but a stream of consciousness (citta-santāna), is a profoundly anti-Christian one, but also a profoundly modern one, given that it is consciousness, not the soul, which takes centre stage in the work of Parfit and the other philosophers mentioned here. Of the “four horsemen of New Atheism”, it is Sam Harris who has done the most to articulate a clear alternative to religious ethics – one which is ultimately, however, essentially a rebranding of utilitarianism. And while Pinker includes ‘Humanism’ (which certainly has Christian roots, as Holland establishes) in the subtitle of his pro-reason, anti-religious polemic Enlightenment Now, it is utilitarianism that he goes on to praise in the text.
If ideas and values can, as claimed above, be derived from reason and introspection, we should find elements of Enlightenment thought in pre-Christian and non-Christian cultures. And that is precisely what we see. We have already seen how the primacy of conscious experience was, long before the Enlightenment, stressed by the Buddha and his successors in India. This was also true of Epicurus in ancient Greece, of whom Bentham and Mill were aware. When one reads the mediaeval Indian philosopher Santideva, who lived in the 8th Century, it is hard to distinguish him from Bentham. We ought, he says, to "stop all the present and future pain and suffering of all sentient beings, and to bring about all present and future pleasure and happiness.” Similarly, in ancient China, the Mohist school of philosophy emphasised impartial benevolence and the importance of the general welfare of the population, which its adherents held would be best promoted in a meritocracy. All of this is pretty much the raison d’etre of a modern liberal democratic state (indeed, the idea of meritocracy was imported into Enlightenment-era Europe from China, championed by the likes of Voltaire).
Consistent with this narrative, Holland’s claim that science, charity, universities, human rights and secularism were the exclusive preserves of Christianity (“irredeemably Christian”) is grossly ahistorical. The importance of observation and empiricism was stressed by many schools of philosophy in ancient Greece and ancient India. The scientific method was born in the Islamic world; Muslim scholar-scientists, including al-Haytham and Avicenna, would strongly influence later European pioneers of science, such as Grosseteste and Bacon. The Scientific Revolution could not have taken place in Christendom had it not been for the many advances made in the mediaeval Islamic world, classical India and ancient Greece. As for universities, institutions of higher education flourished in India (Taxila and Nalanda), Greece (Athens) and the Islamic world.
Notions of human brotherhood and generosity were proposed in Greece, Rome, China and India. The Roman philosopher Seneca wrote, before the Gospels had even been written, that “you must live for your neighbour, if you would live for yourself”. In Ashoka’s Edicts (of 3rd Century BCE Maurya India), we find the supposedly Christian concepts of progress (“thus the glory of Dharma will increase throughout the world, and it will be endorsed in the form of mercy, charity, truthfulness, purity, gentleness, and virtue”) and of tolerance and religious pluralism (“all should be well-learned in the good doctrines of other religions”); indeed, it was the Enlightenment that brought Europe closer to Asian traditions of pluralism and tolerance. The Edicts were arguably a precursor to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, but they go further than that, for they contain the first laws governing the treatment of animals; veterinary hospitals, as well as hospitals for humans, were maintained by Ashoka. As for charity specifically, has Holland not heard of the Sanskrit term dāna?
Yet countervailing forces, in many cultures around the world, often prevailed. Thinkers who aimed to promote the general wellbeing of humans and of other animals – who looked not to scripture, or to deities, or to notions of honour and bravery and strength and weakness, but to the natural world, and to the nature of consciousness – were often stymied. For every Akbar, there was an Aurangzeb. Even in 20th Century Europe, the ascendancy of counter-Enlightenment thinking brought us Fascism and Communism, and the horrors of the world wars and the camps and gulags. Holland claims that this was all the logical consequence of abandoning Christianity and forgetting the supposedly Christian roots of Enlightenment liberalism. But there is a third way: we can reject Christianity and its conservative and liberal appendages, as well as the kind of Nietzschean nihilism that Holland asserts is the only alternative, and instead adopt an ethic based on sentience.
There can be no doubt that the liberal arm of Christianity – encapsulated in messages such as “humans are all one in Christ Jesus” and “humans are all created equal, in the image of God” – was a force for good: Christianity was for a time the most successful vehicle for promoting utilitarian ends in the human domain; playing a key role, for instance, in the abolition of slavery, as Holland demonstrates. It too, however, has run its course, as modern views on abortion and euthanasia attest to. It has nothing to say, unlike ‘sentientist’ traditions, about the wellbeing of nonhuman animals; nothing to say, indeed, about other beings that may, in time, come to be sentient; those of the digital realm. They, too, will not have souls; they too will be denied the dignity accorded to humans under the Christian schema. So, time to look forward.